#do I miss that game every once in a while? yes

[malk1ns]

In the newer photo of geno and Nikita at the steelers game, geno's shoes have interesting velcor straps... looks like maybe his dom (sid) likes to keep geno in casual straps all the time as a possessiveness thing... yum...

so true, mystery caller. photo reference here. (for the record these are the shoes geno's wearing, but it's much more fun that they're restraints instead)

for this one i am removing nikita from the equation. sorry nikita, you're a cute kid and your dad loves you, but i can't do kink-adjacent fics with children involved even on the periphery, it makes my brain shy away like a skittish pony.

Sid doesn’t say yes to Geno going to the Christmas Day Steelers game with the rest of the guys until Geno’s sobbing so hard he’s barely coherent, choking the words out through a throat rough and swollen from where he’d taken Sid’s dick earlier.

Sid had told him to ask nicely, after all, and one of the nicest things about Geno is his mouth. And if Sid had held him down until he gagged, pulling back barely long enough to let Geno gasp in a breath before fucking into his throat again, well, Sid’s a hedonist who believes in enjoying his things to the fullest.

He does say yes eventually, though. G loves football, loves getting together with the guys in the most expensive suite at Heinz Field and yelling his head off after a few beers. And Sid likes giving Geno things he loves…provided, of course, he’s earned it.

Nursing Sid’s dick to hardness and then taking it with no complaints, mouth soft and throat open for as hard as Sid wanted to fuck his face, hands lax at his sides without even a hint of creeping towards his own groin to touch himself, definitely qualifies as earning it.

It’s too cold for Geno to wear his Polamalu jersey, even up in the suites. Sid lets Geno shower on his own in favor of digging through their closet, picking out base layers and a cream sweatshirt that makes Geno’s skin glow.

He also pulls out a set of ankle cuffs.

They’d been in fashion over a decade ago, with designers rushing out styles and fits to suit all types of pants from casual to white-tie formal, but they’re a little passé now, a little dated. Sid doesn’t care, though; the nature of their jobs and the time they need to spend apart during the summers to fulfill professional obligations mean that Geno can’t always wear a traditional collar or even wrist cuffs. Sid suggested Geno go without for convenience’s sake once; the resulting tantrum had earned him a month without orgasm and nights spent chained at the foot of Sid’s bed like a dog. He’s never asked Geno to go in public without some sign of ownership again, though, and the ankle restraints suit them both.

Sid even lets Geno dress himself for once, but when Geno makes to pick the cuffs up Sid slaps him, smiling when Geno’s mouth drops and his pupils expand. “Mine,” he says, snatching the cuffs and kneeling at Geno’s feet, biting back a smirk when Geno gasps in an unsteady breath.

He takes his time snapping the restraints into place, pulling them down over Geno’s white shoes so they’ll stand out and yanking them tighter than will be comfortable over the duration of an NFL game. By the time he gets back to his feet, wincing as his knees crack, Geno’s practically in a swoon, swaying in place with a dazed look on his face.

This is why Sid made Geno start getting ready earlier than was strictly necessary. He lets Geno suck his toes while he fixes his hair, bringing him back up when the clock says they really can’t wait any longer to leave or they’ll be late.

During the game, Sid hangs in the back of the suite. He doesn’t like being at the railing where the cameras can catch him; he likes football well enough, but missing out on individual plays in favor of having a little privacy for once is a fair exchange. He watches Geno instead.

Geno’s in fine form, jumping and screaming with every bit of forward progress and booing loudly whenever the Chiefs score. He and Ricky cook up some drinking game that they rope most of the guys into, which Sid pretends not to notice.

Karl catches on, though, elbowing Sid when Geno glances over his shoulder before tossing back the rest of his beer in response to…something that happened on the field. “Getting soft, Crosby?” he says, but he’s teasing, so Sid doesn’t bother to posture back.

He takes a small sip of his own beer, catching Geno’s eyes again and smiling. Geno’s body language practically melts in response, head tilting to one side invitingly. “Nah, he knows how long his leash is,” he replies, nudging Karl back. “If he pulls, it’s because he wants to choke.”

[emjayewrites]

The Year I Turned 25 • JK + AT (4/10)

SYNOPSIS: Grammy-winning R&B artist Y/N Y/LN, 25, is closing out the North American leg of her tour, riding high on the success of her sophomore album "The Year I Turned 24" - a raw, emotional project born from her public breakup with an NFL player. As she prepares for six weeks in Europe before the international leg of her tour, she's determined to have her own "hot girl summer," yet she’s unaware that she's about to get entangled with not one but two professional footballers - Jules Koundé and Aurélien Tchouaméni - sparking new public interest in her love life and forcing her to confront her fears about dating athletes again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

PAIRINGS: Jules Koundé x Y/N Y/LN (fc: Ayra Starr) x Aurélien Tchouaméni

WARNINGS: cursing, football b.s., not so glamorous life of a celebrity, mentions of mental illness/misogyny/slut shaming/cheating, drug use (marijuana), drinking, rotational dating, eventual smut, paragon partners/polyamory — 18+ only

TAGLIST: @irishmanwhore, @sucredreamer, @whoevenisthiz, @saturnville, @peyiswriting, @greedyjudge2, @pepfectionary, @cocobutterqwueen, @alika-4466, @julescpu, @lettersofgold, @hopefulromantic1, @a-moment-captured, @serpenttines-library, @f1-football-fiend, @purplelewlew, @elyseesarchive, @enretrogue, @2serenity0, @yeea-nah, @127hydrangeas, @sunfairyy, @pinkcatcus, @muglermami, @shelovesfootie, @bbgkoo, @greyishbach @sinflowersugar @cranberryjulce

CHAPTER 4: X Marks The Spot...

YN was curled up in her hotel bed, scrolling through her phone with a smile playing on her lips as she sent a 'congrats' text to Lewis for winning his race in Silverstone before replying to Javaughn.

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫: Made it to my conference. Already bored. Rather be back on that plane talking to you

YN: Aww poor baby. Give a lecture about Keynes to wake yourself up

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫: A sense of humor AND knowledge of economic theory? Dangerous combination

Shit the only thing I even remembered from ECON 101…

He's cute, her thoughts mused, but not French-boys cute.

Her phone buzzed again:

Jules 🇫🇷: Can I stop by? Miss your face x

YN: Yeah sure

She barely put her phone down when there was a knock. Opening the door revealed Jules with shopping bags, looking good enough to eat in shorts and a fitted tee.

"How did you know I would say yes?"

Jules set the bags on her hotel room's small dining table. "I figured you missed me as much as I missed you."

"Aw, you're so cute." She peered into the bags. "What's in there?"

"Board games and food. Wanted to make the best out of being confined to each other's rooms."

She pulled out Monopoly, UNO, and Operation, grabbing the UNO deck with a grin. "Are you good at UNO?"

"Hell yeah."

"Well I'm the best so prepare to get your ass handed to you." She climbed onto the bed, patting the space next to her.

Jules kicked off his Sambas and settled beside her while she shuffled, their shoulders brushing.

Between rounds of "Draw Four" cards and playful trash talk, Jules asked, "Do you miss home?"

"Yeah, especially my mama's cooking. No offense but German food ain't hitting like her fried chicken and mac and cheese." She detailed Sunday suppers - collard greens, cornbread, sweet potato pie.

"She cooks like this every Sunday?"

"Pssh," YN trilled her lips. "Every day. She lives with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, we've got this house in the Valley. Made it our own - got a garden with herbs and vegetables, renovated the garage into a gym. We do yoga together in the mornings. She's my best friend."

Jules' smile was soft. "That's sweet. You're really close."

"What about you and your mom?"

His eyes grew distant, fingers fidgeting with his cards. "I was an asshole growing up," he admitted, a shadow crossing his features. "But we got closer, especially since... well, I don't really know my dad." His jaw tightened slightly. "His brother reached out when I was sixteen. Met my half-siblings, but only saw my dad once or twice. He's all over the place. Most of my family - grandmother, cousins - they're in Benin."

"I feel you on the dad thing," YN said. "My sperm donor bounced when I was three. Just walked out on mama and me one day. No explanation, no nothing." She laid down a red seven. "Sometimes I wonder if he sees me on TV or hears my music and thinks 'damn, that's my kid.' But fuck him though. Mama did just fine on her own."

Jules' expression softened with understanding. "Fuck him," he agreed quietly.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ "My mom did everything too. Made sure I knew my heritage, my roots in Benin. Never really struggled with the racial identity stuff like some biracial people do."

"You're mixed?" YN feigned shock. He shot her a look before his mouth quirked into a grin, realizing she was joking. "I googled you after the photo op."

"Oh really? So you knew all of this?"

"Nah," she laid down another card, now only holding two. "Just skimmed Wikipedia. Did stalk your IG though. Feel like you can really get a vibe of someone from their social media."

"Huh," he played his hand. "And what does my IG say about me?"

"That you're a fashion girlie who takes himself way too seriously in photo shoots." His laugh filled the room just as she slapped down her card. "UNO!"

Jules looked discombobulated. "How did you–"

She batted her eyelashes adorably. "Told you to prepare to have your ass handed to you."

He muttered a curse, played his card, and watched her win. "You're cheating or something?"

"Sore loser much?" She clutched invisible pearls. "You should see me play Spades - mama made sure to teach me how to run that game."

"What is Spades?"

Her jaw dropped in shock. "What? How do you not know Spades? Have you not been to any cookouts–"

His wide, toothy grin gave him away.

"Your face!" he pointed, laughing uncontrollably.

YN squinted mock-angrily. "You almost had me, Jules Olivier."

That sobered him slightly. "Ooh middle name? Let me guess, you read that on Wikipedia?"

"Among other things. Like how they say you're 5'11" but you're more like 5'10"."

"5'10" and a half," he corrected.

"Oh wow," she deadpanned.

"Yeah, that half-inch makes a difference," he grinned​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​, adding a wink.

YN smiled at him, letting out a soft sigh. "Nothing like trauma bonding over daddy issues".

"My therapist would call this a breakthrough moment," Jules quipped back perfectly.

A freak AND gets dark humor? her thoughts swooned. The perfect man doesn't exi–

They then moved to the table for ramen, Jules telling her about his post-Euros plans.

"Going to Japan for two weeks. Need to decompress after the tournament."

"That sounds dope."

His eyes sparkled mischievously. "You should slide through."

"To Japan?" She nearly choked on her noodles. "Nigga what?"

"It's still your Hot Girl Summer," he shrugged. "Why not?"

"You want me to stay the whole two weeks?"

"If you can. But a week is fine. I know Auré probably wants to spend time with you after the Euros too."

"Yeah, I'll think about it."

"Alright, chérie."

This man really just invited you to Japan! her intrusive thoughts screamed.

A whole international vacation, her rational side considered. That's... serious.

But watching Jules slurp his ramen, looking soft and domestic in her hotel room, she couldn't find it in herself to panic about what it meant.

All YN wanted was to rot in bed, wrapped in the hotel's fluffy duvet while binging every rom-com Netflix had to offer. She was three UberEats orders deep - having demolished a burger, then Thai food, and now picking at some döner kebab as Brown Sugar played in the background. Damari's interview on "Real Bros Talk" podcast had dropped late last night, and social media hadn't shut up since.

Her group chat with Jazmine and Dominique was blowing up with reactions, and Jermaine had already called four times about possibly releasing a statement. Even her label wanted to know if she was going to channel this into another album.

As if he deserves any more of my creative energy, she thought bitterly, shoving another fry in her mouth.

TheShadeRoom: #DamariRush opens up about his relationship with Grammy winner (you know who 👀), says he "wasn't sexually satisfied" and needed someone to "match his freak" 🤔 [Video clip attached]

view all comments...

ynglobaldom: Not him trying to shame her for being inexperienced when he got caught cheating??? ↳ popculture_tea: The projection is REAL ↳ teamdamari: Maybe if she wasn't so boring… chartdata: Her album about him went #1 though 🤷🏾‍♀️ IDC IDC minaroe: Sir you averaged 3 yards per carry AND 3 pumps max ↳ tsrfans: SCREAMING 💀 deuxmoi: Meanwhile she's living her best life in Europe…

Three-pump chump at best, her intrusive thoughts scoffed. All that gym time for what?

Exactly, her rational side agreed. What's the point of working out if you can't even use that stamina?

Her phone buzzed non-stop:

Mama 💕 Baby girl call me

Big Kyle I'm booking a flight to Cleveland rn. Just say the word

LewLew Bean Ignore that 🤡 You're thriving without him

Jules 🇫🇷 Thinking of you x. Let me know if you need anything

Aurélien 🌹 He's not worth your energy, belle. But I'll beat his ass if you want

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫 How are you doing? I would love to have dinner with you soon...

Enzo 🇮🇹 Bella, don't let him dim your light. You're magnificent x

Carina 💋 These men are trash. Come back to Florence, I'll treat you right 😘

She ignored them all, which wasn't fair to her French boys especially, but she needed peace. This summer had been transformative - teaching her about being open, exploratory, less stuck in her head (because a girl really gets in her head). She'd discovered parts of herself she never knew existed, found strength in vulnerability.

Her therapist's words echoed: "Give yourself grace. You're allowed to feel hurt, but don't let it stop your growth."

So she deleted the Instagram app, cutting off the negativity. She'd found something real in Europe - perhaps not with Jules and Aurélien, but definitely with herself.

After another hour of self-loathing and mindless Netflix, YN dragged herself up. The French national team was already on their way to Munich to prepare for their semis against Spain, and she had a six-hour private coach ride ahead of her.

Get it together, she told herself, cleaning up the UberEats carnage and shoving clothes into her suitcase.

She chose comfort for the journey - matching grey sweatsuit and slides, hair wrapped, not a stitch of makeup. The coach was basically a fancy van, but she wasn't trying to impress anyone today. Just R&R and her thoughts.

Somewhere around hour four, her phone buzzed:

🌹🇫🇷 Group Chat:

Jules 🇫🇷 Made it to Munich x. Miss your face

Aurélien 🌹 Can we see you tonight?

YN Not really in the mood boys

Jules 🇫🇷 We'll cheer you up! Got something fun planned

Aurélien 🌹 Not what you're thinking 😈

YN scoffed out loud.

Jules 🇫🇷 Be ready by 9! Wear something comfortable

She typed out another "no" but deleted it. Maybe distraction was exactly what she needed.

YN Fine. But no funny business

Aurélien 🌹 Us? Never 😏

These boys, she thought, but found herself smiling for the first time all day.

______________________________________________

YN stepped out of the Uber, pulling at her biker shorts as she stared up at the JUMP House Munich sign in confusion. She glanced between Jules and Aurélien, who both looked way too pleased with themselves.

Jules chuckled. "You told us you liked bouncy castles."

"And we even had the employees sign NDAs," Aurélien added casually.

Her eyes bugged out. What the hell? "You rented it out?" YN asked incredulously, tugging her oversized t-shirt back into place.

"Yeah, surprisingly it didn't cost that much," Aurélien shrugged, looking fine as ever even in athletic wear.

They rented it out AND made sure it wouldn't leak to social media? her rational thoughts swooned.

The bar is in HEAVEN, her intrusive thoughts agreed.

"We wanted to hang out with you and figured this would be a nice place outside of our rooms," Jules explained.

Inside was a playground of interconnected trampolines, foam pits, and obstacle courses. They headed straight for the massive free-jumping area, armed with foam balls for an every-man-for-themselves dodgeball battle.

"This is so unfair!" YN shrieked, bouncing and falling as foam balls flew at her from both directions. "Y'all are literal athletes!"

"All's fair in love and dodgeball," Jules called out, launching another attack.

"What he said," Aurélien agreed, showing absolutely no mercy.

The soccer trampoline section brought out their competitive sides. Both men started showing off, doing elaborate mid-air tricks before their kicks.

"Real humble, guys," YN rolled her eyes.

"Your turn," Jules challenged.

To everyone's surprise - including her own - YN managed to score several goals.

"Yo!" Jules' eyes widened. "Coach needs to sign her up!"

"For real," Aurélien nodded appreciatively. "Got that natural talent."

"Les Bleus could use you," Jules added. "I know people—"

"Boy, stop," YN laughed. "Singing is my gift to the world. Besides, y'all just impressed 'cause your standards are low."

"Our standards?" Aurélien raised an eyebrow. "You just scored on a goalkeeper."

"A robotic goalkeeper on a trampoline," she corrected. "Don't get excited."

But watching them bounce around like overgrown kids, demonstrating increasingly ridiculous tricks, she felt the weight of Damari's interview lifting. Sometimes healing looked like getting pelted with foam balls by two French footballers who'd rented out a trampoline park just to make her smile.

And what a smile it is, both her thoughts agreed.

"I need a break!" YN called out, bouncing off the trampoline. Her thighs were burning, but it was worth it.

The workers huddled in the corner, speaking rapid German and sneaking glances their way. She caught phrases like "Koundé" and "Nationalmannschaft." Normally it would stress her out, but those NDAs were ironclad.

Jules and Aurélien followed her to the café area, looking unfairly fresh while she was dripping sweat in very unsexy ways.

Now THIS is how you use stamina, her intrusive thoughts purred, eyeing how neither man seemed winded.

She chugged half her water bottle before speaking. "Y'all are machines or something?"

"Professional athletes, remember?" Jules grinned.

"Belle," Aurélien's eyes lit up as he spotted something across the room. "Want to try the battle box? Like American Gladiators."

YN looked at the elevated platform with foam sticks. "You want me to get up there and fight y'all? Two whole professional athletes?"

"We'll go easy–"

"Absolutely not. My ego can only take so many hits in one night."

"Your loss," he shrugged, already getting up to grab one of the foam battling sticks. "Jules?"

"Oh, you're going down," Jules jumped up, grabbing one for himself.

YN settled onto a bench, phone ready to record this foolishness. The boys squared off on the platform, circling each other like they were in an actual arena.

"Your defense is trash!" Aurélien taunted, taking a swipe that Jules barely dodged.

"Better than your aim!" Jules shot back, feinting left before striking right.

They traded French insults she couldn't understand, but their laughter echoed through the space. Watching them play-fight, seeing this unguarded side of them, YN felt a pang in her chest. Three weeks and four days left of her summer vacation. She'd miss this - miss them. The way Jules' eyes crinkled when he really laughed. How Aurélien's smirk softened when he thought no one was looking.

Maybe they'll let you spin the block when the mood hits, her intrusive thoughts suggested.

"Ha!" Aurélien knocked Jules off balance. "That's what happens when you talk too much shit!"

"Oh, fuck you! Rematch!" Jules demanded, already climbing back up.

For once, both her rational and intrusive thoughts agreed: these French boys were worth keeping around. Even after summer ended, even after she went back to reality.

"YN!" Jules called out. "Come referee!"

"No way! Y'all are too competitive–"

"Please?" They both turned those eyes on her.

Definitely worth keeping, she thought, getting up to play referee despite her better judgment.

_______________________________________________

YN found herself in Aurélien's hotel suite. She couldn't believe what was happening - another date night (hangout?) with her two French baguettes, but this felt different than all the others.

The night started off normal - JUMP house, coming back and ordering room service, chatting the shit, laughing, watching movies.

However, as usual, whenever they were together, things got heated and she now was standing in her bra and panties in front of them.

"You're thinking too hard again," Jules noticed, his hand caressing her shoulder.

"Just processing," she admitted. "Two weeks ago I was overthinking every little thing. Now it feels..."

"Natural," Aurélien finished, his smile softer than usual.

Girl, you know exactly where this is heading, her intrusive thoughts purred.

And for once, we're not overthinking it, her rational side agreed.

They'd never made her feel pressured or insecure. If anything, she'd never felt more desired, more understood. The connection between them flowed like lava - intense but not consuming. The way they looked at her - like she was precious but powerful - made her feel invincible. Made her feel brave enough to want more.

Something that Damari never did...

"We take care of what's ours," Jules said simply.

And that's what she was, wasn't she? Theirs. At least for now, at least for this perfect summer moment.

Her knees hit the carpet as their eyes darkened with promise. They kissed and fooled around already but YN's nerves were now electric, her body humming with anticipation. She watched as Jules slowly removed his shirt, his muscular chest on display, while Aurélien pulled his t-shirt over his head, revealing a glimpse of his toned torso.

"Relax, ma belle," Aurélien whispered, his voice like velvet. "We have all night."

YN took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for Jules's belt first. His warm fingers covered hers, stilling her movements.

"Easy, cherie," he murmured. "Take your time."

She inhaled, the scent of his cologne filling her senses, and exhaled slowly, steeling herself. With a nod, she tried again, her fingers deftly unbuckling his belt and sliding it free from the loops. The rasp of the zipper followed, and she gently tugged his shorts down, revealing his black boxer briefs.

Jules's erection strained against the fabric, and YN's mouth went dry. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the bulge, feeling the heat radiating from him. With a gentle pull, she freed him from his underwear, his thick shaft springing free. She inhaled his musky scent, her body responding with a rush of heat.

Leaning forward, she took the tip of his dick into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head. Jules's hands found her hair, his grip firm but gentle as he guided her, encouraging her to take more. She relaxed her jaw, taking him deeper, her lips sliding down his length.

"Fuck, yes," Jules groaned, his hips thrusting forward in rhythm with her bobbing head. "That's it, baby, take it all."

YN's eyes fluttered closed, her jaw aching slightly as she accommodated his size. She reveled in the sounds of his pleasure, his praises fueling her desire. Then, she heard Aurélien’s voice, a soft murmur in French.

YN's free hand reached out, pulling Aurélien closer by the waistband of his sweat shorts. He chuckled, his warm breath tickling her ear as he whispered, "Impatient, aren't you?"

With Aurélien’s help, she untied his shorts, sliding them down his lean hips. He stepped out of them, his boxer briefs already tented with his erection.

Aurélien guided her hand to his dick, his shaft hot and rigid in her grasp. He groaned, his head falling back as she stroked him through the thin fabric, her touch tentative yet eager. "Come 'ere, pretty girl. I want to feel that mouth of yours."

YN released Jules with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening dickhead. She turned her attention to Aurélien, her hand pulling his boxer briefs down before wrapping around his length as she leaned forward, taking him into her mouth.

Aurélien’s hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as he guided her. "Slowly, ma belle. Breathe through your nose."

She obeyed, her breath coming in shallow pants as she took him deeper, her throat working around his girth. Aurélien’s praise filled her ears, his hands tightening in her hair as he began to thrust gently, his hips moving in a slow, sensual rhythm.

"That's it. Suck me." His voice was hoarse, his accent thick with desire. "Merde, YN."

YN moaned around his length, the vibrations sending him over the edge. He withdrew, his dick glistening with her saliva, then he plunged back into her mouth, his hips snapping forward as he began to fuck her face. YN's hands gripped his thighs, her nails digging into his skin as she took him, her throat working to accommodate his thickness.

Aurélien's thrusts became more urgent, his hands tightening in her hair as he held her in place. "You're so fucking good, bébé. I'm gonna cum."

YN's eyes widened, her body tensing in anticipation. She wanted this, wanted to feel him release, to taste him. Her throat relaxed, and she focused on the sensation, on the pleasure she was giving, her own desire spiking with each of his grunts.

With a final, powerful thrust, Aurélien came, his dick jerking in her mouth as he spilled his seed. YN swallowed, her throat working to take all of him, her eyes never leaving his.

Aurélien withdrew, his breathing ragged, his hands roaming over her neck. "You're incredible, YN."

YN's cheeks flushed, her body buzzing with satisfaction. She turned her gaze to Jules, his erection still hard and ready. "And you?" she asked, her voice husky. "Are you ready for more?"

Jules's eyes darkened. "Fuck yeah. Come 'ere." He positioned himself between YN's legs, his eyes locked onto her as she eagerly drew closer. Her tongue darted out, expertly navigating his length. She sucked and teased, her hands gripping his hips as he groaned in pleasure.

Meanwhile, Aurélien moved behind YN, his fingers deftly unhooking her bra. His hands explored her breasts, kneading and pinching her sensitive nipples, causing her to moan, her mouth full of Jules' dick.

Jules's climax was sudden and intense. He groaned, his body convulsing as he released his seed deep into YN's throat. She swallowed quickly, savoring the taste of him as well.

They then led YN to the bed, where she lay back, her eyes heavy with lust. Jules and Aurélien positioned themselves on either side of her, their lips finding her neck and breasts. Jules’s tongue skirted across YN’s neck, sending shivers down her spine. His touch was gentle, almost reverent. Aurélien, meanwhile, was a different story. His hands were rough, his movements urgent.

Aurélien’s attention soon turned lower, his tongue tracing the curve of her hips and the soft skin of her belly. He reached for her panties, tugging them down to reveal her core.

"I've been waiting to taste you," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. His tongue delved deep, exploring every inch of her, while his fingers danced over her clitoris.

"Fuck," YN moaned, her voice a mere whisper. Her body throbbed with pleasure, her back arching and her nails digging into the sheets as she cried out. Jules continued to kiss and suck on her neck and then her body shook uncontrollably as her orgasm hit her like a freight train. Aurélien lapped up the sweet nectar happily, his tongue darting in and out of her hole.

He pulled away once he was done, a satisfied smile on his face as he sat on his haunches. "You wanna try the Eiffel Tower?" Aurélien asked, a mischievous glint in his eye. YN hesitated, her cheeks flushing.

"It’s your call, YN," Jules assured her, his voice gentle.

"You won't mind if Aurélien and I..." she trailed. A flutter of nerves danced in her stomach. The idea of taking them both at once was daunting but one at time seemed more plausible. Less scary.

Jules gave a reassuring smile. "Nope," he replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I’ve got a thing for watching anyway."

YN rolled her eyes playfully. "Of course you do. Such a freak."

Jules shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "If you say so." With that, he moved to the far end of the bed, propping himself up on one elbow, a spectator ready for the main event.

YN was nervous, but also excited. She turned to face Aurelien, who was already leaning in, his grip on YN’s hips tightening. A shiver ran down her spine as he captured her nipple with his tongue, swirling it sensually. YN's back arched into a bow, a moan escaping her lips.

"Showtime, ma belle," he said, a cocky grin spreading across his face. He then turned, reaching for his shorts that were still on the floor. He retrieved a condom from his pocket, tearing open the package with his teeth and sheathing himself. The raw, primal gesture sent a wave of desire crashing over her.

Aurelien positioned himself at her entrance, slowly thrusting inch by inch until he was fully seated within her. YN glanced over at Jules, who was watching the scene with a half-lidded gaze. A pleased smile played on his lips.

"She takes dick so well," Jules remarked to Aurélien, his voice low and appreciative. Aurélien groaned in agreement. "You got the man speechless, chérie. Good pussy will do that."

YN moaned, her attention torn between the pleasure from Aurélien and the thrill of being watched by Jules.

As the pace quickened, Jules began to stroke himself, his eyes fixed on the passionate scene before him. Aurélien’s thrusts grew harder, deeper, driving YN to the brink of ecstasy.

"Fuck, baby!" YN whimpered, wrapping her legs tighter around Aurélien’s waist as his pace became erratic. "Fuck…fuck…"

"He’s fucking you good, huh?" came Jules’ soft voice. "Are you gonna cum, chérie?"

"She’s so tight," grunted Aurélien as he gripped her waist tighter, the sound of his balls slapping rhythmically against her reverberating across the room. "Fuck you’re so wet, bébé."

"Oooh…I’m gonna cum. Shit, Auré, just like that."

Since when was she ever this vocal during sex? But then again, sex had never felt this good, this exquisite, to have her teetering off an edge. YN’s head thrashed back and forth on the sheets as Aurélien’s stamina proved to be withstanding and unrelenting, his hips moving in an almost Sonic-like speed.

From his spot on the bed, Jules continued to stroke himself with fervor, his eyes never leaving YN and Aurélien until he too felt those familiar coils within his body.

With a final, explosive thrust, YN’s body trembled as she climaxed. Aurélien’s wasn’t that far behind, with him emptying his pleasure inside the condom and spent but satisfied, collapsed onto her, his weight supported by his elbows.

Both Aurélien and YN were breathing heavily as they heard Jules utter a curse before exhaling a long sigh, signaling his own release. They lay like that for a moment – the murmurs of post-coital bliss echoing the space, their hearts beating like jackhammers within their chests.

"Well," YN started, breaking the silence. "That was fun."

"Incroyable," declared Aurélien just before he planted a tender kiss to her forehead then rolled off of her to dispose the condom.

"Ditto," concurred Jules, and YN felt the bed shift as he got off as well. "Let me clean you up, chérie."

YN simply nodded and remained still, her body continuing to spasm from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Not us having back to back orgasms! Love that for us! her intrusive thoughts cheered.

A dopey-ass grin etched on her tired face, and footsteps drew closer until she felt a warm towel gently cleaning her inner thighs.

"Are you good, YN?" wondered Aurélien’s deep voice from a couple feet away. "She looks out of it, Jules."

"Nah, she just been fucked really good, is all," Jules said with a low chuckle as he finished cleaning her up. "She’s gonna sleep like a baby tonight."

I really am.

"Come on, ma belle. Let’s tuck you in." This was Aurélien and YN hummed in contentment as she felt his strong arms delicately lift her body and situate her flushed against his on the bed. Another kiss on her forehead then one on her cheek. "Bonne nuit."

Bonne nuit indeed…

The last thing she heard before drifting off to sleep was Jules’ little giggle and then them whispering something to one another in French.

YN's muscles protested every movement - her thighs especially were giving "day after leg day" energy, though the workout had been much more enjoyable. She stepped into what had to be the biggest shower she'd ever seen, and that was saying something considering she'd had a custom rainfall shower built in her Valley house. But Aurélien's suite was ridiculous, all marble and multiple shower heads and enough space for three people to move comfortably.

Jules' playlist filled the steamy air, his voice joining Brent Faiyaz: "You know you're all mine, all mine..."

"Stick to football, my guy," Aurélien chuckled, washing his hair.

"Like you can do better?"

YN leaned against the marble wall, adjusting the shower cap on her head and the silk scarf beneath, which Aurélien mysteriously had in his luggage (she wasn't going to ask questions, just appreciated that her sew-in was protected). The hot water soothed her aching body.

Last night had been... well.

Her thoughts didn't need to finish that sentence.

Worth the soreness, her intrusive thoughts decided.

Definitely worth it, her rational side agreed.

The domesticity of it all should've scared her - three people sharing a shower like it was the most natural thing in the world. Instead, it felt right. Easy.

"Pass the body wash," she called out.

"Ask nicely," Aurélien teased.

"Please pass the body wash before I slip and die in your fancy ass shower?"

Their laughter echoed off the tiles as Jules handed her the bottle.

What amazed her most was how nonchalant they were - not just about sharing a shower, but about last night too. She still couldn't wrap her head around how close they were, how far removed from the toxic masculinity she'd grown accustomed to with Damari.

Her ex would never. He was always spouting some homophobic nonsense, getting weird about showing any affection to his boys. "What I look like hugging some nigga? That's gay as fuck!" he'd say, like basic human touch would somehow compromise his manhood.

Yet here were Jules and Aurélien, having a full-blown conversation about their upcoming match while naked, sharing space like it was nothing. Zero awkwardness, zero fragile masculinity, just pure comfort with themselves and each other.

A mindfuck, her intrusive thoughts noted.

But the best kind, her rational side agreed.

Maybe this was what real security looked like - being so confident in yourself that you didn't need to police every interaction for "sus" behavior.

"What are you thinking about?" Jules asked, noticing her expression.

"Just… appreciating the view," she deflected with a grin.

But really, she was appreciating how much her definition of masculinity had shifted since meeting them.

The playlist shifted to Travis Scott's "R.I.P. Screw" and Jules started dancing, making YN shoot him a weird look. She turned to Aurélien like is he for real?

Aurélien just laughed. "You should see him in the locker room. He screams out Kendrick Lamar songs like a nutcase."

"And like you don't do the same whenever you listen to Meek Mill?" Jules called out while rinsing off.

Aurélien kissed his teeth. "Whatever, bro." He gently nudged YN forward to rinse. "Anyways, Jules said you're going to Japan with him?"

YN shook her head, squinting conspiratorially at Jules' back as he exited the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. "I didn't give him an exact answer yet, but I'm thinking about it."

"That's dope," Aurélien said.

"Where are you going, Auré?" she wondered, letting the water wash away the soap.

"Maybe LA with some friends first then Sicily. Why? You wanna come too?"

YN's smile widened. "I can hang with you in Sicily. My first stop is in Rome, so that's perfect."

"Oh that's cool. Maybe I can see your concert before I head off to LA."

"I like that," she said, stepping out as Jules wrapped her in a fluffy towel.

Minutes later, she stood at the counter brushing her teeth next to Jules with Aurelien in the other side, the domesticity of it all making her heart do weird things.

_______________________________________________

Sandwiched between her French boys in Aurélien's massive bed, YN munched on a fruit salad while they watched Challengers. They'd spent the whole day in his suite, the boys returning from practice to find her exactly where they'd left her.

When they got to that scene - Tashi kissing both Patrick and Art - YN's foot-in-mouth disease struck.

"Did you guys just wake up one morning and decide to share that girl in Bordeaux or did you have one of those bro talks?"

Jules burst out laughing while Aurélien shook his head, rolling his eyes. "It was both."

"Both?"

Jules' laughter subsided. "We were young and horny and like I said, Aurélien is my bro, so…"

"That easy?"

"I mean, yeah. And it's every guy's fantasy to have a threesome," Aurélien shrugged.

"Well yeah, but with another guy? I thought it was more so two girls?"

"Yeah, I guess. But there's been conversations in the locker room about running a train on girls and whether people were down—" Jules started.

"Running a train? What?" she screeched. "You guys were like twenty talking about — you know what? Just continue."

Jules scoffed. "It happens a lot honestly. Auré and I aren't into all that. Not with everyone on the team. But he was down and the girl was down… and it was nice."

"So what happened to her?" YN popped a grape in her mouth.

The boys shared a glance before Aurélien answered. "Feelings. We caught feelings and so did she, but for both of us. And we didn't really understand that we could both date her at the same time. Like polyamory wasn't as mainstream as it is now."

"Plus we needed our prefrontal cortex to be fully developed before making choices like that," Jules added.

"And now?" YN pressed, chewing another grape.

They exchanged another look, smirking. "I thought this wasn't a serious thing?" Aurélien quipped.

Touché, she thought.

"Well, I'm just spitting hypotheticals… so hypothetically speaking, if I didn't want to end this and wanted two boyfriends…"

"It'll be hard because you're in the States, but we both live in Spain and spend a lot of time together anyway. It's really nothing but a flight," Jules said.

"What about one-on-one time or is everything just going to be together?"

"We can do both. Jules and I aren't really the jealous types, especially if you're ours."

"And sometimes I just like to watch," Jules winked.

"Your freaky ass," YN sighed, amused and just a pinch irritated.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Jules chuckled.

"It's not–" Her phone buzzed.

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫 In Munich soon. Dinner tomorrow? Would love to see you before heading back to NY

She quickly turned her screen off.

"You don't have to hide who you're talking to, belle," Aurélien said.

Jules gave her a reassuring smile. "Yeah, it's cool."

"I know, but still…"

"Text your other man, YN," Aurélien urged, eyes back on the TV.

After a pause, she replied:

YN Tomorrow after the match? There's this great Italian place near my hotel

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫 Perfect. Looking forward to it 😊

She put her phone on DND and tucked it under her pillow.

"You're so awkward," Jules said.

"Very," Aurélien agreed.

"It's still rude!"

"Are you gonna fuck him?" Jules asked bluntly. She shot him an accusing look. "I'm just looking out for my sexual health, okay?" He held up his hands. "I know about Auré because we did our physicals before Euros and everything's clean with both of us, but adding another partner after Enzo and Carina and now us?"

"I'll take another round of tests just like I did after Carina and Enzo. Safety is my priority too," she said. "But I don't know. He's hot yet I'm not gonna just jump in bed with him. Dinner first."

"Okay," Jules nodded.

"Alright," Aurélien agreed.

"Plus I'm fine with you two," she added with a mischievous grin.

They shot her amused looks as the movie played on.

Who would've thought, her thoughts mused, that summer would turn out like this?

Tomorrow was the semi-final, but right now, curled between them, YN felt like she'd already won.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[yanderemeganekko]

hello!! i just wanted to ask, is it alright to use your translations to add to fandom wikis ? credit would of course be given. perfectly alright if not!! have a good day/night

Oh man, I didn't think anyone even read those anymore. I'm gonna take a wild guess and assume this may be related to the recent activity on the Cocktail Prince server (I'm still on it FWIW, in case I'm right and anyone wants to ping :>). In any case, it's fine with me!

Though to note, I'm not entirely certain they're 100% accurate, which I was frank about back in the day already since my Japanese isn't the best it could be. Unfortunately in case of kkpr there's no longer a way to verify anyways (RIP), so it's not a huge deal. If having a piece of mobage history backed up means anything to anyone, I'm just happy to hear that.

[gottagobuycheese]

there’s got to be a faster way to play this game but How

[peanutpinet]

Under My Care - Sylus x Innocent Fem Reader

Random Blurb Idea: When Sylus was taking his innocent, clueless girlfriend out for a date only to be interrupted by his business partners who just happened to be at the bar Sylus owned in Linkon

Prompt Sentence: No, it’s alright, come here

Disclaimer: I do not own the images nor the characters or you (the MC). All images were taken from Pinterest.

When I mentioned “innocent”, it’s more so clueless and not really understanding the danger of the world type and not so much in a negative form like being “dumb” or anything like that.

Also I’d like to mention that I don’t know what currency they use in the game but assuming since the game is from China, I’ll be using Chinese money aka Chinese Yuan

And I want to point out the reader (aka you) is not the MC (Miss Hunter)

Warnings: fluff, slightly aggressive Sylus (not towards you, his men lmao), possessive and protective Slyus (not in a bad way), cursing and sexual names (not from Sylus)

“Luke, Kieran, see it that all schedule for the day is cleared out” Sylus mentioned, putting on his coat over his sweater

“Right away boss!” both Luke and Kieran exclaimed as Mephisto eyed the situation from the window. “Are you visiting her?” Luke asked, making Sylus chuckle

“Yes. And I hope that I won’t be disturbed by anything. I trust you both will take care of everything until I come back later on” Sylus mentioned and the twins hummed, taking notice how their boss looked much more appealing and approachable in his outfit compared to his regular attire in the N109 zone.

Once he finished getting ready, Sylus went to use one of his most lavish car instead of his motorcycle to blend in with the people in Linkon and to not draw much attention.

It was a short trip and right before noon, Sylus had already parked his car in front of your house, waiting for you as he leaned on his car, ignoring all the passerby who were shocked to see such a tall muscular yet lavish man in a regular neighbourhood.

“You’re here already?!” Sylus immediately looked up to see you standing by the door, you had already done your makeup and hair but was still in your loungewear.

A smirk went onto his face as Sylus walked up towards your door and greeted you with a kiss on your forehead. “I thought I’d come earlier so I can enjoy moments like this with you. Will you let me in?”

You nodded and opened the door, letting your tall scary looking boyfriend into the cozy small home you have. “Do you want something to eat while I change?”

Shaking his head, Sylus opted to just sit by the couch. “I’m alright, sweetie. I had something before coming here. You go on and change then. Take your time. I can wait”

You nodded and peck your boyfriend’s cheek before walking back up to your room and finished getting change while Sylus was mindlessly scrolling his phone; ignoring all the incoming messages from business colleagues both in the N109 zone and in Linkon but Sylus could care less about all of them.

Today was about you and him. He won’t let anything get in the way of a whole day ahead of him spending time with you. His loving, caring, adorable girlfriend.

“Sylus, I’m done!! Let’s go!!” you exclaimed as Sylus put his phone away and smiled when he saw you jogging down the stairs wearing a simple white sweater, long flowy skirt, the branded shoulder bag Sylus gifted, and oxford shoes.

“Shall we, sweetie?” Sylus extended his arm as you latched onto it, giggling, making Sylus smile

Sylus then led you to his car, being the gentlemen he is, he opened the door for you, closed it. He even put on your seatbelt as he settled in the driver's seat.

The whole day, Sylus took you to places you want to go. Sylus knew your wishlist as your shopping account is linked to his phone. Several new books just released? Sylus would bring you to the bookstore, pay for it, and take it out of the shop. Don’t want to bother flipping the pages? Sylus bought a tablet and downloaded every book you’ve owned and on your TBR.

You wanted to try a new cafe? Sylus wouldn’t hesitate to bring you no matter how far it was at the moment. He would go as far as to look up the recommendations and order practically everything on the menu much to your complaint. You’re too full? He’ll pack it to go for you. You want to have dessert almost immediately? Sylus would tease you before giving in to your wants.

You wanted to go around the mall, play the claw machines, kitty cards, go to the arcade? He’ll do it all. You want to buy new makeup and clothes? Anything you see or touch, Sylus instantly gets it without caring about your whining about it being expensive.

The whole entire day, Sylus is practically your sugar daddy. Anything you want, anywhere you want to go, he’ll do it all for you. He even carried all the plush and things he bought for you despite your complaints about everything being expensive or too heavy.

Sylus didn’t once complain about anything and just smiled at your secretly sparkly eyes when he paid for your wishlist items. By the end of the night, Sylus decided to bring you to one of your wishlist restaurants which just happens to be the restaurant that he owns in Linkon.

Once you both entered the restaurant, Sylus confidently brought the two of you towards the front of the waiting line, ignoring all the stares that where directed towards the two of you until the waiter at the front realised who had just come and immediately, the manager of the restaurant immediately came to greet Sylus and it was then did everyone realised that Sylus was the owner of the restaurant.

Sylus held your waist tightly as he brought you with him, following the manager who led the two of you to the exclusive VIP room which confused you but made Sylus smirk with pride. “Just a little something I pull for you today. But you’re welcome to come here whenever you want”

Sylus helped you sit down as the waiter came and asked Sylus for his usual order but this time Sylus just told the waiter, “It’s up to the lady tonight. I’ll have anything she orders and make sure that it reaches the minimum spending”

You looked in shock when Sylus said there was a minimum spending and Sylus chuckled at your shocked expression. “Don’t worry sweetie. You won’t know the exact number. Only I do. But I’ll give you a hint. You have to order at least an equivalent of 5 tomahawk steaks”

You looked at Sylus as if he was crazy but you tried to order several menus that you thought weren’t as expensive. Sylus chuckled at the several orders you made and asked the waiter to bring it out as soon as possible.

Once the food and drinks came out, Sylus had you try everything first and let him know your opinion about the food before eating them himself. As the night goes on, the two of you continued eating together, occasionally talking and updating about each other’s life. Sylus was sipping on his wine while you were drinking your fresh lemon tea. Though the two of you are a contrast to one another, neither of you mind. In fact, both of you enjoyed the contrast and see it as complementing each other.

Sometime when dessert was just about to come, you decided to excuse yourself to the restroom, saying how you were quite full to the point your stomach had to lose some of the food you just ate to save room for dessert.

“Alright, sweetie. Don’t take too long. Your dessert will melt later” Sylus teased as you stuck your tongue out as a reply, making Sylus chuckle at your slightly childish behavior

In the midst of waiting for you, Sylus felt another presence and the door to his private VIP room was opened to reveal some of his business partners barging into his private room where he was waiting for you, his beloved.

The bouncer who tried to stop the men came in went to Sylus. “I apologise sir, I tried my best to keep them away but they threatened and…” Sylus raised his hand indicating the bouncer to stop talking. “Leave us”

The bouncer immediately nodded and left the room while Sylus’ business “partners” were standing across him. “Tell me what updates you have or shall I put a bullet in your tongue for every miscellaneous reason for coming here, into my private dining area and disturbing my dinner”

Sylus felt his men were lucky for they provided him with some useful information regarding the updates of his businesses however some were testing his patience and got on his nerves when they were asking if they were going to get paid more or if there were going to be a promotion to be part of his field men. Sylus was ready to end the conversation when there was a soft knock on the door and the bouncer opened it with you peeking in.

“I’m sorry, am I disturbing your sudden meeting?” you asked in a soft tone and before Sylus could answer, one of his men decided to try and act all tough, not knowing you were Sylus’ beloved girlfriend

“Yes you are, you slut. Can’t you see that Sylus doesn’t have time to deal with you attention-seeking girls?” one of the men scoffed as the others were agreeing but also looking at you as if you were a treat

Hearing the comments and stares, you felt small and somehow, tears were building up in your eyes. “I, I’m sorry. I, I’ll go…” you stuttered until Sylus’ strong voice echoed the room

“No, it’s alright, come here sweetie” Sylus reassured you and even motioned you to come back into the room where he used his evol to pull a chair next to him

You were still unsure and fidgeted with your fingers. It didn’t help that the men in the room were still eyeing you but Sylus made his statement loud and clear. “Stop fucking looking at her as if she’s a piece of meat or I’ll gauge your eyes out one at a time”

Though the statement was meant for his men, you can’t help but be scared of Sylus’ loud and commanding voice which he never uses when he’s with you. Once his men looked down, Sylus took it as his chance to use his evol and gently dragged you so that you were now on his lap.

“I’m sorry I raised my voice with you in the room, sweetheart. Are you alright?” Sylus asked, his hold around your waist was gentle and loving; contrasting to his voice and actions towards his men who were shivering at Sylus’ commanding tone

You were still shaken up at what happened but tried to tell Sylus how you felt. “I, I thought I came into the wrong room…”

Sylus shook his head and brought one of his hands to your cheek, gently brushing your hair back. “It wasn’t your fault, sweetie. They came here unnoticed even though…” Sylus looked at his men, gently pushing your head to his chest, ensuring your vision was not towards his men. “I’ve made it fucking clear that no one is to disturb me today”

Sylus leaned back on his chair with you in his arms as he slowly lulled you to sleep. His touch might be gentle but his eyes were ready to kill anyone who so much looked at you the wrong way. “Not only did you all carelessly walk through that door and interrupt my day off but you all just had to eye my beloved as if she was some kind of girl you can pay your way. In addition to that, you dared to call her by an absurd name? Looks like you all need some lesson about respect because no one” Sylus’ hold on you looks more possessive but caring at the same time

“No fucking one, eyes, touches, or even talks about my beloved in a disgusting, animalistic way and gets away with it. She is my lover and specifically under my care. And I’d be dammed to let anyone who mistreats her in any way shape or form get away with it without some kind of lesson”

A/N: I have a confession. I have been trying out c.ai and honestly, it gives me some story ideas for Sylus but I'm not sure if anyone will be interested. I read on Tumblr someone mentioned what if the MC is the 'I don't believe in love anymore' type of girl and Sylus is the 'I can show you what real love is' and I'm just like T^T gosh, that would be so me. Anyways, just a lil fic I decided to pull up before I slowly descend back to the real world since I've been busy :')

If anyone would like to request me anything of Sylus or LADS, do send me a request and I will try to get to it. Otherwise, I hope this fic brightens up your day and take care xoxo peanutwott

[distantdarlings]

STRAY FROM ROUTINE // m. riddle

RATING: R / 4.5K WORDS

Mattheo Riddle x Fem Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* You wake up with an evil plan to ignore Mattheo Riddle until he cracks.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! (P in V), unprotected, spanking, thigh-hitting, dom!mattheo, sub!reader, mean mattheo, slight breeding kink, controlling mattheo, reader is resisting (but she's doing it on purpose), toxic relationship values, name-calling, degradation, language, not fully proofread (lmk if I missed anything!)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Ride or Die, Pt. 2 - Sevdaliza (I can't get it out of my head :'))

- - -

The inspiration that struck you as soon as you woke up was one of some kind of age-old genius. The motivation that came with it seemed to cloud your mind like some kind of drug, flooding your mind and inhibiting all other thoughts that attempted to enter your brain the rest of the day.

You had always been a bit of a shit-starter when it came to Mattheo Riddle, but today, you were feeling downright sinister.

Your eyes flicked across the room to catch the dark boy’s oaken eyes. His strong hand lifted from the counter to toy with his bottom lip teasingly. Every move was calculated, down to the way his shoulders moved when he took in a breath.

He skirted through his usual routine of tracing his eyes slowly down your body, then flicking them back up to steel his eye contact. For the first few months of your relationship with him—if that’s what you wanted to call it—that whole intimidating facade had worked on you effortlessly. But now, you knew he was more bark than he was bite. That was, as far as you could tell.

You supposed that after sleeping with him so long, he’d have lived up to his whole King Mattheo act, but he'd fallen short. You were disappointed, to say the least. The majority of the entire student body, including some teachers, were terrified of this boy that currently stared you down, but you seemed to be missing something.

Was he good in bed? Hell yes. Could he get mean? Also yes, but where was the difference? As far as you could tell, he didn’t fuck any differently than any other Slytherin boy you’d been with. They were practically all the same. Mean, dominant, and rough. They usually had some kind of ego to keep up—or a tiny dick to compensate for. Whatever it was, Mattheo didn’t seem any different.

He was mean, dominant, and rough. The only thing that had surprised you about him was how gentle he was beneath it all. With every bruising thrust, his fingers cradled your hips gently where others gripped with their nails. With every mark he sucked into your skin, he darted a tongue out to soothe where others let it simmer. He was a rough lover, but he was still a lover. The others were just rough.

That was what had kept you going back to him so many times. But you were getting impatient. It was time for Mattheo to step his game up, or you were going to get bored. You wanted him to prove to you that he was different. But you didn’t want to have to ask for it. You just wanted him to know to do it.

By the time the last of the breakfast crowd had dissipated and the campus prepared for their first periods, Mattheo hadn’t broken eye contact once. Nor had you. If there was one thing you weren’t going to do—for Mattheo or any one else—it was back down from a challenge. If he wanted to tease and stare and frustrate, you’d do the same.

Finally, he stood with the rest of his group of friends. They headed toward the door but his focus remained on you.

The tip of his wand peeked out from the edge of his uniform sleeve and, with a few mumbled words, a small slip of paper had collapsed from the tip of the wooden object. It hit the floor silently, and weaved through the swarm of feet marching through the Great Hall. Once it had reached you, it stopped just before your shoes beneath the table.

At risk of being caught by your friends, you refused to glance down at it. But, just like he always did, Mattheo had thought of everything. With a shiver, you felt the piece of paper slide up your leg like a slithering snake.

It slunk over the curve of your knee and seemed to wait for you to grab it. Ignoring the thought that it seemed to be alive like some sort of bug, you slipped your hand beneath the table and pulled the slip of paper toward you. Discreetly, you opened it up and looked down at it.

How do you want me to take you today? was scrawled in heavy, broad strokes across the sliver of parchment.

You bit back a smirk. That little fucker.

But, no. With the inspiration you had today—the inspiration to push Mattheo Riddle as close to the edge as possible—you weren’t going to allow him the satisfaction.

In fact, you were going to ignore him entirely until he cracked. That was the plan and you were settled with it. While this likely wasn’t the best thing for your own health, you weren’t too concerned. Mattheo Riddle was an asshole, but he wasn’t a murderer. You were pretty sure, anyways.

Satisfied with your decisions, you smiled lightly and pushed the piece of parchment into the first pocket of your school bag. As soon as you returned to your room, it would be placed with all of the other notes he had passed to you. Even though you weren’t wildly impressed with Mattheo’s performance so far, it was still nice to have the dirty, little notes sitting around for a rainy day.

- - -

And throughout the rest of the day, you stuck to your plan like glue. Every stare, every sneaking touch, every whispered word from Mattheo was met with a brick wall. You simply weren’t interested in any aspect of his usual antics, today. He needed to earn what he refused to admit he wanted so badly, which was you.

And by third period, you could tell he was nearly ready to explode. His jaw was clenching and unclenching, his fists were wrapped so tightly together, the knuckles were almost completely white. He was fucking angry—possibly angrier than you had ever seen him. And that was exactly what you had wanted. You wanted him to know that you were a million times different than any of the other girls he’d romanced so far.

He tried once more to entice a little desire from you just toward the end of class. The two of you sat in the last two rows at the very back of the classroom.

The room was elevated with the back rows at the highest point of the room, overlooking the rest of the class. Any secret movements were noticed simply by the backs of heads and a nonchalant teacher.

Mattheo sat directly behind you with one of his unnamed friends to his left, and another to that boy’s left. You were alone on your row. The class was not that big. But this was exactly the kind of environment a sly boy like Mattheo Riddle loved. He would take any opportunity he could to slide his dirty lips against your ear and whisper any deviance that popped into his head at the moment. And that’s what he’d done.

His head had settled just beside yours. You’d heard his breathing before even noticing the heat from his skin radiating onto yours. A shiver passed through your body at his proximity. Annoyed at your body’s involuntary reaction to the dark boy, you slipped your arms beneath the table to hide the chills sprouting across your flesh.

He must have seen them, though, because a small breath of a smirk passed across his face in your peripheral.

“I don’t know what your game is, little girl,” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “But you’d better straighten that attitude up, or, I swear, I’ll fix it myself.”

He didn’t say another word before he leaned back against his own seat, leaving you to wonder whether or not this was a good idea. You reminded yourself that intimidation was his shtick. That was the majority of the reason everyone was so frightened of him. You couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually beaten anyone up or done anything to anyone who’d wronged him. Like you’d said, he was all bark.

Still, despite his threatening words, you simply flipped your hair over your shoulder and completely ignored him. He scoffed, seemingly suppressing a laugh. He was mad. But he wasn’t going to admit that to you right now.

Besides, you were sure you’d never hear the end of it once it was all said and done.

Once the teacher had announced that class was over and recited the homework assignment to a crowd of deaf ears, you gathered all of your things quickly and made a beeline for the door. You hadn’t even given Mattheo a second to gain a bit of awareness before you were out the door and halfway down the hallway.

You didn’t have a fourth period, but Mattheo did. He had Potions for the next hour, giving you just enough time to spruce up your appearance a bit and prepare for the storm that was brewing. You knew Mattheo well enough by this point to know how this evening was going to go. He would threaten your body within an inch of its life, ask if you ‘knew who he was,’ then he’d fuck you. Just like he always did. There was too much of a pattern. Not enough spontaneity to keep you occupied—you needed more. Hopefully, today was what did it for him.

The dormitory you shared with your mates was completely barren due to their schedules. Out of the five of you, you were the only one that had chosen fourth period as your free period. It seemed odd to you that they would rather have a late start to the day, than an early end. In your opinion, you’d wake up as early as you had to, if it meant you did not have to yawn your way through the last classes of the day.

You dropped your bag onto your bed and made for the small desk that was positioned just beside the headboard. It was stocked with all of your personal hygiene products—organized impeccably—and various bits of stationery for schoolwork. It served as both a desk and a vanity for you while you were getting ready in the mornings—or getting ready to see Mattheo.

You hoped he would be desperate all through his class. You hoped his eyes would be flickering around nervously, his knee bouncing rapidly, sweat dripping down his throat. It would be a sight to behold.

Mattheo was gorgeous—there was no denying that. It was just his attitude that needed adjusting. You smirked to yourself before taking a seat at your desk, glancing at your appearance in the small mirror you’d propped up against the stone wall.

And before you were even able to apply a second layer of mascara, the large wooden door in the corner of the room rattled violently. Three aggressive knocks permeated the silence so roughly the dust motes illuminated by the sun shuddered wildly.

A chill of anticipation settled in your stomach. Surely, that couldn’t be him. Fourth period had barely even begun.

You rose from your desk and crossed the length of the room, every step echoing through your body like a cannon. Why were you so nervous? The possibilities of consequences of your own actions were really starting to rattle around in your skull.

Your fingers wrapped around the bronze door handle and pulled.

Sure enough, on the other side, stood Mattheo Riddle. A malicious smirk was printed across his lips. He glanced around a few times, seeming to scan the surroundings of your dorm.

“Hi, is there anyone else here?” he asked, his voice sickly sweet. The courteous role he was playing made you all the more nervous. He never acted this way, even when he’d come to your dorm in the past. He was usually just as brash as he always was, no matter who was in the room.

“No, there’s not,” you said, your voice annoyingly shaking just a bit. “And if you don’t mind, I’m actually pretty busy—”

Just as you started to push the door closed again, Mattheo’s foot slammed against it, completely blocking its path. You tried to push against him, but he was much too strong for you to defend against.

“I’m sure you can spare a few moments for a quick chat,” he nearly growled, never dropping the fake smile planted on his face. His strong arm pushed against the door, rendering your protection of it completely useless. He pushed through and into the room as if you’d never been holding it in the first place.

He kicked the door shut behind him as soon as he stepped through, the door clunking shut with a rough thud. You suppressed a flinch at the loud sound, refusing to show any sign of vulnerability. You couldn’t pull away from your plan now that you were feeling his anger—that was cowardly.

“Mattheo, I’ve asked for you to leave,” you warned.

“Yeah? Just answer one question for me, baby…” he said, stepping directly into your personal space and invading it in every way possible.

As if asking for permission, he raised his hand slowly and let it hover just next to your cheek. When you did nothing, he placed his fingers along your jawline. They stroked gently across a small surface area, insisting that you felt every searing second of contact.

His face came impossibly close against yours. His warm breath fanned slowly across your cheek, hints of fire and cinnamon lingering beneath your nose. The feeling of his lips skirting slightly over your skin on the way to your ear sent a myriad of chills down the length of your arms and a pool of heat between your thighs. You silenced a shudder on its way through your lips.

“Did you act that way on purpose?” he whispered. His lips caressed the curvature of your ear, his hot words curling around the room. “If not, I’ll find a new girl to open her legs when I want. But if you wanted this, I will make you regret ever having turned away from me.”

You swallowed thickly, the sound piercing the blanket of silence that fell around the room the minute Mattheo stopped speaking. It irked you to no end, that the entire world seemed to hold its breath to wait for this boy. This dark, irritatingly impossible to resist boy. It was more than you were able to handle, no matter how determined you were to prove a point.

“What I wanted…,” you trailed off coldly. “Was for you to prove to me that you’re not exactly like every other Slytherin that waltzes in here, comes in ten seconds, and then asks me if I’ve finished. I’ve been waiting for that special something to jump out at me, but it just hasn’t. I’m getting bored of you, Mattheo.” You took a deep breath, gaining enough courage to flatten your face and select your next words perfectly. “Speaking of, I was wondering if your friend, Enzo, was single.”

You struggled not to smirk at his reaction. If you didn’t know Mattheo, you’d have assumed he was going to crash out and leave the room. But you knew him and his destructive tendencies. His rage, though extremely stigmatized, was something to be in awe of, and you were ready to see it. And to be the target of it.

His eyes darkened until they were barely reflecting any of the dim light around the room. His lips parted slightly, just enough for an evil smirk to stretch across his face. He was all dark eyes and sharp canines, and it looked as if he were desperate to sink them into your flesh.

“You’re fucking done,” he whispered menacingly.

Then his hand was around your throat, firm and bruising. He walked you backwards until your back roughly hit the stone wall, the cold rock biting into your shoulder blades. His lips met yours with a fervor you’d never seen before.

His tongue cruelly parted your lips and laid claim to the entirety of your throat. You could hardly breathe with the pressure he was applying around your neck and the force of his kiss. Yet, still, you could not deny the heat building within your stomach and radiating downwards.

His free hand wrapped around your waist, the fingers slipping slyly beneath the waistband of your uniform skirt. Just as always, in the midst of the fiery storm, his fingers were able to imitate some form of softness just long enough for his hand to prepare to rip your skirt away. Despite the roughness he provided everywhere else, his fingers were gentle as they slid along your skin so as not to pinch it against the wall. It was just thoughtful enough to melt your heart down into a broiling golden puddle.

His strong hand gripped the material of your bottoms and pulled them roughly down, revealing the absence of anything beneath, save your blackened tights. When he lifted his hand once more to tear your panties away, he recognized the lack of material within his fingers and growled against your lips.

“You fucking wanted this, you dumb slut,” he spat, his pearlescent teeth sinking down into the flesh of your bottom lip. With a whimper and flash of white across your vision, he finally released you, leaving behind a thin slathering of blood across your teeth.

“You wanted me to tear you to pieces,” he whispered, his hand finally freeing your throat, but only to get to work on ripping your uniform shirt apart. The buttons clattered wildly across the floor, rolling freely each in their own directions.

You moved to protest but Mattheo shoved you back against the wall. He shook his head as if in disbelief you’d even try to get away from him at this point in time. In his mind, this was well-deserved punishment. If you were his girl, you were going to fucking listen to him. You knew what you were getting into when you first laid your lips on his.

With your shirt split down the middle, the only thing standing between his lips and your heaving body were a lacy bra and a pair of tights. The cold, gray air hit your soaked body so aggressively, you thought your teeth might start clacking together.

“All this going to waste because you couldn’t ask me for what you wanted,” he whispered. “I’m going to have to destroy this gorgeous body, when it should be worshiped.”

To your disbelief, he sank down to his knees and placed his hands gently on the back of your thighs. His scorching mouth made contact with your thighs—still covered in the thin material of your pantyhose—and he began to place wet, biting kisses along your flesh. He moved slowly from just above your knee to the top of your thigh. Each mean kiss ached as if they were done by a wild animal, but—just as he always fucking did—he soothed them with his skilled tongue afterwards. Never letting you hurt for too long.

Once he reached your core, fluttering in anticipation, he took a deep breath. The scent of your desire filled his senses as if it was his last meal. Just from how he’d loved in the past, you could tell that he was refraining from devouring you. But this was a punishment. No matter how sweet or caring he so often was, he was never going to let you have what you wanted.

“But that won’t do today…” he whispered against the surface of your tights just above your core, so close that his lips brushed across the sensitive skin. You withheld a whimper.

“Seems like it wasn’t happening any other day, either,” you chuckled breathlessly. You weren’t dropping this fucking routine. You wanted this and every inch of teasing Mattheo wanted to give you.

He laid a biting slap across your left thigh. The sound of it echoed throughout the room, only being interrupted by the cry that left your lips at the sudden abuse.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he demanded, his hand soothing the sore flesh.

He pressed one more kiss to the blossoming handprint, before sliding a short nail against the hosiery, ripping it instantly.

You gasped at the sensation, watching as he pulled on the material. It shredded down your leg, exposing your bare thighs to the pale light. Flaming red fingerprints bloodied the soft flesh and marked you as his.

Despite your annoyance at his lack of excitement during the last few times you’d fucked, the feeling of possession that he’d laid on you always made an impression. You felt like you belonged to him in every aspect of the word.

Then before you were able to let another smart-ass comment fly, he slipped his hand beneath the large shear in the tights and ripped a hole right across your aching groin, baring your searing cunt to the world.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Even though he was intending to punish, Mattheo couldn’t help but appreciate your body just a little bit. Though he wouldn’t admit it just yet, he could die happily buried within you.

Seeming to realize his “punishment” was a bit too sweet, he gripped your hips roughly and flipped your body around to face the wall. You helped aloud as the craggy stone bit into the skin of your breasts through your bra. The lace mixed with the cold wall made your nipples prick almost uncomfortably.

“Gonna fuck some manners into you, baby,” he murmured, his gravelly voice echoing against the curve of your spine. His mean fingers traced each nodule of each vertebrae until he reached the dimples imprinted in the small of your back.

His thumbs pressed deep against them, rubbing an easy massage into them for just a second.

“Feel good? You got any other dumbass things to say?”

“Why waste my breath? I’m gonna have to fake my fucking orgasm in a few seconds.”

You bit back a moan as he reached through your legs, gripped the hole he’d ripped in your tights, and widened it between your thighs. He pulled it up and over your ass.

“Yeah? You fake it every time, baby?” he growled into your ear, his heavy bulge pressing into your bare ass.

“Yeah,” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whisper. Your hands were settled against your desk, fingers tightened around the edges, nails scratching into the wood. Your back was arched uncomfortably against his core, begging for every slight thrust he pressed into you. You could practically feel him within you already.

“You fake it every time you cum all over my cock, huh?” he asked. Behind you, you could hear him wrestling his belt out of its loops and dropping his trousers.

“Answer me, bitch,” he demanded, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head back against his chest.

“Fuck, Matty, that hurts!” you whined. It was a good, searing kind of pain but you didn’t want him to know that. Didn’t want him to know that your arousal was dripping down your legs by now.

“Yeah? That hurts?” he taunted. “That’s nothing, baby. You can take it.”

Then suddenly, his hot core was leant against the top of your ass. You were biting back a moan and running your fingers into the desk so hard they were going numb. Still, you weren’t going to give up.

“We’ll see if you can give it—fuck!”

He shut you up by slamming himself into you. The force of his intrusion hit your cervix at a sharp angle, sending stars into your eyes.

“Let me hear you fake it, yeah?” he groaned as he pulled himself out of you all the way to the tip before pushing himself back into you.

You couldn’t hide it anymore. Though you could still force some mean comments out every once and a while, you were unable to repress your moans.

“I’m basically an expert at this point!” you moaned.

“I bet,” he growled, his hips increasing in pace. “I know the way you clench around me everytime I take you from behind—” every sentence was pushed out between deep groans that echoed in your womb— “I’ve memorized every possible way you can scream my name…and I’ve learned every single thing I have to do to make that pretty pussy cum all over me.”

Following his words, his right hand snaked around your hip and pressed directly against your clit. He rubbed perfect circles into the sensitive spot, demanding a finish from you as soon as he could pull it from you.

“You’re a bit too cocky for my liking,” you breathed against his ruthless pounding. “I’d still like Enzo’s number.”

And with one final thrust, he pierced the bubble of pleasure that had bloomed rapidly in your stomach. You came impossibly hard, with the evidence of your high embarrassingly gushing around him. He pulled away from you and let your desire cover his stomach.

He laughed almost maniacally at the way your orgasm stretched out for what felt like hours.

And then, as you were finally coming down, he was pumping himself noisily into his hand and coming all of your lower back, painting the dimples he so loved to touch.

He moaned breathlessly, a slight crack in his voice, as he slowed his movements down and came down from his own high.

A tired laugh left his swollen lips as he trailed his finger through the remnants of his spend on your back and pushed his coated fingers into your sensitive entrance.

The overstimulation sent a flurry of ice up your spine. You cried at the sensation. Your legs fluttered before giving out.

On your way down to the floor, he caught you against his arms. Your knees were impossibly weak, but he was ever so strong.

“You faking this too, baby?” he clicked his tongue before settling you against your bed.

“Fuck you,” you sighed, your eyes fluttering against the ceiling. The lightheaded feeling floating through your skull was nearly too much for you to handle, but you were still high up on your pedestal and refused to come down.

Distantly, you could hear him pulling his pants up and rearranging his clothes.

Gently, he slid the remainder of your hosiery down your legs, unhooked your bra, and lifted you up off of the bed bridal-style. Somehow managing to cradle you with just one hand, he used his left to yank your comforter back, and settle you beneath it.

He leaned down beside your ear and pressed his lips to your temple. Just before he pulled all the way back, he began to whisper.

“The next time you wanna act like that—just remember that I fucked you to sleep, brat.”

- - -

Tag List: @lilymurphy03, @mypolicemanharryyy, @clairesjointshurt, @bunbunbl0gs, @acornacreacure, @niktwazny303, @thestarlithhideout, @sarahskakskskskajakwwnwjw, @yhiiil, @ravenclawprincess33, @xxrougefangxx, @thatblackthorn, @robinyx, @starsval, @jolly4holly, @blvebanisters, @chgrch, @abaker74, @ilovehotmenandwoman, @kissesbyarabella, @synicaljah

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[doctorwhoandfairytaillover]

Fall of an Empire

Summary: The fall of an empire began because of the love for a woman.

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Reader (romantic), Emperor Caracalla x Reader (platonic)

A/N: I will be honest, wish I had written this as soon as I left theaters but it's as good as I could make it. 😅

Warning: Major character deaths and some movie spoilers if you haven't seen it yet

Divider credits @saradika

It was never meant for her.

To most onlookers, it became quite obvious that should anything ever happen to the empress, that it would not take long for the twin emperors to descend into madness. The two had a penchant for violence, one that was difficult for them to be ever satisfied and somehow it came to be that Geta, was consumed by the love and affection he held for his wife from the moment their eyes met on the day they were wed.

While Caracalla viewed her with a brotherly love, calling her sister the day they met and appreciating her all the more when she gifted him with his prized monkey Dondas. Her gentle but firm hand was quick to soften the temper of the brothers, there was still a madness that brewed beneath the surface and all knew, it would all turn to ruin should anything befall the young empress.

She shouldn't have been there that day.

Still in the early months, the empress' pregnancy was an open secret amongst everyone in the senate and many were cautious to incur the wrath of their emperors as their protectiveness seemed to reach even greater heights than was the norm. Her recent symptoms had her spending much more time in the royal couples chambers, hiding away to let the nauseousness abate. The same symptom that had kept her from being by the side of her husband and brother by law during the first initial days of games in the colosseum meant to celebrate the conquest of Numidia.

The fateful day had begun like most in its mundanity for the young Emperor Geta and his lovely wife (Y/N), both rousing slowly with the rise of Helios in the sky with their legs tangled together and in a tender warm embrace as they had slept. Geta was careful to cradle his wife in his arms, his hands languidly caressing her small bump that had only recently begun to show in recent weeks.

"How is the little one treating you this morning, beloved?" Geta whispered between soft kisses to her neck.

Stretching tiredly, she cupped his cheek in her hand, "Much better than usual. I think the concoction made by the healer has finally had an effect because I actual feel like joining you and Caracalla today."

"Are you certain?" he asked softly. "There's no need for you to join us if you aren't feeling up to the task. I can come up with another excuse if needed."

"Stop fussing, my love" she giggled. "I truly feel leagues better and the gladiators will be fighting by water today, do you think I would want to miss such a feat?"

His brow creased in uncertainty. He knew that if his wife was truly not up to the task of being by his side that she would make it known. But there was an uneasiness that he couldn't seem to shake off.

He gently untangled himself from their loving embrace, quickly dressing himself in a robe and took strides to the jeweled chest atop of her vanity, clutching the box to his chest and returning to her side. Carefully, Geta helped his wife put on her jewelry and pressing a kiss to her hands or lips for every adornment that he placed on her.

"Your well being is my top priority," he said kneeled by her side. "The moment that you feel anything amiss, we leave. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my love" she conceded with a smile.

Geta wasn't given a chance to say anything more as the doors to their chambers were pushed open by none other than Caracalla. The younger brother giggling in amusement when he stepped in.

"Lovely morrow for a bit of violence and blood, wouldn't you say brother? Will my radiant sister join us at last or has your little parasite incapacitated her once more?"

"I will be with both of you, little brother" (Y/N) said gently. "And please refrain from calling your niece or nephew a parasite, you wouldn't want to upset them before they have even arrived."

Caracalla waved her off and smiled, "The little parasite can complain when they're older. Until then, I can call them whatever I like because they seem to enjoy making you suffer." He leaned down and spoke to the small bump, "You'll be an absolute menace, isn't that right little parasite?"

Geta huffed out in mild annoyance and began to push his brother out of the room, "You can make more complaints about my progeny later. My wife and I are still not dressed."

"Oh, I don't mind staying."

"We will see you in the colosseum brother," Geta said with a shove and closing the doors. When they were shut, he turned back to his wife. "Let us make haste then before he tries to come bother again."

It was chaos below in the arena, the barbarian Hanno had led his group of men into ramming their boat against the opposing side and there was so much to see that it all became difficult to track. Smoke from the flames burning the boat made the task near impossible, but it didn't stop the adrenaline from coursing the veins of the young emperors from the glimpses they could see.

"My love," the empress called to her husband in worry. "They're too close, it's too close. We must leave or take caution, the men and boats are too close."

"Don't make such a fuss, sister" Caracalla said but his gaze stayed on the carnage below. "Things are getting interesting."

Below their sight, Hanno had a crossbow in his hands with the clear intent of killing the General Acacius. The aforementioned man had no chance to warn his empress that was seated in front of him of the gladiators intentions.

It all happened so fast.

It was an accident.

The crossbow was jostled in Hanno's hands as the arrow was let loose and it struck dead center between the two emperors.

And into the empress' chest.

The two men screamed in horror, unused to the violence being so close and it having any true impact to them. Caracalla was hysterical as guards pulled him away; screeching, hitting, and calling for something to be done for his sister. While Geta was enraged as he tried to temper his emotions and pushing the guards aside.

"Everything will be alright, wife" Geta said as he held his wife's hand in his own that trembled. "We will bring the healer and then find the gladiator that is to be dealt with!"

The empress could not respond, choking on her blood as she tried to reach for her husbands face before her final breath left her body.

When she went limp in his grasp, there was no halting the enraged wail from Geta as he lost his beloved bride and unborn child in a single moment.

Nothing could stop the spiral of destruction that followed the demise of the empress.

It was General Acacius' fault as the arrow was meant for him.

It was Lucillas fault for birthing the bastard that did it.

It was their fault

It was THEIR fault

It was Geta's fault.

Or so Caracalla's mind was led to believe as he and his brother sought refuge away from the hordes of people that sought to remove them from their seats of power.

His beloved sister (Y/N) and her little parasite were gone because Geta had failed to protect them.

Dondas and he would soon follow if Geta was permitted to reign alongside him any longer.

With every slash, the voices calmed in Caracalla's mind, and it soothed him to see the same rivers of blood flow down his brother's chest just as he had seen happen to his lovely sister.

Geta although unwilling, was to be reunited with his wife and child.

Caracalla would join them soon enough.

[bueckets]

Prophecy | Finale

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two | Three (you're here)

Description: Following the viral video of Paige and Azzi, you spend the next three months redefining what perfect means. Each shot becomes a statement, each swish echoing with something colder than precision. Your teammates watch you stay late every night, turning heartbreak into headlines, until even UConn's dynasty seems breakable.

The game approaches like destiny. Harvard versus UConn in the Final Four, a collision course that ESPN calls "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For." Twenty thousand tickets sell out in minutes. The whole sport holds its breath.

You haven't spoken to Paige since that night in the snow. Haven't read her texts or opened her letter. Instead, you let your game speak - 47 against Princeton, 51 against Yale, perfect shooting in both. They call it The Revenge Tour, though you never bother correcting them.

Now Dallas looms like a storm on the horizon. One game to prove that some things break you, and some things make you unbreakable.

This is the story of which one you become.

WC: 11k

WEEK ONE

After that night in the gym, you don’t miss. Not once.

Every shot is a calculation, a release, a fury of physics and heartbreak. Each arc is perfect, each swish feels like vengeance. The ball obeys because it has to. Because it’s the only thing left that makes sense.

Paige’s texts come in like a storm. Desperate, raw, and relentless:

Monday (3:47 AM): please just let me explain.

Monday (4:15 AM): it wasn't what it looked like.

Monday (4:22 AM): i miss you.

Monday (4:45 AM): please answer.

You sit on your bed staring at the ceiling, the blue glow of your phone lighting the room like a taunt. Sierra grabs it from your hands and sets it face down on your desk. “Nope.”

By Tuesday, the messages get sharper, more frantic

Tuesday (2:13 AM): i know you’re mad. i’d be mad too.

Tuesday (3:01 AM): rocket, please. you mean everything to me.

Tuesday (3:45 AM): i never meant to hurt you. i’d do anything to take it back.

By Wednesday, she calls. Seventeen times. Sierra’s thumb hovers over the block button. Jasmine glances at you, but you just lace up your shoes and head for the gym.

Thursday, the texts shift to something softer, almost pleading:

"i know you're reading these."

"just tell me you're okay."

"god, i miss you."

"please just talk to me"

Sierra and Jasmine take turns deleting the messages before you can see them, but you know. You always know.

“She’s hurting,” Jasmine says carefully one night, her voice soft like she’s walking a tightrope.

"Good," you respond, and sink another three.

WEEK TWO

The texts get longer, more rambling.

"i know i screwed up. i don’t even know how to start fixing it. all i know is that i want to."

"i miss how you made me feel like the best version of myself. like i could do anything."

"i miss you solving equations while watching film. i miss your voice. i miss you."

"rocket, i love you. i don’t care if you don’t believe me right now, but it’s the truth. i love you."

"please just tell me to fuck off or something. anything is better than this silence."

You don’t read them, but Sierra does. She updates you with clipped summaries: “She’s still apologizing. Still desperate.” You just nod, focusing on your form. Release. Swish.

“She says she loves you,” Sierra says one day, her voice careful.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, grabbing another ball.

WEEK THREE

Thursday evening, it snows. Heavy, wet flakes that stick to the ground and blanket campus in white. You’re in the gym, as always, the only sound the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor, then the net.

Sierra bursts in, out of breath, snowflakes clinging to her jacket.

“She’s here,” she says, voice strained.

You pause mid-shot, the ball resting heavy in your hands. “What?”

“Paige,” Sierra says. “She’s outside. Just standing there. She’s not leaving until you talk to her.”

You blink, your pulse quickening. “In the snow?”

“Yes. In the snow,” Sierra snaps. “Want me to handle it?”

You glance at the door, at the faint glow of the snowstorm through the windows. Your chest feels tight.

“I’ll do it,” you say quietly.

Sierra looks surprised but doesn’t argue. “You sure?”

You nod, dropping the ball onto the rack. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

You push open the gym door, and the cold hits you like a slap. The snow is coming down hard now, heavy flakes swirling in the wind and catching in your hair, on your lashes, melting instantly on your skin. The air bites at your face, sharp and unforgiving, and you pull your sweatshirt tighter around you as you step into the storm.

Paige is there.

She’s standing under the dim glow of the parking lot light, a lone figure against the blanketed white. Her coat is too thin for this weather, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if that could keep the cold out. Snowflakes dust her hair, her shoulders, even her lashes, sticking there like delicate glass. Her nose and cheeks are red, raw from the wind, and her breath comes out in uneven clouds that catch the faint light before disappearing.

Your heart pounds as you take her in. It’s not fair, how seeing her still makes your chest tighten, how her very presence feels like it could knock you off balance. You feel your feet ache against the frozen pavement, the sting of cold air in your lungs, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

She looks up as you approach, her eyes locking onto yours immediately. They’re red, glassy, the unmistakable sheen of unshed tears making them glisten. She uncrosses her arms, her hands trembling, and takes a single step forward.

“Rocket,” she says, and her voice cracks. Just that one word, and it’s enough to make your knees threaten to buckle.

You stop a few feet away, planting your sneakers firmly into the snow to keep steady. Your throat feels tight, your tongue heavy. For a moment, you can’t speak. You just stare at her, the silence between you as thick as the snow falling all around.

“What are you doing here?” you manage finally. Your voice is sharper than you intended, but the lump in your throat makes it hard to sound anything but cold.

She shifts, wiping her hands on her coat as if that’ll stop them from shaking. “I—I had to see you,” she stammers. “You weren’t answering, and I just—” Her voice breaks again, and she swallows hard, trying to steady herself. “I just needed to try.”

The words hang in the air, weighty and raw. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay grounded, to not let your emotions spiral. The wind picks up, whipping snowflakes against your face, and you blink hard against the sting.

“You’ve said enough,” you say, your voice flat.

“I know,” she says quickly, stepping forward again. Her boots crunch against the snow, and the sound feels deafening in the quiet. “I know I’ve said everything wrong. I don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. I just—” She takes a shaky breath, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “I need you to know how sorry I am. How I got into my head leading up to it. I was scared. I’m sorry. For everything. For ruining us.”

Your breath catches at that, and your chest tightens even more. Her words hit like a weight, heavy and suffocating, and for a moment, you don’t trust yourself to respond. You feel the sting in your fingers, the way the cold air pinches your ears, the dull ache in your feet from standing still too long.

“It wasn’t just a mistake, Paige,” you say finally, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound steady. “It was trust. It was everything we had.”

She nods quickly, tears finally spilling over. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to hide it, but her hands are shaking too much. “I know,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the wind. “I know I broke it. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for hurting you.”

The tears keep falling, streaking down her red cheeks, and she doesn’t bother wiping them anymore. Her shoulders shake, but she doesn’t look away from you. You want to turn away, to stop seeing her like this, but you can’t. Your eyes burn, your throat feels raw, and the weight in your chest only grows heavier.

“I loved you,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. Her breath catches audibly, and you see her shoulders slump further, like the words are knives she’s been bracing for.

“I love you,” she says, her voice breaking entirely. “I still love you. I’ll always love you.”

The snow falls harder now, coating everything in a thick, suffocating white. You feel it collect on your shoulders, your hair, melting down your neck. Paige shivers, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, her breaths coming out in ragged clouds.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you as you stare at Paige. The snow falls heavier now, landing on her lashes and melting against her flushed cheeks. Her nose is red, her hands trembling as they clench at her sides. The cold bites at your skin, your ears pinching, your feet aching, but none of it feels as sharp as the weight in your chest.

“Go home,” you say, your voice cracking slightly despite your attempt to sound firm.

Paige doesn’t move. Her wide, red-rimmed eyes stay locked on yours, brimming with fresh tears. Her lips part, but no words come, just a soft, shaky breath. Then:

“Please,” she whispers, barely audible over the wind. Her voice is raw, broken, and it hits you like a punch. She takes a step closer, her boots crunching in the snow, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach for you but knows she can’t. “Please,” she says again, the word shaking with everything she’s trying to say but can’t.

You inhale sharply, your chest tightening as you force yourself to stand your ground. “Paige,” you say, softer now, almost pleading yourself. “Go home.”

She flinches, like the words physically hurt, but she doesn’t argue this time. She nods slowly, blinking hard against the tears streaming down her face. Her shoulders slump as she turns away, her steps hesitant, dragging in the snow like she’s leaving pieces of herself behind with every step.

You watch her walk toward the far end of the parking lot, her figure blurry through the curtain of falling snow. She stops once, just for a moment, her back to you. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, but the motion is weak, almost futile. Then she moves again, trudging toward the lone car parked under the faint glow of a streetlamp.

The driver’s side window rolls down as Paige approaches, and you see KK leaning out, her face a mix of concern and frustration. KK says something—low and sharp, the words lost in the wind—and Paige shakes her head, opening the passenger door and climbing in without another glance in your direction.

The car idles for a moment, exhaust puffing into the frozen air, and you catch a glimpse of KK glancing your way, her gaze hard but questioning, like she’s debating whether to come out and say something. But she doesn’t.

The brake lights flare as the car shifts into gear, and then they’re gone, disappearing down the snow-covered road.

You stay rooted to the spot, the cold seeping through your clothes, the sound of their departure fading into silence. You don’t move for a long time, staring at the empty space where they’d been, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

You stand there long after the car disappears into the swirling snow, the cold seeping into your bones. Your feet ache from standing still, your fingers sting from the frost, and your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. You force yourself to turn, your legs heavy as you walk back toward the gym, the door looming like a safe haven you don’t feel like you deserve.

The moment you push it open, the heat rushes out to meet you, thick and suffocating. It hits your face like a wall, and suddenly, you realize how cold you were—how raw your skin feels, how your ears throb with the warmth sinking in. You blink against the hot air, your vision blurring, and that’s when you feel it. The damp streaks on your cheeks, the burning in your eyes.

You were crying.

The thought stuns you for a moment, but there’s no time to process it. Your feet move automatically, carrying you deeper into the gym. The echo of your footsteps bounces off the empty court, the sound sharp and hollow in the stillness. You make your way to the locker room, the familiar scent of sweat and rubber hitting you like a memory you didn’t ask for.

Inside, Sierra and Jasmine are waiting. They’re sitting on one of the benches, their expressions tight and unsure, like they don’t know what to say—or if they should say anything at all.

Your eyes meet Sierra’s first, and the look she gives you is soft, pitying, like she’s trying to hold you together with just her gaze. Jasmine looks away quickly, her hands fiddling with the strings of her hoodie, her shoulders tense with unspoken guilt.

Neither of them says a word.

You don’t either. You don’t have the energy.

You walk past them, your legs threatening to give out, and sink onto the bench in front of your locker. The cold from outside is still in your body, lingering in your muscles, making everything ache. You press your hands to your knees, trying to ground yourself, but the weight in your chest is too much.

It breaks.

You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking as the sobs finally come. They tear out of you, raw and uncontrollable, and you can’t stop them even if you wanted to. The locker room fills with the sound of your crying—ugly, unfiltered, and nothing like The Prophecy at all.

Sierra shifts behind you, and for a moment, you think she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. Neither of them does. They just sit there, giving you space to break apart, their quiet presence the only thing holding you from completely falling apart.

Your tears soak into your palms, your breath coming in gasps, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel the full weight of it all. The cold, the betrayal, the way her voice cracked when she said, “I love you.” It crashes over you, relentless and unrelenting.

And you let it.

Because in this moment, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to calculate the pain away or turn it into fuel.

For now, you just let yourself break.

WEEK SIX

Her last attempt comes in the form of a letter. Handwritten. Twelve pages. Sierra finds it slipped under your door one gray morning, the paper just slightly bent, as though it had been clenched tightly before being left there.

“Want me to burn it?” Sierra asks, holding it up like it’s fragile, like even touching it too long might do damage.

You don’t answer at first, your eyes fixed on the envelope. Your name is written in Paige’s handwriting, unmistakably hers—soft, looping, careful. It looks like she spent a long time on just that one word. The ink is smudged in places, faint blotches where you know she must have paused, maybe wiped her eyes.

“Rocket?” Sierra asks again, her voice gentler this time.

You reach out, hesitating before your fingers brush the paper. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, like it’s holding every unsaid word she couldn’t force into those desperate texts, every plea she couldn’t voice the last time she saw you.

“No,” you say quietly, your voice firm despite the knot in your chest. “Don’t burn it.”

Sierra doesn’t press. “What should I do with it?”

You swallow hard, still staring at the envelope like it might crack open on its own. “Keep it,” you murmur finally. “For after March.”

The corner of her mouth twitches in a faint, understanding nod. She tucks the letter carefully into her bag without another word.

Because that’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? Every ignored call, every perfect shot, every breath you’ve taken since that night in the gym has been leading to one thing: March.

Two weeks later, the bracket drops.

Harvard vs. UConn. Sweet Sixteen.

You hear whispers everywhere—teammates speculating, reporters asking veiled questions about how you feel about the matchup. You stay quiet, dodging the noise with an unshakable focus that keeps the world at bay.

Paige doesn’t text. She doesn’t call. But one night, you see it.

It’s subtle, so subtle you almost miss it: a photo on her Instagram story.

She’s sitting on the floor of her dorm, the soft golden light of a bedside lamp pooling around her. Her knees are drawn to her chest, her head resting on her arms. There’s no caption, no obvious sign of you. But in the corner of the frame, hanging off the back of a chair, is your Harvard hoodie.

The air leaves your lungs.

It’s so small, so quiet, but it feels loud in your chest.

Sierra notices you staring at your phone and gives you a sharp look. “Don’t,” she warns.

“I’m not,” you reply, locking your phone and sliding it across the table.

And you aren’t.

Instead, you lace up your sneakers and head to the gym.

30 DAYS TO MARCH MADNESS

The bracket predictions start rolling in. Every analyst has the same storyline: Harvard and UConn are destined to meet in the championship.

ESPN calls it "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For."

You don’t watch their coverage. You don’t need to. You just shoot.

Paige’s last text comes at 2 AM:

“i still miss you.”

You delete it without reading. (Sierra tells you about it later anyway.)

25 DAYS

“Did you hear?” Jasmine says as she slides into the locker room after practice, her voice quieter than usual.

You don’t look up. “Hear what?”

“Paige was at some party last night. Someone saw her with... someone.”

You pause mid-lace, your fingers tightening. “And?”

“She’s... moving on. Or trying to.”

Later, Sierra shows you the photo: Paige with her arm around a tall blonde, both laughing like the world doesn’t hurt them.

You close your phone, drop it in your bag, and hit the gym for 200 straight shots. Each one lands, clean and precise, but your chest tightens with every swish.

At midnight, Sierra finds you still there. “She’s doing this on purpose,” she says softly.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make you feel what she’s feeling.”

You grab another ball, square your shoulders. “Bold of her to assume I still care.”

(You do. God, you do.)

20 DAYS

Your game is evolving. Whatever limits you thought existed don’t anymore. You’re not just making shots—you’re erasing boundaries.

Reporters ask Coach about it after Harvard crushes Penn by 30 points. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

She shakes her head, her voice filled with awe. “She’s playing like someone who has nothing left to lose.”

Because you don’t.

15 DAYS

Another photo surfaces: Paige dancing at a club, the same blonde close enough to blur the line between friendly and intimate. The image spreads through whispers, not headlines, but it’s enough to reach you.

The next morning, Jasmine deletes all your social media apps. “Focus on what matters,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

So you do:

47 points against Princeton.

51 against Yale.

Perfect shooting in both games.

The whispers around you grow louder. People call it The Revenge Tour, though you don’t bother correcting them.

You let your game speak for itself.

10 DAYS

Harvard enters March Madness ranked #1 for the first time in school history. UConn is #2.

The narrative writes itself:

Ice vs Fire.

You hear the buzz but tune it out. Paige posts a hype video for the tournament. There’s no sign of you in her clips, but you don’t need to be.

That night, you shoot until your arms shake. The sound of each swish reverberates through the gym, the echoes cutting through your chest like heartbreak.

5 DAYS

The tournament begins, and you burn through the first two rounds like wildfire:

45 points against Florida State.

52 against Tennessee.

You still haven’t missed.

UConn advances too. Paige plays like she’s on fire, dropping 38 against Duke and 41 against LSU. But she misses. She stumbles. She’s human. She’s flawed.

You tell yourself that’s why she couldn’t keep you. Because perfection is lonely.

2 DAYS

The Final Four is set: Harvard vs. UConn. The matchup everyone’s been waiting for.

Your teammates feel the weight of it, the buzz of history swirling around them, but you stay quiet. Focused.

“Are you ready?” Coach asks after practice.

You glance at her, your expression steady. “Always.”

1 DAY

The press conference is brutal. Every question is a thinly veiled attempt to dig into the drama. Paige. The rumors. 

You give them nothing.

“I’m here to play basketball,” you say flatly. “Nothing else matters.”

Later that night, alone in your hotel room, you stare at the letter Sierra saved weeks ago. It sits on the desk like it’s daring you to open it.

Your hands shake as you unfold the pages.

The first three lines hit harder than you expect:

"I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I broke something perfect. I know I lost the best thing that ever happened to me."

You stop reading. You don’t need to see the rest.

The paper burns easily in the sink, the edges curling in on themselves like the words are folding into ash.

Tomorrow isn’t about forgiveness.

It’s about proving that some things break you.

And some things make you unbreakable.

Time to show her which one you are.

THE FINAL FOUR: HARVARD VS UCONN

The arena in Dallas feels alive, like it has a pulse of its own. Twenty thousand fans pack the stands, and the roar of the crowd is more than sound—it’s energy, crackling in the air, vibrating through the floor. You can feel it in your chest, in the way your heart beats a little faster as you stand in the tunnel, waiting.

This is the game. The one people will talk about for decades.

“Harvard vs. UConn,” ESPN’s voices echo faintly from the screens overhead, carrying over the din “The Game Women’s Basketball Has Been Waiting For.”

“Harvard’s perfect season against UConn’s dynasty.”

“Two programs. Two stars. One unmissable collision course.”

You don’t look at the screens. Don’t let the noise creep in. You focus instead on the rhythm of your breathing, the weight of the ball in your hands, the perfect arcs playing out in your mind. Force vectors, trajectories, momentum. The physics of what’s about to happen.

Sierra steps up beside you, her face all business, her game face as sharp as you’ve ever seen it. “You good?”

You nod once. She doesn’t ask if you’re sure. She’s seen you these past weeks—seen the extra hours, the obsession, the way you’ve turned heartbreak into something almost unrecognizable. She’s seen you rewrite what’s possible when perfect turns to steel.

“They’re out there,” Jasmine says quietly, stepping up on your other side.

Your stomach tightens, but you don’t let it show. 

“You’re sure you’re good?” Sierra presses, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m perfect,” you say flatly, the word cold and sharp.

The crowd’s roar deepens, and you know UConn must be taking the court for warmups. You can picture it without looking: Paige leading them out, her stride confident, her expression poised. She feeds off this energy, always has, like she was built for these moments.

You think about everything—every ignored text, every late-night practice, every time Paige’s name appeared on your phone screen and you turned away. You think about the letter, folded and burned, its words turned to ash: "I know I broke something perfect."

“I’m ready,” you say, voice steady.

Coach nods. “Good.” She turns to the team. “Ladies, listen up. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to tonight. They’re bigger, they’re stronger, and they’ve got more banners in their gym than we’ll ever see. But we’ve got something they don’t.”

She looks at you, and there's something fierce in her eyes.

"We've got perfect."

The team huddles up, hands in. But before they can do their usual chant, you speak. It's the first time you've addressed them all day.

"When we take that court," your voice is quiet but carries weight, "you're going to hear a lot of noise. They're going to talk about everything except basketball. But that's not why we're here."

Your teammates lean in closer.

"We're here because I made you all a promise three years ago. That we'd make history. That we'd show the world what Harvard basketball really is. That we'd be perfect when it matters most."

You look each of them in the eye.

"Tonight, we keep that promise."

The tunnel erupts in fierce agreement. Your teammates are ready for war.

"One minute!" calls the official.

You close your eyes for a moment, center yourself. Think about all the shots that led here. All the nights in empty gyms. All the physics problems solved between free throws. All the moments that built The Prophecy.

And yes, you think about her. About early mornings in her dorm. Late nights watching film. The way she said your name like it was something precious. The way she looked at someone else the same way.

The anger rises, cold and precise. You use it, let it sharpen your focus until everything else falls away.

The tunnel lights flicker as the official signals. It’s time.

"Ready?" Sierra asks one last time.

You step toward the light of the arena, toward the noise, toward destiny.

"Perfect," you say.

And then you emerge into madness.

The sound hits you like a wave the second you step onto the court. It’s not just noise; it’s a force, a physical thing that presses against you, vibrating in your chest.

"THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY!"

The chant rolls through the arena like thunder, swelling as the crowd rises to their feet. Signs wave above the sea of faces:

"PERFECTION WEARS CRIMSON"

"847-2: THE PROPHECY SPEAKS"

Your entrance stops UConn's warmups cold. Every player freezes mid-drill, even the legendary Geno Auriemma turns to watch. You catch Paige's reaction in your peripheral vision—the way she stumbles slightly, ball slipping from her fingers. But you don't look at her. Won't give her that.

The Harvard section is delirious, but it's more than that. The neutral fans, the media, even some UConn supporters are on their feet. This is what happens when you spend three months turning heartbreak into headlines, when you take "perfect" and make it look easy.

Your teammates hit the court, their warmups sharper, fueled by the energy of the crowd. But your routine is different. Quieter. Singular.

You start at the three-point line, the ball resting in your hands. The noise fades as you focus, your heartbeat steadying. One shot.

Swish.

The explosion of noise is deafening. You don't react. Just catch, shoot, swish. Again. Again. Again.

On the other end, UConn's trying to maintain their composure, but you can feel their eyes on you. Feel the way their usual swagger has been replaced by something else. Something that looks like doubt.

Your teammates are feeding off the energy now. Sierra drills a corner three, the ball cutting through the net with a satisfying snap. Jasmine blocks one of Taylor’s layups in a mock defensive drill, both of them grinning fiercely.

"Focus on our game!" Geno barks, but even he keeps glancing your way.

The media's having a field day. Every camera in the building is trained on you, catching every perfect shot, every ice-cold expression. ESPN's commentary carries over the speakers:

"We're watching something unprecedented here, Rebecca. The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she's transcendent. Look at the way UConn's players are watching her. They're supposed to be the dynasty, the standard-bearers, but right now they look shook—"

And still, you don’t look at Paige.

The crowd's volume keeps building, impossibly louder with each perfect shot you make. NBA players sitting courtside are shaking their heads in disbelief. Olympic champions in the stands are filming on their phones. This isn't just a warmup anymore—it's a statement.

Finally, mercifully for UConn, the buzzer sounds to clear the court for final preparations. As the teams head to their benches, you allow yourself one glance at their side. Just one.

Paige is standing near the sideline, her hands resting on her hips, her gaze fixed on you. For a split second, your eyes meet. Her expression shifts—shock, pain, something that might be regret.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer, then turn away, your face unreadable.

You turn away, face impassive. But inside, the cold fire burns hotter.

Because this isn’t about her anymore.

This isn’t about heartbreak or revenge.

This is about showing the world what happens when perfect stops trying to be loved.

And starts trying to be legendary.

The starting lineups are about to be announced, and the arena hums with anticipation, the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. It’s not just loud—it’s electric, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Every cheer, every chant, every flash of a camera feels sharper, brighter, heavier. History is about to be made.

The announcer’s voice booms, reverberating through the cavernous space, calling out names that blur into the roar of the crowd. You barely hear them—don’t need to. You’re locked in. You can feel the ball’s weight in your hand even though you’re not holding it, the phantom rhythm of your dribble steadying your pulse.

The Prophecy is about to speak.

And everyone—Paige, UConn, the world—is about to listen.

Sierra wins the tip with authority, the ball snapping to Maria like it’s been rehearsed a thousand times. Harvard’s ball. The crowd leans forward collectively, the sound dropping to an expectant hum as you cross half court, their energy feeding into the moment.

UConn’s defense is already set. You see it as soon as you step over the timeline: box-and-one. Four players sagging into a tight zone, leaving Paige on you.

Of course they’d make her guard you. Of course.

She’s close, closer than you expected, the kind of tight defense that borders on personal. Her eyes flicker for a moment, uncertainty bleeding through her usual focus.

“Please…” she whispers, so quiet it almost gets lost in the noise. “Can we just—”

You don’t let her finish.

A crossover—quick, precise, lethal—cuts her off mid-sentence. The crowd gasps, a collective intake of breath, as Paige stumbles, her footing faltering for just a second. But a second is all you need.

You rise up from 25 feet, the motion as natural as breathing. Perfect form. Perfect rotation.

Swish.

The crowd detonates.

3-0 Harvard.

"THE PROPHECY STRIKES FIRST!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "ICE COLD FROM DEEP!"

UConn pushes the ball upcourt fast, their transition game as polished as ever. Paige has that look now—the one that used to make your chest tighten, the one that once made you believe she could do anything. Now, it’s just data to process, another variable in the equation you’ve already solved.

She drives hard to the right, her speed and body control flawless. She’s counting on you to back off, to avoid contact, to give her just enough room for the pull-up jumper she’s perfected.

But you don’t.

Your body stays with hers, every step mirrored, every shift anticipated. When she rises for the shot, your hand is already there, contesting at the perfect angle. The ball leaves her hands, spinning slightly off-axis.

Clank.

The sound of the ball hitting the rim feels louder than it should, the miss reverberating through the arena like a misstep in a symphony.

“REJECTION!” The crowd erupts again, their voices rising to a fever pitch. “THE PROPHECY WITH THE PERFECT DEFENSE ON THE PRINCE!”

Maria grabs the rebound and pushes the break. You trail deliberately, your movements fluid, waiting for the play to unfold. The ball swings to you on the wing. Another catch. Another perfect release.

Swish.

6-0 Harvard.

Geno Auriemma doesn’t hesitate. Timeout, 47 seconds in. His voice carries across the court, sharp and commanding as he pulls his players in, trying to steady a ship that’s already rocking.

The ESPN commentators are incredulous. “I’ve never seen anything like this! The Prophecy isn’t just scoring—she’s controlling the entire game. And having Paige Bueckers guard her it’s psychological warfare at its finest.”

In the huddle, Coach Matthews stays calm, her voice steady amidst the chaos. “Keep executing. They’re rattled.”

Your teammates nod, feeding off her composure. You don’t say anything, don’t need to. The look in your eyes says enough.

Back on the court, UConn shifts their defense. KK Arnold takes over guarding you, her physicality immediately apparent. Paige shifts to Jasmine, but you feel her eyes on you anyway, like a weight pressing against your back.

You make her pay for it.

A quick backdoor cut—sharp, timed to perfection—leaves her a step behind. Maria sees it instantly, the lob arcing perfectly into your hands. You lay it in cleanly, barely breaking stride.

8-0 Harvard.

The UConn section is restless now, the nervous energy rippling through their chants.

From the crowd you hear, “She's not that special! Lock her up!"

The next time down, you catch the ball at the top of the key, KK’s hand pressing into your hip. You rise anyway, unfazed. The ball barely brushes the net on its way through.

11-0 Harvard.

Geno is furious, calling out defensive adjustments. But there's something different about UConn's energy—they're not just trailing, they're shook.

Paige tries to take over, driving hard to the rim with an intensity that feels more desperate than controlled. Her first step is sharp, her movements calculated, but there’s something frantic in the way she moves—like she’s trying to match you shot for shot, trying to prove something to herself as much as to the crowd.

Her floater arcs high but catches the back iron and rolls out.

The crowd groans, the sound rippling through the UConn section like a wave of disbelief. Paige’s jaw tightens as she sprints back on defense, but you’ve already moved on, focused, untouchable.

On the next possession, she pulls up for a three. It’s a clean look, her form textbook, but the ball rims out again, drawing a gasp from the fans and a loud clank that echoes through the arena.

Then she drives again, barreling into the paint, trying to force her way through Sierra’s perfect positioning. The ball pops loose, Sierra’s quick hands stripping it clean, and the Harvard section explodes in cheers.

Meanwhile, you’re somewhere else entirely.

Athletes talk about it, but few ever get there: the space where time slows, where the game feels less like competition and more like art. The roar of the crowd fades into a low hum, the edges of the court softening as everything sharpens around the ball in your hands.

It’s not just instinct—it’s control, precision, the physics of perfection in every step. Each shot feels inevitable, each movement unfolding like an equation you’ve already solved.

On defense, you can feel the tension radiating from UConn, their movements tighter, their communication louder. When Emma finally scores off a put-back—muscling through a sea of Harvard defenders—the UConn section celebrates like it’s a game-winner.

11-2 Harvard.

You glance at the scoreboard, then at your teammates, your calm focus unshaken. They know what’s coming next.

You show UConn what victory really looks like.

KK Arnold presses into you as you bring the ball up the court, her hands swiping aggressively, trying to throw you off balance. You shift your weight left, plant your foot, and cross over so quickly it sends her stumbling, her arms flailing for balance as the crowd gasps.

You take one step back, rising effortlessly over Caroline’s outstretched arms as she contests, her fingertips barely brushing the air beneath the ball.

Swish.

16-2 Harvard.

The Harvard bench leaps to their feet, arms raised, while the UConn section sits frozen, unsure of how to react. Geno is pacing now, barking orders to his team, his sharp voice cutting through the tension.

"We're watching history," the announcer's voice trembles with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just winning—she's rewriting what's possible in this sport."

Paige is pressing harder, trying to shoulder the burden of momentum, but it’s slipping through her fingers. She forces another drive, this time straight into Sierra, who holds her ground like a wall. The whistle doesn’t blow, and Paige stumbles as the ball goes loose again, Maria scooping it up and feeding you on the wing.

The moment your hands touch the ball, you already know what’s going to happen.

Perfect rhythm. Perfect form. Perfect swish.

UConn tries everything: double teams, traps, full-court pressure. Nothing works. You split defenders like they're standing still, find teammates for open shots when they sell out to stop you, and when they give you any space at all.

The quarter ends with one final dagger. UConn tries to hold for the last shot, but you read Paige's eyes—you always could read her eyes—and jump the passing lane. The steal leads to a breakaway with three seconds left.

Most players would lay it in. Safe. Smart.

But The Prophecy isn't most players.

You take off from just inside the free-throw line, rising up as the buzzer sounds. The ball leaves your hands at the perfect angle, with the perfect spin, following the perfect arc.

Swish. As time expires.

29-10 Harvard.

The arena absolutely detonates. Your teammates mob you as you walk calmly to the bench. Even Coach Matthews cracks a smile.

In their huddle, you can see Geno gesturing frantically, see Paige's head hanging.

But none of that matters.

Because this isn't about them anymore.

This is about perfect.

And perfect is just getting started.

The second quarter opens with UConn desperate to change the momentum. Their energy is sharp, frantic, the kind that comes from a team not used to being punched first. Geno has abandoned the box-and-one, switching to a triangle-and-two defense. It’s designed to suffocate you—two defenders shadowing your every step, cutting off your air, daring the rest of your team to beat them.

You glance at Paige and KK as they close in, their feet shuffling in sync. Paige’s jaw is tight, her expression unreadable, but there’s tension in her shoulders, the kind you’ve seen in every film session this week. KK is louder, her movements brash, barking orders at the rest of the defense.

The first possession, you take the ball at the top of the key, waiting for the defense to swarm. KK gets there first, her hands low and active, trying to force you left. Paige closes in immediately after, her presence suffocating.

You don’t flinch. You shift just enough to pull both defenders with you, then flick a no-look pass to Sierra cutting baseline. The ball drops into her hands, and she lays it in cleanly, untouched.

31-10 Harvard.

"The Prophecy showing she can dominate without scoring!" ESPN's excitement builds. "This is basketball genius at its finest!"

Then it happens.

Four minutes into the quarter. Harvard up 37-15. You shake loose from the double team, slicing through the defense like a knife through fabric. Sierra's screen creating the perfect angle of separation (47 degrees, optimal for catch-and-shoot scenarios), your feet set precisely shoulder-width apart, knees bent at the textbook 110-degree angle.

The ball feels good leaving your hands—perfect, even. The rotation is clean, the arc flawless, the trajectory straight out of a physics textbook. It’s the kind of shot you’ve made thousands of times. The kind of shot you don’t even need to watch to know it’s good.

But sometimes, the universe has other plans.

The ball hits the back rim, bouncing straight up, a little too high, a little too slow. It hovers for an agonizing second.

The entire arena holds its breath. Twenty thousand people frozen, watching the impossible happen. The ball hangs there, defying gravity for one more precious second, before falling away.

You’ve missed.

The UConn bench explodes, their cheers wild and unfiltered, like they’ve just won the championship. Their fans echo the celebration, chants swelling and overlapping.

"SHE’S HUMAN! SHE’S HUMAN!”

Paige takes a step toward you, instinct guiding her more than logic. It’s the same look you’ve seen in practices, in dorm rooms, in quiet moments when her guard was down. She wants to reach out, to say something, to bridge the gap between who you were to each other and who you are now.

But she stops herself. Her foot hovers for half a second before she steps back, her hand falling limp at her side. She remembers where she is. Who she’s supposed to be to you now.

And still, everyone waits.

Your teammates glance at you nervously. They’ve seen what happens when you miss. They know the last time you broke. They know why.

But you're not the same person who broke in that dark gym.

Instead of shattering, you do something no one expects.

You smile.

It’s small, controlled, more ice than warmth, but it’s enough to send a ripple through the arena. The silence shifts into something sharper, heavier.

The message is clear: Missing doesn’t break me anymore.

Nothing does.

"Oh my," the ESPN announcer’s voice is barely above a whisper. "That might be the scariest smile I’ve ever seen in basketball."

Next possession.

You take the ball at half court, KK and Paige closing in again. Their energy is different now—more cautious, less certain. They’re waiting for you to pass, waiting for you to hesitate, waiting for the doubt to creep in.

But it doesn’t.

You glance at the defense sagging just slightly, expecting hesitation, and then you do the thing no one else would.

You rise from the logo, the shot pure and effortless, the ball spinning through the air like it was destined to fall.

Swish.

40-15 Harvard.

The arena erupts.

Your teammates are screaming, their hands raised in disbelief. Coach Matthews stands for the first time all game, clipboard forgotten, her face a rare mix of awe and pride.

"THAT'S HOW YOU RESPOND TO ADVERSITY!" ESPN's voice cracks with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she’s unstoppable!"

UConn calls timeout, but it's too late. They've lost whatever psychological edge they thought they'd gained. The rest of the quarter becomes a masterclass:

You hit threes over double teams.

Thread passes through impossible angles.

Turn their defense into a highlight reel of broken ankles and shattered hopes.

By halftime, the score is 52-27 Harvard. You've got 31 points, 8 assists, and a message that's louder than any perfect streak:

Some things break you.

Some things make you unbreakable.

And sometimes, becoming unbreakable is better than being perfect.

The teams head to their locker rooms, but the story of the second quarter isn't the score. It's the smile after the miss. The logo three that followed. The moment when The Prophecy proved that she's not just a perfect player.

HALFTIME

The locker room feels like it’s vibrating, the energy practically bouncing off the walls. Your teammates are loud, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of disbelief and celebration. Sierra’s pacing, too hyped to sit, while Jasmine reenacts your logo three for the tenth time, miming your shooting form with exaggerated flair.

"DID YOU SEE THEIR FACES?" Sierra's practically dancing. "When you smiled after that miss? I thought they were gonna pass out!"

"That logo three was DISGUSTING," Jasmine adds, mimicking your shooting form. "The disrespect!"

You let their voices wash over you, grounding yourself in the chaos without joining it. Sitting on the bench, you pull a water bottle to your lips, its coolness a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your skin.

But Coach Matthews raises her hand for quiet. "They're going to come out desperate. Geno's never been down this much in a Final Four. Expect everything."

You nod slightly, her words steadying you. She’s right. The storm is coming. You can feel it brewing beyond the walls, the hum of the arena like distant thunder.

Through the locker room door, the halftime show filters in faintly. ESPN’s voices carry over the noise of the crowd:

“Harvard leads UConn 52-27 in the most lopsided first half of a Final Four in recent history…”

“31 points, 8 assists, 12-of-13 shooting, 5 steals. These aren’t just numbers; they’re history in the making…”

“And it’s not just the stats. That smile after the miss? That was the moment The Prophecy stopped being perfect and became something more. Something immortal.”

Sierra catches you listening and grins, holding up her phone. “You’re trending worldwide. Again.”

You wave her off. You don’t care about that. You’ve never cared about that.

But then Jasmine nudges you, her expression shifting from playful to serious as she shows you another text. This one’s from KK.

Paige is crying in the bathroom. Whole team’s shook. 

Good.

THIRD QUARTER

The second you see UConn retake the court, you can tell they’ve changed. There’s a new energy to them—sharper, more desperate. Paige’s eyes are slightly red, a telltale glint betraying her earlier tears. But there’s also something dangerous in her expression, the kind of desperation that makes even the best players reckless.

Geno’s thrown everything at the wall. UConn opens with a full-court press, their defenders swarming like bees, aggressive and chaotic.

It’s laughable.

You slice through them on the first possession like they’re standing still. A quick pass to Maria in the corner. Perfect release.

55-27 Harvard.

Paige tries to respond immediately, driving hard to the basket with her head down. The play is pure determination, her shoulders hunched as she barrels into the lane, but you’re ready.

Sliding over, you plant yourself perfectly, your feet set, your body immovable. When she crashes into you, the impact reverberates through your chest, but you don’t budge.

The whistle blows. Offensive foul.

Paige hits the floor hard, her hands slapping against the hardwood. For a split second, instinct kicks in—the memory of a hundred practices where you’d help her up, offer her a hand, a joke, a smile.

But that was then.

Now, you simply turn and walk away, your expression colder than the ice under her feet.

“Ice. Cold,” the announcer breathes, the disbelief palpable.

On the next possession, Paige picks you up full court, her body language bristling with frustration. She presses in close, practically stepping on your toes, her voice low and cracking.

“Please,” she whispers. “Just look at me. Just once.”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you hit her with a combination that feels less like basketball and more like poetry:

Crossover right.

Behind the back left.

Through the legs.

Step-back three.

The crowd doesn’t even wait for the ball to hit the net. The moment Paige stumbles backward, they’re on their feet, screaming.

The shot, of course, is perfect.

58-27 Harvard.

The UConn section is dead silent now. Even Geno has stopped pacing, his arms folded as he stares helplessly at the court. Paige glances toward their bench, her eyes briefly meeting Geno’s, but he has no answers either

Next possession, you wave off the screen, motioning for everyone to clear out. The court feels impossibly wide as Paige crouches in her defensive stance, her body coiled with tension. You can see the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, the way her breathing hitches as she exhales.

Time slows.

Can see the tears threatening at the corners of Paige's eyes.

Can feel twenty thousand people holding their breath.

Perfect isn't about not missing anymore.

Perfect is about what you do next.

The move is pure poetry.

Crossover so quick the cameras barely catch it.

Through the legs at half speed, letting her think she's got you.

Then the acceleration – zero to legendary in a heartbeat.

Paige lunges, trying to stay in front.

The crowd rises as one.

But they don't matter.

Nothing matters except the physics of this moment.

You rise up from 30 feet, Paige's hand right in your face.

Time stops.

The ball arcs through the air like destiny.

Swish.

The arena detonates.

Your teammates mob you as you jog back, their faces alight with disbelief. Even the referees exchange glances, one shaking his head like he’s just witnessed the impossible.

61-33 Harvard.

Paige doesn’t move. She stays rooted to the spot where you left her, her head bowed, her hands on her knees. The weight of the game—of the moment—presses her into the hardwood.

The UConn bench looks like a graveyard.

Perfect breaks back.

The quarter ends with Harvard up 73-41. You've got 45 points on a shot chart that looks like abstract art. Each bucket more impossible than the last. Each move designed to teach them all the same lesson.

FOURTH QUARTER

Ten minutes left in the biggest game in women’s college basketball history. Harvard up 73-41. The crowd buzzes with anticipation, sensing the inevitable.

Paige opens the quarter like someone with nothing left to lose. Her movements are sharper now, more fluid, like she’s untethered from the weight of expectation. There’s desperation in her eyes, but also glimpses of what made her special.

What made her yours, once upon a time.

She hits a deep three. Then another. Her teammates respond, pressing full court, fighting for every inch, clawing for one last stand.

On the next possession, UConn doubles you at half court, but you see the opening before they do. A quick bounce pass threads the needle, hitting Sierra in stride for an uncontested layup.

75-44 Harvard.

The press comes hard again, but you stay poised, letting it collapse around you before sending a no-look pass over your shoulder to Maria in the corner. She drains the three, and the crowd explodes.

78-44 Harvard.

Paige tries to answer with a contested jumper at the other end, and it rattles in. She’s pressing now, forcing every play, trying to drag her team back into a game that’s already slipping away.

Back on offense, you hesitate near the arc, drawing in the defense before flipping a behind-the-back pass to Jasmine cutting baseline. The ball barely touches her hands before it’s in the net.

80-46 Harvard.

Coach Matthews calls timeout to sub you out with 1:32 left. The ovation is deafening—every single person in the arena on their feet, cheering until their voices crack. You’ve got 34 points, 15 assists, and 7 steals, but the numbers barely scratch the surface of what just happened.

You jog to the bench, your teammates mobbing you, their hands slapping your back, their voices a chaotic blur of celebration.

As you pass Paige one last time, there are no words. No need.

You both know what this moment is.

The final buzzer sounds: Harvard 89, UConn 51.

Confetti falls, a blizzard of crimson and gold, as your teammates tackle you in a storm of laughter and tears. Cameras flash everywhere, their lenses capturing history in real time.

You stand at center court, calm amidst the chaos, the weight of the moment settling over you.

Because you did it. You won.

The locker room is a storm of joy, the kind that only comes from rewriting history. Music blasts from a speaker in the corner. Sierra’s leading a conga line with the championship trophy hoisted high. Jasmine and Maria are filming every second, screaming into their phones about being “FINAL FOUR CHAMPIONS, BABY!”

You should be reveling in it. You are, to an extent—smiling as Sierra shoves a bottle of sparkling cider into your hands, laughing as Jasmine accidentally sprays half the team with the foam.

But deep down, there’s an itch you can’t scratch.

You made the statement. You dominated the game. You won the war.

But the battle inside you—the one that started long before tonight—is still unresolved.

Later, when the celebration starts to wind down, you find yourself leaning against a corner of the locker room, still clutching the now-empty bottle of cider. The room feels quieter, though the energy still hums faintly in the air. Your teammates are scattered—some FaceTiming family, others sprawled on benches in blissful exhaustion.

Sierra catches your eye from across the room. She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly, a silent question.

You shake your head. Not yet.

An hour later, you’re back in your hotel room, the championship hat still perched on your head, your phone buzzing endlessly with texts and notifications. Most are from reporters, friends, family. A few from Jasmine and Sierra, who are probably still partying somewhere downstairs.

You scroll through them aimlessly, not sure what you’re looking for until you see her name.

Paige.

She hasn't texted. Not since before the game. Her name sits there like a ghost in your messages, daring you to make the first move. To break the silence that's grown between you like a wall.

For a while, you just sit there, staring at the empty message thread. You replay every moment of the game in your mind—the way her voice cracked when she guarded you, the way she pressed harder and harder as the score slipped further out of reach. The way she nodded, warrior to warrior, as if she knew what you’d just written into history.

And yet, it doesn’t feel complete. Not entirely.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

you can come by if you want

The message is simple. No explanations, no context. You don’t even wait to see if she reads it before tossing your phone onto the bed and heading to the bathroom to wash off the night.

When you come back, the screen is lit with her reply:

where?

Your heart stumbles over itself as you type the room number. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt, trying to ignore how your pulse picks up with each passing minute.

The knock, when it comes, is so soft you almost miss it.

For a second, you just stare at the door, your pulse thudding in your ears. The part of you that has spent months building walls tells you not to answer, not to let her in.

But tonight isn’t about walls.

You open the door.

She’s standing there, still in her UConn travel gear, hair tucked under a beanie. Her eyes are tired, rimmed with dark circles, but there’s something in them—something vulnerable, tentative—that catches you off guard.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi.”

You step aside to let her in. She moves hesitantly, as if unsure whether she belongs here.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The room feels heavy with unspoken words, with everything the game couldn’t settle.

“You played…” Paige starts, then stops, biting her lip. “You were unbelievable.”

“Thanks.” You cross your arms, leaning against the desk. “You weren’t bad yourself.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, the sound awkward and raw. “I tried.”

Silence stretches between you again. The words you want to say stick to the back of your throat, stubborn and heavy. You watch her hands fidget with the strings of her hoodie, a nervous tell you used to find endearing. Now it just makes your chest ache.

Finally, it’s Paige who breaks the tension.

“I thought it would feel better,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly. “Losing, I mean. Seeing you win. It’s like I needed you to win. I needed you to be okay without me. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.”

Her honesty feels like a gut punch. You unfold your arms, suddenly unable to stay distant. “Paige…”

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out, words tumbling over themselves.“For all of it. For hurting you, for not fighting harder, for—”

“I know,” you cut her off gently, your voice quieter now. “I know.”

She looks at you, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Do you?”

You nod, stepping closer. “Yeah. I do. And I…” You take a shaky breath. “I’m tired of being angry. I don’t want to carry it anymore.”

Her shoulders slump, the tension leaving her body all at once. “I don’t either.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of everything unsaid filling the room.

And then, slowly, you reach out, your hand brushing hers. She looks down at the contact, her lips trembling, and you feel something shift.

Forgiveness isn’t instant. It’s not easy. But it starts here, in this quiet room, with the two of you trying to find your way back to something that feels whole.

“Sit,” you say softly, gesturing to the bed.

She hesitates, then sits down, and for the first time in months, the space between you feels less like a chasm and more like a bridge.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to cross it.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for something. You grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge, needing something to do with your hands.

“Want one?” you ask, holding it up.

Paige glances at you, nodding slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You hand it to her, and your fingers brush—just for a second. It’s such a small, fleeting touch, but it makes the air between you feel charged, like something fragile and important is hanging there.

She twists the cap off the bottle but doesn’t drink, just stares at it like it holds answers. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually let me in,” she says softly.

“Neither was I,” you admit, sitting down beside her. The bed dips slightly under your weight, and for a moment, you’re hyper-aware of the small space between you.

Her lips curve into a faint, rueful smile. “Fair.”

The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken things. You look at her out of the corner of your eye—the way her hands tremble slightly as she holds the water bottle, the way her hair falls messily over her shoulders, the way her shoulders rise and fall with each shallow breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Paige murmurs, breaking the silence. “You were… unbelievable tonight. I mean, you always are, but tonight…” She trails off, shaking her head like she can’t find the words.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“I wasn’t just talking about the game,” she adds, her voice quieter now. “The way you handled everything—the pressure, the expectations, even me. It was like watching someone I didn’t even know existed.”

You glance at her sharply, caught off guard by the rawness in her voice. “You know me better than anyone.”

“I thought I did,” she says, her lips twitching into something that’s not quite a smile. “But I think I only knew the parts of you that let me in. And I don’t think I earned the rest.”

Her words hit something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to bury. You look down at your hands, twisting the cap on your water bottle. “You didn’t need to earn it,” you say quietly. “It was always yours.”

She turns her head to look at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, and you can feel her staring, feel her trying to read between the lines of your words.

“I should’ve fought harder,” Paige whispers. Her voice cracks, and she drops her gaze back to her lap. “For us. For you. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” you interrupt gently, surprising even yourself with the softness in your tone. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. I’ve already forgiven you.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping like a weight has just been lifted. “Really?”

You nod, your throat tightening. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The sound of her breathing fills the room, slow and uneven, and the faint hum of the city outside filters in through the window.

“It’s weird,” you say after a while, breaking the silence. “I thought beating you tonight would feel like closure. Like I could finally move on. But it didn’t.”

Paige looks up at you, her brows furrowed. “What did it feel like?”

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. “Like I was still waiting for something.”

She doesn’t ask what, doesn’t press, but the way she looks at you tells you she knows.

The silence stretches again, but this time it feels different—like the space between you is slowly shrinking, like the air is shifting.

You shift slightly on the bed, your knee brushing hers. The touch is small, accidental, but neither of you pulls away.

“Do you want to stay?” you ask suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them.

Paige blinks, her eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“Stay,” you repeat, your voice steadier now. “Just for tonight.”

She looks at you, searching your face for something—hesitation, doubt, anything that might make her say no. But she doesn’t find it.

“Okay,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, standing up and grabbing a spare blanket from the closet. “You can take the bed. I’ll—”

“No,” she interrupts quickly, shaking her head. “I mean, we can… share. If that’s okay.”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod again. “Yeah. Okay.”

The bed feels impossibly small as you both lie down, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. You’re on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about how close she is. Paige shifts slightly, the mattress dipping under her weight, and you catch the faint scent of her shampoo.

You try to focus on anything else—the faint hum of the city outside, the muffled sound of someone laughing in the hallway, the rhythm of your own breathing. But your mind keeps circling back to her.

“Hey,” Paige whispers after a while, her voice tentative in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Can I…?” She trails off, and you turn your head to look at her. Her eyes are wide, uncertain, the soft light from the window catching the gold flecks in them. “Can I hold you?”

The question catches you off guard, but only for a second. Then you nod, shifting onto your side to face her.

She hesitates, like she’s still waiting for you to pull away, and then she closes the space between you. Her arms wrap around you carefully, like she’s afraid you’ll break, and you feel the warmth of her body settle against yours.

You exhale slowly, your head resting against her shoulder, your hand curling slightly against her chest. Her heartbeat is steady, grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel your own racing pulse start to calm.

“Is this okay?” she asks softly, her breath warm against your hair.

“Yeah,” you murmur, letting your eyes close. “It’s okay.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you like a cocoon, the world outside fading into the background. You focus on the small details—the way her fingers trace absent patterns against your back, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way her cheek brushes against your temple.

“I missed this,” she whispers, the words barely audible.

You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening with emotions you’re not ready to name. Instead, you shift closer, tucking your face into the crook of her neck. “Me too.”

Her arms tighten slightly around you, and you feel the faintest press of her lips against your hair. It’s not a kiss, not really—just a gentle, fleeting touch, like she’s afraid to ask for more.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air. But for now, it’s enough. Enough to share the silence, to let yourselves be close again, to let the cracks start to heal.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” she says quietly, breaking the silence.

You open your eyes, your gaze meeting hers in the dim light. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

The faintest smile tugs at her lips, hopeful and tentative, and you let yourself smile back.

For now, it’s enough.

For tonight, it’s everything.

The End

A Note from the Me

Thank you for following The Prophecy's story through these three parts. Your comments, messages, and support have meant the world to me. You've helped shape this story of what happens when perfect meets human, when physics equations meet matters of the heart, when being unbreakable becomes more important than being flawless.

Thank you for being part of this journey (cornball moment lol). If enough people want I can do a 6 year time jump as a short story where they're married.

[misaerabl]

Idle Hands Are The Devil's Workshop

perfect little housewife? think again

Mechanic Vi X Housewife Reader SUMMARY: Left waiting for your husband yet again, an unexpected visitor changes everything. Vi, the captivating mechanic with a silver tongue and lingering gaze, sees right through your facade of loyalty and perfection. What begins as harmless banter becomes an irresistible game of tension, desire, and forbidden indulgence. Will you resist, or give in to the fire she's ignited within you? WARNINGS: r is married to a man so... cheating, poorly written accent, fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (r!recieving) A/N: guys I was highkey kicking and giggling while i was writing this (yes i am aware the cover pic is shit, i got frustrated while browsing on pinterest cuz it isn't giving me what i wanted)

MINORS AND MEN DNI / word count: 4k

The rhythmic hum of the air conditioner filled the otherwise quiet room as you perched on the edge of the couch, nervously glancing at Vi—the mechanic your husband had called for his car. She leaned back, relaxed and confident, in her worn denim overalls, the grease stains on her hands a stark contrast to her teasing smirk. You weren't sure why your pulse raced every time her sharp blue eyes flicked your way.

Your husband had called to say he’d be back soon and insisted that Vi wait before touching the car. "Don’t meddle with anything," he had said firmly, a phrase that echoed in your mind like a reprimand. So instead, here you were, trying to make small talk with the stranger who seemed more comfortable in your living room than you were.

"Can I get you something to drink?" you offered after a beat of awkward silence.

"Sure, darlin'," Vi said, flashing a grin. "Whatever you're havin'."

You returned with two glasses of water, placing hers on the coffee table. As you bent slightly, her voice cut through the quiet like a whip.

"Oh, I'm likin' the view," she said casually.

"What?" you asked, standing back up, oblivious.

"Nothin', darlin’," she replied with a wink, leaning back further into the couch. Her gaze lingered, warm and unrelenting, and you felt the heat creep up your neck.

Fate—or clumsiness—decided to intervene just then as the glass in your hand slipped, shattering the quiet with a soft thud on the carpet. You knelt down quickly to pick it up, hoping to salvage some dignity, but the red-haired girl let out a low whistle.

"You sure you're not doin' that on purpose, dear?" she asked, voice dripping with amusement.

"Doing what?" you shot back, glancing up at her through your lashes.

"Dunno, darlin’. Just look at you, bendin' down like that," she teased, her smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Her eyes seemed darker now, the playful edge to her tone setting your nerves alight.

Her next words were softer, but they hit you squarely in the chest. "Pardon me for starin', hard not to look when you're this gorgeous."

"I—" you stammered, words caught somewhere between your throat and your racing thoughts.

"Look at you, gettin' all tongue-tied for me," she murmured, her smirk widening. "You're cute, y'know that?"

Something shifted inside you then, something you hadn't realized you'd been missing. The warmth in her gaze, the way her words wrapped around you like a soft blanket, made your chest tighten. You straightened up, suddenly feeling bold.

"Why?" you asked coyly, a small smile tugging at your lips. "You like starin' at me like this?"

Her chuckle was low and intimate, her eyes meeting yours without hesitation. "Yeah, I do. You got a problem with it?"

You shook your head, your voice softer now. "No... it's nice to be appreciated for once."

Vi leaned forward slightly, her forearms resting on her knees as she studied you. "Yeah? I bet it's tough, ain't it?" Her tone was casual, but her eyes spoke of something deeper, sharper. "He just doesn’t seem to… appreciate you enough… is that it?"

You hesitated, your throat dry as her words hung heavy in the air. "He's... busy," you managed to say, though the truth felt flimsy even to your ears.

Her smirk deepened, her gaze unwavering. "Busy at work?" she asked, though the way she said it made the word "work" sound like a flimsy excuse. "Or... with someone else?"

The suggestion made your stomach twist uncomfortably, and you quickly shook your head. "W-with work," you replied, clinging to the belief—or maybe the illusion—you’d told yourself so many times.

Vi’s eyes softened, though the teasing lilt in her voice remained. "You really believe that, don’t you, darlin’?" There was something both infuriating and comforting about the way she saw through you so effortlessly, her words brushing against truths you weren’t ready to face.

You didn’t reply, your silence speaking louder than words. She leaned back against the couch again, her smirk fading into something softer, though her eyes never left yours.

"Well," she said finally, her voice low and warm, "if he’s too busy to notice what he’s got, maybe he doesn’t deserve it."

You felt your cheeks burn under her gaze, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to bask in the attention. It wasn’t just the way she looked at you, but the way she saw you, as though every part of you was worthy of being noticed.

Vi grinned, shaking her head slowly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I’ve got a pretty good idea what he’d rather be busy with," she said, her gaze fixed on you.

Your brow furrowed. "And what is that?"

Her eyes traveled over you, slow and deliberate, before her smirk deepened. "I’ll tell you what he’s not busy with..." she teased, leaning forward slightly. "He’s not busy with you, that’s for damn sure."

You opened your mouth to protest, but her words lingered in the air, heavy and unsettling.

"A pretty thing like you," The mechanic continued, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe it. "And he’s out there, ‘busy with work,’ instead of spendin’ time with you?"

"Th-that’s not true," you stammered, though your voice wavered. "H-he tries."

Vi tilted her head, studying you again, her sharp gaze cutting through every excuse you had. "Does he? Really?" she drawled, her voice dripping with skepticism. "He tries so hard, but not hard enough to be here with you now, huh?"

You hesitated, clutching the fabric of your skirt. "He… he provides for me. That’s enough."

Her smirk faded slightly, her expression softening. For a moment, there was something unreadable in her eyes—pity, perhaps, or understanding. "That all you want? Just to be provided for?"

"What else can a girl ask for?" you said quietly, your voice brittle.

She leaned back, her mouth hanging open just enough to make you squirm under her gaze. Then she closed it, a small shake of her head punctuating her disbelief. "You’re okay with just bein’ a housewife? Not even a little lonely?"

You swallowed hard, her words striking a chord you didn’t want to acknowledge. "Well… I do get a bit lonely," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Vi’s eyes softened, though her teasing tone remained. "That’s what I thought," she said, nodding slowly. "A gorgeous thing like you, cooped up in this house all day… while your husband’s off workin’. And when he does come home, he doesn’t even notice you, huh?"

You looked away, feeling the heat creep up your neck again. "He notices me," you said, though even you didn’t believe it. "He loves me. At the end of the day, it’s our bed he comes home to."

The red-haired girl’s smirk returned, wider than before. "That so?" she asked, her voice low, almost mocking. "You really believe that even when he leaves you here all alone for hours? Neglects you like this?"

Her words stung, and you sank back into the couch, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze. Violet watched you intently, the corner of her mouth twitching as if she knew exactly what you were thinking.

"Somethin’ wrong, darlin’?" she asked, her voice dripping with false innocence.

"N-no, I’m fine," you muttered, glancing at the clock. "I’m sorry he’s taking so long. He should’ve been back by now."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her grin playful but edged with something more dangerous. "A little late?" she teased. "Darlin’, he’s half an hour late. And he’s left me all alone here with you… a pretty little thing like you."

You tensed, unsure how to respond, and she chuckled, lounging back against the sofa. "I’m startin’ to think he’s doin’ this on purpose. Maybe he wants us to… get to know each other better."

"He wouldn’t do that," you said, your voice firmer this time.

Vi’s smirk widened as she leaned her head against the couch, her sharp green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Maybe not. Or maybe…" she drawled, her voice dropping lower, "it’s fate. The universe, or God, or whatever… givin’ us this little moment together."

You frowned, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. "What are you talking about?"

Her gaze flicked over you again, her smirk softening into something more deliberate. "Maybe it’s a sign. You, me, all alone in this house..." She shrugged, her grin widening. "Seems like we’re meant to have a little fun."

"Fun?" you asked, your heart racing as her words lingered in the air between you. "What kind of fun?"

Vi leaned forward slightly, her smirk never faltering. "The kind that makes you forget all about that lonely bed of yours," she said, her voice smooth as honey. "The kind of fun that might remind you what it feels like to be really noticed."

Your breath hitched, her words settling in your chest like a spark. She didn’t press further, didn’t push. She just watched you, her smirk fading into a soft, knowing smile as if she were giving you a choice. One that was entirely up to you.

It would be a complete and total lie to say you weren’t interested in her offer. The way she spoke, the smooth, teasing lilt of her voice—it sent a shiver down your spine, leaving you dizzy. God, the way her eyes lingered on you, unapologetic and hungry. It wasn’t just flattering; it made you feel seen. Desired in a way you hadn’t felt in years. But you were supposed to be a good, loyal wife… right?

You shifted uncomfortably, your hands twisting in your lap as you tried to steady yourself. "I—I don’t think this is appropriate," you stammered, but even as the words left your mouth, you knew how hollow they sounded.

The mechanic chuckled, leaning back casually, her arm draped along the back of the couch. "Appropriate?" she repeated, her tone mocking but not unkind. "Darlin’, if anyone’s being inappropriate, it’s your husband leavin’ you all alone with someone like me."

You glanced toward the clock again, your heart racing. Thirty-five minutes. It shouldn’t be taking him this long. Should it?

She tilted her head, her sharp gaze catching your hesitation. "You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she said, her voice softening, though the teasing grin still lingered. "But I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t enjoyin’ your company."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, you looked at her—really looked at her. The way she lounged so confidently, her fingers tracing patterns along the edge of the couch as if she owned the place. The faint grease stains on her hands, the sleeves of her jumpsuit pushed up to reveal big, toned arms. She caught your gaze and smirked, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"You’re thinkin’ about it, aren’t you?" she asked, her voice low, pulling you back into the moment.

"I—no, I’m not," you said quickly, though the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you.

She laughed softly, leaning forward again, her elbows resting on her knees as she fixed you with a knowing stare. "You’re cute when you lie," she murmured. "But darlin’, you don’t have to. Not with me."

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, the sincerity in her voice cutting through the tension in the room. You felt your resolve wavering, the weight of loneliness and neglect creeping in like a tide you couldn’t hold back. How long had it been since someone looked at you the way Violet was looking at you now? Since someone made you feel like you mattered?

"I’m married," you said, more to remind yourself than her.

Vi’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it softened into something almost... tender. "I know, darlin’," she said simply. "But I also know what it feels like to be married to someone who forgets what they’ve got."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken truths weaving between them. She didn’t move closer, didn’t push further. She just sat there, waiting. Letting you decide.

And God, you didn’t know what you were going to choose.

You gave in. The nagging voice in the back of your mind that whispered about loyalty, about your vows, was drowned out by the roar of your own desire. You crawled over to her, moving slowly, deliberately, until you were perched on your knees before her. Violet's eyes darted to your chest as your body leaned forward, her gaze warm and unapologetically lingering.

One hand propped you up on the couch cushion, your weight balanced just inches from her, while the other rested on the back of the sofa, grazing the fabric near her shoulder. The air between you felt electric, charged with tension as your faces hovered centimeters apart.

Her lips curled into that familiar smirk, but there was something more in her expression now-triumph. She had won. She had you, and she knew it.

Her voice came soft, low, dripping with satisfaction. "I knew you couldn't resist me, darlin'."

You swallowed hard, your breath shaky as her words rolled over you like velvet. Your eyes locked on hers, wide and unsure, but your body betrayed your hesitation, leaning just a little closer. Close enough to feel her breath brush against your skin.

"You're gorgeous, you know that?" Vi whispered, her hand moving to brush a strand of hair from your face. Her touch was featherlight but set your skin aflame. "Shouldn't have to go a day without hearin' that."

"Vi," you murmured, her name falling from your lips as if it had been waiting there all along.

"Shh," she hushed softly, her other hand finding its way to your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. Her grip was firm but not forceful, grounding you in the moment. "I'll take good care of you, sweetheart. Better than he ever could."

And then her lips brushed against yours, hesitant at first, testing the waters. But when you didn't pull away-when you leaned into her instead-the kiss deepened. It was slow and deliberate, her lips moving with a confidence that left you breathless.

You melted into her, every touch, every sound pulling you further away from the guilt and into something that felt forbidden but intoxicatingly right. For once, you felt like you were wanted, craved, adored.

You both pulled away, breathless, your chest rising and falling as if you’d just run a marathon. Your body felt weightless, every nerve tingling as though set alight. It was just a kiss. Just a kiss, you reminded yourself—but it didn’t feel that way.

You were a married woman, bound by vows and promises, so why was your heart racing, your thoughts spiraling over her? Over this mechanic—this maddeningly gorgeous, confident mechanic—who saw you in a way that no one else had in years. She didn’t just look at you; she saw you. And right now, you felt like the most desirable woman alive.

There was no holding back now—no reason, no restraint. The moment hung heavy between you both before you closed the distance again, surprising her as your lips sought hers with a newfound hunger. It was almost instinctual, a craving buried deep and left unsatisfied for far too long.

She let out a quiet, pleased sound against your mouth, her hands steadying you as if she’d expected this all along. The kiss was different this time—more urgent, more desperate, like years of longing spilling out in one electric moment. You hadn’t felt this alive in what felt like forever, and every brush of her lips against yours left you trembling, wanting more.

The mechanic pulled back just slightly, her hands framing your face with a touch that felt both possessive and gentle. Her thumb brushed over your kiss-swollen lips, lingering as her eyes searched yours. “You sure you want this?” she murmured, her voice thick with a teasing edge that only made your stomach churn with frustration.

Why would she ask that? After everything she’d said and done, after the way she made you feel like the most irresistible woman alive, she had the nerve to ask if you wanted this? A flicker of indignation burned through you, and without a word, you closed the gap again, your lips crashing onto hers with renewed fervor.

Her breath hitched at the sudden intensity, a soft gasp escaping before she melted into you completely. That was your answer—clear, undeniable. You wanted this. More than anything, more than you’d let yourself admit until now.

Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you bit your lip, gazing at her with a look that could only be described as desperate—a silent plea for more. That infuriatingly perfect smirk spread across her face, the kind that made your knees weak and your thoughts hazy.

She leaned in, her hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head slightly to expose the delicate curve of your neck. Her lips brushed against your skin, planting soft, deliberate kisses along your jawline. Each touch sent shivers down your spine. Slowly, she trailed down your neck, her warm breath teasing you, before moving lower, grazing the sensitive skin of your collarbone with her lips.

Her actions were enough to make your panties soaked. God. The thought slipped unbidden into your mind as a soft moan escaped your lips, your head falling back instinctively to grant her more access. Her lips explored your skin with a hunger that sent fire coursing through your veins. Had your husband ever made you feel like this? Ever? The answer burned in your chest, but the question lingered, impossible to ignore.

Soon, she had you pinned beneath her on the very couch you and your husband had chosen together. The memory flickered in your mind—how the two of you had argued over it. He’d hated the design, but you had loved it. In the end, he’d relented, though grudgingly, only giving in after you’d caught him at that diner near his office. The image was still vivid: him laughing with his secretary while you stood there, clutching the lunch you’d made for him, your heart sinking. He had claimed it was nothing, but the bitterness lingered, just like the victory of getting this couch—a small, hollow consolation. 

Arching your back slightly off the couch, you gave her access to the zipper of your dress. Your eyes met, and a small, knowing smile passed between you. What. The. Fuck. This was really happening. The remorse, the regret, the doubt—they all dissolved into nothing the moment her fingers found the zipper and slowly pulled it down, the sound punctuating the charged silence between you.

You guided the straps of your dress down your shoulders, allowing it to slip lower, revealing more of your skin with each movement. Her eyes never left you, a hungry gleam in them as she took in the sight. A slow, appreciative smile spread across her face as she licked her lips. “Darlin’, you’re absolutely stunning,” she murmured, her voice low and taunting. “Your damn husband should’ve known better than to let someone like you slip through his fingers.”

With deliberate slowness, she eased your dress off, her lips trailing kisses across your skin as it slipped lower. Each kiss ignited a fire within you, her touch sending shivers down your spine. When the fabric reached your waist, she paused, looking up at you with an almost questioning gaze, as if silently asking for permission. You met her eyes, your breath catching, and nodded, the silent agreement hanging between you both.

That was all it took for Vi. She had you—completely, undeniably. There was no turning back now.

In one swift motion, your panties were at your knees, and Vi could barely mutter a breathless “God.” The red-haired girl was completely captivated by you, her gaze hungry and full of admiration. You felt like royalty—like a goddess—under the way she looked at you. In that moment, the sting of neglect from your husband felt like a distant memory, replaced by the undeniable warmth of being truly seen, appreciated. How could he have ever been so blind to you? Vi, in this moment, made you feel like you were everything.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good”

And she was right. 

Both of your clothes were discarded on the floor, her overalls, your dress. Her face was between your thighs, her tongue relishing you. You tried to keep quiet, you really did—after all, the neighbors weren’t used to such a scene, considering how ‘busy’ your husband always is and how rarely (or lets face it, never) the two of you do this. Oh god they’re gonna be so suspicious if they hear your pornographic moans. 

“Don’t-” Your moan cut off your own sentence. “God d-don’t stop…” 

You could feel her smile as she continued to absolutely ravish you. 

And if this couldn’t get any better, she started to pump her fingers inside you making you scream in pleasure. She could see the desperation in your eyes—this beautiful, neglected woman, left wanting by a husband who clearly didn’t understand the treasure he had. Well, if he couldn’t see your worth, Vi would. She’d remind you of every inch of it, make you feel it down to your bones, until there wasn’t a doubt left in your mind.

She made her way back up, her lips trailing gentle, featherlight kisses along your neck, each touch igniting a fire beneath your skin as her hand circled your clit.  

Your fingers threaded through her red hair, gripping softly as she moved, each motion sending sparks through your veins, leaving you utterly breathless, pulling her closer as if you could meld your bodies together. Every nerve ending was alight, your skin flushed and tingling. Vi's ministrations were relentless, building you higher and higher.

"Please," you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for. More? Release? For this moment to never end?

She captured your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as her fingers curled inside you, hitting that perfect spot. Your hips bucked against her hand, chasing that exquisite friction.

Her fingers pumped harder, hitting you in that spot that made your body quiver. “He doesn’t fucking deserve you…” she whispered, her words sent a shiver down your spine, intensifying the pleasure coursing through your body. You arched into her touch, desperate for more.

Vi's fingers continued their relentless assault on your most sensitive areas, her touch electric and all-consuming. Her lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, occasionally nipping at the soft flesh, leaving a trail of reddening marks in her wake."That's it, baby," she purred against your skin, her hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Let me hear how good I make you feel."

Her thumb circled your clit with increasing pressure, matching the rhythm of her pumping fingers. The lewd, wet sounds of her ministrations filled the room, mixing with your breathless moans and whimpers.

Vi's free hand cupped your breast, kneading the soft flesh before pinching and rolling your hardened nipple between her fingers. The dual sensation sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core, your walls clenching around her fingers. "Fuck, you're so wet," Vi groaned, her own arousal evident in her husky voice. "So fucking beautiful like this, spread out for me, taking my fingers so well."

Your hips bucked wildly against her hand, chasing that elusive peak. Vi's movements became more focused, more intense, driving you closer and closer to the edge. "Come on, sweetheart,"

Vi's intense gaze locked with yours, her blue eyes dark with desire as she continued her sensual assault on your body. Her fingers curled inside you, hitting that perfect spot with each thrust, while her thumb worked your clit in tight, rapid circles. 

"That's it, gorgeous," she purred, her voice low and husky. "Let go for me. Show me how good I make you feel."

Your body tensed, teetering on the edge of ecstasy. Vi leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, "Come for me, darlin’. Let the whole neighborhood hear how well I fuck you."

With those words, you shattered. A loud, keening moan tearing from your throat as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Your pussy clenched rhythmically around Vi's fingers, your thighs trembling as she worked you through your intense orgasm.

Vi didn't let up, her fingers still pumping inside you, prolonging your pleasure."That's it, fuck... you're so goddamn beautiful when you come," she groaned, her own breathing ragged with arousal.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you, Vi slowly withdrew her fingers, bringing them to her lips.

The air was still heavy, saturated with the heat Vi had left in her wake. Your body trembled, your skin still buzzing, every nerve alive as though she had reached into you and pulled something free—something long buried, something you didn’t realize you’d missed so desperately.

Vi’s breath was warm against your ear, her voice soft but dripping with intent. “You feel that, darlin’?” she murmured, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your ear. “You ever felt anything like that before?”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly, her words slipping through the cracks in your resolve. “N-no,” you stammered, the confession barely audible. “Never.”

The corner of her mouth curved into a knowing smirk, one that sent another shiver down your spine. “Didn’t think so,” she teased, brushing her fingers through your hair. Her touch was so tender, so deliberate. “Bet your husband’s never made you feel this good. Not once.”

Your breath hitched as she tilted your chin up, forcing your gaze into hers. The look she gave you was dark and unwavering—desire, devotion, and something that promised this wasn’t a mistake. “I’ll show you, sweetheart. I’ll do anything to make you feel like this again.”

And you believed her. You believed every word.

A hard knock at the door shattered the moment like glass. You froze, muscles locking, the haze of Vi’s touch snapping into panic.

“Why the hell is the door locked?!” your husband’s voice barked from the other side.

Vi pulled back quickly, the teasing fire in her eyes replaced by sharp urgency. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath, her body already moving as her gaze swept the room. You scrambled up, heart pounding as adrenaline coursed through you, twisting into something nauseating.

Your dress was crumpled on the floor. You grabbed it with shaking hands, tugging it over your head as Vi threw her overalls back on in a rush, the straps haphazardly fastened across her shoulders.

“He’s going to know.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely louder than a whisper. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper at the back of your dress, your pulse deafening in your ears.

Vi’s hands found your shoulders for just a moment, grounding you. “He won’t,” she said firmly, her voice low but steady. “Just breathe, alright?”

The banging on the door grew louder, rattling the frame. “Open the damn door!”

You shot Vi a panicked glance, but she was already stepping back, smoothing her hair with practiced nonchalance. Her overalls weren’t perfect—one strap still hung loose—but somehow she managed to look calm, like she belonged here, like nothing at all had happened.

You forced your trembling hands to undo the lock and cracked the door open, just enough to meet your husband’s glare. He pushed the door the rest of the way with a frustrated hand, his eyes narrowing as they landed on you—then on Vi.

His expression twisted, confusion flickering behind the anger. “Why the hell was the door locked?”

Vi leaned casually against the arm of the couch, one hand tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Sorry about that,” she said smoothly, her tone as unbothered as ever. “Guess I must’ve bumped the lock while we were talkin’ repairs. Didn’t even notice.”

Your husband’s gaze lingered on her, suspicion flickering briefly before shifting back to you. You stood there, fingers gripping the skirt of your dress, willing yourself to look anywhere but guilty. The tension was thick, suffocating, but Vi held steady, her presence unshakable, like she owned the room.

After what felt like an eternity, your husband let out a small huff, shaking his head. “Well? Did you get it figured out?”

Vi’s lips curved into a small, polite smile. “Just about. Should have everything up and running again soon.”

He muttered something under his breath before turning back to you. “We’ll talk later,” he said, his voice clipped as he walked off, leaving the door ajar behind him.

The moment he disappeared down the hall, you exhaled shakily, your chest tight as you turned back to Vi. She was still leaning casually against the couch, one brow quirked, her lips tugged into a smirk.

“Told ya,” she murmured, her voice soft as she pushed herself off the couch and crossed to stand in front of you. Her fingers brushed your arm, just enough to send that familiar spark through you. “You’re alright, darlin’. Promise.”

But even as her words tried to steady you, the memory of her voice echoed louder in your head: I’ll do anything to make you feel like this again.

[writersdrug]

The Good Friend

Chapter 1. A New Hobby

Summary: Johnny regularly checks up on Ghost after he sustained a bullet to the hip on their most recent deployment. It's already too late for him to escape, once he sees what's kept his beloved lieutenant so occupied over the past few days.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, kidnapping, implied violence, restraining, psychotic behavior, blood, forced to help in kidnapping, obsessive behavior. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THESE TOPICS. By clicking "Keep Reading" you are consenting to be responsible for the media you consume.

A/N: The people have spoken

Simon on medical leave: a disaster and a headache for the rest of the 141.

There's a daily text along the lines of "Let me know when we get shipped out next." It never mattered how many times Price responded with "You're not joining us for a while. Find a hobby, Simon." He was persistent in coming back to work as soon as possible - shattered hip be damned.

Price had given Soap the job of checking up on the poor brute. "Maybe he misses the usual company." He'd say. "Go see 'im, check in with the muppet."

Soap was a good friend, but there was only so much grumbling he could stomach from Simon. Those "check-ins" would turn into a pity party, with Simon saying "I should be out there, helpin' you lot. Only wastin' away in 'ere. Losin' my head." And it was true - every time Johnny visited, there was an open can of beer on the coffee table, or a glass of whiskey in his hand. The bottle of prescription, opioid pain killers on the kitchen table. Some ill-advised coping mechanism within arm's reach.

It hurt Johnny to see it, it really did. He cared about Simon, missed him, would do anything to get his beloved L.T. back on the team. But he knew the man needed rest and recovery, despite how much it was sending Simon into a spiral. Johnny offered to help clean up his place, but Simon angrily denied the offer. "Don't need a bloody caretaker." He spat.

Just tryin' to be a good friend, Soap wanted to say, but instead he answered with a slam of Simon's front door and a hushed "feckin' bastard."

Johnny was tired of it. When the fuck was this medical leave supposed to end? Apparently, in two weeks ("thank the feckin' lord") -

But, Soap soon discovered, Simon had requested more time off.

Price stated he'd said something about "still not feeling right", which immediately had Soap confused. That old bawbag would've been back in the game the second the bullet was out of his hip, if it wasn't for regulations. It festered in the back of his mind all day: why would Simon do that? What could possibly hold his attention more than the task force? More than Johnny?

There was only one way to find out.

Soap stands in front of Simon's door, knocking loudly against the dark wood. An unexpected visit, which Simon might be frustrated by - but Soap is dying to see what's got his lieutenant so preoccupied. Hopefully, he hasn't fallen into a pit of depression, choosing to drink himself to death, rather than come back to the team.

However, after just a few moments of standing on his porch, Simon answers it rather quickly. And he looks happy. Delighted, even.

"'Bout time, Johnny." Simon says, stepping aside to let him in. "Was wondering if you got lost."

"Was wonderin' if you'd gone crazy." Soap banters back, kicking the door shut behind him. "Cap said ye want more time?"

Simon chuckled quietly, locking the deadbolt behind Soap. He shoves his hands - gloved hands - into his sweatshirt pocket. "Took his advice. Found a hobby."

"Lemme guess: knittin' me a Christmas sweater?"

"You fuckin' wish."

It's good. It makes Soap sigh with relief (internally), seeing Simon in such good spirits. He tosses the pack of blems onto the coffee table and follows Simon into the kitchen. The smell of rubbing alcohol hits him before he sees the counter; bandages, gauze, bloody gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and an open suture kit.

He stops in the doorway to the kitchen, his teeth bared in a wince. "Shite, Ghost- ye reopen tha' bullet wound?" he says, lifting up one of the bloodied pieces of gauze.

"Hm?" Simon turns to face him, then looks at what he's holding. "Oh- nah, I'm fine. Luvie here bumped her head."

Johnny looks up, confused, following Simon's back with his eyes as he makes his way into the dining room - his mind goes blank when he sees the poor, bloodied thing, tied to one of the chairs.

You're staring back at him, hair messed and blood dried against a nasty gash on your forehead. Fabric is stuffed into your mouth, with a strip of duct tape securing it around your head. Your eyes light up with hope as they take Johnny in; you're heaving, poor thing, breaths more like whines as you fight through the delirium of your concussion. Your right ankle is swollen and a nasty shade of purple. Blood all over the chair, your thighs, and now, Johnny finally notices, Simon's hands.

"Dinged 'erself pretty good on my bookcase." Simon says, too calmly, his broad frame standing behind the chair you're strapped into. "Slippery lil' thing, she is."

Simon rips the duct tape off - your voice immediately fills the room, echoing inside Soap's head with your begging and pleading, please please please get me out of here, please help me, he kidnapped me, he's a monster, please-

Johnny has to look away - there's too much noise, too much going on - his eyes trail down the dark hall and into Simon's bedroom. The bookshelf is toppled over, volumes strewn about the floor, a lamp shattered on the ground and casting an eerie angle of light through the room. He hears the sound of his own blood pumping, his chest and throat feel tight, mind racing a million miles a second. Did his LT do this? His Simon?

"Johnny."

He turns back to you. The duct tape is back in place, and now you're weakly thrashing about as much as you can - which really isn't much. Ghost is staring at Soap, one of his hands wrapped around your shoulder, knuckles white with how hard he's gripping you; which is most likely what's making you cry so much.

"Need ya to help stitch 'er up." Simon says, his eyes cold. It's an order. "'Fore she bleeds out on us."

Johnny feels like he's going to vomit. He needs to stop thinking, to stop shaking, and do something. His lieutenant's kidnapped a bloody civilian, for Christ's sake. Why? And what the fuck did he do to her?

"Won't let me touch 'er. Hard to stitch the wound when she's throwin' a fit - damn near stabbed 'er in the eye. I'll hold 'er while you do th' job."

Johnny finally inhales after holding his breath for so long. He stumbles backwards into the kitchen, remembering where the front door is, thinking he should have been in his car and on the phone with the police by now. If he does, though, Simon will be gone forever. Locked up in prison, far away from Soap. How can he save this? How can he save you, and him? "Simon, ye- ye can't be serious, mate-"

"If you walk out tha' fuckin' door I'll kill 'er before you reach it."

That ruffles your feathers. You're whimpering again, screaming against the gag - at him? At Ghost? He freezes where he stands, trying to remember his training. Act first, think later. Do what keeps the most people alive in the moment. That's what Simon had taught him. The same man who was threatening to kill you, ironically, based on what Soap decided to do.

"Get the sutures off the counter." Simon ordered, apparently sensing Soap's inner turmoil. He knows Johnny wouldn't leave you there, not after the threat.

He couldn't.

Soap exhaled heavily through his teeth, forcing his muscles to move. He snatched the suture kit off the counter and stormed back into the living room. He heard Ghost hum in approval as he slapped it down on the table.

"You do it." he said, his voice low and full with grit. "Ye stitch 'er up, I'll help ye take her to the hospital. We come back n' clean up-"

"Shut the fuck up-" Simon growled out to Soap, gripping your chin in his large hand and yanking your head back against his abdomen. "Get to work. Don't let 'er die on me, now."

Die. Die. You had a concussion and a headwound, but you weren't dying - still, he knew that wasn't what Ghost meant. If Soap didn't help, you would die, one way or another. He had to think of this differently, for the time being. He was helping you. He'd take this little by little - first, patch you up. Figure out what the fuck to do with you later; also, how to keep this from ruining Simon's career, because he couldn't leave the task force. Soap wouldn't let that happen.

So, he took the needle and sutures in his hand, and knelt on the floor, between your restrained legs. Ignored the way you screamed and thrashed, only held still by Ghost's meaty paws. Didn't focus on Ghost's satisfied grin. He was doing this to save your life, you'd understand that later. He was doing this to save Simon's career.

Like a good friend.

Next ->

Taglist: @a-sadmilky

Ghost photo credit to @chatskaja

[thehauntedetheral]

HELLO!! I really love your stories and i wanna request something, like a yandere gamer bf or husband that streams for a living, and whenever he is off camera he always wants your attention and love even though he gets attention from the streams he makes.

And when he gets invited to an event, he will be sad since you are not yet known to the internet world, he keeps you a secret since he only deserves you, but when he was streaming, you accidentally And almost let yourself know but a fan noticed it and asked about it

And that's it! Just a quick question, do you take any anons? And i really love your works and i was hoping for a part 2 for the dom Kidnapper yandere, but keep your time! Once again i really, reallyyyy love your works! Bye bye!

Thank you so much for your love. And yes I take anons. I hope you enjoy this fic.

YAN GAMER BOYFRIEND

Requests are open !

• Yan is a gamer famous for his skills and techniques.

• His streams have millions of view. Other gamers admire him for his skills. He is always bathed in attention and praises from his followers which are a lot that when you saw the number your mouth just fell open.

• This man has the attention of more than million people on his streaming but he wants your attention on him. His so precious y/n.

• As soon as the camera gets off he is a cuddling mess in your arms looking at you with heart eyes.

• He is invited to numerous gaming tournament but whenever he is there he misses you so dearly, wishing you were here. But you can't.

• Because you are his secret. No one knows about you. No one even knows that yan is in relationship.

• When asked by his followers that if he has someone in his life he would say "I am fully focused on my gaming career right now"

• He doesn't tell about you to others because he thinks you are too precious to get to know by anyone but him.

• Is a lot possesive about you.

• No one but he deserves you. You are too good for others to even look at you.

• He is just very much in love with you.

• He wants you all to himself. Just thinking about you with some else makes his blood boil.

• He thinks you are his lucky charm. Hence always carrying something of yours to his every tournament.

• You are everything. His lucky charm, his gf/bf, his future spouse, just everything.

• You are a gamer too but you are just a beginner recently started and still exploring everything.

• Yan would teach you so many skills, techniques, ideas about the game.

• When he is not streaming he would have you lying on his chest while playing and giving you little pecks of kisses in between.

• Plus he looks so fucking hot with his glasses, headset on, agressively punching the buttons by his fingers and intently focused on screen.

• One day accidentally you came in the camera filming region while he was streaming online making everyone question "Who you they?"

"Is it your gf/bf?"

"They are good looking"

• Well that's it as soon as yan saw some people saying you are good looking he has to claim you to make this people shut up. (This man is just too jealous)

" Yes that good looking person is my gf/bf and soon to be my wife/husband. So stop looking at them".

• Hearing yan say your going to get married soon made you gasp and blush both.

• Well this accidental reveal sure was good and beneficial you thought.

• After few days he officially proposed you with beautiful decorations.

• The best thing is that you are officially his now and yan don't have to miss you in his tournaments now as you would be there supporting him with a ring telling everybody that you are already taken.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN !

For more yandere reading :

[kairoot]

hii! i saw your "s/o who is always cold" with enha. could u maybe do the same with s/o who is always warm

͘ ࣭⸰ ✬ ͙ HOTTER, HOTTER „ 

‧₊˚ 𝓼𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: s/o who is always warm 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 : enha x 𝑔𝑛．𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲 : fluff , crack 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 : yes ! 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 : pet names, physical touch, lmk if i missed anything

— ( 𝓂𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑛’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 ) : lowk embarrassing cause that was one of my first fics 😭 pls leave reblogs, they are much appreciated !! ♡︎

֪︶︶֪︶︶︶֪︶︶֪︶︶ིྀ︶︶֪︶︶︶֪︶︶֪︶︶֪

⊹ 𝓁ℎ𝑠．

heeseung doesn’t understand why you’re always warm but he does what he can in order to cool you down

if it means you both have to sleep without the duvet at night, so be it

or if you have to move to the living room/another room where it’s cooler, he’s going with you

doesn’t care if he’s cold or not

you threw the comforter off of your body, shifting for the fourth time that night. heeseung was sound asleep next to you until you sat up, ready to get out of bed.

“baby?” he sat up, hair fluffy from his pillow. his arm remained around you as he pulled you back into the bed.

“where are you going?”

“to the living room.” you whispered.

“are you warm again?” he opened his eyes all the way, now looking at you with concern.

you nod, throwing the rest of the thick blanket off of you.

without a word, heeseung rolled out of his side of the bed, walking to the door.

“come on,” he held out his hand for you to take. your bows furrowed in confusion but you got up, grabbing his hand and following him.

you both walked downstairs, the breeze from just walking giving you a bit of relief. heeseung guided you into the cool living room, letting go of your hand as he settled on one of the couches across from the first one.

“hee, are you sure you aren’t cold?” you chuckled, almost feeling bad for him coming down there with you.

“i’m good as long as you’re good, honey.” he mumbled, his eyes closing once his head hit the sofa’s pillow.

⊹ 𝓅𝑗𝑠．

he’s kinda concerned

but he takes care of you nonetheless

he adjusts his living for you

meaning, since you’ve moved in together, your apartment’s ac is always blasting

even if it’s in the middle of winter, he’ll buy snacks that cool you down like ice pops and what-not.

overall, he just wants you to feel comfortable

“jeez, why is it so chilly in here?” you shivered at the sudden temperature change as you and jay entered your apartment, setting the groceries on the counter.

“didn’t you say it was too warm for you last night?” he asked, putting some things in the freezer.

“well yeah, but i didn’t realize you would turn it into an icebox in here..”

jay chuckled, turning to face you, “do you want me to change it then?”

“no no, it’s fine, but aren’t you cold?”

he shrugged, “feels great to me.”

yes, he was freezing but he wasn’t going to tell you that.

⊹ 𝓈𝑗𝑦．

jake is so caring when it comes to you

even if you can yourself the slightest, he’ll drop what he’s doing and do anything he can to cool you down (like jay)

he even buys you one of those small handheld fans

he keeps ice packs too, especially on a hot summer day

he buys you a lot of tank tops or any clothes that keep you cool

you sat next to jake while he played one of his games as he occasionally spoke through the mic to his friends. every few minutes, he would turn and check if you were okay or if you needed anything.

but when he saw the thin layer of sweat on your forehead and your hand come up to wave air into your face, he quickly removed his headset.

“you okay, love?” he asked, brows knitted together.

you nodded, still fanning yourself slightly.

“just a little warm, that’s all..”

he said something into his mic before standing up and leaving the room.

he came back with the white fan he bought you and a change of clothes.

“change and then use this, alright? let me know if you want a glass of water or anything.” he kissed your head as you thanked him, turning to head to the bathroom to change.

⊹ 𝓅𝑠ℎ．

once again, hoonie knows when you’re bothered by something

whether you’re someone who’s always warm or always cold, he knows when you are and when you aren’t

you don’t have to say anything

like jake, even if you fan yourself once, he’s already at your side with an ice pop and the ac turned all the way up LMAO

im ngl, he gets concerned too and he may ask you about it

does his research so he can know how to help keep your surroundings just right; not too warm, but not too cold

and if you like it, he might run you a cool shower or bath

also, he often takes you to the skating rink where it’s absolutely freezing

“hoon, what are you doing..?” you watched him from the sofa as he stood by the wall, clicking buttons on the thermostat.

“setting the temperature.” he said plainly.

“i thought it was already set?”

“it was, but i’m fixing it for you.” sunghoon responded as he continued to lower the temperature.

“for me..?”

“yeah. you’re always warm.” he had finally set the thermostat to a reasonable temperature, now joining you back on the sofa to start the movie you wanted to watch.

you smiled as he wrapped his arm around you, absolutely enamored by his thoughtfulness.

⊹ 𝓀𝑠𝑤．

sunoo is someone who’s definitely concerned for you

he takes care of you but also reminds you to take care of yourself, especially when he’s not there to do so

he buys a lot of water for you and keeps fans all over your house

he insists on you drinking it even when you’re not hot

he teases you sometimes, calling you his sunshine since you’re always warm

he likes to make homemade popsicles with you

“hey sunshine, did you drink anything today?” sunoo asks, kissing your cheek before sitting next to you in your shared bed.

“yeah, only water.”

“how much?”

“about.. 7 bottles.”

“hm.. that’s not enough.” he sulked, poking your side.

“sunoo, i literally peed like 11 times today. i’m pretty sure it was more than enough.” you giggled, remembering how you had to pee almost every 30 minutes.

“well, google says—“

“my bladder is telling me something different. if i drink another bottle, i think i’ll piss myself.”

⊹ 𝓎𝑗𝑤．

jungwon takes you on walks to cool you down

even during summer, he’ll wait til the evening or night when it’s cooler and he’ll take you walking

he’s very considerate of you and always making sure you’re not overheating or anything

he also likes to make sure your room is cool before the two of you go to bed

“you okay, baby?” he glances at you as you both walked through your neighborhood. you nod, shuffling closer to him and holding his hand tighter.

“this is nice.”

“the air or the walk?”

“both.” you responded, smiling at him. the air relieved you, cooling down your warm body.

“and being with you. thank you for caring so much.”

“no need to thank me, love. it’s what i’m supposed to do.” he kissed the top of your head. “are you thirsty? still warm?”

you shook your head, “no, i’m okay. the walk is really helping actually.”

he nodded, smiling slightly, continuing your stroll in a comfortable silence.

⊹ 𝓃𝑟𝑘．

ki tends to find this amusing (?) since he tends to get cold easily (idk if this is true it’s just for the hc guys 😢)

he’ll tease you, calling you his “personal heater”

he always puts his hands under your shirt to cool you down and to warm him up

all joking aside, he does try his best to keep you cool even when it’s freezing to him

he’ll surprise you with cold treats like slushies or frozen yogurt

and if it’s a summer day, he might even buy water guns/balloons or visit a pool

“riki, get off of me,” you whined for the third time, trying to push the boy off of you.

“it’s way too hot.”

“you’re warm, though.. aren’t my hands making it better? i’m freezing..” he sulked, his cool hand rubbing circles on your belly.

“i guess..”

“exactly, so stop your whining.” he grumbled, turning to watch the show that played on the tv screen.

“but you’re heavy! and i feel like i’m suffocating.”

he sighed, lifting himself up, “stay here.”

he walked out of the room for a second, coming back a few minutes later with a blue slushy drink in hand.

your eyes lit up as you happily took the drink from his hands, immediately taking sips from the straw.

“thank you, babe.” you smiled.

“yeah, yeah.” he answered playfully, climbing back on top of you.

︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨୧ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

TAGLIST: @haechansbbg @contyynishimura @sasfransisco @kgneptun @jungwonderz @enha-stars @dioll @jakesangel @cupidscourt @violetwitchmcu @haohaoshoe @randomgirl02228 @wonsdoll @powerpuffstuts @elysianiki — send an ask to join.

[beenbaanbuun]

soft cuddles with ateez

park seonghwa

he’s sitting on the floor, very intensely reaching the instructions to his new lego set that you bought him

there’s no reaction when you sit next to him to watch as his pretty fingers attach the pieces to one another

it takes about 5 minutes for you to lean your head on his shoulder and snuggle your cheek into his shoulder

he chuckles lightly, but just carries on with his lego, not giving you the attention you so clearly crave

it takes another 5 minutes for you to get bored and try to move away but seonghwa won’t let you

he finally takes his attention away from his lego set when you lift your head and begin to stand up

with a discontented hum, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you straight into his lap

“and where do you think you’re going, hm?” he pressed a kiss to your cheek, “stay with me while i make this, yeah?”

you agree and rest your head on him once more, except this time, comforted by his warm cuddles

kim hongjoong

you get a text from seonghwa at around midnight asking you to go and rescue your boyfriend from the studio

you agree, feelings of excitement and annoyance bubbling up within you simultaneously

excitement because you get to see your boyfriend but annoyance because he was overworking himself… again

it takes 10 minutes to walk to his studio and by the time you get there, you just want some warmth

you walk straight up to his studio, bypassing the receptionist who knows you well at this point, and knock on the door

“the doors open!” he calls out, presumably not wanting to leave his desk for even a second, “oh, hey baby!” he smiles the moment he sees you

you don’t answer him simply ambling over to him and dropping onto his lap

he chuckles and holds you close before going back to his work, idly chit-chatting with you every so often

“your skin is cold, baby. did you walk here?” you nod in response, “you should’ve got a taxi! i’ll finish soon and then we can go home and get warm, okay?”

you fall asleep on his lap before he gets chance to take you home, and the two of you end up sleeping on the sofa in his studio

jeong yunho

he’s been gaming for what seems like hours and you miss him

yes, you might literally be on your bed, 2 metres away from his desk, but you miss him so bad!

and no matter how many times you call him over and beg him to pay attention to you, you just get the same response

“just one more game and then i’m all yours, honey!”

it was either a really long game, or it was all lies…

you eventually get tired of waiting and scramble out of bed on your tired legs

he doesn’t even flinch when you crawl onto his lap and wrap your limbs around him in a koala-esque fashion

in fact, the most reaction you get is a deep chuckle in your ear and a kiss to your cheek before he goes back to his game

it doesn’t take long for him to finish and say goodbye to whoever it was on the other side of his headset

he just wraps his long arms around your waist and the two of you sit in a comfortable silence on his gaming chair for a while…

kang yeosang

you’ve had a bad day at work and all you want to do is get home and sit on the couch with your boyfriend

you have so much to complain about and yeosang is such a good listener and feeling his arms around you as you complain would be the best right now

but you get home and yeosang is nowhere to be seen

in fact, the lights are turned off and the living room is completely silent

you sigh, realising your boyfriend must not be home yet, and kick your shoes off before carrying yourself to your bedroom

except when you get to your bedroom, you can’t help but notice a mop of bleached hair splayed across one of your pillows and a yeosang shaped lump under the quilt

you smile, but you don’t say a word as you crawl into bed beside him

he wakes up just enough to wrap his arms around you and pull you into his chest

he mumbles something that sounds kind of like, “how was your day?” but you can’t tell

“better now i’m with you,” you reply anyway

choi san

you’re only just awake by the time san comes back from the gym

you open your eyes to him in front of the mirror, checking his own progress as the sweat covering his skin glistens in the soft morning light

“pretty,” you mutter as you watch his muscles flex

he jumps in surprise and spins around to face you with a look of shock

“babe, i didn’t even know you were awake,” he smiles and you can’t help but get all giggly as his dimples show, “just give me a minute to shower and then i’ll come give you your morning cuddles, okay?”

normally you’d agree, but for some reason you’re feeling extra clingy

“come cuddle me now, sannie,” you say as you hold your arms out to him

“i’m sweaty, babe,” he chuckles, “i’ll get the sheets dirty

he gives in when you pout and look at him like you’re about to burst into tears if he doesn’t cuddle you

“sheets can be changed,” you say as he lays with half of his body on top of you, “this is more important right now…”

song mingi

it’s your day off and yet you’ve spent all of it bored inside of your apartment waiting for your boyfriend to get home from work

first it was supposed to be 1pm, then you get a text letting you know it’d probably be closer to 2pm, and then 3pm

its 6pm now, and you’re staring at the front door as if that’s going to make your boyfriend walk through it any quicker

as sad as it makes you that he’s not with you, you know it’s hardly his fault that works been busy recently

you finally turn away from the door with a sigh and lie down on the sofa

seconds later, you hear the lock click open and a tired sounding mingi announce himself

“i’m home, sweetheart,” he grunts as he kicks his shoes off and slams the door behind him, “sorry i’m l-”

he gets cut off with a grunt when you leap at him and attach your body to his in a tight hug

your thighs are tightly wrapped around his waist and your arms hold onto his neck for dear life

“hi, baby,” he chuckles into your hair, “missed me, did you?”

jung wooyoung

he’s sick and whilst you’re trying not to get sick yourself, there’s only so much whining you can put up with before it gets insufferable

it starts with him whining about the soup not being warm enough, so you give him a tight lipped grin before replacing it

then suddenly he’s cold and begging for more blankets so of course, you oblige before the sound of his aegyo drives you insane

after you bring back the blankets, he wants tucking in

you give him a look before doing as he asks all while he smirks at you

“somethings still missing, baby,” he pouts and points to his lips, “a kiss?”

“absolutely not,” you shake your head, “i’m not catching the black death just because you’re being whiny!”

“fine, but can you come and check my temperature?”

again, you oblige, but before you can even touch his forehead, he has a hand around your wrist and you’re toppling down onto the bed beside him

his vice-like grip suddenly finds its way around you and you suppose you just have to accept your fate and cuddle him back…

choi jongho

you haven’t felt great for a while but after an argument with a sibling and just an overall bad day, you decide to retreat to your bedroom with your boyfriends hoodie and a pint of icecream

he promised he’s be there once he finished eating with the rest of the guys, but you don’t know if you can wait that long so you send him a text

you don’t want to be a burden and make him think it’s too urgent, but you still want to make sure he knows you’re not feeling great, so it’s just something short and to the point

you don’t expect him too soon, but within 15 minutes you can hear the tell-tale sound of his spare key sliding into your front door

“i’m here, baby,” he calls as he shuts the door, “where are you?”

you don’t need to respond for him to know you’re in bed, and before you can get a word out he’s already poking his head around the door frame

he gives you a sympathetic pout as he sees your red-ringed eyes and quickly sheds himself of his more sophisticated clothing as he can be comfy as he crawls in beside you

his bare arms wrap around your waist and he brings you as close as humanly possible to his chest

“you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” he whispers as he pets the back of your head, “but just know that i’m here to listen if you ever want to.”

perhaps tomorrow, you decide as you nuzzle into his neck and let his strong form swaddle you

[itz-mfkn-de]

could you do a theo nott x ravenclaw!reader where he helps her study for a big test? but he ends up just "distracting" her ??

Yes yes yes yes yes I love u and ur brain this is amazing.

\\STUDY BUDDY// T.N

Warnings- sex, kissing, cussing, Italian, yah that’s it

TY FOR THE REQUEST ALSO IM WORKING ON THE OTHERS SORRY FOR TAKING FORVER IVE BEEN SO BUSY😭 but i love you all and i promise i am working on them.

——

You sat in your dorm room, the books around you swallowing your surroundings. You had been studying for the past couple hours and you had no intentions of stopping. This test determined if you passed the class or not, you couldn’t let yourself fall behind, not after you’d worked so hard to get to the top.

Your brows furrowed while you re read over the chapter info, trying your best to imbed it into your brain.

Your intense focus was broken by the light knocks on your door, and you knew exactly who it was.

You sighed softly and got up from your desk. You unlocked the door and slowly opened it, making eye contact with a certain brunette not long after.

“Theo, I thought you had plans with friends?” You said with a soft smile.

He walked past you and planted a kiss on your forehead, his hands tracing your waist.

“ I did, but I missed my girl,” he mumbled as his body flopped on your bed “Missed you, bella.”

“I missed you too Theo,” you walked up to him to give him a soft kiss, just wanting to feel his lips against your own for a quick moment.

He moaned once he felt the warmth of your mouth meet his, hands roaming slowly under your shirt.

You pulled back and grabbed his hands before they travelled and lower.

“No, i have to study, Theodore,” you said strictly “I can’t fail this test.”

He let out a groan.

“Amore, when have you ever failed a test? Not once, and I don’t think this is any different from before.” He replied while putting your hands on his chest and continuing.

His lips ghosted along the Side of your neck leaving you breathless.

“Theodore..I really need to study.” You grumbled as you made little attempt to push him back.

He left soft sloppy kisses where his warm breath had resided.

“Mmm, but you’re so smart already, bambina..my smart girl.” He smiled into your neck, loving how flustered you had become.

He knew exactly what he was doing. Every word that left his mouth was meticulously chosen just to make your knees weak, and Salazar save you, it was working.

“Nuh uh, I’m not letting you sweet talk me.” You stated while completely pulling yourself away from Theodore, much to his dismay.

“I have to study,” you looked at him with a glare and went back to your desk.

Every part of your body was currently on fire. You needed him in every sense of the word, but you knew you needed to finish studying first.

You tried your best to focus on your book infront of you but your mind kept wandering else where.

You heard a couple footsteps but paid no mind to whatever Theodore had decided to occupy himself with.

A couple seconds passed before you turned your head to see Theodore pulling up a chair and sitting next to you.

“Theodore, what are you doing?” You asked with a tinge of annoyance, but you couldn’t stay mad at him, not when he looked at you like that.

“ I want to help you study,” he stated while noticing your doubtful glare “I really do, no games I promise, principessa.” He assured you.

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes at his boyish grin he let slip across his face.

You began reading the questions out loud, allowing him to help you answer a few of them aswell.

“Let’s make it fun, yeah?” He asked after another handful of questions had been answered.

“How do you mean?” You asked while writing a few things down with your quill.

“I’ll worry about that, you keep reading.” He ordered softly, his hands moving the hair away from the side of your neck he was facing.

You did your best to ignore him and went back to the book, focusing on the words instead of your very needy boyfriend’s hand creeping up your thigh.

His lips continued where’d they’d left off from earlier , finding specific spots that got you squirming and focusing on them.

“Theodore.. I t—I told you I need to study..” you managed to get out in between your harsh breaths.

“Mm, you work so hard, can’t have my Bella ragazza overworked…” he groaned, his hands tracking under your skirt.

“I—i” you tried to to get a complaint out, but Theodore was quick to shut you up once his hands reached your already wet core.

He let out a gutteral moan at the feeling of your wetness coating his fingers.

“See how wet you are baby? Let your self relax…let me help you.” He whispered in your ear as he pulled his hands back and lifted you from the chair.

You yelled as your back hit the bed, him finding his place on top of you not too long after.

His lips wasted no time in connecting to yours, tongue and teeth clashing against eachother with raw need being their motivation.

His hands slipped back down to your core, pulling your skirt above your hips.

Every one of your nerves felt as if it were being set on fire, the arsonist being Theodore not and his Godsend hands.

He gently rubbed your clit and discard of your panties somewhere in the room, not giving much mind to the thin layer of fabric that blocked him from what he wanted.

You shivered as his long slender fingers played with your clit, teasing you to no end.

“Bel bambino, all worked up, I’m sorry I didn’t help you sooner.” He cooed at your flustered face.

“Theo..please.” You moaned once his mouth made contact with your neck again.

“Please what, Bella, let me hear you say what you want.” He grunted through his clenched jaw as he slipped two finger into your dripping hole.

“Mio dio, sei così bagnato.” He mumbled under his breath.

You gasped at the feeling of his fingers stretching you out.

You arched your back off the bed as he continued his ministrations.

“I want you too fuck me…please.” You begged while your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Salazar fucking save me, well when you beg like that, how could I say no, Amore?” Theodore teased as he pulled his hands away from you to undo his pants.

You whined at the absence of his fingers but he was quick to pull down his boxers and push his tip against you.

He looked at you through his long eyelashes, as if asking for permission.

“Please.” Was all you could muster out before he started to slowly push into you with a hiss leaving his lips.

Your head lulled back as you felt the stretch of his thick cock set in. No matter how many times you to had fucked, you’d never get sued to when he fist pushes in.

“Santa merda, you’re so fucking tight..” he growled into your ear as he slowly pulled back only to push in a little harder than before.

You let out a moan, one louder than intended, but Theodore was quick to shut you up with his mouth on yours.

The kiss was sloppy, teeth and tongue met in a harsh collision, as his thrusts began to pick up pace.

Your hands gripped the sheets, trying to resurface yourself. Theos thrust became relentless, giving you no time to catch your breath at all.

His grip on your chin was replaced by wet sloppy kisses. His hands found their place next to your head.

“Theo I c— oh my fuck.” You whimpered out.

“Cmon, Bella, let go f’me.” He slurred out through his gritted teeth while whispering some Italian curses under his breath.

Your back arched from the bed as you sucked in a harsh breath of air, feeling everything in your body set on fire.

Your head spun as you rode out your high through theos thrust.

He quickly pulled out and came on your stomach, flopping down next to you.

You stared at the ceiling while you caught your breath.

“You are never allowed to study with me again.” You joked at Theodore, turning your body on its side to face him.

He gave you his signature grin, kissing you like you were the only girl in the world.

[newobsessionweekly]

To protect and to love

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Tim Bradford x rookie!reader Fandom: The rookie

Summary: You unintentionally make Tim jealous, resulting with nothing good but a confession.

Action | Angst | Fluff

A/N: It's a long one I know. But I HAD to put some action and angst in it, i couldn't help it. Honestly I love it and I love to write about Tim. I hope you like it as much as I do. Have a wonderful day bubs and take care of yourselves. Lots of love

Warning: Mention of hurting, one "fucking" slipped somewhere in this, not proofread yet.

Requested: Yes Words: 4.4k GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

The atmosphere in the bar was alive with the buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses as you settled in with your colleagues. It was one of the many nights you and the rookies met after a long shift. It was some bond between the four of you even since academy and it felt nice. They started to feel like a family to you.

As Nolan approached with three drinks in his hands, the fourth person occupied the chair beside you, making your mouth to open in surprise and your heart to race. Tim, looking so perfectly even out of his uniform, so casually in his clothes, wearing the same grumpy expression.

"Oh, sorry sir, didn't know you'd join us today." Nolan excused himself for ordering only three drinks.

"Yeah, didn't know I'd be here either." Tim murmured under his breath, giving you an acknowledging smile. After weeks of persuasions from both you and Lucy, he finally gave up.

"I'm glad you came." you told him as you turned to give him a smile. He did the same, but it wasn't a natural one.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. This isn't really my scene." Tim admitted sharply, the wave of adrenaline and excitement that flowed over you, broke as soon as his grumpy expression appeared.

"So, Tim, what do you usually do after work?" Lucy asked, flashing him a mischievous grin.

Tim shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "Usually just head home and catch up on some game I missed or hit the gym. Not really into the whole social scene."

"Come on, Tim, live a little!" Lucy chimed in, nudging him playfully. "You gotta let loose every once in a while."

You couldn't help but smile at the banter between your colleagues, grateful for the opportunity to spend time with them outside of the confines of work. But as you glanced over at Tim, you noticed a hint of tension in his behaviour, his jaw clenched slightly as he watched the scene unfold.

"So, Y/N, how's life as Tim's rookie treating you?" Nolan asked, turning to you with a grin.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "It's definitely been an adventure. Tim keeps me on my toes, that's for sure."

Despite being his rookie for some time now, you had never spent much time with Tim outside of work. But tonight was different, and you were determined to make the most of it.

Tim's gaze flickered to you, "If it's not a living hell, it means you have potential to become a good cop." you squinted at his words only for a few seconds before a sense of pride to wash over you as you smiled at him "But you're not there yet, so keep your head in the game."

Before the conversation could continue, you excused yourself to go buy another round of drinks. As you made your way to the bar, you felt the weight of several lingering gazes on your back, casting a subtle aura of discomfort. Some eyes stopped over your body as you asked the bartender for a refill, giving them one of the best views. Tim's eyes followed each glance, noting the subtle gestures and expressions of the onlookers. And he counted them one by one.

The handsome bartender took his time to do the refill, as his eyes examined you, flashing you a charming smile.

"Hey there, beautiful." his voice was low and seductive if you think about it, but it wasn't close enough to the one you actually found yourself drawn to. "What brings you here tonight?"

As Tim was left alone at the table with the rookies, he found it almost impossible to focus on their conversation, as his gaze kept drifting back to where you stood at the bar, engrossed in conversation with the bartender.

"Oh, just blowing off some steam after a long day at work." you responded politely and considered giving him a chance.

At this point, you couldn't shut people off for some feelings that are in vain anyway. You need to go back in the game if you didn't wanted to be a single 45 year old cop, redecorating your house on your own between shifts like Nolan. That wasn't nice, you scolded yourself for the thoughts.

"Sounds like you could use a drink then. Let me guess, you're a cop, right? You've got that look about you." the bartender asked with a grin as he wiped down the counter with a cloth.

Tim's jaw clenched with frustration, a surge of jealousy coursing through him as he observed the subtle flirtation unfolding before his eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him, a sense of possessiveness clawing at his chest as he struggled to contain his emotions.

"Tim, is everything okay?" Lucy's voice broke through his reverie, her concerned expression drawing his attention.

Tim forced a tight-lipped smile, his features taut with tension as he tried to mask his inner turmoil. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied curtly, though his tone betrayed his true feelings.

You chuckled at the bartender assumption, shaking your head "No, no. Nothing like that. I work for the city, but I surely don't have what it takes to be a cop." you admitted, drinks in your hand, lingering a little bit more.

"Ah, close enough though." he leaned over the counter, taking his chance to have a closer look at you. "Mark" he introduced himself with a friendly smile.

"Y/N" you responded politely, as you played his game, leaning in his direction.

"So, what do you say we grab a drink together sometime, Y/N ? I know a great place just around the corner." he proposed, his eyes sparkling with genuine interest.

Mark's easy charm and attentive conversation had left a positive impression on you, and you found yourself looking forward to meeting him.

But Lucy wasn't convinced by Tim's response, her brow furrowing with concern as she regarded him intently. "Are you sure? You seem a little...off," she persisted, her voice laced with concern.

Tim hesitated, torn between his desire to confide in Lucy and his instinct to keep his emotions guarded. "It's nothing, just...work stuff," he deflected, his tone clipped as he avoided her gaze.

Lucy nodded in understanding, didn't want to cross any boundaries, so she just let the subject drop. Anyone could see from afar that Tim was uncomfortable, little did anyone know he was feeling like that because you're not around.

Not even Tim knew why he couldn't take his eyes off of you or why he felt like his heart tightened with every laugh travelling to the table.

"Yeah, we could do that." you replied to Mark, considering his offer before hearing the unmistakable beat of footsteps you can't possibly erase from your mind.

Unable to stand by and watch any longer, Tim made his way over to you, determination etched on his face. "Hey, everything okay here?"

You glanced up, surprised to see Tim standing before you. "Oh, uh, yeah, everything's fine. Just getting the drinks."

The handsome bartender eyed Tim warily, sensing the tension in the air. "Is this your boyfriend?"

Tim's jaw clenched at the question, his gaze narrowing as he locked eyes with the stranger. "Something like that."

"Uh, Mark, this is Tim, my trainer from the job." you clarified, trying to make as bearable as possible the atmosphere shift.

Mark nodded in understanding, though a flicker of confusion crossed his features at Tim's abrupt attitude and he regarded your TO with a polite smile, extending a hand in greeting.

"Hey there, I'm Mark. Nice to meet you," he said, his tone friendly despite the underlying tension.

But Tim's response was anything but friendly. With a frustrated growl, he slammed his fist against the counter, the sound echoing through the bar. "Excuse me," he muttered tersely before turning on his heel and storming out of the bar.

His fists were clenched with frustration and your heart sank with a mixture of confusion and disappointment. You watched him go, your mind reeling with unanswered questions and a deep sense of hurt.

Confusion clouded your thoughts as you tried to make sense of Tim's sudden outburst. Had you done something wrong? Was he angry with you? The uncertainty gnawed at you.

But beneath the confusion, a flicker of disappointment burned within you. You had hoped that tonight would be a chance for you and Tim to bond outside of work, to bridge the gap between you. But his sudden departure had shattered those hopes.

Tim's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Jealousy burned hot within him, a primal instinct that had ignited the moment he saw another man hitting on you.

But beneath the jealousy, a deeper sense of frustration simmered. Frustration at himself for allowing his feelings for you to cloud his judgment, for letting his jealousy get the better of him. He knew he had no right to stake a claim on you, no right to feel possessive or territorial. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gripped him whenever he saw you with another man.

As he made his way through the crowded streets, Tim's thoughts were consumed by visions of you and the handsome bartender, laughing and flirting as if he didn't exist. The image burned like a brand on his mind, fueling his anger and driving him further into the depths of despair.

Monday morning is usually a pain in the ass, but with the events that occurred last Friday at the bar, and Tim's attitude towards you, harsher and grumpier than usual, it was a morning out of the burning hell. Your heart was racing as he instructed you, curt and on point, on what will happen next.

May have been a few days since the incident at the bar, but the memory lingered in the back of your mind like a stubborn shadow. Despite your best efforts to push it aside, the tension between you and Tim was palpable, a silent undercurrent that simmered beneath the surface.

You knew that he was testing you, pushing you to your limits in an attempt to prepare you for the cop life, but beneath his tough exterior, you couldn't help but sense a hint of something else—something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.

The morning sunlight bathed the patrol car's interior as you and Tim cruised through the LA streets, the radio's steady hum punctuating the silence between you.

Your usual chitchat about the rookie book is now replaced by a brooding silence, his knuckles white as they gripped the steering wheel. You stole a glance at him, noting the furrowed brow and the distant look in his eyes, and couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at the gulf that seemed to have grown between you.

The radio crackled to life, dispatch's voice cutting through the quiet."7-Adam-19, we have a noise complaint at 123 Oak Street. Caller reports a disturbance in one of the apartments. Please respond."

Tim glanced at you, and you tried to read something in his eyes as he keyed the mic. "Copy that. We're en route."

There was nothing to be seen in his eyes, but you took your time to admire him in silence, your mind playing all the memories since you became his rookie, couldn't stop the thought that maybe the flicker that burned inside every time you touched his arm by mistake, every time he smiled at you, every time he made you smile, was indeed something. You always tend to question your feelings, rather they're justified or in vain, and this one was surely in vain.

There's no way a man like him, so put together, so ambitious — so handsome— would have even the thought of liking a rookie, you thought. You considered this whole situation too stupid, probably every single woman that comes past Tim fall in love with him.

As you pulled up to the apartment complex, the sounds of raised voices and slamming doors greeted you, sending a shiver down your spine.

"This could get messy," you muttered, your voice tense with apprehension.

"And we're prepared for this kind of situations. But if you don't feel like it, you can give up the badge." his voice is harsh and his expression is far from nice.

"That's not what I meant." you mouthed under your breath and followed Tim into the building.

As you reached the door of the apartment in question, you exchanged a wary glance with Tim before knocking firmly. The door swung open to reveal a chaotic scene inside, a group of men engaged in a heated argument that showed no signs of abating.

"LAPD! Hands where I can see them!" your voice cut through the chaos like a knife, but if anything, it only seemed to stoke the flames.

In an instant, the situation erupted into chaos, with shouts and curses filling the air as fists flew and bodies collided. You and Tim sprang into action, replaying in your mind everything you learned from the academy and your TO. But just as you thought you had gained the upper hand, the situation took a sudden turn for the worse. A shout rang out from the far end of the room, followed by the sound of shattering glass as a fight broke out between two of them.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you and Tim moved swiftly to intervene, but the situation quickly spiraled out of control. Amidst the chaos, you found yourself grappling with one of them, seven feet tall man and muscular construction, your heart pounding in your chest as you fought to maintain control.

Tim knew not to mess up his personal life and his professional one, he did it once and didn't end well. He weighed his decision over and over again, continuously adding pros and cons to the equation. It was safe for you to deal with this kind of men? Probably not, but if he would go soft on you and pick an easy target it would mean he let his feelings step out and fail you as your TO.

All Tim could do in this situation was to have your back no matter what and make sure you get home safe to meet with that stupid bartender. That thought run fast like the wind and bought back your laughter from that night hunting him once more. The lovely eyes you gave that man and the smile so bright, a smile he saw for the first time.

Your focus narrowed on subduing the individual before they could inflict harm. In the heat of the moment, you failed to notice another figure advancing towards you from the side.

Suddenly, a sharp blow struck your side, sending a jolt of pain radiating through your body. Gasping, you stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented as the room spun around you.

"Y/L/N!" Tim's voice cut through the haze of pain, his tone laced with concern as he rushed to your side. "You okay?"

Grimacing, you nodded weakly, trying to push through the pain as adrenaline surged through your veins. But with each breath, the pain in your side seemed to intensify, a constant reminder of the mistake you had made in letting your guard down.

Tim's grip tightened on your arm, his eyes scanning you for signs of injury as he assessed the situation. "Officer down," he said firmly into his radio, his voice tinged with urgency "Send backup and R/A."

Despite the pain coursing through your body, you forced yourself to focus, pushing aside the fear and uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm you. With Tim's support, you managed to regain your footing, the determination in his eyes giving you the strength to move on.

When one of them hurt you, the rest managed to move the circus outside the building, now armed and pointing the guns to their heads. You handcuffed your attacker and Tim dealt with the one stuck under you in the ambush. As you pushed the man down to the car with trembling feet, barely holding steady, you heard sirens cut through the air, signaling the arrival of backup. With a sense of relief washing over you, you spared a quick glance toward the parking lot, where a team of officers rushed between the men, their presence a welcome sight amidst the chaos.

"LAPD! Drop your weapon!" Nolan began, approaching the chaos as their eyes counted the police officers surrounding them. "Hands where I can see them, on the ground, face down!" he demanded as you and Tim put the suspects in the backseat of the car. "Spread your arms and legs!"

As the men followed Nolan's instructions, you tried to join your colleagues and handcuff the suspects, but Tim's hand stopped you in place. "Go sit down. You did enough." he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Despite the urgency of the situation, there was a steely resolve in his eyes as he focused on ensuring your safety above all else. Feeling a surge of frustration welling up inside you, you opened your mouth to protest, but Tim's stern gaze silenced you before you could speak. With a heavy heart, you complied with his orders, a paramedic guiding you to the ambulance for a search.

The sound of Tim's voice rang out through the chaos, his words echoing in your mind as he barked orders to his fellow officers. But amidst the chaos and confusion, it was clear that Tim's focus was solely on the task at hand, his attention unwavering as he worked to bring the situation under control. And as you watched from the sidelines, a sense of hurt and disappointment washed over you, the sting of Tim's words cutting deep as you struggled to make sense of the situation.

With the suspects now securely restrained, Tim turned his attention back to you, his expression tight with frustration as he approached. "What were you thinking, officer Y/L/N?" he demanded, his voice laced with anger as he confronted you.

Caught off guard by his harsh tone, you felt a lump form in your throat as you struggled to find the right words to respond. "I...I didn't see them, sir," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper as you met Tim's gaze.

But Tim's expression remained unforgiving, his frustration palpable as he glared down at you. "You could have gotten yourself killed out there," he snapped, his words biting as he chastised you for your reckless actions.

As Tim guided you back to the patrol car and began the journey back to the station, the air between you was heavy with tension. There was an awkward silence that seemed to stretch on endlessly, punctuated only by the sound of the radio crackling with dispatch updates.

As Tim sat behind the wheel, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions churned within him. He couldn't shake the sense of shame that gnawed at him, a bitter reminder of how his feelings for you had clouded his judgment during the call.

Seeing you hurt had unleashed a torrent of emotions within him, overriding his instincts as a cop and blinding him to the dangers that still lurked nearby. In that moment, all he could think about was protecting you, shielding you from harm at any cost.

But in his haste to ensure your safety, he had let his guard down, allowing the suspects to slip through his fingers and jeopardizing the success of the mission. The weight of his mistake bore down on him like a crushing weight, a stark reminder of the consequences of letting his personal feelings interfere with his professional duties.

As he drove back to the station, the silence in the car was suffocating, amplifying the cacophony of thoughts that raged within his mind. He couldn't shake the sense of disappointment that gripped him, a bitter reminder of how he had let you down when you needed him most. When you needed him to be your role model, the person you should've learned from.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of unease gnawing at you, the weight of Tim's disappointment hanging heavily in the air. With each passing moment, the silence grew more oppressive, suffocating you with its intensity.

Glancing over at Tim, you feel a pang of guilt at the sight of his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. His usually expressive eyes were now unreadable, a mask of frustration and disappointment that sent a shiver down your spine.

As you wrestled with your own feelings of guilt and self-doubt, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Tim's silent treatment spoke volumes, a clear indication of his disapproval of your actions during the call.

Despite your best efforts to break the silence, Tim remained resolutely silent, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Tim, are you okay?" you insisted. But your words seemed to fall on deaf ears, his gaze fixed straight ahead as if lost in thought.

"I'm fine, officer Y/L/N." he muttered tersely, his voice clipped and devoid of emotion. But you could see the tension in his shoulders, the furrowed brow that betrayed the turmoil that raged within him.

You weren't about to let him brush you off that easily. "No, you're not," you insisted, your voice tinged with concern. "Something's bothering you, Tim. I can tell."

He shot you a sharp glance, his eyes flashing with irritation. "I said I'm fine," he snapped, his tone sharp and biting. But you could see the pain that flickered behind his eyes, a vulnerability that he tried so desperately to hide.

"Tim, please," you pressed, reaching out to touch his arm gently. "You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is, I'm here for you."

For a moment, Tim seemed to waver, his defenses crumbling under the weight of your words. But then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed, and he withdrew from your touch, his expression hardening once more.

"I don't need your pity, Y/N," he spat, his voice laced with bitterness. "I can handle this on my own."

But you refused to back down, refusing to let him push you away. "This isn't about pity, Tim," you countered, your voice steady and unwavering. "I care about you, and I want to help. But you have to let me in."

Tim's jaw clenched with frustration, a surge of emotion bubbling to the surface as he struggled to contain his feelings. "I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me I fucking tried," he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them.

The admission hung heavy in the air between you, a raw and unfiltered glimpse into the depths of his heart. And as you looked into his eyes, you could see the pain and anguish that swirled within them, a reflection of your own inner turmoil.

"I need to know that you're safe. Because I care about you," he continued, his voice softer now, tinged with vulnerability. "I kind of like you. And I lost control today because you got hurt. And I lost it too at the bar because you were flirting with that good of nothing. "

The words hung in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of the truth that lay beneath the surface. And as you stood there, locked in a moment of raw honesty, you knew that your relationship with Tim would never be the same again.

The weight of his confession hung between you like a heavy fog, casting a shadow over the otherwise quiet interior of the car.

You glanced over at Tim, his expression guarded and unreadable as he focused on the road ahead. The air was heavy with emotion, a silent barrier that seemed to stretch on for miles.

"Tim, I..." you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to find the right words. But Tim cut you off before you could finish, his tone sharp and dismissive.

"I don't want to talk about it, Y/N," he snapped, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. "Just forget I said anything."

But you couldn't let it go that easily, couldn't let him push you away when all you wanted was to be there for him. "Tim, please," you pleaded, reaching out to touch his arm gently. "I need you to understand that I feel the same way."

His eyes flickering with uncertainty as he glanced over at you. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I mean what I said." taking a deep breath, you summoned all of your courage, pushing aside your fears and doubts as you spoke "I have feelings for you, ok? But I tried to push them away because I didn't want to complicate things. But after you told me..."

Tim's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white as he processed your words. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like an unbridgeable chasm.

Then, finally, Tim let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping with defeat. "I don't know what to say, Y/N," he admitted, his voice tinged with resignation "Things are complicated now, for sure." he chuckled, smiling at you as he parked the car.

"You and me, dinner. Tonight." you demanded, trying to play it off like nothing happened. "We talk about it like grownups."

"It's a date, then." he nodded in agreement, forcing his lips to form a straight line, to hide his dumb smile. "I-I.. I mean if you want to." he stumbled upon his words, scratching the back of his head nervously.

"Yes, Tim. I'd love that." you smiled at him as you both took the men from the backseat and guided them through the corridor of the station.

"Tim and Y/N sitting in a tree—" one of the men started mocking the scene they witnessed, but you and Tim cut him off

"Shut up."

[eyeritestuff]

Billy Kid x Reader Headcanons ☆

—X—

A/N: super into ZZZ right now (and billy.)

CW: nothing, maybe a few suggestive jokes but everything is generally SFW :3 i’m super sleepy and writing this at 1am so bare with me when it comes to spelling and grammar :’)

Reader: Gender Neutral [they/them]

—X—

Billy takes a lot of selfies, especially when on missions, and sends them to you. You don’t know what made him start doing this, but you save each and every one of them and you make sure to drop whatever you’re doing to ask him about it.

Billy is on the spectrum. Don’t ask me the logistics of it, yes he’s sophisticated AI, but hear me out! Though you like to indulge in some childhood nostalgia, you aren’t particularly fixated on watching just one media from your childhood. However, one of the medias you watched back in the day is called Starlight Knight. As soon as you told him you enjoyed that show, he would come to you to talk about it. It wasn’t all the time, of course, but whenever conservation went dry (in person or via DMs), he’d make it a thing to talk to you about it for hours. It didn’t annoy you, not in the slightest. It made you happy to see him so happy about the children’s show, and so you entertained it as much as you could.

When Billy texts, he uses old fashioned emoticons as punctuation. Think ‘ :3 , ^_^ , o_O ’ and then replace it everywhere a period, an exclamation point, or a question mark would be. So many emoticons…

Billy loves to play video games, especially at the arcade. He invites you, and usually you tag along. When you can’t, he sends a selfie of him making a sad face. He’d probably captions it something like ‘Missing my pookie.. 💔💔’

On that same note, Billy will pick up on vocabulary you use and steal it. So if you have a habit of saying ‘pookie’ ? That’s his now. He’s using it all the time.

Billy panics easy when it comes to you. not only when it comes to safety, but also when it comes to romantic scenarios. During times you hang out with Anby and Nicole, they spill all the details of how Billy went on a rampage to find the perfect flowers, or how Billy sat in a corner all morning whining about how he didn’t find the right color outfit for you. Things along those lines!

Sortve related, but Billy gets flustered easily. Especially when you make dirty jokes, most of which aren’t really directed at him. He doesn’t get the jokes at first, but when he does understand them, he reacts in such an over the top and dramatic manner. Flailing around, gasping really loud, whining, yknow the works! One time you made a joke about ‘whimpering audios’ and he didn’t understand it. For a while too! Once he asked enough people (Anby explained it to him), he went silent and locked himself in his room for a considerable amount of time. He wasn’t sad or anything, just… shocked.

Billy isn’t human, so he doesn’t necessarily get injured in the traditional sense. One time he came back from a commission with his arm all battered up. You never seen him so down in spirits! You were able to help him, luckily, because it was only one part on his arm that was damaged that really messed up the rest of it. You kissed his hand, and immediately after inspecting your handiwork, he stuck his hand out again. “I dunno.. my arm still feels wonky. How about another kiss for good measure?”

When you’re bored, you love to dress up as Billy. Well, you’re not really dressing like him, you’re just wearing his jacket. You also like to wear the jacket with certain outfits you think it would look best with. Since your boyfriend is so tall and broad in the arms, you mostly wore it as a shoulder drape in an odd anime fashion statement. Regardless, Billy loved to see you wear it.

Earlier I mentioned Billy loves to take selfies, but I forgot to mention how most of them include you, and despite having all of those selfies of himself, half of his camera roll is you. He likes to sneak pictures of you sometimes! It’s one of his more odder behaviors, but he takes such cinematic pictures of you, even when you’re wearing the worst outfits. You didn’t know how he did it, but it’s one of the things that made the random picture taking somewhat okay.

Billy loves hugs. Don’t ask me how it works in terms of comfort. I would assume it’s the equivalent of sleeping in a car. However, Billy does have plenty of plushies thanks to you, and you use those to your advantage… so it’s not all bad :)

You asked Billy to teach you how to sling guns, and the entire tutorial sesh was just him feeling every inch of your body, memorizing and admiring how you looked. He loved you. All of you! He thought he was being sneaky, but you knew (and secretly loved it too).

Billy loves to carry you on his back and walk around. All I’m saying is, he’s got handlebars on that jacket for a reason… this has to be one of them……

Billy loves stickers. Self Explanatory!

Billy loves giving you gifts. He puts your needs over his more than he should, but luckily you’re not in this relationship to take advantage of his immaturity and inexperience. You give back as much as you can.

Billy is clingy. Needed to type it out despite it being loud as hell in this list.

Billy cant cook. Not like he needs to anyways, but he wants to learn for you! So when you’re cooking, he watches close behind you and asks you every question he can think of.

Billy likes to ask why… a lot. It gets frustrating sometimes, but he genuinely wants to learn.

—X—

A/N: thx for reading! idk might make a part 2 i’m gonna go fall asleep now :3