#bad first aid tips

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

PORN DIRECTOR KÖNIG

nsfw. 40s könig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.

you never planned on doing porn.

you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped out— degree, stable job, retirement.

but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.

you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.

camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.

you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasn’t great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.

but it worked.

you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you owned— soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you weren’t expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.

then, your account blew up.

someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.

at first, you didn’t notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.

that’s when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.

[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. she’s so soft. look at her. look at her.

���14.3k upvotes 💬 793 comment

u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl i’ve ever seen wtf

🔺6.2k

u/sirspanksalot: the way she’s tugging her panties down just a little… i need a moment

🔺4.9k

u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life

🔺3.3k

u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?

🔺7.1k

your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.

the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.

suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.

new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.

"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)

"you’re the softest little thing i’ve ever seen." ($50 tip)

"tell me you do custom videos. i’ll pay whatever." ($100 tip)

the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.

demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more variety— more, more, more.

for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldn’t be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.

you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget now— painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.

but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.

you didn’t want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.

something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.

you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.

she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."

you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. you’d done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.

valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "i’ll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."

you meet könig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.

you don’t expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isn’t his height (though jesus, he’s massive). it’s how out of place he looks.

he doesn’t carry himself like someone in the industry. doesn’t exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk you’ve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.

instead, he looks like someone’s dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.

his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweater— soft, thick, comfortable— hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. he’s dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.

he’s older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crow’s feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crooked— like it had been broken once and never quite set right— makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.

he looks warm.

he’s talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.

and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. könig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.

he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.

it doesn’t work.

“good to finally meet you,” he says, accent curling soft in his words.

oh, you think. you hadn’t expected that, either.

his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone you’d imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. there’s something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.

you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.

“brought coffee for everyone,” you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.

he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.

“thoughtful,” he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.

you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. “figured caffeine would help. don’t wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.”

könig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. “they’ve worked under worse conditions.”

you’re not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.

the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles he’s planning, how he likes to work— efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you don’t want, what you do.

it’s…comfortable. smoother than you expected. he’s patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.

and then your phone rings.

you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.

“hey, you on your way?” you ask, already stepping away from könig, mind half on the conversation you’d just been having.

but simon doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence. “can’t make it.”

your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. “what?”

“somethin’ came up. won’t be able to get there.”

you glance at könig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.

“simon, i can’t reschedule,” you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. “i already paid for the location, the crew’s already here-”

“nothin’ i can do, sweetheart,” he interrupts, not unkind. “’m sorry.”

but sorry doesn’t fix this. sorry doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t shoot today, you’re out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. “simon, please-”

the line clicks.

he’s gone.

panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you can’t not shoot today. you can’t afford it. the budget’s already stretched thin, and a reschedule isn’t just inconvenient— it’s impossible.

you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.

könig’s eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, “problem?”

you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.

you figure the truth is the best option you've got. “simon's out.”

könig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.

he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"

you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.

fuck.

you’re going to cry.

könig shouldn’t be looking this closely.

shouldn’t be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldn’t be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.

it’s detail that shouldn’t register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.

but there they go anyway.

because he's been watching you.

not in a way that's creepy— könig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. it’s good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who he’s working with, what they bring to the table.

and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the camera— well. that was just part of the job, wasn’t it?

nothing personal. certainly nothing unprofessional.

but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that he’s spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.

watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.

könig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.

‘am i a good girl?’ you breathe into the mic, like you’re talking right to him. like you know.

and god, does he know you.

he’s studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when you’re getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like you’re inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you can’t think.

he’s seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.

könig has jerked off to all of it.

not just once. not just twice.

so many times he’s lost count.

sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the end— the one that sounds like you’ve been fucked dumb.

sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.

it drives him fucking crazy.

it’s worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.

stop.

he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who can’t keep his head straight.

but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldn’t go—

places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.

his cock twitches.

jesus christ.

it’s perverse. it’s wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to him—

and yeah.

he’s fucked.

his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.

"we can reschedule." it’s the logical thing to say. the right thing.

but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.

"i can’t." your voice wobbles. "i don’t have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we don’t shoot today, it’s done. i lose it."

he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and könig— könig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.

his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of it—

"i can do it."

your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.

"what?"

könig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didn’t just offer himself up like it was nothing.

"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."

he pauses, just long enough to make sure you’re really listening before he adds, pointed: "i’ve done worse for less."

it’s true too. könig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.

it’s not like that anymore.

now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.

and this, you, would look incredible.

"are you-" you swallow hard, throat working, voice tight. "you’re serious?"

könig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldn’t offer if i wasn’t."

your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.

he notices. of course he fucking notices.

you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wants— god, he wants.

he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.

"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"

you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.

and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.

this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabric’s delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someone’s wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.

somehow, that makes it worse.

the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably worn— or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.

the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness you’re supposed to claim as yours.

the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesn’t exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isn’t real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.

your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhale–

and there he is.

könig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. it’s glaringly obvious that it wasn’t tailored for a man like him— you doubt anything ever is— but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.

he’s big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but there’s something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.

then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.

it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.

his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume he’s taking inventory, cataloguing details you didn’t know you were offering.

your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.

könig’s jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.

you swallow. "do i look okay?"

silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."

his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you can’t name. and you know you shouldn’t take his words to heart. shouldn’t make something out of nothing. he was just being polite—

but god, he doesn’t stop looking.

you breathe out. "are we ready?"

that seems to snap him out. könig exhales, nostrils flaring. “yeah," he says, looking away.. "we’re ready."

you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.

"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"

a muffled ‘rolling!’ comes from behind the equipment.

he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"

"speed!"

he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."

his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent ‘ready?’

you nod.

"action!"

the front door creaks open.

you see him first— broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.

it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.

it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.

then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and that’s all it takes.

you move.

your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.

könig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.

his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. there’s an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."

you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. "you’re not that old."

"hm." könig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."

your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smells— soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne you’d tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."

"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."

heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. there’s something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.

then, he kisses you.

and fuck.

it’s messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.

"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."

könig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when you’re tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.

his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until there’s nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.

then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.

"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."

his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."

könig’s fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess you’ve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.

he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"

his voice is soft, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.

his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.

you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldn’t be."

the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.

könig’s head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, — not angry, not exactly— but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat when—

slap.

he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.

you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. you’re caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.

"careful," könig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and i’ll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. s’that what you want?"

your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.

chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"

"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. don’t make me teach you."

your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. könig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.

"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"

heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.

"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.

he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. “missed you too."

you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you can’t go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.

he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i won’t," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"

könig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. könig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"

your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"

"you gotta watch, pretty," könig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.

your gaze drops, breath catching when you see it— his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess you’ve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than you’re prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

"look at that.” he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makin’ a mess all over me."

your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."

so you do.

you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. könig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.

you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"

"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"

you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. könig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.

"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"

his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s patient, achingly so— dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until you’re soaked enough that he doesn’t have to rip you open.

könig’s gaze drops to where you’re spread open for him. "ready?"

you nod, breath catching in your throat, but it’s barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but könig presses on.

every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until you’re nothing but sensation.

"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day i’m home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-’til this pretty cunt just opens up for me."

you can’t speak. can’t think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.

"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "don’t run, baby. you wanted this."

he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant you’ve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushing— yet still, there’s that impossible last inches he can’t force past.

“p-please- need it, need you-” the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.

"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fully— it drives him insane.

"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"

"shh," könig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "you’re doin’ so good, baby. takin’ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"

könig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, he’s pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.

your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.

könig’s lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. let’s see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."

your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.

then he lets gravity do most of the work.

your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you squirm away.

"that’s it," könig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckin’ good for me, baby. lettin’ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."

you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.

"fuck," könig grits out. "that’s my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."

könig doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.

you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everything— the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. he’s slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.

you can’t keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

könig chuckles, pleased, watching the way you’ve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."

your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. könig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like he’s trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.

"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.

"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "you’re gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"

your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking könig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.

könig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess you’ve made. "fuckin’ knew you’d soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."

you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before you’re being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.

"könig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.

he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.

"good fuckin’ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."

you sob into the mess beneath you. könig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.

"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.

your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. könig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.

"kö-”

“don’t make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.

"what’s the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now you’re going shy?"

your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.

könig clicks his tongue. "that’s not licking, that’s teasing."

his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and könig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.

"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."

your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twists— but the weight of könig’s cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.

he notices. of course he notices.

"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, don’t you?"

your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.

"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. you’re gettin’ off on this."

you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.

"könig-"

"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. don’t stop ‘til it’s gone."

your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.

könig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "that’s it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."

you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.

he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where it’s damp with tears. "s’this gettin’ you all worked up?"

könig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"

your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too much— and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.

his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckin’ well."

his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. könig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as it’ll go. "keep it in,” he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.

his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.

your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.

könig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.

"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.

he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.

"so pretty like this.” his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."

he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.” he grins. “fill you up every night until it takes.”

“-and cut!”

[salemwasnteverhere]

How the Hashira men react to your neighbor asking you to be quiet

Characters: Tengen, Sanemi, Rengoku, Obanai, Gyomei, Giyuu,

Additional shit: Swearing, Sanemi fighting said neighbor, Rengoku being blunt, mentions of sex, ooc mot likely :p

Tengen

He couldn't care less

His whole thing is being flashy and loud so he wants you to be loud

Like it's not his fault that dick is magical

After he shoos your neighbor away he makes sure to be as loud as possible that night

He's pounding into your cunt and you swear your gonna break when he whispers "okay now scream exactly how big my dick is. Don't forget the tip color-"

He gets cut off by you hitting him with the pillow

Way to ruin the mood

But that doesn't stop him and instead he goes harder, making sure the bed creaks loud ASF for your neighbor

"Not my fault he doesn't know how to please a woman." Is his main reason for doing so

He really wants you to scream his name so it's imbedded in your neighbors head

"Morning N/N!" Him to your neighbor from the balcony while your trying to get out of bed and failing

"Actually die." Both you and your neighbor to Tengen

Sanemi

Cares alot

Why the fuck is that limp dick biscuit talking to you and him? Who does he think he is?

You were the one who broke the news to him thankfully cause if Sanemi was the one who opened the door then you'd have to see your husband through glass in a prison

Just kidding. The Slayer corp would get him out of trouble if he didn't do it himself.

Anyways

Sanemi made it his goal to piss your neighbor off as much as possible

Your under him, practically creaming on his cock, and he's slamming the wall yelling "This loud enough yet?! Huh!?"

Not kidding I can see him doing that

He quite literally had you against a window where your neighbors could see him destroying you just to make them mad or uncomfortable, hopefully both.

But then he'd get pissed someone else would see you all naked and fucked out so he settled for the wall next to the window

One day your neighbor, finally having enough, bangs on your door yelling and guess who opens it...Sanemi!!

Good Lord was he waiting for this

It took one punch and the guy was out

Kinda what happens when you put a normal dude against a guy who kills demons for a living

Rengoku

He's a good neutral between caring and not caring

Like he doesn't wanna make your neighbors mad but he also loves hearing your screams

So he tries to keep you quiet during sex but fails since he gets to into it to give a fuck

The next days his loud ass voice wakes you up

"IM SORRY FOR MAKING INCREDIBLE LOVE TO MY WIFE!" He's not being sarcastic thats his genuine apology

Your facepalming and you want to die when you see your neighbor and she can't look at you

"PERHAPS SHES MAD BECAUSE HER HUSBAND CANNOT PLEASE HER!" Rengoku says casually and you know she can hear you from outside in her garden

"Inside voices!" You place your hands over his mouth to try and shut him up.

It works for a bit before he's yelling again

You love your husband but holy shit you wish he would speak normally sometimes

He's actually quiet in bed though

So your the problem (real)

Obanai

I'm not an Obanai fan so forgive me for how bad his section will be

Obanai is a quiet mf, and you're not even that loud

It's your neighbor who was the problem

A little old man whose hearing aids apparently had the power of 67 suns

You and Obanai found this out when he was outside training and your neighbor came over

He was so sweet and polite and even chuckled at Obanai's redness

Obanai cared at first but got over it

You? You make sure to not make a PEEP in bed

Okay that pisses Obanai off but he understands your reasons

At least make a gasp or sum cause he's over here like "Wait does this feel good? Can she feel it? Did I forget where the clit is?"

Brother is STRESSING

Then you cum and he's like "ah"

Then he's like "Did you take it?"

You have to keep yourself from murdering him cause how tf would you fake squirting

Gyomei

Babe I'm not gonna lie, you're a screamer

Gyomei is built like a house and your telling me your just gonna whine and whimper?

NO

Your over here crying and screaming into his chest, neck, the pillow, anything.

And Gyomei loves it!

He can't see your reactions so hearing and feeling them let's him know he's doing good

Gyomei isn't loud but he's not quiet

He'll grunt and moan and praise you, but he's not gonna cry out.

Well he'll cry but you can never tell from what

When the pussy so good you start crying 😭🙏

When your neighbor politely asked you to be a tad bit quieter Gyomei actually laughed

Not in a 'nah we'll keep being loud' way but more of a 'sorry we'll be quiet' way. He also found it hilarious how you actually died of embarrassment.

Don't worry he thinks its endearing

Yet it was kinda hard for him since he enjoyed hearing you

But your touches and now quieter moans made that better

And then there's also you literally drawing blood from his back you were scratching so hard

Giyuu

Holy shit you have never seen him so embarrassed

Like you could shade match his Haori to him and get the exact same color

He was the one your neighbor told and he stopped working when 'loud' and 'moaning' left their lips

If a demon doesn't kill him then his own actions will

Giyuu isn't loud, and he loves that he can make you feel so good that your loud for him.

But he didn't want your neighbor back over at your house so he tried to keep you quiet

You were super confused when he held his hand over your mouth in bed and he just pointed to your neighbors house. Then you got it.

So you nod and try to keep quiet.

You know in school when the teacher tells you and a friend to shut up but they look at you funny and you break?

Yeah that was you

You were riding Giyuu one night and you were loud so he was like "holy shit I love you but please- I can't look our neighbor in the eyes anymore."

And you couldn't help but laugh

Like howling

You calmed down obviously but sex was very giggle filled after that

You've never seen Giyuu so panicked

But give him a week and he'll stop caring

[renskaji]

a quiet place to land

ren kaji x hiragi!sister reader, wc: 3k, req? yes! find it here.

You know it’s a bad day when Ren Kaji shows up at your front door. 

It’s not like you don’t like him. You’ve known him since middle school, back when his hair was still dark and your friends warned you to stay away from that Kaji boy because his temper was unleashed and uncontrolled. You ignored them, stopped hanging around those who refused to see how hard Kaji tried to keep himself sane, and watched the changes happen in him from start to finish. 

It’s bad, because Ren Kaji is standing in front of you, and your brother won’t be home for hours.

“Toma isn’t here,” You say upon opening the door. He’s standing on your front stoop, hair a little disheveled and something that looks suspiciously like a fresh set of bruises littering the skin of his cheeks and jaw. Sure enough, one glance at his hands clenched in fists at his sides, you see the skin torn from a fight. 

It doesn’t scare you. You’ve been watching your brother get in fights since elementary school. What you are wary of is the fact that something went down, something bad enough to bring Kaji to your door, and Toma isn’t there to help fix it. 

“I’m not here for your brother.” Kaji’s voice is harsh, but that’s his normal. You twist your lips to the side, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you study him carefully. His headphones are resting around his neck and he has a lollipop sticking from his mouth, which is nothing of note. You’re more concerned about the way he’s clenching his jaw and how his gaze seems hidden, ducked to the side and refusing to meet your evaluative stare. It’s almost protected. Like he’s worried about you seeing what he’s feeling, despite the fact that he showed up at your house. 

And he’s not there for Toma.

You sigh, pushing open your front door wider and leaving him to enter on his own. He’s been over enough times to know the rules of the house, to know how to navigate himself to the living room. You’re suddenly way too conscious of the fact that you’re only wearing a random hoodie you quote unquote borrowed from Toma and athletic shorts you’ve had for far too long. 

Not that it should matter. Because under no circumstances can you entertain the idea of anything with Kaji. Nope. Absolutely not.

And it’s not like this is the first time he’s ever come over without intending to see your brother, either. There have been a handful of occasions, like the one you’re currently in, where something happened, where life got too loud, and Ren Kaji found himself on your doorstep wanting to see you. 

It’s really no wonder you fell in love with him along the way, honestly. 

“Sit,” You throw the order over your shoulder carelessly as you retreat further into the house than the living room, gesturing vaguely towards the couch as you go. Kaji follows your command without fuss, which is just another sign on the long list of red flags he’s already flown that something is wrong. Usually, he’ll grumble out a ‘don’t tell me what to do’ before complying regardless. But now he’s silent, and you’re struggling to put the pieces of the puzzle together. 

The first aid kit is well stocked and kept within arms reach in your household. It takes less than a minute to collect it, but by the time you return to the living room, Kaji’s already retreated into the sanctuary of his headphones blaring rock music to drown out whatever was bothering him. 

You don’t think anything of it. You’ve known Kaji for years, and you’ve come to understand how to exist in the same space as him without overstepping. Which is why you know enough to grab your own headphones on your way back into the living room, and you busy yourself with connecting them while you settle atop the coffee table directly in front of Kaji’s position on the couch. It’s cramped, but you make it work with your knees slotted between his casually spread legs and a blush burning the tips of your ears. 

As soon as your own music starts playing, you set your phone to the side and look to your patient for the time being. He’s staring at you, but you know he’s not really seeing, so you nudge his foot with yours and stick out your hand, palm up and fingers splayed. With the music playing in both your ears, words are useless. 

Kaji knows to set his own hand in yours, because he’s been through the routine too many times, too. You’ve lost count of how many nights you patched up Toma and his gang, Kaji included. You’re pretty sure even Sako still knows the drill, and he hasn’t shown his face to you since junior high graduation. 

The alcohol wipe stings, but Kaji is already tensing his jaw so tight that he doesn’t show a visible wince. Regardless, you know it doesn’t feel good, so you make quick work of cleaning the torn skin on his knuckles. He watches you work carefully, obediently switching hands without you even needing to tell him to. 

The scratches on his face aren’t anything serious, either, so you finish disinfecting in a matter of moments and apply necessary bandages to smooth skin. He’s still watching you carefully, but you know he’s finally seeing, and the recognition that he’s coming back to himself makes you let loose the tension you had been unknowingly holding in your shoulders. 

Your mind inevitably drifts while doting on him, and you find yourself studying his face too closely for just simply looking for injuries. Especially when you’re looking at his lips more than his bruises. 

He’s still wearing his headphones when you finish packing up the first aid kit, so you know he needs more time until you can bother him about what happened. He’s not running off, which is an improvement from middle school, when he would tug his hoodie over the top of his head to block out the world. Now, he’s drowning out sound while scrolling through his phone on your couch. 

The thought makes your cheek twitch with a smile. You know better than to comment on his growth. 

Instead, you stand from your seat on the coffee table and return the first aid kit to its rightful home. When you make your way back to the living room, you choose a spot on the couch with a comfortable distance between yourself and Kaji. In place of badgering him, you pull out your own phone and begin to scroll. 

There’s no message from Toma about a big fight happening in town, which makes your face twist in silent confusion. Your brother has always been good about warning you about Bofurin’s actions in a bid to keep you away from the trouble. The lack of a text makes you glance at Kaji, trying to piece together how he could’ve gotten so injured without a noteworthy Furin fight having gone down.  

But the blond seated beside you offers no answers without you having to dig for them, so you fire off a message to Toma and shut down your phone, tucking it between your leg and the couch cushion. You twist in your seat until you’re leaning back against the arm rest, feet pulled up on the couch to give you something to wrap your arms around and rest your chin on. 

You study Kaji’s profile for as long as it takes for him to notice you’re waiting for him. Or maybe, for as long as it takes for him to work up the resolve to take off his headphones. He sets them on the coffee table, and you know that means he’s ready to talk. 

“Thanks,” He mumbles out to break the silence. You’ve never known Kaji to be an overly talkative person, so you take the opportunity he’s given you with both hands and ask the question that’s been bugging at you since he arrived. 

“So, who’d you fight this time?” You keep your voice light, non-accusatory. You’ve never loved all the fighting, but you know they’re doing it for a good cause. And you also know Kaji is too good of a guy to get in fights for no reason. 

“Dunno their names.”

Kaji shrugs, attention fixed on his abandoned headphones on the coffee table. Now you’re confused, because there’s something far worse than a regular fight wrong with him. He can handle scraps with random troublemakers on his own, without needing to see you. Something about this fight in particular is bothering him. 

“Kaji,” You try again, a bit more forcefully. He finally looks at you, but he’s just as quick to glance away. You frown, and shift further down the couch until you’re directly next to him, your sock clad feet only a few inches away from his leg. Part of you thinks you see the tips of his ears start to turn bright red, but part of you knows that would be ridiculous. “What happened?” 

There’s a telltale crack as Kaji’s jaw clenches over the lollipop he’s been savoring since before he arrived. His face is stony, completely giving away the fact that whatever did go down before he arrived at your door was bad. 

“I really don’t know their names. But they were wearing the uniforms from your school.” He explains, though it sounds like it’s taking a lot for him to get the words out. Like each one has the same feeling as poking at an unhealed bruise. Your face twists in confusion, but you stay quiet, hoping that encourages him to keep talking. “They had some stupid shit to say.” 

“About you?”

“About you.”

“Oh,” You’re not sure where to take the conversation from there. Toma has always told you that you’re too headstrong for your own good, which you never thought was a bad thing. You’re not oblivious to the fact that some of your classmates don’t like you, but you never thought that they would talk so poorly about you that Kaji would fight them. 

It makes a heavy weight settle in your chest, and you look away from Kaji with a frown anchoring the corners of your lips downwards. You wonder what they said, if the boys he’s talking about actually knew you. 

There’s a few unsavory thoughts running through your mind, but you’re abruptly dragged back to reality when Kaji nudges your shin. You know you’re still frowning when you glance at him, but it all melts away to surprise when you see what he’s offering you. 

It’s one of his lollipops. The peach kind, too, and distantly you think that he said one time that those were his favorite. It makes your throat tighten and your sinuses clog with emotion you really hadn’t expected to feel when you opened the door twenty minutes earlier. 

“Thanks,” You sigh as you take the candy. The shake to your voice is hard to ignore, but Kaji is good enough to not comment on it. You’d almost think he doesn’t notice the way your eyes are a bit shinier than usual, but the candy he’s offering is proof otherwise. “You didn’t have to do it, though.”

“Huh?” He’s turned fully towards you, now, and it’s hard not to burn up under the total weight of his attention. Most days, you’d love to revel in his focus, but now it feels too hot, too close to something you’ve never been brave enough to address. 

“You didn’t have to fight those boys just ‘cause I’m Toma’s sister,” You clarify, voice quiet and close to shattering. It’s the only reason you can think of that explains why Kaji would bother dealing with some random assholes. You busy yourself by popping the gifted lollipop in your mouth, savoring the taste of peach on your tongue, folding the wrapper into a neat triangle, then half it again. 

Under different circumstances, it would be almost amusing to watch him process what you’re saying. It’s almost like his brain stutters, then stalls, before needing to reboot and start over. You watch as flashes of confusion shine in his eyes, then disbelief, before finally settling on annoyance. 

“You stupid or something?” He asks, and you snap out of your self-pitying to glare at him, mouth already open to retort with your own insult by the time he barrels on. “I didn’t do it ‘cause of your brother. I did it because I like you, a lot, and those assholes don’t get to talk about you like that.”

You’re still a little pissed off at the stupid comment, so it takes you longer than it typically would to realize he just confessed to having feelings for you. 

In the stretch of silence you foolishly let build after his admission, Kaji groans and reaches for his headphones to hide from the world again. His blush is crawling up his neck, and all you can think about is how adorable you find it as you hand shoots out to grab his sleeve. 

His focus snapes to you the moment your touch finds his sleeve. He’s frozen, half leaning forward to grab his headphones off the coffee table. You’re convinced that one wrong move will send him flying out the front door and avoiding you forever. 

“You’re really shit at this kind of stuff.” You find yourself saying before you can think about it. It falls under the category of a wrong move that will send him flying out the front door, but you’re holding the sleeve of his sweatshirt so tightly he can’t go anywhere without dragging you with him. 

“Just forget it.” He grumbles, a glare he doesn’t mean fixed on something over your shoulder. You can’t help the way your grin finally breaks free, but he misses it by avoiding your gaze. 

“Now you’re the one being stupid.” You tease. “The guy I like just beat up bullies I didn't know I had and confessed his feelings for me. I’m not just going to forget it.” 

You’re leaning closer towards him now, hoping he’ll get the hint that you want him to kiss you. The lollipop is plucked from your mouth, held by the stick in your hand that isn’t currently bunched in the fabric of his sweatshirt. You think you’re inching closer towards your goal when you spot his gaze tracking the way your tongue darts out to wet your peach flavored lips. 

“Your brother—” He starts, but you’re quick to interrupt. 

“Now it’s finally about Toma.” You tease with a playful roll of your eyes. “My brother loves you. And he trusts you, too. He’s not going to be bothered by us.” 

Kaji’s ears burn impossibly brighter at the mention of an us, which makes you grin and lean even further into his space. This is so not the direction you thought your afternoon would go, but you’ll take it. 

He’s quiet for a moment longer, so you decide to give him another nudge, another tease that will hopefully push him over the edge towards action. 

“If you really want, we can call Toma and ask—”

You’re interrupted by his hand suddenly cradling your jaw, angling your face just right in the seconds before his lips crash against yours. It’s a little sloppy, a little inexperienced, but it makes your head feel dizzy all the same. You press towards him the moment you get your bearings, desperate to show him how much you care for him. 

It’s nearly embarrassing how breathless you are after the kiss ends. But Kaji’s panting too, so you know you’ll be alright. Your smile is a little dazed, but there’s no way for you to miss the determined look in his eyes. 

“I owe your brother so much, but it’s never about him for me. It’s always you.” There’s a weight to his confession that you’re not quite sure how to unpack. Kaji has idolized Toma for years. But to think that as deep as that devotion goes, Kaji’s commitment to you goes deeper—

You’re not sure what else to do but kiss him again. 

It’s shorter than the first kiss, but no less meaningful. You see the way he’s blushing under your touch, your attention, and you wonder how you went so long without drawing that reaction from him. He’s too adorable, and it makes you decide that you’ll do whatever it takes to keep him blushing, always. You’re smiling, and it’ll take a lot to keep you from doing so.

“We still have to tell my brother, you know.”

“Don’t remind me.”

+ bonus

“Have you heard from Kaji lately? Word is he got into a brawl in town and no one’s seen him since.”

Toma Hiragi groans at his vice captain, reaching into his jacket for both his phone and stomach medicine. It’s one thing for Kaji to get into a fight while on patrol, but it’s another to disappear after. 

He pops a gaskun-10 pill into his mouth while opening his phone. There’s no texts from his underclassman, but he has one from you, his younger sister. 

Kaji showed up at the house. I patched him up but he seems off. I’ll talk to him and figure it out. Oh, and get me that bread Ume was talking about before you come home. 

Toma huffs at your text before turning off his phone and shoving it back in his pocket. He doesn’t actually remember what bread Umemiya recommended to you, so he’ll have to ask and endure a ten minute lecture on bean sprouts. 

But you’re cleaning up Kaji for him, so it’s the least he can do. 

“Kaji’s fine.” Toma explains to the small crowd of Bofurin that had gathered while waiting to hear about their teammate’s whereabouts. “He’s with my sister. She’s taking care of him.”

And maybe you’ll put him out of his misery and finally admit you’re in love with each other.

[lolana101]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒

⤷ VIKTOR: SLOPPY SECONDS

⤷ feat. viktor (arcane league of legends)

cw: 18+ , oral stimulation (m), edging, dirty talk, dom! f reader, saliva, nsfw, angst? enjoy!!

“i don’t do this.”

viktor’s accent was heavy against his tongue, his gaze weighted with an unsure haze. his now useless cane clutched in his hand as he stared down at you, between his legs. you knew you’d find him here, working late, jayce long gone. was hexcore even a shared project anymore?

his bad leg dangling over the work bench, his weight crushing the onslaught of papers and tools beneath him.

“i’ve never- done this.”

his breath hitched, as you softly caressed his thigh. a soft, hum arose from your throat in understanding, as you looked fixedly up at him.

“say something.. please.”

the cane clatters against the floor as he hesitantly reached and touched your cheek - a soft poke. did he think you weren’t real? he probably thought of that possibility once; he is always thinking.

“what do you want me to say?”

tour voice was soft, eyes never leaving his. his gaze flickered at the hexcore, the room enclosed in a soft blue hue.

you continued to softly rub his thigh, inching up and up.. you could feel the soft twitching of his thigh, the needy yet silent urges emanating from him. what did he look like voicing those sins?

then again, that’s why he liked you. you could practically read through him. you started to fiddle with his belt, sliding the leather off with practiced ease.

“you’re hard.”

you voiced, slowly rubbing the bulge through his pants. his breath paused, a soft buck up into your hands.

you leaned down, pressing soft kisses against his twitching, clothed need, humming softly. Your fingers slid up to his zipper, tugging it down and pulling away. With his jeans open, you could get a look. a soft dark patch forming as his pre-cum weeps through fabric.

his face was red now, those soft blemishes over his face highlighted with the blue. he looked gorgeous. his mouth was agape, silently begging. I guess he waited enough.

your hand softly jerked at the pretty, pink mushroom tip. his length astonishing, not too thick but freakishly long. your fingers slick with his arousal as he let out almost pathetic whimpers. his eyes fluttered close, his thick brown eyebrows curving at the softest stimulation of your hands. his semi - hard member rose up quickly, your finger slowly pumping, pulling up the shaft until your plant wrapped around his head, then moving down.

leaning closer your tongue swiped at the base, slowly trailing up until you could taste the salty need pouring out from him. he let out a shaky sigh, as your plush lips wrapped around his head, sucking and licking. your tongue swiping curiously at his hot need, your hand still gently stimulating him, though gradually gets pulled away as you take him deeper.

it felt so good, his legs twitching. deeper, is all he wanted. you soon obliged sinking down onto him, until your nose was pressed against the soft hair of his stomach, your throat contracting against him. he smelled good, the soft hairs under his stomach and lower smelled of soft musk. so manly.

“fuck..”

a breathless whisper, as your head bobbed on his throbbing cock, spit dribbling down his base only to get slurped back up. every movement had him twitching, he swore he would cum under the first minute. he couldn’t help it, his hand grasping at your curls, swiping them up into a bun to aid you into drilling his length into you. his dick twitched, heat pooling in his stomach threatening to spill.

“I-i’m..”

In an instant he twitched, though as the pleasure washed over him he let out an uncomfortable whimper, your tongue pressed roughly against the slit, humming. he huffed, staring down at you with pure need. his body was hot, needy. his hips twitching, your fingers moving to softly caress his bad leg easing the achy muscles.

“please..? why..”

you smiled up at him, his thighs twitching, as you kissed his base, sucking on his balls for a little before letting them go with a pop if your lips.

he was begging, you could see it. your wrist flicked at his head again, twisting, the lewd squelching echoing as he stared down at you. He was going to cum again, as he started to slowly fuck himself up into your palm.

he was getting more vocal, those sweet huffs turning into pliant begs, your wrist not moving anymore as you felt a familiar twitch in his base, before your thumb pressed against his tip.

“….f-fuck please-“

he whimpered, staring into your gaze, you were so evil. not letting him cum, not letting him desperately release that sweet orgasm he’s been holding - saving up for.

after a moment you remove your thumb, pressing a soft kiss against his tip before staring up at him, fingers skipping up his chest to grab his tie, hauling him down and pressing a sloppy kiss against his lips.

that taste, fresh black coffee. he chased your lips like a lost puppy, sloppy, licking up the dried drool off your lips, tasting the salty goodness he left on you.

“want me to make you cum yeah? fully?”

you asked, nipping at his neck before letting hip sit back up, your gaze down at your twitching cock.

“please? please please..”

he begged, your name rolling off his tongue, so close to sweet melody. you smiled up at him, before your gaze snapped back down, his hand wrapped around his base, as he pointed his needy dick to your lips.

that thick accent rolled your name off his lips for one last time, as you leaned down. your lips wrapped around him, head bobbing sloppily around his dick. you could hear him moan and groan, his hand sinking ti your scalp to guide your movements.

you were still in control, you both knew it. yet his needy whimpers allowed him to soften you just a little, to let him fuck your throat. his tip hitting the back of your throat, your hands splayed on his thighs. You could feel your own heat growing wet, pussy twitching just from him fucking his brains out into your mouth.

he let out a almost howl, your gaze snapping up at him, your eyes watered as you gaged slightly. you could feel warmth deep down your throat, his pretty pink cock twitching in your mouth. you came a a little too, your clothed clit twitching softly.

“…nng.”

he was still going through the after shocks, poor little viktor twitching, not even having the energy to form a sentence. he eased his cock out of you, It growing soft as he pulls you up, kissing you softly. he whined softly, feeling your hands softly jerk at his overstimulated sex.

“…good?”

“amazing.”

he pants out, nuzzling himself in your neck.

happy thanksgiving y’all !! hope he on my plate 😫please like and follow, and request!!

my most recent post here

[redr0sewrites]

NNN Hcs with the Dc Batboys

🥀A/n: exactly what is sounds like‼️ i love writing no nut november hcs sm-

🥀Character(s): Dick Grayson x reader, Jason Todd x reader, Bruce Wayne x reader,

🥀Cw: smut, teasing, switch!reader, use of the term(s) prince/ss in Bruce's pt, dirty talk

🥀divider: @chachachannah <3

🥀minors dni

Dick Grayson:

bringing up NNN to Dick definitely raises a brow- at first he's a little confused, you don't want to have sex for an entire month? who would ever want that?

once you explain it though, i think he'd be really into it. he's definitely a little pouty that he can't even masturbate, and would probably complain if you were abstaining from sex without telling him why. once you convince him to join you though, he starts taking it very seriously

Dick has a bit of a competitive streak, so i definitely think he's in it to "beat you". he's teasing you endlessly, trying to get you to give in before the month ends (and theres definitely a high chance of him outlasting you)

actually suuuuuch an unfair tease, like genuinely he's soo annoying throughout the month. you walk by him wearing shorts? he's kneading your ass and giving it an appreciative slap. you don't have a shirt on for any reason whatsoever? he's coming up behind you and groping your chest, whether you have boobs or not, and whispering filthy things in your ear.

he's also big on teasing you in your sleep- you can't tell me Dick wouldn't have the biggest somnophilia kink ever so he's absolutely trying to get you worked up while your asleep, in hopes of you waking up and giving in

i honestly see two outcomes: he either makes it to the end of the month, or he gives up about 3/4 through. i feel like Dick has a pretty high libido, but i also think he has really good self control and can resist temptation so there's definitely some internal conflict on his end.

it gets to a point where, at the end of the month, because his libido is so high and he's been untouched for so long, he's like tweaking out over every touch and is becoming veeerrryyy needy and sensitive. this is probably the time period where he's most likely to give in as he's just soooo sensitive and can't even touch himself to get off! you have a much higher chance of getting Dick to give in once he reaches this threshold, and if you play your cards right he'll be squirming.

if he does make it through the month, expect to be woken up at 12:01 on the first of december with Dick humping your thigh and whining in your ear. he's NOT in control right now, he's way too needy and sensitive, and he's definitely okay with letting you use him to get off- he needs to cum just as bad as you do

gives you the most AMAZING orgasms after waiting a month, he's mounting you like an incubus and rutting into you like his life depends on it until your both whimpering and overstimulated ♥️

he's probably gonna be a little mean too, considering you made him wait soooo long <\\3

"hnhah- ffuck." Dick's soft breath tickles your ear as he nips at the lobe, his hips rocking heavily against yours. "c'mon, baby, you can give me another, please.." his cock twitches against your tummy, tip sticky and wet from previous orgasms.

"Dickie, i just came-" you whine, yet your body betrays you as your hips roll up to meet his. he chuckles breathlessly against the soft column of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses into your sweat-soaked skin. "please, baby? jus' one more, f'me?" his tone is teasing, but you can tell he's desperate as you feel his cockhead twitch again. with a soft giggle, you nod, and Dick wastes no time in aligning himself with your hole. "you ready, hun?"

"mhm," you hum, and he slides in. your hole is already wet from previous orgasms, it had felt too good for Dick to not cum inside, and that only aided his sloppy thrusts as he rutted against you. your eyes flutter closed as the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, and Dick ducks back down to whisper in your ear as your orgasm draws closer. "so pretty, s'good for me, made me wait so long for this... ffucck- y'gonna cum for me, honey? gonna take it all?"

Jason Todd:

Jason is honestly a wild card, i think it could go a multitude of ways honestly depending on how you feel

when you suggest the idea to him, i either see him being a tiny bit petty and lowkey deciding to fuck you every day of november OR take it as a challenge and being determined to make it through the month with no screw ups.

if it ends up being the latter, than i feel as though Jason has a higher chance of succeeding then losing. i don't think his sex drive is super high, and he's also pretty stubborn, HOWEVER, you are his weak point, and if you end up teasing him or begging him, i can picture him snapping and fucking you

either way, he's at least making it through half the month if not longer.

the only way you'll get him to give in is if your REALLY desperate, because he could never see you needy- so teasing him or pleading with him to fuck you is probably how you can get him to break

i also see him teasing you, but only subtly. he'll wear those low rise sweatpants he knows you like around the house, he's shirtless more often than not, and somehow his hands always seem to find place on your thighs... what lovely coincidences!

Jason struggles more with not fucking you than not being able to masturbate. i honestly don't think he does so very often, so it wouldn't be much of an issue, but not being able to fuck you? not even being able to give you head? drives him insane.

all in all, Jason cares more about your satisfaction than his own. could probably go the whole month without your interference, but is probably pent up by the end of the month

speaking of pent up, he's going to be insane at the end of the month because you made him wait. probably going to be more dominant than usual, BUT he's still really gentle and sweet because he knows your sensitive,,, so its a win!

the first time he cums after no nut november he swears he sees stars, probably praises you to the moon and back over how perfect you are

i think he'd wait until the next day to ravish you, he'd let you both get your sleep, but encourages you both to take the day off and spend the day in bed catching up on lost time. december first is going to be a LOVELY day for you,,,,

"s'that feel good, baby?"

"ffuck- yes Jay, fucking me so good-" you whine into the pillows, drool soaking the fabric as Jason pounds into you from behind. strong arms frame your form as he fucks you, his dick just perfectly touching your g spot/prostate with each thrust.

"aren't you- hnghh- glad you took the day off? relaxed a bit?" Jason huffed, his breath tickling your ear as he tightened his one handed grip on your ass. "y'should let me take care of you more often, especially after waiting so long..." he coos, and you let out a strangled moan as the knot in your stomach begins to tighten faster and faster.

"y'gonna cum for me, pretty?"

"y-es, please, Jay-"

"shh, s'ok, me too, we'll cum together, okay honey?" he soothes, rocking against you as the bed frame quakes.

"gonna fill you up so nice," he murmurs under his breath, white curls plastered to his sweat-slick forehead. "gonna make you cum for every day i couldnt..."

Bruce Wayne:

Bruce is making it through the month, no questions asked. it does not matter how deeply and truly he loves you, this man is IN IT TO WIN IT. he is absolutely making it through the month and will not budge i fear

theres a few nights where he's pent up and irritated after batman-ing and considers giving in, but he never does

when you first suggested NNN to him, he's probably a bit lukewarm to the idea, but whatever makes you happy 🤷 ngl he probably thought you were mad at him and this was a punishment or something at first😭

he honestly didn't think you'd end up actually going through with it, and if you end up giving in at some point in the month he'll definitely feign disappointment

"such a shame, i thought you were challenging me to this...game."

he's absolutely evil when it comes to teasing. he'll come up behind you and press gentle kisses on your neck, his large hands holding a firm grip on your waist, only to pull away with a practiced, professional smile as you begin to curl into his touch <\\3 he also plays up the Brucie Wayne persona, and is a lot more subtly seductive in an attempt to get you to break

keeping a firm hand on your lower back in public, giving you gifts (specifically lingerie, with a note attached that states, "for the end of the month"), and overall being a bit more possessive

when the month is over??? PREPARE. it's late, almost 2AM on december first, and the second he returns from patrolling he's finding you. doesn't even take the batsuit off, hell, he probably fucks you right there in the batcave, bent over the batcomputer. he's a little harsher than usual, and definitely more needy. he also tells you to take the day off, so he can.. spoil you for the entire day <3

let me just say, after so long of abstaining, he FUCKS, and he fucks you hard. you swear your seeing stars with each thrust, and he's genuinely insatiable. probably wants to breed you too... doesn't matter if you can get pregnant or not, he's fucking you full of his cum

the desk beneath you rattles with each thrust, and your thighs tremble as large, gloved hands find purchase on your soft skin. the rough, cold temperature of the leather provides delicious contrast to your lust-warmed skin, and you let out a wanton moan as Bruce thrusts heavy and deep inside.

"you like that, doll? like making me wait?" he practically growls in your ear, and you let out a stuttering moan.

"n-no, please, s'too much-"

"aw, poor thing. can't even take my cock... guess it has been a month after all, you'll need some time to get used to it i suppose." you roll your eyes at his cockiness, but just as you go to spit back a retort, he rolls his hips against your again. you shudder, clenching around him as his pace speeds up.

"so good f'me," he coos, almost cruel in his ministrations as he rubs harsh circles into the soft flesh of your thighs. Bruce's thrusts increase in pace, his tip rearranging your guts as the coil in your stomach begins to tighten.

"o-oh! 'm gonna-"

"fuuck, i know, prince/ss. cum for me," he whispers, moving one hand to the small of your back, pushing you down more firmly against the desk. "you can take it."

[yeokii]

LiKE A FLU ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀☁️ you're kind of a harmful flu ( 𝗺𝘆 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆 ) 𝟎𝟐' 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋 ──── 𝑦.𝑘𝑖𝑖

❛ 𝖠𝖫𝖫 𝖭𝖨𝖦𝖧𝖳! ❜ 🍶 ﹢﹒── ᐢ..ᐢ 너를 꿈꾸고 있어 ✶ 𝑒𝗌𝗍. you knew he was bad for you, so why do you keep coming back? ʬʬ.𝖧𝖮𝖮𝖭𝖲𝖢𝖠𝖯𝖤! 🎧 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎 ❨ 𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 ❩

⠀⠀𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑛𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑚𝑒 ─── 널 앓고 있는 게, 더 사랑 같아 난 don't you let me down, 넌 좀 해로운 flu! 다정하지만, 네 말투는 so cool .⠀ ✉️

•⠀📁 ──𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. ( hoon&fmr ) 𓈒 ◌ 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 kinda fluff & angst i think ◞  2OO2⠀╱ 5hun : 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ‧ hoons wounded / ⋆ ˊ❀◜ 𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐍ˋ (⠀𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽 .⠀) liek&reblog! 𝟤𝟢'𝖲𝖱𝖮𝖮𝖬

🐰 : finally a hoon work I missed writing for him heh

he fucked up again.

well, it wasn't like you were keeping count, but each time he did, your heart cracked a little louder. yet somehow, you ended up in his arms again.

you sighed, standing up from your desk and leaving the classroom. jungwon had told you that he got into another fight — a stupid one, really. you didn't ask that many questions, knowing it was of no use.

you made your way to the infirmary, which was your second home at this point. you crossed your arms as you entered the familiar place again, the sunlight seeping through the window while the breeze brushed past your legs

and then you saw him — park sunghoon in all his glory, sitting on the bed with a bruised lip and a scraped knee. you scoffed at the sight. he looked like he was waiting for you (which he was).

you walked up to him without saying anything. you knew you couldn't speak to him now. sighing, you looked at the wounds on his body.

"baby," he looked at you with a gaze so soft.

"baby, talk to me."

you finally looked at him. "what do you want me to say?

“that everything's fine? that i'm not mad? do you want me to pretend this never happened?"

"baby."

"stop." you knelt down on one knee after grabbing the first aid kit on the side of the bed and began cleaning his wounds. you could hear him hiss at the cream that was spread on his knee. "stay still."

"least you're not yelling." he retorted, propping himself up with his arms.

"well, what's the point of that?"

sunghoon gulped at your tone. he knew you were mad. he expected it the moment he threw the first punch.

"baby, they were saying things about you. you know i couldn't let that slide."

"who cares, hoon? let them say whatever. i don't care about them. i care about…" the word was at the tip of your tongue, but it refused to come out of your mouth.

you looked up at him, seeing his little smirk.

"this is funny to you?"

"no, i'm just glad you still care about me."

you stood up after cleaning his wound. "idiot." you hit his forehead with your knuckles slightly.

"i'm sorry, baby. it won't happen again."

"that's what you said last time."

"i mean it."

you could see the sincerity in his eyes, but you still couldn't allow yourself to crumble in front of him.

getting your hopes up with him was useless. he rips off the bandage on your heart time after time, yet it somehow heals at the sight of his doe eyes looking up at you.

he pulled you closer, snaking his arm around your waist. sunghoon brushed a stray hair off your face, tucking it behind your ear, and looked at you like you meant the world to him.

it was something you could only wish was true.

"i hate you."

"no you don't." he snorted at the crazy accusation.

"you could never."

you stay silent, knowing his words didn't hold a single lie.

tags. @zuyairus @bubblytaetae @yenqa @voikiraz @miumura @haechansbbg @taejaysreads @shinunoga-iie-wa @teddywonss @naespas @isoobie @dimplewonie @jennaissantes @aishigrey @firstclassjaylee @rikislove @hynjinnnnnnnn

⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 0.16 you are cursed

PREV PART GOOD ENDING 16 trigger warnings: (threatened) violence, (past, kinda) medical + physical + emotional neglect, DRUGGING SIDE EFFECTS, anger, yandere behaviour, delusional behaviour, swearing, tell me if I missed any!   main m.list      series m.list bad ending m.list

You are going to kill Jason and Dick, even if it’s the last thing you do. Seeing two of your friends rush into your work covered in blood enraged you, it made you push away all of your weird symptoms. You told the supervisor on sight to call an ambulance, to tell them to bill everything to the Wayne household. Anisha, a co-worker who was a doctor in another country, taking care of them, performing first aid to minimise Willow’s bleeding.

“What are you going to do?” Francis asks you, but he couldn’t stand up to stop you. Anisha pushing him down (gently) back on the ground every time he tried to stand up. “(Name), don’t do anything stupid!”

You turn back to him and smile at him. It was as if your world is spinning, even though you don’t know why. You can’t decide if it’s anger or something else, you hope it’s anger. You cannot handle a health crisis right now, not when you need to beat Jason’s and Dick’s ass. “I won’t, Duke will be there.”

But what you don’t know is how he glares at your friends when they come to close, how he puts on a face of innocence around you. Sure, Duke is way better then the rest of your family, but your friends cannot help but feel like something’s off. It will be alright, Francis knows this. He knows that Duke isn’t as bad as the others and never could be. But he follows them when they go out, at least that seems to scare of the Bats.

Francis doesn’t want to let you go, but he knows how you are. He knows what you do, so he’ll warn Duke at least. “Stay safe,” he whispers, clenching his shirt in his fist. “I’ll text you how Willow is alright?”

You nod and smile weakly. “Tell your parents if Bruce won’t pay for his kids mistakes, I will.”

“...Thank you.”

With that you grabbed your bag and called out for a cab. “Where to?” the cab driver asks.

“Wayne manor,” you say, anger radiating of your face.

He nods, clearly confused by your anger and he starts driving. The drive wasn’t good for you, in fact it made you angrier the longer you sat still. Tapping your feet anxiously and biting your nails as you think about what you say.

Biting the skin off your fingers as you become dizzier, but you need to ignore everything. You cannot show any weakness, you cannot show them that you need help. You cannot give them a reason to force their presence upon you. But here you are yet again, paying a cab driver way too much (but then again, he can just see it as a tip for what he might witness) and walking around with no balance. Hyper ventilating from pain and dizziness but your anger keeps you moving forward (truly, Bruce should know by now that you shouldn’t combine medication with sedatives. Don’t you know how wrong that could go?)

“Master (Name)?” Alfred asks as he sees you basically pulling yourself to the living room. By the Gods you look aweful. “Oh dear, you look terrible!”

You wince, he sounds a bit too relieved. He sounds as if he might know why your body is acting like this, but you will focus on that after you fuck Dick and Jason up. “Gee, thanks,” you spat out, rolling your eyes as you pass him. “I need to talk to Dick and Jason, where are they?”

“They are out right now,” Alfred coos, ignoring how you are acting. Helping you stand even when you try to refuse his help. “perhaps I can help you, dear.”

You shake your head, you don’t want his help. You want to know where your shit heads of brothers are purely to fuck them up. You want to shout at them, scratch their skin off. But something is going wrong inside of your body, something is off.

You swear you are cursed at this point, your health always acting up when it shouldn’t. Always making you weaker at the worse moments. And here you are, needing help to take steps. “Something’s off,” you say out loud, as if to warn Alfred for what’s about to happen. But before he could react you puke over his shoes and you can’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction from doing so.

Alfred notices so, but he’ll stay quiet for now. He’ll re-educate you once you are a bit more complicate, less of an angry little kitten. But that doesn’t matter, your state does. The more steps you take and the more you fight him off the weaker you get, and oh he cannot wait to take care of you. He cannot wait to tuck you in once more, to love you as he did before. Truly he cannot wait!

But it does seem that he needs to warn Bruce about the dose he has given you. It’s way too much for your body to handle!

Truly you would expect Batman to be a bit more careful, but then again Bruce had always been reckless, truly it gives Alfred quite the few heart attacks.

And when you suddenly collapsed you sure gave him a heart attack as well! He’s just glad you didn’t fall in your own puke.

NEXT PART also a bit short but this is also a test chapter lmfao

taglist (open!): @justsaii, @bbmgirll

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚜 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you and azzi hate each other... right?

You first met Azzi Fudd under bright gym lights and the roar of a packed crowd.

The game had been brutal—fast, physical, and personal from the moment the ball tipped off. Her team was just as talented as yours, and Azzi? She was relentless. Quick on the drive, sharp with the three, and didn’t flinch even when you clashed shoulders under the rim. You’d been assigned to guard her, and you took that job seriously, chasing her like a shadow across the court.

When the final buzzer went off, the scoreboard flashed your team’s name in green. You won. By five points. And while your teammates jumped and celebrated, you found yourself looking across the court at her.

Azzi wasn’t celebrating.

She stood by the baseline, towel around her shoulders, lips pressed in a tight line, bouncing a basketball with her foot. A slow, rhythm-less tap. You saw it in her eyes—she was pissed. Competitive. The loss didn’t sit well.

And yet, something in you tugged toward her anyway.

You made your way across the court, ignoring the way your teammates hollered your name or tried to give you high-fives. All you saw was her.

She noticed you when you were halfway there and stood straighter. Her shoulders rolled back, jaw tense, like she expected you to gloat.

“You were insane out there,” you said before she could speak. Your voice was quiet—lower, calm, not cocky like she probably expected. “I’ve never had to work that hard to guard someone.”

Azzi blinked, arms still crossed. “You came over here to say that?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, suddenly feeling your usual confidence slip just a little. “Yeah. I mean… yeah. You were amazing. And I wanted to say…” You paused. Swallowed.

Azzi tilted her head, her expression softening just a bit. “What?”

“I think you’re beautiful,” you said, quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “And I was wondering if you’d maybe wanna… give me your number?”

Her jaw dropped, just a little.

Then she laughed. Just a breath of it. “That’s not what I expected at all.”

“Most people don’t.”

She stared at you for a second longer, then pulled out her phone. “Give me your phone.”

You tried to play it cool as you handed it over, pretending your palms weren’t suddenly sweaty.

She typed quickly and handed it back.

“Don’t text me anything weird,” she said.

“No promises,” you replied with a smirk, then walked away—heart pounding, stomach full of butterflies, but already looking forward to the next time you'd talk.

It started with texts.

Late-night ones. Good luck before games. Teasing messages during class. You weren’t great with words, never had been, but something about Azzi made you want to try.

And she? She was sharp. Funny. Sweet, but always knew when to press your buttons. The more you talked, the more you wanted her.

Your first hangout was at a smoothie shop halfway between your schools. She wore joggers and a hoodie. You showed up in black jeans and a tee that she would later steal.

You talked about basketball, your goals, your families, what music you listened to before games. Azzi made fun of your playlist. You pretended to be offended.

On your fifth hangout—after an afternoon of walking around the mall, laughing over bad shoe designs and sneaking fries off each other’s trays—you walked her to her car, leaned against the door, and said, “So, uh… I like you. Like, actually like you. You wanna be my girl?”

Azzi blinked at you. “I thought I already was.”

Your heart tripped over itself. “Wait… seriously?”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Yes. Obviously. I just wanted to hear you say it first.”

From then on, you were inseparable—off the court.

At school, no one knew. Not your friends. Not hers. Just your families, who caught on quickly when Azzi started showing up more and more at your house, and vice versa. Your mom made a habit of teasing her. Azzi blushed every time.

But on the court?

You were enemies.

Hard fouls. Trash talk. Lockdowns. It was like everything flipped when you wore a jersey. The fire in her eyes met the steel in yours. Fans loved it. Commentators ran stories about your "heated rivalry." Opposing coaches used your games as examples of elite competition.

Only you and Azzi knew what happened after the final whistle.

Only she saw the way your fingers grazed hers in the handshake line. Only you knew what it meant when she mouthed “see you later” instead of “good game.”

You both liked it that way. The thrill of being each other’s greatest challenge and quietest safe place.

Your high school gym is packed. Every single seat filled, every corner lined with kids standing on their toes just to see. The banners hang heavy above the court, the air humid with sweat and anticipation. It’s your senior night—but that doesn’t mean anything’s going to be easy.

Not when she's on the other team.

Your so-called rival.

Your not-so-secret girlfriend.

The whistle blows, and from the jump, it’s war.

Azzi sinks a three thirty seconds in—deep, smooth, net barely even moving. The crowd erupts.

You stare her down on the way back.

She smirks. “Gonna have to do better than that tonight, tough guy.”

You don’t respond. You just catch the inbound and dribble up court. One jab step, one cross, and you drain a triple from the logo.

The crowd loses its mind.

Azzi glances over her shoulder at you. “Okay, that was hot.”

You blow her a kiss before turning to get back on D.

The next hour is hell and heaven at the same time. You and Azzi trade buckets like it’s personal. Because it is. Off the court, she wears your hoodie and eats snacks in your bed. But on the court?

She’s trying to kill you. And you love her for it.

She drives hard, shoulder into your chest, and makes the layup. You respond by calling for a high screen and pulling up for another three.

“Lucky,” she spits when she jogs by you.

“That was for you babygirl,” you reply.

She blushed.

By the fourth quarter, the gym is practically shaking. Every time you touch the ball, people scream. Every time she does, someone yells for a double team.

You’re tied with 20 seconds left on the clock. You’ve got the ball at the top of the key. Azzi steps up—eyes narrowed, feet wide. You give her a look. “You sure you wanna be the one guarding me right now?”

“I insist,” she says through gritted teeth.

You hesitate, then drive right. She cuts you off. You spin back left. She’s there. With three seconds left, you step back behind the arc and fire. It’s clean. All net. Your gym explodes.

Azzi’s team calls timeout, but it's too late.

The buzzer echoes, and the place is chaos.

Your teammates tackle you. You’re yelling, laughing, fists pumping. But when it all settles, and the line forms for post-game handshakes, you find her.

Azzi’s face is unreadable.

You give her a small nod, just one heartbeat longer than necessary when your hands meet.

Neither of you say a word.

You walk off like strangers.

But you don’t leave the lot like one.

The gym’s finally quiet. Lights off. People gone. Your adrenaline’s faded into a deep, aching satisfaction. Your body’s sore, your knees screaming—but your heart is still sprinting.

You’re sitting in the driver’s seat of your car, head leaning against the seat, hands loose on the wheel, when the passenger door opens.

Azzi slips in like she belongs there. Because she does.

She tosses her gym bag in the back, still in her away jersey, hair tied up, cheeks flushed and glowing under the dome light.

“You looked good out there,” you say, voice lower now. Softer. Just for her.

She huffs. “You hit that step-back on me again, and I might break up with you.”

You grin. “You loved it.”

She glares. “I hated it.”

You reach over and brush a strand of hair from her face. “You still kissed me last time I hit it on you.”

Her eyes flick down to your mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She leans in and kisses you.

It’s quick at first—like she’s still mad, like she wants to punish you a little for stealing the spotlight.

But when she starts to pull away, you grab her jaw gently, thumb resting under her chin, and kiss her again.

Slower. Deeper. A little desperate. Because when you’re like this—just the two of you, no crowd, no scoreboard—it feels like the only thing that matters is the space between your lips and hers.

When you break apart, she exhales. “I’m still mad at you.”

“You’ll get over it.”

She climbs over the center console and settles sideways in the passenger seat, feet up on your dash, your varsity jacket draped over her legs like always.

“I better,” she murmurs. “’Cause I’ve already planned our post-season dinner date.”

You look at her, soft-eyed. “Are we celebrating my win or your revenge game?”

She shrugs. “Both. I’ll win next time.”

You lean in, press your forehead to hers.

“Game on, baby.”

You arrive at the restaurant first.

It’s not fancy—not somewhere with white tablecloths or chefs with French names. Just a cozy little bistro tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like garlic and fresh bread the second you walk in. You picked it because it’s quiet. Private. Somewhere she can take off the armor, and you don’t have to pretend to hate each other.

You’re in dark jeans and a collared button-down, sleeves rolled up. The hostess compliments your cologne and you just smile, politely, already checking your phone even though you know she’ll be on time.

And she is.

Azzi walks in wearing a cropped leather jacket over a soft red dress, her curls down, earrings catching the warm light. Her sneakers don’t match the rest of her outfit, and you know she did that on purpose.

Just to mess with you.

She spots you, smirks. “Wow. You clean up nice.”

You lean back in your chair. “Look who’s talking. Didn’t know I was dating a model.”

Azzi laughs as she takes the seat across from you. “You’re not. I just look good next to you.”

You fake a wince. “Damn. That’s how it’s gonna be tonight?”

She opens her menu with a shrug. “You did hit that step-back three on me in front of the school. I deserve compensation.”

You glance over the menu, grinning. “You want me to pay for dinner, just say that.”

“Oh, I fully expect you to,” she replies. “You humiliated me. In my new shoes.”

You chuckle, eyes flicking to her sneakers. “Those are my shoes.”

“Exactly. The betrayal runs deep.”

The waitress comes by, and you both order—Azzi gets pasta with spicy red sauce, you get steak and potatoes because, according to her, you’re “boring but reliable.”

You don’t deny it.

The conversation flows, easy as ever. You talk about school drama, prom rumors, which teammates are secretly dating, and what she’s binge-watching lately. You tell her your little cousin has started copying her jump shot. She looks quietly proud, but tries to play it off.

“I don’t know if I’m flattered or scared,” she says.

“Flattered. You’ve got fans now.”

“Only one I care about’s sitting in front of me.”

You look down at your water glass to hide your smile.

The food comes. You both eat like you haven’t had a real meal in days. And when she drops sauce on her chin, you don’t even hesitate—just lean over the table and wipe it off with your napkin, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

Azzi stills.

“You’re being soft,” she says, voice low now. “I thought you were supposed to be the mean one.”

You don’t answer. You just sit back, head tilted, eyes scanning her face like it’s the game film of your life.

“I like you soft,” you murmur. “Even if you try to pretend you’re not.”

Azzi sets her fork down. “Okay… stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something that’ll make me fall harder.”

You blink, caught. “Would that be the worst thing?”

Azzi looks down, then back up—soft brown eyes laced with something vulnerable.

“No,” she says. “Just dangerous.”

You don’t say anything to that. Just reach across the table and lace your fingers through hers.

Your hand finds hers, like it always has.

You both sit there like that, thumb tracing the back of her palm, feet nudging each other under the table. The waitress swings by to ask about dessert, and you both shake your heads.

You don’t need anything else tonight.

You walk her to her car. It’s chilly out, and she wraps her jacket tighter around herself, but still leans into your side like it’s instinct.

“Tonight was…” she trails off.

You finish it. “Perfect?”

She grins. “Yeah.”

She unlocks her door but doesn’t open it yet.

Instead, she turns and stands in front of you, face tipped up toward yours, like you’re gravity.

“You know we’re gonna end up at different colleges, right?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Different states.”

You nod again, slower.

She sighs, leans forward, and rests her forehead against your chest. “You’re not gonna ghost me, right?”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, holding her tight. “Never. I’m yours, Az. For real.”

She tips her chin up, and you kiss her before she can overthink it.

And when she starts to pull away?

You don’t let her.

You kiss her again. Longer. Slower. Like you're trying to memorize the taste of her mouth. Like if this were your last game, your last night, your last kiss, you’d want it to be just like this.

You only break apart when you both have to breathe.

Azzi’s eyes are closed when she rests her head back against your chest. “You’re such a liar,” she whispers.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you said you weren’t romantic.”

You chuckle. “Yeah… I lied.”

It’s late.

Your room is mostly empty—walls bare, shelves wiped clean, boxes stacked by the door. Tomorrow, you leave for Notre Dame. Azzi leaves for UConn the day after.

You’re sitting on the floor, backs against your bed frame, knees bumped together, your music playing low from your phone on the nightstand. A sad playlist. One of the ones she says makes her cry too easily.

You don’t say much.

You’ve been talking all week. Pretending it didn’t hurt. Pretending you could treat this like just another chapter.

But tonight?

Silence feels more honest.

Azzi shifts beside you, stretching out her legs. Her pinky hooks around yours.

“You still gonna text me after your first practice?” she asks quietly.

You nod. “Course.”

She turns to look at you. “Even if your coach hates me?”

You smile faintly. “He already does. I told him I loved a Husky.”

Azzi groans. “Why would you tell him?”

You shrug. “He asked if I was seeing anyone. I said yeah. A UConn commit who’s gonna make my life hell every March.”

She laughs, but it’s thin. “Guess I’m your enemy now, huh?”

You look over at her.

Hair in a loose bun. Hoodie half-off her shoulder. Her game-day bracelet on her wrist—the one you gave her freshman year, back when you were just flirty texts and movie nights.

“Never,” you say. “Not really.”

Azzi leans her head on your shoulder. “We’re gonna be rivals on paper.”

“Only on paper.”

You hear her exhale. “You know what scares me?”

You turn your head, forehead brushing hers. “What?”

“That we’ll both get so caught up in everything… games, practices, interviews, fans…” She pauses. “What if it doesn’t feel like this anymore?”

“This?” you ask.

She lifts her head and looks at you. “Us. Being like this. Sitting on your bedroom floor, feeling like the world can wait.”

You reach for her hand, sliding your fingers between hers.

“I’m not gonna let the world take this from me, Az,” you whisper. “Not the press. Not the travel. Not even Geno.”

She half-laughs, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Geno’s scary.”

You grin. “So am I. Ask anyone who’s tried to guard me.”

Azzi goes quiet again, resting her head back against your shoulder.

You sit like that for a long time. Breathing in sync. Letting the ache settle in.

Finally, she whispers, “You should get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You leave in the morning.”

“I know.”

But you don’t move.

Instead, you shift so you’re sitting in front of her, your hands on her knees, your eyes searching hers like you’re scared to forget what they look like.

“You sure we’ll be okay?” you ask.

Azzi reaches up, cups your cheek with both hands, her thumbs warm against your skin. “You think a couple of different jerseys is enough to scare me off?”

You lean in. She meets you halfway.

The kiss is slow. Soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, just promises everything. Her hands slide to the back of your neck. Yours settle on her waist.

You pull her closer, and the way she melts into you—like she’s been waiting to—makes something crack in your chest.

“No matter what the world thinks… you’ll always be mine.”

The buildup started weeks ago.

Notre Dame vs. UConn.

Top-10 showdown. National television. Sold out arena. ESPN graphics. Two undefeated records. All the hype. All the noise. But underneath the headlines and the headlines behind the headlines, one storyline kept showing up again and again.

“Former High School Rivals Face Off Again: Fudd vs. Y/LN”

They played the clips.

They aired the buzzer-beaters.

They pulled photos from your senior nights—both of you on different courts, drenched in sweat, arms raised in victory.

They called it, “the most personal rivalry in women’s college basketball.”

They didn’t know the half of it.

You’re stretching in the tunnel when UConn jogs past you toward the court.

You feel her before you see her.

New jersey. Same stare.

She doesn’t say a word as she passes. Doesn’t smile. Just bumps shoulders with you on the way out like it’s any other game.

Your teammate nudges you. “Damn. She just big-leagued you.”

You roll out your wrist, deadpan. “Let her try.”

The lights feel brighter tonight.

Or maybe it’s your pulse.

The student section is unhinged. The commentators are already talking about the history, the rivalry, the story behind the story.

You try not to look for her. You fail.

She’s already looking.

Azzi is standing across the court, hands on her hips, lips set in a thin line. But her eyes—those soft brown eyes—flick up and down your frame like she never forgot a single inch of you.

Neither of you smile.

Because on the court?

You don’t know each other.

It starts fast.

You hit your first three from the top of the key—clean, confident, no hesitation.

Azzi answers with one of her own. Pull-up off the screen. Pure.

Back and forth.

You shove her on a drive. She elbows you on a rebound. Words are exchanged.

Trash talk isn’t new, but now it feels sharper. Realer. Everything’s layered.

You pick her pocket once. She blocks your shot the next time down.

The arena is living off it.

At one point, you get switched onto her at the top of the key. The crowd knows what’s coming. So does she.

“You gonna flop again?” she murmurs as she dribbles.

“Only if you miss,” you shoot back.

She grins.

And bricks it.

You blow her a kiss on the rebound.

The world is watching two rivals. Neither of them know they fell asleep in each other’s presence two weeks ago during FaceTime.

Notre Dame comes out hot.

You push the pace. Dime a behind-the-back pass. Force two turnovers. You can feel it shift—momentum, belief, control.

Azzi gets frustrated. Misses a three. You’re already gone in transition before she turns around.

You hear her curse under her breath.

Later, with four minutes left and the game tied at 64, she drives baseline and tries to reverse it on you. You stuff her at the rim.

The gym erupts.

She hits the ground. Looks up at you. Breathing hard. Frustrated.

You offer your hand.

She doesn’t take it.

You jog back down court.

You hit the go-ahead three with 1:06 left. The crowd goes feral. You don’t even celebrate. You just turn and point at her.

She bites the inside of her cheek.

On the final possession, Azzi pulls up from the elbow.

You contest it. She misses.

Notre Dame wins, 71–68.

You line up. It’s tense. You’re buzzing. You want to scream. You want to celebrate. But you also know the camera’s still rolling.

Azzi gets to you.

You hold her hand a second too long.

She mutters, “Nice game.”

You whisper back, “Say it like you mean it.”

She bumps your chest with her fist before walking past.

You catch the grin she’s trying to hide.

It’s past midnight. You’re in Notre Dame warm-ups. Hoodie pulled over your head. Waiting outside the visitors' hotel, hood up, hands in your pockets.

She walks out through the side exit.

No words.

Just climbs into your car like she did back home, back when you were just two kids falling hard and pretending none of this mattered.

She throws her bag in the back and turns to you.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

She just leans over the center console and kisses you.

It’s rough at first—like she’s still pissed. Like she wants to beat you in something. Then it softens. Her hand finds your jaw. Yours slides under her hoodie, warm palm on her waist.

She pulls back first. Barely. Her breath is on your lips.

“I should hate you,” she whispers.

You rest your forehead against hers.

“But you don’t.”

She closes her eyes. “No. I love you. That’s the problem.”

You kiss her again.

Slower this time. Like winning wasn’t enough. Like none of this means anything without her.

They call it The Rematch.

Every basketball fan in the country has it circled.

Notre Dame vs. UConn.

Azzi vs. You.

The gym is packed before warmups even start. Banners everywhere. UConn blue flooding the stands. Chants already rising before the tip. They remember what you did to their team last time—and they remember you.

You can feel it in the air when you walk in for warmups. The noise. The tension. And somewhere in the chaos, you catch her.

On the far side of the court, headphones on, locked in. She doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

You smirk. She's acting.

She's always been good at that.

You’re alone, tying your shoes near the Notre Dame locker room when you hear footsteps.

She rounds the corner like a storm.

Azzi looks up at you, expression unreadable. She’s already in uniform. Game face on. But her fingers twitch at her side, like she wants to reach out.

“Welcome to my court,” she says.

You grin. “It’s cute.”

She steps closer. “You’re not winning here.”

“You scared?”

“Not even a little.”

You glance around, then lean in just slightly, voice lower. “You gonna kiss me good luck?”

Azzi’s jaw ticks. “No. But I might foul you just to feel your body on mine.”

You blink.

Then laugh. “Damn. Okay, UConn.”

She walks away without another word.

You stare after her, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with basketball.

Gampel is deafening.

Every time you touch the ball, you’re booed. Every screen you fight through, every shot you take, they let you hear it.

Azzi, on the other hand, is a queen in her palace. The fans worship her.

You see the signs.

Fudd Around and Find Out!

Notre Shame

Break Her Ankles Again, Azzi!

You don’t care. This is fuel.

The first quarter is fast. Aggressive. And personal.

You and Azzi go at each other like no time has passed since high school.

She hits an early three—flick of the wrist, effortless—and doesn’t even celebrate. Just looks at you.

You come back with a drive, finish through contact, land hard on your side.

Azzi’s hand is the one you swat away when she offers to help you up.

She raises her eyebrow. “So it’s like that tonight?”

You smirk, standing. “Always has been.”

But your thoughts are with her. With how you brushed shoulders walking into the tunnel. With how she mouthed, “Don’t hold back,” before disappearing into her huddle.

Everything turns up.

The defense is tighter. The crowd louder. Azzi steals the ball from you and scores on the fast break—turns and winks at you.

You respond two plays later by crossing her up and draining a jumper in her face.

The bench loses it.

She stares you down, chest heaving.

“Bitch,” she mutters.

“Lover,” you correct.

No one hears it. Just her.

And she blushes—because she hates that it gets to her.

With three minutes left, you tie it at 63 with a deep three from the corner.

Azzi gets the last shot.

One-point lead for Notre Dame. Final possession. Ten seconds.

She dribbles up, you’re guarding her tight, and she hesitates. She could go left. Could pull up. She fakes you out. And for the first time in four years… she slips. She loses the ball.

You dive for it, snatch it clean, and run the clock out dribbling in place.

Notre Dame wins.

You find her in the chaos.

Azzi doesn’t say anything as you approach. Just grabs your hand, squeezes it—hard—and leans in during the brief second you have to pass.

“Hotel,” she whispers. “Tonight.”

You nod once. Then keep walking.

It’s quiet. Still. The buzz of the crowd gone, the weight of the game lifted.

You open the door in sweats and a messy bun. Her eyes are tired. Her cheeks flushed. And her lips find yours before you even speak.

She pushes you back against the door. Hands in your hoodie. Mouth on yours like she needs to forget the loss. Like she’s choosing you over everything else.

When she pulls away, forehead resting on yours, she exhales.

“I hate losing.”

You kiss her temple. “I know.”

“I hate that you got the best of me again.”

“You didn’t,” you say. “You still own my heart.”

She groans. “Shut up.”

You smirk. “Make me.”

She kisses you again.

Longer this time.

Deeper.

And the rivalry?

Forgotten—at least for tonight.

It’s 12:43 AM when your phone buzzes.

“Meet me by the service exit in five. No questions.” – A.

You’re already moving before you finish reading. It’s been too long since you’ve been in the same place at the same time.

The Notre Dame hotel is quiet, dark—everyone asleep or pretending to be, the weight of the season making the air feel heavy. You throw on your hoodie, tuck your room key into your pocket, and slip out like a shadow.

She’s waiting by the alley behind the loading dock. Hoodie pulled low over her curls. Hands in her pockets. Her sneakers kick the curb as you approach.

You don’t say anything. Just reach out and lace your fingers through hers.

She squeezes once. Then pulls you forward, toward her car parked a block away. You slide into the passenger seat, your legs brushing hers. She doesn't look at you yet. Just starts driving.

It’s a hole-in-the-wall, a good thirty minutes outside the city. Off a quiet highway exit. No social media tags, no late-night sports coverage, no college kids.

Just cracked leather booths, a buzzing neon OPEN sign, and an old jukebox humming softly in the corner.

You slide into a booth in the far back. Azzi takes the seat beside you, not across. Like she needs you close. Like if there’s only a little time left, she’s not wasting it on distance.

The waitress doesn’t recognize you. Just hands you two chipped mugs of coffee and a menu that looks older than both of you.

You order pancakes. She gets fries and a milkshake.

Azzi picks at the fries while staring out the window, her leg pressed against yours under the table.

You nudge her gently. “You okay?”

She nods, but doesn't meet your eyes. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

She takes a slow breath. “That it’s almost over. This season. Us… like this. Sneaking out. Hiding. Pretending we’re enemies on the court.”

You reach for her hand under the table, thumb brushing her knuckles. “It doesn’t have to be over.”

She finally turns to you. “You know what I mean. After Sunday… one of us wins. One of us loses. And the whole world’s gonna have something to say about it.”

You don’t answer for a second.

Then you lean over and rest your head against hers. Soft, like you’re both afraid to move too fast and break this night.

“They can say whatever they want,” you murmur. “We’ve always known what’s real.”

She’s quiet, her breath shallow against your collarbone.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. “Not of the game. Just… if I lose, I want it to hurt. And if I win… I don’t want to feel guilty.”

You pull her closer until her head is tucked beneath your chin, your arm draped across her back.

“I get it,” you say softly. “I’ve thought about every outcome. But the only one that matters to me is this—right now. You. Me. Here.”

She looks up at you, eyes wide and vulnerable. “I love you.”

You kiss her forehead. “I love you more.”

“No, you don’t,” she mumbles.

“Yes, I do.”

She laughs under her breath. “Prove it.”

So you do—by curling your hand around the side of her neck and pulling her in for the softest kiss imaginable. It doesn’t ask for anything. It doesn’t lead anywhere. It just is.

Warm. Familiar. Steady.

Like you’ve been kissing her your whole life.

Her hand slides under your hoodie, her fingers drawing tiny circles along the small of your back. You lean into her, resting your forehead against hers when it’s over.

“Can we stay here forever?” she whispers.

You chuckle. “We’ll get kicked out if we nap in the booth.”

“Worth it.”

You pull her into your side, and she stays there, head on your shoulder, her knees drawn up like she’s trying to fold herself into you.

You sit in silence for a while, your hands tangled together, her milkshake half-melted beside you.

Eventually, you whisper, “Whoever wins Sunday… promise me something.”

She shifts to look at you. “Anything.”

“Don’t let it change this. Don’t let it touch us.”

Azzi cups your face, her thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “Nothing could touch us.”

You kiss again. Slower this time. A little longer. A little sadder.

Because you both know the truth.

When Sunday comes, everything changes.

But tonight?

Tonight is still yours.

The arena is loud.

Too loud.

Flashbulbs. Chants. Screaming fans. Cameras everywhere.

You're in the tunnel with your Notre Dame teammates, jersey clinging to your shoulders, sweat already gathering at your brow.

You bounce the ball between your hands.

Breath in. Breath out.

The other tunnel erupts.

UConn jogs out first, all white and navy and ice.

And at the center of it—her.

She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t glance your way once. She’s all game face.

But you know her better than anyone else ever could. You recognize the way her fists clench a half-second longer than usual. How her mouth tenses when she’s focused and feeling too much.

She’s not just ready.

She’s burning.

Good.

So are you.

You win the tip.

And you come out swinging.

First possession, you drop a dime off a pick-and-roll that leads to an easy layup.

Next trip down, you take Azzi off the dribble, left hand, body bump—bucket.

She doesn’t flinch. She comes back and nails a deep three from the wing, right in your teammate’s face.

You’re jogging back, and she gives you a look. A smirk.

“You gonna guard me or watch me?”

You scoff. “You wish I was watching.”

“Baby, you are.”

You chuckle, low. “Not on the court, I’m not.”

You drive, kick out, collect an assist.

You swat a layup attempt so hard it hits the baseline camera. The crowd erupts.

Azzi responds with a crossover so nasty your center stumbles—then she buries the three from the logo.

Timeout Notre Dame.

You wipe your mouth with your jersey and stare her down on the way to your huddle.

She raises an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Never better,” you say, chest heaving.

Her eyes flick to your lips for a split second. No one catches it.

Except you.

It’s a war.

But the difference?

You’re not even close to done.

You come out of halftime furious.

You strip Azzi at the top of the key and take it coast to coast—left hand, finish through contact, and-one.

Azzi jogs back up court beside you. “Okay. That was hot.”

You grin. “You’re not stopping me.”

She bumps your hip. “No, but I’m not done trying.”

Two plays later, she pulls up off a screen and buries another three. Her fourth.

Your bench calls timeout again.

As you walk past, she leans in just enough to say, “Kiss me after the game.”

You look straight ahead, lips twitching.

“Only if you lose.”

Every possession is blood.

It’s tied 71–71 with two minutes left.

Azzi hits a midrange jumper.

You answer with a drive and dish—your eighth assist.

Then you hit a three with 38 seconds left to go up 78–75.

Azzi takes it up the court. No timeout. She wants the ball. Wants you. You meet her at the top of the key. She tries to shake you, steps back—fires.

You block it.

The ball ricochets off her hand. Out of bounds.

Notre Dame possession.

The whole arena erupts.

You don’t smile. You don’t flex.

You just turn to her as you walk past, lean in, and whisper, “I told you.”

She watches you go, jaw clenched, fire in her eyes—and something softer just beneath.

You fall to your knees as the buzzer sounds.

Your teammates tackle you. Confetti falls.

Somewhere in the blur, you hear the announcers losing their minds—

“The freshman from Notre Dame has done it—one of the greatest championship performances in recent memory!”

“And the rivalry delivers again—but this time, Notre Dame finishes on top!”

You're named Most Outstanding Player.

Azzi disappears into the locker room.

But later that night… she lets herself in using the side stairwell. Still in sweats. Hair a mess. Eyes red—but not from crying. She finds you sitting on the bed, the net beside you, still half in uniform.

Azzi doesn’t say anything. Just crosses the room and climbs into your lap, arms around your neck.

You hold her tight.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, even though it clearly hurts to say it.

You press your lips to her temple.

“I never stopped playing for you,” you murmur. “Even when I played against you.”

She looks up at you, soft and wrecked all at once.

“You won,” she says.

“We both did,” you answer. “We made it here.”

Then you kiss her.

And this one?

It’s not about trash talk or rivalry or proving anything.

It’s just love.

It happens in practice.

A simple cut. A drive off a screen. You've done it a thousand times.

But this time—your knee doesn’t follow.

The sound isn’t even loud. Just a pop. Then fire. Screaming fire in your leg.

You hit the floor, gripping your knee, biting down on your mouthguard to stop yourself from howling.

Trainers rush in. Practice stops. You don’t need the MRI.

You already know.

You’re sitting on the table, head in your hands, your brace still on, the scan glowing on a screen nearby.

Confirmed. Torn ACL. Out for the season.

Gone. Just like that.

Your chest is tight. Your throat is raw. You’re so mad you can’t even cry at first.

But when the room clears and it’s just you and the quiet?

You finally break.

You don’t even think. Your fingers dial her number automatically.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Hey—” Her voice is warm, soft, familiar.

You can’t get the words out. Just a broken sound, the kind that comes from somewhere too deep for language.

“Hey, hey, baby. What happened?” she asks quickly, worried.

You finally manage to say it, through thick sobs. “I tore it. My ACL. I tore it.”

“Oh my God,” Azzi whispers. “Where are you? Are you okay? I mean—fuck, of course you’re not okay—what do you need?”

Your hand is shaking. You clutch the phone tighter. “I’m getting surgery in five days. They already booked it.”

She’s silent for a second.

“I’m coming.”

“No,” you say immediately. “Az, you’ve got practice, classes, your own season—”

“I don’t give a shit,” she says, voice steel now. “I’m coming. I want to be there.”

You wipe your face. “You don’t have to—”

“I need to be there.”

She softens again. “You’d be there for me, right?”

“…Yeah.”

“Then let me show up for you. Please.”

You swallow hard, then nod, even though she can’t see you.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

You’re in a gown, in a plain white hospital bed. Your knee’s marked up, IV taped to your arm. Olivia Miles is on your right, flipping through a magazine to distract you. Sonia Citron is near your foot, cracking jokes and trying to get you to smile. It’s working. Barely.

Until the door opens.

And Azzi walks in.

Wearing a Notre Dame hoodie you once left at her place—and a pair of UConn joggers.

Olivia does a full double take.

Sonia nearly drops her phone.

“Wait… what the hell?” Olivia says, pointing. “Why is she here?”

Sonia blinks. “That’s Azzi Fudd.”

“She’s UConn. She’s your rival.”

You blink at them slowly. “Yeah. Also… my girlfriend.”

Silence.

Then both girls explode.

“WHAT?!” “Shut the hell up!” “Wait, wait, wait—this whole time?!” “Since when? HOW?!” “You hated each other!”

Azzi walks calmly to your bedside and kisses your forehead.

“Pretended,” she says, smirking.

You nod, a little smug despite the pain. “Best kept secret in college hoops.”

Olivia’s mouth is open like she’s buffering.

Sonia just blinks. “That’s actually… iconic.”

Azzi squeezes your hand. “You ready?”

You look up at her, suddenly calm in a way you haven’t been in days.

“With you here? Yeah.”

The nurse comes in and tells you it’s time.

Azzi bends over you, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead. Her lips find yours—gentle, grounding, warm.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up,” she whispers.

You nod. “Okay.”

She takes your hand one last time before they wheel you out.

You don’t look back.

You don’t have to.

She’s already promised to be there.

The first thing you feel when you wake up is pain.

Blunt, dull, but unrelenting. Your throat is dry. Your leg is heavy. Your mouth tastes like metal.

Then you feel her.

Azzi’s fingers laced with yours. Her thumb rubbing slow circles into your palm. Her head is bowed, resting against your side like she hasn’t moved in hours.

You shift a little and wince.

Her head jerks up immediately.

“Hey—hey, you’re awake,” she whispers, eyes wide with relief.

You manage a croaky, “Barely.”

Azzi reaches for the water cup on the tray and holds the straw to your lips. “Sip. Slowly.”

You obey. The water tastes like the best thing in the world.

She watches you like you’re made of glass.

“You stayed,” you mumble.

Azzi’s voice drops. “Of course I did. Told you I would.”

You blink against the haze in your eyes. “You look tired.”

She smiles softly. “And you look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Love you too,” you rasp.

Azzi laughs, brushing hair from your face. “You scared me.”

“I’m okay now.”

She leans down and kisses your forehead. “Yeah. You are.”

After two days in the hospital, you’re discharged to a recovery suite near campus. You were supposed to go home.

You didn’t.

Not when Azzi booked a room next door.

She helps you get in, carefully easing you onto the couch, stacking pillows under your leg. She doesn’t let you move a thing without her.

Olivia and Sonia swing by with flowers and snacks and a card signed by the whole team. They pretend to be chill about Azzi being there.

They’re not.

You keep catching them watching the two of you with wide eyes and amused grins.

“You guys really sold the rivalry thing,” Olivia says, raising her brows.

You shrug. “We’re competitive.”

Azzi kisses your temple. “And I’m possessive.”

Sonia fake gags.

You laugh for the first time in days.

Physical therapy starts. It sucks.

You can’t stand for more than five minutes without wobbling.

Everything hurts. All the time.

You cry in frustration more than once.

Azzi is always there. Sitting in the corner of the PT room. Hoodie pulled up, book in her lap. Watching every rep like it’s the Final Four.

After one particularly bad session, you drop onto the mat and cover your face with your hands.

Azzi walks over silently, kneels beside you, and rests her forehead to yours.

“I hate this,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I feel weak.”

“You’re not. You’re healing.”

You finally look at her. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Azzi takes your face in both hands.

“Don’t ever say that again.”

Her voice breaks a little. “You’ve always carried so much. Let me carry you now.”

She makes you breakfast every morning.

Eggs. Toast. Sometimes pancakes, even though she always burns the first batch.

She helps you shower. You insist you can do it on your own.

She glares. “You almost fell last time.”

“I like risking it. Keeps things interesting.”

Azzi rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “And you love me.”

She doesn’t argue.

Your team has an away game.

Azzi flys in.

No one even questions it anymore. The coaching staff lets her take two personal days.

She tells them it’s family business.

And you are.

You sit together on the balcony of the recovery suite, watching the rain fall over the trees.

Your brace is itchy. Your mood is sour. Your pain is low but constant.

Azzi reaches for your hand.

“You’re doing so well.”

“I feel like I’ve gone backward.”

“You haven’t,” she says, squeezing your fingers. “You’re already stronger than you were last week. I see it.”

You lean your head on her shoulder. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything. Except maybe us.”

You shift and look up at her.

“You really believe we’ll be okay?”

Azzi nods. “I believe in you. And I believe in us.”

You kiss her.

She tastes like coffee and cinnamon.

Like home.

You’re lying together on your couch, a movie playing in the background, neither of you really watching.

Azzi shifts, resting her head on your chest.

“You know… I think about it sometimes.”

“What?”

“If you never got hurt… maybe I wouldn’t have come. Maybe we’d still be sneaking around. Maybe no one would ever know.”

You run your fingers through her curls. “Are you saying my injury was… romantic?”

“I’m saying it forced me to stop hiding.”

You blink, then chuckle. “Wow. That was the most chaotic love confession I’ve ever heard.”

She looks up at you, smiling. “Yeah. But it’s still true.”

You kiss her.

And for the first time since you fell to the court that day, you feel whole.

Warm-ups feel like a dream.

Not because the gym is packed or the lights feel hotter than usual, but because you’re in uniform again. Notre Dame jersey. Knee sleeve. Your name echoing off the arena walls when they read the lineup.

You’re not starting—Coach said you’d get “light minutes.” Nothing too intense. Controlled movement. Easing in. Just enough to get your legs back under you.

But even being on the bench, even lacing up your shoes again, even sitting next to Liv and Sonia during the anthem… it feels like everything.

Olivia nudges you. “Nervous?”

You blow out a breath. “Nauseous.”

Sonia leans around Liv and smirks. “You’re good. You’ve done this before.”

“Not after tearing a whole ligament out of my body,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” Sonia shrugs, “but like… you’re you.”

You give her a sideways look. “What does that mean?”

She smirks. “You could drop five points in two minutes and still get a standing ovation.”

You shake your head—but you smile. They’re trying to keep you calm. You love them for it.

You spot her.

Back row. Hoodie up. Hat low. Face mostly hidden. But she’s sitting with her knees bouncing, watching warmups like she’s the one about to play.

Your chest warms instantly.

Only you, Sonia, and Olivia catch her. No one else notices. She’s hidden in a crowd of Irish fans, blending into green and gold like she’s just another face in the sea.

But you know better.

She’s always been watching. Even when no one else could see her.

You lean back and whisper to Sonia, “Row J. Hoodie. That’s her.”

Sonia squints. “Oh my God… she really came.”

Olivia grins. “You’re gonna cook now.”

You roll your eyes. “On a minutes restriction?”

Liv shrugs. “That’s all you need.”

There’s a buzz when your number flashes at the scorer’s table.

You hear your name in the arena speakers. “Now checking in for the Irish… number eleven…”

The crowd stands. Clapping. Cheering. It’s not deafening, but it’s warm. Supportive. Like they remember.

Like they know what this means.

You tap hands with the starter coming out and jog onto the court.

Your heart pounds.

You flex your leg once. Just to feel it.

When the game ends, Olivia hugs you so tight you almost fall over.

Sonia lifts your arm like you just won a title. “Six points in nine minutes? She’s back.”

You laugh, the adrenaline crashing all at once. Your body aches. Your leg is sore.

But your heart? Steady.

You sneak out the side door later, hoodie up, duffel on your shoulder.

Azzi is leaning against the far wall of the parking lot.

She sees you and breaks into a grin.

You don’t say anything. You just walk straight into her arms.

She holds you like she was holding her breath the entire game.

“You were amazing,” she says into your neck.

“I played nine minutes.”

“And made every one count.”

You pull back, cupping her jaw.

“You always show up,” you whisper.

She brushes her thumb over your cheek.

“Because you always rise.”

Then she kisses you—quick, fierce, and full of the love that’s carried you through every hard minute since the fall.

This next season has been brutal. A new season where you’re fully healthy.

You’re halfway through an early-morning film session when your phone starts vibrating—hard. It’s her.

You step out immediately, heart in your throat.

“Az?” you answer, already breathless.

She’s not speaking.

You can hear her crying. Sharp, gasping sobs. Not like her.

“Azzi—hey, what happened?”

More silence. 

“I—I did it,” she chokes. “My knee. It… popped. And I—I knew. I knew the second I hit the ground.”

You close your eyes. The hallway spins.

She’s still crying. “They confirmed it. It’s my ACL. And my meniscus. It’s both.”

You sink down onto a bench. “Oh, baby…”

“I can’t— I can’t do this,” she whispers. “I don’t wanna do this.”

You grip the phone tighter. “Listen to me. Yes, you can. You will. You were there for me, Azzi. Every step. I’m going to do the same for you.”

She breathes out shakily. “My surgery’s Friday.”

“I’m flying in Thursday.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t even try to argue. I’m coming. End of story.”

She breaks again. But this time it’s softer. The sound of someone finally exhaling after holding it in too long.

You walk into the hospital suite with a bouquet of lilies, a backpack full of snacks, and a heart that hasn’t stopped pounding since your plane landed.

But the second you step inside—you stop short.

Because she’s not alone.

Paige Bueckers is sitting in a chair by the window, long legs crossed, her eyes flicking to you the moment you enter.

KK Arnold is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, hoodie up, and glowering.

Aubrey Griffin is on the other side of Azzi’s bed, quiet but watching you like a hawk.

You’re about to speak—except you don’t have time.

KK steps forward. “Uh—what the hell are you doing here?”

You blink. “I—”

“Seriously?” Paige cuts in. “She hates you. What, you here to gloat or something?”

Aubrey doesn’t speak, but the tension in her posture says everything.

Azzi, flat on the bed with her leg braced and eyes still a little swollen from pre-op nerves, just… starts laughing.

Like full-on giggling through her surgical haze.

“Guys,” she wheezes, pointing at you. “This is my girlfriend.”

Silence.

“WHAT?” KK nearly drops her water bottle. “Wait—waitwaitwait—you mean—like—girlfriend girlfriend??”

Paige’s mouth drops open.

Aubrey furrows her brows. “Like… kissing kissing girlfriend?”

Azzi grins dopily. “We’ve been dating since high school.”

KK spins toward you. “I knew something was weird during that tournament game. You two were talking mad trash, but it had flirt energy.”

Paige’s jaw is still on the floor. “You kept this from me?”

“Damn right I did,” Azzi mutters. “You’re nosy.”

KK gasps. “So that time she hit a three in your face and you winked? That wasn’t just psychological warfare?”

“Nope,” you say, finally walking over to set the flowers beside her bed. “That was her flirting.”

“Oh my God!”

Azzi’s eyes find yours, and despite the chaos, there’s only one thing she sees… you.

You lean down, brush her hair back, and kiss her forehead.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

“I know,” she breathes.

The roles are reversed now.

You help her shower. Sit next to her during every PT session. Make late-night grocery runs. Brush her curls out when she’s too tired to lift her arms.

You cook her breakfast in her apartment—burn the eggs, just like she used to do.

You hold her when the frustration hits. When she cries because her leg won't bend past 90 degrees. When she has to use the crutches to get across her bedroom. When the world feels too far away.

You fly out whenever you can.

Even if it’s only for a day.

Even if it means red-eyes and brutal turnarounds.

Because you remember what it felt like to have her by your side when it all collapsed.

And now?

It’s your turn to carry her.

It’s been twelve months since the pop. Ten since the surgery. Six since she cried in your arms the first time she couldn’t make it up the stairs without help.

But tonight?

Azzi Fudd is cleared.

She’s on the bench in warmups, legs bouncing, hair tied back with that little white scrunchie you always steal, eyes scanning the court like she’s trying to absorb it all at once.

She looks like fire held barely in check.

And you?

You’re three rows up from the tunnel, hoodie over your head, beanie pulled low, collar high enough to cover half your face.

No one recognizes you. Which is exactly how you planned it.

Only Paige knows you’re here. And even she only offered you a smirk and a soft fist bump when you passed her in the hallway before tip-off.

You didn’t come to be seen.

You came to see her.

The lights go low. The announcer's voice booms.

“Back for the Huskies tonight after nearly a year off the court… number 35… AZZI FUDD!”

The crowd explodes.

She steps out of the huddle with both arms raised, smiling so wide it almost knocks you out.

Your chest tightens.

She doesn’t look at you—not once—but you see her eyes flick toward the crowd. Just once. Quick.

She knows.

She feels you.

She only plays twelve minutes. She finishes with 11 points. Two assists. A steal.

It’s not about the numbers.

It’s about the fact that she ran. She jumped. She smiled.

She’s back.

You stay seated while the crowd clears. Hoodie still up. Hands in your lap.

She doesn’t look for you. Doesn’t need to.

You’ll see her soon.

You’re sitting on her couch, waiting when she walks in. Still in her jersey, postgame sweat in her curls, tired but glowing.

The door shuts.

Then she’s on you.

Arms around your neck. Legs around your waist. Mouth on yours before you can speak.

She pulls back, eyes shining. “You came.”

You smile. “Always.”

Azzi leans her forehead against yours. “It felt different. But good.”

“You looked like yourself.”

She nods. “That’s ‘cause you were there.”

You kiss her again.

Longer this time.

The kind of kiss that says, “We made it through hell.”

And we’re still here.

The final buzzer sounds. Confetti falls. Azzi’s arms shoot into the air as the crowd erupts.

She did it.

They did it.

And you?

You’re on your feet in the corner section, half-shadowed in UConn blue, clapping like your palms are going to split.

You watched her hit dagger threes. Chase down rebounds. Bark commands like a general.

And when they handed her the Most Outstanding Player trophy, your vision blurred from the tears you weren’t supposed to let fall.

The champagne hasn’t popped—NCAA rules and all—but the energy’s louder than any bottle bursting.

KK Arnold is bouncing on Paige Bueckers’ back. Aubrey Griffin is doing some terrible dance in socks on the slippery floor. Ice packs and championship shirts are flying everywhere.

You’re tucked in the farthest corner of the players' lounge, hoodie still up, baseball cap down, practically fused to the cushions of a leather couch.

Azzi is half in your lap, legs draped across yours like she’s melting.

You have one arm over her shoulder, your hand resting softly on her waist. She’s wearing her championship hat backwards and smiling so wide, it’s like the whole arena is still lit inside her.

“You proud of me?” she mumbles under the chaos, nuzzling her face into your hoodie.

You smirk. “Nah. I’m proud of South Carolina for surviving that long.”

Azzi laughs into your chest. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re disgustingly good at basketball.”

“I’m so sweaty.”

“I noticed,” you say, wrinkling your nose and fanning your shirt. “And yet here I am, cuddling a human Gatorade bottle.”

She shifts a little, gripping your hoodie tighter. “Shut up. I’m comfy.”

“You’re spoiled.”

“You like it.”

You don’t argue. Because you do.

You don’t even notice she’s filming at first. Neither of you do.

KK is showing off the locker room. Jumping from face to face. Aubrey’s eating cake. Paige is singing off-key.

Then she flips the camera mid-spin and walks past the couch.

And just for a split second— In the background. Azzi Fudd. Championship hat backwards. Curled up in someone’s lap, laughing softly, hoodie-clad arm wrapped tightly around her.

The face is barely visible. Blurry. Covered. Hidden.

But it’s Azzi.

And TikTok notices everything.

KK freezes when she realizes what she just did.

She fumbles her phone. “Oh shit—wait—OH NO—” She turns to Paige. “PAIGE—PAIGE I THINK I JUST—”

Paige leans over and cackles.

Like full-on, doubled-over, can’t-breathe, mouth-wide-open cackling.

“YOU WENT LIVE?!”

KK’s face is pure panic. “I DIDN’T KNOW!! I—I THOUGHT THEY WERE—I THOUGHT THEY MOVED!!”

Aubrey stops dancing. “Wait… are they out?”

KK hits END on the live so fast it’s like she’s defusing a bomb.

“NOPE. THEY’RE GONNA KILL ME.”

KK tiptoes over like she’s approaching a sleeping lion.

You glance up, Azzi still practically dozing against you.

“What’s up?” you ask.

KK sits down. Hard. “I think I just soft-launched your relationship to the world.”

You blink. “What?”

Azzi slowly sits up. “What?”

KK looks wrecked. “I—I was on live and I didn’t know and I walked past and you guys were… y’know…”

You look at Azzi.

Azzi looks at you.

Then you both… just start laughing.

KK stares. “Why are you laughing?! This could be BAD!”

You wipe your eye. “Because it’s you. Of course it’s you.”

Azzi throws an arm around her. “You’re so chaotic.”

“I panicked!”

“It’s fine,” you say. “They didn’t see my face.”

Azzi shrugs. “Even if they did… you were always worth the risk.”

KK squeaks and covers her face. “I’M GONNA THROW UP FROM THE WHOLESOMENESS.”

The room’s quiet. Her jersey is draped over a chair. The championship hat is tossed onto the dresser. Her shoes are still by the door—lopsided like she kicked them off without thinking.

She walks to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly, the city lights reflecting off her skin.

“I can’t believe we won,” she whispers.

You come up behind her, sliding your arms around her waist. “I can.”

“You really think I played well?”

You kiss the back of her neck. “Az. You dominated.”

She turns in your arms, looping hers around your neck.

You lean your forehead against hers. “Most Outstanding Player, huh?”

Azzi’s voice drops, teasing. “I like the sound of it.”

“You should. I’m thinking of getting it tattooed on my ass.”

She snorts. “Don’t you dare.”

You press a kiss to her jaw. “You were electric tonight. I’ve never been more proud.”

Azzi’s voice softens. “You were there. I felt it.”

You smile against her cheek. “Always.”

She leads you toward the bed and pulls you down beside her, curling into your side.

You let your hand rest on her thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns over her warm skin. She shifts closer, nuzzling into your chest.

Her breath tickles your collarbone.

“I don’t wanna share you with the world yet,” she says quietly.

“You don’t have to.”

“But someday?”

You kiss her hair. “Someday.”

She hums.

“Until then,” you murmur, “you’re just mine.”

“Mine first,” she says, already drifting.

You don’t tell her where you’re going.

You just tell her to pack light. Bring sneakers. Trust you.

Azzi raises a brow as she throws her duffel into the trunk. “This better not be a survivalist weekend. If I see a single tent, I’m leaving.”

You grin. “Relax. There’s plumbing.”

Tucked away in a clearing. Big windows. A lake view. Just you, her, and miles of space where no one expects you to perform or hide.

She spins in the driveway, arms wide. “Okay. This is acceptable.”

You bring her bags in. Set out snacks. Let her explore. When she finds the hammock strung between two trees, she calls dibs. You nod, distracted—your fingers brushing the ring box deep in your jacket pocket. You walk her down to the dock at sunset.

The sky is watercolor—pink and orange and soft blue bleeding into the trees. The water reflects it all like a secret.

She’s barefoot. Wearing your hoodie. Her curls are tied up and messy. She looks like everything you ever wanted to wake up next to for the rest of your life. She sits on the edge of the dock, legs dangling above the water. You sit behind her. Wrap your arms around her. Press your face to the side of her neck.

“You’re quiet,” she murmurs, hand reaching up to touch yours.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You pause.

Then slowly, you pull the ring from your pocket.

“About this.”

Azzi turns slightly. Her brow furrows—until she sees the box in your hand.

Her breath hitches.

You kneel in front of her, on the dock, heart pounding.

“You’ve been my rival. My secret. My safe place. My person. You’ve carried me. Grounded me. Loved me even when I forgot how to love myself.”

You open the box. The ring glints in the fading sun.

“And I want to spend the rest of my life reminding you that you’ll never have to do any of this alone again.”

Azzi’s hand covers her mouth. Her eyes are already brimming.

You smile. “Marry me?”

She doesn’t speak for a beat. Just throws her arms around you and buries her face in your shoulder.

Then she whispers—voice shaking, warm against your skin, “Yes.”

The ring’s on her finger. She keeps staring at it like she can’t believe it’s real.

You’re lying in bed together, limbs tangled under a thick blanket. The windows are open. The night air is cool and smells like pine.

“You really meant it?” she asks quietly, eyes still on the band.

“Every word.”

She rolls into your chest and presses her lips against your neck. “I’m gonna ruin the wedding with tears.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She pulls back and looks at you, glowing in the moonlight.

“I never thought I’d get this,” she whispers.

You brush your thumb across her cheek. “You built this.”

“You sure you want me forever?” she teases.

You tuck her against you, hand resting over her heart.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

The wedding was beautiful. Small and intimate.

The table is set beneath hanging lights.

Small white plates. Homemade place cards. No fans. No cameras. Just the people who knew before the world did.

Olivia taps her glass and raises hers. “To the only couple who made me believe in ‘rivals to lovers.’”

Sonia grins. “To Azzi and Y/N… may your babies shoot like her and guard like you.”

KK sobs halfway through her toast and then starts a dramatic retelling of how she accidentally soft-launched your entire relationship.

Paige raises her glass and says, “To the strongest love I’ve ever seen. And to Y/N—officially, and forever… a Fudd.”

Everyone claps.

Your face burns. Azzi kisses your cheek and whispers, “Looks good on you.”

You grin. “Sounded good in the paperwork.”

Time passed by fast. One minute you were playing against each other in your high school gym, now you were both in the big leagues.

The city’s quiet tonight. Your apartment feels like it’s wrapped in a blanket. Golden hour faded hours ago, but the light still lingers, casting soft shadows across the couch where you’re both sprawled out.

You’re in sweats. She’s in one of your Valkyries T-shirts, legs draped over your lap, head tucked beneath your chin. The TV’s playing some old rom-com neither of you are really watching.

Azzi’s warm. Familiar. Her fingers tracing gentle lines up and down your arm like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

You’ve been quiet for a while. She notices.

“Y/N,” she murmurs without moving. “What are you thinking about?”

You hesitate.

Then shift a little beneath her, enough so she can see your face.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” you say. “For a while.”

Azzi lifts her head. Her brows pinch. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I just… it’s about my jersey.”

Her eyes search yours. “Your jersey?”

You nod slowly. “I’ve been playing this whole time with my old last name on it. The name I had before we got married.”

Azzi doesn’t move. Just listens.

You take a breath. “I think I’m ready to change it.”

She stills.

Your voice softens. “I want to wear your name. The name you gave me.”

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Then you see her eyes fill.

“You do?” she whispers, her voice suddenly small.

“I do,” you say, leaning in to kiss her temple. “I want the world to see the name I chose. The name that means something real. I want to walk out on that court with ‘Fudd’ across my shoulders. I want people to ask. And I want to tell them.”

Azzi covers her mouth, shaking her head slightly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good,” you smile. “You’ve made me cry at least twelve times.”

She laughs, wiping her eyes, then looks up at you again—vulnerable, glowing.

“You’re sure?” she asks. “Because once it’s out there…”

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” you say. “It’s been months, Az. I want people to know you’re mine. That I’m yours. That this—” you motion between you “—isn’t a rumor. It’s a life.”

Azzi leans forward and kisses you, slow and deep.

When she pulls back, her voice is barely above a whisper.

“You have no idea how much I love you.”

You touch her cheek. “You put your name on me.”

She exhales shakily, grinning through the emotion. “Well, when you say it like that…”

You laugh, pulling her into your arms again.

Outside, the world still doesn’t know.

But in here?

It’s the only thing that matters.

You’re both under a blanket now. The movie’s long over. The TV’s quiet. Just the hum of the city outside and the occasional sound of her breathing against your chest.

Your fingers trace lazy shapes into her spine. She’s half asleep when you whisper, “I emailed the team.”

She hums. “About the name?”

You nod, then realize she can’t see you. “Yeah.”

“Fudd on the Valkyries,” she murmurs, smile in her voice.

You chuckle. “Fudd vs. Fudd.”

Azzi grins into your shirt. “Let’s break the league.”

You close your eyes, hand curled around her back, your heart settled in the quiet promise of everything ahead.

The city is buzzing.

You arrive hours early—hood up, headphones on—but cameras are waiting. Lights flash. Reporters yell questions.

“Y/N, how’s it feel to face Azzi tonight?” “Are the rivalry rumors true?” “What do you make of Fudd’s hot start to the season?”

You smile. Say nothing. Just keep walking.

The name stitched on your suit jacket gets no attention.

But the jersey waiting in the locker room?

That’s the real headline.

You take your time changing.

Your jersey hangs at your locker, crisp and clean. Black and gold. The Valkyries crest bold on the chest.

But that’s not what everyone is staring at.

It’s the name on the back.

FUDD.

Kate’s jaw literally drops. “Wait. What?”

You shrug, tugging the jersey over your head. “It’s time.”

The crowd is deafening.

Spotlights swirl. Fireworks explode over the jumbotron. Chase Center feels like a playoff game.

“Starting at guard for the Valkyries… number 11…”

You walk out.

The camera zooms in.

Your back turns toward the audience.

The crowd sees it.

FUDD.

The world stops for half a second.

Announcer 1: “Wait—do I… do I need to clean my glasses or does that jersey say Fudd?” Announcer 2: “It does. That’s not a typo. That’s not her listed last name. Did she change it?” Announcer 1: “Are they related?! Are we talking long-lost cousins or—wait, no—WAIT.” Announcer 2: “…No. No way.” Announcer 1: “I’m texting my producer right now. We need confirmation. This is not a drill.”

The internet loses its mind.

“Y/N FUDD?! IS THIS A JERSEY MISHAP OR A LIFE REVEAL??” “I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING FRUITY BETWEEN THEM. I KNEW IT.” “This ain’t a rivalry. This is a marriage. I’m SCREAMING.” “So we’ve had a married power couple in the league for WEEKS and didn’t know???” “WNBA just became the most romantic league on earth. Goodbye.”

Paige posts a story, “This is why I was never allowed to post them. I’m free now!”

KK goes live mid-game watching from her couch, mouth open, “YOU GUYS I THOUGHT IT WAS A JOKE AT FIRST BUT SHE REALLY—AZZI REALLY—Y/N’S NAME IS—”

She’s stretching when the crowd starts reacting to something that’s not her. She turns. Sees your jersey. Sees her name. And bites her lip.

Kelsey elbows her. “You good?”

Azzi smiles—small. Glowing. “Never better.”

You lock eyes across the center circle.

You’re in your new jersey. Her name on your back.

She smirks. “Took you long enough.”

You grin. “Had to do it at home.”

Fans don’t just see fire. They see history. They see the hand lingering an extra second on the foul line. They see the way you look at her when she backpedals on defense. They see the rivalry and realize—it was never real.

It was intimacy disguised as opposition.

It’s 74–74. 90 seconds left.

You’re guarding her full court.

She fakes left, spins right.

You recover.

She pulls up.

You block it.

The crowd explodes.

You don’t celebrate big. You walk over to her.

Azzi meets you at half-court, lips twitching.

“You really wore it.”

“I really did.”

“You’re mine,” she says softly.

You grin. “Always was.”

You shake hands with everyone else. But her? You linger. You walk off together—side by side.

The room is packed. Reporters buzzing, hands raised.

First question, “Y/N, you revealed your marriage tonight to Azzi Fudd. Why now?”

You smile. Look straight at the camera.

“Because I wanted the world to know I play with her name on my back, and her love in my heart. Every game. Every day.”

Azzi walks in mid-answer and sits beside you. No mic needed.

“She’s my wife. And we’ve waited long enough.”

[pellucid-constellations]

Lessons in Care

Pairing: Line Cook!Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel loves you so much. Even though you can't cook. You're trying though.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: A small injury

a/n: Consider this a small gift to make up for me disappearing for a month <3 This is part of the line cook au, but as I've mentioned, nothing is really in order so read however you want :) The rest of this AU can be found in my masterlist right there ⬇ love you <3

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

“Like this?” You shook the pan a little harder, the handle's weight tweaking your wrist at an odd angle. 

“Almost. Try not to hold your elbow so close to your body. It won’t flip right.” 

You pressed your lips together and narrowed your eyes. “This is so hard.” 

“I believe in you,” Azriel teased, an amused upturn of his eyes as he watched you struggle. 

“Why is this pan so heavy? It’s literally like 40 pounds.” 

“It’s cast iron, baby.” 

“That’s stupid.” 

Azriel barked out a laugh, red tinting his cheeks as if he hadn’t expected the sound to leave his lips. Your mouth quirked up in a small smile despite your struggle. You shot your gaze to the side to try and catch the sweet expression that still lingered on Azriel’s face.

“Would you like me to do it?” Azriel posed after clearing his throat. 

“Of course not. I came early so you could teach me.” 

“I could teach you another time. You have class soon.” 

“Why do you want me to fail?” 

“I don’t—” 

“You totally do. You want me unable to cook for myself so I’ll always have to rely on you, and then I’ll never be able to leave you.” 

Azriel laughed again, a quiet, rumbling sound. “You caught me. Now hand that over before you hurt yourself.” 

You groaned and turned slightly to evade your boyfriend’s reach. “Az, I’m serious. Teach me how to flip these stupid eggs right now.” 

“Okay, okay. Just let me help.” 

The feel of Azriel’s hand lightly sliding over yours startled you. You jumped and your fingers twitched, the sudden motion sending the tips of your fingers too far forward until a simmering pain shot through your skin. You flung the pan back on the burner instantly, its contents splattering along the stove and into the open flame. It burned a bright orange and then settled as you held your hand close to your chest. 

You hissed a breath through your teeth and Azriel’s hands were on you. 

“Shit, baby, let me see, yeah?” he stressed, mindlessly turning the burner off without taking his eyes off you. He tugged your hand at your chest with gentle fingers. “Let me see.” 

You released the tight grip on your fingers and rested them in Azriel’s open palm. “I was just surprised. I don’t think it’s that bad.” 

Azriel’s brow furrowed as he examined your burn. He tsked, pulling you gently by your wrist over to the sink. “It’s going to blister.” 

Cool water rushed from the pipes and soothed your skin. Azriel held your wrist in a soft grip and turned your hand slowly, back and forth in a repetitive motion. 

“I don’t think so, Az. It’s not that bad.” 

Azriel shook his head. “That pan was pretty hot—I’d be surprised if it didn’t.” He looked up at you. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

You offered a gentle smile and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “You didn’t scare me.” You raised your brow playfully. “You just made me nervous. A cute guy like you holding my hand—reaching over to help me to cook. Made me all jumpy.” 

Azriel breathed out a disbelieving scoff. “I’ve done far worse than just hold your hand.” 

“Scandalous!” you proclaimed, affronted. “How can you say such things at work, Azriel? You’ll be fired.” 

“I can only hope,” Azriel grumbled. 

Azriel directed you to keep your hand under the water as he dug through a cabinet for the first-aid kit despite your protests. You truly felt that you were fine and didn’t even need a bandaid, but it was easy to forget the multitude of scars that littered Azriel’s hands and how they contrasted with your completely unmarred skin. 

That was purposeful, meaningful—Azriel worked hard so you wouldn't have to. Azriel found peace in keeping you safe and happy. 

So you let him fuss. 

“Okay, let me see again, baby,” Azriel requested, flipping the water off and reaching for your hand. Your skin stung as it met the air beyond the sink, but Azriel’s caring touch was like a balm. 

He dried your fingers with a towel and uncapped a spray bottle, coating your burn with too much of the medication before grabbing a set of gauze and tape. You stared at the materials in exasperation. Azriel didn’t notice the expression and continued to admisinister care as if you’d been in a fire.

“Az, I love you so much, but I don’t need all of that. It’s a small burn. I’ve probably done worse with my curling iron.” 

Your boyfriend only hummed and continued his work. “I don’t want it to scar. It blistered already.” 

“Yes, but—” 

“Almost done.”

You let him work. A few moments of silence passed. Azriel kept his gaze hard and his brow set in a harsh line. 

That wouldn’t do. 

Once your finger was fully wrapped and protected from everything Azriel could fear, you puckered your lips in contemplation and shook your head. 

“Still hurts really bad,” you admitted, leaning back against the counter. Azriel followed your movements, leaving little space between you. 

“What?” he questioned, a tinge of panic in his tone. “That should’ve numbed it. How bad does it hurt?” 

“Really, really bad. Like my whole hand is on fire, actually.”

Azriel—who had yet to release your fingers—stared down at them in startled befuddlement. He turned them one way and then another as if that would answer his questioning gaze, and then looked back up to meet your eyes in a way that was almost pleading. 

“I’m sorry, maybe I should—”

“You have to kiss it,” you revealed, not wanting the sad expression to linger on his face any longer. “Duh.” 

Azriel let out a breath that bordered on relief, but most of it seemed founded in exasperation. He shook his head and brought your fingers up to his lips all the same, smiling to himself as he began to kiss each of your fingertips. Even the ones that clearly weren’t burnt. He flipped your hand over and kissed the knuckles, too, capturing your eyes as he glanced at you from beneath his lashes. 

“‘M sorry you got hurt,” he mumbled with his lips against the back of your hand. “Told you you shouldn’t try cooking, baby.” 

The warm feeling that had begun to seep into your chest paled in comparison to the offended scoff that echoed in the empty kitchen. Azriel’s poorly concealed, devious smile was hidden in the kisses he started pressing into your palm, and although it would have fit the sound you let out, you didn’t pull away. 

“Azriel, you are just asking for me to—” 

“The hell is going on in here?” The kitchen door smacked against the frame as Cassian made his entrance. “Someone get hurt?” 

Azriel dropped your hand just as soon as Cassian had spotted him pressed against you, clearing his throat and turning to the disheveled first-aid kit on the counter. You brought your knuckles up to your mouth to hide your laugh at Azriel’s expense, his face flushing in vulnerability. 

“Oh, I see what was going on. You were romancing your girl, weren’t you, Az? Well, don’t let me interrupt. You came in early and everything,” Cassian teased, his hands raised in surrender. 

“We were just finishing up,” you countered, a laugh trickling through. “I have to get to class, Cass. You can start your shift.” 

“Uh huh,” Cassian smiled, raising his brows and then lowering them when he caught your hand reaching for your backpack. “You okay?” 

“She’s fine,” Azriel interrupted. He took your bag from you and slung it over his shoulder, pressing a nonchalant kiss to your head that you knew was actually not nonchalant. “I’m going to take her to school. Cover for me for 20?” 

“Sure, man.” 

“Az, I was going to take the bus you don’t have to—” 

“C’mon, baby.” 

“But I don’t even have my helmet for your bike.”

“I always bring your helmet.”

[jellofish-plant]

A 101 Step Guide to Win His Heart

Pairing: Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader Genre: Fluff, Slight Chaos, Mutual Pining Setting: Gotham, modern day

[Masterlist]

Step 1: Don’t fall for the emotionally unavailable, motorcycle-riding vigilante. …Oops.

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, gripping your phone like it personally offended you. The screen glows mockingly with the tab still open: “101 Ways to Win His Heart.” It's a dumb article. It's clickbait. It's also bookmarked.

Because unfortunately, you have a massive, incurable, stupid crush on Jason Peter Todd. Yes, that Jason. Ex-Robin. Current Red Hood. Hotter than the Gotham heatwave and about as emotionally stable as a raccoon in a dumpster fire.

Still. You’re in deep.

Step 12: Find common interests.

Turns out, Jason likes books.

You also like books. Perfect.

Except his taste is Russian literature and tragic antiheroes and yours is witchy romances with glittery covers and spicy tension.

So when you spot him in the bookstore’s café (half-buried in Dostoevsky, black coffee in hand, sleeves rolled up like a crime), you panic and grab the first dark-looking book off the shelf.

…It’s a YA vampire romance.

You sit beside him like you're totally chill. “Love the… metaphorical depth,” you lie, clutching the sparkly book like it’s your thesis.

Jason peeks over the cover, lips twitching. “Did you just pick that up to impress me?”

You blink. “What? No. Obviously not. Who does that?”

He quirks a brow. “It still has the security tag.”

“…I’m gonna go die now.”

Step 45: Make him laugh.

You didn’t expect Jason to be funny.

Dry, sarcastic, subtle but when he really laughs? It’s this warm, unguarded sound that makes your knees weak.

So you start collecting terrible jokes.

“Why did Batman and Robin never use smartphones?” you ask one night.

Jason’s eyebrow lifts. “Why?”

“Because the Bat-Signal was enough.”

He stares.

Then snorts into his drink.

You mark it as a win.

Step 67: Be there when it counts.

It’s pouring when he shows up at your door bloody, bruised, soaked through and silent.

No words. Just your eyes meeting his. The way he sways a little, exhaustion pulling at him.

You don’t ask. You just pull him inside, patch him up, make him tea, and let him fall asleep on your couch with your throw blanket barely covering his long frame.

In the morning, he’s gone.

But your bookshelf has a new addition: a well-worn copy of The Idiot with a sticky note inside.

It reads: You’re not one. But I like that you try anyway. – J

Your heart does a triple backflip.

Step 101: Be yourself. Even if you’re a little chaotic, a little nerdy, and a lot in love.

You’re mid-rant about Gotham’s trash system when Jason grabs your hand during a late-night walk.

You blink.

He shrugs, cheeks faintly pink. “I’ve read a lot of books. Been through hell and back. Fought monsters, real and metaphorical.”

He pauses.

“But no one’s ever tried to win me like you do.”

You stare.

Then smile.

“Is that a compliment?”

He smirks. “It’s a confession.”

Bonus Tip #102: Sometimes, all it takes is being the one who stays. Who laughs. Who brings band-aids and bad jokes. Who loves without expecting him to fix himself first.

And sometimes? That’s all he needs to fall for you, too.

Tag list:

@dreamzaremyrealityy

@not-herexo 

@a-brilliante-mariposa

@fandomtrashsblog

[ozzgin]

Some more dick-related brain rot…😘

We take the self serve dick bar and use monsters for the monster hotel. We are going to have that full “continental breakfast.” So we have a forest entity cumming maple syrup, a Minotaur cumming milk/creme, a yeti who cums slushies, a slime who cums various jams depending on whatever fruit we feed it, and any more monsters who we can utilize ☺️

When you were talking about your rats, it made me think of some rat-hybrid monster where reader can steer him via. his dick, like a reverse Ratatouille scenario 🐀

Having a robot/android partner, I could use his dick as a literal joy stick when playing video games. Also, if I have to charge robot/android, do you think his dick acts like a giant extension cord I could just plug into the outlet in the wall? Also does that mean he technically “eats” with his dick? I assume when traveling with him internationally, I gotta get a lot of compatible adapters so he can get plugged in successfully🕹️

A Hydra monster would be kinda funny to have sex with, cause maybe if you cut its “head” down south, two more will grow back 🤔

I think that’s all for now. Tell your man that he is very much appreciated, and it’s nice he’s in this club of debauchery 😉

-👘

This amount of thirst and depravity is exactly what the monster guests would come up with just to have Reader employee touch them. 😭 Content: gender neutral reader, rancid NSFW!!! (more white sauce I’m afraid), monster smut

The latest fad your centaur manager has been into is food cooked with bodily fluids. This has had several implications, all of them regrettably involving you.

While the idea has been gripping at his mind like a great plague, he can't possibly ask you to just...let go over his breakfast toast. He can already see how exhausted you return after being used by the starved guests. They stuff you just enough for you to wonder if you'll survive it, then make sure to clean up their mess, politely aiding your speedy recovery, almost as if they weren't the cause of destruction to begin with. The manager has heard it one too many times that your nether regions are numb from all the monstrous tongues and appendages.

Maybe a change of scenery will help.

"Kitchen staff? I thought I'm supposed to clean the rooms", you inquire, somewhat confused by the sudden proposal.

"It's not quite...kitchen duties, per se. We need someone to help with the hotel's breakfast. We have a new experimental menu, though not enough...hands."

You should've expected it. How bad could it possibly be, you told yourself, pouring some orange juice for the seated guests? You had your first suspicions from the big, flashy sign now propped outside the room: service provided by our esteemed and loved human employee. You didn't need to ponder much on its meaning. Once inside, your task became painfully clear. You were to milk the guests for the required ingredients.

Having their way with you is a treat in itself, but seeing you struggle with your small, human hands, trying to figure them out? Priceless. Well, for them, anyways. Despite your protests, you have left your morning shifts with a ridiculous number of tips. Maybe it's the way you look up through your lashes as you explain: "Of course I know your weak spot. You're one of my- our regulars." Or maybe it's the way you tease your favorites, wondering out loud, with a grin, if you should have some of the generous release for your own lunch later.

Your hard work has not gone unnoticed. The centaur head manager recently made the sheepish suggestion of having you at the receiving end of this new service, trying his best to sound convincing, and hiding the fact it’s been his most ardent wish for the past couple of weeks. Maybe he will get his breakfast topping, after all.

[Monster Hotel] | [More Monsters]

[eternal-evergreens]

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧"Into the looking glass - II " ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

Post format: Multipart series

Pairing: Yandere!Male!DoL x Fem!Isekai!Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Synopsis: You gain the chance to wake up in the world of one of your favorite games. Unfortunately, the 'favorite game' happens to be one about rape, violence, and stalking. Not only that, but the game seems to be rigged against you. All you want is to find a way home and put this all behind you, but is that even possible...?

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Attempted Non/Con, Stalking, Violence, Age Gaps, Teacher/Student, Caretaker/Ward, One Suicide Joke, Bullying,

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

What…what does that mean?

Darling? Surely, they don’t mean it the way you think they mean it…

…But, if that were the case, why would it be written in red and pink? You think back on all the strange occurrences of the day and come to a horrifying realization.

Beauty: 7/6 Your beauty is beyond measure. Robin wants to be your best friend.             Love: 100% Confidence: 0% Trauma: 0% Lust: 40% Whitney wants to own you. Love: 50% Dominance: 50% Lust: 100% Kylar is obsessed with you. Love: 100% Jealousy: 55% Lust: 90% Sydney is conflicted. Love: 77% Purity: 44% Lust: 66% Bailey doesn’t want you to leave. Love: 25% Lust: 99% You’re Leighton’s favorite. Love: 10% Lust: 85% Your fellow students desire you.

When they say “Darling,” they mean it as in the victim of a yandere.

This...this isn't DoL.

Your phone buzzes. You’ve gotten a text. 

Congratulations! You’ve made a key discovery and found a fragment of the true nature of this world. 

What the fuck does that mean? Wait, this thing can read your thoughts? 

View fragment?  Y/N

Yes. If you can go home, yes.

There are 7 total fragments.             Fragments found: 2             Fragments remaining: 5 Fragment 1:            Welcome to the alpha of Degrees of Lewdity!           If you want to avoid trouble, dress modestly and stick to safe, well-lit areas. Nights are particularly dangerous. Dressing lewd will attract attention, both good and bad.            The new school year starts tomorrow at 09:00. The bus service is the easiest way to get around town. Don’t forget your uniform and backpack!

You remember getting this message. So, that was a fragment, then? Why weren’t you notified before? Did you need to unlock something first?

Fragment 2: This is a world full of yanderes, so be careful! Balance your social stats between fascination, love, lust, jealousy, and devotion to survive. A quick guide on these crucial four states is provided below:  Fascination indicates how enthralled your yandere is by the idea of you. It’s dangerous to let this get too high!  Love indicates how much a yandere values the authentic you. Putting on airs will lower your yandere’s love, but may be necessary at times. Having a negative love will lead to more dangerous encounters. Lust indicates carnal desire. Higher lust can aid in negotiations if you’re willing to reward them, but if this stat goes up too much, they won’t be willing to hear you out before taking what they want. Jealousy indicates the yandere’s volatility and desire to monopolize you. Some yanderes’ jealousy will go up if you don’t spend enough time with them.  Devotion indicates how far the yandere is willing to go out of their way for you. Having this stat means you can make use of your yanderes, but they may also use their devotion in less productive ways.

Seems like every fragment reveals one truth about the world, as well as some tips on how to make use of the information it provides.

Your phone buzzes.

System error. Please reboot.

You look down at your phone with curiosity. What happened? Not knowing what else to do, you restart your phone and open it again. 

Your social tabs have been updated with more accurate information. View tabs? Y/N

Yes.

Social                Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible Primary relationships Robin The Orphan Robin wants to be your best friend.       Facination: 100% Love: 0% Devotion: 30% Lust: 40%         Confidence: 0% Trauma: 0% Whitney The Bully  Whitney wants to own you.       Facination: 50% Love: 0% Devotion: 0% Dominance: 50% Lust: 100% Kylar The Loner Kylar is obsessed with you.       Fascination: 100% Love: 0% Devotion: 30% Jealousy: 55% Lust: 90% Sydney The Faithful ? Sydney is conflicted.       Fascination: 77% Love: 0% Devotion: 20% Purity: 44%        Lust: 66% Other relationships:  Bailey The Caretaker Bailey doesn’t want you to leave.       Fascination: 25% Love: 0% Lust: 99% Devotion: 1% Leighton The Headmaster You’re Leighton’s favorite.       Fascination: 16% Love: 0% Lust: 85% Devotion: 0% Reputation  The police aren’t concerned with you, and have no evidence linking you to any crime. The atmosphere in the orphanage is calm. You are considered a normal student by teachers. Your fellow students desire you. Lust: 100% Status: 50%

Before you can properly digest this new information, your phone buzzes again.

Congratulations! You’ve unlocked a new quest.  You have just discovered two secrets of the world, and with it, your understanding becomes clearer. ++Awareness. You feel as if you are on the verge of remembering something important. Discover all there is to know about this place, and perhaps you may be granted the opportunity to escape it. View questpage? Y/N

You might be able to go home? You quickly hit the yes button and keep reading.

Main questline  >Find the remaining fragments and discover the true nature of this world. >Meet the remaining love interests.  Time-sensitive >Bailey wants £100 on Sunday.

…You have to meet the remaining love interests? Doesn’t that mean getting kidnapped?! You stare at your phone dejectedly as you roll over in bed. You’ll worry about that later. For now, you just need to rest. You close your eyes, but you can’t get comfortable. Your phone buzzes for what feels like the millionth time, and you lazily pull it out to check. 

You’ve unlocked a new quest!  Your bed is uncomfortable. All rest points are reduced by half. Nightmares are more intense. Every rest has a 5% chance of waking you up sore. Save up your funds and buy a comfortable bed!  Current funds: £186 Funds needed: £2400 Optional: Decorate your room to match your taste. Current funds: £186 Funds needed: ??? Rewards: Triple current rest points, nightmares reduced Penalty: None Bonus Rewards: +Love to all LI’s, passive stress and trauma decay faster while inside.

Money again, huh? Typical. Still, the rewards are pretty good. You’ll have to do it later. For now, you should probably go to work to make it happen. You change out of your uniform and head to the office building, where you approach the kiosk and apply as a temp. It’s a somewhat risky job, but the pay is one of the best, especially once you start getting bonuses.

Your manager this time is a trim man named Marcus. He shows you around the building and you get to work. It’s not too bad, though your clothes get caught in the shredder more times than you’d like to admit, at least you didn’t fall in the koi pond.

Before you realize it, it’s 22:00. Dark once again. Dark in Doltown with a constantly maxed allure. 

Fuck.

You go downstairs and are debating whether you should risk the bus or the streets when a growling pair of yellow eyes meets your gaze. 

“If I get molested by a dog, I’m actually gonna kill myself,” you say to no one in particular, immediately turning to the direction of the nearest bus stop.

That’s another reason you should work at the dog pound from time to time, actually. Completing various tasks there makes the streets safer at night and beastiality encounters less frequent. 

You end up having to use your sole pepper spray charge on two men from the bus, leaving you unprotected and uneasy. You open your phone and turn on the flashlight, but your eye is caught by your status. Right under the blurb telling you about your current state, is purple text reading: “Something is watching you.”

An idea strikes you. It’s bold, it’s risky, it’s—

This is stupid, you think to yourself. This is so, so stupid. You follow your flashlight to a secluded, dead-end alleyway. There’s only one way for someone to come in here. You check your phone. Something is watching you.

“Hello?” You call out. “I know you’re watching me. Come out already.” You hear a rustling near the garbage bags, then see a short figure dart out and make a run for it. You were expecting this, though, so you immediately break out into a sprint and give chase. You aren’t very fast, but your legs are longer, and you quickly catch up. “Gotcha,” you say, hand on their shoulder as you turn them to face you. “Kylar.”

“H-how did you know?” 

“Forget that. Just know I’m not mad.” 

“Y-you aren’t?” There’s a twinge of hope in his voice. Time to crush it.

“I’m not. Not yet, anyway.” Kylar looks confused. “I hear you’re good at chemistry. Can you make pepper spray?” 

“How did you-” 

“Can you?” You say, allowing your voice to take on a flirtatious lull as you lean in close. “I’d be very happy if you could.” You bat your eyelashes and Kylar gulps. He tries to nod but ends up hitting your head with his own by accident. +Pain 

“Good,” you say. “I want you to make pepper spray for me. Make sure I never run out, and you can follow me to your heart's content. Deal?” You hold out your hand for him to take. Kylar considers it for a moment, then takes your hand. ++Devotion. You shake, but he doesn’t let go. Not wanting to provoke him, you leave it, and Kylar ends up walking you home. It’s silly, but you actually feel a little safer walking with him. +Love.

Together, you reach the orphanage’s entrance. Kylar looks like he wants to ask you to stay the night but quickly flushes and runs away. 

Thank God. 

You climb into bed. It isn’t very comfortable.

——————— 

It is the 6th of September, 2022. -It has been 2 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £357 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are alert Stress: You are calm Trauma: You are uneasy Control: You are confident Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You walk with Robin to school but part ways after reaching the courtyard. You aren’t sure where Robin goes when you part, but you suppose it doesn’t really matter. You head to the library but are surprised to find that Sydney isn’t there. You guess he must have overslept at the temple again, which means he won’t be back until lunch. 

You suddenly wish you knew where Robin went after arriving at school. It’s probably more dangerous to wander around looking for him, though. So you settle down with a textbook until it’s time for class. When you check your school progress, you’re delighted to see every subject at nearly a 50% understanding for the week already. You’re on track.

The science project is assigned. You decide to do one on lichen. The money will help a lot, and it��ll be a good chance to meet Avery for your quest, too.

Someone spills acid on you during class. It was probably supposed to hit your shirt, but because of how you can’t button it up past your chest, it ended up hitting your breast instead. You spent the rest of class in the infirmary getting lectured about lab safety. Luckily, it was hardly even a first-degree burn. It’ll heal in no time, she said. 

+Pain +Willpower

You return just in time to be late for math. +Delinquency 

“Detention,” River says, not bothering to look up from the whiteboard. 

“But—”

“Don’t talk back to me.”  ++Delinquency

You nod, though you doubt he can see it, and look for a seat. The room is full, save for one seat in the back next to Whitney. It’s covered in boxes full of heavy textbooks.

Your phone buzzes. 

>Move the boxes and sit next to Whitney +Fatigue -Dominance Increases chance of harassment >Sit in Whitney’s lap (Promiscuity 4) +++Dominance +++Lust -Jealousy  >Ask someone to move +Delinquency -Dominance >Leave the classroom +++Delinquency

You sigh and march over to a toned boy sitting in the front. You try to smile but end up grimacing instead. “Could I sit here?” You ask. The boy laughs. River shoots you a look. -Status +Deliquency

>Get physical ++Delinquency +Status ? >Move the boxes and sit next to Whitney +Fatigue -Dominance Increases chance of harrasment >Sit in Whitney’s lap (Promiscuity 4) +++Dominance +++Lust -Jealousy  >Leave the classroom +++Delinquency

You grit your teeth and walk over to Whitney, who pats his lap mockingly. You turn away from him to pick up the boxes, and he lifts your skirt up. You don’t think anyone saw, but it was still humiliating. You quickly move the boxes and sit down, trying to focus on the lesson. You’re doing pretty well despite your low grade, but sitting next to Whitney is definitely not helping. About halfway through the lesson, he throws a note at you, and despite your better judgment, you open it. 

“show us your panties slut”

>Flash (Exhibitionism 1) +Lust +Dominance >Throw away -Dominance >Correct the note and throw back (English: Very difficult) --Dominance

You try to correct the note, but find nothing wrong. You toss it in a nearby bin instead.

-Dominance 

The rest of class passes, and although Whitney tries to undo your bra strap again, he reaches for the back instead of the front, leaving you protected.

You go to English next, your previous encounter with Whitney leaving you motivated to do well. You see Kylar sitting in the back. You ignore him and focus on the lesson instead. It’s boring, but you need the grade, so you muddle through it.

You try to muddle through it, anyway. The person behind you keeps kicking your seat, and then looking away every time you turn to face him.

>Tell the teacher -Status +English >Endure +Stress >Move seats +Delinquency

You quietly inform the teacher of your predicament, and she sends the boy to another seat. Some students snicker at you, but you’re able to finish the lesson in peace. -Status +English

The bell rings, and you head to lunch. Robin is eating with some others from the orphanage; they seem to be having fun. Sydney is sitting behind a large pile of books; he looks stressed. Kylar is eating alone, stabbing food with a fork; he looks bored.

>Sit with Robin +Love -Stress -Jealousy  >Sit with Sydney +Love -Stress -Jealousy >Sit with Kylar +Love -Jealousy +++Pepper spray charge  >Eat Lunch -Stress

You sit with Kylar, and hope no one notices. He immediately perks up upon seeing you. “I-I got you this,” he says, handing you a pepper spray canister. “Should keep the perverts away.” 

You gained 20 pepper spray charges! Talk to Kylar each week to refill. >Take it but say nothing -Love >Take it and thank +Love +Devotion >Take it and kiss ++Lust ++Devotion >Take it and reward +++Lust +++Devotion

You thank him sincerely, and the two of you spend the rest of lunch together. +Love +Devotion

After eating, you buy a coffee and head to the library, walking up to Sydney. “Welcome back!” He chirps from behind the desk. He looks exhausted despite the chipper tone. You hand him the coffee. 

“Don’t overwork yourself,” you say, smiling. Sydney looks surprised but quickly smiles and takes the coffee from you. You look down at the stacks of books on his desk. +Love “Anything I can help with?” 

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” you say firmly. You feel bad just leaving him there, plus…

>Help Sydney +Love +Devotion +School -Sydney’s purity

Well, how can you turn that down? Aside from the purity loss, those are all pretty damn good. 

“Well, if you don’t mind,” he says, fidgeting a little. “Could you help me stamp these books?” You nod, and Sydney lets you in behind the counter. +Love +Devotion +School

The two of you chat while you work, and it actually ends up being pretty enjoyable! -Stress -Trauma +Love

Your hands brush with Sydney's while you work. -Sydney'd purity.

“Hey, Syd! Oh, and [First], too!” Someone says, walking up to the counter. It’s Sirris, Sydney’s father and your science teacher. “How are you doing, love bug?” Sydney looks embarrassed but still answers. “Oops! I forgot I’m not supposed to call you that at school. Sorry, hon.” You get the feeling he did it on purpose, but if Sydney also thinks this, he doesn’t say anything. The two of them chat for a little bit, with Sirris mostly ignoring your presence. You feel a little awkward, but it’s cute to see the two of them getting along so well. Sirris leaves after a few minutes, waving to you both.

You smile at Sydney. “Seems like you and Dad are pretty close, huh?” He flushes. 

“L-let’s get back to work,” he says. You decide not to tease him further. The two of you finish the rest of the work in silence, and the bell rings, so you get up and head to History class.

A mousy girl is sitting in your seat next to Robin. You ask her to move, but she won’t budge. You already have detention today, so you decide not to push it and sit somewhere else. Robin looks at you sadly from across the room +Jealousy

You’re called up by Winter to demonstrate the pillory in front of the class, you hesitate to step up, but, remembering Leighton’s punishments, decide to risk it. Unfortunately, luck is not on your side, and Winter is called out while you’re still locked in the pillory. 

“Who thinks the lesson should continue?” Says a slight boy. He gets up from his seat and begins to saunter over, but Robin stands up, too, and blocks his path forward. 

“Stop,” he says, tone even and steady.

“Oh? And what’re you going to do about it?” The slight boy asks. Robin seems to falter for a moment, and the slight boy takes advantage, pushing past him and walking up behind you. You don’t see what happens next, but one moment Robin is in front of you, and the next, he’s gone. You hear a smacking noise behind you, and then a thud as if something had just hit the ground. The class looks incredulous. Winter walks back in. 

“Assaulting another student? I expected better from you, Robin,” he says. 

“Wait, I can explain–” 

“Detention.” 

The slight boy smacks your ass on the way back to his seat. 

+Trauma +Stress

You go to swimming, but your earlier run-in with acid leaves you unable to participate, so you just sit by the pool in your swimsuit until class is over. When you get back, you notice your underwear is missing. You put your clothes on over your swimsuit. It looks a little funny from the front, but it’s better than nothing.

Actually, you might start doing this more often. A swimsuit is tight and harder to get off, no one can unclasp your bra, you don’t have to change, and it’ll actually cover your boobs, even with the shirt unbuttoned. This is a great idea, you think to yourself, feeling a little proud. 

You start to walk to the front courtyard when your phone reminds you of your detention. Shit. You’d forgotten. At least Robin will be there with you? 

Sighing, you head back inside. 

“Keep writing, and don’t stop until I tell you to,” Leighton says. You glance at Robin, who’s working diligently. You decide to work hard, too. +Fatigue 

Robin asks to walk home with you, but you tell him you’re going to the park instead. He waves you off, but there’s a glint in his eye that wasn’t there before. +Jealousy

You go to the park and meet Avery, asking for help gathering Lichen. You tell him about your school project, and he offers to take you out for drinks. You don’t really want to get involved with him, but you’re a little afraid of refusing him.

>Go for drinks +Facination +Dominance +Love? >Refuse -Love +Lust +Rage

None of those options look good, but you remember the guide saying that negative love leads to more dangerous encounters. You take his hand, and the two of you go out. The place he picked is cute, and the employees there seem to recognize him. 

“Can I recommend you a drink?” He asks. “I think I know what you’ll like.” 

>Buy Avery’s recommendation +Facination +Dominance +Stress >Pick your own drink +Love -Stress -Dominance -Fascination -Endearment

You pick your own drink and the two of you find a quiet corner to sit down in. +Love -Stress -Dominance -Fascination -Endearment

Your phone buzzes. 

You’re on a date with Avery! How do you want to conduct yourself? >Act cute +Facination +Endearment >Act shy +Facination -Endearment >Act aloof --Endearment ++Lust  >Be natural -Facination +???

You choose to act natural, hoping he’ll lose interest in you. You don’t voice any complaints, but you don’t bother to hide your discomfort, either. You fidget, you avoid eye-contact, and you don’t listen when he speaks to you.

-Fascination --Endearment +Love

When the date is over, Avery looks annoyed. He doesn’t say anything to you as he walks you to the exit, though his hand still rests on the small of your back.

You go to the manhole next. You don’t really want to, but you want that lichen. Luckily, you encounter no problems getting it. But that says nothing about what happens after.

You’re accosted by a giant lizard. If the game hadn’t told you what it was, you would have thought it was a crocodile based on its sheer size alone. It attacks you from behind, and you struggle to get it off your back. It claws at your clothing, leaving it worse for wear, but you’re able to roll over onto your back. The lizard is pinned underneath you now, but you still can’t reach it. You roll over and feel your shirt rip, exposing your back. You reach into your bag and pull out your pepper spray, aiming for the lizard’s eyes. It scurries away, leaving you panting in the sewers. You get a good workout.

You want to leave, but you still need that Lichen. 

You crawl out of the sewers and head to the tailor, who offers to fix your clothes for £29.99. You accept and head to the office building, where you work as a temp for the next few hours, fighting through the exhaustion. You make £126.

You pass out on your way home and wake up in the hospital. Dr. Harper introduces himself and asks a few questions, but you leave out any details that could cause him to ask you to go to “therapy” with him. You’re discharged soon after, and Bailey picks you up.

“Don’t make me do this again,” he says. 

When you get home, it’s already past midnight. You don’t bother putting on Pajamas, just stripping and hopping under the covers. 

… 

……

………

You should’ve worn clothes, you think to yourself as you feel Kylar’s breath on your face. He’s hard; you can feel the outline of his penis through the blanket. You try to steady your breathing, too embarrassed to open your eyes. He shifts on top of you, and then lifts your blanket from your body. You react without thinking, immediately sitting up in a panic. You just barely avoid colliding with him. Your eyes meet his, and he looks down, getting a fully unobstructed view of your breasts. He flushes deeply and scrambles away. ++Lust

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you stand up to close your window. You notice that it doesn’t have a lock.

You put on pajamas before going back to bed this time and wonder if you can find some way to board it up. You close your eyes, but rest never comes. You’re too on edge. You roll in bed for hours, never relaxing enough to fall back asleep. When you finally give up, it’s already 06:00. You remember your idea from earlier, and decide to wear your swimsuit under your uniform today.

It is the 7th of September, 2022. -It has been 3 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £454 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are fatigued Stress: You are strained Trauma: You are uneasy Control: You are insecure Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You decide to spend some time in the garden growing daisies. It’s relaxing. By the time you finish, your hands are covered in dirt, and it’s 07:30. You wash your hands and go to Robin’s room to play video games for the next half hour.

“This one’s a cooperative game,” he says. “It’s known for being really difficult.” 

“How do I play?” You ask, taking the controller. Robin leans over, wrapping an arm behind your back and taking your hands in his as he guides your hands to the correct positioning, fingers lingering over yours for a moment longer than necessary. You feel his breath on your skin as he walks you through the controls, his head over your shoulder and his arms still wrapped around you. +Lust

The two of you play for a little bit. Neither of you are very good, but you have a good time regardless. -Stress -Trauma

You and Robin are about to walk to school together when a car pulls up beside you. You brace yourself for the worst, but the window rolls down to reveal Avery instead. “I thought I recognized you,” he says, smiling warmly. “How about I give you a lift?” He glances dismissively at Robin.”Your little friend can come along, too.” Robin looks at you, clearly nervous. 

>Ride with Avery +Robin’s jealousy >Ride with Avery and Robin +??? >Walk with Robin -Love +Lust +Rage -Robin’s jealousy

You try to smile at Robin, but it comes out strained. You hop into the car with Avery. Robin reluctantly follows your lead. You try to act naturally, bringing Robin into the conversation whenever Avery ignores him. Robin seems happy you’re paying attention to him, but still extremely out of place. -Robin’s Jealousy +Robin’s love +Avery’s love -Avery’s Fascination 

Avery leaves, and you head to the library. Sydney isn’t there, so you study by yourself until it’s time to go to Science. A group of students pass by you in the halls; they leer at you but don’t say anything. 

Science, math, and English all pass by without incident, for once. You feel yourself begin to relax as you head to the canteen, only to jump when an arm wraps around your shoulders. You turn around. It’s Whitney.

“I’m hungry,” he says. “But I don’t want anything here. Come with us to get a snack.” Your sense of control wavers. Fearful of his intentions, you shove Whitney off of you and try to run, but he grabs your arm. Delinquents pull out their phones and circle around you. You lift the arm he’s holding and swing it to the side, using the created opportunity to elbow him with your unobstructed arm. He staggers and lets go of your arm, nearly falling but just barely managing to regain his balance. You rush to the least populated area of the circle and try to push past the delinquents, but they grab you and push you back in instead. 

You reach for your pepper spray but notice your backpack has been taken from you. You glance behind you, and sure enough, a group of students are rifling around your things. You lunge for them, but they toss it to the students across from them, playing keep-away. 

Whitney is glaring at you from the other side of the ring. He rushes you, and you fail to dodge. He pushes you to the ground, his friends scattering out of reach. You headbutt him on the way down, but he’s got your arms in a tight grip. You struggle against his hold, kicking and squirming under him. Whitney sits over you, straddling your waist and holding your arms in place beside your head. His face is inches from yours, and you can feel his heavy breath on your skin. 

You try to bridge him, but he’s too heavy. You’re quickly losing strength, and Whitney can tell your struggles are becoming weaker. “Just give up,” he says. “Or I might have to do something worse.” Your sense of control weakens. He leans down over you, rubbing his penis against your stomach. You freeze, a sense of cold, numbing dread overtaking you as Whitney climbs off of you. He offers a hand to help you up, and you, briefly forgetting your situation, take it. 

He pulls you up and into his arms with surprising strength, smirking at you as your noses brush. He releases your hand but still wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you from leaving. 

“Can I have my bag back?” You ask, hopefully. Whitney looks over your shoulder at the people rifling through your things. One of them reaches for the side zipper you keep your pepper spray in, and you freeze. 

“She’s got pepper spray!” The short boy exclaims. 

“Holy shit,” a lithe girl says. 

Whitney releases you from his grip on your waist but soon grabs your arm and forces it behind you. You move your left leg around his and plant it on the ground, then you twist yourself away from him until your arm is beside you again. You plant your other foot and lift your left, kicking him in the back of his knee. He falls, but you fall with him. He lets go when you land, and you roll over off of him, quickly standing. You kick him in the groin for good measure and then walk up to the delinquent, holding your backpack and pepper spray. You hold out your hand expectantly and hands it to you stiffly. +Status

You decide to skip lunch and go to the mall instead. You pick up a keychain with a latch and attach your pepper spray to it, hooking it onto your skirt’s belt loop. It took you a while to find the right kind of keychain, and by the time you’re back on campus, it’s already 13:06. +Deliquency

You quickly head into history class, where Winter takes note of your tardiness, and sit next to Robin. He notices your ruffled hair and asks if you’re okay. You smile at him as you take your seat, but he seems unconvinced. You spend the rest of History daydreaming. 

When you get to your swimming lesson, you don’t even have to get naked. Your swimsuit is already under your uniform, so all you have to do is take them off. Your injury yesterday has healed well enough to allow you into the pool, too, so you get to improve your swimming grade. It isn’t until after the lesson is over, and you emerge from the pool, dripping wet, that you realize the fatal flaw with your underwear idea. 

You have to put clothes on over your wet swimsuit. 

Not seeing any other viable option, you put your clothes on over your wet swimsuit. The fabric clings to your body, but it does that anyway. You leave the changing room and head to detention, trying to ignore the stares of your peers as they gawk at your see-through shirt (they can’t even see anything through it, you aren’t sure what they’re staring at.).

Detention only takes ten minutes, so you’re still able to walk home with Robin. He doesn’t say anything, but you catch him taking peeks at your chest every so often. +Love +Lust +Stress

You go to the temple after changing and pick up some pink lichen for your science fair project. 

You think about the last sample of lichen you need and wonder if a £500 prize is worth being molested by ghost tentacles. You wonder if £2,000 is worth being hunted with a vengeance every blood moon.

You do need the money…

——————— 

<Prev Next>

[bunnyyyuu]

includes: f! reader, aged up! yuuta + maki, lesbian fetishizing, jerking it, car sex, spanking, strap on, cunnilingus, 69 (mentioned), pervy yuuta kinda

yuuta is really happy for you and maki! he really is.

he’s a huge sweetheart, extremely supportive. anytime you two post one another on your instagram stories with whatever romance song is currently trending, he’s the first to like and reply to it. he’s always saying something about how cute you two are. on your anniversaries—whether it be three months or your two years—he’s texting both of you at midnight a loving “happy anniversary! i'm so happy for u two :) the cutest couple ever”. and he really does mean all that stuff, really.

but yuuta would be lying to himself he said that he wasn't using his unrelenting support for your relationship as a way to soothe his guilt. because he does feel bad about it.

jerking off to his two best friends? how could shame not eat away at him, chomping at the very essence of his soul. he’s always prided himself on how much love and care he has for his friends, how could he do this?

unfortunately for him, though, the thought is just too addicting. so, he’s making up for it by being your number one fan.

his head is thrown back uncomfortably against the wood of his headboard, which would normally bother him if he wasn't so occupied with his leaking dick. he’s rubbing circles with his thumb over the slit, an impossible amount of pre just oozing out of the pretty pink tip.

yuuta’s always had such a vivid imagination and an almost photographic memory, tools that aided him greatly in these desperate nights.

he thinks about the goodbye kisses—though just fleeting pecks, really—you press against maki’s lips in his backseat when he’s dropping you off after a trio hang out. he insists that he’s not third wheeling, and he also insists that you and maki need to sit together in the back. he really doesn't mind sitting in the front alone, really. especially not when he can imagine you and maki in his backseat.

he thinks about you two making out: lewd moans slipping into each other's mouths, the gloss coating your puffy lips smearing across maki’s face, the way her hands crawl under your shirt and fondle your tits.

he thinks about maki’s mean hand slamming into your cunt as you soak the leather of his seats; not that he cares about those seats anyway. he thinks about the downright nasty sounds of your sopping pussy squelching around her fingers as she cruelly plunges them in and out and in and out.

he thinks about your squirt tainting his car, leaving a mess of the liquid all over. the smell of sex, of pussy, lingering in his vehicle for days.

he thinks about how maki hugs you from behind a lot. the way her calloused hands snake up from your ass to grab your hips with unnecessary force for a simple hug before wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling your back against her chest. though, even when you two think you're being sneaky, he notices—of course yuuta would notice that.

he thinks about her bending you over a counter or the edge of your bed. your skirt flipped up, panties no where to be found, as she leaves bright red hand prints all across your ass. she’d have some wicked grin on her face as you let out little ah! ah!’s everytime her palm made harsh contact with your butt, your legs behind you flailing. her free hand would be gripping your hip the same way she does in those hugs.

he thinks about that gleam in your eyes when you're watching maki train. it's not innocent, it's not admiration, it’s something much worse. the way you chew on ur bottom lip and cross your legs over one another, resting your elbow on your knee and chin on your fist. you're watching her like a hawk, pulling her into a hug once she’s all done and sweaty with a little “you did so good! you're so strong!” he sees you feel up her arms or her thighs after.

he thinks about how that strength translates into the bedroom. how she’d pin you down completely with no effort at all as she rams the strap in and out of your aching pussy. she’d have you crying out, begging for something, you’re not even sure what. she’d make you cum over and over until your cunt was sore, slapping you around and using you. he tightens his grip on his dick just a little, precum stickying his hand.

he thinks maybe it's the opposite. maybe all of maki’s brashness, the chip on her shoulder disappears once you're between her legs. lapping at her sex like it's your very last meal, spewing praises against her clit. she's moaning so softly, scarred legs shaking. she's on the verge of tears as you bring her to her upteenth orgasm. you pull away after far too long to mumble sweet nothings at her, your beautiful face absolutely soaked in her. god, yuuta would kill to see that.

he thinks about you two sixty-nining—

“shit,” he hisses out when his phone, placed carelessly in his mess of blankets dings. he scrambles with his free hand, the other still holding a vice grip on the base of his impossibly hard cock.

a text. from you.

“wanna come over? me and maki miss u”

pump! pump! pump! he stares at the text with bleary eyes before finally spilling his hot cum all over his hand, nodding frantically at your words on the screen.

he types back swiftly with his non cum soaked hand.

“ofc :)”

[honey-tongued-devil]

[Arcane preference] reacting to their s/o wearing mobility aids

When I said I was prioritizing the illnesses I had, I didn’t expect the hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, but here we are. For those who don’t know what it is: it’s a genetic condition that affects the ligaments, making them longer and/or looser, which cause problems over time. In my case, it affects my legs, so I’ll write about those. As always, if you want to read more of my work, you can click on the coloured texts! here the Tumblr masterlist, and here are the first two chapters of Everytime it Rains.

socials: | INPRNT | | Tip Jar | | X | | BlueSky | | Ao3 |

Jayce:

He’s well-versed in what to do and not do, being around two people with a similar condition (though he’ll never call it a "disease" out loud for fear of making anyone uncomfortable).

His help is as subtle as possible: he’ll grab your backpack, shoulder bag, or anything else you’re carrying to keep you from overexerting yourself.

During walks, he’s the one who’ll suddenly mention it’s getting cold, too hot, or that he just remembered something, as soon as he senses you’re getting tired, assuming your fatigue is worse than his.

The first time you said, “I’ll pass, my knees are about to bend” he didn’t realize they bent backwards, and when he saw what that actually meant, he went pale.

He felt guilty about his reaction for at least a week.

Viktor:

Tell him something he doesn’t know.

He’s the one who’ll comment, “Where’s your brace?” if he sees you with bare legs and no aid, maybe tapping your foot lightly with his cane to emphasize his disapproval.

On the bad days—when fatigue, cold, or any external factor makes both of your legs useless—you end up helping each other out, spending most of the time on the couch with pillows under his knees and your legs draped over his.

If you have to do something alone while he’s busy, he’ll ask Jayce to accompany you, ensuring you don’t overdo it without realizing.

Ekko:

Honestly, he couldn’t care less. I mean, it’s not a big problem for him

The first time he saw your knees bend weirdly and too much, he just said, “Ouch.”

Other than that, there are hoverboards! If your legs stop cooperating at some point in the day, he’ll just have you balance seated on the hoverboard, saying it’s a gentleman’s duty to escort such an attractive lad/lady around.

He doesn’t ask what you want or need; he just does it, whether it’s bringing you food or removing your knee brace to let your skin breathe.

If he’s going to be away from the house for a while, he leaves a few things ready for you, like water bottles, so you don’t have to strain yourself carrying them up the stairs on your own.

When he sees you’re worn out, he’ll ask if you want a massage, using some body butter to improve circulation, relieve stress, and keep your skin elastic.

Vander:

His first instinct would be to carry you, but since that’s sweet yet sometimes awkward, you both agree that at night ‘it’s a man’s right to carry his wife/husband to bed, disability or not’.

He doesn’t know exactly how to help, so aside from asking if you need anything—like grabbing your aids, bringing them to you, or helping you put them on—he won’t push, knowing you’ll ask for help if you need it.

If you need to go upstairs, he’ll always walk behind you so that if your knees give out, he can catch you and avoid disaster.

At least two rectangular pillows appear in every useful room so you can place them under your knees. The problem is that you forget about them most of the time, so they’re not much help—at least until he comes along, lifts your legs, and places them in a more comfortable position.

"My legs hurt."

"Oh no, I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’ll have to cut them off," he jokes with a mock-serious expression, bursting into laughter when you swat at him in response.

Silco (old man):

Some things you could do on your own but feel more intimate when done together. That’s why you often trot into his office with the fabric sleeve and brace in hand, handing them to him, and he gives you his shimmer syringe in return.

There’s no specific reason beyond the mental closeness and vulnerability of the act.

“Too tight?” will always be his question, even though he knows by now how to adjust it perfectly and doesn’t need to ask.

When you’re together, he’s the one to carefully remove it, stroking your leg while lost in thought.

He never sends anyone to assist you; instead, he asks if you think it would be better to have someone accompany you, making sure you reassure him if you insist you can manage alone.

Silco (Young Man):

Zaun isn’t exactly suitable for crutches or unsteady footing, so as soon as you let him know about your condition, he feels even more compelled to improve the city (or at the very least, smooth out the streets).

He’ll ask questions—few but direct—to understand what it is and how he should act.

If you drop something, he’ll be quick but subtle about picking it up and putting it somewhere easier for you to reach.

“Do you want to go home?” is the question he’ll ask you most often, even if it’s just with a look, despite you explaining multiple times that you’ll let him know if you can’t keep going.

But he knows you push yourself beyond your limits, so he worries.

At night, he’s made it a small ritual to massage your legs when you stretch them out in bed, and it actually helps relieve the tension.

Jinx:

“I can make you a mechanical one.”

When you explain what the condition is and that you don’t need a replacement leg but help for the ones you have, she starts carrying around a notebook, taking notes on the “flaws” of your aid to make you a custom version better suited to your daily life and body.

“I’ll do it!” is her go-to response for anything you need to do that she thinks takes too much effort. She doesn’t even ask; she just throws herself into it with so much enthusiasm it becomes amusing after a while.

You don’t have many intact knee braces or aids left, because according to her, they were “boring,” and she’s customized them—though they still work pretty well.

Even if she won’t admit it, she’s become even more protective of you. For example, if someone bumps into you in the street, she’s ready to jump to your defense immediately.

Vi:

She doesn’t really know how to react or respond because of how versatile the condition is. How does she figure out which days your legs won’t work and which ones they will? Or when they’ll start hurting before it’s too late?

You two agree on a small code: you tap her hand or shoulder three times rhythmically when you start to feel fatigued so that if you’re in public or with company, you don’t have to announce it to everyone if you don’t want to. She’ll immediately understand.

She’s a little scared of doing the wrong thing. She doesn’t know how to handle it and, even though she tries not to, she starts to perceive you as more fragile, moving with a fear of accidentally hurting you.

But she learns over time. She’ll simply ask more often if you need anything when she’s going to the kitchen or the store.

And when you’re cuddling, she’ll pull your legs onto hers.

Caitlyn:

She asks you to explain the condition to her—what you can and can’t do and how she can help.

She’s the ultimate advocate for your aid.

If you skip wearing it one morning because you don’t feel like it or the pain hasn’t started yet, you can bet she’ll notice and say something.

Sure, it can be a bit annoying, but considering it’s a degenerative condition, you know she’s right, so you can’t really get mad at her.

If you’re just not in the mood, she’ll put it on for you herself, with such care that you start to wonder if there’s an instruction manual she got that you didn’t.

Beyond that, she’s not overbearing. She trusts that you’ll communicate when you don’t feel like doing something, and she doesn’t presume to know your limits better than you do.

Mel:

It’s not too much of a problem, considering most of your activities together don’t involve much walking or moving due to her work.

That doesn’t stop her from taking an interest, though. At least once a week, she’ll ask you how your legs are

If they hurt, if you need different support or more comfortable shoes, or if you just need a footrest or a cushion—she’s ready and ensures everything you might need is on hand. If she can’t get it herself, she’ll send someone.

During dinners, she privately asks whoever is in charge of arranging things to provide you with a footrest and an extra cushion on your chair. If you tell her it’s unnecessary, her response will be, “Can’t I spoil my partner a little?”

She knows you’ll let her know if you’re having issues, but she takes all the necessary precautions to ensure no problems arise in the first place.

Sevika:

Again, tell her something she doesn’t know.

The difference between your legs and her arm—besides the fact that yours are still intact—is that they require less messy and time-consuming maintenance than hers. So not only does she not mind helping, but she hardly even notices.

She won’t ask if you need anything unless you say so or show explicit signs of struggling. It’s a deliberate choice to avoid making you feel like she thinks you’re not independent or capable.

On the couch or in bed, she’ll have you rest your legs on hers and prop you up with cushions behind your back, making sure you’re fully supported.

[wendichester]

｡𖦹°‧ hold still,

summary. dean patches you up after a hunt.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ; angsty

wordcount. 582

Dean doesn’t breathe right until you’re sitting in front of him, battle-worn and bruised, but alive.

His knuckles are still raw from the fight. His heart is still hammering against his ribs. But none of that matters, not compared to the sight of you, hands shaky in your lap, blood soaking through your shirt.

It’s too much.

The sharp tang of iron in the air. The deep gash on your ribs, still sluggishly leaking crimson. The way you keep wincing, trying to hide it.

You’re in pain.

And it’s because he wasn’t fast enough.

Dean swallows hard, forces himself to focus. There’ll be time to be pissed later—at the vamps, at himself, at you for throwing yourself in the line of fire like you don’t care what happens.

Right now, you need him.

And that’s the only thing that matters.

“Shirt off,” he says, voice tight.

You blink at him. “Dean—”

“Don’t start,” he grits out, already reaching for the first aid kit. “Just—just let me do this, okay?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before exhaling and peeling off your jacket, then your torn shirt, leaving you in just your bra.

Dean doesn’t react.

Doesn’t let himself.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen you like this before, but right now, all he sees is the wound—angry, jagged, too damn close to anything vital.

He clenches his jaw. Too close.

“This is gonna sting,” he mutters, tipping the bottle of alcohol onto a clean rag.

“Great,” you deadpan. “Can’t wait.”

Dean huffs, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He should’ve known you’d still have jokes, even while half-bleeding out.

Then he presses the rag to your side, and you jerk.

“Shit—”

“Hold still,” he murmurs, softer this time.

You let out a shaky breath, nodding.

Dean doesn’t miss the way your fingers twist into the sheets as he keeps working—gently wiping away blood, dabbing at the wound, making sure there’s no debris before he starts taping you up.

It’s quiet. The motel hums around you, the neon sign outside flickering red against the window, casting shifting shadows over the walls.

Dean finishes wrapping the bandage, smoothing it over your skin carefully. Too carefully.

Like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he touches you wrong.

And he is. Because you’re not just another hunting partner. You’re not just some person he picked up along the way. You’re his. And the thought of losing you—

Dean clenches his jaw, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“You done?” you murmur, voice softer now.

Dean exhales, nods. “Yeah.”

You glance down at yourself, then back at him. “Not too bad, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. And it’s something in his face, or the way he’s still holding onto the roll of gauze, like he needs something to ground him because your expression shifts—softens.

“Dean,” you say, quiet, knowing.

He looks away. “You scared the hell outta me.”

“I know.”

And maybe that’s the worst part. That you know. That you always know.

You reach out, fingers grazing his arm, hesitant. “I’m okay.”

Dean exhales slowly. Then, after a beat, he covers your hand with his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, gentle, grounding.

“You better be,” he mutters, voice rough. “’Cause I don’t—” He swallows, shakes his head. “I don’t wanna do this without you.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “You won’t have to.”

Dean holds onto your hand a little longer. Just to make sure you’re real.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @img14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @aerinu ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

[astonmartinii]

bad blood (lando's version) | lando norris social media au

pairing: lando norris x fem carlos ex!reader

band aid's don't fix bullet holes but his best friend might

based on this request:so reader is a famous model who’s also carlos ex (dated YEARS) and after the breakup he jumped straight to rebeca (we just need a tiny bit of bad blood). soo she and lando always got along, ever since carlos was in mclaren. the point is they get together and come hand in hand to a gp out of nowhere so drama and more bad blood surface - you can lead this to whatever you want hehe, thanks!!! - @lorenakaspersen

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

vogue

liked by hunterschafer, landonorris and 1,209,433 others

tagged: yourusername

vogue: y/n y/ln takes the cover for this month, where she talks re-discovering herself and giving yourself time to move on. copies in stores everywhere this friday.

view all comments

user1: i am once again asking how the fuck that man fumbled a bad bitch like her

user2: do not bring that man up here, he actually boils my blood

user3: honestly thank god they wear helmets in f1 cause if i saw his smug little face i may have smashed by tv

yourusername: thank you for having me hehehehhe xx

vogue: you dropped this queen 👑

user4: not vogue supporting her more than carlos ever did 🤨

user5: at least lando still supports her

user6: i'm glad the friends she made... i.e lando, charles, max, daniel, etc did also abandon her when carlos just dropped her

hunterschafer: you're the person i see in your dreams

yourusername: are you sure i'm not just your sleep paralysis demon?

hunterschafer: you're welcome to stalk mine dreams anytime

user7: how am i meant to care about f1 without y/n?

user8: she's the reason i learnt about the sport but at leats now i have an excuse to support someone else LOL

landonorris: tinkerbell looks a little bit different here

yourusername: i thought you were too old to watch peter pan?

landonorris: i just said that so you would think i'm a big macho man :(

yourusername: that is tragic

landonorris: can i interest you in a movie night some time soon then

yourusername: you might

user9: WHAT IS GOING ON HERE ^^

user10: idk but i am excited

f1wagupdates

liked by user11, user12 and 4,032 others

f1wagsupdates: carlos sainz debuts his new girlfriend rebecca donaldson at the bahrain grand prix, just one month after breaking up with model y/n y/ln. sainz and y/ln were together for three years, and sainz was seen with donaldson for the first time just a week after the breakup.

view all comments

user13: lol the wag accounts are done with his ass

f1wagsupdates: i am a y/n y/ln stan first and foremost

user14: anyone see the absolute stink eye charles and lando gave carlos LOL

user15: that's the thing when you're together for so long, the friends get attached as well

user16: i mean if certified homie hopper charles leclerc is calling your bluff then you know you've fucked up

user17: i will never understand how he jumped into a relationship with her after three years ?? LIKE IT WAS NOTHING

user18: things like that make me glad i'm single

user19: the thing that is bothering me that no one has said yet is the fact that he's been with her what a month? and he's already brought her to a race when he made y/n wait months to go to a race?

user20: screams insecurity - like "look i have moved on, i'm an alpha male who can get whoever i want"

user21: i never understood why he didn't let her come to races for months when they first got together, like not even his home race?

user22: i've always got the vibe that he thought that he was better than her and that she was using him?

user23: the way if he ever posted her (which was not very often) he never tagged her

user24: which is ironic because she's one of the most celebrated models in recent history, she has millions more followers than him and has a bigger network than him, so really if anyone was using anyone it was carlos using her

user25: anyone else pulling for her to get with lando?

user26: i always thought they got on more in the videos of them all together but honestly i just want her to be happy

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris and 2,018,552 others

yourusername: not much going on recently

view all comments

user27: SHE'S SO HOT

user28: i need her to give me one chance please

charles_leclerc: are we still down for the road trip to lourdes?

yourusername: needed now more than ever

charles_leclerc: trust and believe

user29: charles and y/n friendship you mean so much to me

user30: need her to sit in charles' side of the garage

user31: mother went to the university of servington where she got a degree is cuntology with a minor in slaying the haus down

danielricciardo: miss ma'am, leave some for the rest of us

yourusername: why thank you good sir

danielricciardo: where do i procure a veil as such?

yourusername: i may source one for you if you promise not to shave that moustache

heidiberger: preach

user32: i bet carlos just thought everyone would just forget about y/n when he dropped her, but he forgot that she's probably more liked on the grid than he is LOL

landonorris: why are you staring into my soul like that

yourusername: why are you lurking in my comment section

landonorris: i thought we were friends :(

yourusername: always and forever

user33: but he wants it to be more

liked by landonorris, danielricciardo

user33: I SAW THAT LANDO X Y/N COMING SOON?

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, yourusername and 803,774 others

landonorris: hostess with the most-ess?

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user34: is that a ... WOMAN?

user35: he's saying he's a host ... maybe he's hosting a friend who is a girl, it's not illegal

user36: i get your sentiment, but that photo is straight out of the soft launch girlfriend pinterest boards

user37: well now i'm picturing lando scrolling through pinterest and asking ??? to recreate the pics 😭

carlossainz55: missing my golf partner, round this weekend? ⛳️

landonorris: let me check my schedule buddy 👍

user38: okay... well someone else tell me that they can feel the vibe shift

user39: it's their first online interaction after the breakup, i think we can guess who's side lando is on

oscarpiastri: someone needs to debrief me asap

landonorris: someone forgot that he owns a phone

oscarpiastri: needed the added pressure of the public call out to make you actually do it

landonorris: fine, but you get three questions and that's it

user40: if the call out was public can't we get the public answers

yourusername: are you coming for my job?

landonorris: you saying i could model 😊

yourusername: i'm definitely saying you should let me give my agent your number

landonorris: you already have my number babe

yourusername: okay pretty boy

user41: i need this type of nepotism in my life

user42: i need the nepotism and the sexual tension cause PHEW it is through the roof

yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, landonorris and 2,760,521 others

yourusername: enjoy the picture of me fucking up a pretzel

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user46: okay where are the detective freaks from f1twt?

user47: reporting for duty 🫡

user46: what car is that?

user47: it looks strikingly similar to a jolly, but i don't know if that's just my brain pushing me to make it lando. but there is a florist in monaco that wraps their flowers just like that as well ....

user46: thank you for your service

danielricciardo: this is very ballerina core 🩰

yourusername: has the old man been spending time on the internet?

danielricciardo: yes he has 😃

yourusername: omg proud

danielricciardo: no but seriously how did you do it? it looks sick

yourusername: very fiddly, needed an extra pair of hands

danielricciardo: an extra pair of hands [wiggles eyebrows]

yourusername: did you just comment your own stage directions?

danielricciardo: funny 😄

user48: okay i am glad we're not being deprived of the y/n and daniel friendship.

landonorris: i am enjoying this picture of you fucking up a pretzel

yourusername: i am a whore for carbs

landonorris: i am a whore for you

this comment was deleted

landonorris: i am also a whore for carbs (don't tell jon)

maxverstappen1: 📸📸📸 saw that mister !!

landonorris: you didn't see NOTHING

user49: we saw everything. i am so disappointed in lando, he's carlos' bestfriend and he's doing this?

liked by carlossainz55

user50: oh i know this man aint speaking

f1teaandgossip

liked by user51, user52 and 10,945 others

ftteaandgossip: carlos sainz was caught liking this tweet about his ex girlfriend y/n y/ln and his (former?) best friend lando norris. what do you think?

view all comments

user53: the audacity of men never fails to astound me

user54: you know what, i feel like a guilty man only acts this bold. so i'm saying it. i think there was overlap between his relationship with y/n and his relationship with rebecca

user55: you're right and you should say it

user56: carlos got with rebecca within a WEEK of the end of a three year relationship but is angry that she's finally moving on after months ?

user57: for real the first sight of lando and y/n was after at least two months

user58: i know people will say she's in the wrong because it is lando but honestly carlos has no leg to stand on with him parading rebecca around the paddock

user59: i really couldn't give a fuck if lando is his best buddy you act like a fool expect to get treated like a fool

user60: also the whole "whoring around the grid" is so dumb. you mean her FRIENDS? you know the friends she had to make when you would just leave her in the paddock or ignore her at parties ?

user61: babe really thought he was more loved in the paddock and expected everyone to go along with his messiness

user62: men don't talk about women this way challenge

user63: imagine talking about a girl you were with for THREE tears like this

user64: i wish lando and y/n all the best and i hope they're together for a long time, she deserves a good man after all of this

user65: i have faith 🤞

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris and 3,109,413 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername: sloppy seconds you say? i never come second with him. pun intended x

view all comments

user66: SERVE

user67: user67 found dead in her home, cause of death: this post

landonorris: what can i say i'm a giver 🤷‍♂️

yourusername: i'll say 😮‍💨

oscarpiastri: ENOUGH

landonorris: i thought you were happy for us oscar :(

oscarpiastri: i am !! i even took the second picture. but i think you forget that i am staying with you in monaco :/

yourusername: whoops my bad

landonorris: i swear my hospitality is usually better

yourusername: i can attest to his hospitality

oscarpiastri: STOP PLEASE STOP

user68: poor oscar being traumatised by y/n and lando 😭

carlossainz55: real mature

yourusername: how about instead of liking shady tweets and commenting on my instagram posts, you come confront me like a real fucking person.

carlossainz55: you'd love that wouldn't you

yourusername: i really would because if i said everything you needed to hear i'd be banned from this app

carlossainz55: you really are the gold digging slut my parents warned me about

landonorris: you will absolutely not talk to her that way. if you do so again we'll have a very real problem

carlossainz55: you have no sense of loyalty lando

landonorris: the call is coming from inside the house

user69: the girls are FIGHTING

comments on this post have been limited.

landonorris

liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername and 1,866,398 others

tagged: yourusername

landonorris: nothing better than a podium at home and time with family

view all comments

user72: the sky camera shady as fuck for cutting straight to y/n in the mclaren garage when carlos crashed LOL

user73: her and lando's dad trying not to laugh had me creasing

yourusername: beyond proud of you baby

landonorris: your support means everything pretty girl

yourusername: and your family are the loveliest, tell mama i said thank you for having me (and my sandwiches for the plane)

landonorris: she say's thank you and come back soon (i also want you to come home asap)

user74: he already refers to his house at their home

user75: and y/n has been accepted by the family - the sainzs could take notes

oscarpiastri: oscar piastri erasure

yourusername: sorry osc, you're our favourite pookie on the grid

landonorris: also mama made you sandwiches too

oscarpiastri: i know they were very yummy 😋

danielricciardo: HOLD ON, oscar is your favourite pookie, where am i ???

maxverstappen1: i think you'll find i am their favourite full stop

charles_leclerc: nuh uh it's clearly me

yourusername: i'll just say lando is my favourite

landonorris: and i'll say y/n is my favourite

yourusername: and that's that

danielricciardo: boooooooo.

maxverstappen1: cop out :(

charles_leclerc: 🍅🍅🍅

user76: i am so confused right now

yourusername

liked by bellahadid, landonorris and 3,109,766 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername: you are in love, true love.

view all comments

user77: omg the letters? i swear there were letters in her first post after carlos took rebecca to the first race of the season

user78: wait so do you think they were from lando the whole time?

yourusername: yes they are from lando ! after the carlos stuff had somewhat died down he had them all delivered to me and it definitely swayed me for a first date

user79: but i thought some of those letters looked pretty old

landonorris: i won't deny that i liked y/n for a long time but i obviously couldn't express that so i put them in letters. an idiot was an idiot and i'll never not take my chance

user80: okay that makes this whole thing so much cuter

user81: y/n is the definition of never letting your boyfriend stop you from finding your husband

landonorris: you're my best friend and i love you so much

yourusername: i'd go through all this mess and all this heartbreak again if it meant i still end up with you

landonorris: but i'm by your side forever now you can't get rid of me

yourusername: i wouldn't dream of it

user82: lord i have seen it all, please bless me with a relationship like this

danielricciardo: god you people are ridiculously cute

oscarpiastri: just think yourself lucky that you no longer share a garage with them

landonorris: we're not THAT bad

oscarpiastri: i have working ears

yourusername: sorry not sorry osc x

fin.

note: hope you all enjoyed. i am dying trying to do 75 soft but i also signed up for burlesque class !!