#somebody get game theory on this

[jessunderstands]

Cue megalovania

[saexy]

we ll be vrying about the yandere ost of teh decade eveeyfay now.

[bucketbueckers]

TIMELESS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: slight language, fluff w maybe a little angst (im beginning to realize the "angst" is probably just plot) but it's literally not that deep at all (this is a bucketbueckers fanfiction we all know there's a happy ending), AU, soulmates, author won't pretend to understand history, potential misuse of period-typical slang, historical inaccuracies (ask me if i care [spoiler: i dont!]), abuse of punctuation, light violence, poorly proofread

wc: 15.5k

synopsis: Even in a different life, you still would have been hers. OR – two (of the many) lives you've lived with Paige Bueckers, and the one you're living with her now.

notes: im not rly much of an au author but i figured i needed a lil bit of something different after FOTS beat my ass. i've been toying w this idea for a while now 😋 this fic is probably better in theory but i had sm fun writing it (and thinking about pilot!paige and knight!paige kinda drives me crazy) idk not too much yapping from me today but as always i hope y'all enjoy &&& happy munch madness, lets have some good vibes going into game day tmr 🫶

2025

It’s a warm, breezy Tuesday in Connecticut, one of your rare off days, and this is quite possibly the last place you’d expect yourself to be.

Standing before you is an old antique shop. It’s a block away from the apartment you share with your girlfriend, Paige Bueckers, and you pass it every day on your morning jog. It’s rustic, worn at the edges, but there’s something softer about its unassuming visage today. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’re out a little later than usual – Paige had an afternoon practice compared to her typical morning ones, so the two of you had lounged in bed for a little longer, soaking in the time together.

Whatever the reason, there was something in the air that compelled you to stop by. So you do.

The sign that hangs over the door is rusted, hanging loosely from one tarnished chain, its words unrecognizable from how time has eroded it. A bell chimes happily as you push the door open. Immediately, you’re hit with the scent of aged paper, ink, and something else that is distinctly vintage. The walls are lined with various art pieces, antique furniture tucked neatly into the crevices of the shop with tan price tags attached. You’re wrought with a familiar sense of nostalgia; there’s something so incredibly touching about the fact that everything in this store had belonged to somebody once, had been something of value, something to take care of. Everything is still in perfect condition. It’s beautiful to know that after someone is long gone, there is still someone out there who will cherish their belongings and take care of them the same way they had.

You gaze around the shop, taking everything in, your steps slow and methodical. You were never a patient shopper, always seeking to get in and get out, but it feels as though the shop is trying to tell you something – trying to show you something. You wander, studying the art, the intricate carvings on aged furniture, until you make your way to the check-out counter. The clerk is absent, although there’s a cardboard box full of old pictures – a black and white photo of a bride, toddlers playing soccer, an elderly couple on a porch swing.

There’s something achingly familiar about them. It makes your heart swell, makes you wrack your brain to discern where you’ve seen these photos before. You sift through the rest, lingering on a few; there’s one of a couple laughing on the porch of what you assume to be their first house, a photo of two people embracing – one is wearing an aged military uniform, which makes your face soften, and the third is two teenagers holding hands, dressed fashionably. That one makes you smile as you take in the lovestruck expression on their faces.

Still, there’s something about the photos that give you pause. You pull out your phone, navigating to FaceTime, and you call the one number you know will pick up no matter what.

The line clicks through and Paige’s face fills your screen. She’s slightly out of breath, her face flushed from the exertion of practice, hair messy and sweat beading at her temples. Despite that, she grins, a sort of smile that’s reserved only for you. “Hey, baby,” she greets, her voice soft, which brings a smile to your face as well. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” you say back. “Sorry, I know you’re at practice–”

“We finished early, but I always got time for you,” she promises. “You know that.”

Your smile widens. “Well, I was on my jog, but you know that antique shop in town?” Paige hums in affirmation. “Something told me to go in, so I did. Look at some of these photos I found.” You flip the FaceTime camera, positioning your phone over your collection of photos. Paige leans in a little closer to see, her brows drawing together in concentration.

“They feel…really familiar,” she says, scratching the back of her neck. “Like I feel like I’ve seen them somewhere.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” you exclaim. “It’s so weird. It’s like I know these people.”

“Wait, go back to that one,” Paige requests. “The black and white one, military uniform.” Doing as instructed, you pull that one to the forefront of the stack, gazing at them expectantly. That’s when you truly take a closer look, recognizing the expressions on the couple’s faces, their facial features. Your breath hitches just as Paige says, “Why do they kinda look like–”

“Us,” you finish.

“Yeah,” Paige murmurs, a little awestruck. “I can’t explain it but like – I can feel it.”

You flip the photo around, your eyes catching on the date on the back, and the subsequent memory hits you like a truck.

1944

It’s a sweltering afternoon in May when your life changes.

Well, changes for the second time since 1941.

Three years ago, the United States declared war on Germany and the adjoining Axis powers following the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was a dramatic shift for the entire country, one that displaced just about every facet of life. Men were drafted, heading overseas to fight, leaving holes in the workforce. Although the reality was bleak and dire, you saw this as an opportunity – for independence, for some shred of equality, for freedom. With plenty of job openings as workers were joining the war effort, you landed a job at a shipyard along the coast.

It wasn’t easy. Far from it, actually. You worked long, uncomfortable hours, hardly fitting in time for a break. You, along with several other women, worked on building, repairing, and maintaining the ships that would be used to transport supplies or men overseas. For you, it was enough – the daily routine, the knowledge that you were contributing to something greater than yourself, that your efforts were making a difference. It was worth it.

You get off your shift sometime in the afternoon. You’ve been up since the early hours of the morning; now, you’re half-asleep, only going through the motions and letting pure muscle memory guide you down the busy streets. Something big is happening soon – you can feel it. You’ve noticed drastically more uniformed men on the streets, whispers of another draft; at this point, your suspicion is a matter of when and not if.

Barely aware of what’s in front of you, you turn the corner, colliding roughly with the person in front of you. They hardly move although you bounce backwards, knocked off balance by both your exhaustion and the fact that you’re so much smaller than the other person. You’re already bracing yourself to eat concrete, eyes shut tightly, when you realize you’re not toppling over; instead, there’s a pair of firm hands holding you by the arms, keeping you upright.

“You alright?”

Her voice is concerned, if a little gravelly, rough around the edges in a way that captures your attention immediately. You open your eyes, your breath hitching, because you’re sure this is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid eyes on. The street is busy — everyone lost in their own little worlds moves right by you, but at this moment? It feels like time stops, like nothing exists except for you and the blonde woman before you. 

Her hair is pulled up in a tight, slick-back bun, the edges pressed and the golden waves reflecting in the early May sun. Her eyes are a deep blue, almost startling so, but there’s an evident kindness that softens the intensity. Her jaw is sharp, angular, her nose sloping elegantly despite the chisel, but what truly captures your attention is her stature — she’s the tallest woman you’ve ever seen, no less than six foot, and her broad shoulders fill out her khaki uniform service shirt. There’s an emblem pinned over her left breast, wing shaped in the aviator insignia. You’ve been staring for far too long already and the pilot is smiling like she’s caught you. Despite yourself, you feel the heat rise in your cheeks.

“I’m okay,” you assure her, your voice even, which makes the expression on her face soften. 

“The flyboys would never let me live it down if I ran you over,” she says coyly, her hands lingering just a second longer on your arms before she finally steadies you. Her touch makes you flustered. “Hurtin’ a girl like you is cause for a national emergency.”

You laugh, a tinkling, carefree sound that betrays the way your heart pounds — in a good way. “You think you’re slick, don’t you?”

With gentle hands, she pulls you under the awning of the storefront you’re standing next to — an antiquities shop, according to the sign, keeping you out of the way of the bustling crowd as she murmurs, “I call it like I see it.”

With a teasing smile, you glance up at her, enjoying the way she looms over you far too much. It’s not intimidating, her stature, but it does make you feel warm all over. She’s long, toned, and you can see the muscle hidden behind her uniform. Her khaki button up is tucked neatly into the waistband of her sage green trousers, the top missing a few clasped buttons to reveal the dog tags hanging from her neck. She looks so put together, handsome and beautiful all in one, and maybe it’s the solemnity of the world around you, but this moment in time feels so peaceful, so right. “Do you, now?” you ask. “And what exactly are you seeing, flygirl?”

The nickname makes her preen, flashing her teeth in a smile that could surely ruin you. “Well,” she begins, her eyes scanning your figure in a way that looks as though she’s in a gallery staring at art, and not actually standing in the middle of a crowded street and staring at a woman who has just gotten off a twelve hour shift, covered in motor oil. Her gaze doesn’t make you feel objectified – far from it, but you’re beginning to think that you enjoy her attention. “I see this pretty girl – gorgeous is more like it, but I ain’t never been good with words. Just actions.” Her lips quirk slightly, reaching out with her thumb to wipe away a smudge of grease off of your cheekbone. Your face flushes, which only makes her features brighten like the clouds parting for the sun. “I see honesty. Ambition.”

“You can tell that much about me just from one look?” you say, a little amused.

“I’d tell you a hell of a lot more if it meant seein’ you again,” she confesses.

You scan her features, not quite sure what you’re searching for – deception, maybe, but you don’t see it. All you see is genuinity, a certain brand of hope that you haven’t seen in anyone’s expression in the last few years. You don’t know anything about her other than the fact that she’s a pilot, an aviator, but a slow smile spreads across your face the more you consider her request.

In times like these, you need all the joy you can get, no matter how short it is. So you teasingly lean in, relishing in the way her body eclipses yours as she melts into you, but you stop her with a hand to the chest. You know she could easily push past it, but you appreciate the way her body goes rigid, like she’s letting you make the call. Her brow raises – a challenge, maybe? – but despite herself, her smile grows, too.

“I’m not that easy,” you whisper to her, satisfied when her breath hitches. You press against her gently and she leans back, acquiescing. “You’re gonna have to work for it if you wanna see me so bad.”

“I can do that,” she promises, nodding emphatically, which makes you laugh quietly – she’d seemed so confident, so composed; now, she just seems eager to impress, to listen to every word you say.

Content, you take a step back, flashing one last smile. “See you soon, flygirl,” you say, enjoying the smitten look on her face, until –

“I never got your name, yardbird!” Her voice carries over the thrum of the crowd.

When you pause, glancing back at her, she seems amused, if not a little hopeful to hear you answer. But again – you’re not that easy. “Find me again and I’ll tell you,” you call back, your promise reaching her ears. You watch as her smile grows; even from afar, you can make out the determination in her eyes, the clear message of challenge accepted.

You’re not surprised to see her again.

If anything, you were almost expecting it. Her eyes had held a promise, the vow that she’d rise to the challenge. She didn’t become a pilot by being unambitious – you were sure that it was the complete opposite of that, having to work twice as hard as her flyboy companions. Any surprise you hold is because of how soon you see her.

It’s the next day and you’re walking home from the shipyard again, taking that same path you’ve taken hundreds of times across the years. You’re guided by muscle memory, weaving around the slow walkers and finding natural gaps in the crowd. When you turn the corner, the pilot is standing under the awning of the antiquities shop again, her hair pinned up in the same, sleek bun, her uniform crisp and pressed. She’s glancing at her wristwatch and as soon as you round the corner, stepping onto the street, she looks up and meets your eyes immediately. A smug smile graces her features.

“Found you,” she calls out, pushing herself off of the wall with a boot to the brick. You roll your eyes, amused, and you meet her in the middle by the doorway.

“You memorizing my schedule?” you ask her.

She shrugs a coy shoulder. “I’m committed,” she declares. “Said you weren’t gonna make it easy for me, right?”

“So she does listen,” you muse.

“Every word.” You smile at her, and it’s then that you realize she’s hiding her hands behind her back. Recognizing your curiosity, she reveals her hands, her smile softening – she’s holding a singular red rose, a rich, dark red in color, and you shouldn’t be surprised, but you are. “Think this is enough to finally earn your name, yardbird?”

You hum, tapping your chin dramatically, which draws a laugh from the aviator. Conceding, you take the rose from outstretched hands, much to her relief. You introduce yourself, listening as she tests the pronunciation on her tongue, smiling at how nice it sounds rolling off her tongue. Then, she sticks out her hand for you to shake as she states, “Paige Bueckers, airforce service pilot.”

She walks you home after that, her hand gentle yet protective over the small of your back. Your conversation is full of laughter, teasing, and Paige flirting with you unashamedly; you like it more than you would ever admit to her, although you’re certain she knows. Despite the fact that this is only your second conversation, there’s something about Paige that gives her the uncanny ability to understand you – it’s like a connection that goes deeper than your accidental run in from yesterday, like she was born to know you and you were born to know her. It’s like you’ve known Paige Bueckers your entire life. It’s a new feeling, but certainly not an unwelcome one.

This quickly becomes your routine. You wake up early, spend your morning and the better part of the afternoon at the shipyard, then Paige walks you home. Getting to know her comes as easy as breathing and being with her is almost enough to make you forget about the chaos in the world. It’s like Paige is your perfect complement. She came into your life in the most unexpected way possible, but the more time you spend with her, the more nights you invite her over for dinner, the more you realize that you truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

Some nights she stays over. Paige blends so seamlessly into your routine that you wonder how you were ever complete without her at your side constantly. In the mornings, she’ll brew your coffee – how she figured out exactly how you took it, you weren’t sure, but you weren’t complaining, make your breakfast, massage your hands (because they were always sore and calloused from working on the ships all day), and walk you to the shipyard every day. At some point in time, she graduated from having a hand on your back to tangling your fingers together, which is something you truly relished in.

Over the month, the two of you get closer. Sometimes you stay at her house, waking up early enough to iron her uniform just to make her day a little easier. Paige tells you that you don’t have to go out of your way to do that for her, but secretly, you like it when she’s still in the grips of sleep and she gets out of bed to wrap her arms around you, resting her chin on your shoulder and watching you smooth out every wrinkle from her shirt. She’s warm, and soft, and dare you say it, she’s yours, even though neither of you have truly discussed it yet. It’s not traditional – in fact, nothing about the two of you is traditional; until recently, it wasn’t normal for women to work, let alone fly airplanes, let alone be in relationships together, but it works because it’s you and Paige. It works because although you’ll never have the vocabulary to describe it, you know this isn’t the first time you’ve met Paige. This isn’t the first time you’ve shared sleepy mornings together. It’s not even the first time you’ve loved her. Whether you truly realized it or not, you and Paige were a story centuries in the making, spanning across several years, decades, lifetimes.

But in a world like this, not everything can be perfect. Your suspicions were right from the very beginning.

“I have to leave,” Paige whispers to you on one quiet, sunny afternoon. It’s June 1st, barely fourteen hours into the day when Paige breaks the news. You’d been working since dawn. When Paige picked you up from the shipyard, she’d been noticeably dim, not nearly as lively on the walk back. You pressed, but she was silent, so you’d hoped that she was just tired from training; then, she’d suggested the two of you go to her backyard to lay in the sun. You curled up next to her, your chin on her chest, smiling as she pointed out the different shapes in the clouds (“That one’s definitely a boat,” you’d said, finger directed at a blob in the sky, to which Paige had responded with, “Y’think so, yardbird?”)

You knew Paige was an aviator. An aircraft service pilot, to be exact. You knew that eventually, she would be called in to fulfill a duty. You just never thought it would come so soon.

“When?” you murmur, willing your voice not to crack. Your hand was resting over her stomach – you can feel how her breathing comes to her quicker, hear the way her heart pounds in her chest. She wants to leave just as much as you want her to, but she knows she’s bound by obligation.

“Tomorrow morning,” she responds. Your heart aches and she can only tighten her arm around your shoulders, her chin pressing into your temple. “I’m flyin’ out to England – all of the Allies will be there. We’ll get debriefed, then… I’m flying twenty men into Normandy to invade Europe. After that, I’ll be transporting supplies and cargo between our bases and the frontlines.”

“Paige,” you try, but the lump in your throat cuts you off.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, trying for a lighthearted tone, but you can hear that it’s weighing on her just as much as it’s weighing on you. “I’ll be okay.”

“Please don’t make me a promise you can’t keep,” you beg, which makes Paige deflate, unable to continue being strong. “There’s no guarantees–”

“I know–”

“And don’t be reckless, you hear–”

“Yardbird,” Paige stresses, her voice cracking on the syllables of her nickname for you; despite the anguish on her face, there’s a calm acceptance, a sort of determination that looks like a promise to return. She squeezes your shoulder, directing your attention to her face. Tears are pooling on her waterline and if there’s one thing that’s always true about Paige Bueckers, it’s that irritating, unmistakable confidence of hers; you can see it reflected in her eyes. She believes that she’s coming home after this mission. You know better than to get your hopes up. “I promise you–”

“Don’t–”

She interrupts you with a stern look, desperation clouding her features now. She needs you to hear this. “I promise I’ll come home to you,” she vows. Paige’s voice softens to a whisper, her eyes searching yours to make sure you’re listening. “I don’t care what it takes. As soon as my mission is complete, I’ll be flying the first plane out of Europe. You and me?” Paige trails off, squeezing your hand like it’s a lifeline. “We aren’t done here. I still have to make you mine.” You murmur her name, but she shakes her head, needing to finish her thought. “I still have to introduce you to my family – to Drew. There’s so much more we have to do together – that we are going to do together. Okay?”

You gaze at her for a few achingly long moments, trying to memorize the blue of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the way her hair is disheveled because she’s usually so put together and that thought alone makes fresh tears spring to your eyes. Before they can fall, she leans up, pressing her thumbs to your cheeks and her forehead to yours. “I’ll write you letters,” she promises. “Everyday.”

You breathe in deep, trying to remember her scent. You know that you still have the rest of the day with Paige, but it feels like she’s already overseas. Gathering yourself, you nod against her, trying to commit the way her skin feels on yours to memory. “Okay,” you repeat, giving in. Her fingers brush across your skin, tilting your head up to meet her eyes. She’s scanning your features for any hint of a falsehood, but the only thing she sees is a quiet acceptance, the kind that comes when you know you can’t argue anymore or stop something from happening.

She offers you a gentle, wobbly smile, and it does lift your spirits some. If Paige can believe so ardently in something, then so can you. “I’ll be okay,” she says again.

“I know,” you confess, because deep down, you really do think she’ll come back to you. From the very first moment you crossed paths, you learned that Paige was not one to back down. Now, when her choices are coming home to you or not coming home at all, her decision is simple.

Nothing changes when she leaves. You work your shifts, mind obviously elsewhere, but with what you know about her deployment, you know that you can’t dwell on it too much. You have a heftier workload now, maintaining and fixing the ships, so you get lost in the routine.

The bright spot of your week is the first letter comes a few days after she leaves. Somehow, the worn paper smells like her, and you smile at the sign of her looping scrawl, the borderline chicken scratch handwriting. It makes you think of all of the times she’d leave you notes across your house, reminding you that you’re beautiful and that she’s thinking of you. The memory makes your chest ache, so you push it to the back of your mind.

June 3, 1944

To my yardbird,

I just landed in England. It’s very busy here. It’s beautiful, too, and I think you’d like it. I can see us walking down the cobblestone streets together, maybe sometime in the future when the vendors and stalls are in business again. I would probably say something annoying and you’d shake your head, amused and trying to hide your smile, but I would know.

How are you doing? How is the shipyard? The hibiscuses we planted in May? I want to hear everything.

When I sat down to write this, I thought the words would come easy to me. I spent my entire flight thinking of what I would say to you, what I would ask. I thought it would be easy to tell you how desperately I want you and how I count down the hours until I get to see you again. Maybe God’s honest truth is that these aren’t understandings that can be summarized in one single letter – or truths that can’t be summarized at all.

Do you ever think about how you can look up and see the same sky as me, the same stars? I’ve spent a lot of time in the air. I know the clouds like the back of my hand, the way they move, the way the wind currents will guide me home. I know more about the sky than I know of the earth. In my profession, it’s hard to stay grounded – literally and figuratively, but my time with you has reminded me that there is an importance in returning to the soil, spreading my roots, seeking out a future I previously thought I couldn’t afford. You’ve given me hope, a dream, a love.

On my flight to England, I looked to the west and I saw a star. It shone brighter than the rest, glimmering and sparkling despite the fading night. As I’m writing this, I’m staring at the very same star. It makes me feel as though we aren’t so far apart right now, that you could look up and see what I’m seeing. You and I, we’re still connected, two ends of a red string coated in something cosmic and everlasting. When I look to the sky, it’s like I’m looking at you.

I will be home soon. That is my one promise to you. Until then, I hope you’ll look to the sky and look for me, too.

Yours,

–P

You draft your response immediately and send it off with the mail carrier before evening. You don’t know when it will get to her or if she’ll have much time to write back, but before you go to bed that night, you step outside and direct your attention to the western sky. You spot the star she was referring to almost immediately, the way it twinkles against a dark canvas; despite the ache in your heart, looking at it makes you feel a little less alone.

June 7, 1944

To my flygirl,

You make England sound so peaceful. I’m sure it is made all the more beautiful a country by you being in it. I would love to visit with you, when the world is all right and it’s a warm, summer day. Even if we just explore the cities, you have a way of making each moment feel more significant. You turn the mundane into a memory. Wherever you go, you leave a trail of magic behind you, and I am endlessly blessed that God has put me on this earth with you if only so I could follow it.

I’m holding up. The days are long and the nights are short and I miss you more and more each day you’re gone. According to the radios, you flew into Normandy yesterday and the invasion began. I hope you stay safe. The shipyard is busy – we are sending out more and more ships everyday for cargo and for men. Even more come back for repairs. I rarely get a break as of late, although I know my job is an important one. The hibiscuses are healthy, but they bloomed a little brighter when you were here to care for them. I don’t know how you do it. It is as though these things know you – they know you’re gentle, and kind, and that you have this nourishing, uplifting factor about you. They know of your love as well as I do, of what it is like to be without it.

I find myself writing and then pausing. I have so many things I would like to say to you but this paper can only hold so many of my thoughts. I agree that one letter is not enough to express myself fully. However, I know not to worry. You are thoughtful in ways most people never think to be and you have always been talented in understanding me before I’ve been able to understand myself. There are many things you know but I do like saying them. I miss you – isn’t it funny how we always come back to this? I miss you in a way that makes my chest ache. I miss having you in bed next to me and I miss the way you sing in the mornings. I miss you because you are everything I didn’t know I needed and more than I ever thought I deserved.

Remembering that you are under the same sky as me makes me feel a little less alone. Remembering that you see the same stars, the same moon, the same sun reassures me you aren’t so far away. Remembering that you feel the same love reminds me that you’ll be home soon.

With love,

Your yardbird

Over the course of the next several weeks, you continue to work. You continue to gaze at the sky before bed, imagining Paige doing the same before she goes to sleep. You write to her and you read the letters she sends you. They always start the same – an affectionate “To my yardbird” that never fails to bring a smile to your face. She tells you about her days, never once mentioning the toils of the war, only the beauty of the nature around her in spite of the damages around it. She tells you about the other women airforce service pilots – the WASPs – in her platoon and their ineffable courage. Paige tells you about the ones vying to return home to their families, too, and their unshakable determination to make it home.

You reread all of her letters when the sun goes down. Each and every one of them, starting with the one dated from June 3 to her most recent one. At this point, you have all of her letters memorized from the penmanship to the content. You spend hours with your hands clasped as you utter your hopes, prayers, a constant wish for her to be safe.

The weeks tick by. There’s nothing of note on the radio. You get lost in the rhythm of working, of thinking about Paige, of writing letters to her and handing them off to the mail carrier with the same unwavering expression of hope. You remind yourself that you and Paige aren’t done here, and that she’ll be back soon.

Then, her letters slow down ever so slightly. The Allies are pushing for one more coordinated attack, she’d written to you. I’ll be in the air frequently.

All you could do was wait. And hope. And work.

So, you do.

Four more weeks pass by. In that time span, you only get one letter from Paige in the second week, then she’s silent for the next two.

You try to not let the worry ruin your life.

On August 25, the radio at the shipyard crackles to life, announcing, “The Allied advance has liberated France. The Germans are in full retreat.”

You felt as though you could breathe a little easier, but you were still sick without the knowledge of whether or not Paige was okay. You don’t hear anything for two days.

On August 27, you’re leaving work early, a rare happenstance. Given the relative silence of the last few days of the invasion, you and the other women were able to finish repairs fully on the current batch of ships you were working on and you were waiting to get the damaged ones back from overseas. With nothing else to do, you walk your worn path back home, letting pure exhaustion and muscle memory guide you home. You’re too tired to even think, but you do glance up at the antiquities shop as you pass by. It had become a habit over the last twelve weeks, bringing a smile to your face as you remember the day you and Paige had met.

But you stop in your tracks, letting the bustle of the crowd pass you by as you gawk. Part of you can’t believe it, half-tempted to rub your eyes, convinced you’re in the middle of a dream or that the sheer exhaustion of the past three months has finally caught up with you. All you can do is stare, until–

Paige Bueckers cocks one of her signature, amused smiles, her eyes relieved and fatigued all at the same time. Her hair lacks its usual gel, the edges unruly. Her uniform top is buttoned one lower than usual, exposing the undershirt she’s wearing, and the hem is barely tucked into the waistband of her trousers. She doesn’t look injured, just like she could use a really long nap, but the sight of her makes your heart leap out of your chest.

“You’re early today, yardbird,” she comments wryly, glancing down at her wristwatch. “You got a hot date?”

You drop your bag at your feet, coming into her personal space with three quick strides. Judging by her expression, it’s clear she wasn’t expecting this reaction from you, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you cup her cheeks, standing on the tips of your toes to kiss her. Paige melts into you completely, her arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against her with an overwhelming amount of relief. She sighs against you, tilting her head to kiss you deeper, but your hands tremble on her face as you taste the salt on her lips. You can’t believe that she’s here right now. After twelve weeks of aching, of hoping, of believing, she’s here. 

You break away from her when your lungs burn, needing to breathe. Despite the tears, she’s still smiling when she presses her forehead to yours, her eyelids slipping shut like she just needs to absorb the moment and breathe you in. You do the same, your hands sliding down to tangle in the fabric of her shirt. She’s firm, she’s warm, she’s alive and she’s in front of you and you have possibly everything you’ve ever wanted right here in front of you. “I can’t believe you’re here,” you whisper into her chest, your voice a little muffled, but Paige’s shoulders shake with laughter, dissolving all of the tension left in your body.

“I told you,” she murmurs, her chin pressing into your temple as she holds you close, “I’d come home to you.”

And if there’s one thing that’s true about Paige Bueckers, it’s that she doesn’t break a promise. Not this one, and certainly not the one she makes to you almost a year and a half later in her backyard when the two of you exchange private vows during a quiet, peaceful, summer afternoon, promising to love each other for the rest of your lives.

2025

As quickly as the memory comes to you, it disappears just as fast, leaving you in a daze. You blink once, twice, wondering if you’d just imagined it all or if that was real. Glancing back down at the photo in front of you, the two women embracing in the middle of a crowded street – one a flygirl, one a yardbird, their features so similar and their expressions so loving, you think that it had felt too real to be fake.

“Hey, you alright?” Paige’s voice echoes from your call, concern laced in her tone, and despite yourself, you can’t help but crack a smile because those were the very first words the aviator had said to you. Perhaps there was more truth to it than you thought.

“I’m okay,” you promise, peering down at the photos again. An idea hits you all at once. “You said you finished practice early, right?” Your girlfriend hums, clearly confused with where you were going with this. “How quickly can you get to this antique store?”

Paige doesn’t keep you waiting too long. She makes it to you in record time, the jingle of the bell above the door capturing your attention. You glance up, spotting her, and the two of you share matching smiles as she strides closer to press a kiss to your temple, squeezing your hip. “Alright,” she murmurs. “Lemme see these pictures.”

You hover silently next to her as she sifts through the pile of pictures you’d accumulated. She lingers on the black and white photo of the pilot and the shipyard worker – describing that photo as you and Paige still feels a little too weird, but you watch as her brows furrow, her eyes lighting up with something that looks like recognition. You don’t even have to ask to know that she’s feeling the exact same thing that you did.

“This is insane,” she mumbles under her breath, which makes you laugh a little, amused. Paige holds the photo gently in one of her hands as she looks through the others, finding one of two teenagers holding hands on their way to a dance, presumably, considering the way they’re dressed. They don’t look as similar to you and Paige as the first photo did, but it still brings back a sense of nostalgia that Paige picks up on, too. “You remember prom? Junior year at Hopkins?” your girlfriend asks, nudging you gently.

You resist rolling your eyes. “How could I not?” you say sarcastically. “Someone saran-wrapped the doors so tightly that the principal had to call the fire department just so we could get in.” Paige laughs. Affection blooms in your chest despite yourself, and you grin, too. “We made the best of it, didn’t we?” Paige hums in affirmation, brushing her fingers across the photo before you before picking up another one. It’s two people laughing on a porch. You can tell they’re lovers by their closeness. “Remember when I rented my first apartment and you helped me move in?”

Her lips curl into a fond smirk. By help you mean Paige stayed over every night for a week straight, delaying your unpacking and “breaking in the new crib,” whatever that meant. You’d enlisted her to help with your furniture, your decor, and building shelves, but you’d go to bed in her arms and wake up to all of your furniture in completely different spots. “Oh no,” Paige would whine, a terrible actress to this day. “Guess I gotta stay and help you fix this.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was intentionally waking up at night and “inconveniencing” you just so she could stay a little longer and annoy you, but you suppose the real kicker was she never really needed an excuse to be near you, anyway. You would have let her stay for the week even if it meant she didn’t fuck up the way your furniture was arranged.

“I still dunno why your furniture kept moving,” she muses, still committed to the bit. “You ever call maintenance? Or security or somethin’?”

You roll your eyes for real this time, pressing a little closer. She raises her arm to rest it over your shoulders. You pick up a photo of a 30’s bride, her veil long over her face. It wasn’t a secret that you wanted to marry Paige someday – the two of you had been together since high school and you both had discussed as much; now, she was entering her final March Madness tournament as a Husky. The two of you were so interwoven into the fabric of each other’s lives that you were sure you would be together until one of you took your last breath.

“You look pretty in white,” she comments off-handedly, like she’s slick, but you know better.

You grin. “You think so?” you ask coyly. She hums again, a smile of her own growing on her features the more she stares at the picture of the bride. “Well, I think you look pretty good in a suit, too.”

“Oh, little ole me?” she croons, faux shyness lacing her tone.

“You’re so annoying,” you say.

“You’ve loved me since we were fourteen,” she reminds you – as if you’d ever forget it. “You’re stuck with me at this point.”

The truth was, you’d be content to be stuck with her for the rest of your life. The other truth was that Paige’s ego was already so dangerously over-inflated that it’s days away from popping like a balloon with too much helium, so you couldn’t possibly admit that to her. The third truth was that Paige knows you love her, just as she loves you, so she didn’t need you to admit it to her, anyhow. The both of you were stuck with each other, not that either of you minded.

“Let’s get these?” you request, and Paige nods, scooping up your selected photos in her gentle hands.

But it still feels like you’re missing something. You have your photos, the memory of a life long passed – which reminds you; you and Paige will be having a lengthy conversation about that memory later today – but it feels as though you haven’t seen everything the universe clearly wants you to see. So you link hands with Paige, scanning the shop once more as you search for the missing piece.

It’s Paige who actually locates it after a few moments of walking. She glances at you meaningfully, guiding you down a row of bookshelves, eyes roaming over its contents like she knows exactly what she’s looking for. At the very end of the line, there’s an old, dusty, leatherbound book covered in cobwebs laying flat on an antique table, as though someone pulled it off the shelves to read and then forgot about it. Paige exhales like it was exactly what she was looking for.

She drops your hand to brush the back of her hand over the front cover, getting rid of the dust and the cobwebs, and then immediately sneezes. It makes you choke on a giggle, the mystery and the intrigue of the moment softened by Paige’s incessant allergies, and the tips of her ears flush red as you whisper a quiet, “Bless you.”

When the cover is clean, she wipes her hands on her shorts and opens the book carefully to the front page. You peer over her shoulder again. The penmanship is in neat cursive, the ink fading with time, but still legible enough for you to read. There’s a date in the top right corner reading 1543 September 9. Paige whistles lowly, holding the book a lot more gingerly now, which amuses you a little bit.

You look at the first line, reading, “Father procured me this journal to document my life and my emotions. He believes that it will help regulate me and, in quote, save me from this phase of rebellion lest I make a mockery of the crown. I am only eighteen. Surely, he must understand that the life of a princess is not one for me.”

Paige blinks once. “Well, that’s heavy.”

“Paige, she’s eighteen.”

“Technically, like…” your girlfriend pauses to do the math in her head, “...Four hundred and…eighty sum’.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and when you reach out to turn the page, you’re hit with another memory – only this time, you know that Paige is seeing it too.

1543

“Princess, your father is just trying to look out for you. He is just…a little misguided.”

You huff indignantly as you drag your brush through your hair. You truly do not mean to be this dramatic, but indignance just seems to be the main emotion that your father manages to evoke from you. Ever since you turned eighteen, the “of age” marker determining your eligibility to officially inherit the throne, the King – your father – has been nothing short of particular. Exacting. Expectant. If you’re not studying with your tutor, you’re listening in on his meetings, learning the ins and outs of how to run a country. You’re his only heir, so deep down, you understand why he demands so much from you. There’s a short time between now and when your father won’t be deemed fit to run a country. You’re just upset that being the princess means you can’t be you anymore.

There’s a certain degree of freedom you get used to growing up in the castle. You want for nothing – everything is provided for you, no question about it. You have the best education possible, learning from private tutors all over the world – math prodigies, language experts, philosophers. Everything you could possibly want is at the tip of your fingers. As of late, however, it seems that you may just be broken. 

You long to be outdoors, away from the castle and its stuffy, too large walls. You long to do things for enjoyment and not for obligation. You’re eighteen – you want to be with people your age, not the children of the entitled, pompous bureaucrats that your father rubs elbows with. You want to be you, not the Princess, not the heir to the throne, just you.

It seems there are just some luxuries that one cannot afford, not even monarchs with the world at their disposal.

“‘Misguided’ is one word for it,” you huff, trying to not catch too much of an attitude with your chambermaid, Carlotta. It is not her fault, not in the slightest, and she’s been there for you your entire life – even longer than your father has. “I do not want to be–”

Carlotta hushes you, a gentle, cautious hand resting over your shoulder. You clamp your mouth shut. “You must be careful, Princess,” she murmurs.

“There are eyes and ears everywhere,” you finish, your voice barely a whisper. “I know. I’m sorry.”

That was another thing you loathed about being a royal – the constant paranoia. It is a well-known fact that your father has enemies. Perhaps that is just a fact of life that comes with being king, a political figure, someone in charge of making decisions for millions of people. It is hard to be free when you’re tailed by your father’s most trusted knights and officers.

“It is all right,” Carlotta assures you. “Now come – you must be ready for the banquet.”

You nod, swallowing back your remark, and you allow Carlotta to help you into your gown.

The banquet goes as well as you were expecting. It’s loud, raucous, and full of minging, networking, and brown-nosing. You’re certain that you’ve never faked as many smiles or laughs as you have until today, but once it becomes socially acceptable, you sneak out the back door.

Or, as well as one can sneak when there’s a knight tasked with following your every move.

You glance over your shoulder. Just before the door slams shut, a tall figure in breathable armor slinks through the gap, following you at a respectable pace. However, there’s something that gives you pause.

As irritated as you are at the prospect of being tailed by your father’s appointed guards, you’ve made a habit of knowing who they are. Tristan is your usual suspect – he’s tall, lean, and his armor is recognizable. There’s a crest on his breastplate, signifying that he comes from a family of nobles, but this knight lacks the decorative chestpiece. Every other day, you’re then followed by Maximus. He is a little shorter than Tristan, although in place of a family crest, he has the traditional knight’s insignia – he doesn’t come from a family of nobles; rather, he’s an experienced knight who worked his way up through those ranks.

Whoever is wearing this suit of armor isn’t Tristan or Maximus, and you know that while your father makes a habit of annoying you, he wouldn’t reassign your patrols without telling you. Feeling your heart beat a little faster in your chest, you lengthen your strides, trying to get away from whoever is pursuing you without giving it away that you know they’re an enemy.

The issue with all of the country’s royals concentrated in one wing of the castle means that the large majority of the knights are assigned to that wing. That means there’s little protection through the back corridors. That means you need to find a way to get the knight off of your trail. There’s a variety of things you could be used for. A bargaining chip. An arranged marriage. Perhaps you’d just be killed entirely.

You hang a left, casting another glance over your shoulder. You don’t see the knight round the corner just yet, but you can hear his footsteps pick up speed. Realizing how dire your situation is now, you will your body into a run, thanking Carlotta for putting you in a pair of sandals instead of the heels your stylist had set out for you. The heavy clank of armor follows you down the winding halls as you breathlessly search for your exit.

To your right is a set of tall glass doors, leading into the palace gardens. Confident in being able to find somewhere to hide there, you push the doors open and run outside.

What you’re not expecting to find, however, is a tall blonde woman sparring in the dark. She spins on a dime, her sword lowering, but recognition flickers across her face once she realizes you’re the Princess. You briefly wonder if she’s a knight, too, or if she’s here to kill you, as well, but you throw all caution to the wind, deciding to trust the blue of her gaze. “Help me!” you exclaim, throwing yourself behind her just as the glass doors burst open and the turncoat knight barrels outside.

You realize, perhaps a little too late, that the blonde woman is not wearing armor. She’s dressed in a breathable navy and white tunic, the knight’s crest emblazoned across the chest, and a pair of worn boots. At the very least, she’s drastically more agile than her opponent (and taller, too, you note, although you remind yourself that there’s possibly a time and a place for those sorts of realizations). 

The armored knight draws his sword, a quiet acceptance in his body language like he knows he’ll have to go through the blonde knight to get to you, but she’s rigid, confident, rising to the challenge completely.

They collide in a flurry of sparks, loud groans, and the clang of metal against metal. The blonde, to her credit, doesn’t budge, but the force of their impact sends the armored knight stumbling. Using that to her advantage, she delivers a swift kick to his abdomen, which makes the knight fall to the ground completely. 

“Yield!” she barks, her blade against the soft part of his helmet.

He pauses, gazing up at her as if truly contemplating it, before his own leg jerks out, knocking her off balance. She grunts, dropping to one knee, and he uses her injury to kick her backwards as well. He digs his sword into the soil, using it to lift himself up. The knight spins his sword in his hand, remnants of dirt flying off of his blade, and he stalks towards her like a predator to his prey. All you can do is watch on in horror. 

You’re so focused on the other knight that you don’t notice her fingers digging into the dirt next to her until she comes up with a fistful of soil that she launches directly at his helmet. He recoils with a yelp, disoriented, and the blonde knight locates her sword, slashing out in a quick motion and catching the soft spot where his knee bends. He staggers again and she slams her hilt into his wrist, causing him to drop his sword. She grabs it immediately, dual wielding both blades, and the checkmate move comes when she kicks his injured leg. He falls to his knees and she crosses both of the swords under his neck again, chest heaving and sweat beading at her temple.

“Yield,” she commands. “I won’t ask again.”

He lifts his head ever so slightly, meeting your gaze across the garden. You stand your ground even though you’re rattled and you can feel your pulse in your fingertips. Barely eighteen and I’m already surviving assassination attempts, you think to yourself, Father would be proud. Then, he drops his head again, defeat in his posture. “...I yield.”

By the time he finishes his sentences, the garden doors burst open and more of your father’s nights enter the garden, brandishing their blades. They catch sight of the blonde knight, swords to your attacker’s neck, then settle their gaze on you, breathing heavily but not a hair out of place. “Arrest him,” one of the captains instructs, and another knight surges forward to deal with the attacker. “Secure the Princess. Alert the King immediately.”

The garden is a flurry of activity as the knights disperse. One group leaves as they drag away your attacker. Another group surrounds you as if forming a wall between you and any potential danger. Still, you can’t keep your eyes off of your savior, the blonde woman whose cheek is slightly smeared with blood. You’re not sure if it’s hers or his, but this isn’t a night you’re going to forget for a while – not because of the attempt on your life, but because of this knight’s bravery, her spur of the moment decision to put her life on the line for you, especially against an opponent with far more protection than her.

It’s nearly stupid. She’d behaved so recklessly, but it was her job. So why do you feel so drawn towards her?

Your father arrives with a security detail of his own. You’re not quite sure what you were expecting from him, but he gives you a cursory look over, nodding in approval when he sees that you’re okay, before he turns to his men. “Who allowed this to happen?” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to, but you think he’s scarier like this – the deadly sort of calm that only comes out when someone is truly pissed. “Who allowed a turncoat knight to nearly kill my daughter?”

His men are notably silent. Your father scoffs, shaking his head, and he turns on his heel, probably ready to storm out until he catches sight of the blonde knight, standing solemnly in the corner. “Who are you?”

Her voice doesn’t waver when she answers, not meeting your father’s eyes out of respect. “Sir Paige Bueckers, Your Majesty.”

He glances at her – armorless, then he glances at the rest of the knights gathered – uniformed. “Why are you here?”

Paige hesitates, looking up to meet your eyes, a silent plea for help. “She saved me, Father,” you answer for her, drawing your father’s attention back to you. She relaxes slightly, gratitude in her expression. “I noticed the knight following me wasn’t one of my usual handlers. So I ran out here to flee and found Sir Paige.” Your father looks at Paige again, studying her in a new light. His quiet contemplation could mean a lot of things. Then, surprising everyone, you say, “Father, I want her reassigned to my guard detail immediately.”

Your father considers this for a few moments longer, then he turns to the captain. “See to it,” he orders. The captain nods emphatically. And with that, your Father returns indoors, his security detail following. The rest of the knights follow until it’s just you and Paige, who stares at you with a mix of shock and curiosity.

You nod at her, softening. “Come. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

Paige, unsurprisingly, is not a woman of many words. You don’t expect her to initiate any sort of conversation with you given your status, but she does look at you – a lot – mostly when she thinks that you’re not aware of it. There is nothing inherently inappropriate about her gaze. You can tell she’s curious. You can also tell that she knows she has a duty to do. Her gaze flickers on and off you to scan the hallways for any sort of potential danger and her hand hovers over the hilt of the sword strapped to her waist as if someone would jump at you both from the shadows.

Functionally, she hasn’t said a single word to you since you met her, yet you battle the urge to get to know her. You know that would never be allowed – a royal fraternizing with a knight. It breaches every code of conduct and tradition that you’ve been raised to recite by memory. Despite your knowledge, there seems to be a pull between you and the knight, one that you’re finding harder and harder to resist as you watch her brows tent in concentration, her eyes studying everything about her surroundings as you lead her to the medic.

When the two of you reach the infirmary, she doesn’t say much else, either, only nodding or shaking her head when the physician asks questions like “Does it hurt when I do this?” or “Do you feel any pain here?” You do watch as her face screws up, discomfort in her features, when the physician pokes and prods at her knee.

She’s fortunate, according to the physician, that it is only bruised and she should expect to recover quickly. Taking an armored boot to the knee when you’re wearing only a thin tunic is usually grounds for a fracture or a broken bone. Paige takes the diagnosis in stride, her eyes trailing after the physician as she leaves the infirmary to fetch some herbs from the greenhouse, and shamelessly, your eyes find the knight again. She doesn’t glance at you, but you can tell that she’d like to, so you break the silence to say, “You don’t need to be so formal with me.”

Her throat bobs as she argues, “I do.” Then, as if you’d forgotten, she reminds you, “You’re the princess. Treating you otherwise would be disrespectful.”

You cock a wry smile. “And would disobeying my wishes not also be disrespectful, Sir Paige?”

She pauses, not expecting that one, and finally, she glances up to meet your eyes. Her eyes are startlingly blue, alert despite the exhaustion and the lingering pain of her battle, but they’re kind. They’re soft in a way you would never expect from a hardened knight. They’re gentle when they appraise you, studying your features, and her features relax as if she’s looking at you – truly looking at you – for the first time. “I suppose it would be, Princess,” she agrees. “I apologize.”

Your smile softens, too. “Considering you saved my life today, perhaps we can call it even?” you suggest, trying for a joking tone, and you find that it’s well-received when she chuckles. “Thank you for that, by the way. I would not be here without your courage.”

“I was just doing my duty,” she murmurs humbly. “My only wish is for you to not have had to witness that.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” you say reflexively.

Paige glances at you again, her eyes lingering on your face before a slow smile curls on her lips. “I’m beginning to see that.”

You know she doesn’t intend to say that in any sort of way, but the warmth of her gaze, the approval in her eyes, and her words alone are enough to make your cheeks flush. It’s wrong – that much you’re sure of. You haven’t known the knight for very long, but there’s something so magnetic about her, like you’ve met her before, like you know you’ll be safe with her. This conversation feels like one you’ve had before. That thought doesn’t alarm you as much as it should. Paige just feels right.

Then, she raises her hand, rubbing her face, and she doesn’t realize that she’s reopened the small cut beneath her eye. “Oh,” you say, not nothing much of it as you reach out for a piece of gauze, “you’re bleeding.” Motioning to the wound and ignorant to the way Paige’s breath hitches, you ask, “May I?” She nods and you step between her parted legs, hovering over her as you gingerly reach out with the cotton, fingers light and delicate against her skin, cleaning away the blood. You and Paige are inches apart by now, and the sudden closeness makes your hand tremble, especially when your eyes flick up to meet Paige’s. The expression on her face is almost awestruck, reverent in a way that makes you forget about how dangerous this is. You don’t realize that you’ve planted your free hand on her shoulder, holding onto her to keep her from moving, nor do you realize how her hands grip the edges of the table, knuckles white like she knows it would be wrong to touch you, but the way her breath stutters makes it so obvious that she’s desperate to regardless.

Sobering up, you lean back, red tinging your cheeks as Paige exhales deeply. The physician returns to the infirmary at that time, grinding together herbs in a mortar and pestle and muttering to herself absently. You and Paige exchange a glance, the heat of the previous moment softening as you both put some space between each other, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve stumbled across something that you shouldn’t have – the chemistry between you and the knight. You’ve always been curious and daring by nature; you know yourself well enough to know that you’ll track down that spark and see where it goes, even if it means sweeping the ashes under the rug after it ignites into something you can’t quite stop.

For now, you have to play it smarter. All eyes are on you as you prepare to take the throne from your father, and the last thing you want to do is jeopardize Paige and her future, even if you’ve already done so by assigning her to your personal guard.

Beneath the professionalism, the practiced stoicism that you see right through, you recognize that very same spark reflected in Paige’s eyes – the curiosity, the determination, the willingness to press the match to the kindling if you’d so much as asked. You know this is risky, that this energy between you and Paige is something that will splinter the foundations of the life you’ve grown so accustomed to.

And the worst part of it?

You wouldn’t even mind if it did.

Paige assimilates seamlessly into your routine. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the knight, who adjusts to her new position with a startling quickness and efficiency. Given the recent attack on your life, your father arranged to have her moved to a room only a door down from yours in the Royal Wing of the palace, believing that having her close would allow her to protect you better. She becomes your shadow of sorts, although you had to put your foot down early on in your new…partnership, and force her to walk side by side with you instead of the infuriating ten or so feet away.

“Being close to me would keep me safer, wouldn’t it?” you’d questioned her, by no means trying to be coy about it.

Paige had smiled softly like she knew, amusement and acceptance in her features as she agreed, “I suppose it would, Princess.”

She follows you everywhere – your royal meetings, your appointments with your tutors, to the dining room, and well, if she’s found in your bedroom, listening to you ramble about your latest project, then you’d say it’s for your own protection as much as it’s for the growing friendship between the two of you. When Paige isn’t worried about her professionalism, she talks. A lot. It doesn’t bother you at all. You’re content to listen to her stories, her experiences, her life, how every choice she made throughout the years led her here. Selfishly, you’d think that inadvertently, her choices had led her to you, although you don’t voice that thought at all.

She grew up in a small village a few hours away by horseback – Storrs. It isn’t well known for much except for the cold winters that the locals loathe. She’d recounted her childhood with a fond smile on her face, even the uncomfortable parts like the time she’d hurt her knee severely while sparring or when her parents had divorced. Divorce wasn’t as familiar to you, having been raised in the castle where your father remained with your mother until she passed, even though there wasn’t any love between them after your birth and their failure to conceive a male heir – although that’s a story for another day. When you voiced as such, wondering about the casualness in which she and her parents viewed their separation, she’d merely shrugged and said, “Sometimes people just don’t feel the same love that they did before. Why stick around to force something when your heart’s not in it?”

You’d felt as though that applied to a little more than relationships, considering how you didn’t want to be queen. As much as you trusted Paige, you didn’t think it was the time nor the place to drop that kind of confession on her.

While there’s no more attempts on your life, Paige sticks by you fiercely. If it were anyone else, you’d probably be pissed at the lack of independence, but there’s something about Paige’s company that you cherish, even if it’s just her standing watch at the door while your tutor teaches you philosophy. You like having her around. That thought should scare you much more than it does. For the first time in a really long time, it feels like you’re free. Growing up, you’d never had many friends. Everyone your age was always too aristocratic, too pompous, too entitled. You’d tried, but you could just never get along with them – it was always like you were on the outside looking in no matter what you did differently. With Paige, it feels like you’re shedding all of the past desires to fit in. She makes you feel as though you don’t have to fight your way inside just to be accepted. She makes you feel as though there’s always a place you’ll belong, even if it’s just with her.

So while there aren’t any more attempts on your life, that doesn’t mean your life gets easier. As you progress in your training and you begin to take up more royal duties, there is an increase in the number of suitors that make their way through the castle. Most of them have been arranged by your father, seeking to find a husband to rule next to you – or rather, someone for you to stand next to while they rule. They’re either princes of distant kingdoms, or the high-ranking sons of nobles. You hate all of them. They’re either too old, too stuck-up, too arrogant, or too…male. You’d longed for visions of long, blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, the gentle way in which the knight spoke to you yet the fierce way she protected you. None of these men were her, and you could tell your father was becoming upset by how often you turned them away.

If you hated them, then you’re not quite sure what word to use to accurately portray the amount of disdain that Paige feels for them. You can see it in her expression alone, the white-hot hatred that burns in her eyes even as she speaks to you politely, calmly. You see it in the way she stands unyieldingly next to you, a hand poised over the hilt of her sword as if she was ready to dispose of whichever groveling idiot was trying to propose, if you wouldn’t deny them yourself. You see it in the way her entire demeanor shifts, the way she grows more confident when you’re alone and her hand curls around your waist and she dips her head down to your ear to whisper, “None of them deserve you. Not a single one of them.”

If Paige hadn’t already ruined you for anyone else, then you’re sure she ruins you completely after that.

At first, you think it’s just her commitment to duty. Paige’s entire job is to keep you safe, protected. If she feels as though these suitors would be too violent, too uncaring, too unfit for you, then you suppose she was well within her right as the princess’s protector to feel however she wanted to feel. Then, you think it’s just hate. She knows you almost as well as you know yourself, if not more. At this point, you’re both a little more than princess and knight. You’re friends who share a mutual duty to a kingdom. However, you realize all too late that it’s actually jealousy.

She stands behind you, her tall stature imposing and intimidating as she stares down the last suitor you had scheduled for today. He’s the prince from a kingdom down south. His name is Oscar and if you had to be honest, you got a bad feeling from him as soon as he strutted in, a black and red cape billowing behind him like he’s already king and has nothing to worry about. You’d even felt Paige stiffen behind you, but you promised your father you would at least talk to your suitors before rejecting them (and you were not keen on sitting through another lecture from him).

The interview goes terribly. You can feel Paige’s mood worsen the more Oscar speaks. He interrupts you countless times, talks over you, and when you do get to speak, he dismisses it like it’s trivial and continues rambling on about his success or his fortune or how well he could lead a kingdom. You knew the conversation was over as soon as he promised he wouldn’t take anymore than five mistresses and you had to stop Paige from jumping across the table and stabbing him entirely.

So, you politely tell him, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for in a potential king. I have to look after my people.”

You see the shift in his expression before he even raises a hand. You just couldn’t react fast enough to block the swing.

But Paige does. She catches Oscar’s wrist in her hand, her grip so tight that the tips of his fingers were turning purple and he was choking on pain. Then, she slams his hand into the wooden table before you, the surface almost splintering from the force of it. You can hear a sickening crunch, but all you do is raise your brows as Paige leans over you, her gaze set firmly on Oscar. “We’re done here,” she murmurs, her voice low and threatening. “Raise a hand to the princess ever again and I’ll kill you myself. Do I make myself clear?”

You don’t hear what he says, too stunned to focus on anything but the vein that protrudes from Paige’s neck, the challenge laced in her tone, the way her response has left a warm feeling deep in your belly. He scurries out with a metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, the door slamming shut, and you and Paige are left alone in the conference chamber. Paige breathes heavily next to you, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder in both consolation and apology, yet all you fixate on is the way your thoughts race.

Paige is saying something to you, but it sounds like you’re underwater. You push out your chair, standing as she rambles, and you turn on your heel to meet her eyes. There’s still a lingering fire in there although it dwindles the more she talks, concern and something else you can’t quite place taking precedence. Before you have the time to talk yourself out of it or remind yourself of how wrong this is, you curl your fists in the fabric of her tunic and you pull her down to your level.

She immediately freezes against you, the words caught in her throat releasing in the form of an indulgent groan as she finally registers that your lips are on hers. When she relaxes to kiss you back, the intensity is almost overwhelming, like the fire from earlier has returned. She grips your hips possessively, backing you into the table and lifting you onto it for better leverage, one hand dropping to hold your thigh and the other curling around the back of your neck. Paige leans forward, pressing against you like she couldn’t stand to leave any inch of space between you.

The kiss is hazy and it makes your mind spin in the best way possible. You sigh against her, welcoming the intrusion when her tongue swipes across your bottom lip, and she holds onto you like she’s scared that you’ll disappear if she lets go. Paige kisses you like you’re hers, which you may as well be. You’re hers to protect, hers to hold – not the princes’, not the nobles’, not anyone else’s.

When you both break away from each other, chests heaving, her voice is rough, low, wrecked when she whispers again, “None of them deserve you.” Her eyes scan yours, her thumb brushing across your pulse point and her breath hitching like she can feel exactly what she’s doing to you. “Not you, the princess. And especially not you, the girl whose heart is as pure as it is kind. The girl who I…”

You swallow thickly, feeling the heat in your cheeks and fighting the urge to pull her back into you as she trails off. “And you do?” you murmur. “Deserve me?”

“I’d fight a hundred men and a hundred men more if it meant proving that to you,” she vows. You know her well enough by now that you don’t need her to prove anything more to you. She already has. Your heart is hers. “This isn’t just a duty to me,” she confesses a few beats later, her voice hardly above a whisper like she’s confessing a secret. “It’s real. What you are to me is real. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

“Nothing will,” you say, confident and assured. “I’m safe with you.” Paige nods, her hands warm against your skin, and you press your temple to hers to admit, “For you, I’d run away and leave it all behind.”

You feel her freeze against you, surprise, mostly. She leans back to meet your eyes. “Princess, you don’t mean that,” she says quietly.

You nod vehemently, your fingers tightening in the fabric of her tunic. “I do, Paige, I swear it.” She softens, taking in the conviction in your tone. “I don’t want this – I don’t want to marry someone else. I don’t want to be the queen. I want you, a life of peace, where I don’t have to worry that someone will try to kill me or if I’m making a decision that will kill my people. I want peace.”

The silence lingers. There’s a realization in the wake of your declaration that in your position, you could never afford peace. Princesses don’t get peace, or a life of ease, nor do they ever get the one they love. Knights don’t get peace, or a life of ease, nor do they ever get the one they love. You know you’d give it up in a heartbeat if you could find the courage to. You study Paige’s features closely, waiting for her to speak. She swallows thickly before she does.

“Storrs,” she whispers, confusing you. “My village. We can go there – just say the word and I will take you, I swear it. I don’t owe anything to this kingdom. My loyalty is to you. We’ll be safe there, free, and you can do everything you’ve wanted – you can teach, you can explore–”

“Okay,” you agree.

Paige pauses. “What?” she asks, trying to keep the hope at bay.

“We’ll go to Storrs,” you repeat, a smile growing on your face.

“You mean it?” Paige murmurs, her voice cracking, and all you can truly do is cup her face in your hands, kissing her once more. This one is softer, the perfect seal to the promise you’ve just made to each other, and it feels more right than a crown on your head ever will. Her embrace makes you feel more secure than a legion of your father’s men ever could. You know in your heart that this is where you belong.

Happiness doesn’t last for too long. 

When you wake up the next morning, you can feel that something is off. Paige is usually already awake, standing guard at your door and waiting for you to come out for breakfast. Now, there’s an unusual silence that lingers and it makes you feel on edge.

Instead of Paige at your door, you find Carlotta, wearing an uncomfortable expression on her face. Dread wraps its fist around your heart, squeezing tight, and your chest hurts when you ask, “Carlotta, what’s going on?”

“Your father has requested your presence in the throne room immediately,” she says to you, her voice shaking. You swallow thickly, afraid of what waits for you. You cast an uneasy glance at the door to Paige’s room, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but still feeling as though something is terribly wrong. Carlotta follows behind you as you walk through the winding corridors, anxiety coursing through your veins.

The scene awaiting you in the throne room is not one you could have ever prepared yourself for. Your father sits idly atop his throne, an almost nonchalant laziness in his body language. He’s surrounded by his usual guard detail. Your body burns with anger when you realize Oscar is standing right next to him, his hand wrapped in gauze and a splint, a malicious expression on his face. But what truly devastates you, what makes fear seize your heart entirely is Paige held firmly in the knight captain’s grasp, her hands and ankles shackled. She looks no worse for wear, only disheveled and her bun mussed from an evident fight, but her eyes burn bright with hatred and something that looks like failure.

“My daughter,” the King calls across the room. Everyone directs their attention to you, but you’re not prepared for the amount of grief and shock on Paige’s, like she wasn’t expecting you to see her like this. “Come – we have much to discuss.”

There it is again. That same steely calm from the night in the gardens. Your father isn’t the kind of man to yell – people with power and trained men at their disposal have no need to raise their voices – which is why his demeanor in this situation makes you fearful. Not for yourself, but for Paige.

“I’m not a man who shies away from admitting when he’s wrong,” your father continues when you step closer. “Accountability makes for strong leaders. I’ve always told you that, haven’t I?” You scan his features, your gaze giving nothing away. He’s not looking for a response. “It seems I’ve made a mistake in knighting an individual. Where she goes, trouble follows, such as the night in the garden. And now, with the suitors.” Your father cocks his head, looking perplexed. “Prince Oscar has suffered several broken bones and a fractured wrist due to…your knight being unable to control her anger. Alas, it has come to my attention that she has also filled your head with lies, deceit, and empty promises.”

He stands, his sea of guards parting for him as he makes his way towards you, towards Paige. “If she wants to run away, so be it. If this turncoat knight no longer wants to give back to the kingdom that has made her, that has given her the life she has now, then so be it. What I will not allow is for her to manipulate my daughter – the Princess – into leaving with her.

“So,” he muses, ushering Prince Oscar forward, who gazes at you like he’s won. “We are here to make an example. The monarchy will not be mocked. My daughter, tomorrow at sunset, you will be wed to Prince Oscar. He will be your king and you will inherit the throne. And your knight –” he spits the word like it’s venom, clear distaste evident in his features, “–will be executed at nightfall for treason against the crown.”

Your ears are still ringing.

Your father’s revelation left you numb, reeling. You watched as his men dragged Paige out of the room, her eyes locked on yours in surprise, disbelief, and ever-present grief. Your father had more to say to you, but you weren’t listening. Being forced to marry Oscar of all suitors was at the back of your mind. All you could think about for hours on end was your knight will be executed at nightfall. The word executed circulated through your mind on repeat along with images of Paige’s eyes, betrayed and disappointed all at one.

This wasn’t the plan. You and Paige were supposed to run away. You were supposed to leave kingdom life behind and go to Storrs together. You were supposed to live a life of peace in a small village where the crown couldn’t possibly find you. You’re not supposed to marry Oscar, or watch the love of your life be executed. This was all so horribly wrong.

You’re confined to your room for the entire day, your father feeling as though you would find a way to escape or look for Paige. He knows you better than you’d expected. With nothing but time on your hands, you wait. You cry. You scream and you break the mirror in your room because when you look at it, all you can see is the way Paige had stood behind you as you asked for her opinion on your dress and her jaw had gone slack before she whispered, “I think you’re the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen.” You spiral, because you were so close to making it out but your father and Oscar have derailed your plan.

At nightfall, 24 hours away from Paige’s scheduled execution, Carlotta knocks at your door. She lets herself in when you don’t respond. You hardly look up, even when she takes a seat on the foot of your bed. She’s silent for a few moments before she says, “I’m sorry, Princess.”

You laugh bitterly, the sound scraping against your throat. “It’s not your fault, Carlotta.” Even if it was, you don’t want to think about it. This woman has raised you since you were a baby. You weren’t sure if you could ever handle that heartbreak.

“It’s not,” she agrees softly. She clears her throat. You can almost feel her hesitation. “I was next to your mother when she passed on,” she admits. That confession makes your heart skip a beat. “I held her hand as she was taking her final breaths. I’d loved her, you know. Your father never knew. He didn’t care to. But when I watched my life’s greatest love die, it was a pain unlike anything else I’d ever experienced. I thought a part of me died that day. Your mother, however, entrusted me with something special to her – a part of her. She made me promise to take care of her daughter – the Princess – and to this day, you are the most important person to me.”

“Carlotta,” you murmur, tears pooling in your eyes and your voice cracking. “What are you saying?”

“You love her,” she says, like it’s more fact than fiction, like it’s something as obvious as the sky is blue or the grass is green. “Sir Paige. She is your life’s greatest love. I couldn’t save my love. But there is still hope for yours.” She stands, drawing your attention as you feel her move. There is a folded piece of parchment in her hand. Carlotta presses it into your hands. “Read this, and do not lose your faith, Princess.”

Carlotta leaves before you can say – before you can ask anything else of her. Your mind spins as you look down at the paper in your hands, at Paige’s familiar, sloped handwriting. Fingers trembling, you unfold it, and you begin to read.

Princess,

I did not think I would get to speak with you after they dragged me out of the throne room in handcuffs, so you will have to forgive me if this letter is incoherent. It is difficult for me to wrap my head around the idea – the fact, rather, that I will be dying at nightfall tomorrow.

Being a knight, I had always known that my death would be imminent. My profession is not safe. My duty is to put my life on the line for the kingdom, for the king and the princess. I knew of that long before I picked up my sword for the first time. I had always imagined that it would be in combat – perhaps I would be fighting those hundred men and the hundred men more that I had spoken of. Perhaps I would be the lucky one and die of age after living a life of valor, dedication, and virtue. Execution had never crossed my mind.

If there is one part of my life that I could pick out and say is the greatest moment of it, I would say that meeting you is it. Not being knighted for the first time or my father teaching me how to wield a blade. It was you. It is always going to be you. You are my purpose, my reason for fighting. You have made my life worth it, even if we were only a short time.

I want you to know a few things. First, this is not your fault. If I knew the outcome from the very beginning, I would choose you everytime without question. A moment with you is worth an eternity wherever my soul takes me next. Second, do not give up. You are kind, courageous, brilliant – I know you will think of something. Third, I miss you. I have only been apart from you for a few hours, but I miss you; if I knew of a way to make you miss me the way that I do, I would never dare to make use of it for you are undeserving of such an all-consuming ache. The fourth is that I love you. I planned on telling you once we made it to Storrs, after I had introduced you to my family. You deserve to know.

You are my greatest love, Princess. In this life and the next I will never give up on searching for you.

Eternally,

–P

By midafternoon the day of your wedding and Paige’s execution, you can tell that something has shifted once more. The palace is eerily silent. Again. It almost makes you worry, but after considering that your life couldn’t get any worse, you decide that the silence is a problem for you in the future. For all intents and purposes, you’re still essentially trapped in your room, and you spent the better part of the night and the entire day leading up to this moment rereading Paige’s letter to you. It didn’t make you feel any better about the situation, but you try to remember Carlotta’s words to you. They give you strength when you feel like all else is failing.

The minutes tick by until you hear tapping on the glass door leading to your balcony. Believing it may only be a bird, you think nothing of it until the tapping persists, louder this time. The glass is textured, so you can’t see out of it, but you reach for the first sharp object you can find – in this case, it’s one of your heels – and you creep towards the door, pushing it open with caution.

You freeze immediately. The heel slips out of your grasp and Paige is standing before you, her tunic rumpled and exhaustion in her eyes, but she doesn’t look hurt, and that’s all you can truly be thankful for. “I was beginning to think you weren’t home,” she murmurs, a coy smile on her face that is not befitting of the moment, and you could sob as you throw your arms around her neck. She wraps her arms around your waist, lifting you off of your feet. Paige buries her face in your neck, breathing you in and sighing in relief – you’re both okay. You don’t know what to say, stammering through words that don’t make any sense, but Paige squeezes you a little tighter, shushing you.

After a moment, she places you back down on the ground, drinking you in like she can’t believe this is real. Then, she smiles softly. “We don’t have a lot of time,” she says quietly. “Carlotta is waiting for us at the stables. Get your bag and whatever else you need. She’ll take us to Storrs.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, all you can do is nod, wiping your eyes as you retrieve the bag you’d packed after you and Paige agreed to leave. You make sure to slip into a pair of more comfortable shoes and you don’t forget to grab her letter stashed under your pillow. When you’re ready, she guides you down the wall of the palace and into the garden below, creeping through the bushes until you reach the stables. You hug Carlotta so tightly that she groans, laughing, and together, you, Paige, and Carlotta make the journey on horseback to her village.

Her village welcomes you and Carlotta in – they’re definitely a little shocked, but they’re happier to have Paige back and safe. She introduces you to her family, her mom, her dad, her step-parents, her brother and her step-siblings and they all treat you like one of their own, a blended family that’s no less full of love. They own a small little shop, one that dabbles in selling antiquities and artifacts from ages ago. You can see yourself splitting time between working there and teaching the village children, but most importantly, you can see yourself free, in love, and happier than you ever would have been in the castle. It will surely be a national emergency when the King realizes that the princess, the knight, and the chambermaid have all escaped, but you think that’s a problem for someone else.

For the record, Paige does tell you she loves you – in person, not through a letter – that night after you’ve been fully introduced to everyone and her mothers worked together to make a hearty dinner for you and Carlotta. It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of having – a love that’s wholly yours, a life to share with someone who cherishes you, and the freedom to live the life you’ve always wanted. You were always destined to find this – destined to find Paige, to love her, to give her your heart completely; the two of you have always been connected by that red string of fate and wherever your souls take you next, you know you’ll find her there, waiting for you.

2025

The memory fades and you and Paige blink in tandem, your hands still resting over the book as you look at each other. Almost no time has passed, although the both of you look like you’ve lived a whole new life entirely, which you may as well have. Paige breaks the silence to mutter, “I was a knight in a past life and in this one, I have to do homework?” Her disbelief makes you laugh, all of the tension dissolving as she joins in with you.

“Says you,” you retort. “I was a princess.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “You ain’t never letting that one go.”

“Nope!” you chirp happily. Paige rolls her eyes, but she can’t keep the smile off of her face as she closes the book gently. You intertwine your fingers with hers, giving her a squeeze. “Hey, you okay?” you ask.

Paige nods, her smile widening. She leans in to kiss you softly, which makes you grin against her. “Never better,” she assures you. “I was right, though.” You hum, gazing up at her, and she reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “You are my greatest love.”

“You’re mine, too,” you promise, wrapping your arms around her neck as she pulls you into a hug that feels lifetimes in the making. “We’re timeless, aren’t we?”

[x-ang3l-x]

- You sure your not a virgin? (E.W)

cw: mean!readerx loser!ellie, high school bully x ellie, degration, porn with some plot like really really mean, virginity mocking, enemies to lovers, hate sex, homophobia, d slur used,!NSFW, mdni.

A/N: This is based off a script from scriptbin which I also think is an audio on soundgasm- If I find them i'll add the links <3

reblogs appreciated

"I'm gonna go look around, I'll catch up with you." I slur before making my way out of the bar area and into the arcade. I walk into an overstimulating sea of lights and sound and geeks slouched over some consoles spending their wages on video games. I silently wished to myself we would had gone somewhere where I could've taken someone home tonight, but I don't think that's going to happen at the barcade.

I have a couple spare tokens in my back pocket, I fish them out and relecantly sigh as I find some random shitty game and stroll next to it. Theres a girl sitting on one of the stools. I couldn't really make out her face under the strobe lights, but I could make out a malnourished figure hunched over the arcade game, her nose buried in the screen. Auburn hair shagged just at her shoulders, glasses peering off the tip of her nose.

I strut up to her and wait a few moments for her to look at me. She doesn't. "Anyone sitting here?" I ask reluctantly

The girl does not turn her head, but responds. "Isn't it obvious?"

Okay, well fuck it. "I'm sitting here anyways. Whatcha gonna do about it?

"As long as you leave me alone, nothing."

God this bitch was blunt. For a moment she started to remind me of somebody I once knew but I brushed the feeling off before I continued. "So, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be going out to like, real bars?"

"Isn't this a real bar?"

I scoff. "This is barley a bar. You don't even have a drink."

"I'm not here to drink."

"You know what, I’m feeling charitable today, how about I buy you one?" For a brief moment the girls hand on the joystick faulters before continues her game.

"It's okay, don't waste your money."

"Yeah, come on, you pick. Whatever you want, baby I’ll get it." I seductivley say with a slight tilt of my head. The girl fails to conceal a small chuckle and softly bites her bottom lip when she does.

And I can't even lie, it was fucking cute.

But I still couldn't shake the feeling like I knew her from somewhere.

"Hey.. can you look at me really quick?" I ask. She pretends to not hear me. "C'mon, even I know you can pause that. Turn your head." I'm met with a bewildered expression plastered on a pretty face. Pink, pouted lips, huge glossy eyes staring at me from behind her glasses. "You look familiar." I mumble.

Wait, hold on a second.

"Nooo fucking way."

No way this girl didn't know who I was the second I started talking to her. This theory was solidified after she flushed beet red right after I said her name.

"Ellie Williams. Oooh My god, how have you been? You look- You look great, actually, seriously."

Ellie doesn't say anything, just silently staring at me with her mouth slightly agape. "What, can't take a compliment?"

"Didn't you like.. bully me? All of high school?"

Okay, yeah, that is how I knew her. I tormented this poor, friendless, loser every day for four years straight.

"Well..I mean, yeah, I did. But that's high school, literally no one cares about that!" I laugh. Well, except you, obviously."

Ellie scowls at me. "Whatever, see you haven't peaked since then."

"I'll actually have you know that I'm getting a promotion next week, so suck my dick."

"Promoted to what? Bosses least favorite?"

"Whatever, dyke." I cross my arms and give her a bit of an evil smile. "Least I’m not spending my Friday night playing fucking video games from the 80’s."

“70’s, actually”

"70's, actually!" I mock with a lisp.

Ellie just keeps glaring me down and spitting rebounds out. "I don't see you holding any high scores."

"Yeah, because I grew up, Williams. Let me guess, you spend every single Friday night here making sure no one takes away your precious fucking numbers on a screen."

"And what did you grow into, scoring bodies?"

What is wrong with this bitch? "Did you just call me a slut?" I dour.

Ellie stands up, seemingly prepared to walk away from the conversation. "Yeah, I did. Gonna do something about it?"

I also rise, meeting her height and overpowering her skinny frame. "Okay, you know what, fuck you and fuck this attitude that you have. I don’t need some fucking loser who hangs out at an arcade every night because she can’t help but have a little pity party because they were too fucking nerdy for anyone to like them telling me that they’re somehow better than me!"

Ellie doesn't walk away, she just lets out an offended grunt before eyeing me up and down. I decide that maybe it's time to have some fun with this. Just like back in high school. How I used to berade the girl every single second I could get to, and how i'd catch her holding back a smile as I did so.

"You know, I bet your sorry little ass that I could fuck this attitude right out of you."

Ellie's head whipped up, eyes meeting mine and holding a glimmer of hope. "W- what?" she stuttered.

"Aww, that got the little loser blushing." I say striding towards said blushing mess. "What, does this dumb little dyke get wet when some mean bitch tells her they could ruin her?" I lower my voice and place my lips next to her ear, barley grazing it as I spoke. "I bet you probably get off on that sort of shit, pervert."

I swear to god I could hear a moan in the back of Ellie's throat as I challenged her.

"Wanna put your money where your mouth is?" She whispered.

My breath hits her ear hot and hard."Fucking...Yeah. Yeah, I do think I can put my money where my mouth is. What, are you trying to get me to take you home with me?"

I'm only met with a shit eating grin spreading across her face.

"I'm gonna fuck that look off your face- let's go nerd."

___________________________

"I take it that you like my bedroom?" I ask as I lead the victim into my room. "Sorry that I don’t have a bunch of geek shit on the walls, I normally bring cool people over."

"To sleep with?" Ellie asks.

"Yeah, so?" I respond. "I’ve only slept with a few of them, so what? Least I’m not still a fucking virgin like you"

"I- I'm not a-" she starts, tripping over her own words.

I kick my shoes off and Ellie follows, watching my every move as though I was about to murder her. "Yeah fucking right, You don’t have to lie and tell me that you’ve slept with someone, I can tell you haven’t."

"How can you tell?"

"How can I tell? How can I tell?! I can tell by the way you’re shaking in your fucking shoes right now, bitch. Look at you. You don’t know whether to piss your pants or go blind." And I wasn't lying, the girl seriously was fucking pissing herself right now. Cute, but awfully pathetic. "It’s okay hun, everyone is nervous their first time! But it’s not like you’ll be doing any of the work."

Ellie lets out an awkward laugh."W- why?"

" I invited you over here because I’m gonna fuck that snarky, know it all, superiority complex right out of you....

... only if you really want me to."

"Do you want me to?" I ask, my hands softly feeling around her belt buckle. I get myself as close to her face as I can, inches away from shoving my tounge down her throat.

"Yes.." She softly whispered against my mouth, leaning in to kiss me before I pull back.

"You can be louder than that. I know you’ve got some big words in that head of yours, fucking use them."

"Pleaseee, please mommy please fuck me- fuck all this goddamn attitude right out of me- please."

My palm lightly slaps her cheek. "Good girl." I praise before kissing her, our lips interlocking and quickly moving into a deep passionate movement, our younger clashing against one another as she desperately maoans into my mouth. "This your first kiss, loser?" I ask as I pull away, latching myself onto her neck. "Oh, you like that, don't you?" And by the way she moans I can tell she does.

"You like when I kiss you neck... what about when I bite it?" I mumble before sinking my teeth into her flesh. She lets out a pornogroahic moan, head snapping up as she bites her lip to hold back another one. "God, listen to you... I could listen to you whine all day."

"Please..." Ellie groans against my skin.

"What was that?"

"Please touch me.."

"You want me to touch you...down here?" I say before lightly tracing my finger over her clothed slit. Ellie bucks her hips up in pleasure, trying to get more. "Keep still. I think I’d rather have you beg before I even think of laying a finger down there."

Ellie only reponds with incoherent phrases and moans as she tries to plead with me.

"My god, you are one desperate little loser, arent you? I'm not touching you until you beg for it like a little depraved loser."

"Please, please, I need you so fucking bad, my pussy needs you, I- I'm so wet- please.."

"That’s just not good enough, dyke. C’mon, you know I’m out of your league. And yet here I am being kind enough to stand in front of you. You should be on your fucking knees for me-" And in not even one second Ellie has immediately dropped to her knees and is softly pleading as she looks up at you with such sad, begging eyes.

"Woah, okay, taking that literally I see. Hm, I don’t know. I don’t think I should forgive you so easily, not with how much of a fucking brat you were being.

That being said, it is nice to see that you know your place. Begging me to touch you, It’s reallyyyy cute."

At this point Ellie looked like she was going to cream her pants, whimpering and panting like a fucking dog in heat. At any moment in looked like she would start humping the ground beneath me. "Your sooo pretty" is the only thing to come out of her mouth.

"God, you’re such a fucking loser. But you have such a pretty mouth, it would be a shame not to put it to good use.." I take a handful of her hair and pull it down so she could look at me better, admire me better.

"I'm gonna make you a deal, i'll let you eat me out." At this Ellies face radiated. "And if you do an especially good job, then maybe I'll touch you. If you don't- your not gonna fucking come. Okay?"

Ellie's head vigorously nodded up and down in acceptance, excitedly staring directly at my pants as I pull them down, revealing my glistening wet cunt to her. "You like my pussy? Quite the view isn’t it, nerd? You got me wet. Be proud of yourself.

And once I concluded with that scentence Ellie dived in, her tounge licking a stripe from my ass to my clit before stopping to softly suck on my bud.

"Oh- oh my fucking god.. fucking work that mouth whore.."

Her tounge lapped at me hurriedly, like it was her last meal. Like she was a woman starved. Maybe her malnourished figure was just a physical representation on how much pussy she was eating. Zero. Until now of course, until now where I have to tell her to slow down for a minute because she has no patience, just greedily slopping up my pussy juice like the stupid gay bitch she is. "Look at me, some fucking nerd is getting my fucking legs shaking. Guess anything really is possible, isn’t it?"

"Stupid fucking loser."

And with that I pulled her head off of my pussy, right before I could reach my climax. "Aww, look at that poor face. Did you want me to come all over your face? Poor girl." I fake pouted.

"Too bad, slut. But don’t worry. You did a good job, you get to make me cum while I fuck you. Oh, that made you smile, didn’t it?" Ellie shakes her head again without saying another word.

"Take your clothes off then, slut."

Ellie was sprawled out on the bed, pieces of baby hair clung to her sweat covered skin as she despratley moaned like the whore she was.

"Hollyyyy shit, your soo fucking right, brat." I breathed out as I shoved one finger and and out of her hole. "Look at you, squirming from just one finger. Your such a pervert."

Ellie can do nothing but agree, nodding her head and moaning. "More- please, I want more-"

"Hm? Touch you? You want me to touch you here baby?"

"You want me to just rest a finger on this pretty little pussy?"

"Wow, you’re eager. I guess you want me to touch it more?"

And with every single phrase you used meant to humilate her, Ellie simply build up her orgasm more and more. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.." she mewled.

"How does my hand feel, nerd? It feels good? It feels sooo good, I know." I can't help but laugh a bit maniacally as I thrust another finger inside her. "I wanna hear you say it."

"It.. feels.. so.. good..

.. so. good."

My fingers rapidly fuck into her cunt over and over again, making a mess drip down my hand. "What a pathetic little pervert.." with that comment Ellie's pussy sucks my fingers in so well, I can tell the phrase really got to her.

"Don’t pretend I didn’t feel this pussy twitch. You do love it when pretty girls are mean to you, don’t you?"

Don’t you?

"Yes-"

"God listen to that...You’re such a desperate loser. A desperate loser having the time of her fucking life. You’re sure you’re not a virgin, dyke?"

"Oh, god, that got you going didn’t it? Look at those hips move. You must really like it when some pretty girl makes you do whatever she wants. Is that what you want? To just do whatever pretty girls tell you to do and have them make fun of you? "

"What a stupid little dyke. I think that’s exactly what you want."

"Aren’t you glad you ran into me?"

"Fuck, me. You’re a loser, but my god are you one good girl."

And with that she snapped, coming completely undone as my fingers were completely drenched with her fluids, but I wasn't going to stop yet, I just couldn't.

"Maybe it’s not just any mean girl. Maybe it was me. Just me. You’ve probably wanted me to screw the brat out of you for such a long time. You’ve wanted me to fucking use you. To own you. Is that it baby? Is that what you want?"

Say it. I know you want to.

----------------------

a/n wait i lowk rlly like this

[audliminal]

It's just a game, right? Pt 1

Masterpost

"I just don't see how sitting around is gonna do anything!" Dash argues, face to face with Sam.

"Well, if you have other ideas you're more than welcome to offer them, but we can't just take out the giw. They have more manpower than us, more equipment, and the new agents actually seem to be competent in fights! And we are a bunch of high school students!"

They are all, ostensibly in English Class right now, but even Mr. lancer has forgone the illusion of normal classwork. He assigns books and hands out reading assignments every week, but nobody really cares whether they get turned in or not. The city, after all, has a much bigger problem.

"I don't know! But sitting here-"

"He's not entirely wrong, the longer we wait the more likely they figure it out, just like we all did." As Valerie finishes speaking, the room temperature drops noticeably, and the kids all glance nervously over at Danny who's head hasn't moved from it's spot on his desk. He almost seems dead with how still he is. Beside him Tucker stares at his PDA, the only one who hasn't reacted to the temperature change.

"Should I even ask what you're messing with?" Sam asks, walking over while the others stare nervously at Danny.

"Actually, yeah." Tucker easily shifts so they can both see the webpage displayed on the handmade tech. "I got something through."

"I thought getting stuff through wasn't really the problem?"

"I mean, yeah, they're letting Everything Is Normal posts through, but this wasn't. That. I was, um, kind of fucking around with ciphers and shit? Not saying anything relevant, but just seeing whether they'd flag any old weird shit, you know? And um. I got a video out."

"Okay, but how does that help us?" Valerie asks.

"It helps because if they let a cipher through then means if I encode shit well enough, then it'll also get through."

"But if it's, like, that hard to figure out what it says, then won't it be useless on the outside?"

"The chances of it getting into the hands of someone who could crack it do seem, uh, improbable."

"Not if we stack the deck."

"Wes-"

"No, listen, I know you're all still mad at me, but like. If you can attract a community of codebreakers? Then eventually someone will crack the code on what you need them to!"

"If you have an idea then just fucking say it, Wes," Sam snaps.

"Make an ARG. We can even have like, the base level be completely United to anything real, just make up a story about, i dunno, space travel? And then bury the actual info beneath that. Eventually somebody will crack into the real stuff, and if it's popular enough by then, and the GIW tries to suppress it? That'll be even more suspicious-looking, and just make them dig harder."

"What the fuck is a ARG?" Dash asks, pulling his gaze away from their definitely-just-sleeping classmate.

"Augmented reality game. It's like an unfiction thing. Make a story but the story is interactive and people have to decode shit to figure out what's going on." Tucker glances over to Wes. "And actually not a bad idea. If we all work together, we could probably make something cool."

"You could treat it as a class-wide project." Mr. Lancer says, making everyone jump. "That way I can back you up if anyone starts asking questions."

"Make it about black holes," Danny says, finally pulling himself up from his desk. "We can base it in wormhole theory, and distract the GIW with all the theoretical science."

"What, so like we make videos that seem like they're being sent through a black hole?"

"Fuckin. Sure, why not? As if shit couldn't get any weirder around here."

"Star, please try to refrain from swearing in front of me. I know the situation is - difficult - but I am officially still your teacher."

"Sorry, Lancer."

[theodorenmyth]

this might be lowk dumb but academic rival reader w theo where she outsmarted him in class or scored better than him on a test and he basically fucked her dumb to mend his bruised ego? lots of degradation +++ WHATIF somebody walked in (*ahem* mattheo)

idk im high dont judge me 😭🙏🙏

Outsmarted.

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

Summary ; In a tense rivalry with Theodore Nott, you outsmart him in class and score higher on a test, only to find yourself at the mercy of his ego. What starts as a battle of wits quickly spirals into an intense, degrading game of power and control, where Theodore pushes you to your limits.

A/N ; OMFG this is the first full smut fic I've wrote in MONTHS. Please bear with me 😓🥹 oh and I also changed it into gender-neutral y/n because I saw that you put she and her, and since I don't write for f!reader, I'm so sorry 🥹 still, enjoy! :D (there's still slight aftercare in the end, dw)

Warnings ; NSFW, degradation, overstimulation, rough sex, power dynamics, accidental exposure, oral sex, anal sex

word count ; 5k+

The moment Slughorn said your name, you knew the entire classroom had shifted.

A few heads turned your way, some surprised, some not. You didn’t look up immediately—no, that would ruin the effect. You waited, just a moment, pen paused at the edge of your parchment, letting the attention simmer in the air. Then, with perfect calm, you lifted your eyes, looked the professor square in the face, and smiled.

“The highest mark in the class,” Slughorn boomed, holding up your parchment as though it were a sacred scroll. “Y/N has once again impressed me. Their essay on Veela charm magic was truly outstanding. The way you connected the emotional manipulation to Occlumency theory… Brilliant. Simply brilliant.”

Your smile widened as a very specific pair of eyes practically drilled into the side of your head. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. Theodore Nott had been sitting in the same bloody seat for the past year—third row from the front, one seat left of center. And right now, you could practically hear his teeth grinding.

You turned your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision. His quill was stilled. His jaw was locked tight. He was staring straight ahead, but his gaze was ice.

The smugness bubbling in your chest was almost criminal.

Because this was a rare moment—a very rare moment. Theodore Nott was the golden boy. Always top of the class, always confident, always with just enough charm to get away with being insufferably smug. You’d spent years trading barbed words and subtle jabs with him across shared subjects. But he never lost. Not in Slughorn’s class.

Until now.

And you had done it.

The rest of the class buzzed with chatter as students began packing up, chairs scraping, parchment rustling. Slughorn dismissed everyone with a cheerful wave, but you stayed seated, fingers tapping slowly against the desk, taking your time.

You knew he’d come to you.

You were counting on it.

Sure enough, his voice came just as the last student filed out of the dungeon.

“You really think this means something?”

You looked up slowly, turning to face him. Theodore stood at the edge of your desk, arms crossed, expression tight and unreadable. He looked calm, but there was a tension in his shoulders. A subtle twitch in his fingers.

“I think it means I’m smarter than you,” you replied coolly.

His eyes narrowed. “By one point.”

“Still higher,” you said, blinking innocently. “That’s how numbers work, Nott.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated. “Slughorn’s biased. He always has been. You flirt with him like it’s a hobby.”

You raised your brows, fighting the grin tugging at your lips. “Oh? Jealous?”

Theodore’s jaw ticked. “Hardly. I just think you’ve got a talent for being manipulative.”

You stood, slowly gathering your things. “And you don’t? Please, Theo, I’ve seen the way you flash that little smirk when you know you’re ahead. Don't get salty just because I gave you a taste of your own game.”

“I didn’t lose,” he said, voice low.

You stepped closer, slinging your bag over one shoulder, chin tilted just slightly. “You did. You just can’t admit it. Poor Theo. All that pride… fragile, isn’t it?”

His eyes flared. “Watch it.”

You leaned in just slightly, dropping your voice to a whisper as you brushed past him. “Why? Worried I’ll bruise your ego again?”

He stepped closer, a bit too close, really. You could smell the faint whiff of expensive cologne and mint tea on his breath. His pale eyes burned into yours, but your expression didn’t falter.

He looked like he wanted to strangle you.

Or kiss you.

Or both.

“You’re awfully smug for someone who scraped ahead by one point,” he snapped.

You gave a mock gasp. “Oh no, not one point!” You clutched your chest theatrically. “Guess that means I still beat you.”

He let out a low exhale through his nose, jaw flexing. “You’re asking for it.”

You stepped into him now, narrowing the space even more, just to get under his skin. You made sure your voice was low, teasing, each word dipped in honey. “You gonna punish me, Nott? For being smarter than you?”

His eyes darkened in a way that made your breath catch, but you didn’t back down. You leaned in closer until your lips barely brushed the shell of his ear.

“Go on then. Show me how much it bruised your pretty little ego.”

You pulled away slowly, letting your fingers graze his as you moved past. Your shoulder brushed his chest and you swore you heard the faintest hitch in his breath.

Then you paused in the doorway.

“Oh,” you said over your shoulder, tone deliberately sweet, “if you need help understanding the theory I wrote about, I’d be more than happy to tutor you.”

That got him.

His expression darkened as he took a single step toward you, and you swore there was a flicker of something wicked in his eyes—anger, yes, but something else, too. Something darker. Rougher.

Possessive.

“I don’t need help,” he said tightly.

“Hmm,” you hummed, looking him up and down with a smirk. “Could’ve fooled me.”

And with that, you turned and disappeared into the corridor, heart pounding in your chest—not from fear, but from the anticipation coiling hot and tight in your stomach.

You’d poked the beast.

No, provoked it.

You wanted to see him crack.

You wanted to see that perfect, composed mask of his shatter.

And something told you Theodore Nott wasn’t going to let this one go.

Not quietly.

Not gently.

Not at all.

You didn’t expect him to catch you so soon.

One minute you were strolling down the corridor toward the dungeons, minding your business, savoring the echo of your earlier win like the last bite of something sinfully sweet—and the next, a hand curled around your upper arm and yanked.

You gasped, stumbling forward before you recognized the familiar grip. Long fingers, knuckles pale with tension. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Oh,” you said lightly, letting him drag you without resistance, “so you do handle rejection poorly. Thought so.”

Theodore didn’t even glance at you. His grip tightened like a vice around your arm.

“Back to the common room?” you drawled. “You gonna cry about your test score or beg me to tutor you—?”

“Keep talking,” he interrupted, voice so low it vibrated through your spine. “And you won’t even make it through the door before I’m shoving my cock down your throat.”

Your heart stopped.

The smugness drained from your face so fast it was dizzying. Your lips parted, a retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing came out.

You weren’t scared, not exactly—but the intensity in his voice, that cold fury barely restrained, struck something primal. You swallowed hard and glanced up at him, pulse skittering.

The side of his mouth twitched, like he’d noticed the shift in your expression and liked it.

“Thought so,” he muttered, dragging you faster now.

Through the Slytherin entrance. Past a handful of students who barely spared you two a glance. You moved quietly now, your earlier cockiness hollowed out, replaced by something hot and anxious low in your belly.

By the time he shoved open the door to the boys’ dorm, you were breathless.

He pulled you inside and kicked the door shut behind you with a loud thud. Before you could speak, he spun you around, slammed you against it, and braced a hand on either side of your head, caging you in.

His voice was gravel. “You want to act like you’ve got the upper hand?”

You blinked at him, trying to recover your tone. “I—I’m just naturally—”

He cut you off by grabbing your jaw, thumb swiping over your lips with a possessive drag. “Go ahead. Act like you’re in control.”

“I…” you breathed, but even you heard how weak it sounded. You tried again, softer this time. “I am.”

His expression sharpened into something hungry.

“No,” he said, almost pitying. “You’re just mouthy. And I’m going to ruin that mouth first.”

He shoved your shoulders, guiding you down fast—too fast to resist—and your knees hit the floor with a quiet thump. The carpet dug into your skin, but you barely noticed. Your breath hitched as you looked up at him, his hand still gripping your hair.

“Open.”

You hesitated. Just a flicker. But that was all he needed.

“Oh, now you’re shy?” he mocked. “Figures. Smart little brat until there’s a cock in front of them.”

The heat of humiliation—and arousal—rushed through you. Slowly, shakily, you parted your lips.

Theodore’s eyes darkened. “Good.”

He undid his belt slowly, letting the clink of metal and drag of leather build anticipation. His cock was already hard when he pulled it free, tip flushed and glistening. Your mouth watered, and you didn’t even try to hide it.

“You gonna do this properly,” he murmured, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, “or do I have to teach you how to suck cock too?”

You didn’t dare answer—not with your tongue darting out to taste him, warm and soft against the tip. His breath caught, his fingers tightening in your hair.

And then he was shoving into your mouth.

No warning. No gentle build-up.

Just Theodore’s cock stretching your lips, pushing past your tongue, pressing deep.

You gagged instantly, throat clenching around him, hands scrambling for purchase on his thighs. He didn’t stop—his hips rocked forward, slow but firm, dragging a strangled sound from your chest.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

You whimpered, throat burning, tears stinging your eyes—but you adjusted. You had to. Your hands steadied, lips stretching, jaw aching as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked.

Theodore’s head tipped back slightly, a quiet curse escaping him.

“Merlin, you’re filthy,” he muttered. “Drooling all over me like a little whore.”

Your spit slicked his length, dripping down your chin as you took him deeper. The rhythm built quickly—his hand in your hair controlling the pace, your mouth hot and wet around him.

You looked up, eyes watery, and that broke him.

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” he rasped. “All that cleverness, gone the second I put my cock in your mouth.”

You moaned around him, deliberately loud. He hissed.

“You like this, don’t you?” he said through gritted teeth. “Getting face-fucked like a toy. You act so fucking smug, but this—this is all you’re good for.”

He thrust harder now, rougher, fucking your mouth like he meant to brand you from the inside out. You coughed around him, spit bubbling, hands trembling as he used you.

“Fucking pathetic,” he grunted. “Letting me use your mouth just ‘cause I said a few filthy words.”

You tried to keep eye contact. You really tried. But your lashes fluttered, head swimming.

And then—

“Shit. Gonna cum.”

You braced yourself, breath stuck in your throat as he shoved in deep, holding you there with his cock pressing past your tonsils.

Hot, bitter warmth flooded your mouth. You gagged once, eyes wide, but he held you still as he twitched against your tongue.

“Swallow,” he growled, breath ragged.

You did.

And then he slowly pulled out, watching a line of spit and cum trail from your lip to his cock. He cupped your cheek and forced your gaze up.

“Still feeling smart, sweetheart?”

You panted, lips red and swollen, face flushed and slick.

And despite everything, you managed a tiny smirk.

“Define smart.”

He laughed once—low and dangerous—then grabbed your arm and dragged you up.

The second he pulled you off the floor, your knees wobbled like they couldn’t support you anymore. But Theodore didn’t give you time to recover. He pushed you back, walking you until the backs of your legs hit his bed—and then he shoved you down.

“You’re not gonna be able to walk by the time I’m done with you,” he growled, standing between your legs, eyes dark with that same fury-laced lust that had burned behind them in class.

You opened your mouth, maybe to say something smug—something to keep your upper hand—but your breath caught as he suddenly grabbed the front of your shirt and ripped.

Buttons flew. The fabric tore straight down the middle.

You gasped, staring at him wide-eyed as he dropped the ruined cloth onto the floor like it meant nothing.

“Oh,” you breathed, your pulse thundering in your ears, “so you’re—mmf—that angry.”

He didn’t answer. Just pushed you flat against the bed and leaned down, growling against your neck, “Shut the fuck up.”

His hands were on your waistband next—hooking into your trousers and tearing them down with a swift, brutal yank that made your body jolt. You barely got a gasp out before he tossed them aside too, leaving you exposed and breathless, sprawled across his bed like a prize he was about to claim.

“You like making me lose,” he muttered, crawling over you, dragging the length of his body against yours. “But you’re gonna learn what happens when you push me.”

You tried to smirk, but it wavered when you felt his cock again—hot and heavy, smearing against your thigh as he settled between your legs. Your thighs twitched, instinctively parting for him even as your brain scrambled for control.

“Don’t worry,” you managed, voice already shaking. “You’re… good at making your point.”

Theodore’s eyes snapped to yours.

“You’re not funny.”

And then—he was inside you.

You gasped, a full-body jolt seizing through you as he buried himself to the hilt in one unrelenting thrust. You cried out, back arching, fingers clawing at the sheets beneath you as he bottomed out, grinding deep.

“Fuck,” he hissed, bracing his hands on either side of your head. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Your legs twitched around his hips. You bit your lip, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your body struggled to take him, stretch for him—but the burn melted into a high, hot ache that made your mind go blank.

And then he moved.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

He pulled out halfway and slammed back in with a sharp snap of his hips, making you cry out again, louder this time. Your head tipped back against the pillow, voice already falling apart.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, fucking you harder now, setting a pace that was punishing from the start. “Wanted to act clever? Act smug?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. You just grabbed at his arms, your body bouncing with each thrust as he filled you again and again and again.

“Where’s that smart mouth now?” he snarled.

Your lips parted, a moan escaping instead of a word. Your brain was white noise.

He laughed—dark, breathless. “That’s what I thought.”

He shifted his grip, grabbing under your knees, pushing them back until your thighs pressed against your chest. The new angle made you sob, your whole body shaking as he pounded into you harder, deeper.

“You’re just a fucking hole now,” he breathed, voice like thunder in your ears. “Not so clever when you’re getting split open.”

Your eyes fluttered. You were seeing stars. Your whole body trembled with every thrust, every filthy word that poured from his mouth.

“You feel that?” he whispered, dragging his cock out slow, only to slam back in and knock the breath from your lungs. “That’s mine. All of this is mine.”

You moaned, your hands gripping his wrists now, holding on for dear life as your stomach tensed and heat coiled dangerously low.

He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, hips still snapping in a ruthless rhythm.

“Say it.”

“Wh-What—”

“Say you’re mine.”

You choked out a whimper. “Y-Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

“That’s right.” His voice cracked with hunger. “Fucking. Mine.”

You barely registered the way your body started to lock up—tightening, trembling—as you crashed straight into orgasm, legs shaking violently as you sobbed through it, overwhelmed and overstimulated.

Theodore grunted above you. His hips stuttered.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “Make you walk around dripping with me. Show you who fucking owns you.”

You were too far gone to answer. You nodded helplessly, eyes wet, mouth open in a silent gasp.

Then he slammed in one last time—and came.

Hot and deep and thick, his cock twitching inside you as he spilled everything into you, groaning your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

He stayed there for a moment, buried inside you, panting against your neck.

Then he pulled out slow—too slow—and you whimpered, body wrecked and twitching beneath him.

Your body was still trembling when Theodore dragged you up by the hips, flipping you over with zero care for how boneless you felt beneath him. Your legs barely held under you, arms shaky where your elbows sank into the mattress. Your face pressed into the sheets, still flushed, still sticky with sweat and spit and his cum.

“Get up,” he snapped, swatting your ass hard enough to make you jolt. “Hands and knees, now.”

You whimpered but obeyed, limbs folding into place automatically as he manhandled you into position. Your heart was still pounding—faster now. Louder. Because you weren’t sure if your body could take more, but god—you wanted it.

The moment your ass was up, Theodore grabbed your hips again, rough and greedy, spreading you open with both hands.

“Look at this,” he said, voice low, hungry. “Still dripping.”

You gasped as he shoved two fingers into you, fucking his cum back in without warning. You squirmed, hips twitching, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

“You’re gonna take it again,” he growled, curling his fingers. “Like a good little toy.”

You bit down on the sheets, heat rising in your chest again—shame and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart. Your body rocked with every motion of his hand, slick and sensitive, your thighs already shaking again.

Then you felt his cock again—pressing against your hole, thick and hard and ready.

“Still so fucking tight,” he hissed, dragging the head up and down, teasing. “You should thank me. I’m gonna ruin you properly this time.”

He pushed in without warning.

You screamed into the sheets—legs nearly giving out—his cock splitting you open again, slower this time, making you feel every inch. Your arms trembled as he bottomed out and stayed there, grinding deep.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re clenching so hard. You want me this bad already?”

You nodded frantically, unable to form words.

“Then beg.”

You sobbed. “P-Please, Theo—”

“Please what?” His hand came down hard across your ass again, the sound cracking through the air. “Use your words.”

“Please… please fuck me,” you breathed, desperate and shaking. “Fuck me stupid—use me—please—”

He chuckled darkly. “That’s more like it.”

Then he pulled out and slammed back in—harder than before. You cried out, face buried in the blankets as he began to fuck you like an animal, his pace brutal, punishing. His hands gripped your hips like he owned them, dragging you back on his cock again and again, each thrust hitting you so deep it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You were a mess. Moaning, shaking, soaked. Your body was wrecked, already overstimulated, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t ask him to stop.

“Fucking filthy,” he spat, thrusts getting rougher. “You act so cocky in class, and now look at you.”

He leaned forward suddenly, one hand wrapping around your throat, forcing your head up as he fucked into you from behind.

“Nothing but a fucktoy,” he growled against your ear. “Just something for me to use.”

Your mouth fell open, eyes glazed and watering.

You didn’t even hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the footsteps.

But Theodore did.

He froze mid-thrust, eyes snapping toward the dorm entrance—and you barely had time to turn your head, body still fully impaled on his cock, when the door swung open—and Mattheo FUCKING Riddle stepped in.

The scene he walked in on was nothing short of obscene: you on your stomach with your ass up, trembling violently, drooling into Theodore’s sheets, eyes fluttering and rolling back with every deep, punishing thrust. Theodore was balls deep inside you, pelvis flushed tight to your ass, one hand gripping your hips while the other pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you in place like you were nothing more than a toy he’d been wrecking for hours.

The room was filled with slick, wet sounds. Skin against skin. Your broken moans echoing off the walls. The heavy scent of sweat, cum, and sex hanging in the air like a fog.

Mattheo stopped.

Froze.

His jaw dropped.

You barely registered him through the haze in your brain—just a blur of dark curls, wide eyes, and a gaping mouth as your body spasmed again, Theodore’s cock twitching inside you.

The room went silent for a beat.

Then—

“OH FUCKING HELL—”

Mattheo shrieked—actually shrieked—spun on his heel, and slammed the door shut so hard it rattled the walls.

You thought he might’ve said something else—something like “I’m telling everyone”—but it was hard to tell over the rush of blood in your ears and the sound of your own whimper when Theodore thrust in deeper, still fully inside you.

You could feel yourself clench helplessly around him.

Your body twitched.

Your mouth hung open.

“The fuck,” you mumbled, completely dazed. “Did—was that Mattheo?”

Theodore groaned darkly behind you. “Don’t care.”

And then he started moving again.

Rougher. Meaner. Like the interruption had only made him more determined to fuck you stupid.

“Let him run his mouth,” he growled, hips snapping into yours. “Let him tell everyone. They should all know who you belong to.”

You cried out, hands gripping the sheets as your legs shook violently, brain melting into static as Theodore pounded you through it, deeper and deeper.

“Listen to you,” he hissed through his teeth, leaning over your back, one hand gripping your ass like he was molding it. “All that smugness gone. Just a whimpering little cocksleeve now, yeah?”

You sobbed, choking on your own moan as his hips slammed into you harder—meaner—his hand sliding around to squeeze and knead your ass with brutal, possessive fingers.

“Bet you like being fucked dumb,” he whispered against your neck, his pace losing rhythm. “Bet your needy little hole was made to be filled.”

One more thrust.

Two.

Then he slammed into you with a guttural moan, cock twitching deep inside as he spilled inside you, filling you again with hot ropes of cum. You could feel it pulse inside, hot and thick, and the sensation sent you over the edge all over again.

Your body jerked violently, trembling as your orgasm crashed through you a second time—strung out and raw, pleasure mixing with the overstimulation until your vision blurred.

“Fuck yes,” he muttered into your skin, still grinding into you, still squeezing your ass like he owned it. “Such a good little cumdump. Always so eager to be used.”

You couldn’t even answer. Just moaned weakly into the mattress, body limp and leaking, mind completely wrecked.

Your body felt like it was made of static.

Nerves buzzing, thighs quaking, mouth barely able to form words—just soft, broken little moans, every inhale catching in your throat. You were spent, wrung out and stuffed full, Theo’s cum still dripping from your used hole down your thighs in a hot, sticky mess.

But Theodore wasn’t done.

He didn’t say anything at first—just shifted you like you weighed nothing, dragging your trembling body upright, your chest pressed against his as he sat back against the headboard and pulled you onto his lap.

“Theo…” you whimpered, voice a desperate whine. “Please—can’t—can’t anymore, I can’t—”

“Shh,” he murmured, not unkindly. “You can.”

Your knees pressed into the bed on either side of his hips, shaking like leaves, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you steady. His cock nudged against your still-leaking hole, already half-hard again from just the feel of you squirming in his lap.

“You’ve taken me so well tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “I want to see you ride me. Just once. Just one more.”

“Just one?” you sniffled, already pouting.

He chuckled lowly. “For now.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering as he guided your hips—lining you up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, pushing back into your sore, stretched hole with agonizing slowness.

You choked on a moan, eyes tearing up as your walls fluttered helplessly around him.

“Theo—ah, f-fuck—it’s too much—”

“You’ll take it,” he murmured into your neck, holding you down as inch by inch, his cock disappeared inside you again. “Because you can. You were made for this.”

You clung to his shoulders, face flushed and streaked with sweat and tears. “Y-You’re so mean,” you whimpered. “S’not fair..”

His fingers dug into your thighs, nails leaving little crescent-shaped dents.

“Then stop being so fucking cute when you cry,” he muttered darkly.

He held you still for a moment, letting you shake and clench around him, lips ghosting over your skin as you panted like you’d just run a marathon.

And then he moved you.

Slowly.

Up.

Down.

Your breath hitched as your body slid down onto him again, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, the wet sounds echoing obscenely through the room. Your moans were high-pitched now—desperate, broken. Every bounce made your thighs tremble harder, your arms tightening around his neck as you rode him with trembling, clumsy motions.

“Theo—please—f-feels weird, it’s too much—gonna—”

“You’re already so cockdrunk,” he muttered, voice thick. “Look at you. Whimpering like you’re not loving every second of it.”

You were. And you hated it.

Your face crumpled as your body clenched again, his cock kissing that spot deep inside you with every bounce. The overstimulation was unbearable—every thrust like fire and lightning all at once.

He helped you move, holding your hips and lifting you just to slam you back down on him. Your cries turned into gasps, then sobs, your legs barely holding you up.

“T-Theo, Theo—please, I can’t—gonna—gonna—again—”

You came with a strangled cry, your nails clawing down his back, body going stiff before collapsing into him. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, trembling and pulsing around his cock, squeezing him so tightly he groaned against your throat.

He cursed under his breath, jerking his hips up once—twice—then stilled with a growl as he spilled inside you, hot and heavy, filling you to the brim again. His arms held you tight to his chest, one hand in your hair, the other cradling your lower back as your whole body went limp.

You were shaking like a leaf in his arms, and this time, Theodore didn’t make you move.

He just held you.

Whispered something into your hair, too soft to catch. Pressed his lips to your temple like he hadn’t just ruined you three times over. His hand slid up and down your spine, slow, gentle, soothing your trembling muscles with soft circles.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, breath tickling your skin.

You nodded against his neck with a small, pitiful hiccup. “Y-Yeah…”

“Too much?”

You whined. “Mhm.”

He chuckled softly, brushing your damp hair back from your face.

“You did so good, baby. So, so good.”

Your pout returned. “You’re being nice now.”

His lips curled against your skin. “I can be nice. Sometimes.”

You huffed softly, nose buried in his shoulder, still aching and dripping and completely, utterly ruined.

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

The room was still thick with the heat of your final moments together. You felt drained, like every muscle had been sapped of its strength, but there was a strange warmth to the way Theodore held you close, his body still flush against yours, his cock still buried deep inside you. His grip on you softened as he adjusted you, gently shifting you so you were cradled in his arms, face resting against his chest.

“Shh, relax,” he murmured softly, smoothing your hair back, his fingers warm against your damp skin. “I’ve got you.”

You let out a shaky breath, too tired to protest, your body aching but not in a way that was uncomfortable. His hands slid down your back, soothing you, rubbing your skin as his lips pressed soft kisses against your forehead.

“Good job,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the tip of your nose. “You did so good, baby.”

You melted into him, too tired to even respond, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t need words right now. His lips kept brushing over your face—your cheeks, your lips, your eyes—each kiss a soft reminder of how he had pushed you and then taken care of you afterward.

“Still feeling good?” he asked, voice low and warm.

You nodded softly, your body still trembling, but there was a new comfort in his presence. His gentle kisses, the warmth of his body, the way he softly ran his fingers along your spine—it was like the chaotic energy of everything before was being replaced by this slow, tender care.

He shifted beneath you, adjusting his position so you were more comfortably on top of him, not needing to move but cradled close in his arms. His cock was still inside you, softening slightly, but he didn’t rush to pull away. He just let you rest, letting you feel his warmth, as if nothing else mattered but making sure you were okay.

“Let’s just stay like this,” he said quietly, kissing your forehead once more. “No rush. You deserve to rest.”

You let your eyes flutter closed, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, his presence grounding you, wrapping you in a sense of safety and care.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, pressing another soft kiss to your lips.

You smiled faintly against his skin, finally letting yourself feel the warmth of his affection.

[octuscle]

I don't know if I ask the right partner for help but there is this mean prof at our college and I don't know what to do but dumbing him down. Is there somebody at chronivac knowing this situation and ready to help? I'd like him really dumb - to dumb for a college grade anymore

Yo, your prof is up there by the blackboard rambling about game theory and business cycles. Dude, you’re totally lost. He goes quiet and locks eyes with you. Oh man, you know what’s coming—he’s gonna hit you with another question. If you flake on this one, your grades are toast. It’s dead silent, no one’s even blinking. His intense gaze sweeps the rows. Outta nowhere, his face cracks into a grin. Then: BUUUUUUURP! “Hehe, that wasn’t too shabby, huh?” he chuckles, feeling himself. He’s rocking some sweaty pits, and that’s rare for the dude. “Bro, it’s freaking scorcher in here, right?” He peels off his shirt, and you never caught he had a red tank on underneath. “So bros, then this and that happens, and the economy just kinda freezes, ya know?” You all look at each other, like, did he just smell that? “Oh man, didn’t get this lame topic anyway. Total econ bummer.” Another burp escapes. He snags his backpack, throws on his cap, and bounces outta the lecture hall.

Dude's the fitness coach for the squad now. Some of the guys think he's smart, but honestly, it's not shocking. He found a couple of total dimwits who make him look like a genius.

[creature-wizard]

What Natalie Wynn said in her video about how conspiracy theories about satanic sexual abuse are essentially porn for puritans is something I very much agree with based on the way a lot of conspiracy literature I've read was written. And I think we'd be pretty damned naive if we didn't raise an eyebrow at how the recovered memory fad within the Satanic Panic empowered numerous therapists to extract all manner of sexually explicit stories from the numerous women they wrongly diagnosed with MPD.

But it's not just that, in my experience. Something I've noticed is that conspiracy theories are a pretext and justification to engage with anything that's supposed to be off-limits to the puritanical.

As most of you probably already know, one of the big objects of contention during the Satanic Panic was Dungeons & Dragons. And back when I was reading Fritz Springmeier and Cisco Wheeler's books, I couldn't help but develop the distinct impression that somebody here really just wanted to play D&D. All the talk about programmed systems' inner structures filled with monsters and traps, all this talk of jewels and precious metals - it's as if whatever Springmeier couldn't get out of a game of D&D, he extracted from Wheeler's mind.

Puritanical Christians aren't technically allowed to practice divination. But the methods they use to supposedly unravel the occult meanings behind every major world event allows them to functionally sidestep this. They aren't practicing numerology, they're revealing how the bad guys are practicing numerology!

They aren't supposed to engage with sinful media that depicts occult ideas. They can't get into something like Star Wars and obsess over its deep lore because to them, the Force is demonic and obviously God only created life on Earth, and besides that, it takes their attention away from God. But they can get into conspiracy theories and obsess over its deep lore because well, they're just figuring out the plans of Satan and his followers!

Puritanical Christianity was designed to be boring, based on beliefs that anything that aroused the senses too much would lead to licentiousness, that anything that doesn't glorify God is sinful, that art and aesthetics are expressions of corruption and greed, and that if you just removed all distractions people would be able to put all of their focus on God. But what all of this does is emotionally and intellectually starve people, and they have to find a way to fill these needs somehow. And conspiracy theories provide a permissible way to fill these needs.

[noorpersona]

I’m being greedy here,

but it would be funny if Inarizaki was trying to figure out if their manager has a secret admirer. With all the snacks, food and encouraging notes being given to them, but it just turned out to be their (platonic) girlfriend

No greed at all! I love it ehehe

Hope you enjoy! and thanks for the ask <333 I love doing these --

It started small. A sports drink left on the bench, a protein bar tucked neatly beside your clipboard, a sticky note with a simple Good job today! scribbled in neat handwriting.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. Maybe someone had left the drink behind by accident, maybe the protein bar was a spare someone had tossed your way. The note? Probably just an afterthought. No big deal.

But then it kept happening.

Snacks. Energy drinks. Even small bento boxes labeled with your name, left in the exact same spot every single time. The notes became more frequent too—little words scrawled on post-its, ranging from Eat something before practice, idiot. to You better be drinking enough water. and Take a break before you pass out.

By the end of the week, the team had noticed.

And by the end of the next, they had declared a full-blown investigation.

“I’m tellin’ ya, this is definitely the work of a secret admirer.” Ginjima crossed his arms, nodding as if he were uncovering something straight out of a mystery novel.

Osamu, unimpressed, leaned back against the gym wall. “Or, y’know, it’s just someone bein’ nice.”

“No way, ‘Samu! This is classic romance material.” Atsumu leaned in, eyes alight with interest. “Secret notes? Snacks? Somebody’s tryna woo our manager.”

“‘Woo’?” Suna repeated, unimpressed. “Who the hell says ‘woo’?”

“You get what I mean.”

Aran, ever the voice of reason, sighed. “Maybe it’s just a fan. Not everything has to be a romance novel, guys.”

“No way.” Ginjima shook his head. “This is deeper than that. It’s been weeks. This is a long game play.”

Osamu scoffed. “So what? You think it’s some secret, undyin’ love confession?”

Atsumu nodded, smirking. “Or maybe it’s someone right under our noses.”

That’s when they all turned their heads toward Suna.

He blinked. “No.”

“You’re bein’ awfully quiet about all this,” Atsumu pointed out, grin widening. “Kinda suspicious.”

Suna didn’t even blink. “I don’t care enough to do all that.”

“Suspicious,” Osamu agreed, just to mess with him.

Suna sighed. “Go to hell.”

But the team wasn’t done. They spent the rest of the week staking out the gym, watching like hawks every time you left your clipboard unattended. They devised shifts. Shifts. They trailed behind you in the hallways, whispering conspiracies amongst themselves. At one point, they even considered interrogating Kita—only for Osamu to firmly shoot that idea down because “If ya bother him with this nonsense, we’re all dead.”

Their investigation escalated. They started tracking patterns—when the notes appeared, the exact minute snacks were placed. They cross-referenced schedules, trying to narrow down suspects. Ginjima even went so far as to create a messy suspect board in the clubroom, red strings connecting completely unrelated names, post-it notes containing unhinged theories.

“Alright, so if we rule out known variables—” Ginjima began, tapping the board with a marker.

“Did ya seriously make a conspiracy wall?” Osamu asked flatly.

“It’s called evidence, ‘Samu.”

“It’s called insanity,” Suna corrected, lazily eating a rice cracker.

And then, just when tensions were reaching their peak—when Atsumu was this close to breaking into your locker just to “gather more clues”—the answer came crashing down on them in the form of a very cheerful visitor.

“Hey, loser, I got your favorite snacks again!”

You barely had time to turn before a familiar arm was slinging around your shoulder, a plastic bag dangling from their other hand. The entire team froze. You could feel the sheer intensity of their collective stare boring into the back of your head.

Your best friend—your very, very platonic best friend—blinked at the awkward tension in the gym. “Uh. What’s with them?”

You sighed, already knowing where this was going. “They think I have a secret admirer.”

Your friend snorted. “Pfft—you? Please, who would want you?”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Atsumu, standing dumbfounded beside Osamu, made a strangled noise. “You? It was you this whole time?!”

“Duh.” Your friend rolled their eyes. “What, you guys thought someone was trying to date them?”

Ginjima sputtered. “So—wait—you were just—just doing all this platonically?”

You deadpanned. “Yes. That is what friendship is.”

Osamu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Y’all are idiots.”

Suna, who had been unfairly accused, leaned back smugly. “Told you so.”

Atsumu looked personally betrayed. “Weeks—weeks—of stakeouts, of investigation, of tracking patterns—for this?!”

Your friend snickered. “God, you guys need a hobby.”

Kita, passing by without even stopping, simply muttered, “I told you all to drop it.”

Aran chuckled, shaking his head. “All that effort, just for nothing.”

Atsumu groaned dramatically, dropping onto one of the benches as if the weight of the world had just crushed him. “This is devastating.”

Osamu patted his shoulder. “Ya brought this on yerself.”

Ginjima, looking up at his massive evidence board, sighed. “Guess I should take this down.”

Suna, still smug, pulled out his phone. “No, keep it. I’m sending this to the group chat.”

And just like that, the case was closed.

[thefoxtherapist]

Hehe... Now that I have my answer. Mortefi with an S/O that's obsessed with dragons and always fanboys over him. They would constantly be touching his more draconic parts. I can even imagine them rambling about how much they admire jinshi and jiyun because of their connections to dragons which would ultimately make mortefi jealous lol

That's my request if I may :3c

I hope you enjoy this! Have a lovely day :)

Mortefi knew when he got with you that you were a dragon aficionado. You even had a plush toy of a red dragon on your bed that he found sort of ironic and somewhat endearing. Even if you insisted it stayed on the bed when he slept by your side.

But this was ridiculous.

“Did you hear about General Jiyan's success in the field?” You leaned on your hand, sighing softly. “Not to mention how the Magistrate took control of the situation!” You sank in your chair across from your boyfriend who was trying to focus on his lunch.

“Yes, I heard.”

Mortefi bit the inside of his cheek, stabbing his fork onto his salad. “I really admire them so much.” He brought a fork of leaves to his mouth as he listened to you ramble about Jiyan. He was doing his absolute best to not get annoyed.

“And their connections to Jué are so cool… And Jiyan's dragon! I saw it up close while I was at the Riverside Games.” You were completely enthralled with their abilities and personalities and not to mention the connection to-

Mortefi clicked his lighter, the flame shooting upwards, he snapped the lighter closed again. Then he snapped it open. The action served to quell his anger. He knew his was jealous for no reason, but he hated having to sit here and listen to the praise.

Made worse by the fact Jiyan was somebody he considered closer to a friend than a stranger. The lighter clicked again then again. Your eyes lowered to the flame, watching as the man ignited it several times over.

“Are you okay?” 

He closed the lighter again.

“Can we discuss other matters?” He set the lighter down beside his plate. You raised an eyebrow at his annoyed expression, watching him push his glasses up further on his nose. Your eyes dropped down to his chest as if to confirm your theory, and he knew he couldn't hide that reaction from you.

His scales extended slightly over his chest, more than usual, but not an egregious amount like when he really got mad. It dawned on you in such a visible manner that Mortefi looked away in shame, picking his fork back up to casually poke at his salad once more.

Your expression of confusion melted into something else, but he still couldn't quite face you. You exhaled a small giggle, reaching your hand out, you covered his free hand still on the table. His scales pokes through his sleeve and glove and you gently rubbed your thumb over the crystalline matter. 

The scales were warm and bent only slightly under your touch, they weren't as rough as some animal scales, but they weren't soft or malleable either. Mortefi's fingers spread out, letting you touch the expanse of his hand with free reign. You brushed some of the scales downwards, careful not to hurt him by brushing them upwards against their direction.

“You're still my favourite dragon though.”

He muttered your name, pale cheeks slightly tinged pink while he continued to look somewhat annoyed. Mortefi knew if you weren't in a semi public place, your hands would be slipping into his shirt, massaging his skin and stroking his scales. The thought finally led to him meeting your eyes, returning your smile albeit smaller.

“You're so cute when you're jealous~”

“Jealousy is an unpleasant look on me.”

You laughed, opting to interlace your fingers with his. “You were soo important in saving our nation~” You cooed at him, watching him crumble under the sudden loving attention. “That smart head of yours~ The true dragon that's captured my heart.”

He set his fork in his empty plate, bringing his hand up to cover part of his face. “I'm at work..” But that didn't stop your cooing or the silly petnames you'd given him over the years. “Later…” He lowered his hand just enough to try and wave you off. But you squeezed the hand you were holding.

“I might admire them, but you're the one I love.”

“Love you too. Now eat before your food gets any colder.”

“Eh you'd probably just warm it up for me if I asked.” Mortefi made an annoyed face at you. It was true, but you didn't have to say it to his face.

[misericordevn]

any wisdom for devs trying to write their own game soundtracks?

Absolutely!

For one, I encourage everyone curious about writing their own music to just give it a try. Tools and resources are plentiful these days, and chances are that once you get your hands on a DAW you'll realize that instinct can carry you pretty far. If there's a song you like, try and make something that sounds like it. If you like the sound of a loop or VST, try building something around it, even if it's just a few bars to practice. Making music should be fun, and nothing teaches you faster than playing around.

As a counterbalance, make sure to step outside of your comfort zone as well. You can get surprisingly far with music only knowing a few fundamentals or not knowing a lick of music theory, but never let yourself get boxed in by a lack of curiosity. If there's a sound you want to achieve that you can't, challenge yourself to try. Watch videos and read books. Don't run away from scary words like "theory" or "mode".

Finally, the most important part of making music--and this applies to all art, imo--is having interesting taste. Not good taste! Taste is subjective, and what you and I think is good taste might vary. But interesting taste is, if I can be somewhat controversial, a skill that can be considered objectively, and it can be learned.

Somebody who only listens to the mass-consensus best video game soundtracks, even if all of them are fantastic, does not have interesting taste. Somebody who only listens to albums that received an 8.0 or above on Pitchfork does not have interesting taste. Just like I mentioned before, never let yourself get boxed in by a lack of curiosity. Try to find out what your favorite game composers are influenced by, and see if you can spot the elements that stuck out to them in your favorite tracks. Listen to new bands. Listen to old bands! Try to find something you like by revisiting your parents' music taste. Revisit songs or bands you remember hating and try to pinpoint why, or maybe allow yourself to change your mind. Get into classical music by people not named Mozart or Beethoven. Google some music from foreign countries you've never been to. Read about music scenes you've never been a part of. Even if you never directly borrow from anything you listen to, I firmly believe that having an open mind about the music you listen to will train you to have an open mind about the music you make.

[certainmaybe]

Painting the Poster, or why Peeta Mellark is the reason it finally worked

Spoilers for SOTR as well as the rest of the hunger game franchise up to this point

This post is just my personal interpretation / subjective opinion. If you disagree that's 100% valid, and I'd be more than happy to discuss

So, I finished SORT today, and I think it's pretty obvious how a lot of the characters parallel each other. We have the theme of free-spirited covey girls, of victors driven by their need to protect the innocent, of careers regretting their role, etc. Almost every character seems at least mirrored somehow in the narrative, expect one that seems to stick out - Peeta Mellark. While I see a lot of similarity between him and young Haymitch in the way they love, it's impossible to deny that at its core, Katnisses character is way closer to Haymitch than Peeta. They are both fundamentally driven by a desire to protect, though Haymitch does it openly and with out restraint, while Katniss has already been hardened by the neglect and abandonment she faced. But when it comes down to it, they both follow the same instincts. So how does Peeta fit in?

Honestly, I just couldn't figure it out, at least not while I was thinking about the different games as individual stories. But then I thought, this isn't multiple stories. It's one story, one rebellion slowly growing until finally everything was in place, slowly collecting people and different roles until they finally had enough? So, here we go, my theory. Everything you need for the perfect poster.

1 - The Idea

This is less what we need for the poster as it's the reason we paint it. It's people like Lucy Gray Baird or Lenore Dove, people that refuse to fit into the system and force other people to admit that maybe it could or should be different. I also like to count Primrose Everdeen into this category, because even though she doesn't have the same rebellious spirit as the original covey girls, she still is somebody who values kindness and compassion in a world that wants to destroy those things, making her a rebel of her own right, at least in my book. She also serves as motivation for Katnisses fight, which will become relevant during the second point

2 - The Motive

Here we have Haymitch, Katniss, probably countless other tributes, victors and other people that were punished for their bravery. This, if everything works out, is the person you put on the poster. It can't be the idea, because they are natural rebels. People look at them and think, they must be something special, I could never be like this. While the idea gives us something to fight for, the motive is somebody we want to fight with. But because the motive isn't something 'special' on it's own, they need the right idea to make them worth painting. Or, to become a bit less metaphorical, people like Haymitch and Katniss don't just fight for no reason, they fight because they have somebody they love, somebody they fight for, somebody they are willing to break every rule and go against every norm for. This is why we need both the right idea and the right motive, on their own they just don't work.

3 - The Tools

Now we get into the practical side of things. Here we have people like Peetee, like Plutarch, possibly even Wires and very likely a ton of other people. They hardly get noticed once they are done, but they are what makes the whole thing work. The canvas, the paint brushes. It's not glamurous, it might be dirty, but with out it you won't get anywhere.

4 - The Colors

Those are the people that make the motives visible, give them their depth. Finnick, Rue, Johanna, Maysilee and Lulu, the careers, the heroes friends, families, everybody that surrounds them. With out them, we can't see the motive for what they are. We can't see them strong with out somebody to fight, we can't see them caring with somebody to care for, we can't see them as somebody to rely on with out somebody relying on them... you get the point. I could go into even more detail, but the gist is, like you need many different colors for an accurate picture, you need many different people to make a Hero visible

5 - The Artist

And here we have the big finale, the reason that with Katniss and Peeta things finally worked out. Because there are many pictures in the world, but few works of art. And to creat a work of art, you need an artist. Somebody who gets the idea, who knows how to work with all the tools, sees all the colors and most importantly, understands how to make the motive shine. And that's what Peeta did. He looked at Katniss, the way she fought and loved and cared and bled, and decided to make her shine. Other people have tried, Effi and Cinna and Coin, but with out Peeta she would just have been another Haymitch. But Peeta saw her, and understood how to show the whole world how special she was.

[ghostinwinterfell]

so each of the mockingjays—lucy gray, haymitch, and katniss/peeta—will have a book centered around their games once sunrise on the reaping is released. however, my theory is that sotr won’t be told directly from haymitch’s pov. here’s why:

• lucy gray’s story is told through the capitol’s perspective. she is snow’s tribute, his girlfriend, his ghost. the only way that lucy gray gets to write her own story is through her music, which lives on through the other mockingjays long after she disappears. even sejanus, arguably another mockingjay of that era, is entirely at the mercy of snow’s capitol prejudices

• haymitch’s story might be told by someone questioning the games, someone in a position to see through the capitol’s propaganda (ex: plutarch, a career, etc.) it’s the sunrise, the start of a new story, one step closer to understanding the true mockingjay. haymitch doesn’t quite have his own voice yet, but his story isn’t limited to the capitol’s perspective of him.

• katniss gets to tell her own story as a first-person narrator. at last, the mockingjay has a voice of her own. and while peeta doesn’t quite have this same voice, his story is told through a fellow mockingjay, the person who knows him better than anybody in the world. and the other mockingjays of their time? rue? prim? their stories are all told through katniss’s perspective—an equal, a fellow member of the districts, somebody who truly sees them beyond the capitol’s propaganda.

each of their stories (tbosas, sotr, thg) is a progression towards the true story of the mockingjay, or the revolution of panem—from ashes to sparks to flames.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Re: Lack of Raverne in Book 7's ending with all the memories of the people.

I noticed TWST does this thing sometimes where they purposefully won't bring up certain people in parts where they really should be brought up and talked about - or even if they are brought up, they're not really explained in depth - because those people will be revealed/introduced in full later. Case in point: Idia's parents. I remember when Book 6 rolled around, iirc Idia's parents were never mentioned in Idia and Ortho's backstory during the OB, and many fans thought they were neglectful because of it. But then Book 7 rolled around, their parents do get introduced and we see they're nothing but loving and supportive of both their sons, and they were among the MVP's of Book 7.

So perhaps the very noticeable lack of Malleus's father is supposed to be an implication that Raverne is alive, and that we will be seeing him, one way or another, eventually?

coughsinCrowleyisRavernetheory

In all seriousness, that being said, I very much agree with what you said. It's one thing for the game to purposefully not show somebody at a certain time - it's another thing for the game to do so in a situation where not showing them is a plot hole of sorts. Why wouldn't Raverne be where his wife was?? Was he just never in Wild Rose Castle?? I don't think someone has to be dead in order for them to appear as a memory??

[You can read my thoughts on the book 7 finale here!]

The Shroud parents may not have been present in Idia's post-OB flashback, but Idia does talk about them in book 6! It was a combination of their lack of presence in his backstory + the disparaging things Idia said about his parents ("they care more about getting results than their own son's feelings," or something to that effect) that led many fans--including myself--to think that maybe the Shroud parents were neglectful. Then the Shroud parents appear in book 7, and we see that even Mr. Shroud (who was previously described as cold and calculating) is loving, and both Shroud parents are accepting of Ortho. It can feel like a retcon to some people, but to others, this is easily explained by citing Idia's usually negative frame of mind and how that biases how he sees and presents others. I find myself split down the middle, personally. In any case, I don't think it's a good writing choice to just... not bring up people who really SHOULD be brought up. Should you not at least properly foreshadow now or at least remind us of that thread??? It doesn't read as clever to just not address it or even mention it at all, it comes off as shoving plot holes or other important details into the corner and ignoring it in favor of focusing on something else. This happened with the Shroud parents, and it happened with the end of book 7.

adlhbabyoryqe8foia IS THE CROWLEY = RAVERNE THEORY STILL... AROUND... I thought it would have calmed down a little by now, but it seems to still be going as strong as ever. (If this ends up being Real, then I'm of the opinion that Crowley could have had a brief aside or some ominous/telling line foreshadowing this at the end of book 7. Currently, we don't have anything like that.)

I've been thinking about it and thinking about it, and I STILL don't understand how that ending scene logistically worked out. Barring my confusion with how Lilia's UM worked (how are both humans and fae that resided in the castle at different points in time are having peaceful memories there??), why did Maleanor, the Dawn Knight, and Leah appear but not Raverne???? Nameless NPC soldiers showed up too, but not Raverne???? Doesn’t that imply that there is not a single memory associated with Raverne in Castle Wildrose that Lilia can summon OTL B-But surely he was there at least once, seeing as he's a diplomat? Literally described as “her highness Maleanor’s eyes, hands, and feet"???? And that's his WIFE???? Please make this make sense, because it doesn't no matter how much I try to wrap my mind around it 😭

[gachagon]

Concerning your theory on Desmond protecting Eloise and knowing her from before the killing game, I think I found something that could be used as evidence for that.

During his introduction in chapter 0, Desmond phrases the fact he never killed anybody in a specific manner : he says

"I only practice on stationary targets. Moving targets are really outside my comfort zone. Believe me, I've never taken a human life."

He never denies having shot somebody, he only says that he never killed someone, and that he doesn't like moving targets.

That seems to be in accord with the theory that Desmond is protecting somebody from before the killing game, as a bodyguard might not have to do any murdering, simply incapacitating any threats.

As for who he protects, I think the scene where Desmond bring attention to the broken locks.

Eloise is quick to understand what Desmond is doing, defending his decision in front of everyone, saying

"I think I get what he's trying to say. You just want to everyone to be honest with each other... so we can cover all our bases... right?"

afterward, Eloise reacts to both Toshiko attempts to choose herself the pairs, and to Ingrid saying they should separate by gender.

While Desmond can keep his calm as it was already established that he was good staying composed, but Eloise, as is shown in her Free time events.

I would also like to hear your opinion on the theory that the organizers of the killing game are previous ultimates. I think we can prove two, and extrapolate two more.

I think Tozu is clearly the ultimate actor, or maybe playwright. He is quite theatrical, and he often makes literary references, from Horace to the bible. He also, in a Inner World (the scenes when Damon sleeps, taking the place of the monokuma theater), he said :

"that's what we in the industry like to call a "cliffhanger"."

Which implies he is from an industry that uses that term, so some form of media.

Mara is most likely an ultimate soldier, or similar, as she uses guns, and dresses similarly to Mukuro.

The two we can extrapolate don't have name, and one doesn't have any known talent.

The one we don't know anything about is the one mentioned in the Inner world about ships. Tozu mentions a "spindly boy with cream-colored hair". I think he is also part of the killing game organizer, even if we know nothing about him, simply because he is described physically.

The second we can extrapolate is the previous ultimate debater. In Wenona's Free time events, we learn that there was an ultimate debater before Damon, who was also more accomplished than him. I think he is part of the killing game organizers mainly because it would fit the theme, as a previous debater but with a more "important" or "real" talent than Damon.

Oh wow I did not think there'd be more evidence to support the idea of Desmond and Eloise being in some form of alliance, but the more clues people bring up the more I'm kind of convinced of it as well. I also noticed that when Desmond said he'd never "killed anyone", he didn't explicitly say he's never actually shot at a moving target, just that he's not that great at it (which I don't believe lol how could you be the Ultimate Marksman if you can't actually hit a moving target?)

However, I think the point in your second theory could have something to do with it. Damon mentions that nowadays the title of Ultimate is just "given to anyone" and has kind of lost it's meaning. And when you think about it, it makes sense when you really examine each character and how they use their talent. Damon is a debater, but he rarely uses it to argue for himself, choosing to instead use it to argue in favor of other people's points.

Eva was the Ultimate Mathlete, but she was clearly good at other things besides math. So if she wanted to, why didn't this Ultimate talent program give her a different title, or one that could encompass all of her actual talents?

Kai is the Ultimate Influencer, but a lot of the people there don't recognize him at all.

Ulysses is the Ultimate Historian but he doesn't even remember everything, and has to write most of it down.

They all are stuck with a talent but either aren't as great at it as you'd expect, or have something holding them back from really excelling in said talent. I wonder if this Killing Game is being put on by truly great Ultimates who lost their titles to the current cast of characters? Imagine you work hard for god knows how long to get recognition, but you lose it all because some kid who's not even that great at it becomes better anyways lol

And from the way Eva described it, being an Ultimate really dictates how people see you in this society. She wrote a lot of papers on other subjects but they were all ignored because "She's the Ultimate Mathlete" and that's all.

[calaisreno]

Death in the Gingerbread House

by Calais Reno for @lisbeth-kk

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his task, which seems to be placing tiny, blood-red gumdrops inside a house made of gingerbread. He’s wearing magnifying spectacles and using tweezers to reach inside the  walls of his creation. 

John stifles a giggle. “Erm. Are you…?”

“Obviously.” Without moving his head, Sherlock looks over the tops of his glasses at John. 

John moves closer, peering over the walls. The roof hasn’t been attached yet, and he can see inside, where a tiny gingerbread man lies bleeding red icing. 

“I think it was the fox,” he says. 

Sherlock frowns, sets down his tweezers. “What fox?”

“The murderer.”

Sherlock looks like he wants to say something, but can’t quite figure out what that might be. 

“The fox ate the gingerbread man,” John says. “That’s what happens in the story.”

“Our victim has not been eaten,” Sherlock says, picking up a tube of white icing. “He’s been stabbed.” He picks up a tiny dagger (obviously filched from the Cluedo game) and points it at John. “The murder weapon.”

John watches as Sherlock draws a line of icing around the corpse. “He was already dead when somebody stabbed him. There’d be lots more blood if he was alive when it happened.”

Sherlock sets down the icing and regards John. “Mrs Hudson ran out of red food colouring.”

John smiles. “I can run to the shop and get more.” He pulls out his phone and begins typing with one finger.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I’d like to hear your theory about the fox.”

“Okay. We must assume that the fox wanted to eat the gingerbread man. Statistically, gingerbread men are more often eaten than stabbed. The fox offers him transportation across the stream, expecting him to accept. This particular gingerbread man, however, was able to outwit the fox.”

“What evidence has led you to that deduction?” Sherlock is smiling now, reaching for his phone as it buzzes with an incoming message. Looking at it, he laughs. “If gingerbread man has a boat, arrest fox.”

“I think you’ll find a tiny oar if you look in the gingerbread shed,” John says. “As for the fox—”

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “He’s hiding in the shed! We’re going to need more gingerbread…”

A trip to the shop (brown sugar, ginger, cinnamon, butter, vanilla, flour and food colouring) and the baking begins. 

To be continued...

(Right now I need to cut down a tree... 🌲)

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @notjustamumj @copperplatebeech