#but as someone who plays a lot of rhythm games

[dontmindme2600]

Just got my first ever A in project Sekai !!!

[ferrettaur]

playing a rhythm game and thinking "oh no this is going to hit me with a set of pentuplets" and it did and I was still unprepared even though I heard the cue and registered it, I still fucked every single input because pentuplets are a bitch.

[birthday-of-music]

ughhhhjajsjajahshdhdhdb

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 21st. tom — gun play / dubcon / masochism.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom can’t hurt you, but you love seeing him try.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, i truly mean it minors stay back from this one. this is as fantasy as it comes. do not do this at home. or anywhere, ever. empty unloaded gun, gunplay, hardcore gun kink, masochist reader, sadist tom, very ooc tom riddle imo, lots of history between these two, angst and tension and emotion.

It doesn't matter how you got here—trapped in a room with Tom Riddle circling you, hands clasped behind him, his brother standing guard like a fucking solider just outside the door—it doesn't matter that your wrists are bound behind your back, rope cutting into your skin, or that you were caught somewhere deep within the manor, searching for information for the Order. It doesn't matter that you grew up with Tom and Mattheo, all those years in the orphanage, loved them both more than you ever loved yourself.

It doesn't fucking matter.

Nothing does—nothing except the man standing in front of you—nothing except the moment his hand reaches behind him, pulling a gun from where it had rested at his waist.

Yeah, uh, yeah—that might matter. Just a little.

"I never took you for someone who'd resort to Muggle weapons," you manage, but your voice is thin, a strained sound under the pulse thundering at your throat. "How refined."

Tom's eyes trace over you, stalling on the rhythm at your neck as though it's tangible before dragging back up to meet your own. He hasn't spoken in minutes, just watching, letting the silence swell, the tension grow with each passing second.

He's building it slowly, deliberately. It's always been a game to him—one he knows you'll lose.

"There's a certain appeal to them." His thumb grazes the trigger, almost absentmindedly. "So much power at the flick of a finger. No skill, no magic. Just finality."

Heat rises up your neck, settling in your cheeks, and all you can do is stare at him. He knows he doesn't need to touch you to break you—he's never had to. Tom's greatest weapon, when it comes to you, has always been his words.

He steps closer, fingers still ghosting over the gun as if he isn't holding all of your fate in his hands. He slows when his shins brush against your knees, and you hate how your pulse jumps, how you feel so small beneath him.

"You're tense," he murmurs, amusement playing at the corner of his lips. "Is it the weapon? Or something else?"

You lift your gaze because there's nowhere else to look—dark stone walls close in around you and he occupies every free inch of space between. It's laughable, really, the way your heart aches when you meet his eyes. You know he has to make an example of you, to prove something to the Death Eaters lurking beyond these walls, but despite the fire in his gaze, you can see it—the way he's holding back, just like he's done time and time again, for years.

No matter what he's become, there's still something of the boy you once knew buried beneath the surface. The boy who used to curl into you for warmth, for survival.

Your eyes flicker down to the gun again. You force the words past grit teeth. "Do you need that to feel powerful, Tom?"

There's something chilling in how natural the gun looks in his hand, the way he wields it with the same ease he uses to twist a wand. You’re certain Tom could find ease in anything, especially empty handed.

He's silent for a long moment, until he isn't. "I don't need anything to feel powerful."

The barrel catches the light as he raises it, and your skin tightens in anticipation. You close your eyes briefly as he drags it lazily up your arm, tracing a line of cold fire over your collarbone. Your heart is gone, soaring far away from this room, and a shiver rolls through you—not from fear, but from something you can't name. Something that's always belonged to him—

When the gun reaches your throat, your eyes flutter open, drawn to the sight of metal pressed against your skin.

He tilts his head, studying you. "You think this makes me dangerous?"

He tilts the gun beneath your chin, nudging your head back until your gaze meets his again. You gasp, and your thighs tense involuntarily. His eyes flicker down—he notices.

It's not the gun. It's him. Christ, it's always been him.

"No," you force out against the threat at your throat. "I think you make you dangerous."

Something shifts in Tom's eyes—just for a moment, before it vanishes beneath something more potent—determination.

He moves behind you in a slow circle, fingers brushing through your hair as if in contemplation. It's only a moment before his other hand brings the gun back, cold metal kissing the edge of your shoulder. You tense, feeling the weight of him behind you, his breath ghosting over your neck—and he inhales against your skin as he slides the gun lower, tracing the dip between your breasts, dragging like a threat down to your lap until the barrel presses against your thigh.

At this point, your heart pounds so loud you're certain Mattheo can hear it from outside the door—all you can do is stare at where his hand lingers, your mind racing ahead to the edge of terror and something far more dangerous.

"You seem...unbothered all of a sudden," Tom muses, teasing the gun up your thigh, dragging your skirts along with it. "One might expect the opposite reaction, given where this gun happens to be."

You know it's a game. Of course it's a game—his way of toying with you, forcing a reaction, demanding fear where there's none left. Except instead of fear, there's an unbearable heat curling inside you, your thighs wanting to close around the gun, to push against it, to feel it.

God, you hate that he does this to you.

"You won't hurt me," you manage, though your voice cracks. Your hips shift, just slightly, but enough to feel the cold metal slide higher. "If you wanted to, you would have."

That's the truth of it, isn't it? In the darkest moments, when you face him like this, you know with every beat of your heart that he'd never hurt you. You trust him in the way you shouldn't, in the way no one else in the world could. He could kill anyone else without a second thought, but not you.

That trust is what keeps pulling you back here, again and again, even though you've sworn yourself to the Order, even though you've promised to fight against everything he stands for.

"You always did have a death wish." He says, spitting the syllables at you, the disgust in his tone making your stomach lurch. His grip tightens in your hair. "Is that all it takes to make you pliable? My hands on you, a weapon in the room, and suddenly you're eager? Suddenly you trust me again?"

"You've never been able to kill me." You whisper, trying to sound cocky, sarcastic, but it comes out wrong—too breathless, too raw. "And you never will."

"I've never needed to." He murmurs as the gun moves again, pressing firmly against the apex of your thighs, nudging toward your clothed cunt. "You destroy yourself just fine."

You can't think, can't breathe, can't be when his voice wraps around you like this, when he presses the gun against you like it's a fucking present. Every nerve in your body is screaming, every instinct warring against itself. You want to grind against the barrel, to push it deeper between your legs. You want to trap it there, feel it pressed so tightly that you can't move. You want to drag his face to yours, taste his breath, break him.

Yet, you want to pull away and strike him across the face all the same—and that is Tom's power over you.

It's always been this way with him. You hate him—he's horrible and corrupt and so goddamn bad for you but he knows exactly what to say—exactly what to do to make you want to hurt him, to make you want to worship him in the same breath. The intensity of it steals the air from your lungs, makes a groan slip from your lips before you can stop it.

"Tell me, Tom," you grit out, forcing yourself still despite every inch of you wanting to move, wanting to react. "Would your fucking gun be on me like this if I was terrified of it? Would you be pressing it against me like this if it was loaded?"

The insinuation doesn't escape him. Not for a second. You have him pinned and it pisses him off because you fucked up by sneaking in here but there’s not a damn thing he can do to punish you for it that wouldn’t be punishment towards himself as well.

His grip in your hair tightens as the gun drags slowly over your clit, and you keen at the contact, your hips pushing into it.

"Fucking vixen," he pulls your head back roughly, his breath hot against your ear. His voice—the rawness— sends a goddamn thrill through you, makes your whole body jerk. "I have you tied to a chair, a gun at your cunt, and you still have the power to make me doubt myself.”

"That's me, Tom." You laugh, breathless. "Always ruining your fun."

His eyes flash with something—something devastating but it doesn't scare you because you've been here so many fucking times before. It only makes you arch your back, grinding against the gun harder, a soft moan escaping your lips just to spite him.

He watches you—eyes lidded, and something in the way he stares makes you ache.

"Why do you keep coming back here?" A question hissed through a tight jaw, words crawling down your spine, burrowing beneath your skin. "You keep testing me...fighting me...just to end up like this...”

You gasp. "I have to stop you—I—“

He cuts you off by yanking your head toward his until his forehead presses against yours—

"I didn't ask why you came," his nose brushes yours as he speaks. "I asked why you keep coming back. Why do you keep coming back to be...this for me?"

His voice is raw, something you've never heard in a long long time—unguarded—so fucking human. It makes the heat in your belly coil tighter, and your eyes flutter shut against the weight of it. You don't have an answer, not one that makes sense, not one that fits the way he's looking at you now.

"I-I don't know," is all you can offer.

Tom makes a noise in the back of his throat—low, frustrated, a sound that hums between you.

"Yes, you do," he hisses. "Don't get shy on me now."

He shifts the gun again, sliding beneath your panties, the cold metal making contact with your slick slit and you fucking gasp—a sound so loud you're sure Mattheo heard it—along with the rest of the goddamn house, too.

"This isn't about stopping me," Tom says, a whisper of words. "This isn't about taking away my control—not really."

He's right, and the truth of it stings. This isn't about stopping him, not entirely. You hate him for his choices but gods, you fucking crave this—him, his power over you. Every time you've come here, sneaking past the Order's notice, pretending to gather evidence, pretending you're smart enough to catch him in something—you know this is what you wanted. You know it's always been about him. The boy you survived with, the boy you loved—it's about how you've always belonged to him, even though you hate him for it.

It's always been him. Only him.

"Fuck," you gasp again as you feel the gun shifting, pressing harder against your cunt, and your mind is spinning because you can't believe he might—he wouldn't really— "…are you about to—Jesus, Tom..."

He's listening, you know he is. He's waiting for any hint of something that tells him to stop—a flinch, a breath that isn't right, the smallest sound that says you don't want this. But all he hears is you. You, the girl he's known since all you had was eachother, the one who loved him but left, who keeps coming back to him, no matter how much you claim to hate him.

He hears you submit, and it fuels him.

"You are..." he jerks your head again, roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes as the gun nudges against your soaked entrance, "...so unbelievably frustrating."

Oh, the irony. "I'm...not the only—oh gods—"

Your words crumble into nothing, dissolving in your throat as he presses the gun inside you. Cold metal pushing deep, rough ridges working you wide, the pressure burning with something almost unbearable in its fucking intensity.

Your mind hazes with it, and a groan that isn’t yours fills the room as you fight to adjust to the stretch.

"I hate this," he spits, his voice like gravel, raw and jagged with frustration, trembling with restraint. His eyes, wide and wild, stay locked on yours as though he can't tear himself away. "I hate how easy it is with you—I hate how quickly you give in, how you let me do this to you because you know I’d stop if you asked—I hate how I can never look at you without remembering what it feels like to be inside you. I hate how badly I still want that, after all these years, even though you left me. I hate you for making me want this."

Oh god—fucking hell—there's no room in your head for coherence now, no space left to argue, to resist—Tom Riddle has been so many things to you over the years, but openly, unabashedly vulnerable has never truly been one of them. Not until now. You feel it—beneath the brutality, the power—something fragile.

His forehead presses against your temple, the intimacy of it dizzying, disarming. You clench around the cold metal and he pushes it deeper.

He continues. “Admittedly, I hate myself most for wanting you to want this back.”

Your voice cracks around a sob—he’s pumping the gun in and out of you now—lewd sounds filling the room and your head tips back against his shoulder. His free hand slips from your hair and cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, a gesture that almost feels tender though you know better. His version of tenderness is as dangerous as anything else he offers.

You whinge. “T-Tom—oh fuck—I’m always going to let you win. I trust you—“

"Don't," he cuts you off in a groan against your cheek. Pumping the barrel into you, making your back arch off the chair. “You have no reason to. You know better."

You hear the unspoken words in his voice, the ones he can't bring himself to say aloud—I don't deserve it—and it makes your chest ache, makes your throat tighten—makes you want to shake him, wake him up from this nightmare—

"Of course I know better," you whisper through a gasp as he mutters a spell, something swirling over your clit that makes your eyes roll. “Gods—but you’ve never wanted me rational anyways.”

"You're right," he hisses and you hear the pain in it, a man who has everything still simultaneously has nothing and it makes him frustrated—all because of you. "I never wanted you to be rational. I never wanted you to be safe. I never wanted you to be anything other than mine."

You keen as the sensation on your clit intensifies and he pumps the gun quicker, you look down to watch his hand, the way his knuckles tense with the movement and you can almost see the restraint under his skin telling you just how bad he wishes he was pumping into you instead. You can hear your arousal—you feel the shame in it and you should be disgusted by it, by everything this is, but instead, it only makes your heart race faster.

You know there's more he's not saying—that he can't say.

He wants you to be his, but he will never let you be his.

"I hate you. What you've become." The words scrape from your lips between moans, your climax charging fast. "It shouldn't be this...this hard."

"This is why I call you frustrating. How can you hate me and still let me do this to you?" His voice is raw, burning with something you don't fully understand, but you can feel it— he's pushing deeper, grinding the gun against you with every bit of anger he has left. You're on fire, your mind spinning out of control, and the ropes digging into your skin only ground you to the pain, to the pleasure. "I'm defiling you...and yet, you keep coming back.”

"God," you grunt, sweat slicking over your skin because you’re so goddamn close and his words only drag you that much closer. "Jesus f—Tom, please—“

"Please what?" His hand slips back through your hair, eyes jerked to meet his. "You need to be more specific, sweetheart."

There's a bite in the pet name, but you don't care. All you can think of is him, of more, of everything he's doing to you, and it's not enough. It’ll never be fucking enough—

“Please!” Words fail you. “Tom—I—“

He shudders at the sound of your voice, at how helpless you are, at all the power you've given him.

"Words," he snarls, pumping quicker. "I'll give you what you want, but you’ll need to use. your. words."

“Please! I need to cum!” You blurt out. “Tom—Tom! I need to—“

With that, he kisses you to cut you off, teeth sinking into your lower lip with fervour that borders on irrational. Which, of course it is. All of this is beyond fucking irrational. It's not careful or soft or gentle, his lips searing against yours as if he's trying to claim every breath you've ever taken, every inch of space between you. And you—god, you kiss him back just as fiercely while hating yourself for the way you want it, need it, how you crave the bruises his mouth is leaving behind.

Tom groans against your lips and it's the sound of something breaking, something starved for way too long, something desperate to pour out of his blood. His tongue slides over yours, wet and warm, and you feel the ropes biting into your wrists, feel the ache where your arms strain to break free. You realize, with a pulse of helpless longing, that if you weren't tied, you'd be clawing at him—dragging him closer, letting him consume every part of you until there was nothing left.

"Feel that shame?" He whispers as he pulls back, just as you’re about to tip over. "That's your punishment.”

And then—you break, shatter, explode and the sound that escapes you is so fucking raw you don’t even recognize it. Something filled with the shame of wanting someone so goddamn bad you let them fuck you with a weapon—the shame of wanting someone so terrible you’d never be able to explain yourself to anyone with a rational pulse. The sounds come without reason, without thought—just a release of emotion that you had held in for far, far too long.

“That’s it. Let it burn.” He coos, hungrily watching you break. “You will always be mine."

A jagged sound escapes you as you twitch in aftershocks and he finally, however torturously slowly, pulls the gun free. You realize just how empty you feel without it now, how Tom made it feel so fucking intimate even though, in reality, it was the furthest from. He didn’t even touch you.

“You’re just weak. For me.” He says, as though he heard your thoughts. Part of you knows he did. He brings the gun up to your lips, urging you to part them. “Clean your mess. This is Mattheo’s gun.”

You grimace but take it into your mouth anyways, tasting the result of your need—the shame that comes along with it, the self disgust—the list goes on. Tom watches you tease your tongue around it, his throat working in a terribly dry swallow as you hollow your cheeks and suck it clean as he pulls it free.

He shudders, and for a moment his control wavers. But then he shakes his head, and exhales.

"I was meant to be alone, I understand that." He whispers, something abhorrently vulnerable, tucking the gun away before working at undoing the ropes around your wrists. “But you...you were never meant to change me. And I need you, to understand that.”

A lump forms in your throat. You taste the tears wanting to well but you force them away and instead, you nod.

“I know.”

He straightens up again and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and almost tender—so different from the way he treated you merely moments ago. It's a goodbye—you can feel it in the way his lips linger, reluctant.

“Good girl.” He steps back. "Don't come back here."

[puckinghischier]

Currently sitting here daydreaming about being on the boat with the Hughes boys. Like, just imagine sitting in front of where Jack is as his hands rest against your shoulders where he’s softly massing your bare shoulders as he’s talking with Quinn and Luke as he cheekily plays with the strings of your bikini top, but you go to playfully slap his hand away as he’d chuckle and lean down to kiss your head as he’d pull you in closer as he’d whisper, “Sorry, pretty girl. Just can’t help myself when you look so beautiful. You know what that bikini does to me.”

“no, seriously, i think he’s gonna be even better this year. have you seen the work he’s been putting in this summer? the man is basically the hulk now,” luke rambles on, talking about someone on an opposing team, the name lost on you, not having tuned in to the full conversation.

you’re too busy feeling the warm sun on your darkening skin, basking in the feeling of being on the water.

“okay, you’re exaggerating a bit. he’s definitely been working hard, but he’s only worrying about strength, not skill or stamina,” you hear quinn’s voice respond.

you’re listening intently for clues at this point, too nosy for your own good, wanting to figure out who they’re talking about, but you can’t be bothered enough to ask.

“he’s definitely gotta work on his diet, too. heard he eats nothing but sugar and junk after games. can’t be helping the stats any,” your own boyfriend chimes in, nearly being able to feel the words leave his body as you’re leaned up against him, letting him rub soothing circles on your bare shoulders.

quinn and luke both mumble something in return, but you’re distracted by the switch up in rhythm of your lazy massage. his hands creep down farther towards the front of your shoulders, brushing your exposed collar bones.

leaning farther back, letting him know how much you like the new pattern, you force yourself back into sleuth mode.

“i just can’t imagine paying that much for a personal trainer out in LA just to throw it all away with bad habits. heard he’s been partying like crazy, too,” it’s quinn’s voice that gives you the clues.

LA? so they’re talking about someone from either the kings or the ducks.

as you’re running through your mental roster of each team, you feel the small strip of fabric on your shoulder be lifted from your skin, jack’s fingers slipping underneath to caress the soft skin there.

you keep yourself focused on your train of thought, knowing trevor has an affinity for sugary snacks and junk food, but surely they’re not talking about him?

“it just seems like a waste to me. kid’s got a lot of potential, but seems like he’s throwing it away before he even gets started,” your ears perk at the sound of luke’s voice.

so they’re talking about a prospect? or a rookie?

focusing even harder, thinking back to all of the conversations of jack’s you’ve overheard concerning this season’s prospects, you try to remember any mention of a player that fits the criteria.

however, all that focus you’re channeling goes straight to the feeling of one of your thin straps loosening dangerously. snapping your eyes open, you turn your head to try and see what happened, noticing large, nimble fingers toying with the half-untied not.

you bring your hand up immediately to swat his out of the way, clamping it down to stop any wardrobe malfunctions from occurring.

saying nothing, you turn ever so slightly to glare up at him, noticing the cheeky smile on his face as he looks at his brothers.

you bring your other hand over to re-tie the knot, huffing when you feel his rough hands move to the other shoulder, already toying with the other strap.

“would you stop it? we’re on a boat with your brothers. behave,” you quietly scold so that only he could hear, not wanting to disrupt the conversation you were trying so hard to decipher.

he glanced down at you, smirking before leaning his mouth down to your ear. “sorry, pretty girl. just can’t help m’self. look so pretty in all these colors,” he whispers against your skin, letting his hot breath fan over the sensitive spot behind your ear.

you shiver slightly, craning your neck to give him access to more of your skin, the sensation making you unable to focus on anything else.

“know you wore it just for me. s’my favorite, told you that, didn’t i?” he asks you, focusing his touch on your upper arms now, rubbing up and down in a teasing manner, drawing out goosebumps on your smooth skin.

“mmm, can’t remember, did you?” you basically pant out, swallowing a groan at the feeling of his lips placing a kiss to the top of your neck, tongue peeking out only slightly to taste your warm skin. he knows how quickly you fall apart at the action, eliciting the exact reaction he wanted from you.

his chuckle vibrates through your body, but the sound is covered up by the hum of a boat speeding by your stationary one, bringing you back to the reality of where you were.

you sit up, distancing yourself from jack only slightly, eyes glancing around to make sure no one witnessed the little ‘moment’ you and jack just had.

you swallow thickly, willing every nerve in your body to calm the fuck down.

quinn and luke are too wrapped up in their conversation to realize jack hadn’t chimed in for a few minutes, so they were completely oblivious to what he just tried to do.

relief washes over you, sinking back into jack.

“don’t think this is over, sweet girl,” he speaks lowly into your ear once again. “can’t promise they won’t hear just how happy this little suit of yours makes me when we get back to the house,” he finishes, causing your stomach to drop in anticipation.

you gulp as he raises back up, going back to rubbing your shoulders as if nothing ever happened.

“what do you think, jack? think he’s got the stamina to compete?” quinn asks his younger brother, continuing the conversation neither of you were focused on anymore, not noticing how rigid you’ve suddenly become.

“oh, i don’t know. guess we’ll have to see,” he shrugs. “we all know how important stamina is, after all,” he squeezes your shoulders, letting you know his words were meant for you, not his brothers.

when you can practically feel the smirk on his mouth as he said those words, you decided that buying this bikini was both the best and worst decision you made this summer.

[copper-16]

Mascot

Elena's first time getting to be Alexia's mascot.

(a/n: I feel like I'm on such a roll with these lol. Hope you all enjoy! Feel free to send more requests if you have more of Elena you want to see before I settle in to work on my next bigger project I have planned :)

Alexia had gone into the gym to do a few extra exercises after training, just to get a few reps in before the important game the next week. It was El Clásico in Barcelona once again, the day before her birthday in fact. She wanted to be prepared, she wanted to be sharp and focused. She was still coming back from her ACL, she was still yet to get back to the form everyone expected from her. 

The mental load was beginning to take a toll on her, and her birthday wasn’t really helping anything. Yet another reminder that she was getting older, that everything would get more complicated as tried to play whilst she aged. 

She was so focused on her reps that she doesn’t realize that Elena is standing in front of her until there is a tiny tap on her thigh, and she looks down from the weights she is holding to see that the three year old is peering up at her rather shyly. 

“Pequeña! What are you doing here my little love?” Alexia said sweetly, carefully setting the weight down before she sat down, scooping the baby into her arms and smothering her with kisses. The little giggles and laughs that Elena let out relaxed her whole body, and she felt herself smiling more genuinely than she had in days. 

“I…um…uh…I had a….a question!” The little girl explained, leaning back slightly as she reached up to shove some of her hair away from her face. It was sort of braided back, but a lot of the baby hairs that framed her face had gotten free, and now flowed freely in the slight breeze through the gym. Alexia followed her little hand with her larger ones, running it soothingly over the little girl’s forehead. 

Mapi and Ingrid’s daughter seemed nervous for some reason, and the midfielder furrowed her eyebrows a little bit, wondering what was making the usually outgoing and bubbly little girl so anxious. She looked quite concerned for someone who was only three years old.

“What is it Elena? It is okay, you can tell me,” she promised, her voice gentle. This seemed to settle the green eyed girl for a moment, enough for her to ask her question. 

“Walk out with you?” She asked carefully, her words clearly well thought out. Alexia’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline with surprise. Mapi or Ingrid usually never let their daughter walk out with anyone else, and she wasn’t sure if she could say yes. 

She hesitated for a moment, knowing what her heart wanted, while also wanting to respect her friends' boundaries. 

“PSSSST!”

The blonde turned her head to see that Mapi and Ingrid were peering around the corner, the Norwegian’s head over her wife’s as they leaned into the gym while not wanting to go into the room completely. 

Both of the defenders reached their hands up to give thumbs up, citing their clear agreement with the situation. Alexia felt her smile grow as she turned back to Elena, who was looking at her hopefully. 

“Yes! I would love for you to walk out with me!” She agreed easily, picking up the little girl and twirling her around, inciting another round of laughter and squeals as she hugged the toddler. 

Suddenly the game seemed a little bit more exciting, and a little bit less overwhelming. At the very least, she had something to look forward to. 

—

“Where is my baby!” Alexia announced as she all but ran into the changing room, throwing her bag down when she caught sight of Elena. 

“Tia!” She cried, running over on her little legs and running directly into the midfielder. The laugh that came out of the Barcelona captain’s mouth was more natural than anything, as she bent down to peel the toddler off of her legs and to lift her up into her arms, dancing her back and forth. 

Elena clapped along with the bopping the midfielder was doing, horribly out of rhythm but still joyful all the same. 

“Tía, Tía, look at my shirt!” She announced, pulling at the little Barcelona jersey she was wearing. Alexia assumed that it was one of Mapi or Ingrid’s shirts, but when she turned the little girl around it was her name and number plastered on the back. 

“You have my shirt! What, do you love me or something?” She teased in an overly exaggerated attempt to hide the emotion that bubbled up inside of her, and when Elena nodded enthusiastically, she tucked the girl into her to give her a big hug. Little arms wrapped their way around her and held her tightly, and she found that her nerves had dissipated for the most part, at least for now. 

Elena was passed back to Mapi for a while so that Alexia could get ready, and before she knew it they were getting ready to head out. 

Elena was passed back to Alexia, who held her hand very securely as they walked out into the tunnel, preparing to go out onto the field. The little girl was oblivious entirely to Alexia’s nerves, and she babbled about everything and nothing at all to her Tía. 

When Elena looked over at the Real Madrid team, she quickly noticed a familiar face in line, and before anyone could stop her she had turned her body entirely, calling out with a force that was rather surprising from a three year old. 

“HOLA TÍA MISA!” Elena called out as though Misa was not ten meters from her. Mapi and Ingrid were standing further back in the line, and the Norwegian had to hide her laughter in a cough while the Spaniard smacked her forehead with her palm. 

The goalkeeper was known for her focus before matches, and for her stony expressions when she was in the zone, so Alexia looked over almost in panic when Elena called out to her. She wasn’t sure if Misa not responding would make Elena sad or not, and what she was supposed to do with an upset toddler when they walked out for the match. 

But to her surprise, Misa’s expression broke at the sound of her name, and her whole body softened as she turned slightly, offering a small wave to Elena, her gloves strapped securely onto her hands. 

Elena’s whole face lit up in excitement that Misa remembered her, and she turned back to Alexia with a bright smile on her face. 

“That’s Misa!” She explained cheerfully, and Alexia pretended to be surprised, looking up at the Real Madrid goalkeeper, following Elena’s instructions. 

The toddler managed to keep them preoccupied until they were ready to walk out, and Alexia held her hand carefully as they made their way out. She had been sure to inform any photographer she could find that she really wanted pictures of walking out with Elena, and she could hear the snap of the shutter as they walked out to get ready. 

The crowd roared around them, and as Elena took it in while they lined up, she found herself hiding behind Alexia’s leg a little bit. She was clearly a touch nervous, and found safety in the Barcelona captain. 

It was one thing to know her goddaughter and love her, but it felt like another for the little girl to find safety in the midfielder. It had this ability to make her feel such warmth inside, and like suddenly football mattered just a tiny bit less. 

The blonde looked down at the little girl, her forehead creasing in concern. 

“Are you okay pequeña? It is okay to be scared, I know they are loud. But they are just excited for the game!” Alexia whispered loudly, pretending that she was telling the curly haired little girl a big secret. Elena looked up at her, seemingly holding onto every word she said as she watched her godmother, nodding slightly. 

She reached her hands up as soon as Alexia stopped talking, and the Spaniard easily picked her up, popping her onto her hip and adjusting her little jersey down over her stomach with a practiced ease. 

“Do you want to wave to the crowd?” The captain asked, and Elena’s smile spread as she reached her hand out, waving at everyone in the stands. 

There will be a picture for Alexia to frame, of the toddler with a big smile on her face as she waved at the crowd, while the midfielder laughed at her, gazing down at the little one adoringly. 

It’s only after the coin toss, which Elena helps with, that the little girl has to part from Alexia, so that they can play the game. The green eyed girl is passed to Patri, who begins to take her from her fellow midfielder before Elena calls out, causing Alexia’s steps to falter. 

“Tía Ale! Tía come back!” Elena all but wails, and for a second the game becomes obsolete to the Spaniard, who instantly turns back at the sound of the little girl’s clear discontent. 

“What? What is it?” She replies as she jogs over, and the curly haired girl reaches her hand up to her mouth before she runs over to Alexia, exaggerating a kissing motion off of her mouth and then pressing her hand to the Spaniard’s knee. 

“Good luck kiss! Score a goal!” Elena nods her little head at Alexia before she runs after Patri, who scoops her up and jogs them both to the bench so they can start the game. 

The Barcelona captain looks down at her knee for a second. The one the toddler had tapped was her bad knee, and even though Elena couldn’t know that, it felt a little symbolic. Her resolve to win strengthens as she sets up to play the match. 

—

Elena squirmed in Mapi’s hold as the game wound down, the Spaniard’s daughter knowing full well that it was nearly over. She had been subbed off about twenty minutes prior, and had collected her daughter from Patri to sit together on the bench, but all the little girl wanted today was Alexia it seemed. 

“Just one more minute!” Mapi laughed as the little girl let out a big huff, clearly displeased with that answer. She continued to twist and turn until the final whistle blew, and finally the center back released her, allowing the green eyed girl to take off as fast as her little legs would allow it. 

Ingrid was standing in between her and Alexia, and she bent down to receive her daughter, only for the little girl to drive by her completely, clearly not in search of her. Mapi, who had been trailing after her, laughed easily at the semi-annoyed look on her wife’s face. 

“Gosh, when did we become old news?” The Norwegian shook her head with a slight frown on her lips, but the brunette could tell her wife wasn’t really annoyed, not when they turned to see where their daughter was headed. 

Alexia was headed for the little girl just as much as Elena was running to her, and she bent down just as Elena made it to her, so that she could feel the toddler bury herself in her arms as she wound them around her in exchange. 

“You did it!” Elena announced happily, because the captain truly had. 

Alexia had scored a goal in the 79th minute of the game, and with the very leg where she had received a good luck kiss from the curly haired girl right before the match. 

“I did! And it was all thanks to you and your magic kisses, thank you so much!” Alexia gushed happily, pecking kiss after kiss to Elena’s little cheek as she held her tightly. The squeals and giggles released in response were well worth it, and she found herself leaning into the kisses that the curly haired girl offered in response, pressing wet little kisses to her cheek before she nestled herself further into Alexia. 

“Love you Tía,” Elena announced as she fisted one of her little hands in Alexia’s kit, and the midfielder was absolutely positive that her heart doubled in size at the words. 

“I love you too pequeña, always,” she promised as she pressed another kiss to the top of her head, holding the little girl securely to herself, rocking her back and forth.

[writingescapades]

Life with Rafayel

A/N: I've been thinking a lot about Rafayel. His personality, character, story, and the relationship he has with his previous incarnations and this word vomit came out.

Detached from the world. Spontaneous mini trips. Short drives to isolated spots where you both take long walks, often camping in the car itself in order to catch that sunrise and sunset. Huddling together with warm tea and quiet music playing as you both watch the landscape and have soft conversations. He loves taking photos of nature, but also candid moments were you both can just be silly because no one is watching.

Aimless walks together. Walks with no direction or time limit where you both can catch up and soak in nature. He loves winter walks where he can hear your voice and you enjoy the windy days where you find his hand holding onto yours. You’ll often find little spots that you claim as your secret rendezvous. Places where you can find one another when the world can’t.

A life of wonder and curiosity. The human world demands logic and labour, Rafayel understands that better than anyone. But he doesn’t want that world to find its way into your life and the life you both share. He wants you to retain that wonder for the world. To rekindle that affection it holds as your eyes become mesmerized once more with its beauty. He wants you to remember the joys you took in your interests and hobbies and to make time for them over materialistic consumption and shallow pastimes. Nights of playing games, throwing riddles at one another, painting together, learning a new hobby, reading, or just chatting the night away until you both pass out.

No expectations. Rafayel goes into the relationship with no expectations from you. He doesn’t want to place your relationship into a mold. You both experienced too many life times of that. In this new world, with this new opportunity, Rafayel prefers watching your relationship’s unregulated growth. Life is short and every decision comes with consequences. Knowing that, Rafayel still chooses unconventional paths, even if they don’t make sense to him, he knows he prefers the unknown unconventional to the conventional path his heart is rejecting.

Artistic temperament. Mood swings. Intensity. Passion. Listlessness. Weeks of focus followed by months of being lost in his own world. All humans are artistic, but most avoid displaying their true behaviours. But Rafayel is not ashamed of his personality. If you share his artistic temperament, he encourages you to be yourself around him. If you too get lost in your own world, he wants to dive in with you. He doesn’t ridicule or scoff when doubt enters your mind, or when you find yourself questioning your existence or purpose. Even if you don’t share his temperament, he encourages you to dig dip and discover yourself through art. A life with Rafayel is a life of depth and meaning.

Fun. Life with Rafayel is fun. He’s been alive for so long he’s learned how to keep the magic of life alive. Life never falls into a set pattern or rhythm with him. It will never become humdrum and boring. He is someone you can fully trust, but never fully understand. He’s always slipping in and out of your fingers. When we lose someone, we lose the language we built with them. The language was only understood between the two of you, and, above all, that is what we mourn the loss of most. This holds true to Rafayel. A language built over lifetimes filled with teasing, sass, sarcasm, riddles, stories, and questions, all make Rafayel into a familiar enigma.

Emotionally reliable. Lemurians can see more colours than humans, who is to say they can’t experience or express more emotions? Can’t articulate your emotions well? Grew up being told to shove them down? Accustomed to wearing a mask and putting up a wall? Rafayel knows the feeling all too well. He knows how cruel the world can be, as a god and as a fish out of water. He’s best friends with the agony of failure, the sharp bite of isolation and ache of loneliness. With Rafayel, you don’t need to speak for him to understand. Yes, he will confront you to pull out what you want to desperately hide, but he will never ridicule you or expect your negative emotions to just go away. He encourages you to bring them up to the surface and express them akin to how waves crash onto the shore, recede, then crash again.

Companionship. Holding hands, pecks, entwining arms and legs are salves to Rafayel. The distance a god must carry. The pedestal a famous artist must stand on, and the centuries of being alone have made Rafayel crave companionship. It doesn’t always have to be physical affection, but just having that proximity with someone. To come into a room and hear a voice. To wake up to someone placing a blanket on top of him after another all-nighter. To ask someone about their day and hear concerns on his health. To look behind him and see you sitting nearby doing your own thing. Rafayel knows how to cherish mere existence after going so long without it, but to see someone doing the same for him is new. After all, what god can grant their own wishes? What god is even allowed to wish?

A life with Rafayel is to die knowing you have lived

[capquinn]

Two Hearts | Q. Hughes

summary: you and quinn drift apart, only to be drawn back together, held by a quiet, unspoken pull that lingers even after the breakup. it’s a constant ebb and flow, where the pain of separation and the comfort of reunion blur together, making it hard to truly let go. pairing: reader x quinn hughes content: lovers to exes, angst, just super sad in general word count: 8.3k note: i've been listening to birch by big red machine and what's left of me by grace vanderwaal a lot at the moment and the next thing i knew i was writing a breakup fic. anyway, godspeed! ↪masterlist

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

When you first met, it was like falling into step with someone who already knew the rhythm of your heart. You were always together, moving through life side by side, sharing the little moments and the big ones, too. He was your person, the one you called with every piece of news, good or bad, the one you turned to without a second thought. And for a while, it felt like you’d found something unbreakable, a connection so strong it seemed like nothing could touch it.

But slowly, things changed. There wasn’t a single moment or a reason you could pinpoint, just a gradual drifting apart, like you were both holding onto something that was already slipping away. You both knew it, but neither of you wanted to say it out loud, as if giving voice to the growing distance between you would make it real, would make it impossible to ignore. So, you held on, hoping that things might shift back, that the comfort and ease you’d once shared would return. But it never did.

Eventually, you both knew what had to be done. The breakup wasn’t loud or dramatic; there were no screaming fights or betrayals. It was just the painful acceptance that something that once felt infinite had an end. You’d sat across from each other, trying to find the right words, but all that came out were half-smiles and empty reassurances, promises to stay friends, to still care. The kind of promises you both knew were hollow, meant to soften the blow but only making it sting more. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The bar is buzzing, a steady hum of laughter and clinking glasses, your friends leaning into the evening with carefree energy that you’re trying your best to match. You’re at a table near the back, surrounded by people, but the only thing that holds your attention is the TV mounted high on the wall, where the Canucks game plays on in vivid colour.

You hadn’t planned on watching, had spent the past few weeks avoiding his games entirely ever since the break up, even changing your route to work to bypass Rogers Arena and the massive banners that displayed his face. But here, in this bar, the game is impossible to ignore. 

You’re nursing a drink that’s lost its chill, your eyes drawn back to the screen again and again, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Maybe it’s the few drinks you’ve had, or the way your friends seem preoccupied with their own conversations, but for a moment, you let yourself lean into the pull.

You scan the bench, looking for the familiar outline of his face, the way he used to smile just before the game started, that quiet confidence you knew so well.

And then, as if the universe heard your silent plea, there he is.

The camera lingers on him, and he’s just sitting there, helmet off, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel. The sight of him after so many weeks avoiding him is so sudden that it hits you like a punch to the chest, the pain of missing him crashing over you in relentless waves. He looks good — strong, steady, like the man you fell in love with. 

You sink further back into your chair, your chest tightening, and you feel the sting of tears welling up, but you blink them away. The last thing you need is for your friends to see, to ask questions, to try to distract you with shallow reassurances that you know won’t help. You’re here with them, but in this moment, you feel impossibly alone, wrapped up in a silence that even the loudest crowd can’t break.

It’s strange, this hurt. You thought time would soften it, would dull the edges, but instead, it feels sharper than ever. You’re hit with memories of all the times you’d cheered him on from the stands. The pride that would swell in your chest as he skated out onto the ice, the way he’d look up at you after a win, his smile saying more than words ever could. And now, here you are, watching him from a distance, a stranger in a bar, trying to reconcile the person you knew with the one you’re seeing now.

One of your friends nudges you, pulling you back to the present. You manage a smile, nodding along as they talk about something trivial, something that barely registers as you try to focus, try to be here with them. But it’s useless. The only thing you can feel is the cold, empty space where he used to be, the sense that you’re still tethered to him, still bound by a connection that won’t let you go, no matter how hard you try.

You glance at the screen one last time, watching as the camera shifts, capturing him from a different angle, and it’s like he’s right there, close enough to touch, yet impossibly far away.

You pull your gaze away, focusing on your drink, trying to steady your breath, trying to shake the feeling that you’ll never really be free of him. Because no matter how much time passes, no matter how many miles or weeks separate you, it feels like he’s still there, a constant presence that haunts you.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Quinn drops his duffel bag by the door, letting out a long, slow breath. He’s just come off a stretch of back-to-back games, all of them wins, and the rush of adrenaline from the ice still lingers, though it’s beginning to fade now.

The apartment is dark and silent, and it feels colder than he remembers. It’s the first real stretch of time away since the season started back up and since the breakup, and the silence feels more profound than ever.

This is the part he used to look forward to — coming home, dropping his things, feeling the weight of the road lift from his shoulders as soon as he crossed the threshold. 

But now, that sense of relief is nowhere to be found.

He flips on a light, and the glow seems almost too harsh, too bright against the empty space. It wasn’t like this before. He’d come home from these trips and find you there, waiting for him, a warm smile on your face and something simmering on the stove, like you’d been anticipating his return all day. The routine was one he hadn’t even realised he’d come to rely on. He’d walk through the door, and the world outside would fall away, replaced by the comfort of you, by the way you’d wrap him in your arms and hold him tight, as if to say, you made it back. You’re home now.

But tonight, there’s no one waiting for him. Just the echo of his own footsteps and the faint hum of the fridge. He heads into the kitchen, out of habit more than anything, and opens the cabinet. There it is, your favourite mug, still in its place, untouched since you left. He closes the door, pushing down the ache that rises in his chest. The space is the same, but it feels foreign without you there, without the sounds and scents that made it feel like more than just a place to sleep between games.

He moves to the couch and sits down, staring at the blank TV screen. There are still traces of you everywhere, even though it’s been months. He hasn’t had the heart to remove them, as if by keeping these small reminders around, he can pretend, just for a moment, that nothing has changed. But it has, and he feels it in every inch of the apartment, in every corner that once held your presence, now empty.

He closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the cushion, and tries to breathe through the quiet. He’s used to routines, to schedules, to the grind that keeps him going, but no amount of preparation could brace him for the silence that waits for him here. 

The season is in full swing, and he’s supposed to be focused, sharp, ready for every game. But sitting here, with the emptiness pressing in on him, he wonders if he’ll ever really shake this feeling, if the apartment will ever feel right again.

He knows he should get up, unpack, settle back in, but he can’t bring himself to move. Instead, he sits there, letting the silence stretch out, knowing that it’s just another part of what he has to face now.

Another piece of you he has to let go.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s a chilly evening downtown, but the bar is warm, buzzing with people, laughter, and the steady thrum of music. Quinn is surrounded by his buddies, all of them relaxed, sharing drinks and catching up like they used to. It’s the first time in months he’s felt something close to normal. The weight he’s been carrying seems to have lifted, and for the first time since the breakup, he can feel himself starting to breathe again. He even catches himself laughing, really laughing, at something one of his friends says, and it feels good. He feels almost like himself again.

As the night goes on, his friends nudge him, pointing out a girl at the bar — a brunette, leaning casually against the counter, a slight smile playing on her lips as she looks his way.

“She’s cute,” his friend says, giving him an encouraging nudge. “Go talk to her, man. It’s about time, don’t you think?”

Quinn hesitates, glancing over at her. She is cute, and a part of him wonders if maybe he should. Maybe it’s time to try, to start moving forward for real. He takes a breath, thinking he could do it, just walk over and strike up a conversation, let himself take a step into something new.

But as he watches her, a strange feeling begins to settle in his stomach. He feels off, like something isn’t right, like he’s crossing a line he can’t quite see but knows is there. He looks down, his fingers tapping against the side of his glass as the ache starts to creep back, that dull, familiar ache that he thought he’d left behind. 

It doesn’t feel right. It feels like betrayal, like he’s letting go of something he doesn’t want to lose, even if he knows it’s already gone. And suddenly, you’re there, filling his mind, your laughter, your smile, the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He realises he’s not ready — not for this, not for anything new. Because it still hurts, even if he thought it didn’t. It still feels like he’s leaving a part of himself behind.

He shakes his head, offering his friends a small smile. “Nah, I’m good,” he says, pushing away from the bar. “Not tonight.”

His friend raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t press, just claps him on the shoulder, his expression softening. “Alright, man. No rush. You’ll know when you’re ready.”

Quinn nods, grateful that his friends don’t push it further. He stays with them for a while longer, listening to the conversations, trying to immerse himself back into the lightness of the evening, but it doesn’t quite work. The feeling lingers, a quiet ache that sits heavy in his chest, and he knows he can’t ignore it.

Later that night, when he’s walking back to his apartment, he pulls out his phone, his fingers hovering over your name in his contacts. He knows he probably shouldn’t, knows that reaching out might only reopen old wounds, but he can’t help himself. He needs to know if you’re feeling it too, if maybe, somewhere in the silence between you, there’s still something left.

He types out a message, keeping it simple, but the words still feel heavy, loaded with everything he can’t quite say: Hey. Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the send button, wondering if it’s a mistake. But in the end, he sends it, letting the message fly out into the silence, hoping that somehow, it finds its way to you, and maybe, just maybe, you’re thinking of him too.

As he walks the empty streets back to his apartment, Quinn's phone buzzes in his hand, lighting up with a notification. He stops, heart skipping a beat as he reads your name on the screen. He hadn't expected a response — not tonight, maybe not at all. He'd half-convinced himself that you were moving on, that the silence between you was something you both needed, even if it was painful.

But there it is: your message. His chest tightens, relief and trepidation flooding through him as he swipes to read it. 

Hey, I’m doing alright. Thanks for checking in. Hope you’re okay too. 

It’s simple, almost too simple, but he can feel the weight of it, the way it wraps around him, bringing back memories he’d been trying so hard to push down.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, his grip tightening on the phone as he reads your words again. He can almost hear your voice saying them, that familiar tone that used to bring him so much comfort. 

Quinn leans against a lamppost, the cold seeping through his jacket, but he barely feels it. He’s lost in the past, in flashes of you laughing beside him, your head resting on his shoulder, the way you’d curl into him like you belonged there, like you always would. The distance between you has been unbearable, and as much as he’d thought he was moving on, your message reminds him just how deep the ache goes, how much he misses you in ways that he thinks no one else can fill.

He thinks about replying, about saying something that might bridge the gap between you, something that might crack open the door that he knows is probably better left closed.

But his fingers hover over the screen, unsure, caught between the pull of wanting to say everything and the fear of saying too much.

Getting there, he types, pausing as he considers the truth of those words. Then he adds: I miss talking to you.

He sends it before he can overthink, and as he waits for a reply, a nervous energy builds in his chest. The night feels colder now, lonelier, as if the silence between you is stretching even further, more pronounced. The moments pass, each one a reminder of what he’s hoping to find in your response, and he knows he’s standing on fragile ground, balancing on the edge of everything he’s been trying to let go.

The phone buzzes again, and he glances down, his heart pounding as he reads your reply. 

Yeah, me too. It feels strange not having you around.

Those words hit him like a punch to the gut, the raw truth in them piercing through the layers of resolve he’d tried to build up over these months. He looks up at the night sky, the city lights hazy in the distance, and he wonders if this is how it will always be: an endless loop of trying to move on, only to be pulled back to you, back to the place where everything feels right but is so undeniably broken.

He feels a shiver run through him as he reads your reply, the simple admission that things feel strange without him, that you miss him too. It's enough to reignite that small, flickering hope he’s been trying to ignore, the one that tells him maybe, somehow, there’s still a way back.

He types out a response, his fingers moving almost on their own, trying to capture the words that have been caught in his chest for months.

I thought I was moving on, but I still miss you. More than I want to admit, he writes, his thumb hesitating over the send button. But then he sends it, and the words are out there, suspended in the space between you, a bridge he can’t cross back over now.

He waits, his phone clutched in his hand, eyes glued to the screen. The minutes tick by, the cold night air biting at him, but he doesn’t move. He keeps checking the screen, hoping to see the familiar three dots, a sign that you’re there, that you’ve read his message and maybe, just maybe, you’re willing to give him something in return.

But the dots never appear, and as the silence stretches on, the hope begins to fade, replaced by a creeping sense of dread.

He reads the message back to himself, the rawness of it hitting him harder now, and he realises that he’s laid himself bare, offered up the part of himself he’s been keeping close, only to be met with silence.

He tells himself that maybe you’re busy, that maybe you’ve fallen asleep. That there’s some reason you haven’t responded. But deep down, he knows. He knows that sometimes, silence is its own kind of answer. It’s own kind of goodbye. He knows that if you’d wanted to respond, you would have. That maybe, despite everything, you’re trying to move on in a way he’s not ready for.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The back-and-forth between you and Quinn has been a fragile line, a balancing act that neither of you seem quite ready to step away from. It’s like you’re both holding onto opposite ends of a rope, loosening your grip just enough to let a little slack, but never fully letting go.

Since the breakup, you’ve exchanged a few messages, each one carefully crafted, as if testing the waters of where you now stand. 

At first, there was the occasional check-in. He’d reached out to wish your mom a happy birthday, a thoughtful gesture that tugged at old memories. You’d replied with a simple thank you, feeling a strange mixture of comfort and unease. A few weeks later, you found yourself wishing him luck for the hockey season, the words feeling heavier than they should. He replied quickly, but there was a hesitation you could almost feel in the silence that followed, an echo of all that was left unsaid. 

And then there were the spontaneous moments — the TikTok you sent one night, hoping it would make him laugh the way it used to, or the photo he’d shared of a sunset from his apartment window, captioned only with, thought you’d like this. These small, seemingly insignificant messages were like tiny threads, keeping you tethered to each other, never fully apart. You both knew the connection lingered, an unspoken acknowledgment that some bonds don’t break so easily.

In the spaces between these moments, you’d both tried to create new routines, to carve out separate paths. You stopped going to the places you used to frequent together, started exploring new spots with friends, hoping it would help you move on. You’d heard through mutual friends that he was doing the same — choosing different haunts, finding new ways to fill his days. 

You’d both done well to avoid each other for the most part, but you knew it was only a matter of time before your paths would cross again, as if the universe was waiting for the perfect moment to throw you back together.

And then it happens. You’re leaving your favourite coffee shop, the one you’d almost forgotten you shared, tucked into a quiet street just far enough from the city’s usual hustle. You’re caught up in a joke your friend just told, the warmth of laughter still lingering as you push open the door, balancing a cup in one hand and a bag in the other. But when you glance up, there he is, walking towards the door, his eyes finding yours in an instant. The laughter fades, replaced by the hollow thud of your heart in your chest as you both freeze, caught in a moment that feels both inevitable and surreal.

Neither of you move, and for a beat, the world narrows to just the two of you, standing face-to-face in the place that once felt like your own little corner of the world.

It’s awkward, disconcerting, like an unexpected reminder of a past that still holds you both in its grip. And as you hold his gaze, you realise that despite all the little steps you’ve both taken to move forward, you’re both still here, tangled up in the threads of a something that feels far from over.  

He’s alone, a few stray raindrops clinging to his jacket from the drizzle outside. There’s a split second of something unreadable in his expression — surprise, maybe even a little hesitation, before he recovers, offering a small, polite smile. It’s so painfully familiar, that half-smile of his.

Your friend shifts beside you, sensing the change in the air, and gives you a quick, curious glance. You manage a strained smile in return, glancing back at Quinn as you exchange awkward hellos.

“Hey,” he says, his voice just loud enough to cut through the ambient noise, yet soft enough that it feels intimate. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, aware of how forced your tone sounds. “How about you?”

“Yeah, can’t complain,” he says with a shrug, his hands sliding into his pockets, and for a moment, he looks like the Quinn you used to know. The one who was always a little awkward, a little unsure. 

There’s a brief pause, a tension hanging between you as you both struggle for words. He clears his throat, glancing toward the barista before meeting your eyes again.

“It’s been a while,” he says, his voice a little too even, like he’s carefully measuring each word. It feels strangely formal, like you’re two strangers making small talk instead of two people who once shared everything.

“Yeah,” you nod, shifting awkwardly. “It has.”

The conversation stalls there, the weight of what neither of you are saying settling uncomfortably between you. It’s weird, this distance — how you can be standing so close to someone you once knew inside and out, yet feel miles apart.

You don’t know where to look, your eyes darting from his face to the floor to the cup in your hand, as if it might hold the answers you can’t seem to find.

He shuffles slightly, one hand still gripping the coffee shop door, the other hovering at his side like he’s not sure what to do with it. His mouth opens as if he’s about to say something, but the words don’t come, and you can see the same uncertainty reflected in his eyes, the same hesitation that’s keeping you both on the edge of this awkward dance.

The silence stretches, and in the back of your mind, a question gnaws at you, growing louder with each passing second: Do you still miss me? It’s the only thing you really want to ask. Because I still miss you. But you can’t bring yourself to say it. Neither of you can.

Instead, you both linger in the spaces between, skirting around the edges of what you really want to say, pretending this is just a normal, chance encounter and not a painful reminder of what’s been lost.

Your chest tightens, and you can feel the ache creeping in, the unrelenting pull of everything that was left unresolved.

“It’s good to see you,” you finally offer, your voice quieter than you intended, the words feeling hollow, insufficient.

“Yeah,” he replies, his gaze softening for just a moment, and you swear you see something flicker in his eyes — something like longing, or maybe regret. “You too.”

Another beat of silence passes, heavy and thick, and then, almost simultaneously, you both step aside to let the other pass. It’s a messy, awkward shuffle, both of you trying to avoid making it worse, and for a second, your hand brushes against his. The contact is brief, fleeting, but it sends a rush of emotion through you that you’re not prepared for. 

You step back, swallowing the lump in your throat, wishing you had the courage to say what you’re really feeling. But instead, you just give him a tight smile, and he nods, stepping past you toward the counter.

As you walk out the door, the familiar sound of the coffee shop bell ringing behind you, you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too — the strangeness, the heaviness. The way this brief, awkward exchange only seems to deepen the ache.

And though you know the moment has passed, the words you didn’t say still echo in your mind, reverberating like a question left hanging in the air.

Do you still miss me?

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s a rainy evening, the kind of night where you’d rather stay home with a book or a movie, something comforting to fill the quiet. But your friends convinced you that it was time to get back out there, that you deserved to have a little fun, to meet someone new.

You sit there, trying to muster up an interest in the conversation, but everything about the date feels off. The sushi restaurant is beautiful, the lighting warm and inviting, though you feel strangely out of place.

Your date is nice — polite, even a little charming, but there's something about him that feels hollow, like you’re both playing parts in a scene that doesn’t quite fit.

He smiles, asking about your work, your hobbies, the little details of your life, and you respond automatically, going through the motions as best you can. He’s handsome, with an easy laugh and a quick wit, and you know, objectively, that he’s a good guy. But as he talks, you can’t help but compare each small gesture to Quinn, feeling the disappointment settle deeper each time he falls short.

When he leans back in his seat, his posture casual, he doesn't reach for you, doesn't offer that familiar brush of his knee against yours. You realise that you've been waiting for it, anticipating a touch that never comes, and with each passing second, the absence grows more glaring. With Quinn, there was always an unspoken connection, a natural pull that kept you close, like your bodies knew how to find each other even in a crowded room. But here, with this stranger, there's only an empty space that feels too wide and too cold.

You remember how Quinn would glance at you between bites, his eyes softening as he leaned in just a little closer, the quiet smiles that would pass between you like a secret language only you two shared. He had this way of making you feel seen, of making even the smallest moment feel significant. But tonight, everything feels forced, every word an effort, and you find yourself retreating further into memories of Quinn, of the way he made even the most ordinary dinners feel like something special.

Your date tries to fill the silence, laughing as he tells another story, his voice rising with enthusiasm, but it only makes the space between you feel more hollow. With Quinn, you never had to fill the silences. They were easy, comforting, a shared understanding that allowed you to simply be, without the need for constant words. But now, the silence feels heavy, a reminder of everything you’ve lost. 

He catches your distant expression, tilting his head with a look of concern. "You alright?” he asks, his voice gentle, and for a moment, you feel guilty, like you’re betraying him by not being fully present, by comparing him to a past he can’t compete with.

You force a smile, nodding. “Yeah, just…tired. Must be the weather or something,” you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, you know they’re not quite true. It’s not tiredness; it’s the ache of missing Quinn, of sitting here with someone else and realising that the bar had been set so high, you’re not sure anyone else can reach it.

The date continues, but it feels like you’re moving through water, each word weighed down by the memories you can’t shake. When he offers you a bite of his food, finally, you want to feel grateful, but even that feels off — like a poor imitation of the way Quinn would share his plate with a grin, his eyes lighting up as he watched your reaction, his hand lingering just a little longer than necessary.

And as the night wears on, you start to feel a strange sadness, a quiet understanding that you’re not ready for this, not yet. Maybe it’s too soon, or maybe it’s that you’re still carrying Quinn with you, a weight that makes every interaction feel too forced. The date ends, and he offers to walk you to your car, but you decline, needing the solitude, the chance to step out into the rain and let the cool air clear your mind.

You slip into your car, the familiar hum of the engine a small comfort as you pull out onto the quiet streets. You could head straight home, but the thought of returning to an empty apartment feels too daunting right now. Instead, you take the long way, winding through the city with no real destination in mind, just the soft glow of the streetlights and the rhythmic sweep of the wipers cutting through the drizzle.

Quinn is all you can think about. It’s strange, this pull he still has on you. You wonder if it’s supposed to be like this. If this ache is a normal part of moving on after spending so long with someone who became a part of your world. You had shared so much — the good and the bad, the mundane and the beautiful. He had seen you at your best and at your worst, and now, even the smallest things feel out of place without him. You’re not sure if you’ll ever feel quite normal again, and if there’s ever a way to fill the space he left behind.

You find yourself circling back towards your neighbourhood, the rain picking up again as you pull into your driveway. The car is quiet now, save for the soft ticking of the engine cooling down, and you sit there, letting the weight of the evening settle over you. 

You sit there for a while, the rain tapping softly against the windows, and before you know it, you’re reaching for your phone. You don’t want to tell him about the date, about how out of place you felt — there’s no point in bringing that up. But you can’t shake the urge to reach out, to bridge the distance with something small, something that feels familiar. 

You type out a simple message, something that feels safer, something that isn’t about the night or the ache it left behind:

Just wanted to say hi. I hope you’re doing well.

It’s casual, almost impersonal, but as you read it over, you feel a tiny sense of relief. It’s enough to reach out, and to say something without opening wounds that haven’t quite healed. You don’t want to give him too much, but you can’t keep holding onto the silence, either. You hit send, feeling your heart quicken as the message goes through.

The rain continues to fall as you wait, unsure if he’ll reply. You know he might not, that he’s probably moved on in ways you haven’t yet. And you know that whatever comes next, you’ll have to face it, step by step, without letting him fill the spaces you’re supposed to fill yourself. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s late, and the city is wrapped in the soft glow of Christmas lights, the streets lined with decorations that should feel festive but instead make the loneliness press down harder.

You wander back to your apartment, past shop windows filled with ornaments and garlands, through a crowd of strangers bustling with bags of gifts, their laughter ringing out like echoes of a life you don’t quite belong to. The air is crisp, biting at your cheeks, and with every step, you feel the emptiness settling in deeper, gnawing at the edges of your heart.

You reach your building, climbing the familiar stairs, and as you push open the door to your apartment, you’re greeted by the silence. It’s the same stillness that has greeted you for months, but tonight, it feels heavier, more oppressive. You set your keys down, shrugging off your coat, and glance around at the empty rooms, the walls adorned with a few half-hearted decorations you’d put up in a moment of optimism. But they only serve as reminders that you’re here alone, far from the warmth of family, from the comfort of familiarity.

You sit on the edge of your bed, your phone in your hand, and before you even realise it, you’re scrolling through your contacts, your thumb hovering over his name.

Quinn.

You can almost hear his voice, the way it would ground you, steady and reassuring, cutting through the quiet like a lifeline. He’s been your person, the closest thing to family in this city, and though you know you shouldn’t, you know that calling him will only complicate things, you can’t shake the longing, the ache that’s been building all night.

You take a deep breath, your fingers trembling as you press call, and the ringing fills the silence, each tone making your heart race, a mix of anticipation and regret. But there’s also a strange sense of relief, a fleeting comfort in knowing that he’s just on the other side, that he’ll answer, because he always does. You know it’s selfish, reaching out like this, when you’ve both been trying so hard to move on, but tonight, the loneliness is too sharp, the absence of him too much to bear.

He picks up on the second ring, his voice soft and familiar, and in an instant, the loneliness fades, replaced by the warmth that only he can bring.

You close your eyes, leaning back, letting the sound of his voice wash over you, anchoring you in a way that nothing else has since you left. You make small talk, the words simple, but there’s a comfort in them, a reminder of all the late-night conversations you used to have, when he was the person you’d always call, the person who made you feel like you weren’t alone in the world.

“Hey, everything OK?” he asks, his voice soft and warm, as if he can sense the tremor in yours, the way the silence on your end stretches a beat too long.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, though the words feel thin, fragile, as if they might shatter at any moment. You hesitate, searching for the right words, but all that comes is the truth, raw and heavy. “Just... wanted to hear a familiar voice. The holidays feel different this year, y'know? I’m away from my family and…” You pause, the words catching in your throat, the unspoken weight of everything you’re holding back pressing down on you. “I miss you.”

There’s a silence on the other end, but it’s not empty. You can feel his presence through the phone, the way he doesn’t rush to fill the space. Doesn’t need to because he understands. He’s always understood. He doesn’t even have to say it, but you can feel it in the quiet, in the way his breath catches ever so slightly, in the way you’re both suspended there, clinging to the edge of a past that neither of you can quite leave behind.

“Would you…” He starts, his voice hesitant, as if he’s weighing each word before letting it slip into the space between you. “Would you like to come over? Have dinner? I could use some company tonight, too.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s a vulnerability there, a longing that mirrors your own, as if he, too, has been holding onto this moment, waiting for the chance to bridge the gap that’s kept you both apart.

The offer hangs in the air, filling the empty spaces in your heart, and you realise that this, more than anything, is what you’ve been needing. Not just a familiar voice, but him — his warmth, his presence. The way he knows you without you having to explain. It’s more than you had hoped for, and yet, in that moment, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

You nod, even though he can’t see you, the word slipping from your lips before you can second-guess it. “Yeah,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath. “I’d like that.”

There’s a quiet relief in his response, and though he doesn’t say it, you know that he’s missed you too, that he’s been feeling the same hollow ache. The same pull that’s brought you back together tonight. It’s a fragile peace, this shared loneliness, but it’s enough for now. 

The air is biting as you make your way to his building, the chill cutting through your coat, but you barely notice. Your thoughts are tangled, a mess of anticipation and uncertainty as you stop to pick up a bottle of wine — a peace offering, an excuse, something to occupy your hands and steady your nerves.

By the time you reach his door, your heart is pounding, and you almost consider turning back, slipping away before you even have to face him. But then the door opens, and there he is, with that same steady gaze, the one that has always been able to calm you and unravel you all at once.

You step inside, and the warmth of his apartment wraps around you, the familiar scent of him, of the space you once shared, filling your lungs and pulling at memories you’ve tried to bury. You look around, and it’s like nothing has changed. The walls, the furniture, the soft, warm lighting — all of it is just as you remember, a snapshot frozen in time. But then your gaze drifts to the empty spaces, the subtle absence of things that once belonged to you, and the weight of it settles in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t your home anymore.

Your favourite mug, the one you’d always reach for first thing in the morning, is gone from its home by the kettle. The cosy pair of slippers you kept by the door, ready for nights when you’d settle in and make this place your own, have vanished too. You hadn’t expected them to stay, hadn’t imagined that he’d keep these remnants of you around, but somehow, seeing the empty spaces where they once were makes it all feel final, the quiet confirmation of what you already knew: it’s over. 

And suddenly, the regret hits you, sharp and unforgiving. You shouldn’t have called. You shouldn’t have come. This is only going to make it harder.

Quinn takes your coat, his fingers brushing yours as he hangs it up, and there’s a brief, awkward pause, a silence heavy with everything you both want to say but don’t. He gestures toward the kitchen, and you follow him, the bottle of wine clutched tightly in your hands, your heart pounding in your chest as you take a seat on the stool by the island. He moves around the kitchen with that same easy grace, his focus shifting from the stove to the countertop, to the little tasks he always made look so effortless. You pour a glass of wine, taking a long sip, letting the warmth spread through you, settling your nerves as you watch him.

The quiet between you feels heavy at first, stifling, as if you’re both waiting for the other to break it. But then, slowly, you feel the familiar rhythm return, that easy flow you once shared, the quiet comfort of simply being in each other’s presence. He chops vegetables, stirs a pot, reaches for spices, and it’s like slipping back into an old dance, one you both know by heart, even after all this time.

You find yourself talking, sharing little bits of your day, your voice filling the space between you, and he listens, nodding along, his gaze softening as he glances over at you. There’s something so natural about it, the way he tilts his head when he’s listening, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. It’s a rhythm that feels almost instinctive, and before you know it, you’re leaning into it, the awkwardness fading, replaced by something warmer, something almost comforting.

As you sit there, watching him cook, sipping your wine, you feel a flicker of something that almost feels like peace. The familiar hum of the kitchen, the scent of food filling the air, the quiet, unspoken understanding between you — it’s all so familiar, so intimate. And yet, there’s a bittersweet edge to it, a lingering sadness that tugs at the corners of your heart, reminding you that this is temporary, that you’re only borrowing this moment.

Quinn gives the sauce a stir, tasting it with a spoon, and you lean forward, squinting at him with a familiar look of playful skepticism.

“Are you sure you’re not overdoing it with the garlic?” you ask, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

He raises an eyebrow, smirking as he shakes his head. “I thought you loved garlic.”

“Yeah, but I also like to taste the rest of the dish,” you reply, laughing softly. “Remember that time you made pasta, and the entire apartment smelled like garlic for days?”

He chuckles, the sound light but carrying that old warmth. “Hey, I didn’t hear any complaints back then ” he says, turning back to the stove with a grin.

You shrug, resting your chin on your hand as you watch him. “Maybe I was just being nice.”

He throws a glance over his shoulder, his smile softening as his eyes meet yours. “You’re always nice,” he says, almost under his breath, and for a brief second, the room feels like it used to — filled with that easy, comfortable rhythm that was yours alone.

For a moment, it’s like the past few months slip away, and you’re both just there, together, sharing space like nothing ever changed.

You take another sip of wine, watching him as he moves around the kitchen, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that nothing has changed, that the empty spaces don’t matter, that you haven’t been living separate lives. Because in this moment, with him just a few steps away, his gaze meeting yours, you feel like you’re home again.

And then when you take a seat at the small dining table, a quiet smile lingers on your lips as you watch him bring over the plates, setting one in front of you with that same familiar care. It’s a simple dinner, but the warmth of it, the way he moves around the room with such ease, makes it feel like more. 

You glance around the room, your gaze landing on the bare walls, the empty spaces where twinkling lights and garlands used to hang. There are no Christmas decorations, none of the usual signs of the season that used to fill the apartment with warmth and light, and it feels strange.

“You didn’t put up any decorations this year,” you remark, trying to keep your tone light, though the words carry a weight you hadn’t intended.

You know how much he used to love transforming this place. How he’d indulge your excitement with a grin. How he’d string lights across the windows and set out little ornaments, creating a space that felt so alive, so full of holiday cheer. You hadn’t thought much of it until now, but seeing the absence of it all hits you harder than you expected.

He shrugs, looking down at his plate, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t see the point,” he says softly, and there’s a vulnerability in his voice, a quiet sadness that tugs at your heart. “I only ever did it because you were around. I’m not really here much over the Holidays, and if it’s just for me… It just seems sort of pointless.”

The confession hangs between you, fragile and raw, and you feel the air shift, a connection sparking in the space between you, as if something unspoken has finally found its way to the surface.

You’re both quiet for a moment, letting the words sink in, letting the weight of them settle around you. There’s a warmth building in your chest, a tenderness that you’d thought had faded, but here it is: lingering, soft and undeniable.

Without thinking, you reach across the table, your fingers brushing against his, and he meets you halfway, his hand warm and familiar in yours. The touch is gentle, hesitant, but it feels like a step back into a place you both thought you’d left behind. He squeezes your hand, his thumb tracing a soft, slow circle against your skin, and you can feel the pull, the quiet magnetism that’s always been there, drawing you closer, even now.

After dinner, you linger in the quiet warmth of his apartment, neither of you ready to say goodbye just yet. There’s a fragile comfort in this old rhythm, a sense of normalcy that feels almost like it belongs to a different lifetime. The conversation drifts between light memories and familiar silences, and you feel yourself clinging to each moment. To the ease of it all, knowing it’s only a temporary reprieve.

You’re both leaning against the kitchen counter, a faint smile playing on his lips as he talks about something inconsequential, something that makes you laugh even as you feel the weight of the evening pressing down on you.

You’re both a little tipsy, the warmth of the wine clouding your judgment, softening the edges of everything, and when he stops talking and looks at you, really looks at you, there’s a beat of silence, a tension that feels both familiar and terrifying, and without thinking, you lean in, and he meets you half-way, closing the distance between you.

When he kisses you, it’s almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid that you’ll pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, letting the warmth of his touch wash over you, letting it chase away the cold that’s settled in your bones since you walked out of his life. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and in that moment, it feels like everything is slipping back into place, like you’re finding your way home again. 

The kiss is soft, tentative, but it quickly deepens, and for a moment, you lose yourself in it, letting the warmth and the memories wash over you. It feels so easy, so natural, like slipping back into a dream, and before you know it, you’re in his bed, lying beside him in the dark, your heart pounding as the reality of it all settles in.

He falls asleep with his arm draped over you, his breathing steady and slow, and you lie there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything. It’s so familiar, the feel of his body next to yours, the quiet intimacy of sharing a bed, but this time, it's different. It's more painful, more final, as if the weight of the breakup is settling in all over again, sharper and more relentless than before.

He had held you with a tenderness that was both familiar and agonising, his hands tracing the curves of your body, his lips mapping paths across your skin. For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed, as if all the pain, all the distance, had melted away beneath the heat of his touch. You felt needed, wanted, loved in a way that you’d almost forgotten, and you let yourself sink into it, surrendering to the comfort, to the longing that had been building for months. It was intimate, but not in the way it used to be. 

His touch had been gentle, yet filled with an urgency, as if he, too, was trying to memorise the moment, to hold onto something that was slipping away even as it unfolded.

His fingers brushed your skin, sending sparks through you, the warmth of him pressing into you, grounding you in a way that felt both right and utterly wrong. You closed your eyes, letting yourself drift on the wave of pleasure… on the feeling of being close to him… of feeling his heartbeat against yours. 

But now, lying beside him in the aftermath, you feel the full weight of what you’ve done, the painful clarity settling in. It felt so nice to be held, to be wanted, to be wrapped up in him again, but now the emptiness is stark, the regret deeper. You’re left with the cold reality that no matter how close you get, no matter how intimately your bodies fit together, there’s a distance between you that can’t be closed. An ache that physical closeness can’t mend. 

He shifts in his sleep, pulling you closer, and it only makes it worse. The familiar weight of his arm and the closeness of his breath against your skin a reminder of everything you’ve lost, of everything that can never be again. You know that this was a fleeting comfort, a brief return to something that once felt like home.

But now, the sweetness of the moment has faded, replaced by a hollow ache and by the realisation that this isn’t the way back. 

In the quiet, you feel the tears slipping down your cheeks, the warmth of his body beside you a painful reminder that what you shared tonight wasn’t reconciliation — it was a goodbye that neither of you could speak aloud.

And as you lie there, his steady breathing filling the silence, you know that no matter how much you both wanted to hold on, some things can’t be undone.

Some things can’t be saved.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

[mingi-s-dimples]

Shy, until tonight - Woogi

KINKOTBER DAY 23 , REQ BY anon 🤧

~"Here is my request heheh (YES ME AGAIN with like the forth request or third) so reader has 2 bsfs both being also friends with benefits aka fucking from time to time☺️ (woo and mingi are the bsfs) tonight we all were at a party reader is always the shy type while mingi and woo dragged her ass here so reader wanting revenge she teased them all night" -> I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH VISUAL SPACE TO ADD EVERYTHING but she essentially wanted me to add breast fondling, double penetration, teasing, opening her legs to them, bathroom sex.

pairing: woogi x fem!reader

genre: 18+, fwb, filth

summary: wooyoung insists that you go to a party with him.. mingi agrees with him and you're left with the only option ti tag along. but you have your fun until they turn tables and have their way with you, for teasing them all night.

wc: 3.5k

warnings: fwb, woogi love teasing, marking, lots of cum, fucking in a bathroom (dw it's not a club bathroom it's a normal one.. the party takes place @ someone's home) , reader is cocky/bratty at first but later gets fucking destroyed, double penetration, breast fondling, pussy eating, completely consensual, unprotected, for sure forgot something, will edit later.

Author's Note: I personally would love to be sandwiched between woo and mingi in this situation... might be just me tho. Love I hope you like itttt 😁🥰 I sure did love writing it!!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the members in any way.

The music thrummed through the walls, a pulsating rhythm that seeped into your chest, heavy and unrelenting. You hated parties like this. Sweaty bodies crammed into a dimly lit house, voices rising above the pounding bass in an attempt to be heard. The air smelled of alcohol, perfume, and faintly of something herbal that made your head spin. Yet, here you were, sitting on a worn couch in a stranger’s living room, a cup of some questionable drink in your hand, all because Wooyoung had dragged you here.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” he had chirped hours earlier, his mischievous grin practically daring you to refuse.

“Fun for who?” you’d muttered, eyeing him skeptically.

“For all of us,” he had replied, tossing an arm around your shoulders. His dark eyes sparkled with something unspoken, a promise maybe, one you weren’t sure you wanted to unwrap.

You’d looked to Mingi for help, hoping he’d side with you, but he had only shrugged. “You know how he gets,” Mingi had said, his deep voice calm and nonchalant. “It’s easier to just go along with it.”

So here you were.

The couch sagged beneath you as you shifted, trying to find a comfortable position in your tight dress. Wooyoung had insisted you dress up, claiming it was “part of the vibe.” He hadn’t left your side since you arrived, dragging you into conversations with people you didn’t know and laughing at inside jokes you weren’t part of. Mingi, ever the quiet observer, had trailed behind, offering you small smiles that made your stomach flip but didn’t ease your annoyance.

Now, the three of you occupied the couch, Wooyoung and Mingi seated directly across from you, legs spread in that casually confident way that somehow made them both look infuriatingly attractive. You sipped your drink, trying not to let your irritation show as they chatted about something you weren’t listening to.

“You’re too quiet,” Wooyoung said suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise around you. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he fixed you with a knowing look. “What’s on your mind, Y/N?”

You gave him a sweet smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Oh, nothing. Just wondering why I let you drag me here.”

Wooyoung laughed, loud and carefree, as if your irritation amused him. “You love it. Admit it.”

Your smile tightened. Two could play in this game.

“Well,” you said, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately, letting the hem of your dress ride up just enough to be noticeable. You caught the way Wooyoung’s eyes flicked downward, just for a split second, before he met your gaze again. “I suppose I might as well make the most of it.”

Mingi, who had been silent up until now, raised an eyebrow. His lips quirked into a small smile, but his gaze was sharp, assessing.

“Is that so?” he asked, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine.

You leaned back against the couch, letting your body relax in a way that felt foreign but powerful. Your knees fell apart just slightly, enough that the motion could be considered accidental—if you wanted it to be.

Wooyoung’s gaze flicked downward again, and this time, he didn’t bother hiding it.

“You’re being awfully bold tonight,” he remarked, his tone teasing but laced with something heavier.

“Am I?” you asked innocently. You shifted your position again, your foot brushing against Mingi’s leg. His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move, didn’t pull away.

Wooyoung laughed, a short, breathy sound that held none of his usual bravado. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Mingi leaned back, draping an arm over the back of the couch as he watched you. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his jaw, a tightness in his grip that betrayed him.

“Careful,” he warned, his voice low enough that it was almost drowned out by the music. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

“Oh, I think I’m doing just fine,” you replied, letting your fingers trail along the edge of your cup before they "accidentally" brushed against Wooyoung’s knee. He tensed beneath your touch, his sharp inhale barely audible.

You smirked, feeling a surge of satisfaction. But then your gaze drifted downward, catching the unmistakable bulge straining against the fabric of Wooyoung’s pants. You didn’t need to look at Mingi to know he was in a similar state.

You couldn’t help it. A low chuckle escaped your lips, soft but taunting. “Oh,” you murmured, raising your eyes to meet theirs. “Is something wrong?”

Wooyoung’s eyes darkened, and his usual cocky grin returned, though there was a new edge to it now. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“And you’re not?” you shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Mingi leaned forward then, his large hand resting on your knee. The weight of it sent a shiver up your spine, though you tried not to show it.

“You think you’ve won,” he said, his deep voice steady and calm, like he was explaining something obvious. “But you don’t know what we have planned.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What are you talking about?”

Wooyoung stood suddenly, holding out a hand to you. His grin was sharper now, almost predatory. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s talk about it somewhere... quieter.”

When you didn’t move, Mingi gave your knee a gentle squeeze. “Bathroom,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Your heart raced as you looked between the two of them, their gazes heavy with intent. You realized too late that whatever game you thought you were playing, they’d just turned the tables.

—

“The fuck y’all want!? You dragged me here!” you protested, back slightly arched against the cold tile of the bathroom that was remotely far from all the action, but still close enough to be heard slightly.

“What do you mean? Did you think we'd let you off the hook? What were you trying to do? you're not like this usually..” Wooyoung said and one of his hands rode up your waist to your lower back, pulling you close to him. Mingi was watching contently, catching a glimpse of his eyes shooting to the huge tent that formed in his pants. You were friends with benefits after all… but here!?

“I just wanted to get my revenge! You know I hate parties hosted by stran-.. M-mingi..?” your words faded as you saw Mingi, who was standing behind Wooyoung, was now unbuckling his pants and let them fall to his ankles.

“You know for sure what happens when you're a fucking brat, sweetie… teasing us like that will only get you in more trouble.” Wooyoung kept eye contact with you while Mingi talked, taking his pants off.

“You should've known better…darling.”

You were done for.. you thought.

Mingi got on one knee in front of you and Wooyoung got behind you, holding one of your legs with his right hand, raising your already short dress above your waist. His left hand went to your waist, holding you tight and fondling your breasts from time to time from under the dress.

“Let’s see if it was worth the teasing, our love” Mingi whispered and he took your soaked panties off, giggling. He then leaned in, soft kisses trailing from your knee to your thigh, then from your inner thigh to your cunt. You whined out when he started to eat you out, his tongue reaching every sweet spot of yours.

Wooyoung chuckled darkly from behind, his warm breath tickling your neck as he whispered into your ear, "Such pretty sounds. Don't hold back, sweetheart." His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His hand on your waist tightened slightly, grounding you as Mingi worked his magic below.

Mingi, ever the perfectionist, took his time. His lips and tongue moved with calculated precision, teasing you with alternating strokes of his tongue—soft and slow, then firm and demanding. He hummed low against you, the vibration a sweet torment. Every now and then, he'd pause to place open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your thighs, his gaze flickering up to meet yours, filled with mischief and adoration.

Behind you, Wooyoung trailed his fingers lightly along your sides. "Look at you," he murmured, voice dripping with admiration. "You're trembling, love." His hands skimmed up, fingers brushing your shoulders before sliding down your arms. He leaned in, kissing the curve of your neck with lingering softness, his teeth lightly grazing your skin in playful nips.

Mingi pulled back slightly, lips glistening, his grin wicked. "She tastes better than I imagined," he said, his voice husky. His hands stroked the outsides of your thighs, grounding you, while he waited for your breath to even out.

Wooyoung smirked, tilting your head slightly to the side with a gentle hand on your jaw. "Isn't it fun being at the center of our attention?" His lips brushed against your temple as he spoke, his tone low and intimate. He shifted slightly, pulling you closer into his chest, letting you feel his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Mingi’s lips returned to your inner thighs, brushing featherlight kisses against your skin as he edged closer to your clit. His teasing was unbearable in the best way—soft flicks of his tongue followed by gentle bites to your thighs, leaving you whimpering and squirming in Wooyoung’s arms.

“Oh, you’re so sensitive, aren’t you?” Wooyoung teased, his voice a mix of amusement and adoration. His fingers trailed up your sides, sending shivers through your body, before settling on your shoulders. He massaged them gently, grounding you as you tilted your head back against him with a high-pitched whine. “Mingi’s barely started, and you’re already losing it.”

Mingi hummed in agreement, his hands pressing firmly into your thighs to keep you steady. “She’s always like this when she’s been teasing,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. His tongue darted out again, gliding in slow, deliberate strokes, the sensation enough to pull a loud, unrestrained moan from your lips.

Your fingers clawed at Wooyoung’s arms, desperate for something to hold onto as Mingi’s pace quickened. “M-Mingi,” you cried out, your voice trembling. He chuckled, the sound low and rich, the vibrations making you arch your back.

“Right there, huh?” Mingi teased, his lips curling into a smirk as his tongue circled a particularly sensitive spot. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you in place as he focused his attention on driving you over the edge.

Wooyoung tilted your chin, bringing your face closer to his as he whispered into your ear, “So loud and beautiful for us, love. Don’t hold back. Let us hear everything.” His lips found your neck, planting soft kisses along your pulse as he watched your every reaction with pride.

The overwhelming combination of Mingi’s skillful tongue and Wooyoung’s grounding presence made it impossible to contain your sounds. Each whimper and moan spilled freely from your lips, growing louder as the pressure in your core built higher and higher.

Mingi’s voice was steady but commanding as he said, “That’s it, just let go for me.” He gave one last, perfectly calculated flick of his tongue, and the tension within you snapped. You cried out, your hands clutching Wooyoung tighter as waves of pleasure washed over you, your entire body trembling, cumming all over Mingi's beautiful face.

Mingi didn’t pull away immediately; he placed gentle, soothing kisses along your thighs, helping you come down from your high. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his tone soft and full of admiration.

Behind you, Wooyoung wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close and steadying your shaky legs. “Such a good girl,” he praised, his voice warm.

Wooyoung chuckled softly as he held you steady, his fingers brushing against your skin with infuriating gentleness. "Still shaking, huh?" he teased, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. His voice was playful yet low, sending a wave of heat through you. "Are you always this sensitive, or is it just because it's us, right here, in this moment?"

His hand slid down to your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before raising your other leg effortlessly. “Let’s see how much more you can handle, sweetheart,” he murmured, his tone dripping with mischief. With both legs now secured in his strong hold, your body was completely enveloped in Wooyoung’s embrace, his warmth grounding and overwhelming all at once.

“Easy now,” Mingi said, his deep voice filled with affection as he stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He reached out, his hands brushing over your sides and thighs in a soothing gesture before gripping your hips firmly. “You’re in good hands, love. Just trust us.”

Wooyoung adjusted his hold, his hands gripping your waist to keep you steady as Mingi moved in front of you. Slowly, with practiced ease, Mingi guided you down onto his dripping cock. Your hands flew to his back, clutching at his broad shoulders for support as a loud, trembling whine escaped your lips.

Mingi groaned softly, his hands tightening on your hips as he helped guide your movements. "That's it," he murmured, his voice husky and full of praise. “So perfect, just like this.” His forehead rested against yours briefly, his warm breath mingling with yours as he steadied you.

From behind, Wooyoung pressed his chest against your back, his lips brushing over your neck and shoulder. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered, his tone laced with pride and teasing. His grip on your thighs remained firm as he adjusted his hold, moving in perfect synchrony with Mingi.

The sensations were overwhelming—Mingi’s strength beneath you, Wooyoung’s embrace around you, and their combined warmth and presence surrounding you completely. Your head tilted back against Wooyoung’s shoulder as another whine left your lips, your nails digging into Mingi’s back as you sought some semblance of control. Their thrusts sent you over the edge all over again, the feeling of being filled up by them making you go insane.

“Louder, love,” Wooyoung coaxed, his voice a seductive murmur in your ear. “Let it all out. We want to hear everything.” His arms tightened around you, holding you securely as Mingi’s thrusts grew more deliberate, his hands never leaving your waist.

Mingi's grin was nothing short of devilish as he steadied you against him, his hands firm on your waist. His eyes glinted with a mixture of affection and mischief, his tone laced with amusement as he whispered, “You thought you could tease us and get away with it, huh? Look at you now.”

Wooyoung chuckled from behind, his lips brushing against your temple as his arms tightened around you. “Our bold little love thought she could handle the game,” he murmured, his tone dripping with playful mockery. “But now you’re here, trembling and whining. Isn’t that right?”

Your breath hitched, and your cheeks flushed even deeper as Mingi leaned closer, his lips ghosting over yours but not quite meeting them. “You look so pretty like this,” he teased, his voice a soft rumble. His fingers dug slightly into your hips, his touch grounding, his thrusts powerful. “Was this the revenge you had planned? Because it doesn’t look like it’s going so well for you.”

A frustrated whine left your lips, and your hands gripped tighter onto Mingi’s back, desperate for some control. But Mingi only smirked, his thumb brushing over your heated skin as he continued to hold you in place, unbothered by your attempts to regain power.

“Aw, don’t pout,” Wooyoung cooed behind you, his teasing relentless. “You look adorable when you’re losing.” He leaned closer, his lips grazing the curve of your neck before pressing a soft kiss there. “And right now, you’re losing so beautifully.”

Mingi chuckled low, his hands slowly trailing up your sides in a way that made you shiver. “Admit it,” he murmured, his voice velvet-soft yet commanding. “You wanted to get under our skin, but now you’re the one falling apart.” His lips brushed over your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. “It’s okay to admit defeat, love. We don’t mind watching you like this.”

Your legs shook as you tried to keep up with their teasing, your mind swimming from the overwhelming attention. “I just…” you started to protest, but the words dissolved into a whimper when Mingi tilted his head, his lips grazing over your ear.

“Just what?” he asked, his tone daring you to finish your sentence. “Come on, love. Say it.”

Wooyoung’s laughter was soft and melodic, his hands sliding to grip your thighs with firm, reassuring pressure. “She can’t even form a full sentence,” he teased. “Mingi, I think we’ve broken her.” Wooyoung's thrusts were smoother, while Mingi's were more powerful and harsh. But either way, their cocks were always filling you up good.

Mingi tilted his head back slightly, his grin wide and wicked as he looked at you. “Good,” he said simply, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “That’s what she gets for teasing all night.”

You couldn’t help but let out another whine, caught between wanting to respond and being utterly overwhelmed by their relentless thrusts. Mingi’s smirk softened slightly as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, a silent reminder that even in their teasing, their care for you never wavered.

“You’re ours,” he murmured, his voice firm but filled with warmth. “And we’ll remind you of that as many times as it takes.”

Wooyoung chuckled, his lips brushing your ear. “Every single time, love.”

Mingi’s grin widened when he felt you tighten your grip on his shoulders, a spark of defiance flaring in your eyes despite the moans spilling from your lips. “Still trying to act tough?” he teased, his tone playful yet taunting. “Even now, when you’re melting in our hands?”

You bit your lip, trying to stifle another whimper, but the heat pooling in your core betrayed you. “I’m not... giving in that easily,” you managed to gasp out, though the breathless quality of your voice made your words less convincing.

Wooyoung laughed softly from behind you, his voice rich with amusement. “Oh, love, you’re adorable when you’re feisty,” he murmured, his hands gripping your thighs to steady you. “But you’re not fooling anyone. We know exactly how much you’re loving this.” His lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your skin.

Mingi chuckled, his hands sliding up to your waist as he leaned in closer. “We’ll see how long that fire lasts,” he murmured, his teeth grazing your collarbone before biting down gently, leaving a mark. You gasped, your head tilting back as your nails dug into his back, leaving faint crescents in his skin.

Wooyoung took that as his cue, his lips and teeth mapping a path along your back and shoulders. “Look at her, Mingi,” he said, his tone low and teasing. “She’s trembling again. I don’t think she can handle much more.”

You moaned in response, the sound breaking into a sharp gasp when Mingi’s lips trailed lower, his teeth and tongue working against the sensitive skin of your chest. “M-Mingi, Wooyoung,” you whined, your voice catching as your legs instinctively tightened around Mingi’s waist, pulling him closer, locking him in.

“Just like that,” Mingi murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his pace began to quicken. “Hold onto me, love. I’ve got you.” His hands gripped your waist, guiding your movements with precision, each thrust sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.

Behind you, Wooyoung’s lips never stopped moving, his teeth grazing your shoulder before soothing the marks with his tongue. “So beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, his voice rough with praise. “Every single part of you.”

As their movements synced, the intensity between the three of you reached a fever pitch. Mingi’s rhythm became more demanding, his hands never leaving your waist as he anchored you to him. Wooyoung’s hold on your thighs tightened, his lips pressing firmly against your skin as he continued marking you, each kiss and bite a silent claim.

You cried out, your moans growing louder as the overwhelming sensations pushed you closer to the edge. Mingi’s voice was steady and commanding as he urged, “Cum, sweetheart.. I know that's what you want to do right now.”

The heat between you all built to a crescendo, your cries mixing with their groans as the tension finally snapped. Mingi and Wooyoung came in perfect synchrony, their breaths ragged and heavy as they held you tightly between them. As you felt their huge loads filling you all up, the force of your own orgasm left you trembling in their arms, your nails digging into Mingi’s back as you whined out one last time.

For a moment, the three of you stayed entwined, your breaths mingling as you came down from the high together. Wooyoung’s arms wrapped around you securely, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice soft and full of warmth.

Mingi tilted your chin up, his eyes filled with affection as he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “And you’re ours,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Always.”

NETWORKS:

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[goldfades]

𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐌𝐄 ───── LAMELO BALL

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.7k (i got a bit carried away per usual)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | lamelo spots you courtside, turning in the game of his life just to impress you. what starts as playful banter at an afterparty quickly turns into a connection that neither of you can ignore.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lamelo being COCKY AF, ummmmm... mentions of drinking, banter, allusions to lamelo being a hohohoho, just very banter-teasing heavy

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | i'm feeding the secret lamelo ball fangirls out there cause i see you and i fw you a lot cause ur just liek me, i hope yall enjoy !!!

The buzz of the Spectrum Center feels electric tonight. Maybe it’s the high stakes of the game, or maybe it’s just the way Lilah’s energy rubs off on you—effortless and magnetic, like she was born to thrive under these arena lights. You sit beside her, court-side, her gold bracelets jingling softly as she waves to someone across the court. Her husband, Miles is warming up, all easy confidence and sharp focus. He catches Lilah’s eye, grins, and points toward the two of you, a silent “this one’s for you.”

Lilah leans in, her voice just audible above the noise. “Miles is going to kill it tonight. He always does when I’m here.” She nudges you playfully. “You’re my lucky charm, though, so don’t go thinking you’re off the hook.”

You laugh, shifting in your seat as the players take their positions. Basketball’s never been your scene, but when Lilah called and begged you to come as her plus-one, you couldn’t say no. Something about her insistence—“You need to get out more!”—made it impossible to refuse. And now, as the lights dim and the announcer’s voice booms through the arena, you’re glad you came. The energy is infectious, the atmosphere electric.

Then, your attention shifts.

Number one, LaMelo Ball, steps onto the court. He’s hard to miss—tall, sharp-cut features, and an aura that makes it seem like he knows everyone’s watching him. Which, let’s be honest, they probably are. He moves with a kind of casual arrogance, his presence larger than life even among his teammates. You’ve heard his name a dozen times, always tied to words like prodigy or superstar, but seeing him in person is something else entirely.

And then it happens.

As if sensing your gaze, he glances your way. It’s quick, just a flicker, but enough for his eyes to find yours. Time slows—or maybe it’s just your imagination—because for a moment, it feels like he’s staring straight through the noise and chaos of the arena, right at you. There’s something in his expression—curiosity, intrigue—that makes your breath hitch.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that’s almost imperceptible, then turns his attention back to the court. But you notice the difference immediately. His movements become sharper, his energy more focused. Every pass, every shot, every step is precise, like he’s putting on a show and you’re the intended audience.

Lilah nudges you again. “I think LaMelo just checked you out.”

You laugh it off, but your pulse betrays you, thudding a little too hard against your ribs. You’re overthinking it, you tell yourself. It’s just a coincidence, an accident.

On the court, LaMelo thrives in the rhythm of the game. He’s always been good at this—reading plays, threading passes, finding space where none should exist. But tonight, something feels different. There’s a spark under his skin, a hum that makes every move sharper, every decision quicker. He knows exactly why.

Between plays, he glances toward the courtside seats again, where you’re sitting with Lilah Bridges. He doesn’t even know your name, but he can’t stop looking. There’s something about the way you’re perched there, so effortlessly composed, your laugh soft but luminous whenever Lilah says something funny. The arena lights hit your face just right, making you impossible to miss, even with the chaos of the game surrounding him.

“Yo, Melo,” Miles mutters during a timeout, smirking as he catches LaMelo glancing toward the sideline. “You good? You’ve been zoned in all night.”

LaMelo grabs a water bottle and takes a quick sip, playing it cool. “I’m always locked in.”

Miles doesn’t let up, chuckling as he leans closer. “Nah, not like this. You’ve been balling like you got something to prove. Who’s got you locked in like that?” He follows LaMelo’s line of sight, and when his gaze lands on you, his grin widens. “Ahhh, I see. You’re been peepin’ Lilah’s friend.”

LaMelo doesn’t confirm or deny it, but the way he smirks back says enough. “Who is she?” he asks, keeping his voice low, casual.

Miles shrugs, wiping his face with a towel. “That’s Lilah’s girl. She’s cool, real chill. Don’t know if she’s your type, though.”

LaMelo raises an eyebrow, his confidence peeking through. “What makes you think she’s not my type?”

Miles laughs, shaking his head. “Man, I’m just saying. She doesn’t seem like the type to get caught up in all... this.” He gestures vaguely to the court, the arena, the larger-than-life spectacle that comes with being LaMelo Ball.

LaMelo doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he lets his eyes drift back to you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward when he catches you clapping at something Lilah says. There’s something about you that feels... different. It’s not just the way you look, though that’s definitely a big part of it. It’s the way you carry yourself, like you’re perfectly content to stay in the background, even though the spotlight would suit you just fine.

“She doesn’t have to get caught up in all this,��� he finally says, dribbling the ball idly as the timeout winds down. “I just wanna know her name.”

Miles shakes his head, chuckling. “Good luck with that, man. Lilah’s probably gonna run interference if she thinks you’re trying to pull something.”

LaMelo grins, his confidence unwavering. “Guess I’ll just have to ask her myself.”

When the whistle blows and the game resumes, he’s locked in again—but this time, it’s with a purpose. He’s not just playing for the win. He’s playing to make sure he earns your attention, the same way you’ve unknowingly captured his.

The ball is in his hands again, and LaMelo moves like the court is his stage. Each dribble echoes, every pass and shot calculated to perfection. He’s already good at this—great, even—but tonight, he’s playing like he’s got something to prove. To himself? Maybe. To you? Definitely.

He steals a glance toward the sideline during a lull in the game. You’re still there, leaning slightly toward Lilah as the two of you talk. Whatever she just said has you laughing, your head tilted back, a hand coming up to cover your mouth as if to stifle the sound. It’s unguarded, genuine. LaMelo feels his focus falter for half a second, his gaze lingering just a little too long.

“Yo, stay with me!” His teammate barks as he claps his hands, trying to pull LaMelo’s attention back to the game.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” LaMelo says, waving him off. And he is good—better than good, actually. He’s in a rhythm now, and the team is feeding off his energy. Every basket he scores gets the crowd louder, and every assist he dishes out has the bench on their feet.

But you’re still there, just at the edge of his vision, a quiet distraction that’s becoming harder to ignore.

By halftime, the Hornets are up by ten, and the arena is buzzing with excitement. LaMelo plops down on the bench, catching his breath. Sweat drips from his hairline, and he swipes at it with a towel. As the coaches huddle the team together, his thoughts drift back to you.

Miles is the first to notice. Again.

“You ain’t slick, bro,” Miles says, shaking his head with a grin as he grabs a Gatorade. “I saw you peeking at her all through the second quarter.”

LaMelo scoffs, though he doesn’t bother denying it. “I wasn’t peeking. I was glancing. Big difference.”

Miles laughs, the sound low and knowing. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself. I’m just saying—don’t let Coach catch you getting distracted out here.”

“I’m not distracted,” LaMelo shoots back, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. His smirk is quick, confident. “I’m locked in. You see the score?”

“Yeah, yeah, we see it,” Miles says, rolling his eyes. “But don’t think I didn’t catch you asking about her earlier. You really gonna make a move on Lilah’s friend?”

“Why not?” LaMelo’s answer is immediate, like he’s already decided.

Miles shakes his head, taking another sip of his drink. “She doesn’t look like the type to fall for all that charm you’re so proud of.”

LaMelo just grins, leaning back against the bench as the coaches wrap up their halftime pep talk. “Good. That’s the fun part.”

The game resumes, and LaMelo’s energy is sharper than ever. The crowd roars with every shot he makes, every assist he dishes. He’s putting on a clinic, and it’s impossible not to notice. The announcers are hyped, the fans are on their feet, and even his teammates are feeding off his fire.

And yet, every time he scores, his eyes flicker back to you.

It’s subtle—so quick that most people wouldn’t catch it—but Miles does. And so does Lilah, apparently. By the fourth quarter, she’s leaning over to whisper something to you, a sly smile on her face. You glance toward the court briefly, and for a split second, your eyes meet LaMelo’s again.

That’s when he knows.

The final buzzer sounds, and the Hornets walk off the court victorious. The energy in the arena is electric, fans cheering as the players exchange high-fives and congratulations. But LaMelo’s already thinking about the afterparty.

As he heads to the locker room, he catches up with Miles. “So, what’s the move tonight?”

Miles raises an eyebrow. “Why you asking me? You don’t usually roll through these things like that.”

LaMelo shrugs, keeping his tone casual. “Just curious. Lilah’s coming, right?”

“Yeah,” Miles says slowly, catching on. “And I’m guessing her friend will be there too?”

LaMelo doesn’t answer, but the look on his face says it all.

Miles chuckles, shaking his head as they head down the tunnel. “Man, you’re bold. Good luck with that one. She’s way out of your league.”

LaMelo smirks, the challenge lighting a spark in his chest. “No such thing as out of my league.”

As he steps into the locker room, his mind is already racing. He doesn’t know much about you yet—just the way you look when you laugh and the fact that you’ve already got him playing like he’s got something to prove.

But he’s determined to find out more.

The afterparty is in full swing by the time you and Lilah walk in, the pulsing bass of the music vibrating through the floor as laughter and conversation fill the space. It’s one of those places that feels effortlessly cool—dim lights, plush leather seating, and enough space for the players to spread out without it feeling cramped. You weren’t planning to have too much fun tonight, but the energy in the room is infectious.

Lilah tugs you along toward the bar, her arm looped through yours. “Okay, first rule of these parties,” she says, grinning as she leans in close, “always let me order your first drink. Miles swears I have good luck when it comes to the bartenders.”

You laugh, watching as she flags someone down with a wave and effortlessly orders for both of you. A minute later, a glass of something bright and fizzy is pressed into your hand. You take a sip, pleasantly surprised by how smooth it is, the citrusy kick warming you from the inside.

“Good, right?” Lilah asks, already sipping hers.

You nod, letting the drink loosen you up as you glance around the room. The players are scattered across the space, some tucked into booths with their significant others, others leaning against the bar, laughing and clinking glasses. It’s easy to spot LaMelo. He’s tall, for one thing, but it’s more than that. He has this magnetism about him, like the energy of the room shifts wherever he goes.

And right now, his attention is on you.

You notice it immediately—the way his eyes seem to find you no matter where you stand. He’s subtle about it, leaning casually against the bar as he talks to one of his teammates, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. But every so often, his gaze flickers in your direction, lingering just a beat too long before returning to his conversation.

At first, you try to brush it off. He’s probably like this with everyone, you tell yourself. Smooth, confident, the kind of guy who knows the effect he has on people. But the longer it goes on, the harder it is to ignore. Each glance feels deliberate, like he’s testing the waters, waiting to see how you’ll react.

And you can’t help it—you start to react.

You catch yourself standing a little straighter, your laugh a little more unguarded, the occasional glance in his direction just to see if he’s still looking. He always is. It’s a game, one that you didn’t realize you’d started playing, but now that you’re in it, you can’t seem to stop.

“Okay, spill,” Lilah says suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts. She’s leaning against the bar beside you, her lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Spill what?” you ask, trying to sound casual as you take another sip of your drink.

She tilts her head toward LaMelo, who’s still standing across the room, his attention now fully on you. “Don’t play dumb. I saw the way you two were eyeing each other. What’s the deal?”

“There’s no deal,” you say quickly, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you.

“Uh-huh.” Lilah doesn’t look convinced. “He’s been staring at you all night, and don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you keep looking back.”

“I’m not—” you start to protest, but she cuts you off with a laugh.

“Relax,” she says, her tone playful. “I’m not judging. I mean, it’s LaMelo. He’s... well, you’ve seen him. But I’m just saying, if you’re into it, I’d say the interest is mutual.”

You glance back toward him, and sure enough, his eyes meet yours. This time, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he raises his glass slightly in a silent toast, his smirk deepening when you feel yourself falter under his gaze. There’s something disarming about the way he looks at you—confident but not cocky, curious but not overbearing.

“See?” Lilah teases, nudging you with her elbow. “I told you.”

You shake your head, laughing softly as you turn your attention back to her. “I’m just here to have a good time, Lilah. That’s all.”

“And you should,” she says, her smile widening. “But just so you know, if you’re not careful, he’s going to be the highlight of your night.”

You don’t respond, but the way your pulse quickens at her words tells you she might be right.

The party is in full swing now, the music loud enough to vibrate through the soles of your heels, and the energy in the room has shifted into something more electric. A few drinks in, you’re feeling looser, lighter. Lilah’s infectious laughter and Miles’s constant teasing have you at ease, your initial hesitations about the night fading into the background.

You’re seated now, perched on one of the low leather couches with Lilah on one side and Miles on the other, their banter flying back and forth like a friendly game of verbal ping-pong. You chime in every now and then, mostly to laugh or roll your eyes at one of Miles’s exaggerated stories about life on the road with the team.

“Tell me I’m lying,” Miles says, leaning back with a triumphant grin after his latest tale.

“You’re lying,” Lilah shoots back immediately, taking a sip of her drink.

You laugh, shaking your head as you reach for your own glass. The world around you feels pleasantly fuzzy, the edges softened by the buzz in your veins.

“Y’all don’t believe anything I say,” Miles grumbles, though his tone is more amused than annoyed.

“We believe the parts that make sense,” you counter, flashing him a teasing smile.

“Oh, she’s got jokes now,” Miles says, nudging you with his elbow. “Lilah, where’d you find her? She’s got a little spice.”

Lilah grins, leaning toward you conspiratorially. “You should see her when she’s really on a roll. She’ll have you questioning your whole life.”

You laugh again, the sound light and unguarded. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this carefree, and you let yourself sink into it, the atmosphere wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him.

LaMelo.

He’s making his way across the room, his long strides purposeful but not rushed. He’s dressed casually—ripped jeans, a designer jacket, and a chain that catches the light just right—but there’s something about the way he carries himself that makes him impossible to ignore.

“Yo, Miles,” LaMelo calls out as he approaches, his voice cutting through the hum of the party.

Miles looks up, grinning as he leans back against the couch. “What’s good, Melo?”

LaMelo stops in front of the group, his hands tucked into his pockets as he nods toward Miles. “Just making my rounds. What’re you over here talking about?”

“Oh, you know, just telling these ladies about how I carried you last season,” Miles says, his grin widening.

LaMelo rolls his eyes, his smile lazy and amused. “Yeah, sure. That’s why your stats were looking real pedestrian, huh?”

Lilah laughs, nudging Miles. “Don’t let him come over here and do you like that.”

“I’m gonna let him have it,” Miles says with a wave of his hand. “Only because I’m in a good mood.”

LaMelo chuckles, his gaze sliding over to you for the first time. His smile softens, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

“And who’s this?” he asks, his voice dropping just slightly, the playful lilt in his tone unmistakable.

Lilah jumps in before you can answer, her grin smug. “This is my girl. Be nice, Melo.”

LaMelo raises his hands in mock surrender, his eyes still on you. “I’m always nice.”

You can’t help but smile, the warmth of his attention settling over you like a spotlight. “I’m [Your Name],” you say, your voice steady despite the way your pulse has quickened.

“LaMelo,” he says, extending a hand toward you. His fingers are warm when they close around yours, his grip firm but not overpowering.

“I know,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His smile deepens, a flash of teeth that somehow feels both charming and dangerous. “You know, huh? Should I be flattered or nervous?”

“Depends,” you reply, your lips curving into a sly smile. “Do you usually get nervous when someone knows who you are?”

Miles lets out a low whistle, shaking his head as he looks between the two of you. “Oh, this is about to be good.”

LaMelo chuckles, leaning slightly closer, though he’s careful not to invade your space. “I don’t get nervous,” he says, his tone easy but confident. “But I gotta admit, you got me curious now.”

“Curious about what?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“About you,” he says simply. “Lilah’s been holding out on me.”

“Oh, don’t drag me into this,” Lilah says, laughing as she raises her hands. “You can ask her whatever you want. I’m staying out of it.”

The conversation flows easily after that, his questions playful but sincere, your answers just teasing enough to keep him on his toes. The world around you fades, the music and the chatter of the party becoming a distant hum as you go back and forth.

Every now and then, you catch Lilah watching you, a small, knowing smile on her face. You can feel the heat of LaMelo’s gaze every time he looks at you, and you’re not sure if it’s the drinks or the chemistry between you, but you find yourself leaning into it, letting the moment stretch and unfold in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

And when he laughs—low and genuine—you realize you don’t mind it at all.

As the conversation flows, Lilah gives you a sly smile and stands, tugging on Miles’s arm. “Come on, babe, let’s grab another round,” she says, her tone overly casual.

Miles glances at her, then at you and LaMelo, and smirks knowingly. “Oh, I see how it is. Melo’s about to show off his ‘game,’ huh?”

“Go,” Lilah says, rolling her eyes and shoving his shoulder lightly. She looks at you one last time, her expression smug. “Have fun, girl.”

You watch them disappear into the crowd, your laugh trailing after them, but the moment they’re gone, you feel the shift in the air. It’s subtle, like the space between you and LaMelo suddenly carries a different weight.

“Guess it’s just us now,” LaMelo says, leaning back against the couch with an easy confidence.

“Looks like it,” you reply, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.

“So,” he starts, stretching the word out as his eyes flicker over you with a mix of curiosity and amusement, “how long you been friends with Lilah?”

You set your glass down on the low table in front of you and cross your legs, meeting his gaze head-on. “Long enough to know she’s trouble.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Yeah, Miles says the same thing, but I think they balance each other out.”

“Definitely,” you agree, your lips curving into a small smile. “She keeps him in check, though. You should’ve seen her last week when he left his sneakers in the living room. I thought she was going to throw them out the window.”

LaMelo laughs, shaking his head. “Miles? Yeah, that sounds about right. Dude’s messy as hell. He leaves his stuff everywhere in the locker room too.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. “And you’re not messy?”

He smirks, leaning forward a bit. “I didn’t say that. But I’m smarter about it. I know when to clean up.”

“Oh, so you’re strategic about your messiness,” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching upward.

“Exactly,” he says, his grin widening. “You get it.”

There’s a pause, not awkward but charged, the kind of silence that feels more like a question waiting to be answered. His eyes stay locked on yours, the intensity of his gaze softened by the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says finally, his tone thoughtful.

You blink, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, leaning back again, his arms draped casually along the top of the couch. “I don’t know. Most people at these parties, they’re either trying too hard to impress or acting like they don’t care at all. But you… you’re different.”

“Different how?” you ask, narrowing your eyes slightly.

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re real. Like, you’re here, but you’re not trying to be seen, you know? And you’re funny. Most people wouldn’t call me out for being messy two minutes into a conversation.”

You laugh, feeling a flush of warmth creep up your neck. “Well, maybe you’re just easy to tease.”

“Oh, I am?” he asks, his eyebrows lifting in mock surprise.

“Definitely,” you say, your tone playful. “You’ve got that vibe.”

“What vibe?”

“The kind that says you’re used to getting your way, so you don’t know what to do when someone gives you a hard time.”

He lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, you don’t hold back, huh?”

“Not really,” you admit, shrugging. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

“I don’t,” he says, his voice softening just enough to make your stomach flip. “I like it.”

For a moment, the world around you seems to fade, the noise of the party dulling to a distant hum. He’s leaning slightly closer now, his elbows resting on his knees as he looks at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. And maybe it’s the drinks or the way his smile feels like a secret he’s letting you in on, but you find yourself leaning in too, just enough to match his energy.

“What about you?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What about me?”

“Why are you here tonight?”

You laugh softly, gesturing toward the general chaos of the party. “Lilah dragged me, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoes, his smile turning teasing. “But you’re staying. That means something.”

“Maybe I just like good company,” you counter, raising an eyebrow.

“And am I good company?” he asks, his tone dipping just enough to make your pulse quicken.

You meet his gaze, holding it for a beat longer than you probably should. “You’re okay,” you say finally, your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“Just okay?” he asks, feigning offense as he presses a hand to his chest. “Damn, I thought I was doing better than that.”

“You could be,” you reply, leaning back and crossing your arms. “Guess you’ll have to step up your game.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, I see how it is. You’re a challenge.”

“Is that a... bad thing?”

“Not at all,” he says, his grin softening into something more genuine. “I like a challenge.”

And just like that, the banter shifts into something deeper, the playful teasing giving way to a quieter connection. You can feel it in the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize every detail, and in the way your own walls start to lower, letting him in just a little more than you expected.

And for the first time that night, you wonder if Lilah was right. Maybe this party was worth it after all.

The night deepens, the party’s energy settling into a comfortable rhythm as conversations grow louder and laughter fills the spaces between songs. The buzz of a few drinks has made everything feel lighter, easier, and you find yourself more at ease than you’ve been in a while.

LaMelo is right there with you, his laughter rich and unrestrained, his eyes lighting up every time you say something witty. You’ve lost track of time somewhere between his playful teasing and the stories you’ve been swapping, your banter feeling less like a first meeting and more like reconnecting with someone you’ve known forever.

“You fell off a jet ski because... you weren’t paying attention?” you say, your laughter bubbling over as he shakes his head, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips.

“I wasn’t paying attention because my brother was trying to race me!” he defends, leaning forward as if his explanation will make it sound less ridiculous.

“And how’d that work out for you?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He laughs, shrugging. “It didn’t. Clearly.”

You shake your head, the grin on your face refusing to fade. “You’re a mess, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he says, his gaze steady on yours. There’s something in his tone, in the way he looks at you right then, that sends a small thrill through you.

As the conversation flows, the space between you feels smaller, even though neither of you has moved. The music thumps steadily in the background, but it’s like you’ve created your own bubble, the party fading into a distant hum.

At some point, Lilah and Miles return to your little corner, Lilah plopping down next to you with an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, I’m officially tired,” she announces, though the glint in her eye suggests she’s anything but.

“You’re always tired,” Miles teases, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

“Don’t start,” she warns, though her smile softens the words. Her gaze flickers between you and LaMelo, and you can see the gears turning in her head.

“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at her suspicious expression.

“Nothing,” she says, dragging the word out as she leans closer. “Just noticing how much fun you’re having over here.”

“Lilah,” you warn, though you can’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips.

“Don’t mind her,” LaMelo says, his voice easy and warm. “She’s just jealous I’m better company than she is.”

“Oh, please,” Lilah scoffs, though she looks thoroughly entertained. “Anyway, we’re heading out soon. You two wrapping this up or what?”

You glance at LaMelo, unsure how to answer, but he beats you to it. “Not yet,” he says simply, his eyes still on you.

Miles chuckles, standing and pulling Lilah to her feet. “Alright, we’ll leave you to it. Don’t have too much fun now.”

“We won’t,” you say, rolling your eyes as they walk away, though you can feel your cheeks heating.

LaMelo leans back, his expression unreadable for a moment before he smiles. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you say, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “They’re just... nosy.”

“They mean well,” he says, his tone easy. “But they’re definitely nosy.”

You laugh, and just like that, the playful atmosphere returns. Another round of drinks later, you’re both laughing over some absurd story he’s telling about a teammate, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach ache and your eyes water. You can’t remember the last time you felt this comfortable with someone so quickly, and it’s equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

As the night winds down, you find yourself sitting closer to him than you were before, the warmth of his presence almost tangible. When the conversation finally slows, he looks at you, his expression softening.

“This was fun,” he says, his voice quieter than it’s been all night.

“It was,” you agree, smiling.

“I should probably let you go before Lilah comes back and drags you out of here,” he says, though there’s a reluctant note in his tone.

“Probably,” you say, but neither of you moves right away.

After a beat, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, holding it out to you. “Here. Put your number in.”

You hesitate for only a second before taking it, your fingers tapping at the screen as you save your contact. When you hand it back, he glances at it, his smile widening just slightly. “Got it.”

You stand together, and he walks you toward where Lilah and Miles are waiting near the entrance. LaMelo lingers as you say your goodbyes, his hands tucked into his pockets and that easy smile still on his face.

“You heading out too?” Miles asks, clapping LaMelo on the back.

“Yeah, in a bit,” he says, his eyes flickering to you briefly.

As you step outside into the cool night air, Lilah hooks her arm through yours, a knowing smile on her face. “Well, that went better than I expected,” she says as you walk toward the car.

“What do you mean?” you ask, though you can feel your heart beating a little faster.

“I mean,” she says, drawing the word out, “that Melo doesn’t usually exchange phone numbers. He usually... invites girls over.”

“Oh,” you say, your voice softer than you intended.

“Oh,” Lilah mimics, her grin widening. “Girl, he’s interested. And don’t act like you’re not, too.”

You don’t reply, but the small smile that creeps across your face says more than words ever could.

The morning sunlight filtered through your curtains, warm but unwelcome as it coaxed you awake. You squinted at the brightness, groaning softly as you turned over in bed. The faint hum of last night’s energy still lingered in your veins, memories of laughter and teasing banter replaying in fragments. Your mind, unbidden, drifted back to LaMelo. The way his smile had crinkled the corners of his eyes, the low timbre of his laugh, the quiet confidence that seemed to fill the space around him.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand, swiping it open almost instinctively. No messages. Your stomach sank a little, disappointment curling low in your chest. Not that you were expecting anything—not really. Still, you’d exchanged numbers. It wasn’t unreasonable to think he’d reach out. A simple “good morning” or a follow-up joke from last night. Something.

But the screen stayed blank.

With a huff, you tossed the phone aside, telling yourself it didn’t matter. You barely knew him. He owed you nothing. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the slight pang of rejection. Shaking off the feeling, you got out of bed and set about your day, throwing yourself into work to keep your mind from wandering too much.

The next few days passed in a blur of tasks and deadlines. You kept busy—busier than usual, if only to distract yourself from the lingering thoughts of LaMelo. You told yourself you weren’t thinking about him, that you didn’t care whether he texted or not. But every time your phone buzzed, your heart betrayed you, skipping a beat before you realized it was just an email or a message from Lilah.

By midweek, you’d all but convinced yourself to forget about him entirely. Clearly, whatever connection you thought you’d felt hadn’t been mutual. And that was fine. Disappointing, sure, but fine. You’d move on. You always did.

It was late afternoon when it happened. You were sitting at your desk, half-focused on your laptop while sipping from a cup of tea. Your phone vibrated on the table beside you, a faint buzz you almost ignored. But something made you glance over.

One new message.

You picked up the phone, the screen lighting up in your hand. And there it was.

hey, it’s lamelo

Two words. That was all it took to send your heart into an unreasonably giddy tailspin. You stared at the message, your mind scrambling for a response even as your pulse quickened. You tried to play it cool, telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal. But the stupid smile tugging at your lips betrayed you completely.

For a moment, you just held the phone, rereading the message as if it might disappear. Finally, you started typing back, deleting and retyping several times before settling on a response.

hi, took you long enough

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the send button. Was that too flirty? Too casual? But before you could overthink it any further, you hit send, the message disappearing into the ether.

The wait for his reply felt endless, though it couldn’t have been more than a minute. When your phone buzzed again, your heart leapt.

had to make sure you’d still be interested

You laughed out loud, shaking your head at his audacity. It was classic LaMelo—cocky but somehow charming enough to pull it off.

and what if i wasn’t? you shot back, your fingers flying over the keyboard.

His response came almost immediately.

guess i’d have to work harder to change your mind

You smiled, biting your lip to keep from grinning too widely. If there was one thing LaMelo knew how to do, it was keep you on your toes. And, despite yourself, you realized you were more than okay with that.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[hathay]

first years playing ‘just dance’ hc’s

(just a small little fun rambling)

♡ace♡

- takes it so seriously (because it was literally his idea)

- dances his little heart out (he’s literally fucking sweating someone please tell him he’s not gonna get an award for beating everyone)

- competes with all the other first years and gets so upset if they beat him

- a showoff. he wants everyone to be jealous of how bad he beats them

- secretly tries to record the others to try and blackmail them

- wants to play all the time. y’all are just hanging around ramshackle doing nothing? guess we have no choice but to play ‘just dance’ ace says

♤deuce♤

- honestly doesn’t wanna play at first

- but…once ace taunts him about beating his ass in the game, he’s all for it

- he’s very stiff if we’re being honest,

- he’s so hesitant he doesn’t wanna look stupid and wants to get the moves right

- he stresses out bad at first because he just wants to be so good at it

- he has a lot of fun though it turns into so many laughs for them

❆epel❆

- is so excited

- dances so viciously

- he is EVERYWHERE

- (def gave ace a bloody nose once after swinging his wii remote right into his face)

- is FORCED to wear a wii remote strap attached to his wrist

- will be so absolutely smug if he beats everyone (it’s what he deserves)

☾jack☾

- you want him to what?

- jk he def knows what just dance is he has little siblings who have forced him to play

- with his siblings he’d just stand there and move his one arm (and somehow win against them regardless)

- but with the other first years?? he tries so hard after ace challenges him saying he wouldn’t be able to beat him anyways

- at first he’s so stiff but he actually surprisingly has good rhythm if he’d just let his guard down a little

- (he doesn’t wanna look silly yk how he is)

- totally ends up a sweaty mess ready to keep dancing even after everyone is completely slumped

♞sebek♞

- ur funny. he’s so stiff.

- sure he may know how to fancy dance, but fun letting loose dancing??? forget it

- he will try though.

- it will take so much convincing but he’s the same as the other guys, once called a few taunting and challenging names, he’s red in the face and ready to make the other first years eat their words

- (lowkey wishes he was winning but won’t tell anyone)

- will not by any means admit he is having a great time

- he’s definitely gonna tell silver about the “extreme exercise” he went through with the first years and how he “dominated them by any means” (he ranked the lowest)

[a-twistedheartslonging]

For the nonhuman au

For context: a lot of animals have fastly different ways to court and even different stages of this. It's fun to imagine how the different guys try to suggest stuff and get confused. Namely for those that are camp “play wrestle, play bite, yell and chase” like deer wolverines badgers etc versus camp “don't make eye contact, long distance feeding in case she GETS you, and boop and be ready to run away” like spiders octopi and hyenas. Plus how depending on the species, there's definitely vastly different ideas on traditional gender stereotypes (like in many species the female is the bigger and stronger one) which could definitely mean there's a big buff guy who looks at Epel with envy because epel would be Traditional Man to their species. Anyways with regards to this, it's fun to think about all the confusion that could happen since there's so many different courting/mating behaviors. For harpies, getting backrubs and having someone help with decorating or making the bed is very much serious (nesting behavior and showing keen interest). Not too sure how the whole tier list would work for some (since there's definitely different ways for courtship but also translating that to thinking social beings). for example, Octopus Azul and Spider Idia a need to make sure their mate has eaten before approaching however this translates to them likely ordering you food rather than being there in person or possibly ordering food and standing a bit of distance. They don't actually think you're gonna eat them but man does their instincts jack up their anxiety if they don't do certain things like how humans have a fight or flight response but this response can get tripped up by an email except it's a giant drider and an octomer getting supremely anxious if you've eaten and if you're mad at them. Anyways I'm also thinking how Idia might drum to gauge interest and how humans mimic stuff and especially beats/rhythms and now he's wondering who's courting who and who's trying to top.

It's hilarious to imagine Idia getting kinda competitive and now he's competitive flirting with you. It's all fun and games because he IS trying to get with you but also he's in a niceness and affection competition lol

Does make me think who would be competitively chivalrous with you

Competitive chivalry list

-Sebek (he's INVESTED. High-key likes the pampering but also he's getting you back - positive connotation. Canonically he does get competitive about stuff in a cute way. "I'll show you the power of my gift giving skills" type of guy)

-Malleus (he's a silly and proud guy so he wants to prove himself but also he's kinda childish about stuff)

- Rook (having a blast, he doesn't mind who “wins” but he is putting his all into this because he's not gonna half ass it)

- Jade (high key invested, gets kinda petty about some stuff but also he really really likes the pampering)

(these three are low-key actually invested in winning but also they're fine as long as you get together)

-Epel

-Vil

-Leona

Pardon the ramblyness

I love this, especially the Idia of Idia ordering me food and having it delivered as a way to try and rizz me.

The boys end up getting competitive when the confused human drums back, like hey he's the guy so he is supposed to drum, and then he thinks they are trying to be the guy in the situation/top when doing that.

[milksnake-tea]

━━ 4:00:00 A.M.

in which silver wolf and sunday realize they have more in common than they'd originally thought. 2.1k words.

It’s just about 4:00:00 system time when Silver Wolf finds herself pulling yet another all-nighter.

Sleep doesn’t come easily to her; as much as she needs it (much to her chagrin, as unfortunate as it is, she is painfully human and thus needs sleep as everyone else does), she often finds herself staying well into the wee hours of the night with her room shrouded in darkness and her face illuminated by her various consoles and monitors.

She stifles a yawn as her thumbs move on autopilot across the rhythm game she has up on her phone. To any normie, the bright colors and flashing lights would’ve given them a seizure with how rapidly they blinked. But Silver Wolf is already starting to get bored of it - even at this speed, the game was too boring, too slow.

There’s little to no joy as the victory screen flashes. With a sigh and a stretch of her arms, Silver Wolf leans back in her chair.

She’s bored, so incredibly bored.

Nothing interesting is happening anymore. It’s like the cosmos has gone dead-silent, waiting for the next update or patch to come. Except unlike with games, Silver Wolf can’t just leave this reality and pick up another one.

She stares up at the ceiling despite the lack of light. It isn’t like anyone’s awake at this time, either. Firefly might be, but she’s off in a whole ‘nother star system and probably doesn’t feel like having some fun - not after Penacony. Blade’s knocked out, and Silver Wolf would eat her shoe before she asked Kafka of all people to game.

That leaves two people: Elio, and the new recruit.

And Elio hasn’t left his man-cave for the last three weeks - not like Silver Wolf would play with him, anyways. He’s got to be one of the most boring players of all time; he already knows everything that’s going to happen, and so he’s never lost.

As for Sunday, well…

She raises her hand and violet-blue screens materialize at her fingertips. She sorts through the base’s security camera feeds (made by yours truly), scrolling mindlessly until she spots something, no, someone in the hall outlooking the cosmos.

She grins. Perfect.

With a cartoonish popping noise, she teleports right besides Sunday so she can speak in his ear.

“Whatcha looking at?”

Sunday jumps, wings flaring like a deer in highlights. He unfortunately doesn’t scream in absolute terror, nor does he jump back with a face so scandalized it would rival that of the oldest and most traditional of great-great-grandparents.

Silver Wolf bites her lip to hide her disappointment. Indifferently, she tilts her head and lands neatly on the floor besides Sunday.

As soon as he gets his bearings back, Sunday sighs with a pointed look. “Was that really necessary?”

“Of course,” Silver Wolf snickers, planting her hands on her hips. 

She kind of hates how she has to crane her neck up to look at him - over three years of working with the Hunters, and she’s yet to find someone who wasn’t taller than her. And she’s been drinking a lot of milk, too (never let Kafka find out. If she did, Silver Wolf was going to throw herself off the top of Pier Point)!

“You didn’t answer my question, though. What’re you doing up so late, Mr. Wings?”

If Sunday cares for her nickname, he doesn't show it. He rarely shows anything. “I could say the same to you, Miss Silver Wolf.”

“Well, since you’re new, I’ll let this slide. But it’s pretty well-known around here that I don’t exactly need sleep.”

Sunday raises a brow. “Is that right?”

Thinly veiled amusement laces his tone. He obviously doesn’t believe her.

“You don’t have to believe me,” she shrugs, feigning indifference. “Isn’t the fact that I’m here proof in of itself?”

Her eye twitches when Sunday insteads lets out a breathy chuckle, the corner of his eyes crinkling. Time and time again, Silver Wolf has been looked down on because of her stature and young age, and many more times she’s used that to her advantage. She’s been called a child, immature, a brat - all by people she would eventually bring down with ease.

But for some reason, she doesn’t see that condescending gaze in Sunday’s eyes. No, it’s something different - something… warm, and fond.

It creeps her the hell out.

“It’s rude to stare,” she clips, crossing her arms. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you that?”

Sunday’s gaze becomes downcast. Shit. Did she say something she shouldn’t have?

“My parents were…”

Fuck.

“You don’t have to finish that,” she interrupts hastily. Sunday shakes his head.

“No, it’s alright.” 

Looking up to the great vastness of the universe, Sunday’s eyes become unfocused, as if gazing upon something far, far into the distance, something that couldn’t be seen by the naked eye.

“My parents left me at a very early age due to the Stellaron Crisis,” he begins. Internally sighing, Silver Wolf falls silent. “For as long as I’ve ever known, Robin was the only person I had. We did everything together, from our lessons to sneaking out at night to watch the stars.”

“You? Sneak out?” Silver Wolf raises a brow. Maybe he isn’t as uptight as she thought he was.

“It was mainly Robin’s idea, although I was more of a troublemaker than I am now.”

“You’re a wanted criminal.”

“That’s besides the point.”

Well, at least there’s potential. Silver Wolf wouldn’t know what to do if she had a religious prick with a stick up his ass as a coworker… he’d be fun to tease, but that’s it. Regardless, she nods for him to continue.

“Anyways, it goes without saying that Robin was… is very important to me. All I ever wanted was for her to be happy, even if it meant that Gopher Wood would target me instead of her. And… as much as I owe to Gopher Wood, he wasn’t the kindest of father figures.”

He turns his head slightly to meet Silver Wolf’s eyes. She hopes that her expression is normal.

“So, forgive me, if I haven't learnt anything my parents should’ve taught me.”

Whatever sympathy Silver Wolf had shrinks quite quickly. Her face drops into a pout.

“Alright, geez,” she groans, stretching her arms. “I’m sorry, okay? I said something insensitive.”

Sunday hums. “Are you really?”

Her pout drops into a glower. “If you’re thinking of making me grovel, think again. I’m not going to stoop that low.”

“Alright, alright,” Sunday concedes with a smile. “I forgive you.”

There’s something in the way he speaks that makes it so that she doesn’t even want to grace him with a response. Turning her cheek with a huff, she joins him in watching as the nebulae pass by.

For a moment, the world is still. Silence envelops the base, and the only sound is a distant soundtrack of classical music.

Then, for reasons she doesn’t know herself, she speaks.

“You know, I also had a sibling.”

In the reflection of the window, she sees Sunday’s brows raise with intrigue. Warmth rushing to her cheeks, she coughs and hastily continues. By the End, why did she ever think this was a good idea?

“Well, they weren’t as much a sibling as they were a coworker. But they were the only one who could ever keep up with me. I’ve yet to meet another person like them, and I doubt that I ever will. They were like a 5-star artifact that rolled into all of the right substats.”

“You say ‘were’,” Sunday observes carefully. “Have they…?”

“They’re not dead,” Silver Wolf says bluntly. “They just left. I see them sometimes, but they don’t remember me.”

Sunday’s gaze becomes lidded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Silver Wolf waves him off. If he’s about to get all sappy or therapist-y with her, she doesn’t want part in any of it. “It was going to happen one way or another. It was in the script.”

“Still, isn’t it lonely?”

Lonely?

Silver Wolf doesn’t know what to make of that word. Loneliness implied the lack of companions, of which she has many - excluding the Hunters, she has Friend, Demon Lord, White Collar, and Servant. They are the ones who have been with her ever since her days in that dingy old fast-food restaurant. With them around, she was never alone.

But that doesn’t seem to be what Sunday is asking.

“I don’t know,” she says nonchalantly. “It is boring without them, though.”

Sunday doesn’t reply. The silence returns, but this time with a heavier weight. Her chest constricts - she wants to sigh, but holds herself back.

It’s stupid, anyways, to grieve for someone who never left. She still sees them, after all. They just… don’t like her as much as they used to.

A memory she’s tried to bury comes to mind - the Astral Express’s cabin, a hologram, and a distrustful gaze, and a word that haunts her more than she’d like to admit: Intruder.

Ugh, whatever. She knew it would happen; Elio had warned her. She’d read the script. She’d taken their memories herself. She even made fun of Kafka when they didn’t fully remember her.

She’s being stupid - maybe this is why Blade always told her to not stay up too late. Emotions are dumb, and she does not have the time to deal with them-

There’s a gentle weight on her head, and then a soft rustling of her hair. Silver Wolf bluescreens.

“It isn’t a sin to miss someone,” Sunday offers softly. “Nor is it a weakness. All it means is that you treasured that person deeply.”

“I know,” Silver Wolf mutters. She hates how her throat has become a little choked up. Slapping his hand away, she shoots him a disgruntled look. “I’m not a child, by the way. You don’t have to treat me like one.”

“My apologies,” Sunday chuckles, returning his hand behind his back. “I’m afraid I got a tad bit carried away. I do hope you can forgive me, Miss Silver Wolf.”

“Whatever,” Silver Wolf sighs, dusting off her hair in a meager attempt to get it back in line. “And you don’t have to call me that.”

“Call you what?”

“Miss. It sounds stuffy. Just call me Silver Wolf, like everyone else does.”

“Not everyone, though,” Sunday points out, mirth glimmering in his eyes. “If I recall correctly, doesn’t Miss Kafka refer to you as-”

“Call me ‘Wolfie’, and I’ll drop you off at the IPC. ”

“Point taken.”

Silver Wolf squints. She doesn’t like Sunday’s tone, still patronizing as ever - but maybe that’s just how he talks. Eh, who cares. He isn’t the only one who talks weird - Kafka would give him a run for his money.

In search of some sort of stimulation, her phone materializes in her hands and she starts up yet another game - that Origami Bird game that she’d dueled against them with.

As always, she opts for PVP - Aeons know how dull the A.I.’s playing style is. But barely one minute in, and she already finds herself itching for something new.

“Is that from Penacony?”

Silver Wolf nearly jumps out of her skin, but thankfully, she manages to play it off well. Sunday is looking just over her shoulder, intrigue barely noticeable but still present.

“Yeah,” she says, shifting away slightly so that he doesn’t breathe on her. “Got launched a few days after you got arrested. Wanna play?”

Surprise flickers briefly over his dove-like features. “I… I suppose I could; although, I do have to warn you - it has been quite some time since I’ve picked up a video game.”

“Really?” Silver Wolf wrinkles her nose as she hands him one of her consoles. “What do you do in your free time, then?”

Sunday blinks. Silver Wolf blinks back.

“My what?”

Silver Wolf visibly cringes.

“Good grief, how are you worse than Blade?” She blows a raspberry, starting up the game. Atop her head, her holographic origami bird flutters to life, nestling into her hair comfortably. A few moments, and soon Sunday's own avatar materializes with a gentle coo. “Alright, whatever. Get the tutorial done, and then I’ll PVP you.”

“Ah, alright. How do I do that again-?”

Does he even know what PVP means? She doubts it. But as the familiar theme song begins to play, the chirps of the holographic birds fill up the empty silence, and she once again finds herself in the motions of teaching someone to play, she can hardly bring herself to care.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

tags: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo

[slay00ryu]

Hi!! Hope you're doing good! :) Can you write a mute MC x Ronin fanfic? (they had a lot of vc during the game, it would be nice to have them play truth or dare). Thank you <3

The Devil is your voice.

You were tapping a rhythm on your desk nervously. You have just received a invite to some wacky server on dark web. It was strange truly, you just wanted someone to tell you how killing with a crowbar worked, but now you were being invited to a community? Maybe people with interests similar to your would be there?

You sighed, one of the only sounds that ever left your mouth and didn't sound weird or muffled because of your disability. Yes, you're mute. You visited more doctors and therapists since your muteness was found out than any adult in your family ever had.

You didn't have many friends, not a lot od people wanted to speak to the weird quiet kid who always sat alone and had some form of special treatment. Solitude does strange things to people, for you it was hyperfixating on murderers and stories about them. You were in love with the gore, a murder didn't need voice to be gruesome and intriguing, that's what you loved the most about it.

You clicked the link. Filled in the password that the random person sent and a copy-paste version of Discord was in front of your eyes now.

goreboy: welcome new christanaised @user!

hitmeuppp: WELCOME TO HELL

More welcoming messages were sent by the server's members. You watched it all in confusion, no one was so welcoming to you before. It felt pleasant. Even if they were greeting you because they wanted to be polite, it made you smile a little bit. It's definitely the loneliness that made you so excited because of a few silly greetings.

user: Hello :)

goreboy: don't Forget to check #rules

goreboy: there's barely Anything there but yk

You clicked on the rules channel, it would be best to follow their rules especially after the wam welcome. You were expecting a long list of rules, but what you saw exceeded all your expectations.

goreboy: be a serial killer, First rule of fight club. oh yeah and don't Be transphobic, racist and other weird shit. or angel will Snipe you.

Angelic: And it's not a threat, it's a promise.

. . . What.

Serial killers? No, that has to be a joke. Right?

You spent weeks in the server, and it turns out that these are real serial killers. The Butcher, The Heartsick Angel and some more. You were positively horrified? Yes, they could discover you and kill you, but you could gain more knowledge to your book. The only risk you're facing is losing your life, and it's only if you won't play the game right.

The person who stuck in your mind the most was goreboy, also known as The Butcher, or Ronin. He held his surname as a secret, you weren't too angry about it, you had a secret on your own too, or more than one secret actually.

You decided to hide the fact that you're mute, you were worried that they would treat you like other people did. There was one big problem tho, the killers really wanted you to join voice calls with them and you couldn't just give them half assed excuses, right? To your surprise every time they wanted to call with you, Ronin appeared from nowhere to save you.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: Hey dude hop on call with us!!!! @user

hitmeuppp: yeah! we have to hear you :3

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

While you were struggling to find a new excuse, Ronin decided to come out and save you... again.

goreboy: sorry folks

goreboy: the devil Is on the Line rn

You were surprised every time he did that. Why would Ronin keep on saving you? What's there in it for him?

You decided to send him a dm, it's time to face the devil.

user: Why are you doing this?

goreboy: doin' what?

goreboy: saving your ass? well it's not fun to watch you think of a Magical excuse

goreboy: Unfortunately they stopped working, killers are ready To attack

goreboy: and trust me, Eight murderers at your ass? that's not fun.

You read his messages, it made sense right? But wait... how did he know about the excuses being lies? His style of texting infatuated you too. Why the capital letters in the middle of a sentence?

You remembered Angel saying something about Ronin hiding messages like that. You decided to follow it and read the four capitalized letters.

Mute.

oh.

oh no. He knows.

goreboy is calling.

You didn't even have time to panic, Ronin didn't wait around, he just called. Well it's good to see the person who can be a serious threat to you, how the saying goes; keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

You picked up. A guy with plum coloured hair hidden under a beanie with red horns was looking at you. His eyes black and empty, like two black holes ready to swallow you.

< Hey darling. >

He signed. It was slow, like he tried t be careful about his movements. It felt like he was fairly new at this, the floppiness was there.

Wait.

He did what?!

Well, that was a shocker to say the least. You were looking at Ronin, your eyes widened.

< You sign? >

You signed back, sharp and fast, matching you anxiety, the first shock slowly left You were looking at Ronin's face, he was focusing his attention on your hands, then he just chuckled and shook his head.

"I assume that you asked if I know sign language? Well, I started to learn after I discovered your little issue."

He admitted, a smirk glued to his face. He was amused. You were amusing to him...

You sighed, guess you'll have to type most of your questions.

user: How do you know about this?

He read your message and then looked back at you.

"Wasn't hard. You should be careful about the links your click, Y/N."

So grabbing your IP wasn't just a joke. Does it mean that he knows everything? No, if he did you would be dead, he would know that you are not a serial killer.

user: Why are you keeping my secret?

He didn't answer your question. He just looked into your eyes.

"Why do you?"

And with that he hang up. Great, that's definitely a good sign. A good sign to look for a coffin.

Before you could notice two months had passed since you joined the server, Ronin was now officially shipped with you by half of the server, and he didn't argue with them. He messaged you and called you, he did some progress with his sign language, even invented some unique signs just for the two of you.

"Hey, let's play truth or dare."

He said while the two of you were on call, you raised your eyebrow at him and he just chuckled.

"Don't give me that look, I won't dare you to confess your deepest darkest secrets darling."

You sighed and shook your head in disbelief.

< Fine. Truth or dare? >

Your hand movements were slower than usual. Yeah, Ronin could understand some of the language, but your usual pace was too fast for him to catch up with it. You weren't going to give him the upper hand here, so you asked first.

"Truth."

There were a lot of questions you wanted to ask him, about his work, motives, reasons, but one question in particular was above all of these.

user: Are you and Angel a thing?

That question was boiling in your mind. You needed to know, inspiration or not, you didn't want to write about or romance anyone who is dating, especially when their partner is a dangerous serial killer.

Ronin frowned at the question, looking away with a slight blush.

"Hah, so you noticed... Yes and no. Yeah I used to date Angel, nah we're not a thing. She taught me a lot, gave me love... closure too."

He looked back at you and smirked.

"Don't you dare tell her this sappy bullshit or you'll be fish feed."

You nodded. His answer lifted a wight off of your shoulders. Not like you had any chances with Ronin, you doubt that someone like him would like you, someone who can't talk.

"My turn. Truth or dare darling?"

He asked, you signed < dare > in response.

"Go to main, and tell'em you're obsessed with me."

Well that was an unexpected dare, but who were you to not indulge the devil in his schemes?

#main:

user: I'm obsessed with Ronin :3

Aaand sent. Time to watch the hell's gate open.

hitmeuppp: OMG WHAT

Angelic: Even I wasn't so shameless

felicite: @goreboy someone left a confession for you

goreboy: guess my Devilish charm is Working heh

"Hah! That's a good one."

He said.

You played two more rounds before the final one.

"So, 's the last round. I'm going for dare."

You thought for a second, something silly and stupid, no need to stay all serious.

user: made me a server mod ;p

"Oh hide that smug-mug."

He chuckled once he looked at your proud smile. Ronin really took pride in watching your expressions, how your mouth was forming into a smile or a scowl, your nose wrinkled when you were thinking or annoyed, or your eyes lit up when he was showing the signs the learned.

"Done."

And he hang up.

You checked and holy shit! You really are a mod now.

That was a shocker, but you couldn't expect Ronin to act rationally or be predictable, so it wasn't that weird to receive that role from him.

Ronin was really into playing his little mind games with you. Trying to irritate you to see different emotions on your face, getting you so angry that you will make sounds like groans and loud sighs, it was satisfying him. He knew that pushing you to say words would be too much, he didn't need you to speak anyway. Learning other ways to communicate or read you were a challenge, and the devil never backed away from any challenge.

December. A time for Christmas and what not. You were sitting by your desk, adding finishing touches to one of the reports you had to send back to your boss soon, at least as a news writer you didn't have to worry about talking.

You noticed how some of the killers were less active in their murderous escapades, maybe other than Angel and Ronin, Angel dropped six kills one day and Ronin, well you could feel how his murders were more of an anger outburst? Like he was hiding something in the massacred bodies.

user: Ronin are you free to talk?

You rarely asked him to call, it was mostly Ronin who did that, he called you out of the blue and talked, showing you the new signs he learned and followed your "instructions" when you noticed that one of the sign was floppier than the rest.

He got really good with signing now, you didn't have to type as much as you did before, his learning source must've been really good or expensive, or both, for him to get this well so quickly.

He wasn't replying for a while, but you could swear that he was burning a hole in his computer screen with his stare. Finally the devil graced you with a reply.

goreboy: oh you're Asking for a Call?

goreboy: how can i Ever say No to this?

user: Srs? A Hamilton ref?

goreboy: jus call me already darl

And you did. Ronin's face was in front of you now. He didn't look so himself? That devil-may-care attitude was less noticeable, maybe for a regular person he would look the same, but you learned to notice small details in people's body language and expressions.

< Are you okay? >

Your hands moved smoothly, still slower than normally but you didn't have to be so careful about every sign.

"Jus the season."

He said with a shrug. His eyes showed exhaustion, and just how upset he was.

"Nah, I don't want to talk about that."

It's like he read your mind, you wanted to ask about it, but his answer made you drop it.

"What'dya wanted to talk about?"

He asked, titling his head to the side and looking at the mask in his hand, some fresh blood was on it.

< You just killed someone, haven't you? >

"And what if I did? That fucking pastor deserved to die anyway."

You heard it, there was anger laced under his act. He was angry, but it wasn't the pastor, no. It was something way deeper than that.

You were jealous of Ronin, or rather of anyone who could speak freely. Yeah, you're used to not talking, but expressing yourself through more than how your hands moved or what kind of expression you had was something you desired.

"Thinking how much you yearn to speak, hm darling?"

Ronin asked, his chin resting on his palm as he looked at you, His gaze was knowing, like he could read you like an opened book.

< I just want people to understand me better Ronin. >

Your hands were shaking a little bit, your emotions were guiding you to spill everything out.

< I don't want to hide myself anymore, but what if they won't understand? What if I won't be accepted? >

The rest of your killer friends were on your mind, you hated refusing the voice calls, you hated hiding this secret. Okay you were lying about being a killer, but this was something that you had to do in order to survive.

"Then spill your guts."

Ronin's voice broke through the barrier of your mind and brought you back.

"Jus spill it. If they like you they will understand, and if they don't accept then they're assholes. You're not the only disabled one here."

You could guess who he was talking about. A sigh left your lips. He was right.

< Thank you Ronin, I hope that you will be willing to tell me whatever you're dealing with one day too. >

This call was short, but it was helpful. You saw a more raw side of Ronin and he helped you make up your mind...

On the New Year's Eve you decided to confess your disability to the server, so maybe now they would understand why you were avoiding the calls so much.

user: Hey guys. I wanted to tell you all something. I can't hide it anymore. The reason why I never agreed to the voice calls is because I am mute. I'm sorry for not saying sooner, I had some unpleasant situations with people after my confession.

You sent the message and in nerves started to look at other chats to see if you didn't miss any messages... Then the first ! showed up next to #main and you had to click it.

goreboy: they're not lying folks

Well at least Ronin took your side here.

K9: I understand.

Ah yes, the simple answer from V, no excitement or disappointment, just a simple sign of acceptance coming from the vigilante.

Angelic: I'm happy to know that you trust us enough to share this <3

After three more encouraging messages you broke down, tears running down your cheeks. It was the first time anyone has shown you this much acceptance and encouragement. Hell, they even apologised for pushing you so much. You wanted to thank them so much, but your vision was too blurry to type.

You calmed down after a while, the first thing you noticed was an unread message from Ronin in your chat with him.

goreboy: see? told Ya they would accept.

You smiled at the message and replied.

user: Thanks Ronin, I mean it.

goreboy: anything for you darling

His answered got you to roll your eyes and smile a little. What an annoyingly sweet asshole he was.

Headcanons <3

Ronin will rile you up, he wants to see your expressions and body language change. Maybe he can't hear you but he will for sure watch and read you.

If you use a notebook to communicate he will take your pens away and nudge your head with it, a proud grin stuck to his face.

If someone acts like an asshole to you because of your disability he sure is ready to send their heads flying. "They can't speak, but I fucking will."

He learned sign language since the moment he found out that you're mute, but he is still not perfect with it, to make his life easier you agreed to make some signs just for the two of you.

Since you can't use words, you use different way of showing Ronin your care and love, his favourite is touch - him being touch starved.

He would never push you into learning saying any words, be it his name or anything else, he knows that it's a struggle and he won't put you through that.

I hope you liked it <3

Sorry for not updating as much :(

Love you pookies <33

- N ;p

[leathfaic]

Ghost is a man who never needed to do much to draw attention when he goes clubbing. His impressive frame ensures he gets plenty of attention. That natural air of authority honed over years as a commanding officer ensuring he has his space if he wants it, unwanted approaches stopped before they even begin.

Still lots of eyes stick to him casually leaning against the bar. Always had an easy pick of those brave enough to approach him. Even before the scars in his face he attracted a certain type, the twinks that wanted to be thrown around, bears wanting to play with someone in their own weight class they weren't sure they could out-wrestle and everyone in between who just likes tall, strong blondes. Ever since the scars that has only intensified, might be that he loses out on some vain types, but the daredevils flock to him even more now.

So really he can't complain. He's not the biggest fan of the places, avoids scrungy punky ones altogether for very personal reasons, but they serve their purpose. Finding a quick lay mostly. Sometimes just enjoying a space where he's not the only gay man for miles and miles.

When he starts to go clubs with Soap though, it becomes a very different experience.

First of all he's not looking to take anyone home or to a convenient dark corner.

No, he's here because Johnny likes dancing and what Johnny wants he usually gets. Simon could never deny him anything.

So there is no one Ghost is looking at but Soap. And bloody fucking hell it is worth looking.

Johnny's easy confidence bleeds off of him and mixed with his natural charm he commands the entire rooms attention. His body helps, sure, sculpted muscles barely hidden by a mesh shirt and jeans so tight there's nothing left to the imagination, but there's plenty of good looking men around.

None of them carry themselves like Soap does though.

He watches as Soap enters the dance floor, seeming to melt into the beat. Dancing as effortlessly as he cleans an entire building of hostiles. A fucking vision in strobing lights as he let's the rhythm dictate his movements. Wide fucking smile painted on his face.

People flock to him, wind themselves around him in more or less proficient dance moves, probably hoping to leave an impression over the gaggle of obvious suitors.

Soap toys with them, dancing with those he finds entertaining, neatly sidestepping those he doesn't. Bathing in the attention of wandering hands and lips.

Ghost wonders if they can feel how dangerous of a man he really is. If they can smell the slight hint of sulfur from the demolitions workshop he's been crammed in all day. If they can see the edge in his eyes, that predatory glint of a man trained to kill walking through a crowd of unaware civilians.

Most probably can't.

Some who can probably find it exciting.

In the end none of it matters anyways.

Because it is Ghost's gaze that Johnny seeks when another man winds around him, littering his neck with kisses. And it's on Ghost's wordless command that he abandons the crowd of hopefuls. Meandering over to him, well aware of all the looks following him as he sprawls himself in Simon's lap unabashedly.

It's a unique rush of power having the man they all want at his beck and call. To take a sip of whisky and shamelessly kiss it into his mouth. Making sure just a little spills over painting a golden line for him to lick up.

Keeping his eyes on the crowd and bathing in their envy, their hunger and their shock.

He indulges for a few minutes, let's Soap shower him in affection while keeping him and the room in check with his dominance over the situation.

It's a game they both know Ghost will lose down the line, will drag Soap out of the club like his life depends on it. Maybe throw him over his shoulder just to make a point.

But not yet. Now he makes sure Soap drinks some water and sends him off again with a well aimed slap to his arse.

And Johnny smiles bright and wide. Drifting into the crowd, the crowd that is apprehensive at first but before long they can't help themselves. There's some wary glances shot at Simon, but his ongoing indifference seems to embolden them. Crowding Soap like moths would a light.

And Ghost finds himself suddenly enjoying clubs a whole lot more. Revelling in Soap's obvious bliss and the knowledge that the man who drives the whole dance floor senseless will follow him in the blink of an eye.

Let them get their hopes up, he's got nothing to fear, to be jealous over because he knows the only thing that matters:

Soap commands the whole room without even trying, but Ghost is the only one who commands his attention.

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

— TOM GLYNN-CARNEY INTERVIEW FOR VOGUE SINGAPORE MAGAZINE.

OBVIOUSLY HE'S AT A VASTLY DIFFERENT POINT OF HIS LIFE RIGHT NOW. HOW DID YOU GOING ABOUT APPROACHING THIS CHANGE WITH AEGON?

"He’s finding his footing as king and working out what kind of king he wants to be. From an acting perspective, I’m working it out with him and trying not to make too many decisions about how it’s going to unfold, or how he’s going to deal with certain situations. I’m kind of just taking it as it comes because that’s what he does. He doesn’t think things through very much. He’s very impulsive. So I’m trying to approach the work in a similar way."

I THINK IT'S THIS IMPULSIVENESS OF HIS THAT MAKES AEGON REALLY FUN TO WATCH AS A VIEWER. WHAT HAS IT BEEN LIKE PLAYING SOMEONE LIKE HIM, A CHARACTER THAT'S VERY MUCH LIKE A VULNERABLE VILLAIN?

"That’s good way of putting it, bit of both sides. It’s great. It’s a tiring thing playing someone like Aegon. His rhythm is very different to mine, he’s quick and frantic. And I feel like my usual default rhythm is a lot slower than his. So yeah it’s physically and emotionally quite challenging. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s the aim of the game, to push yourselves out of your comfort zone as actors and and take on things that make you feel out of your safety net."

HAVE YOU LEARNED TO EMPATHISE WITH HIN IN SOME WAY WHILE PLAYING THIS CHARACTER?

"Totally. I love him to pieces. I think he’s an absolute tragedy. You know, people call him a villain and all sorts of stuff. And yeah, he has been villainous in the past, but I think he’s desperately sad and clawing for any scrap of validation or love or acknowledgement from anyone. Yeah, he’s desperately sad actually [laughs]."

CAN VIEWERS EXPECT TO SEE A DIFFERENT SIDE OF AEGON IN S2?

"I think so. I think we see a fragility to him this time. We see the broken little boy in him. We see the tragedy in him. For me, it kind of explains and informs why he behaves and why he has behaved the way he has behaved in previous episodes. The idea is that he is not just a cold, dark character. It spawns from something and that’s what I’ve tried to bring to him. I think in episode one of Season 2, we see a levity and some humour from him. We see some joie de vivre, but you know it all comes crashing down."

WHAT HAS THE TRAINING AND PREPARATION BEEN LIKE FOR S2?

"The pre-production stuff is always useful, even just to make sure that you’re feeling fit and strong and able to physically keep up with the requirements. I got to be careful, I don’t want to give anything away but yeah, it’s always very thorough and very beneficial to anyone who needs it. For me, it’s been more of maintaining a healthy baseline of where my body is at. I just made sure that I was eating as healthy as possible and getting as much sleep as I could. Doing a lot of yoga and stretching. Aegon puts a lot of tension in my body and I found myself getting very stiff. He walks different from me and moves different from me. It was important for me to stay loose, stay centred and flexible as best I can."