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m1ckeyb3rry · 3 months ago

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Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 10.2k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: I AM SOO SCARED TO POST THIS NGL LMAOAO like i said in the warnings i literally. have not played amphoreus yet. idek anything about mydei SDKJH i am so worried i will disappoint everyone who's expressed interest in reading this HAHA i was also. not expecting anyone to do that tbh. BUT thank you all for your kind words on the masterlist and i hope this lives up to expectations at least a bit!!

You spent the day of your wedding with a man made of marble — a stand-in for your new husband, who was off fighting in a war of the kind which had neither cause nor, seemingly, end. The statue was carved in his image and sneered down at you as you whispered to it, swearing vows of duty and obedience and docility, but, in spite or maybe because of its detached lifelessness, you found its presence to be a kindness. What did it say of your husband, that you preferred the company of that dead stone to him? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

He is a generous man, the servants assured you, giggling amongst themselves, exchanging knowing looks as they dragged you into the foreign palace where you would spend the rest of your days. You will want for nothing.

It was draftier than your home, the wind bouncing off of the white walls and nipping at you skin. You spent your time buried under seven-and-twenty layers of furs and fabrics, lying in an unfamiliar bed and flinching away from the shadows upon the ceiling. This was an idle and dull way to waste away your existence, and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything else, trapped in the mire of waiting and waiting for your husband’s return.

He came back in the third month, which was as auspicious as anything. They loved that number here, you had come to find: three, the symbol of fortune and fate, of magic and mischief, of power and punishment. Three vows sworn; three blessings granted; three months passed before you finally met the man you had married.

There was much fanfare about his arrival. When you peered out of the window, you saw that the streets were stuffed to the bursting with throngs of people shoving one another around, hissing and biting as they craned their necks. At first it surprised you — was he truly so loved here, even when he was elsewhere despised? — but then you realized that it was not your husband upon his charger that they were all lined up to meet. Rather, it was the procession following him which captured their interests, the spoils of war which he displayed with a juvenile, worthless pride.

A triad of elephants covered in finely wrought armor, their heads hung low and resigned, their plodding walks spiritless and lame. A herd of sheep with silver wool, dotting the dark cobblestones like a cluster of stars, stumbling along at the prodding of a soldier-turned-shepherd. A wagon filled with spears and swords, ostensibly once neatly stacked, now a matted mess of steel and bronze. Vases carried in the arms of the younger men, overflowing with coins that trailed after them like breadcrumbs, snatched up by the most daring of the onlookers, who did not fear rebuke. And, finally, in a place so honorable it could only have been mocking—

“Lady,” a soft voice said. You drew your coat tighter around you, although today was, by all accounts, warm for the season, and pretended like you did not hear the girl. She sighed and then tugged on your arm insistently; perhaps it was improper, but there wasn’t anyone who would chide her for it. “You have been summoned by his majesty.”

Hadn’t you known this would happen eventually? Hadn’t you expected it? You had had your time to come to terms with it, which was more than most got, and so there was no excuse for the reluctance which choked your throat and stilled your footsteps. This was your duty, this was what you had sworn, and so — and so you could not hesitate.

“Lady…” the girl said with another sigh. You pretended to be all-consumed with the action of closing the curtains, your back to her as you struggled to force a smile onto your face. When you deemed your expression acceptable, you spun around and nodded at her.

“It will not do to keep him waiting,” you said, motioning for her to lead the way. She did so without complaint, perhaps relieved that you were not giving her further trouble; even now, the servants did not know what to think of you, could not quite fathom what category of being you were. Some were fond of you, but most treated you with a careful distrust that you could not blame them for, even though you sometimes wanted to.

The grand entrance hall of the palace opened to the mouth of the road, which swelled out into a sprawling courtyard. Its centerpiece was an enormous fountain which sprayed a fine, cool mist into the air no matter the time of year, and it was by this fountain that you waited, wringing your hands as your husband drew nearer and nearer. Belatedly, you thought that you should try to conceal your distress, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The best you could do was say, if you were asked, that it was simply the joy of a bride faced with the prospect of a reunion with her beloved. Nobody would question that, although then again, nobody questioned you very much in general, so it was doubtful that you’d even have to use the quick excuse.

Your husband’s warhorse was a sprightly, slender beast, its coat the dappled grey of royalty, its face pretty and dished in the way of the Eastern breeds. When it paused in front of you, it shoved its black muzzle into your shoulder, nearly knocking you down, and then it stomped its hoof when your husband tightened the reins, pulling it back before dismounting and handing it off to a waiting stableboy.

“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, bowing before you with as much gallantry as you had been told he possessed. His voice was gentle and amused, his face even more handsome in flesh than it had been in stone; you should’ve, by all rights, felt pleased. You were married to this man. You belonged to him. How many women wished to be in your place? Yet all you could muster was fear, throttling and all-consuming. He was beautiful in the way of a snake, and you knew without knowing that he was poised, in some way, to strike.

“It is alright,” you said, disguising the tremble of your voice with a broad, false grin. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance…my lord.”

The address was unfamiliar on your tongue. What would your younger self, that girl who had never known subservience nor strife, say if she saw you ducking your head in defeated compliance? How she would laugh! How she would pity you! My lord. But he was exactly that.

“The sentiment is returned in full,” he said, and then he extended his arms in a grand, sweeping motion. “Indeed, to celebrate this momentous occasion, I have arranged for you a gift!”

“A gift?” you repeated. Certainly, you had asked for no such thing, and you did not have the time to school your face into neutrality, naked surprise flashing across it. Your husband chuckled at the sight, nodding at you.

“I have brought the finest of plunders for you, dear lady,” he said, and your stomach twisted into knots at the familiarity with which he spoke to you, as if you were affable lovers instead of strangers. “Even your father’s treasures, vast and bountiful as they may be, cannot compare to this!”

The mention of your father stabbed at your heart, and hidden in the folds of your coat, you clenched your fists. Your father, the richest man in the world…and yet your husband dared compare his meager gift to that? You wanted to spit in his face that for your third birthday, your father had gifted you a villa made of gold, the walls inlaid with gemstones and painted with flowers. Indeed, you might’ve goaded him in such a way if you had the capabilities, but then you noticed what the army-men were bringing forth and your mouth suddenly refused to move.

It was the prisoner, the one kept in a place of honor by your husband and his soldiers, the one who the entire empire had ridiculed as he had been paraded through it like a champion hound. He was tall, towering over the army-men flanking him, and although his eyes drooped nearly shut, there was a heat to his demeanor, a severe, ferocious anger which shone through his exhaustion. He seemed like more of a half-tamed jungle cat than a man, and indeed when he halted before you, you half-expected him to snarl, to bare bloody fangs and lunge at your throat with fingers like claws, like swords, tearing through your neck as if it were paper.

“When he’s like this, you almost forget what a monster he can be,” your husband mused, reaching out and flicking the man on the forehead with a snicker. “Isn’t he all but lovely? Oh, don’t worry, dear lady, he can’t do anything to you. He’s under the influence of a sleeping draught at the moment, and anyways, those chains are thrice-blessed. It’s perfectly safe.”

The chains he spoke of were as gold as the man’s hair, looping around his wrists and forearms, curling over the red marks emblazoned on his shimmering skin, weaving in between his legs and around his torso. They were sturdy and gleamed with the power of their three blessings, and although you still understood little about this strange place with its strange power, you could tell that it would take a great force, greater than was possessed by any mere man or deity, to break them.

“He’s the prince of Kremnos,” your husband said when your shock stretched on. “A right beast, I’ll say. We almost fell to his efforts, but in the end, we bested him — as you can see. What do you think? Do you like him?”

“He’s — it’s — horrible,” you said, your skin crawling the longer and longer you stared at the prince, your words a jumble, your head spinning. You wanted to be anywhere but in this courtyard, in front of this fallen man, who was kept alive for — for what? For amusement? For play? As a gift?

“Isn’t he?” your husband said, patting you on the shoulder with a grim smile. “And now he is yours.”

The thrice-blessed chains flashed in the sun, and you shook your head, both in refusal and to clear your vision of the blinding, searing spots they left in it.

“I have no need of a prisoner,” you said, and although your tone remained ever-muted, you spoke as cuttingly as you could manage to. “What will I do with him? Why do you torture him so? You bested him; if he was as fierce an opponent as you claim, then the least you owe him is a death with dignity. Kill him and be done with the matter. Why have you brought him all this way? I don’t want him.”

“He will die, eventually,” my husband said. “I shall execute him myself when it comes to it, but the time is not yet right. I don’t expect you to understand such matters, and neither should you trouble yourself with doing so…but know this, dear lady: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You can do what you’d like with him now that he is yours, but you cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs were conducted in your backwards land, but here it is not so.”

You wanted my land, you longed to say. You took me from my father and wed me to a statue in search of it. And still you call it backward? But you could not, so instead, you turned away — away from the prince, who was close to crumpling and only remained standing out of sheer will, and away from your husband, who beamed as if he had done something great or wonderful.

“I will retire now,” you said. Do not follow me. This remained implied, unsaid, but a fool your husband was not, and so he only hummed in agreement.

“Be well, dear lady,” he said. “My messengers have told me that you are having difficulties adjusting to the climate here. I shall be sure to pray for your feeble constitution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, stiffly, primly. It scratched like bile and you hated every minute of it, but you had no recourse for the matter, so you swallowed it down, as you always did and always would.

“And what of the prisoner?” he said. “Shall I send him to a jail? Do you think he is better suited for deprivation or pain?”

They meant to make him shatter, to methodically yank him apart until he faced death with the dull eyes and swayed back of an over-aged broodmare. You supposed to them it was meaningless — why should they show consideration or kindness to a man who would never show them the same? — but you were no warmonger, and that apathy did not cling to you yet. The prince was a beast born of sun, a wild, vicious creature, and if he really was slated to die, then you wanted him to meet his end as just that, nothing less.

“Leave him be,” you said. “Treat him as well as you are able.”

“He would’ve killed me,” your husband said, a low note of warning in his voice. You shrank into the safety of your clothes, as if they were a shield against his vexation.

“But instead you will kill him,” you said. “So how does it matter? You said I could do as I like; well, this is what pleases me. Don’t prolong this anymore than necessary.”

You darted back into the palace without waiting to hear his answer, your jaw burning and your footsteps heavy against the mosaic floor as you ran all of the way to your chambers and slammed the door shut behind you.

For three days and three nights you did not leave your room, taking all your meals in seclusion, refusing any visitors that might attempt entry. You could not help it; the thought of seeing your husband or any of the soldiers made you want to weep — you! Who never wept, even as a baby! So you claimed that you were terribly unwell, that you could not stand for fear of collapse, and that managed to ward away your husband without incurring his wrath, even though it was only a temporary solution.

As the sun set on the fourth day, there was a knock on your door, and you were about to call out that you had no interest in conversation when someone hissed through the crack in the entrance: “Lady, I come not on your husband’s behalf but another’s. There is trouble, and you must attend to it.”

“What?” you said, scrambling to your feet, crouching by the entrance, pressing your ear to the wooden door without opening it. “Who is this? Who are you? Speak plainly, so that we may understand one another!”

There was a shuffling sound, and then an exhale. You worried with the collar of your shirt as you waited for them to continue, your arms pulled tightly around yourself, your brows furrowing together as you chewed on your lower lip.

“The prince of Kremnos,” they whispered. “He calls for you.”

“Are they mistreating him?” you said, straightening and flinging the door open. “The prince, are they — hello?”

The hallway was devoid of life. You peered down it, craning your neck this way and that, but it was placid, showing no signs of having been disturbed. Shutting the door slowly, you leaned against it, holding your head in your hands. Was this place driving you to insanity, then? And if it was, then why could you not have thought of something more pleasant than summons from a prisoner — prisoner!

Wasn’t it your duty to make sure your husband had held good on his word? The prisoner was yours, though the notion of ownership sent unpleasant shivers down your spine and didn’t feel quite right — perhaps a better way to think of it, then, was responsibility. He was your responsibility, and maybe the strange vision had been nothing more than a reminder of what you owed the man.

You waited until it was midnight, when you could be certain that your husband would not rise from his slumber at the sound of your activity, and then you donned a pair of slippers and a cloak, throwing the hood on and retreating into the billowing depths of the fabric, so that your face was obscured from prying eyes. Of course, there would not be very many of those, not at such a late hour, but you did not want to risk even one person recognizing you and reporting back to your husband, whose reaction to this escapade you could not foretell.

Although you were not so familiar with the palace’s layout, as you had never spent much time exploring it, most constructions of this nature followed a similar plan, and you had grown up in exactly such a grand, sweeping home, so you found the doorway to the cellar in record time. As the palace had no towers, the cellar was the only logical option for the keeping of such a dangerous prisoner, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was where you would find the prince, if he was still somewhere that you could find him.

The half-moon was your only witness as you fumbled with the lock, trying every key in your possession until one finally slotted into place and turned. Wincing as the door heaved open with a profound creak, you yanked it shut behind you quickly, without ceremony, lighting a small candle and using it to guide your way down the dark stairs, rushing so that you were out of sight in case someone came to investigate.

You did not know how long you walked for, but eventually the stairway ended, giving way to cool, damp earth. The must of uncut stone permeated the thick, heavy air, and the adjustment of your eyes to the surrounding blackness was slow, the pain of it only alleviated somewhat by the little candle’s valiant flame.

“Come to toss scraps at me?” The voice was rumbling and low; in spite of its weakness, you could hear a sneer in it, a disdain in the rough baritone. “You needn’t try again. Like I told you, I won’t eat your trash.”

“No,” you said. “I’ve brought nothing with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “You sound different than the others.”

“This tongue is foreign to me, as it is to you,” you said. “I cannot speak it in the same way as those who were born here. Verily I have been instructed in the art since I was but a child, for my father must have known in that manner of his what would eventually become of me, but I will never lay claim to it the way that a native of this empire would.”

“You’re his wife.” Chains clanked, the harsh drag of metal against stone reverberating in the cellar, and then you felt more than saw his looming countenance, filling what you had mistakenly believed upon arrival to be an empty room. Swinging your candle before you so that it was close to your heart, you gasped when it reflected in a pair of eyes glaring at you from mere paces away, the irises possessing a hollow and impossible brilliance in the way a pair of fading embers might.

The chains now only encircled his left leg, binding him to the wall but leaving him otherwise free to move as he liked within the length of his confines. He had been stripped of armament and adornment alike, his mane of hair tangled and falling lank about his broad shoulders, yet for all of these injustices, you had no doubt in your mind that he was anything but a prince. He had a dignity to him, a hard-won pride to the straightness of his back and the firmness of his gaze; before you could chase it away, the thought came to you that there was far more intrinsic nobility to this man than there was even your husband.

“I suppose that I am,” you said.

“Have you come to gloat about your craven lord’s cowardly victory, then?” he said. The chains were pulled taut, so he could come no closer to you than he already was — you were sure of this, but you were still a slave to your instincts, which urged you farther and farther from him with every second. He watched you go with some measure of delight, like he was relishing in this power which you had inadvertently gifted him, and when you skittered to a stop, he huffed. “There is nothing to be proud of, and you look a fool for suggesting there might be.”

“I was just…” you trailed off, because it suddenly felt entirely absurd to suggest that you were inquiring after his wellbeing. What did it mean, the wellbeing of a doomed man? What reason would he have to believe your intentions? “What is your name?”

“My name?” he said with a brittle, incredulous laugh that rapidly descended into a cough. “Why? Do you wish to curse your husband with it? Does your language not have gods you can swear on?”

“You’re sickly,” you said, frowning and ignoring his jabs.

“You have torn me from the sun and chained me in this dingy room, and yet you have the gall to be surprised by that?” he said, scoffing. “You’re more of an idiot than that husband of yours.”

“I did no such thing!” you said. The defiance took you by surprise. You had forgotten what it felt like to defy someone, to disagree and resist their words, to feel alive with resentment and bad-temper. “I didn’t wish for this. I didn’t wish to keep you here anymore than you wished to be kept!”

“Is that so?” he said, and then he grinned at you, but it was less of a smile and more of a threat. “Then free me.”

“What?” you said.

“If you don’t want me, then free me,” he said.

“You’ll kill me if I do,” you said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot.

“I give you my word that I will spare you,” he said, placing a solemn hand over his heart.

“Not the others?” you said.

He did not respond, which in and of itself was a response. It was one you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did, but in truth the prospect of such a slaughter made your fingers twitch towards him. Only for a moment, and immediately, you shoved your hands behind your back, but it was too late — he had seen, and he raised his eyebrows at you in return.

“Well, anyways, it doesn’t matter,” you said hastily, hoping to distract him before he could comment on the treason. “I couldn’t free you even if I wanted to. Your chains are thrice-blessed. I didn’t know what that meant until recently, but now that I do, I understand why you have been kept without even a permanent guard.”

“Blessings,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you put genuine stock into that drivel.”

“Perhaps the gods of other lands have forsaken their subjects, but this empire is known as the birthplace of every divine act, and so deities still sometimes glance upon its people and offer up their favor. Thrice-blessed chains are one such offering, for they are in fact more like contracts than they truly are chains,” you said. When he did not interrupt you with any snide remarks, you were emboldened to continue. “They can restrain anything, even a god, but this strength comes at a cost: they are conditional. If their captive can understand this condition and meet it, they will crumble into dust, but until then, the chains remain unbreakable.”

“What is it?” he said insistently, reaching out his hands like he was going to grab you and shake the answer out. He fell short, grasping at empty air, his muscles straining against the chains which, true to legend, did not falter. “This condition. Whatever it is, I will do it. You only need to tell me and I will do it!”

“I don’t know,” you said. His lip curled, and you shook your head frantically. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth, I really don’t know! Only the wielder and the gods he prayed to can know for certain. The conditions are decided arbitrarily, without trend or reason. It could be anything from singing a song to moving a mountain! At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the little I’ve read on the topic.”

“The wielder — your husband, then? That’s easy enough. Bid him to tell you, and then relay to me his answer,” he said.

“Easy enough? Not in the slightest. He would just as soon do your bidding as he would mine,” you said. The prince squinted at you, and evidently he must’ve determined that you were serious, for he broke into that awful laugh again, the one that must’ve once been handsome and full-bodied but now was little more than a rattling plea for air.

“You are pitiful,” he said. “I thought that you must be some great, fearsome empress, as wicked as your husband, but you are just a frightened mouse of a girl. You would not survive a day in Kremnos, you know. It would crush you.”

Duty. Obedience. Docility. They were branded onto you, swirling letters that you had unwittingly carved into yourself with every wedding vow you spoke, and you could not escape them any more than the prince could escape his chains. If only you could argue with him, tell him that once upon a time, you had been someone unrecognizable from who you were now…but already, you had tested their limits. Your tongue was frozen in your mouth, refusing to move in anything but accordance with your oaths, and so you only clasped your hands together.

“If you say it is so, then it really must be the case,” you said. “Farewell, prince of Kremnos.”

“Farewell,” he said, but it was clear he did not mean it. “Dear lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said, recognizing the provocation for what it was. “You are not my husband, nor do I wish for you to be.”

“Then what should I refer to you as?” he said. “Your excellency? Your grace? Your most exalted highness? Your holiness, the saint of the realm?”

“Here, I am only known as lady,” you said quietly. “But I bore a different name before. I cannot…I cannot say it anymore, but if you ever come to know of it by other means, then please call me as such.”

Morning brought with it a freezing palm pressed to your brow. It startled you to consciousness both because of its temperature and its temerity, for you could not fathom who had dared to enter your room without your permission, and while you were asleep, at that! In the haze of your sleep-addled mind, a rebuke rose to your lips, but then someone clicked their tongue and you fell silent even as you clambered to a more alert state.

“Your fever has finally broken, dear lady! You do not know how overjoyed I am to hear it,” your husband said, helping you into a sitting position, one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other holding up a glass. You blinked, trying to clear the fog from your vision, swallowing down the water he poured down your throat without objection.

“Fever?” you said.

“The ailment you have been suffering from,” he said. “I was told it was a fever of some sorts. I bore it quietly, the prospect of your malaise, but today I could not stop myself from checking on you. I had some dreams of playing the nurse, but here you are, entirely well! Such a miraculous recovery.”

His grandiose words masked suspicion with affection, but he did not make any further accusations, for just as you had sworn to heed him, so too had he promised to trust you. His vows had been made to a portrait of yours, as well as written in pig’s-blood and sent to you in a sealed envelope. You could recall them with perfect clarity, the way the stench of iron clung to the parchment as you unfolded it and rang your fingers over the lines, which were grouped in stanzas of three.

Trust. Favor. Companionship.

You spent the entire day with your husband, although you had neither the desire nor the will for it. You hardly ever had the desire or the will to do anything, of course, not nowadays, but this was the worst of all, because your husband was not just a reminder but the very reason for everything which had happened to you. Still, you could not refuse, so you trotted along at his side, motionless as he showed you off to his officers, his advisors, and even, at one point, his cousin, who could not be less interested in you if he tried.

“Brother,” he said boredly, for indeed he and your husband were the only children of their respective fathers, and so were more like siblings than anything, “you have better things to be doing than showing off a woman who doesn’t bear showing off in the first place.”

“Are you saying that she is somehow deficient?” your husband said, swelling up with righteous indignation. Anyone else might’ve lost their head for the statement, especially given how blandly he had said it, but his cousin was above reproach, being the only person he really loved.

“I’m saying that she looks ill with misery,” his cousin said, and then he sighed, returning to his book. “I’m not so sure the lady has recovered from her illness. You ought to be more cautious with her, that’s all.”

His cousin was younger and handsomer than he, and as the two of you walked away, you thought that you would not have minded marrying him as much. Though perhaps this was a paradox — after all, if he had taken you in the manner that your husband had, then you would have hated him, too. It was your lot in life, then; always you would detest whoever you wed, whoever stole your freedom in that way and bound you to them with the cruel ropes of matrimony.

The hall where you took your dinner was like an enormous cavern, so large that you felt like your voice might echo if you spoke. You and your husband were the only ones in it, which heightened the effect, and every clank of his silverware against his porcelain dishes resounded in your ears like discordant bells.

“My prisoner,” you said after a long time had passed wherein the two of you discussed nothing. Your voice was dry with disuse, and you pushed the food on your plate around without attempting to eat, although it was all appetizing and you were certainly hungry.

“What?” your husband said, covering his mouth with his hand as he chewed.

“My prisoner,” you said, clearing your throat but keeping your gaze trained firmly on your food. “The prince of Kremnos. Is he well?”

“You’re asking after his health?” your husband said with a chuckle. When you did not laugh or otherwise indicate that you were joking, he frowned at you. “You needn’t fret. As you requested, I am treating him as well as I am able. Far better than he deserves.”

The image of the prince, chained and kept in darkness, the only sound his persistent cough and unsteady breathing, given scraps for sustenance and mice for company, flashed across your mind.

“I wish to see him,” you said. There was a warning in the back of your head — duty, obedience, docility — but you ignored it as best as you could, stabbing oversharp fingernails into your thighs, hard enough to draw blood and distract you from the dangerous line you tread. “My lord, I wish to see the prince and ensure that he is alright with my own eyes.”

At this your husband did not even pretend to humor you. He burst into a raucous fit of cackles, his fork and knife clattering to the table, his eyes watering at the corners. You waited for him to stop, picking your own cutlery up in vain before setting it down and folding your hands in your lap.

“No,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow that, dear lady.”

“You cannot—” you began, but it was too much, you had stepped over that precarious boundary, and now you were frozen. Gulping, you counted to five before continuing. “He is mine. He is mine, you said it yourself, so why — can’t — I — see — him?”

Each word dug into you like gravel, and you knew that you had lost this argument before you could even attempt to have it. How could you ever win? When you had sworn thrice over that you would be tractable, how could you ever try to be anything else? Your intentions did not matter as much as the execution, not to the number three and the power it lent this empire.

“How obstinate,” your husband said, appraising you with a new eye. “I am sorry, dear lady, but as my cousin said, you are still weak. It will do you no good to be faced with such a base creature. You can see him again on the day of his execution.”

“Yes,” you said through gritted teeth, which was not as much as you wanted to do but was as much as you could, at present, manage. “Might I be excused?”

“Excused? You haven’t eaten anything,” he said, pointing at your plate. True to his word, it was untouched, and you picked it up, holding it close to your chest as you stood.

“My stomach is protesting,” you said. “I will take it to my room and eat it later. If it pleases you.”

“Very well,” he said, waving at you. “I shall pray for your health, dear lady. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow, but once you are awake, I implore you to join me in my preparations. There is a grand celebration in the afternoon, as a marker of our victory against Kremnos, and I have been summoned to speak; if you could muster some words as well, it might hearten the people and warm them to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said. “I shall think of something.”

“See to it that you do,” he said, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face as you left, your footsteps growing faster and faster until you were all but racing to your room, your head spinning and palms clammy like you had gotten away with some great crime.

Tonight, there were no strange voices beckoning you, but that did not stop you from staying awake far past the moon’s rise, waiting until it hung over the clocktower before picking your way back to the cellar, your heart pounding as you crept back down those dark, endless stairs, an actual lantern in one hand and your plate in the other.

The prince was still there. You had half-expected him to have disappeared, to have turned out to be some figment of your imagination, but he was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his lips pursed as he watched the light of your lantern approach. When he realized it was you, his eyes narrowed, and he tucked his chin to his chest in what you could only assume was a stubborn display of the meager strength he had left.

“I brought food for you,” you said, setting the lantern on the last stair and presenting the plate before you. “Please eat it.”

“What do you think I am?” he said. “Some kind of a dog, such that I am eager for you to foist your refuse on me? Hardly. Take it and leave me at once.”

“You’ll waste away,” you said. “You are only doing yourself a disservice! This is my own dinner, which I have gone without so that I could bring it to you. Does that make it easier to stomach?”

“Shall I sit on the floor, then, and eat it with my hands?” he said with a disparaging smile. “Will that amuse you? Is that why you’ve come? I heard your husband, you know. ‘Do what you’d like with him now that he is yours.’ How joyless your life must be, to think that this is what you entertain yourself with!”

“It is joyless,” you bit back, and your eyes widened at the freedom of the declaration. “It is! But you are not my — you are not some kind of amusement, I resent that you — I even spoke against my husband for you, and you say that! Fine, then. Starve, you thoughtless simpleton! Starve and die for all the good it’ll do me!”

You turned on your heel and stomped towards the stairs with the graceless irascibility of a child, not even sparing a glance over your shoulder at the prince. He was quiet, but you knew from the heavy weight of his stare on your back that there was something like turmoil brewing in his mind, a turmoil which weakened your resolve with every step you took away from him.

It was to your credit that you made it all of the way to where the lantern was sitting before you wavered, your stride shortening until you halted in place. Scrunching up your face, wondering when you had developed this love for punishment, for strife and conflict, you allowed your shoulders to sag in acceptance.

“Dispose of this before anyone comes to see you,” you said, shoving the plate into his hands before he could protest. “I suppose it matters little how you do it, but you must, or else I will be convicted of treason, and where will that leave us? Imprisoned side by side and left to rot together.”

He did not respond until you were almost out of earshot entirely, and then he coughed. You could not tell whether it was to capture your attention or to clear his voice of any residual hesitance; regardless, he accomplished both objectives, as you lingered for a moment longer than you would’ve.

“Ten,” he said. “That’s how many times I could’ve killed you in the time you’ve been here. But I—”

You continued walking before you could hear the rest of it.

You woke up the next day in better spirits than you had in some time, and in fact when a servant announced that you had a visitor, you opened the door with a new vigor. Upon realizing that the man in front of you was not your husband but rather his cousin, you thought that you might die from the glee of it all. Taking his arm, you allowed him to escort you to where the imperial contingent was setting up for the festival, at a grand stage which took up most of the square and was already laden with visitors at its base.

“It is a relief to see you recovering so well,” your husband’s cousin said. “The rumors in the palace are that you’ve contracted some illness of the chronic variety; in truth I believed them, especially after our meeting yesterday, but today I see that you have been revitalized. Did you rest well last night, then? I heard that you did not eat your dinner, but you must’ve taken it in your room, yes?”

You had done neither of those things, and his questioning did make you pause. What was the cause of your good mood? You had gone to sleep for only a short time, without much of anything in your stomach, and your situation had not improved any, so why did you feel, even if only marginally, as if you were something like yourself again?

“I suppose it must be something like love,” he mused, without waiting for your answer.

“Ah, pardon?” you said, startled from the winding turns and byways of your thoughts at the strange declaration.

“To think that even a day in your husband’s presence has cured you to such an extent,” he explained. “Surely it is love? I cannot think of any other name for it…but I apologize! It is not my place to inquire, nor to speculate. I trust you will not tell my cousin about this?”

He had, in the taken-aback blink of your eyes and the pinch of your brow, found what he was seeking: a demure shyness which he could only comprehend as a lack of affection. You knew, then, that you had passed the test of the man, who had not believed any more than your husband that you were truly ill.

“I will take your leave,” he said, and then his palm clamped down on your shoulder. “But I trust you know this: however much you may love your husband, he is a difficult man to be loved by in return. If ever you are in search of solace…there are places you may turn to, dear lady.”

“What did he say to you?” your husband said, appearing at your side with his expression arranged into something like a frown. “I could not hear. Was he bothering you? I am sorry if he was. He has always been headstrong.”

“He was not bothering me,” you said, incapable of lying to your husband with any great skill but remaining certain that it was absolutely imperative you did not divulge his cousin’s secrets to him. “We spoke as family members might.”

If he recognized your evasive language, he did not comment on it. Instead, he stroked his chin in thought, and then he directed his attention towards the stage, where one of his generals was beckoning him — and, by extension, you.

The sun hung high in the sky as you ascended to the podium, though its rays did not dare touch you, disguised in your husband’s shadow as you were. Your vows tied more than your tongue, after all; your entire being, everything but your heart and your mind, were trained and twisted into the picture of submission, and soon those, too, would fall, leaving you a husk which could do nothing but nod and follow along.

Your husband did not need to start with any address. His mere presence was enough to silence the gathered empire, every single onlooker leaning towards the stage in eager anticipation of his words. From your vantage point, it was like the swell of a tide, crushing and suffocating, inescapable in its overwhelming intensity, but where you withdrew, your husband brightened at the weight, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders.

“Mydeimos,” he said, over-enunciating every syllable. The word, unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, had a rhythmic, marching cadence, more suited to a battle-cry than a formal declaration, and it seemed you were not alone in your thinking, for it had all the effect of one on the crowd.

A heckling clamor burst from them, the individual words indecipherable but for brief snippets. Demon. Monster. Warmonger. Kill. Curse. Blood. Kill. Kill. Kill! Your husband waited for them to quiet of their own volition, and only then did he venture to continue, this time with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mydeimos has fallen. The prince of terrors is no more!” he shouted, raising his fist in the air to thunderous applause. “Without him to lead the army, Kremnos will surely follow suit. Their lands will be ours within the year, of this much I assure you! Our empire will soon be the most prosperous in all the world. Even the great lands of the Southern Sea will pale in comparison!”

Your heart twinged at the mention of the Southern Sea. You could envision it even now, the streaks of salt left on the cliffs where the water lapped at them, the ripples in the placid blue where the balmy winds skimmed along the surface, the moon-white sand as it clung to the crevices of your feet and hands.

When you were younger, your father would take you on his boat and dip his fingers into it, urging you to do the same. You would ask him why and he would answer, always with a laugh or a smile: of all the jewels in my treasury, my darling, the Southern Sea is the second-loveliest. Then you would ask him which could be the first, if even the sea was not its equal, and he’d press his damp hands to your cheeks and kiss your hair and say you, my darling, you and only you.

“What a horrible thing he was,” your husband said. “Mydeimos. That wretched excuse of a man…the world is all the better now that he is locked away. I watched him — watched him, good citizens, with my own eyes — tear out a man’s heart with naught but his nails and teeth! Even now I can imagine it…the tips of his canines dark with pierced flesh…bits of entrails coating his fingers…the heart still beating in his palms…he looked the proper part of a devil, and I was certain that I had died and found damnation!

“But as I said, he is no more. Our army prevailed, as we always have, and as we always will; I made Mydeimos beg for mercy with my sword at his throat and my foot upon his inhuman heart, and then I dragged him back so that all of you could see what he has been relegated to — a chained puppy, given to my dear lady as a pet and kept as a servant until the day of his execution.

“For the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!”

Your husband concluded his speech and pulled you forward simultaneously, with a great flourish which invited praise and drew attention to you both. You swallowed, your mind racing at breakneck speed, far too quickly for you to make any sense of the things you were saying until you were saying them.

“I have not seen the prince of Kremnos — Mydeimos — since the day that he was brought to me,” you said. The applause that had begun faded as soon as the soft words sparkled into existence, and the many eyes of the audience blurred together until you could pretend like you were alone, like you were speaking to nothing but small, bright stones reflecting your own sentiments. “But as my lord husband said, he was proud. I feel as though I have never seen a man prouder. Even after his loss, he remained proud. Even with nothing else left, he clung to that pride, that assurance…I remember thinking to myself that it was, in its own way, admirable. That he was admirable.”

Your husband’s arm around your waist grew tighter with unspoken warning, though it needn’t have. You had said all that you wanted, all that you could, and now there was nothing left but the judgement of the collective.

“Lady!” someone shouted, the singular soul brave enough to speak. She was a woman — you wondered if this was what bolstered her confidence, a perceived kinship between the two of you for that fact alone. “Do you fear the prince?”

“No,” you said, and although you had meant it only as a vague and empty placation, you were surprised to find that it rang true. You were not afraid of him, and it wasn’t his chains or his infirmity which caused this emotion to surge in you; rather, it was what he had told you last night, that declaration he had made with the utmost of seriousness, which you had not even allowed him to complete. “I am not. He cannot harm me.”

You knew your words would be interpreted as faith in your husband and the empire, and furthermore that this misinterpretation would curry favor with your subjects and your lord alike, so you did nothing to correct it. Yet you would know, and would hold close to your heart the knowing, that it was not your husband who you held faith in: it was Mydeimos, the prince of Kremnos, who might’ve killed you ten times over but had instead let you live.

“You have much to improve in terms of your orating,” your husband said coldly as the three of you — him, his cousin, and yourself — returned to the palace.

“I thought her speech was excellent,” his cousin said, shooting you a sly smile behind his back. “Very concise, and of a good style. It’s a gift to be able to convey meaning so succinctly. You ought to nurture it.”

“She certainly conveyed a meaning,” your husband said. “It remains to be said what value that meaning truly holds.”

“Is that for you to decide? Ah, brother, don’t be a curmudgeon, I am only teasing you! You spent so much of our childhood poking fun at me, so how can you fault me for paying you back in kind?” his cousin said.

“You need some lessons in respect,” your husband said, but without any real bite behind it. His cousin snickered before sobering, shifting his weight toward you.

“Will you take your dinner in your chambers again, lady?” he said. You nodded.

“If it does not offend,” you said.

“Do as you please,” your husband said. “Though I expect you’ll do that anyways, sworn to me or not. Isn’t that right, dear lady?”

You couldn’t think of any response which would be satisfactory, so you said nothing, allowing the two of them to escort you to your room, where you waited with bated breath until the night fell and you could return to the cellar.

The entire way down the stairs, you turned the name over in your mind, polishing it in the way waves polished driftwood, battering it with incessant worry until it shone, uncanny and unrecognizable. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. The prince of terrors. The man who had torn a heart out with his teeth. What did it say of you, that you were making your way to exactly such a knave? With trepidation, of course, but what did it say that you were still doing it anyways? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

“There is an odd pattern to your footsteps,” he said before you could even greet him. He stood as he always did, prepared for a battle that he would never again see. “Or perhaps it is your breathing, or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” you said, putting your lantern and the dinner down in the space between you both. “I walk and breathe as I always have, as others do.”

“I know you,” he said, disgust mingling with the barest traces of awe in his tone. “The door to this cellar opens frequently. All manner of men come to visit me, to mock me from their places at the bottom of the stairs, lambasting me from the safety of their distance. I recognize few, and I remember fewer — nor do I have any great desire to — but when it is you, I know. From your very step, from the very creak of the door, I know. I cannot understand how or why, but I know.”

“My husband told me your name,” you said after a pause, when it became clear he was not expecting a reaction from you. Motioning towards the food in a gesture you hoped he took to kindly, you continued: “I did not ask him, but he mentioned it in passing, so naturally now I know it.”

“I see,” he said, and although his gaze flicked towards the ground, he did not move. You remembered, then, what else your husband had said in that speech of his, the vainglorious words echoing in your ears: for the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!

“Mydeimos,” you said, and then you sat on the floor, which was made of a cold stone that shot chills down the backs of your legs. Resting your elbows atop your thighs and your chin in your hands, you blinked up at him. “That is what he called you. ‘The prince of terrors.’”

“How unimaginative,” he said, and you suppressed a shudder at his glare, which was baleful and acute as it settled upon you. “My-deimos. Many-terrors. Yes, that is my name, though that ridiculous nickname is of his own invention. The Kremnoans would laugh if they heard it.”

“He said that he watched you tear out a man’s heart with your nails,” you said, and then you glanced at his lips, simultaneously and unconsciously wetting your own with the tip of your tongue. “And your teeth.”

He bared those very teeth, white and glinting, in a barking laugh — as much an expression of warning as it was humor. “My teeth! Your husband is one for fiction.”

“And — and he spoke of how he defeated you,” you said. At this, anything resembling mirth vanished from Mydeimos, and he grew curiously immobile — you almost thought that you had frightened him into the grips of memory, but then you realized that he was not frozen as much as he was waiting.

“Did he?” he said. “And what did your husband say of my defeat, dear lady?”

“He made you beg for mercy with his sword at your throat and his foot upon your inhuman — upon your heart,” you said, correcting yourself for the slip of the tongue, finding no merit in telling him about that particular detail. “And then he dragged you back here.”

The longer Mydeimos remained silent, the shallower your breaths became, a cold fist forming around your heart and squeezing, the muscles in your arms and legs contracting, protesting their inactivity. You needed to run. If you were wiser, if you had anything resembling self-preservation, you would run, would flee and hope that you were fast enough to make it to the stairs before he pounced.

You supposed you lacked both wisdom and self-preservation in spades, for you remained on the floor, peering up at him and praying that he could not read your mind, could not comprehend the depths of your thoughts.

“So that is his story,” he said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t tell his people the truth.”

“He made it up,” you said rhetorically.

“You don’t sound surprised,” he noted.

“It is not — it is not —” You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, trying to come up with some way to circumvent your wedding vows, some way you could impress upon him what you were trying to say. “When we were wed, it was said that I loved him madly and completely, that I bawled to my father until he allowed me to come here.”

“Then it is not his first time dabbling in such falsehoods,” Mydeimos completed. When you nodded, he snorted. “You cannot speak ill of him, can you? Is it magic?”

“In the way of this land,” you said with a shrug.

“What an emperor,” he said. “So he can neither bed his wife nor win his battles without the use of tricks and obfuscation? Where I come from, they have a word for those like that, but as it is foul, I will not trouble you with hearing it.”

“What do you mean?” you said. “Ah, not by the foul word…that is, what tricks do you refer to? If the story he told is inaccurate, then how did he really defeat you? For surely he must have, or else you would not be here.”

“He did not defeat me,” he said. “Believe it or not, but that is the truth.”

“How?” you pressed, for you had already eschewed wisdom once and did not mind doing so again.

For a moment, it was as if the sun shone down upon him again. You saw him as he was on the day he met you, or perhaps even before — the prince of Kremnos, sleek and powerful and indomitable, red marks blooming in place of the scars he would never receive, eyes ablaze in his hollow face, hair as wild and untamed as his spirit.

“He surrendered,” Mydeimos said, scowling. “Our numbers were smaller, but Kremnoans have never cared for things like odds. We were winning, indubitably we were winning, and your husband knew it as well as we did. They attacked us in our own territory, fought us with our own weapons…how could we have lost? We would’ve wiped them out, but your husband and his men raised their white flags, and so we ceased to attack them.

“I went to parley with them, to negotiate the terms of their surrender. In a show of goodwill, I agreed to your husband’s request to come unaccompanied. His men were exhausted, and I found it honorable that he was putting their wellbeing first, so I ignored my instincts and the warnings of my advisors, going forth alone, leaving my armor and weapons as I was instructed to.

“That was my mistake. I should never have expected honor from a serpent, whose nature it is to bite. The surrender was a ploy; I was met by hordes of guards, each with a spear pointed at my heart. Even then, I fought. Do not think I met my end willingly, dear lady — I fought and killed as many men as he threw at me. I could’ve killed them all, I would’ve killed them all, but right as I was about to, he threw these chains at me from the corner where he hid. It should not have worked, his aim and the strength behind it were both lacking, but it was as if the metal had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I was bound.”

“As I told you, they are thrice-blessed,” you said. “Divine. They long to fulfill their purpose, and will do anything to that end. If it defies the laws of nature, well, what are those laws compared to the ones who wrote them? Those men were only a distraction. Once my husband received these chains, there was nothing which could’ve changed your fate.”

“What sort of a god favors a man who feigns surrender?” Mydeimos said. “What kind of deity loves perfidy?”

“I have often asked myself the same questions,” you admitted, half-expecting yourself to be unable and closing your eyes in relief when you weren't. “Why is it that he is the one they champion? What justice is there in that? He must have been a saint in his past life, to be treated as he is. A saint, or a martyr, or something like that. Something wonderful to the point of deserving so many miracles in this next iteration of his.”

You chose your speech carefully, injecting as much resentment into it as was needed to convey to the prince what you really meant, but not enough that you seized up into inaction. Not enough that you strained against the hold that your vows held over you.

You heard him exhale, and at this, you allowed your eyes to flutter open once more, peeking up at him and immediately wishing you hadn’t.

Whatever had briefly rallied in him, whatever fervor and fire he had briefly regained…it was gone. It was gone, leaving him fractured and bereft, forlorn instead of fearsome, prisoner instead of prince. Your husband had done that to him. Your husband had destroyed him, as he had destroyed you, and it was this reflection of your own fate which tore at you the most.

Breaking off a piece of bread, you dipped it in the long-cooled sauce pooled in the corner of the plate, and, without a word, held it out to him. He eyed it suspiciously, and for a moment you thought he might refuse it. The beginnings of an argument bubbled to the surface, but it never had the chance to take shape — before your lips could so much as part, he knelt across from you and took your proffered hand by the wrist.

Holding it in place, his thumb digging into your pulse like a reminder that he didn’t want this, didn’t want to accept your help, he used his free hand to swipe the bread from your palm. Then, his brows heavy, low over his eyes with mistrust and reluctance, he shoved it into his mouth and ate it.

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#mydei x reader #mydei x y/n #mydei x you #mydei #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #reader insert #fantasy au #threefold #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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iluvbuckets · 5 days ago

Text

take it like a taker

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: you and paige are freaked tf out

warnings: a little plot but its still about sex, lots of dirty talk (i don't like quiet sex sue me), oral, strap! yay!, choking, praise, light degradation, whimpering, begging, overstimulation, lots of edging, crying, sub!paige (hehehe), she's kind of a brat but a whiny one, mentions of her being a munch, let me know if i missed anything lol

word count: 4.6k

notes: here's the pride special!! sorry it took so long! deadass don't think i have never written anything this fucking filthy ever in my 11 years of writing fanfics (that makes me sound old i just started way too young). happy pride month <3

✷✷✷

you saw the edits, the comments, the fanfiction. you read what her fans said about her, what they assumed–that she’s probably a player, dominant, takes the lead. she knew exactly what to say and how to say it every time, especially in bed. that she was the one giving, whispering praise in your ear as she touched you, slamming the strap into you, giving you head until you couldn’t take it anymore.

god, they couldn’t be more wrong.

and you loved it.

there was something so thrilling about the secrecy of it all. the stark contrast of the way she presented herself versus the way she really was behind closed doors. it made your possessive tendencies thrive. you were not only the only one who could hear her desperate begging for more, her loud moans when you hit the right spot, the whimpers when you touched her at all, the squirming when you whisper something dirty in her ear in public, the occasional brattiness when she was in a sour mood that she would absolutely be punished for, but you were the only one who even knew about it at all.

you let her play the part in public. you let her confidence ooze easily from her lips like it was second nature, without any argument. you let her lead conversations with ease. you let her put her hands on the small of your back to guide you, on your waist when you were talking to people, or on your thigh when you were sitting down together. you let her pick up checks when you went out to eat or went shopping, and open your doors like she was the one in charge.

she could do all these things when everyone was watching because it wouldn’t change that she would be on her knees for you, begging for you to touch her or to let her touch you, as soon as you got home. and there was no place she’d rather be.

“i want you to sit on my face,” she whispered, a hand covering her mouth so no one could try to read her lips.

you wanted to be shocked, you really did, but this was something paige always did when you two were in public, especially something that meant you couldn’t be home right away. she would say she thinks it’s funny to see you squirm with impatience, but you knew it was because she liked the aftermath. she liked how right when you would walk through the door, you would throw her against the wall and whisper something degrading in her ear because she just couldn’t wait.

especially tonight. while you two were getting ready and you were standing in front of the mirror trying to smooth out any wrinkles, she came up behind you to put her hands on your hips and press your bodies together. she muttered something in your ear about how she needed to fuck you right there, how she was throbbing and soaked just seeing you in that dress. how she wanted you to look in the mirror as she ate you out so you could see how pretty you looked. you debated giving her what she wanted, but you knew you couldn’t run late, because when paige gave you head, it was never quick. she was always begging for just one more, just let me see you come one more time.

well, you did kind of give her what she wanted. if dropping to your knees and eating her pussy until she was about to come, then pulling away, buttoning her pants back up, and telling her you better get going would count as what she wanted.

she patted your thigh lightly, then settled her fingers barely beneath the fabric of the dress you were wearing. you were at a somewhat fancy dinner with the dallas wings players, staff, and their significant others to celebrate the upcoming season–the regular season that started on friday, three days from then.

you already knew you were going to fuck her when you got home, despite anything she was doing to make sure you finished the job from earlier. she looked so damn good, how could you not? she let you curl her hair tonight in soft waves, and she picked out a black short-sleeve button up with a pair of nicer black cargo pants, and sneakers, of course. you loved it when she wore all black, and she knew that.

“now?” you ask quietly, reaching forward to take a sip of your water without even sparing her a glance.

she was being bratty like this on purpose, you knew it. she was probably still aching and wet in her pants, desperate for you to take her home and finish what you started. she had been shifting in her seat all night, constantly crossing and uncrossing her legs, trying to stay composed.

her eyes raked over you slowly, and not at all subtly, taking in the way you looked in that dress. it was black and fitted to your body, the neck low enough in a v to expose your cleavage. you had your straightened hair pushed behind your shoulders, too, meaning it was all on display. to anyone at the table, they probably thought she was spending extra time staring at your chest. maybe she did for a second, but she couldn’t help but let her eyes linger on the necklace dangling from your neck.

she had randomly gifted it to you when you moved to dallas. she had muttered something about how practice was going to run long that day, but then came home with a small bag from a jewelry store. it was a dainty gold chain, and it was supposed to be a name necklace with the name written in cursive, but she had decided to get five on it instead. it was the perfect mix of possession and privacy for you, and you loved it.

“mhm,” she hummed. then she leaned toward you to whisper in your ear again, “you taste better than anything on this menu.”

your head quickly whipped to the side to give her a look, so quickly that naylssa and dijonai–who were sitting across from you–noticed. she barely had time to move her head, so your noses brushed when you did so. you glanced at the two teammates across the table who had returned their attention back to whoever was talking.

“yeah?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at her, almost in a challenging way, but she didn’t react. she had a big, goofy grin like she was proud of what she was doing and your reaction. if you weren’t in public, you probably would’ve grabbed her by the throat.

she nodded smugly, her fingers squeezing your thigh slightly. “would do anything to fuck you right now.”

“keep running your mouth,” you warned, not even whispering. if any of her teammates heard you, they chose to ignore it. you couldn’t blame them, you probably looked like you were fighting.

“what are you gonna do about it?” she asks boldly, her grin never faltering. “because that’s not the only thing i’m gonna do w’it."

you leaned toward her slowly, your expression unreadable. “wait until we get home,” you whispered, making sure your lips touched her ear as your words spilled out.

she shuddered at the contact and her grin faltered slightly at the words, making you smirk. you placed a hand high on her thigh, squeezing tightly for a moment, almost as another warning. she clenched her thighs at the feeling, just happy to be touched by you even if it wasn’t exactly where she wanted it.

she didn’t dare to run her mouth anymore after that, knowing that it could jeopardize her ability to finally receive the orgasm she had been denied of earlier. you were a little disappointed by her obedience, though. you almost wanted her to keep going, so you didn’t feel bad about your intention to only give her one, maybe two, orgasms tonight after spending hours teasing her. that was something paige wasn’t used to. you were more into overstimulating her than edging her, loving the way she would whine beneath you because it just felt so good.

when you finally walked in the door to your apartment, you slipped off your shoes and walked down the hall to your bedroom without a word. she was stunned, standing there watching you go as she shut the door. usually in moments like this, you wouldn’t waste any time slamming her against the wall or the door, or maybe even pushing her down on the couch or onto her knees on the floor. she swallowed thickly, but followed you back anyway.

paige stood in the doorway, nervously fidgeting with her fingers. you moved around the room for a few seconds, pretending to look for something–pretending you didn’t see her. you quickly grabbed a hair tie from the dresser and turned to face her. her eyes shifted down to your hands then back up to your face, shooting you a questioning, but knowing look. she knew why you wanted the hair tie, just not why you were grabbing it right now.

you smiled innocently as you walked over to her, slow and deliberate, and stood in front of her. she didn’t break her eye contact with you as you did so. you reached your hands up to gather her hair into a messy low bun, making sure that it didn’t look too crazy or have too many bumps. then, you smoothed your hands over her shoulders, then her chest down to her stomach, allowing your fingers to fumble with the buttons from the bottom up.

“you’ve been such a brat tonight,” you said casually, slipping her shirt off her frame. “i don’t know if you deserve me sitting on your face, baby.”

her eyes widened at your words, her hands coming up to grab your waist as yours slipped under her sports bra. “no, i do. please, i’ll be good. promise.”

you laughed gently at her words, using your thumbs to rub circles around her nipples. she whimpered at your touch, leaning forward to chase your lips in a kiss. which you allowed her to. she kissed you with intense, heated passion that you’re not sure you’ve ever felt from her before. it was something so desperate, telling you she was so ready to come, you’re not even sure you wanted to tease her anymore. she fisted your dress where her hands were settled, trying to pull you closer.

paige shouldn’t have expected you to let her. she knows better than that. you pulled away, well as much as you could with the way she was gripping your dress. her eyes didn’t leave your lips, though, her lips parted and breathing ragged as she waited for you to lean back in. you contemplated taking her bra off, but you decided to lower your hands to her pants instead–where there was a waistband to a pair of nike pros sticking out. you traced over the words with your pointer finger, making her sigh from her nose.

“this for me?” you asked, tilting your head. the answer, you knew, was a mix between yes and no. yes, because she knew how hot you thought it was when you could see the logo poking out of her sweatpants, cargos, shorts, whatever. no, because she was more comfortable with them no matter what.

“everything i do is for you,” she replied quickly and breathlessly, like she didn’t even think before saying it–like an automatic response.

“is that right?” you chuckled, feeling your heart melt a little bit.

to reward her for saying something so sweet, you grabbed her wrists to gently pry her hands off your dress, which she did immediately without much of a fight. you sunk to your knees slowly, keeping your eyes trained on hers. her pupils were blown with lust as she watched you, one of her hands rising to rest on the doorframe next to her. you used both of your hands to hook in the waistband of her nike pros to swiftly pull them and her pants down in one smooth motion, but left her underwear on. she carefully stepped out of her pants, mindlessly kicking them into the hallway behind her.

you leaned forward to place kisses along the waistband of her underwear, sucking a hickey into the skin above it. her hips snapped forward against their will, the sensitivity from her denied orgasm really showing itself. you smiled mischievously, moving down to mouth over her clit that pulsing with desire through the fabric.

“fuck,” she breathed at the feeling. her unoccupied hand moved to rest on the back of your head, subconsciously pushing you closer. you considered mentioning it, punishing her for pushing you, but you decided that wasn’t as fun. “please, make me come. please, i’ve been waiting all night.”

you laughed against her, sending a vibration throughout her entire body that had her moaning softly, but you didn’t answer. it was too early to spoil the surprise. you traced your fingers over her entrance, feeling the wet spot. you had expected her to be wet, but not that wet. you almost pulled away to ask about it but she beat you to it. it was like she could read your mind.

“so wet for you,” she whined, “you look so damn good tonight. i can’t help it, wanna give you head so fucking bad. want you to sit on my face until i can’t breathe.”

“aw, paige,” you cooed, like you were going to give her sweet words of praise, pushing her underwear to the side, “you’re such a slut, you know that? you probably would’ve gotten on your knees right there under the table if i asked.”

you didn’t give her time to reply before your mouth was on her. the gasp that left her lips when you licked a flat stripe from her soaked entrance to her clit was so violent, you were surprised she didn’t cough afterwards. her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling harder than she probably meant to, but you didn’t mind. you actually loved it when she was so lost in the moment that she didn’t realize she was borderline ripping your hair out.

when you licked through her folds and over clit slowly, her hips jolted forward and she continued to try to grind it out, but you knew it probably wasn’t on purpose. she was always so sensitive anyway, and the denial from earlier definitely made it worse.

you wrapped your lips around her clit and sucked gently, using your tongue to trace circles around the bud after at a faster pace. her stomach would not stop flexing, almost sending her hunching over above you, but you didn’t let up.

“shit. oh, fuck,” she moaned, her eyes pinching shut at the feeling. she pressed her hips forward, chasing the orgasm building in her stomach. “‘m gonna come already. feels too good”

even though you appreciated the warning, you already knew–not that it was hard to tell. she was making such pretty sounds, though, it took some mild internal convincing to pull yourself away this time.

“no, no!” she cried out, her hand trying to push your head back where she wanted it. “goddammit, please don’t stop.”

“come on, baby. you didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” you asked innocently. you flicked her clit playfully causing her to flinch and her body to twitch. she threw her head back in frustration, trying not to groan out loud because she knew it would only prolong the release she is desperately waiting for.

you quickly jumped to your feet, leaning forward to crash your lips together again. she kissed you back hard, pouring every bit of anger and frustration she was feeling into it so hopefully you would get the point and finally give her what she wanted. without looking, you used both hands to shove her underwear down a little bit, and she got the hint. she hastily removed them without disconnecting your lips, throwing them behind you onto the floor somewhere. you pulled away, grabbing her wrist to pull her into the room. then spun her around so you could place your hands flat on her chest and push her onto the bed.

she propped herself up on her elbows, expecting to watch you put your mouth on her again or maybe even sit on her face finally, but you didn’t. instead, you hastily pulled off your dress and underwear. you ran your palms up her thighs gently while leaning over her body, still standing next to the bed, trying to be soothing and comforting as you decided what you wanted to do next. you couldn’t decide if you wanted to use your mouth, your fingers, your thigh–god, the possibilities were endless for making her squirm beneath you.

then, an idea popped into your head.

“can i use the strap on you?” you asked.

her eyebrows rose in surprise at your words. it wasn’t that either of you hated it per se, but it was something that was only brought out for special occasions, you would say. and on those rare occasions, you were usually the one receiving. still, she nodded slowly.

she stared as you bent down next to the bed to pull it out of the bottom drawer of the nightstand and strap on the harness. her pussy aching and dripping with desire, and she had an overwhelming urge to touch herself to try to relieve it. she didn’t, though; she wasn’t feeling quite as bratty anymore now that she’s had two orgasms ripped away from her and would probably have a few more ripped away if she kept it up too.

without wasting any time teasing, you touched the silicone to her entrance, covering it with her slick as lube. she whimpered at the feeling, leaning forward to watch. you grabbed one of her legs behind her knee to bend it, giving you a better angle as you pushed the tip in ever so slightly. her face contorted at the sudden stretch, pussy clenching, and you made sure to keep your eyes trained on her face to gauge her expressions. you almost had the urge to tell her to look you in the eyes, but it was so fucking hot that she wanted to watch, honestly.

“you okay?” you asked gently, brushing your fingers over her stomach.

“mhm,” she hummed, biting her bottom lip.

you slowly rolled your hips to bottom out in one motion. one of her hands flew to press against your stomach, not expecting you to go so fast.

“you can take it,” you said, grabbing her wrist and lacing your fingers together. you pressed her hand above her head against the bed, making her lie all the way down. the arm that she was using to pop herself up was now moving so she could rest her hand on your hip lightly.

you rolled your hips again, pulling all the way out and slowly pushing back in. her eyes rolled to the back of her head at the feeling and a loud moan slipped from her lips before she could stop it. the sound made you smile, knowing that she was in pure bliss because of you. her mouth stayed parted, like she was making sounds, but nothing was coming out. your hips fell into a steady rhythm, not slow, but not fast either–just enough to let her feel all of it.

“fuck, paige,” you moaned. “you look so pretty like this. taking all of me like a good girl.”

her hips bucked slightly, a high-pitched moan ripping from her throat. you accidentally snapped your hips forward roughly from the sound, causing her to gasp, her free hand pressing against your stomach again. you released the grip your hand had on her leg, moving to use your thumb to circle her clit.

“oh my god,” she moaned, her hand that was resting on your hip flying to grip your bicep tightly. “shit, i’m–fuck.”

“i know,” you said softly, “tell me how good it feels.”

“i-i can’t–please, let me–” she interrupted herself with a moan, her pussy clenching tightly around the silicone to try to will her orgasm away that was quickly approaching. you pulled all the way out, watching the way she clenched around nothing as she cried out from frustration beneath you. “fuck! please, let me come. i’m begging for it, please. i want it so bad.”

“you asked for this, baby,” you chuckled. honestly, you did feel a little bad about it while watching her cry out, but not bad enough to stop.

“i’m sorry,” she said, looking up to meet your eyes through her lashes. “’m sorry. i’ll be so good for you. just–please, let me come.”

without warning, you slammed the silicone back into her. her legs clenched from the unexpected fullness, her hand that was intertwined with yours tightening with a death grip on your fingers, and her eyes pinched shut tightly as her head came forward.

“this is what you wanted, right?” you asked quietly, using the hand that was on her clit to grip her throat and push her head back against the bed.

her free hand loosened from your bicep to fall to your wrist, gripping it but not pulling it off. she would never admit it otherwise, but she loved it when you choked her like this. you didn’t do it very often, so she savored it when you did. despite your grip, she managed to nod at your words, not trusting herself to speak from how foggy her brain felt in pleasure.

you watched as tears slipped from her eyes when you sped up your thrusts, but she didn’t say anything. you weren’t even sure if she knew she was crying, either. her stomach and pussy clenched, and you almost had the urge to let her come because of her pure desperation. her orgasm was approaching much, much quicker than before, after the first three denied orgasms.

of course, you completely pulled out when her hips bucked up to chase her fourth. she cried out a choked sob, causing you to loosen the grip on her throat so she could breathe, and your other hand loosening on hers subconsciously. her hands flew to her face to cover it from her frustration as she sobbed.

“paige,” you said, gently caressing her sides with your hands. sure, you had made her cry during sex before, but never like this. “do you want to stop?”

“no,” she shook her head, voice muffled from her hands.

“are you sure?” you asked, not really convinced because of her crying.

“yes. please, keep going,” she said with an exasperated tone, “i want to come.”

nodding, not verbally replying, you took the harness off and haphazardly threw it to the side. you reached up to take her hands off her face, expecting her to fight you, but she didn’t. her face was streaked with tears, her mascara running down her cheeks. you leaned forward to place a soft kiss on her lips. then, you slotted your thigh between her legs, pressing her soaked, pulsing pussy against the muscle. without asking for permission, she started slowly grinding against it.

“you’re going to take what i give you,” you said against her mouth. she whimpered, already feeling herself wanting to unravel. “and you don’t get to come just because you want it.”

you moved your thigh away from her just slightly, making her grind against nothing but the air. she couldn’t even bring herself to say anything in complaint, just let out another violent sob at her fifth orgasm being taken away.

you leaned back so you were sitting on your heels, taking in the sight of her in front of you. she looked absolutely wrecked–cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, tear and mascara stains on her face, red marks where she was biting her bottom lip, god. you wondered how you had never thought of this before.

she reached forward to grab your hand and shove it where she wanted it, not even caring about the potential consequences. you didn’t touch her though, stiffening your arm before it could. “please, please, make me come. i’ve been so good at taking it all. i can’t take it anymore.”

you pretended to think about it for a moment, then knelt down between her legs. you almost considered being stubborn and not giving it to her, but at this point, she would probably come just from you touching her even slightly. she quite literally sobbed from relief while watching you do so, throwing her head back against the mattress. you let your breath fan over her for a second, and she clenched when she felt it.

when you finally flicked your tongue against her clit, her thighs clenched tightly around your head with an intense orgasm. she didn’t even make a sound as she gushed beneath you, her upper body hunching forward involuntarily. you continued to circle your tongue slowly against her clit though, working her through it. her hands clutched at the sheets until her knuckles turned white.

after about a minute when she started to come down, her entire body shaking, she realized you hadn’t stopped yet–but you didn’t intend to. her legs trembled around your head, stomach clenching and body jerking every few seconds as you continued to circle your tongue. her hands flew to your hair to scramble for purchase.

“wait, i’m–fuck, i can’t–” she said breathlessly with confusion dripping in her tone, tears slipping from her eyes again.

“isn’t this what you wanted?” you said against her, making sure she could feel the vibration. “you wanted to come, right? do it again.”

she blinked at you with her lips parted like her mind was blank, like her intense orgasm had wiped out any potential for a coherent thought. you increased the pace of your tongue, trying to work her back up to that edge for another one.

“i’m–goddamn, shit,” she babbled.

it didn’t take very long before she was coming again with a moan, grinding her hips against your face involuntarily. her back arched off the bed, eyes rolling into the back of her head at the feeling. you worked her through it for a few moments before pulling away from her, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

she was lying against the bed, her arms thrown lazily over her face, chest heaving like she had just run a marathon, legs shaking helplessly. you bent down to press a kiss against her stomach gently, which she didn’t react to, then laid down next to her.

“good?” you asked, throwing your arm over her stomach in a comforting manner.

she didn’t move her arms to answer. “yeah,” she breathed.

then, she spoke again. you don’t know why you weren’t expecting the words that came out of her mouth because it’s paige. she couldn’t do anything without returning the favor.

“are you going to sit on my face now?”

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers fic #wcbb x reader #wlw smut #sub!paige bueckers

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bucketsorbueckers · 23 days ago

Text

Paige Bueckers Day

Paige X Azzi

one shot - dual POV - 5.5K words

warnings: NONE. this is pure fluff. inspired loosely by spring into summer by lizzy mcalpine

Summary: They named a day after her. Put her face on a billboard. Turned her hometown into a headline. And still, in the hours before her first WNBA game, all Paige Bueckers can think about is the one person who said she wouldn’t be there—the only person she really wants to see in the crowd.

A/N: wrote this right after the announcement of paige bueckers day and literally couldn’t stop spiraling about how soft it could all be . i know azzi probably isn’t there today but in my delusional little brain? she is. she always is. also shoutout to the anon who asked if i’m capable of writing happy things—this is me trying. pls tell me if it counts <3

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The truth is, when she first heard the news, she didn’t think it was real.

KK had sent her a text. No preamble. Just a link and a blurry screenshot of a city proclamation that maybe, maybe, had her face on it.

She assumed it was a joke. One of those strange internet jokes she was always just slightly outside of. Designed to stir people up or make them laugh, depending on which corner of the internet you landed in.

But the longer she stared at the post—and the verified seal on the city’s website—the harder it became to deny that, somehow, this was very real.

Her hometown, Hopkins, Minnesota, was renaming itself for one day.

To Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.

There was even a line in the official proclamation—something about athletic excellence and community pride—followed by the words: “Hereby declared: Paige Bueckers Day.”

She read the line twice, then once more, because it felt like her brain had forgotten how to process the English language.

Welcome to Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.

It was the kind of thing that sounded like a prank. Or a punishment. Possibly both.

She called KK.

“Tell me this is fake,” she said, skipping hello entirely.

KK didn’t even try not to laugh. “Pack your bags! We’re going to Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, girl.”

Paige sat down on the edge of her bed, like maybe that would steady her. “I haven’t lived there in years.”

“You don’t have to live there to belong to it,” KK said, voice taken in a slightly more serious tone. “They’re proud of you.”

She was quiet for a second. “They renamed the whole town.”

“Only for one day.”

“Still,” she said, tugging at a loose thread on her sleeve. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

“You’re playing your first pro game in Minnesota. They wanted to do something special.”

Paige stared at the wall, at the framed photo of a lake that could’ve been anywhere. “A gift would’ve been fine.”

KK laughed again, softer this time. “You’re such a freak about this stuff.”

“I’m not a freak.”

“You are. You deflect. You downplay. It’s, like, your love language or something.”

Paige didn’t answer, just pulled her knees up and rested her chin on top of them. Her new apartment was quiet in the way new places always were—climate-controlled and just a little too clean, like no one had ever really lived inside it.

“They’re putting up signs,” KK added. “Like, real ones. Metal. Highway font. I think there’s even a parade.”

“Oh my God.”

“Just don’t wear sunglasses and a hoodie like you’re in witness protection, okay? Let people be happy for you.”

Paige sighed and let herself fall back onto the bed, her hair fanning out across the pillow.

She was proud. Of course she was. Proud and grateful and maybe a little in disbelief that it had all led to this. Her first pro game. In Minnesota, of all places. In a stadium that used to feel too big for her dreams and now felt too small to hold them.

Still, there was something terrifying about being celebrated like this. Like you were already the person they thought you were. Like there wasn’t still so much to prove.

“I’ll try,” she said finally.

“Try harder,” KK said, and then added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ll save you a corn dog.”

“You think this is the State Fair?”

“I think it’s Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, and anything can happen.”

Paige smiled despite herself, then hung up and laid there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

It was early. The Dallas skyline still dark and soft around the edges, the kind of quiet that made you feel like the only person awake in the world. Azzi was probably still asleep.

She’d never been a morning person. Not even at UConn, when early lifts and bleary-eyed conditioning were part of the daily ritual. Paige used to wake first and sit in the stillness for a few minutes before nudging Azzi’s shoulder, watching her groan dramatically and pull the covers over her head like they were shielding her from the cruelty of time.

Paige glanced at her phone, then set it back down without unlocking it.

She wasn’t going to text. Not yet. Not when Azzi had just gotten back from vacation the night before and finally had the rare luxury of a morning without alarms or obligations.

Still, she missed her. In that quiet, persistent way that didn’t knock you over so much as settle in—background noise that never really faded. It had only been a few weeks—three, technically—but it felt longer.

At UConn, they’d been wrapped into each other’s lives so completely, it had been hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Same practices. Same flights. Same off days spent curled up on the couch, a half-watched show playing as their legs tangled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Back then, distance had been theoretical. Something that happened to other people. Now it lived in time zones and FaceTimes and the way Azzi’s voice cut in and out on bad WiFi. It felt like they were running parallel. Close enough to see each other’s outlines, but just far enough apart not to touch.

Paige rolled onto her side, her hand brushing the place on the bed where Azzi wasn’t. It was one thing to miss someone in theory. It was another to fall asleep reaching for them, and wake up with nothing but sheets.

With a sigh, she opened her phone, ignoring the flood of texts about the latest announcement. The headlines, the reposts, the dizzy blur of congratulations from people.

At the top of the list was one from Dijonai. Three minutes ago. She guessed no one in Dallas could sleep.

they really gave me the teammate that’s got cities renaming themselves 😭 couldn’t just give me a hooper, huh? had to be a whole cultural moment lmk when the parade is. proud of you fr.🫶🏽

Paige snorted, a real laugh catching in her throat before she could stop it. And then her eyes dropped to the only pinned message.

Azzi.

Last text: 12:03 a.m. sorry babe. its been an impossible day. call you tomorrow. love you

Paige read it twice, even though she’d already memorized the shape of it. The lowercase softness, the familiar apology. She knew Azzi meant it, knew she would call, just like she always did. But still. It stung in that quiet way absence always did. Not sharp, just dull and constant, like pressing on a bruise to make sure it still hurt.

She didn’t text back. Not yet.

Then she scrolled up. Past the memes, the check-ins, the goodnights. Until she found the one she kept reading even though she already knew it by heart.

The third, or maybe fourth, apology Azzi had sent since calling to say she wouldn’t be at Paige’s first WNBA game:

i hate this. i really do. i just can’t say no. not this time. it’s a huge opportunity. and if i skip it, it might not come around again. i’m sorry. i wanted to be there more than anything.

Paige had read it in the middle of Trader Joe’s. Standing in front of a pyramid of honeycrisp apples, her cart half-full and suddenly too heavy. She’d stared at the screen for what felt like forever, then set her phone face-down and walked out without buying a single thing.

She’d told Azzi it was okay. That she understood. That she was proud of her. And all of that was true. It was just also true that it wrecked her a little.

Not because Azzi was choosing something else. But because they were finally learning how to choose themselves. How to want things separately. How to grow without growing apart.

She closed her eyes.

It was so much easier when they moved in tandem—same goals, same team, same mornings and nights stitched together. Now everything was a little more delicate. A little more sacred. Because the love was still there. But the space between them was starting to mean something, too.

She groaned, rolling over in bed, looking out the curtains she had left open. The city lights twinkling as the sky warmed. The morning breaking through.

She missed Azzi. In the soft, persistent way that lingered in empty spaces—in the quiet before practice, in the stretch of her own bed, in the apples she never bought. But she knew things were fine.

They were Paige and Azzi.

Even with states between them, even with calls that came too late and texts that came too early, even with the ache that never really went away. They were still them.

And that was enough for Paige Bueckers.

It always had been.

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With the game opener days away, practice had become more intense. Not in a bad way, just in the way it does when you know everything’s about to count a little more.

The drills ran sharper. The passes came faster. Everyone moved like they were trying to outrun nerves without admitting they had any.

And Paige felt it too. In the tightening of her chest before scrimmage. In the way she tied her shoes a little slower, a little tighter, like maybe that would help her stay grounded.

She wasn’t scared, exactly.

Just… aware.

Aware that all of this—this new chapter, this team, this new city she called home—was real now. No longer a thing she could imagine or plan for. It was happening. With or without the comfort of the familiar.

And ready or not, she’d have to step into it.

She was the last one off the court, staring out at the paint like it held the answer to some impossible question.

Nai came and stood beside her, arms crossed loosely over her chest, gaze following Paige’s like they might both see the same thing if they looked long enough.

“What’re we lookin’ at?” she asked, voice low, like she didn’t want to scare the thoughts away.

Paige shifted her weight, one sneaker scuffing lightly against the hardwood. “Just thinkin’.”

Nai tilted her head, a rare softness flickering across her features. “You nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Paige shrugged. “Not nervous. Just… awake.”

Nai laughed, low and scratchy. “Girl, I’ve been awake since you showed up with a whole damn ZIP code named after you.”

Paige groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh, I’m gonna remind you daily. Until they take the signs down. Might steal one, hang it in the locker room.”

She sat beside her on the court, stretching out long legs, unbothered.

“You’re allowed to feel weird about it,” Nai said after a beat. “Big things feel weird.”

Paige let the silence sit for a second before answering. “It’s just a lot, I guess. And I’m used to having someone around who knows what to say.”

Nai nodded, not pushing. Just sitting with her.

Then: “Azzi?”

Paige glanced over. “She can’t make it.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But she believes in me. That helps.”

Nai nudged her shoulder. “I believe in you too, Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please stop.”

“Absolutely not.”

And for the first time that morning, the knot in her chest loosened, just a little. Because maybe this new life didn’t have to look like the old one to still be good.

After practice, there was a wave of notifications on her phone. Mentions, texts, a new batch of graphics with her face on them.

But only one that mattered.

One missed call. Azzi Fudd.

Paige had to physically stop herself from abandoning all her stuff in the locker room just to call her back. Instead, she moved on autopilot: packed her bag, got through treatment, said goodbye to her teammates (who had cracked one too many jokes about Paige Bueckers, Minnesota), and made her way to the parking lot.

As soon as she slid into the driver’s seat, she exhaled. Long and slow, like she’d been holding her breath all day and didn’t realize it.

She didn’t even start the car. Just pulled her phone from the cupholder, the screen lighting up in her hand like it knew where she was going. She hit Azzi’s name and held the phone to her ear, already smiling.

It rang once. Then again. And then:

“Paige, hey,” came the voice she’d been waiting for, soft and warm, and instantly home.

Paige leaned her head back against the seat. “Hey,” she breathed. “You called.”

“Of course I did,” Azzi said. “You didn’t think I’d leave you hanging, did you?”

Paige’s throat tightened. “No. I just—miss you.”

There was a pause, and then Azzi said it in the way she always did. Gentle. Certain.

“I miss you too.” And just like that, the space between them felt smaller. Not gone. But less like a canyon and more like a bridge.

“Now,” Azzi said, voice curling at the edges with a smile Paige could hear, “how was practice?”

They slipped easily into their rhythm. The one they’d built across dorm rooms and hotel hallways, FaceTimes in airports and calls stretched out across time zones. A back-and-forth that felt less like catching up and more like coming home.

When the conversation lulled, Paige could hear the soft rustle of sheets, the subtle shift of weight. Azzi settling into bed on the other end of the line.

“So,” she said, drawing it out like she already knew the effect it would have. Paige could hear the smirk without needing to see it. “Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, huh?”

Paige groaned, letting her head fall back against the seat.

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” Azzi said, absolutely delighted. “And I’m never letting that go.”

“It’s for one day,” Paige muttered.

“Still counts.”

Paige huffed a quiet laugh, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s very on brand.”

“I’m serious. The mayor cried.”

Azzi laughed, the sound low and lovely and a little sleepy. “Of course he did. You’re a hometown hero. Let people love you, P.”

Paige went quiet for a second, the praise sitting warm in her chest.

She closed her eyes and imagined Azzi there with her—knees tucked to her chest in the passenger seat, hair still damp from a shower, reaching over to lace their fingers together.

“I wish you were here,” she whispered.

“I know,” Azzi said. “I do too.”

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It was two days before the game, and Azzi had been a bit…quiet.

Not distant, exactly. When they talked, it still felt like them. Familiar and warm in that way nothing else was. But the responses came slower. The calls shorter. They hadn’t FaceTimed since earlier in the week, which wasn’t like them.

Paige told herself not to read into it. That people got busy. That schedules conflicted. That even the people who knew you best were allowed to disappear for a day or two.

Still, something buzzed under her skin. Not worry, not quite. Just that quiet hum of noticing.

She’d sent a photo earlier. Something dumb from practice. Normally, Azzi would’ve replied within minutes. With something that made her laugh. With a heart.

Instead: nothing. Just the message, sitting there, delivered but unread.

She locked her phone, shoved it deep in her bag, and tried to let it go.

But the truth was, she missed her. Missed her in the specific, impossible way that made everything feel a little dimmer. Like she was walking around in half-light, just waiting for Azzi’s voice to flip the switch back on.

“Didn’t know Paige Bueckers brooded,” Nai said, eyeing her from across the locker room.

“I’m not brooding,” Paige argued, her voice landing a little sharper than she meant. She caught herself, exhaled. “Just…thinking.”

“Pretty much the same thing,” Nai said with a shrug, tugging her hoodie over her head.

Paige leaned back against the bench, letting her shoulders drop. “Was it tough?” she asked after a beat. “The first few years…for you and Lyss?”

Nai didn’t answer right away. She sat down beside her, elbows resting on her knees.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “It was. Different cities. Missed calls. One of us always waking up while the other was crashing.”

Paige nodded, like her body already understood it even if her heart didn’t want to.

“But we figured it out,” Nai went on. “Not all at once. Just…piece by piece. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about showing up. Even when it sucked. Especially when it sucked.

Paige looked at her. “How’d you know it was worth it?”

Nai cracked a smile. “Because I’d rather miss her than not love her.”

The words landed heavy and easy all at once, like something that had been lived through instead of just said. Paige swallowed.

Paige glanced at her. “That ever scare you?”

Nai shrugged. “Sure. But love’s never been about convenience.”

Paige sighed, leaning back against the locker.

“I guess I just hate that she’s missing this,” she said quietly. “Even if I understand why.”

“You can hold both,” Nai said. “Doesn’t make you ungrateful. Just makes you human.”

Paige nodded, grateful for the wisdom. They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t need filling.Then Nai nudged her knee.

“Anyway, stop brooding. It’s messing up your aura.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

Nai chuckled, standing up and stretching. “I’m just sayin’,” she said. “Sometimes the best shit shows up when you’re not lookin’ for it.”

And then, she was gone.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

Paige woke up on Paige Bueckers Day—which was still a sentence that didn’t feel real—with one thought running through her head:

She was about to play in her first WNBA game.

It was the thing she’d dreamed about since she was a kid. Not just in the casual, it-would-be-cool kind of way. But in the way you build your whole life around. The way you say no to normal things, and yes to everything that hurts a little, because someday it might be worth it.

And now someday was here.

She lay still for a moment, her heart already beating a little too fast, as if her body knew what the day meant before her brain had caught up. The dream hadn’t vanished, it had just changed shape. From posters on her bedroom wall to press conferences and shootarounds and teammates with names she used to scream at the TV.

From something imagined to something real. And weirdly, the real part was the scariest.

Because once you’re in it, once it’s yours, you don’t get to chase it anymore. You just have to live it.

Rolling over, she grabbed her phone and blinked at the brightness, thumbing through a few unread texts.

The newest was from DC.

Her name was on a billboard.

An actual, honest-to-God billboard. Bold letters, dramatic lighting, probably wedged somewhere between a life insurance ad and a reminder to buckle up. She hadn’t seen it in person yet—just the photo Nai sent, which was blurry and aggressively zoomed in, like she’d taken it from the passenger seat of a car moving too fast.

The text just read:

u famous famous now

Paige stared at it for a long beat, then let the phone fall back onto the sheets beside her.

Some days, all of this still felt like a story she’d made up as a kid. Except now, other people were reading it too. Out loud. On billboards.

She sighed and picked the phone back up, thumb dragging lazily across the screen until she found it.

A message from Azzi.

good morning, superstar. sorry i missed your call last night. i was wiped. but i’m thinking about you. a lot. today’s huge. proud doesn’t even cover it. love you.

Paige read it once. Then again, slower. She smiled, small and private, like the kind you save just for yourself.

Proud doesn’t even cover it.

She let that settle in her chest for a moment before typing out a reply. Something short. Something honest.

miss you. love you. wish you were here.

She hovered for a second before hitting send.

And then she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, planted her feet on the floor, and stepped into the kind of day she’d been dreaming about her whole life.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

The bus ride to the arena was loud. Jittery voices bounced around the aisle. Half nerves, half adrenaline. The kind of energy that couldn’t sit still.

Paige sat near the window, headphones in but nothing playing. Just the hum of white noise, her own breath tucked in between.

She was trying to focus.Trying not to think about how she hadn’t heard from Azzi since last night. No text. No call. Just silence where there was usually something. And maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was travel, or timing, or just one of those things. But it still found its way under her skin.

She finally hit play on a song, turning the world down a notch, and stared out the window. Trying to remember the girl who used to dream of this moment. And trying not to wonder why it suddenly felt like something was missing.

Beside her, she felt someone's presence, turning to find DC.

“G’mornin’, Bueckers,” she said, dragging the word out like a tease. “Big day.”

Paige pulled one headphone out. “You don’t say.”

Nai leaned back, one arm slung over the seat. “You got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The I’m not nervous but also haven’t blinked in four minutes look.”

Paige huffed a laugh, soft but real. “I’m fine.”

Nai didn’t push. Just leaned back, stretched her legs out like she owned the whole row.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few beats before Nai said, offhand, “Funny thing about quiet days.” Paige glanced over. Nai didn’t look at her. “They don’t always stay that way.”

Then she yawned, put her hood fully up, and returned to her seat by Lyss.

Azzi’s POV

Azzi checked her phone again, even though the time hadn’t changed in the last thirty seconds.

The plane was starting its descent, and her stomach did that thing it always did during turbulence, flipped, like it wasn’t entirely sure about gravity.

But if she was being honest, turbulence was easy compared to keeping secrets.

She was terrible at keeping them. Especially from Paige.

They talked every day. Multiple times. Sometimes about nothing—what they ate, what their teammates said, which reality show they were secretly watching without the other—but sometimes about everything. The big stuff. The heavy stuff. The I don’t know how to do this without you kind of stuff.

Which made this particular silence feel loud.

She’d texted last night, told her she was proud. Told her she was thinking about her. Both true. Both incomplete.

What she hadn’t said was that she was sitting on a flight confirmation and a suitcase she packed two weeks ago.

Paige thought she wasn’t coming. Azzi hated that part.

But the surprise had become its own kind of promise. A way to show up when it mattered, even if it wasn’t how they used to. No more shared hotel rooms or warm-up playlists made for two.

Just this: effort and timing and showing up in ways that took more planning than they used to, but meant more, too.

The plane dipped lower, and she pressed her forehead to the window, watching the city come into view, familiar and strange at the same time.

Somewhere down there, Paige was probably staring out her own window. Probably thinking too much. Probably trying not to.

Azzi smiled, small and quiet.

She has no idea.

Paige’s POV

The Target Center.

She’d been here a hundred times, maybe more. But never like this. Never as a player.

Always a fan. A kid in the stands, craning her neck to see past grown-ups, gripping nachos in one hand and possibility in the other. She knew the echo of the place. The way it swallowed sound and spit it back louder. She knew how the court looked from every angle except this one.

Now she was walking through the tunnel, jersey on, sneakers laced tight, her name stitched across her back like it had always belonged there.

It hadn’t hit her fully. Not yet. But it was starting to.

She wasn’t thinking about the billboard. Or the headline. Or the fact that somewhere out there, people were calling this Paige Bueckers Day like that was a normal thing to say.

She was thinking about the game. About the first possession. The first pass. The rhythm of the offense. Where her feet needed to be and how fast she could get them there.

There was a small part of her, tucked somewhere under all that focus, that still ached for the familiar shape of Azzi beside her. But it was quieter now. Sort of.

Warmups were underway. And what started with shaky knees, hands that wouldn’t quite settle, was slowly morphing into something steadier. The ball hit her palm just right. The court stopped feeling like a stage and started feeling like home again.

Her body knew what to do. Her mind was catching up.

The nerves didn’t disappear. They just shifted. Got quieter. Folded themselves into her rhythm. And she focused. Because today wasn’t just a game. It was the first day of the rest of the life she always wanted.

Azzi’s POV

Her heart thudded.

That old, familiar rhythm she’d never been able to shake.

Paige, Paige, Paige.

She grinned as she climbed the stairs of the Target Center, hood down, hair pulled back like she had nothing to hide, even though she absolutely did. There was something electric about walking in without Paige knowing. Like slipping into a scene before your cue.

The ticket had shown up in her inbox two nights ago, sent from Dijonai with a single message: Got you. Front row. She’s gonna lose it.

Azzi could only hope.

The man at the security checkpoint scanned her ticket, gave her a polite nod. “You’re good. Down the hallway to your left. Courtside.”

Azzi walked slowly, her hand brushing the railing as she went. She adjusted the jersey as she walked. BUECKERS across her back. Not subtle. Not even close. But subtle hadn’t felt right today.

She’d ordered it two weeks ago, expedited the shipping like a lunatic, even though she told herself she wasn’t going to wear it. It felt too obvious. Too loud.

And then today happened. And there was no version of this where she didn’t want Paige to see it.

The hallway opened into light and noise and movement, and she stepped out into it like she’d crossed a threshold. The court was already alive, players jogging through layup lines, shoes squeaking, the low thrum of music pulsing under it all.

And then, she saw her. Paige.

Not just Paige the way the world saw her—face on billboards, name in lights, the kind of talent that demanded attention—but her Paige. Hair pulled back. Jaw set. Moving with the kind of focus that made everything else feel blurry.

And for a second, Azzi forgot how to be casual. Forgot how to sit. Forgot how to breathe normally in a room where Paige Bueckers existed like that, on fire, and also entirely in control of it.

She found her seat, second row, directly behind the bench. Lowered herself slowly like she was afraid to make a sound. And watched.

Paige didn’t see her at first. Which made it easier to look. To really look.

She looked like everything Azzi had ever believed in. Everything she’d ever rooted for. The kind of person you hoped the world wouldn’t break. And somehow, despite the spotlight, the pressure, the weight of expectations that would’ve flattened anyone else, Paige had made it through.

Achieving everything she ever wanted, and still keeping her goodness intact.

Azzi’s chest tightened. The pride of it. The ache of loving someone so much you could barely sit still in your own skin.

Azzi had just been pulled into a conversation with a younger girl who had recognized her, eyes wide as she asked about playing in college, about shooting form, about favorite sneakers. Azzi had leaned in, smiling, answering every question.

She wasn’t facing the court when it happened. But she felt it. That pull. That electricity she knew too well. She turned, slowly, and there Paige was. Staring straight at her.

Azzi’s heart jumped, then took off sprinting. She grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. Couldn’t help it. Wouldn’t have wanted to.

And on Paige’s face: that flicker of surprise, like the world had just tilted an inch and she was trying to find her balance again. That heartbeat behind the eyes.

Azzi didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. She just held her gaze.

Happy Paige Bueckers Day.

Paige’s POV

A water break was finally called.

She grabbed her towel and drifted toward the sideline, eyes skimming the lower rows of the arena. Not searching, just taking it in. The blur of signs and navy and white. People wearing her jersey. Not unusual. Not today.

And then her gaze snagged on one.

A girl in the second row, just behind the bench, chatting with a younger fan. Baggy pants. BUECKERS stitched in bold across her back.

Paige didn’t think much of it at first. People wore her jersey now. That was still weird, sure, but not surprising. Not today.

But there was something about her. The way she sat. The way she tilted her head mid-conversation. A familiarity Paige couldn’t quite place but couldn’t shake either.

Her heart moved before her brain did.

Azzi.

No. That wasn’t possible. Azzi had told her she couldn’t make it. That the timing didn’t work. That she was proud, but far away. And yet…

Her heart thudded, like it was screaming: You know this.

And then the girl turned.

Paige’s heart stopped. Or stuttered. Or maybe just launched itself into her throat.

Azzi, courtside. In her jersey. Sitting like she had every right to be there. Which, to be fair, she did. But Paige had been so sure she wasn’t coming.

For a second, Paige didn’t move. Just stood there, towel in hand, caught between disbelief and something else she didn’t have words for yet.

And then Azzi smiled. Not a small, polite smile. Not the kind you give for cameras or fans or polite conversation. No, her whole face lit up, bright and sure and unapologetically happy to see her.

It was, objectively, the prettiest smile Paige had ever seen.

And for one terrifying second, she genuinely didn’t know how she didn’t sprint across the court, hurdle the row of folding chairs, and pull her into the kind of hug that knocked them both over.

“Told you quiet days don’t always stay quiet,” Nai murmured, bumping Paige’s shoulder as she passed.

Paige turned, eyes narrowed. “You knew?”

Nai raised both brows, unapologetic. “Helped.”

Paige stared at her. “You helped her do this?”

Nai grinned. “Watching you mope all week was painful. But this?” She gestured toward the stands, where Azzi was still seated like she’d always belonged there. “So worth it.”

Paige shook her head, trying not to smile. Trying harder not to look again. Failing completely.

Warmups ended, and Paige knew she probably shouldn’t. But she couldn’t help it.

Couldn’t help but follow the invisible string that always pulled her to Azzi, no matter the distance, no matter the day.

She walked straight toward her.

She knew the arena was watching. Cameras. Fans. Commentators already sharpening their angles. Some would call it unprofessional. Say she wasn’t locked in. Use the moment to prop up whatever criticism they’d already decided on.

But if she was being honest? She didn’t care. Because Azzi was here. She was here. And that mattered more than whatever version of her someone might try to write later.

Paige reached her, stepped into the space like it had been waiting for her, and wrapped her arms around the love of her life. She buried her face in Azzi’s neck, let herself breathe.

“Az.”

Just one word. An exhale. A prayer. A thank-you so full it shook in her chest.

Azzi held her tighter. Didn't say anything right away. Didn't need to.The world could wait. Just for a second.

She smiled against Paige’s skin the way she had since she was sixteen. Soft, hidden, private.The kind of smile that belonged to them and no one else.

Paige and Azzi.

Always circling back. Always finding each other, like gravity had opinions. Like the universe held a soft spot for their kind of love and girls who didn’t know how to stay away.

There was never a moment where they said we’ll always choose each other. They just kept doing it.

“Should you be doing this?” Azzi whispered, lips brushing just beneath her ear.

And Paige laughed, low and unapologetic. “It’s Paige Bueckers Day, baby. Pretty sure that means I can do whatever I want.”

#pazzi fics #azzi x paige #paige x azzi #pazzi

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golddustwomanwins · 2 months ago

Text

Say Yes to Heaven

Innocent Art Donaldson x Experienced Reader

18+

This turned out so much different from what I imagined and it might have more parts since I'm incapable of writing short stuff. Need to warm up Art a bit. Really unsure if I like this or not.

Art was a good kid. He prided himself in his faith and his ability to stay away from temptation. He was focused in his classes, dutily writing every single word down the professor uttered. While he did have a social life (Patrick) he rarely went out, rather staying in his dorm and finishing his essays early.

He caught your attention in one of your shared classes. He sat in the front row, only his golden locks in view. His eyes were trained on the board, nothing could deter his attention from the lesson. A golden crucifix dangled at his neck, the only thing out of the ordinary about him. The light of the lamps caught a reflection in it and for a moment it looked like it was on fire. When you asked your friend if she knew him, Tashi laughed.

“That’s Art Donaldson. He’s not your type, sweetie.”

You turn surprised to her. “Why do you say that?”

“He’s a faithful boy. Doesn’t look at any girl longer than would be polite. Real uptight.”

You looked back at him. How his long fingers gripped the pen tightly, veins running through his hands. As if feeling your gaze he turned slightly, wide eyes meeting yours.

His cheeks flushed furiously crimson as he caught you staring. You only smiled, wiggling your fingers at him in a wave and he quickly turned his head again.

Tashi laughed. “You’re diabolical.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you mocked her and you both broke out into quiet giggles.

This wasn’t Art’s usual scene. He spent his Friday nights in his dorm, reworking his essays and rereading his notes from his lectures. But ever since he saw you looking at him in class he couldn’t stop thinking about you. He knew who you were, of course he did. Everyone knew you.

One of the most gorgeous girls on campus. Despite your popular party girl persona, you still had good grades. He saw you mostly with Tashi, arm in arm walking around campus. Once he started to notice you, you seemed to be everywhere.

Writing his essay, sitting on campus ground, you and Tashi walked by. A way too short skirt swished around your tan legs, the gentle breeze lifting the fabric once again and he flushed when he saw the edge of your panties.

He looked away immediately, cheeks flushed but he couldn’t help his eyes from jumping back to you. A pit of disappointment opened in his chest when he saw that your skirt was back down.

And he surely wasn’t the only guy noticing you. Half a dozen eyes were trained on you every time you walked by or sit in class. He overheard some of them talking about you, saying vile things that made him sick. And some things that made him listen in secretly. He didn’t know if the things people said were true. That you’d liked your fair share of men, a man eater some would say.

Forbidden thoughts consumed his mind day and night. He was laying in bed late at night wondering what you were doing at the moment. Dressed in a silk slip dress hands traveling beneath the skirt and into your panties.

Art groaned at the imagery, cock growing hard. He refrained from touching himself, groaning and moaning as if he was in pain. He’d have to change his boxers every time, too much precome oozing out of his tip and making a mess out of it.

It happened over and over. He’d see you in a short dress bending over, at table talking to Tashi and he was immediately hard. He cried himself to sleep every night trying to refrain himself from easing his anguish. This was his punishment for his lewd thoughts. It was good that he was in pain, he didn’t deserve anything else.

One night he couldn’t stop himself. He would never touch himself. Instead he started rutting into his mattress, groaning your name until he came in his boxers, cum soaking the fabric. He cried again at the sticky feeling, doubling his prayers that night.

Now he was standing here. The music was buzzing around him uncomfortably, people pushing their sweaty bodies together, grinding their hips in desperation. It smelled like cheep beer and perfume and Art wanted nothing more than to go back to his dorm and bury himself under his comforter.

But there it was, his sole reason to stay. You were across the room, pupils blown wide from the liquor swishing in your cup. Pink glitter littered your eyelids sparkling like the gloss swiped along your plump lips. You had one of your short dresses on again and he swallowed hardly at your cleavage almost spilling over.

Art was standing in a corner awkwardly, hoping no one would notice him or try to talk to him. A few girls sent him flirty looks but he either ignored or didn’t notice it.

Art’s eyes were stuck on your form, talking to a frat boy, his hand on your waist, leaning down to talk in your ear.

You nodded your head enthusiastically at whatever the guy was saying but your eyes were wandering around the room. It struck him in his chest when your eyes found his across the room.

To his horror he felt himself flush again and his eyes widened when you parted with the guy and started approaching him.

“Hey, Art.”

You knew his name. How did you know his name? Art melted slightly as you smiled up at him, your cheeks flushed and lips glossy. There was a foreign sparkle in your eyes, your pupils dilated and gaze not entirely trained on him. It kept flitting up and down as if you weren't able to focus properly.

And he still hadn't said anything.

The smile on your lips tilted slightly the longer he didn't say anything. Finally, he managed to get something out. "H-hi." What a way to go Donaldson.

Despite his complete inability to talk, the smile fixed back on your lips. One hand of yours found his bicep and you suddenly leaned up to talk in his ear. A soft cloud of perfume hit his senses and he stiffened in his jeans as his eyes focused on your carefully manicured nails on his skin.

"I was just heading out for a smoke. Do you want to join?" You turned your head to look at him, face far too close.

No. That was what he should have said. Decline politely but surely. In no way would it be a good idea to be alone with you in such proximity.

"Y-yeah, sure."

You beamed at him, lighting up your whole face and he couldn't regret agreeing to join you in that moment. Your fingers found his wrist and you dragged him after you. People parted for you naturally, some of them throwing surprised looks at you both. What did you have in common with prissy Art Donaldson? Nothing.

Art flushed at the attention but kept going his fingers reaching for yours. You turned and shot him a sweet smile as you entertained your hands.

Once you stepped outside the music grew quieter, only the dull thrum of the bass shaking the ground beneath your feet. The cold night air hit Art's flushed face and for a moment it was easier to form a coherent thought.

He watched you step out of your high heels, kicking them to the side before pulling him down to sit on the patio. You buried your naked feet in the soft grass, due drops trailing along the green blades.

He almost sighed when you pulled your hand from his, putting the cigarette between your lips. Your lips gloss stained the brown part as you cupped your hands to light it up. For a moment the flame flickered along your face, opening a pit in Art's stomach. He should leave. He will leave. Just a moment longer. Just for one cigarette.

"I didn't think you a party goer," you spoke up after inhaling slowly. You pulled your knees up to put your cheek on them, watching him closely.

He smiled embarrassed, only one side of his lips tugging up. Your eyes caught on the half smile. "This is my first." You grinned. "Your first party, huh?" Taking another drag you kept watching him, making Art squirm in his seat. You were different from what he imagined. Much more softer. Gentler. Still, there was something inquisitive in your eyes that made the alarm bells ring in his mind. Danger, danger, danger.

"What changed your mind, to try it out?" you asked, smoke passing along your lips. You noticed him glancing down once and again, small dimples forming in your soft cheeks.

Art glanced down at his fingers, pulling at a thread of his shirt. He had pulled out his best shirt, ironed it and tried in on in front of a mirror before deeming it perfect for the night. Unknowing of how must guys came in lazy attire, t-shirts and old henleys.

"I don't know," he whispered. He looked up surprised when you laughed.

"Don't lie."

The flush on his cheeks travelled down his neck when you caught him in a lie. Your eyes snagged on the necklace dangling from his neck. You reached out, nails scraping along his skin as you took the pendant in your hands. Art shivered and watched you inspect his necklace.

"It's pretty," you said, smiling softly up at him. Art inhaled shakily as you watched him through your impossibly long lashes.

"My nan gave it to me," he mumbled.

"She did? So it's true, you're a faithful boy." You put the cigarette back between your lips. Art's eyes dipped again. "Yeah."

"What a shame," you mumbled. Suddenly, you got up, letting the half smoked cigarette fall to the floor.

"What--" Art shot up to his feet surprised that you were leaving. He watched you bend over to retrieve your shoes, quickly looking away as a flash of pink greeted him.

"Where are you going?" Art asked desperately and you smiled up at him, shoes still dangling from your hands. "Back inside."

"I-it's nice out, isn't it? We can stay a bit. I don't mind," he rushed through the words. He said he'd stay with you for one cigarette but you hadn't finished it. It was half done, lying on the ground, sad smoke still billowing up from it.

"You're a nice guy, Art," you said. "Go home and do whatever you usually do on Friday nights. This isn't your scene."

Art deflated. This was the first time he was genuinely interested in a girl and she turned him down. What was he thinking? It was good that you were turning him down. Nothing could've happened anyway.

He inhaled slightly, hands tugging at his crucifix. "I like talking to you. Let's just stay out here for a little," he begged. You eyed him warily.

"I'm not the right girl for you," you told him. Your cheeks were growing flushed and he didn't know if it was from the cold or not. Your words had a deeper meaning. Did you think you weren't worthy of him? That you would ruin him?

"We can talk," he persisted and you smiled sadly. "Just say yes."

"Usually boys don't just talk to me," you said. His heart sunk at your words, knowing exactly what you were implying with your words. Your eyes dipped back to his necklace. "But you can."

Art beamed at you and for a moment it looked like a halo glowed from above him, golden curls lighting up with his joy. You both sat down again, shoulders brushing, your shoes dangling from your fingers.

It was an unfamiliar sight. A few of the party guests looked out of the glass doors offering a strange look on the patio. You're silhouette sinful, shadows dancing along your curves, swallowing you. Art was submerged in the moonlight, features soft and relaxed. The only point where shadow and light touched were your shoulders, brushing against each other shyly.

Part 2

#challengers #reading #my writing #art donaldson #art donalson x reader #challengers movie #x reader #innocentartdonaldson

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tiredofthehumanlife · 3 months ago

Text

hypothetically let's say getting struck by the killing curse is similar to getting stuck by lightning

now with that we can say that hypothetically baby Harry Potter could lose part of his hearing from that so may I introduce deaf Harry Potter

from age one to six he can't hear at least 80% of what people are saying. He gets by. The Dursleys always yell at him and aggressively point at what he was supposed to do. After a while he generally understands what's going on by catching a few words from their yells and context clues. He got glasses but only because he kept missing the edges of doorways and earning bruises that raised teacher's eyebrows. They worried about them assuming they were abusing him (obviously not look he's wearing glasses 🤪) Harry taking speech therapy at school bc his parents don't like the way he talks

Seven year old Harry Potter getting kidnapped by an Azkaban escapee and a book keeper covered in scars. Sirius and Remus assuming Harry just didn't like them or trust them because well they did kidnap him. They thought for weeks that Harry was just giving them the cold shoulder. They only figured it out when Harry would stand real close to the speakers attached to the record player and bounce to the bass.

Seven (and a half) year old Harry Potter finally getting hearing aids with his two dads and flipping the fuck out when he hears them for the first time. Harry Potter running around and following Sirius and Remus throughout their daily habits to learn all the new sounds. Birds chirping in their front yard. Remus' laugh and Sirius' whispers of good morning.

Harry Potter pressing his ear against the side of the fridge to hear the hum coming from inside. Harry learning that the vacuum cleaner is a lot louder than he thought it was and ripping his hearing aids off the moment he sees Remus lugging it out from the closet. Harry learning school is way louder than he thought it was and having to take his hearing aids case with him to school in his pocket because he kept taking them off so much. Harry finding out that his parents cooking in the kitchen makes a lot of fascinating noises and accidently burning the palm of his hand on the oven because he wanted to hear the sizzling better. Harry almost giving Sirius a heart attack by the scream he let out from the burn. Harry realizing he makes noise too and what he thought was a silent way to make his chest buzz was actually humming.

Harry Potter and his two dads learning Sign together at a community class in the library. Harry finding more kids like him with hearing aids and some who don't talk at all and only sign. Harry finding all forms of families learning to sign and learning he's not so alone at all. Harry taking speech therapy until he's 12 so he can communicate with his hearing friends at the park too

Deaf Harry Potter wearing his hearing aids with pride as he prances into the great hall for the first time. McGonagall's stomach dropped, realizing she has a combination of James Potter and Sirius Black on her hands now and the next seven years of her career. Deaf Harry Potter teaching his friends curse words in sign and getting his parents called up to the school. Deaf Harry earned no punishment from his parents, both of them laughing their asses off. Ron learning Sign through private lessons with Harry after classes. Hermione scouring the library for books on sign language and learning through the pictures and Harry's corrections.

The Gryffindor quidditch team communicating with Sign in air. Harry over using the "I've heard enough." *takes off hearing aids* joke with the teachers he doesn't like he lands himself detention. Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus adjusting to Harry's flashing light alarm and making sure their curtains are tightly closed. Sirius and Remus used to flashing the light switch to get Harry's attention they start accidentally doing it in inappropriate places. Remus flashes the library lights to get his coworkers attention and causes a whole crowd of preschoolers visiting at reading hour to freak out.

In third year Harry trys contacts because he's tired of his hearing aids and glasses fighting for space on his ears. Harry at the end of third year realizing he hates contacts and goes back to glasses

Deaf Harry signing answers to his friends behind his back when the teacher isn't looking. Harry takes his hearing aids off at home bc he knows he doesn't need them but puts them back on as his dads start making dinner. He always finds comfort in the sounds of the kitchen and when dinner rolls around he keeps them on. He knows dinner is the most likely time he'll hear his parents' laughter.

I'll stop here but like I love him

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etfrin · 2 years ago

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⤷❝Dimwits and Stupid Dolls | Coriolanus Snow❞ˎˊ-

⇢☾Warning: NSFW | Snow is his own warning, dom sub undertones, pussy slapping, degradation, ownership kink, dubcon if you squint (not really coz reader loves it), overstimulation, masterbation (f. receiving), voyeurism if you squint, pinv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it dumbfucks), mentions of torture and killing | lmk if I forgot anything!

⇢☾Pairing: young president! Coriolanus x fem! Reader

⇢☾Summary: He's tired of stupid people and then he sees you fucking yourself stupid on your fingers instead of waiting for your husband to fuck you as you deserve, of course he has to punish you

⇢☾A/N: this was inspired by that one ask of what happens when Coryo sees reader touching herself and by the fact I want to be absolutely railed by Snow when he's angry

< m. list > < arranged marriage m.list > < bc: @cafekitsune > < tag list >

Coriolanus Snow prided himself on his perfection, his wit, the power he had, and the utter self-control he had established with time. But, the lord often gives his hardest battles to his toughest soldiers, and Coryo was no exception to that matter. His toughest battles came in the form of dimwits he had to deal with during work.

He wanted to shoot them all, melt their brains, perhaps even throw them into the games. He was seething by the time he had entered the manor. He hastily goes to his study, wondering if finishing the paperwork would make him feel better. It didn't. Of course, it fucking didn't.

He wanted to go to you, hear your laugh, have your arms around him, feel your lips against his. But a gentleman wouldn't show himself like this. His mind buzzed with hot red, his eyes in a glare he couldn't control.

It didn't even take him a second to change his mind when he saw you through the monitor of one of the cameras he had placed everywhere in the mansion. ‘Fuck it,’ he thinks as he sees you fucking your pussy with your fingers. Three fingers in, your hips bucking up to ride your digits. Your wrist was on your mouth, it was clear you were biting the flesh to stop whatever sound that was coming out, your eyes closed shut as your fingers continued to breach the entrance of your (his) pussy.

So not only he had to deal with dimwits all day, his slut of a wife couldn't even wait for him to fuck her into the mattress, you had to resort to your fingers instead of having patience. Coriolanus felt his pants tighten and his jaw clenched. He may not be able to kill those men, but a whore like you could certainly be punished for playing with what's his.

He went to the master bedroom, everyone averting his presence, knowing that they would be prey if they didn't. When he enters, you don't even realize his presence, too fucked with your fingers abusing your swollen clit. Your mess was all over the sheets. How many times have you cum like this? And yet you weren't satisfied. He's married to a slut indeed.

He walks up to the bed, in quiet steps so you don't become aware of his presence. Quickly enough, he got rid of his pants and boxers, not bothering with his shirt and vest. A gentleman would have taken everything, but you proved wrong to be worthy of that treatment right now.

Soon enough, he made aware of his presence by holding the wrist of the hand you were fucking yourself onto. You open your eyes, surprised by the touch. A whimper slips out of your mouth, the sound muffled as your lips are covered by your opposite hand. Your pussy squeezed your fingers, as you notice Coriolanus. His blue eyes were mad, feral even, his face a bit red but his lips had a smirk which indicated that he was going to enjoy this.

“Dolls should be played with,” he whispered, “but they shouldn't play with themselves, isn't that right, Dove? A good doll should wait for its owner to play.” You hastily remove the hand that was covering your sounds. “Coryo,” you whispered, your words broken with need.

“Wanted you so bad,” you said, “You were busy and… I missed you.” He felt guilt sprout in his mind, indeed with the games coming up, he hadn't spent much time with you. But both of you knew if you demanded it, he would have given his attention to you, even if it was only a minute he could spare.

“That doesn't excuse your action, pet,” he said, his hand pulling at your wrist making your fingers pop out of your slick cunt. “You were playing with what's mine. Fucking mine. Deal with the consequences.” He cups your pussy with his palm like it's the most precious thing, covering his hand in your juices. You closed your eyes, preparing for what was to come, your nerves at its most peak with sensitivity and anticipation. Smack, smack, smack.

You cried out of pain but mostly pleasure, a dizzying pleasure that filled your veins from the slaps Coryo was delivering onto your soaking wet cunt. Each slap was done with precision, the pleasure just high enough to gloss over the pain. The stings of the slaps make tears fall on your face. All the while he watches, he watches the way his hand hits your core, and the sheets get soaked with your essence. He watches as your body heats up more and more, your jaw slacked as you moan and whine, your eyes glazed but filled with love for him anyway.

Who knows how long after was he satisfied? Was it when you ended up sobbing into his chest, begging him to stop, that your pussy can't take it anymore, that it aches and you want to cum, cum, cum? You're so close and it's not enough, each slap hitting your clit perfectly, making your slit clench around nothing and gush more of your juices out. But he was satisfied as you sobbed and pleaded for him, his cock, and his forgiveness of your sins, that he had stopped his punishment for touching what's his. He tilts your head up and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“That's my girl. How many times did you cum before I caught you, dove?” You hesitate to answer but whisper, “Fo-four, Coryo. But it wasn't enough. I need you. I need you, goddamn it. My love, my Coryo.”

A filthy rough kiss was all you received in answer, his fingers sliding inside your gummy walls. “Eight times should it then,” he smirks against your lips. You can't even begin to fathom what would happen later. Not when his fingers curve up just right against your g-spot, making you spasm around his fingers.

The first orgasm by him for the night.

“Fucking take it,” he whispered against your ear, his teeth biting your ear lobe, his hot breath against your sweaty skin. He grunts, “You do it, my doll,” as he fucks into you. Your legs hooked over his shoulders as his balls slapped your ass with every thrust. Skin meeting skin and the sound of it much louder than your moans. You were by your seventh orgasm by now, the bed sheets soaked below his cum and yours.

Every time you begged that you can't, he fucked into you harder and faster. “I can't- not anymore- I swear Coryo-” you whimper. His response is shutting you by biting your lower lip hard enough that you bleed and he sucks it all up. He groans into your mouth as he tastes it on his tongue. Everything else is ignored, and no encouragement is given. This was your punishment.

Fucking take it.

Current tag list: @stelleduarte @nowitsmissing @lifeonawhim @le-lena @dollfacedalls @motley-baby @champomiel @slytherinholland @randomstuff2040 @justacaliforniandreamer @emmalinemalfoy @hyuk4s @theamuz @watercolorskyy @littlebiwitchsworld @eir964 @skywalker1dream @darkangelkathiecookiesmith @ben-has-arrived @bucksdonkey @xyzstar @ellie-luvsfics @sunny-deary @daughter1of2anita3dearly @eir964 @nowsyhozey @ayaya-aa @serving-targaryen-realness

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littlelovelunette · 4 days ago

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Kneel And Apologise

—Dark!Ambessa Medarda x Reader

Ambessa is a manipulative little shit. Toxic relationship. Collar and leash. Riding a dildo attached to the floor. Begging. Mentions of mild injury. Dubcon if you squint. Mild choking and drooling. Dacryphilia. Unhappy marriage. Guilt-tripping. Angsty.

SUMMARY: Forgiveness doesn't come easy to Ambessa Medarda. Especially when it's you. A little toe out of the line? You're getting punished with the sort of silent treatment that feels like barbed wires around your throat. Ambessa knows it hurts, she always does— she can read people so well, afterall. But she convinced you it's a necessary evil to keep you behaved, like her good little wife. Everytime she's done torturing you, she gives you queen-like treatment and aftercare. Your brain's a mush— are you being manipulated by the feared warlord of Noxus?

Ambessa always did this to you. A little bit of your toe out of the line and suddenly she didn't know you anymore. You didn't hold her hand in public that day, you just wanted space. She didn't appreciate that.

Golden eyes shooting glares at you, she put her hands back by her sides and walked on, never caring to bat an eye your way.

You were a big girl now, weren't you? You'd be fine. You jogged by her to keep up with her pace. Ambessa didn't slow down like she usually did because how fast could your little feet carry you anyway?

"Bessa!" You gasped a little, panting for air but she wasn't listening.

She heard you, of course she did, but chose to ignore it. The soft pant of your breath, the way your voice cracked just slightly as you called out her name.

None of it moved her. Not when she was teaching you a lesson. She was always like this. You never knew how deeply her pride ran until it brushed against yours.

You reached for her hand again as you caught up, slipping your fingers into hers, but she didn't curl her palm back. It stayed limp in yours, heavy and cold like a punishment. That was the cruelest part—she let you hold it, just so you could feel the distance.

"I didn't mean to—"

"I don’t care what you meant." She finally looked at you, golden eyes blazing. "You know how I value image. You know what it says when my consort won’t walk proudly beside me."

Consort. Not lover. Not darling.

Not the soft words she sometimes gave you when the world wasn’t watching.

"I'm sorry," you said, but it wasn't enough.

It never was. Ambessa turned away again, steps hard against the pavement.

"Try again."

You knew the ritual by now. You had to earn it.

Humble yourself. Prove that you were small enough for her forgiveness. And goodness, you always did. Your voice broke.

"Please, Bessa… I didnt mean to make you feel less than proud. I only needed a moment. Just a little air. I didnt think—"

"No," she interrupted, without looking back. "You didn’t."

You felt heat behind your eyes. Shame, frustration.

And something darker, curling low in your stomach because even now, even with her punishing you, you still ached for her to reach back. To wrap her arm around you, lift your chin, call you good girl like she did when you begged just right.

The chain of the leash jingled as Ambessa tugged on it harshly making you choke against the leather collar a little.

"I'm sorry," you said, looking up at her from where you were at.

Your eyes were glossy, drool running down your chin as you gulped. Ambessa stared at you with a sort of fire you knew only your obedience could calm.

"I'm sorry," you repeated and gasped when Ambessa tugged on the leash again.

She nodded to the dildo attached to the floor, signalling you to ride it. You looked down at it before slowly looking up at her with nervous eyes. "Um..."

You swallowed again before slowly sinking onto the dildo, it's girthy shaft stretching your needy, tight pussy out deliciously.

"It's so big," you whispered, staring up at her with your teary eyes as you began moving, rolling your hips just so the tip of the dildo could graze almost painfully against your g-spot. "Fuck..."

You cussed softly, giving her the puppy eyes. Ambessa merely rolled her eyes at you, pulling the leash, "Ride it, slut."

You nodded, "Mhm," and started moving a little faster, staring up at her with pity-able eyes.

Ambessa guided your movements using her control over the leash and smirked once you stopped abruptly, gasping for air, begging for mercy.

"Please," your voice was a small whimper, you sniffled. "Please, forgive me."

You pleaded on, eyes blurring with tears and knees scraping against the floor as you continued grinding down on the fat dildo. Ambessa tched, looking at you with disdain, "Beg properly."

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have acted out of line and withdrawn my hand, I'm sorry," you babbled out, needily humping the silicone cock.

Its ridges and veins dragged along your sensitive inner walls causing your breath to hitch every now and then. Your knees were against the floor for so long, you could feel how the friction was scraping your knees. You didn't care. You needed her forgiveness, it was like oxygen to you.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed.

The pleasure you felt was maddening but the dildo in your pussy wasn't helping the fact you weren't off the hook yet. You'd give up a toe-curling orgasm if it meant you would be forgiven. Anything to be forgiven, really.

Ambessa sighed, gesturing for you to get off the dildo and lay on the floor instead, you obliged while you stared up in anticipation. You gasped a little, Ambessa's boot pressed against your wet cunt, applying just enough pressure for you to get the suspenseful warning.

"If you do that again, I'll personally make sure you don't get out of the dungeons for a week." Ambessa said, voice low.

You swallowed, nodding, "Understood..."

"Good."

She moved her boot, staring at you with her hands on her hips for a while before she picked you up bridal style, wrapping you up in a towel to take you to the bathhouse of the Estate.

Her jaw was set tight— maybe she hadn't forgiven you yet. But she was in the process of it.

"Sit tight," she told you, gently lowering you to sit by the edge of the huge tub. You nodded, body feeling so small and weak by the way she caressed you and touched you.

She undid your hair and ran her fingers through the silky locks so lovingly, a bamboo brush in hand to brush through the miniature tangles that had formed in your hair.

"I do this because I love you," Ambessa said, kissing your neck from behind as she finished brushing and detangling your hair. "I do this because you act out."

"I'm sorry," you said instantly, as if the words were burnt onto your tongue.

"You took your punishment well," Ambessa held your waist, "And I'm proud of you for that."

"Bessa..." Your voice was frail, small almost.

"Go ahead," Ambessa set the brush down, getting up.

"What if we just talked it out instead..?" You asked her.

Moment of silence.

None of the two of you spoke.

The only sound was the tub filling up behind her. Ambessa laughed, rich and deep. She shook her head, offering you a hand to get up, too.

"Oh, don't be silly, dearest."

Your eyebrows furrowed, you took her hand and heaved yourself up. Your legs were still a bit shaky as you sunk into the water with her, leaning your back against Ambessa's chest. You could feel the perky nipples of her full breasts against your back, wondering why she didn't take you seriously.

"Ambessa, what if I really just want to talk things through?" You asked, your voice shaking a little in your throat.

Ambessa took a deep breath in before she gripped your chin, tilting it up. Just enough to threaten the air. Not enough to look at her.

"Oh, sweet child. You live on my property, consume food harvested on my lands, sleep in my bed chambers safe and sound— you will worship me as it is asked of you."

You wanted to protest. But she was right. She was so right. Ambessa's hand on your chin tightened, thumb grazing over the smooth skin, a slow smirk curling on her lips. "You'll listen to me, won't you, dear?"

You nodded. "Yes—" her grip tightened. "—yes, I will." This is how your life was set to be like now. Drowning in a sea of silence and obedience, trying to hold onto the littlest hopes ever and walking on eggshells— always worrying when you'd set her off.

You didn't want her to be upset at you. You didn't want to beg for her attention every time you both disagreed on something either. You just wanted Ambessa to care for you for once.

But perhaps that was too much to ask of her. All you could think to do was abide by her rules, and put on a smile.

And for some reason, that made your pussy tingle.

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sleepyvib-es · 1 month ago

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Percy Jackson is a highly empathetic and compassionate character who shows kindness and loyalty to all kinds of people no matter what their background or story is. It didn't matter if they were mortals, immortals, gods, demigods, titans or monsters. He has shown kindness, compassion and loyalty to:

Tyson (his half brother, a cyclops, who he protected from bullies before and after knowing what he was. yes he faltered once but that was more of him feeling bad that he was once again the odd one at camp. he made up for his negative feelings about tyson being his brother by continuously saving him, standing up for him and finally recognizing him his brother. Percy believes so much in Tyson.)

Grover (his best friend, who he protected from bullies before finding out grover is a satyr sent to protect him. he defended grover vs the council of cloven elders, when they labeled grover as a liar regarding his news of Pan)

Rachel (his first mortal friend, who's bravery he admires. His thoughts about Rachel are very positive and he is constantly impressed by her. He has voiced out his respect for her on many occasions.)

Briares (ancient Hundred-Handed One, who was set free from his prison by Percy and his friends. He was abused and so afraid to the point where he wanted to fade like his brothers but ultimately saved chb b/c he was inspired by Tyson's faith in him. and who showed Tyson how to be brave and stick up for those in need? Percy.)

Blackjack (a pegasus who he saved from luke's ship and was so grateful to percy for it that he's always offering percy his help)

Mrs. O Leary (he adopted a literal hellhound for a pet and is fiercely protective of her. he once hesitated to kill hellhounds in TLO b/c they reminded him of mrs. o leary)

Cerberus (literally tells Hades "it wouldn't hurt to play with cerberus once in a while. he likes red rubber balls")

Bessie the Ophiotaurus (sea creature with the potential to destroy the gods but who percy advocated for in front of the 12 Olympians and asked them to save Bessie b/c you shouldn't kill an innocent creature on the basis that they might or might not destroy you)

Other sea creatures (he would lose hours of sleep doing rescue missions)

The river naiad from Geryon's ranch. He literally says he didn't want to be that kind of guy that puts his weight on being the son of Poseidon to get what he wants. He saw that she was scared and was only putting on a brave front to protect her ecosystem. She is one of the reasons why we have Percy embracing what it means to be a son of the sea god - the sea is within him.

He showed her compassion and in turn she tells him a secret. She showed him a way to save his friends.

Calypso (an immortal titanness punished for siding with her father Atlas and the other Titans. He felt extremely bad for Calypso, told her that it wasn't fair that she got punished for siding with her family and asked her how he could help free her. He couldn't stay in Ogygia but he did directly ask Zeus to release her. He also planted the moonshine plant she gave him like she asked "build a garden for me in Manhattan." He remembered her.)

Zoe Nightshade (hunter of Artemis. They had mutual respect after seeing a different side of each other.)

As soon as he figured out it was Hercules who had abandoned Zoe, he threw out his lion-skin cloak, which had been very helpful in keeping him safe from harm. He proceeded to trust Zoe and her judgement and he mourned her death. He actually didn't want to accept that she was dying at first, asking the others to give her more nectar and ambrosia and asking Artemis if she could heal her with magic.

Thalia Grace (the first person to hold her when she was resurrected, who yelled at the other campers to help her and to get her nectar and ambrosia.) For all the times they fought, he also felt protective of her:

Percy put his pride aside to beg Mr. D for help because he looked at Thalia and decided he didn't want to put her in a position where she would die to protect her friends again. Because how could he let that happen to her? He won't.

Clarisse La Rue (felt sympathy for her despite being bullied by her when he first got to camp b/c he recognized what kind of dad Ares was to Clarisse. He gave her the golden fleece, trusting her to complete the quest and save camp:

This even impresses Annabeth. Percy genuinely liked seeing Clarisse happy. He smiled when he noticed her and Chris Rodriguez hold hands at the end of botl.

Artemis (took the sky for her, which they both knew would have killed him, so that Artemis could help Zoe fight Atlas. In turn she vouched for Percy and Thalia when the gods voted on whether they were too dangerous to be kept alive)

Bianca di Angelo (he felt bad for the di angelos. they were taken out of the casino, hunted by monsters and soon after discovering that they were demigods bianca was asked to join the hunt. That is A LOT to process. Percy was the only one who asked her to consider other options before joining the hunters. He also reminded her that her brother couldn't go with her.)

He later was the first to voice out his support as long as she was happy and placed himself in her shoes to better understand where she was coming from:

Percy is the only one who saw Bianca's decision to join the hunters from both her and her brother's perspective. After asking her to consider her options and expressing initial disappointment at her decision, he adjusted his way of thinking and directly asked her how she was doing. How was she settling in with the hunters? How was her life with Nico prior to being discovered? He understood where both siblings were coming from and he tried to comfort and reassure them both (Nico at camp during capture the flag and Bianca during their quest.)

Ethan Nakamura (they were forced to fight to the death in the arena and while Ethan was trying to kill him, Percy only knocked him down and told him to run when he saw an opening. He later asked Ethan to come back with him but he refused. Percy's choice to not kill Ethan and letting him go literally led to Kronos rising b/c Ethan pledged himself to the titan lord right afterwards. Ethan was also the one who figured out Percy's vulnerable spot. He would have killed Percy had Annabeth not taken that knife for him. Percy, even after feeling "betrayed" by Ethan, STILL remembered and considered him when turning down immortality and literally asked for the minor gods to be given recognition - which was what Ethan wanted for Nemesis - and for the gods and demigods who sided with Kronos to be forgiven. Ethan also got his own shroud:

Nico di Angelo. Yes, Nico. Percy spent six months looking for Nico after he disappeared at the end of ttc when percy broke the news to him about Bianca with the goal of wanting to make things right with him. In the labyrinth, he said he felt Nico was close and he ran towards his direction, leaving annabeth grover and tyson running to catch up with him. Nico was double crossed by the owner of the ranch, Geryon ("you should've made me swear on the river styx") and got taken as prisoner to give to Luke Castellan later. It was Percy who bartered for his release:

Percy and his friends were free to go! What does Percy do instead? He makes Geryon a deal to make sure that Nico got out safely.

Also, I find it kinda interesting that Rick Riordan went the "percy talks shit about nico behind his back" route in HOO because this is Percy talking about Nico when he's not there in the og series:

Percy Jackson told the Queen of the Gods that she only cared about her perfect family, not real people, because she didn't secure Nico's safety passage through the ranch. Percy and Annabeth both made a bad impression with Hera because they disliked her attitude towards Nico di Angelo (there's more complexities to this scene but again I won't dive into them).

Percy also literally prayed to Poseidon to help him with Nico:

More of Percy caring about both Nico and Bianca di Angelo:

He claimed the prophecy so that Nico wouldn't have to. To save Nico from more suffering. He hid Nico's parentage from Chiron and the rest of camp because he wanted to prioritize his safety.

More on Percy having compassion towards Nico:

He told Nico that he could come with them on their quest, even if dangerous, because he didn't want to leave him behind. Nico refused. He asked Nico to stay at camp and even told him he could sit with him and Tyson at the Poseidon table (which is against the rules). Again, Nico told him no and instead said he needed to find out more about his past. Percy told Nico to keep in touch. At the end of the book, Percy invites Nico in for blue birthday cake b/c he felt bad that Nico had probably never been invited to a birthday party before.

Percy is later rewarded for what he did for Nico. Nico tells Percy that he found a way to help percy survive against Luke/Kronos as a way to thank him for what Percy did for him in Geryon's ranch (we later find out it's also because nico was crushing on percy but I won't get into that).

Another scene to add to the Percy Jackson Caring About Nico di Angelo list:

Hades had quite literally planned to imprison Percy in the Underworld a few chapters before this. For as much as Percy's trust in Nico wavered after that, he STILL found it in his heart to mention Hades and Nico by name in front of the other gods, requesting that they have a place at camp. Wishing for them to not be left out. Imagine that? Zeus was the one who killed Maria di Angelo, who nearly killed Nico and Bianca di Angelo had it not been for Hades. And Percy still rejected his offer of immortality and included Hades and Nico in his wish. Here was Percy, who offended the gods by rejecting immortality and by making them swear on the river styx to do good on their oaths, who had demanded a lot from them already, asking for Nico and Hades to be recognized after being cast aside and ignored by the gods.

Even his own dad, Poseidon, told Percy that he asked for too much. He did it for them. The forgotten, the unloved, the side lined demigods and minor gods and "peaceful titans" that sided with Kronos. Because that is who Percy is. Empathetic, compassionate, kind.

Chiron. Even the immortal mentor of heroes. Percy helped clear his name when he got accused of poisoning Thalia's tree (by tricking Luke into confessing via Iris Message)

Charles Beckendorf (one of his first real friend at camp besides annabeth and grover. Besides Percy and Nico, Beckendorf was the only one who Mrs. O Leary trusted enough to get close to her at chb. Percy thought of him when turning down immortality)

Silena Beauregard (felt angry on her behalf every time he saw how she looked grieving charlie. he never once told anyone she was the spy and thought of her when he made his wish at the end of tlo)

There are many others Percy is seen showing kindness and compassion towards, including HoO (that i won't get into because percy's character becomes less himself rip character assassination) and crossovers (Magnus Chase, Carter and Sadie Kane) but this is already long so I'll end it with this:

Hazel Levesque and Frank Zhang. Two Roman demigods who started at the bottom of the legion. Percy saw two underdogs and went "they're under my protection now." He even promised Hazel that Thanatos wouldn't take her back without a fight. Even after Percy got his memories back he never once cared about greek vs roman beef. These are his friends, his people.

Percy Jackson is usually awarded for his loyalty and compassion (see: Blackjack, Rachel, the river naiad, Nico) and sometimes it gets him nearly killed (see: Ethan Nakamura and his achilles spot, Nico both walking him into a trap because he trusted him and later saving him). He doesn't usually ask for anything in return.

In Rachel's case, he asked for her help in the Labyrinth because they needed a clear sighted mortal to lead them, but he emphasized how dangerous it would be and that rachel didn't have to do it. He also apologized to her for getting her involved and reassured her when she felt bad that she seemed to have led them to a trap even though she was sure that was the path they needed to go. Percy could have died but he never held that against her ("Don't feel bad, I'm usually about to die"). His faith in Rachel never wavered.

In Nico's case, he asked him to convince his dad Hades to join the fight and to lead the the seven to the doors of death (a task that he only trusted Nico with to successfully lead).

Percy Jackson inspires loyalty for good reason. He considers people, he sees them, understands them, encourages them and he either helps them or he lets them make their own choices (which he learned from Sally Jackson - "if my life has to mean anything I have to live it myself"). They are made better for it. Percy is made better for it.

His first instinct is always to fight for those who can't or don't have anybody else to stand up for them. You don't have to prove your worth because to percy, you already are worth it.

He is either "I love you so I will help you" or "I love you so I will let you go" and to him it does not matter who or what you are.

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starogeorgina · 2 months ago

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𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐲

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Warnings: Emotional cheating

You were a bastard.

A dragonseed.

A nobody.

Yet now you were one of the most hated people on Dragonstone.

Fell so deeply into it.

Your mother's death is what led you to Dragonstone; she was a worker in a brothel and died from complications from going into labour early, leaving you completely alone in the world. She had beautiful dark eyes and a head of full, thick red hair. Before passing away, your mother never named your father, but your pale complexion, silvery hair, and lilac eyes led most people to believe he was a Targaryen.

When news spread that Queen Rhaenyra was looking for Targaryen bastards to become dragon riders, you decided it was a cause worth risking your life for; either die by dragon fire or succumb to illness or starvation living on the streets of King's Landing.

The gods spared you that day, and you successfully claimed a dragon, as did two older men, Ulf and Hugh, and a younger man called Addam.

As soon as the bond between you and the golden-scaled dragon was made, your life changed forever; it was intense. War had already begun, and unlike Hugh and Ulf, you were keen to learn everything you could about House Targaryen and all its history. You sought to understand both the good and the bad.

It was all so innocent.

You were still a bastard, and although being a dragon rider gave you a great sense of pride and you formed a bond with a magnificent creature, it would never change the way most people viewed you.

A lowborn.

A nobody.

But the queen's eldest son, Prince Jacaerys, was one of the few who never looked down on you; he was kinder than most and would help you absorb the vast amount of information he had spent his life learning. The prince would join you in the library when possible and would escort you to the dragon mount so that Vermax and your dragon could fly together.

He had a way of always making you feel heard and important.

There were times when he confided in you.

“From the day I was born, Alicent has been telling anyone who would listen that I am a bastard.”

You roll your eyes at him, something the prince wasn’t accustomed to. “There is a difference, my prince; you are the son of the queen, the heir to the throne, our future king. It is treasonous and punishable by death to call you a bastard, whereas a dragonseed is open to any label. Bastard, bitch, whore.”

Jacaerys frowns. “Well, the next man or woman who says such a thing to you will face the wrath of Vermax.”

Now I'm a homewrecker, I'm a slut.

The first time you went dragon riding alone was a terrifying experience. You had travelled too far from Dragonstone and almost came face to face with Prince Aemond on Vhagar. He pursued you from the waters of Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone; however, your dragon was significantly younger and quicker than the war-hardened she-dragon.

Aemond only withdraws when he spots Rhaenyra standing with five dragons behind her. Syrax, Vermithor, Silverwing, Vermax, and Moondancer.

Upon your return to the castle walls, you receive instructions to attend a meeting with the queen's council. Aemond was brazen enough to fly to Dragonstone, yet the fault was yours. Most of the lords in the room, none of whom have ever ridden a dragon themselves, believe that you are to blame for this situation.

The meeting turned into an overwhelming interrogation, and the moment you could leave, you returned to your bedchamber.

As the day drew into night, you sat on the bed cuddling a pillow close to your chest when there was a knock at the door. You leap to your feet to look more appropriate, but Prince Jacaerys enters before you can.

Your hair was wild and unbraided, your cheeks flushed red, and your eyes swollen from crying. Fortunately, the nightgown you were wearing was sufficiently modest to prevent you from revealing an excessive amount of skin.

“My Prince, I apologise for being dressed inappropriately, but I wasn’t aware you were coming.”

The door closes, leaving the two of you alone in the room. You feel a tightness in your throat waiting for him to speak, but Jacaerys pulls you into his embrace and holds onto you tightly, even when you begin to sob on his shoulder.

All because I liked—

The battle of the gullet was the most harrowing day of your life, second only to your mother's death. So many dead on both sides; however, it remained a win for Queen Rhaenyra, but it almost came at too high a cost.

While attempting to save his youngest siblings, Jacaerys was fired upon by crossbows, and Vermax was struck twice in the one wing and fell into the water. With both dragon and rider vulnerable and struggling to get away, Addam burns the closest ships while you unstrap the harness and leap into the water, freeing Jacaerys, who had been struck twice, and keep him afloat until the men on Lord Corlys's ship were able to pull him aboard.

Queen Rhaenyra was so grateful that she legitimised Addam of Hull, making him Addam Velaryon, and she made you a Targaryen. But before it was made official, you were taken aback when Rhaenyra wanted to know why you did what you did.

“Why did you risk your life to save my son’s?”

“I would have done it for any one of the dragon riders, your grace.”

She raises her brows questionably; she wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

“Prince Jacaerys is kind, and I believe he will be known as one of the realm’s greatest kings one day.”

Rhaenyra draws her lips together in a small smile, seemingly lost in thought for a brief moment before she speaks again. “My son is quite taken with you, as is his betrothed, Princess Baela.”

—

As the weeks progressed, you found yourself spending more time by the prince's side, maintaining your routine similar to what it was before the Battle of the Gullet. However, when Daemon and Rhaenyra finally reclaimed King's Landing, you hardly saw the prince, not that you expected to see him often, as he spent his days attending to various duties as the heir.

With a few of Aegon’s loyalists still remaining a threat, the dragon riders would take turns patrolling the city, keeping an eye out for any possible attacks. When you return one morning to swap over with Addam, there are two members of the queen's guard waiting for you.

Your mouth had gone completely dry by the time you reached the throne room. The room is empty aside from the queen and her guards.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve summoned you here?”

“In truth I am unsure, your grace.” Your voice shakes with nerves as you ask, “Have I done something wrong?”

“Prince Jacaerys will be returning to Dragonstone on the morrow and intends to be married by the end of the month…" She gives you a knowing look and waits to gauge your reaction. “The betrothal between Prince Jacaerys and Princess Baela has been dissolved by request of the prince.”

You fiddle with the only ring you own, one that belonged to your mother. You weren’t sure why the queen was telling you this in private, but you felt compelled to say something. “I’m sorry to hear that, your grace; they would have made a fine match.”

“They would have, but…” A small smile pulls on her lips. “My son wishes to follow his heart.”

All because I liked a boy.

Standing on the balcony overlooking the path leading up to the castle grounds, Jacaerys approaches you and wraps his arm around your waist.

“Does your unhappiness have anything to do with those sitting on my council?” he sighs.

Following your marriage to Jacaerys in a small ceremony at the Red Keep, you departed for Dragonstone on Dragonback. Jacaerys makes you happy, and you weren’t a fool; a Targaryen prince choosing to be with a former dragonseed over a princess was scandalous, but no matter how many ladies you smiled at or how much small talk you made, you still received nasty looks and poorly hidden whispers behind your back, mainly ones implying that you lost your maidenhead to the prince out of wedlock.

“I’m not unhappy per se… It’s just that we never even kissed until our wedding, and I feel as if I’m failing you because of the rumours.

“And if I ever find out who started them—”

Before he can finish the sentence, you cut him off with a gentle kiss. “You’ll feed them to Vermax for disrespecting my honour, I know, my prince. Even now, I continue to worry that we insulted the princess by acting so quickly—”

Jacaerys returns the favour and cuts you off with a kiss, only pulling away when he feels you are smiling. “Baela and I share a sibling bond, which is why she gave us her blessing. My mother, the queen, also gave us her blessing.”

“I feel guilt for caring so deeply for you when you were promised to another.”

“Our hearts never belonged to one another; she wishes to be with another as much as I wanted to be with you.”

You fall easily into his embrace, relishing the comforting warmth coming from his body. Fingers locked together, you give him a small smile, “I love you, Jace.”

“I love you, and I promise to spend every day from now on making sure you’re happy enough that no rumour will make you sad again.”

All because I liked a boy.

#house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon/you #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys targaryen x you #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic

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118inflation · 6 months ago

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I think a battle that I am going to be fighting and losing for the rest of my life like some kind of sisyphean punishment is of like. The rampant mischaracterization of El Paso among people in this fandom who are not from the South or Texas or even who are just not from the same side of the state as I am.

El Paso is a democratic stronghold and has been for a Very long time, primarily in the vein of immigration, but it is also more progressive than most of the state in general. It spawned Beto O'Rourke and nobody was shocked. It is also a huge city, with multiple gay bars and a whole ass university. Big cities in Texas outside of the main points of the triangle (Dallas, Austin, Houston) don't do high rises quite as much as those 3, but that doesn't mean they're not huge. They just have more area and don't need as many. The Ciudad Juárez-El Paso metroplex is reported as having between 2.5-3 MILLION people!!!!

I just think people hear that Eddie Diaz is from Texas and think that he's from some rural homophobic area and would have a thick drawl if Ryan Guzman was able to do one. I know someone who was born and raised in El Paso. She went to her first pride parade at 15 and sometimes does not understand me when I speak (because I am from an area that actually does have the classic Texas accent.) He is a city slicker. Please take this into account for any Posting.

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thethronezone · 5 months ago

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We all know children, especially the younger ones, can be absolutly ruthless in their comments. Sooo how would the dads react to be annihilated by their child, either by a offhand comment or because they gave them sass. And to make it even worse there were witnesses XD

When Mortarion gets back home from a long campaign, all he wants to do is see his kid, ok? But the moment he steps into their room, they scrunch up their nose and frown. "Ewww, you smell like rotten egg." Mortarion pauses, knowing that he sometimes goes nose-blind. Tries to subtly catch a whiff of his own scent. Excuses himself to go and take a bath. Feels a tad embarrassed, mostly because he saw a serf choke on her own spit when his kid made that comment.

Fulgrim and his child, a teenager at this point, gets into an intense argument. It escalates when his kid calls him a "senior citizen". Fulgrim actually finds himself at a loss for words at that, so offended that he can't help but gape uselessly like a fish. The space marines nearby share a wide-eyed look and quickly vacate the area, just in time for Fulgrim to go on a ten minute rant about how he'd not old, how rude that was, children should respect their parents and all that jazz. His kid feels satisfied knowing they won that argument.

It's one of those days when the nails in Angron's head are causing him immense pain and making him lash out at everyone around him. Sadly, this includes his kid who he ends up yelling at sometimes. His kid, used to this and completely over it, turns to the closest person, a new space marine, and goes "You'll have to excuse him, he gets cranky when he's hungry." Angron grits his teeth enough that it causes his gums to bleed but leaves before he can say, or do, something he'll regret.

One of the things Magnus enjoys doing the most is teaching his child new things. Whenever they understand something, the moment it clicks in their brain, their eyes sparkle in a way that reminds him so much of himself. Today's lesson is special, about ancient Terran history. Magnus, wanting to test his little one, decides to ask them if they have any idea how he knows all of these facts. His child thinks about it for a moment, brows furrowed in deep contemplation before they look up to meet his gaze. "Because you're very old." Magnus face twitches before he breaks out into a wide smile and chuckles. The idea that his little one thinks that he's old enough to have experienced the Terra of old... it's more charming than it is offensive.

As they get older, Perturabo gets into quite a lot of fights and arguments with his child as they grow more and more independent and stop listening to him. During one of these arguments, Perturabo calls his kid childish because they refuse to do as he say. Their reply? "I AM a child, what's your excuse?" It's only the presence of other people that keeps Perturabo from blowing up, otherwise he would have started yelling at them at full volume. Instead he bites his tongue, grits his teeth and immediately sends them to their room, telling them that they are grounded and that he will come up with a suitable punishment for mouthing off.

Alpharius and Omegon are told that their kid asked for them and so they show up in their room, only to be met by a face that looks very disappointed when they see them. The twins tilt their heads and ask if their child didn't call for them. The child huffs. "No, I did, I just meant the fun Alpharius." Turns out, none of them are the 'fun' Alpharius, that's some random Alpha Legion marine. Neither of them know how to feel about this.

Lorgar is watching with pride as his little one is making friends with some children, standing a fair distance away together with the other parents. Close enough to hear what the kids are talking about but far enough to give them a sense of space. The other children start talking about what their parents do for a living. Lorgar's child listens attentively and when it's their turn to say what he does, they puff up their chest with pride. "My father spends a lot of time on his knees". Lorgar can't help the laugh of surprise that escapes him. He awkwardly explains to the other parents, who suddenly can't look him in the eyes, that his child is talking about praying.

It happens sometimes that Horus tells his child how much they remind him of himself. One day, he says that they look a lot like he did when he was their age and that they are probably going to grow up to look like him too. His child suddenly looks very distressed. "Does that mean I'm also going to be bald some day?" they ask while staring at the top of his head. Horus throws his head back and laughs, taking no offense to the statement. He ruffles his child's hair. Not unless you shave it, little one!" Only laughs more when he sees how relieved his child looks.

So Konrad's kid is in their rebellious teenage phase and Konrad is not handling it well. They argue quite a lot and Konrad can get quite nasty when this happens. His kid, however, can get equally nasty, as made evident during one of their more intense arguments after Konrad makes a remark about them making bad life choices. "Father, with all due respect, when you were my age you used to eat rats and run around in the nude, slaughtering criminals with your bare hands. I believe I am doing quite fine in comparison." The serfs scurry out of the room, the Night Lords hold their breaths and Konrad bites his tongue so hard it bleeds. After a few seconds, he tells his kid that fine, to do whatever they want and not to come running back to him when it blows up in their face.

Sanguinius wants to show his child, who is still very young, that not all planets of the Imperium are the same, so he brings them to different worlds. One of the worlds he brings them to is an agri-world. His little one is very fascinated by the whole thing, especially the animals. Sanguinius is happy they are enjoying themself when suddenly they grab his one of his hands and point at something. "Look dad, it's you!" Sanguinius turns his head... and sees a goose hissing at them. He's got to cover his mouth with his other hand in order to stifle his laughter. The Blood Angels accompanying them has to do the same. Sanguinius is not offended, he just finds it charming.

It's one of those rare times where Corvus brings his little one with him to Terra. During this visit, his kid happens to meet Malcador for the first time. Corvus stands behind his kid as Malcador talks to them. Malcador asks his child if they like visiting Terra. Corvus' child nods. "Yeah, it's fun, I get to meet a lot of new, exciting people. Dad don't get out of the house a lot, that's why he's got no friends." Malcador laughs with such intensity that he wheezes and Corvus has to look away to hide his embarrassed expression, his pale cheeks turning a dusty pink.

It happens when Ferrus is in his workshop, where he's been for a couple of days straight, working away on a new project. He's interrupted by his child who peeks into the room and he scolds them for it. His child, rather than looking remorseful or saying sorry, looks at him in clear disappointment and goes "This is why you don't have any friends, dad" and closes the door. Ferrus just stands there, slack-jawed, wondering if he heard them right. He looks at the other people in his workshop, all who are desperately pretending to have not heard a thing. Ferrus snaps his mouth shut and goes back to work, trying to not dwell on how much truth his child's words held.

It's a calm day for Rogal and his child is sitting on his lap as he does paperwork. He talks to them while he's working, explaining just what he's doing. He feels very proud because it appears his child is listening attentively to what he has to say. Suddenly, his kid turns their head to look him in the eyes. Rogal assumes that they have a question and pauses his explanation. Instead, his kid frowns and says, with quite a disgruntled tone, "Dad, you're very boring." Rogal blinks slowly, shares a look with the Imperial Fist standing guard by the door who looks equally surprised, then looks down at his kid. He grumbles. "It might still be a bit over your head..."

One day, Vulkan is asked the question all parents are eventually asked: where do babies come from? Vulkan explains that when two people love each other, sometimes a baby grows in one of them and that person gets a really big stomach in the meantime because of this. His child stares at him for a long time. They they stare at his stomach, confused. "I'm having a sibling?" It takes a second for Vulkan to understand what his child means but then he's laughing.

Lion is lecturing his kid on the importance of honor and duty. Again. It's something they have heard countless times before and they find the whole thing tedious. Under their breath, they mutter "Rich coming from someone that used to wipe with leaves." Of course their father hears what they said and pauses in the middle of his tirade, brows furrowing and nostrils flaring with offense. The room goes quiet, the Dark Angels desperately trying to pretend they didn't hear anything. Lion punishes his kid for their disrespect by sentencing them to aid the serfs in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and stuff for a month.

Leman is very happy with the way his little one gets along with the fenrisian wolves. His kid will play with them, run with them, feed them and it makes him feel proud. One thing he does not understand however is their insistence on burying their face in the wolves still wet fur after they have been given a bath. Witnessing this behavior, he one day decides to ask them. His kid peeks up from the dripping wet fur of a wolf and smiles innocently at him. "Because it smells like you, dad!" It takes Leman a couple of seconds to realize that apparently, his kid thinks he smells like wet dog. Huh. He looks around the room, trying to catch the eyes of the serfs, but they are all staring at the ceiling, refusing to meet his gaze. Double huh.

As a man that cares about legacy and duty, Jaghatai tells his kid that when he gets really old and frail, that they will take over after him. His kid, the little rascal that they are, looks him dead in the eyes and says "Oh, so soon then?" Jaghatai has to physically stop himself from smiling, finding their quick wit very charming, and simply ruffles their hair. Tells them that it will still be a long time before that happens, don't worry child. Does, however, shoot his White Scars a quick glare when they won't stop snickering like gossiping old ladies. He's not THAT old.

Roboute has a certain preference for the garbs of his home planet, togas and tunics. Sadly, not all planets have the climate for these to be worn comfortably so Roboute has been forced to wear more standard Imperial clothing for a while now. He hadn't realized his child had only ever seen him in these kinds of clothes until one day, when he finally puts on a toga, they stare at him for a few seconds before going "Are we poor?" Poor Roboute doesn't know what to say at first. The Ultramarines in the room are not meeting his gaze, desperately looking away so not to burst out laughing. He desperately tries to explain his heritage and the quality of the cloth to his child who really does not appear to get it.

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