#this is not against your prompt in ANY way

[straows]

Too perfect.

—in which, Gojo doesn’t want people to know you’re dating him because it’ll fuck up his rep.

A/n: I've been absent for a while, but I think I'll have a few more works coming up soon. Remember to hit up the inbox and request- literally any prompt or any idea, because my brain juice is empty. Dw tho, bc my friend bought shrooms.

Gojo Satoru is 50% nerd and 50% dork. All wrapped up in pale, lanky guy that’s way too tall for his own good.

He wasn’t popular in the normal popular sense. No he was popular among the group of dorks he hung out with.

The kind of guys that were perpetually virgins. The kind of guys that make fun of regular popular kids, taking everyone at face value and assuming they have no problems of their own.

You were one of those popular girls. You weren’t mean. You weren’t loud and obnoxious. No, you were kind and sweet and so pretty it hurt to be around you.

You were the kind of person that had all kinds of friends. You didn’t stick with just one group. You were friends with the sports kids, the theatre kids, the band kids, the fucking chess club, hell you even befriended the goth kids that think popularity is just another form of conformism.

Everybody loved you.

And Gojo was not an exception.

From the moment he saw you walk in late to the first fucking lecture of the semester. All pretty in simple fitted longsleeve and a simple pleated skirt that went mid thigh, a jacket only zipped barely halfway keeping you warm.

“I’m so sorry!” You’d apologize to the professor, who just rolled his eyes and waved you off because it was too early and he was only a few years older than you.

(Live laugh love young professors who dgaf)

And the entire time, his eyes never left you. Gojo was sat in the back, his weird little buddies on either side of him. His glasses pushed too far up, hard messy and his sweat shirt sat awkwardly on his body.

It was like he physically couldn’t look away. Not from the way you’d laugh awkwardly and sit down at a random spot. Regardless of who was next to you, you’d say hi and talk with the neighbor.

You two couldn’t be more different.

Which made the current situation, even weirder.

“Oh fuck,” Gojo mumbled against your lips, hands pawing at your hips, large and squeezing as they slid down to your ass.

One hand cupping his jaw, the other pressed against his chest, nails digging in each time he’d grunt into the kiss.

What was supposed to be a study session, ended up with you on his lap, thighs bracketing his hips and his lips swollen from how he was kissing you.

“We- we should be s-studying—“ Gojo would pant and moan lowly each time your hips grinded against the tent he’d pitched in his pants.

“We’ve been studying, let’s take a break.” You’d murmur against his jaw, pressing kisses down to his shoulder before biting down teasingly.

It started there. And after that night, it only snowballed into a secret relationship.

You were both absolutely head over heels for each other. The first month or so, was perfect. Absolutely amazing.

Sneaking around was fun, and it gave you both an adrenaline rush— you’d kiss when nobody was looking, sneakily hold hands, run off to go hook up in some single bathroom, or hell you’d even snuck him into your dorm more times than you could count.

But it got old.

It got old quick.

“Baby, do we really have to do this whole sneaking around thing?” You whined, slipping back on your clothes.

“Yes.” Gojo didn’t waste a second to answer, his answer firm and sure.

His quick answer hard your heart aching. At first, you’d thought he’d wanted to keep it secret for you, but no.

“Come on, you’ve gotta leave before anyone sees you.” Gojo was hurrying you out the door, but the moment he’d had you out in the hallway, one of his buddies was standing right beside the door.

Blinking slow, surprised to see one of the most popular girls leaving his friends room wasn’t what he was expecting. “Gojo?”

Gojo stared down at him, like he got caught red handed. “Uhh— I was tutoring her.”

“Hi! It’s nice to meet you, I’m—“ you went to shake the guys hand but he just gave you a disgusted glare that had you blinking in surprise.

“Dude why are you even tutoring her? Isn’t it just a waste of time? Not like she’ll even retain any of it.”

Oh. That was really mean. You looked back up at Gojo, expecting him to back you up, but all he did was push you further out into the hallway.

“Yeah, probably was a waste of time.” Gojo was quick to agree with his buddy.

“…” You just stood there for a long moment. “I thought… that you liked me?” You whispered, looking at the ground and sounding so hurt and fragile it had the air knocked out of Gojo’s lungs.

“What are you babbling about? Go do your make up or some shit and get outta our flat.” The guy was waving you off and walking into Gojo’s dorm.

That was the final straw, because the dam broke and tears started to flow. You tried to speak but all that came out was a pathetic little squeak. Your throat tightened and burned, and you were embarrassed. So fucking embarrassed.

Quickly, you turned on your heel and walked down that hallway as fast as you possibly could without breaking into a sprint.

Gojo just watched. He watched with his heart in stomach as you ran off. Running a hand over his face, he groaned. He fucked up— so bad. Knowing he’d hurt you like that made him sick.

But with his friend in his dorm, he just sighed and walked back inside, hoping that his buddy couldn’t smell your perfume still on his sheets.

That night, you went back to your dorm. And cried. Cried so fucking hard that when your roommate got home she thought your dog died.

You cried. And cried. And cried. All night, and stayed cuddled up with your best friend.

And then the day after that, was silence.

Rubbing his eyes, still groggy from the literal three hours he got from sleep, Gojo sat down in his seat. His eyes automatically landing on the back of your head.

He’d tried calling you, maybe 80+ times, sent god knows how many texts. And every single one of them got left on delivered. No call was answered, and hell— he even sent an email just in case.

But all he got was radio silence.

And the entirety of the lecture, he didn’t write down a single note. Hell he didn’t even get out his fucking computer so he could even type.

His eyes were glued to the back of your head. He hardly blinked. He knew he had to talk to you after this class. He wanted to apologize and try to fix whatever he’d broken as quickly as possible.

So when that bell rang, he simply got up, and waited for you outside the door.

But when you came out, you didn’t even look at him. Eyes still a little red and swollen from crying the night before.

“Hey— wait, can we talk?” He grabbed your wrist gently, not expecting you to immediately tug it out of his grip like you did.

“No.” It was a firm, short answer.

Gojo blinked, not used to hearing you talk to him like that. “Please, I really wanna apologize about what happened last n-“

“Gojo. Leave me alone.” You shot him a glare, your bottom lip threatening to quiver as you felt that familiar tightness in your throat, that burn that meant one thing and one thing only— you wanted to cry again.

He couldn’t handle it. It physically hurt to see you like this— to see you literally repulsed by his touch.

“Please! I need to explain— and- and make it up to you—“

“I don’t want anything to do with you! You made it clear that I embarrass you. You let your asshole friend walk all over me and you literally said we studied when we’d just fucked!” You were yelling now.

It was so out of character for you, that literally the hallway stilled and even the profesor stuck his head out the door so he could watch.

“I mean— is that really all you want from me? Just to fuck and then push me out? You said you like me! A lot!” Tears ran down your cheeks and you felt humiliated.

“I do! I like you so much- and I don’t only want you for sex! God— no that isn’t what I want at all,” gojo was struggling to find the words, and all the eyes now on them didn’t make it any better.

“You didn’t want it at all? So what, was this just a point you were trying to make?” Your voice was softer, and you couldn’t have felt more hurt— hell you couldn’t have felt more used than you did now.

“No! God no, please can we just talk in private and—“

“I hate you. I hate you so much, I can’t believe I was in love with you.” You were crying now. Hands trying to wipe your eyes but the tears didn’t stop.

“You were in love with me? You love me?” Gojo’s voice was whisper now, eyes wide and breathless.

“Not anymore.” With one last glare, you pushed past him and walked down the hallway.

He didn’t move. Just stood there. Feeling a sense of loss that he couldn’t even put into words. His shoulders dropped and he just kind of stared at the spot you once stood at.

[jesuistrestriste]

dom!art still taking the strap like a p★rnstar.

cw (18+) : teasing dom!art, eager-to-please sub!reader, brief fingering, choking, pegging, spitting in mouth, handjob, general filth

art pushes his face into the mattress as your soft, willing tongue laps slickly over his hole from behind, his left hand reaching back to grab your shoulder and squeeze it with everything he’s got. he rocks his hips against your mouth and keens when he feels you whimper into his flesh.

“f-fuuuck,” he shudders, “you’re so greedy for me, aren’t you? do i taste good?”

all you can do is nod, too immersed in his taste and his smell and his dirty language. he laughs lowly in response and then hisses like he’s in pain—even if he’s feeling quite the opposite—when you begin to ease two fingers into his tight entrance without permission. you usually have to ask in order to touch any part of him, as he likes the sense of control and you like knowing that your movements are dependent on his say-so, but it just feels like the right moment to open him up. (he’d been prepped perfectly already with just your licking, his cock hard and hanging heavily between his thighs.) he bites at the sheets, the feeling of you beginning to curl the pads of your phalanges down into his prostate punching a broken whine from his lungs. warm spit clings to his bottom lip and chin as he releases the fabric from his teeth to sit up a bit and look over his shoulder. he looks annoyed.

aroused beyond belief, but annoyed.

“that’s enough—no more, or i wont last long enough to take you. come lie down,” he pats the pillows near the top of the bed, “and tighten the harness, it’s slipping.”

you scramble to your feet, easing your touch from his core, and wipe your face with the back of your other hand before you pull at the polyester straps of the strap-on enough to keep it secure. art sprawls himself out on the bedding for just a moment; he lets you stare at his toned, flushed, willing body while you move to lay your frame down. he crawls on top and straddles you afterwards. maneuvers to smush his shaft against the faux rubbery one underneath him. he moans when he frots with it—grinding his leaking tip against yours with even, teasing thrusts. he does it until he starts to shake, his limbs locking up with an impending climax, only to pull back and begin to sit over the dildo without needing your despairing whine as a prompt. your brow pinches reflexively as you watch him devour the inches, one after the other.. he’s a pro by now, but it never ceases to amaze you. he bucks against the fullness. you wonder if it’ll bulge his tummy this time like his dick bulges yours when he’s inside. the way he starts to bounce on it interrupts your flow of thought. he’s slow at first, then ravenous with it. you’re sure that every motion is hitting that special spot in his walls.

“you look like a mess.. and i’m the one getting fucked,” he snickers between whorish groans and whimpers, his hands finding your throat and gently squeezing the sides under his palms, “you like when i ride you? yeah? just like this? fuck, shit—open your mouth—“

you do as you’re told.

is there any other way to respond to him when he gets like this?

you do what he wants you to do, or you don’t get the satisfaction of pounding him until he’s gone mushy in the head. it’s a transactional process that you’re more than willing to work through.

as soon as your jaw is slacked, your eyes fluttering, he leans in and purses his pout. a glob of his saliva is slowly spat over your tongue like sugary honey. you can hardly take it. your hands fist the sheets and you writhe beneath his weight at the viscous fluid dulling your senses. the flavor is so him, slightly minty from the gum he always chews. he taps the underside of your chin when he’s finished letting it drip. he licks his bottom lip to be rid of the remnants.

“swallow.”

and you do—you want nothing more. he sits upright again and splits himself open harder on the toy bound to your pelvis. each time he slides down it, you get to watch as his abdomen curls and his blonde locks are strewn about his forehead. he tightens his hold on your neck just enough to remind you who’s really in charge, and his length jumps in response to the resulting look that crosses your face. you mewl when it dribbles glassy precome like a river; it glosses over the throbbing vein running down the underside of it. a sound that’s a mix between a shout and a sob then escapes his chest.

“god, i’m close,” his hips stutter in their efforts, his blue eyes shielded by low lids, “c’mere—“

he takes one of his hands from your body and reaches it down to take one of yours that’s still grasping at the sheets. he guides your limp fist to wrap around the base of his cock, keening as he starts to hump it.

“touch me—jerk me off.. fuck.. that’s it—that’s good—don’t stop.. beg me to come for you..”

the heat in your gut swells and contracts in time with his noises and his movements, your hand pumping him quickly to aid his consumption of the pleasure he’s being abundantly given. your thumb swipes over his tip, you can tell it aches. he jolts forward at his sensitivity, dazedly moving both of his hands to your chest for leverage, and you dig your heels into the mattress to help you rut up forcefully into his ass. he almost screams.

you beg. you slur out a multitude of pathetic, indulgent sentences that spur on the wave of ecstasy about to crash into his figure. ‘please, come on my strap’ and ‘i’m begging you to let it all go for me, let me watch you lose it’.

it does the trick. in fact, it does it perfectly. everything snaps.

he topples forward with a sudden wail; brows furrowing and thighs quaking and back arching in an unbelievably filthy manner. his legs begin to close as the pleasure floods in and squirts from his erection in several bursts—the ropes coat your fingers and dribble over his stomach like fresh milk. still riding the toy, he digs his calloused touch into the sides of your torso, his fingers moving there in the midst of his orgasm. he hangs his head as he pants.

“fuck, i’m coming,” he gasps, growling afterward as if the sensations are causing his hair to stand on end, “keep stroking me, i’m still—yeah—god, you’re my favorite way to get off..”

you can tell that he means it, that the intoxicating effect of his release isn’t making him drunk enough to be insincere. you pump him until he seizes up and starts to hiccup. when the overstimulation becomes too much, he drops himself on top of you in a boneless heap; a sweaty, spent, satisfied mess of a man. the strap-on is still buried in his heat, and his cock is softening rapidly, but he shows no sign of moving anytime soon.

he reaches up quietly and cups your cheek, brushing his nose against it. you can feel him swallow down a jumble of words before his final ones sound out lowly and tenderly.

the way you like them, and the way he knows you need them.

“good job.. you did so well for me, thank you. give me a few, and then i’ll let you have what you really want.”

there's no need to place any bets on his integrity; you know he’ll keep his promise.

he always does.

tags : @voidsuites @asheepinfrance @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @andyrambles @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist

[shroomyv]

1st sunrise together

(not your last)

Remmick x female reader (one shot)

A/N: alr people…I haven’t written in months…finally tryna start writing again and stop trying to make story perfects and put out what I enjoy writing and not what I think evb else needs or wants from me. On that note thanks for 300+ followers wtf. Also uh this is my first sinners fanfic (def won’t be my last) so bear with me pls. Just a lil short thing for you guys. Once again, sorry if this was mid, took a small ass prompt and extended it sorry. Comments and reblogs are appreciated (I love talking to u guys sm)

Summary: you and Remmick have been around each other for a bit. Getting comfortable in ways you live, love and do things. Your guard is always up but his has begun to go down. What happens if one day you aren’t on a hunt with him cause he makes you stay home and does something different. “You’re just paranoid—that won’t happen.” Is what he tells you all the time. 9 times out of 10, you’re right.

WC: 2.6k

Warning: death, angst, lil cringe, fic moves rlly fast, little terrible world building moments, mentions of blood, mentions of religion (holy water, is that a mention?), mentions death, mentions of gunshots and guns.

It'd already been 3 years since his teeth seeped into your neck.

They drained your body of blood and brought you back to life—just with a few changes and tweaks to the way you were able to live out life now.

The man who bit you, your husband, Remmick. He stayed by your side just as he promised before you allowed him to bite you.

He cared for you just as you asked and needed, and you tried to return the favor whenever possible.

He made sure all your needs and wants were met as soon as he could make it happen.

If you were hungry, he’d make sure you’d get full. If you wanted to be held, he’d carry you. If you wanted to hear music or dance, he’d crack out that banjo and get to playing.

He made sure to keep you as happy and protected as he possibly could.

You two typically had a nightly ritual of going to get bodies to feast on to cure your hunger if you weren’t tending to each other's wounds from the night prior or relaxing after a passionate night.

Whenever you two went out hunting, you had a sort of ritual of burning down the houses once you were done with the bodies. You were a no-evidence kind of girl, he didn’t understand why, and thought he wasted time waiting for the sun to come up—you just couldn’t care and continued to burn whatever house you two raided.

You two had different ways about how you dealt with business. Whatever way you dealt with it, you knew it was always better when it was two of you dealing with it instead of one suffering with the issue alone.

Out of the two of you, one of you almost always got roughed up by the end of the night if a human was fighting back from you trying to bite them.

This night, it was you.

Remmick was pissed, livid actually. You don’t think you’d ever seen him take greater pleasure in killing someone, ever, once he finished killing whoever put a few bullets in you.

“You need to relax…” You said “yer getting worked up over nunin'’ you know I’m gon heal so just breathe and relax.”

You tried your best to calm him down—you hated when he was constantly worked up, especially over things you considered small. He didn’t consider you getting hurt a “small thing” to him; it was a big issue.

You grabbed onto his suspenders, pulling him back into the bed with you.

“It ain’t no small thing…sure you’ll be fine in a week but y’know how much I hate seeing you hurt.” He said, voice sounding all pissed but trying to relax it to not worry you.

he was still on the issue and you didn’t mind it as long as he stopped working himself up over it.

Your forehead pressed against his—you two sharing any warmth you possibly could to each other. His arms began wrapping around your back like a snake, holding onto you like he never wanted to let go.

You winced for a second as he got ready to let go, but you wrapped your arm around him so he wouldn’t try and move away.

“Remmick…stop worryin’.” You gave him a reassuring smile as he kissed your face softly.

“You can’t tell me to stop worryin’.” He said

“And why is that?”

“‘Cause ya do the exact same thing.”

“Hm…well, it’s ok when I do it.”

He just rolled his eyes at you—finding what you had to say was unfair but knew he could argue against it because he’d lose anyway.

You two were always worried back and forth, taking turns on who would be the one panicking for the night. It was mostly you so you had gotten used to it but whenever it was him you wanted him to relax and not press the issue.

Your head still pressed against his as you two took in each other and every feature. Your arms still wrapped around his body, and his still wrapped around yours…

A few moments of silence filled the air before Remmick finally spoke again.

“You gon eat tonight…you ain't touched nothin’ since we last went huntin’.”

He squeezed your hand—getting your full attention as this was his way of telling you he had to go out.

“Well, let me get on up.” You said.

Before you could get off the bed—he leaped up and stood in front of you.

“No darlin’.” He said, “you gon stay here and rest.”

“We don’t really need sleep….besides, I’ll be patched up in a day or two at most.” you said

You began to look him up and down—what he said was silly to you, and you didn’t agree to it at all. You tried to stand again, but this time he put his hands on your shoulder, keeping you down for a second.

“Remmick…”

“Please, jus’ stay here…I’ll be back, promise.” He said softly.

Your eyes and his met as he was giving that same little pleading stare that a puppy would give you when it did something wrong.

You just huffed—you were annoyed you couldn’t go with him, but if he wanted you to rest that badly and promised that he’d come back, you’d just stay put for the night.

“Fine, Remmy.” You said

You pulled him in by his suspenders, giving him a kiss. He quickly returned it as you let go of his suspenders and he leaned in closer pushing you down on the matress a bit more.

You broke the kiss to speak.

“Uh, Remmy, don’t you have food to be getting? You're on a time limit with that sun.” You said teasingly.

He just cleared his throat before pulling himself up.

“Right, yes.” He said, “When I get back though, I want more of whatever that was gon’ be.”

You just chuckled as you watched him leave out of the door into the night.

A few minutes had passed before you stood up to do some house chores—thought you might as well pass the boredom with some work.

You walked around the house as it felt a little lifeless without Remmick there—you knew he’d be back soon as promised, but you were just as impatient as he was.

While you were walking around, your eyes were jumping onto every object, seeing if anything needed cleaning or if it was out of order.

Your eyes finally came to the nightstand, and you saw nothing wrong at first glance till you looked back.

A box of matches, your box of matches was still there…

That same box of matches you used to get rid of any evidence whenever you two went out.

“Shit.” You murmured.

Your mind racing with worry as per usual about him. You told him you’d stay put, but you had a certain way of doing things, and you didn’t want to stray away from the usual.

You just swallowed down whatever worry you had in your throat. He could handle himself, he lived this long without you, he’d be fine.

hours had begun passing—you knew the sun was gonna be up sooner than later.

That worry you swallowed down began climbing right back up your throat. Pacing back and forth around the room like a madman, you had not a clue where he was.

You were ready to leave and try and find him yourself until a loud, frantic bang caused you to get up and dash to the door.

As soon as you opened it, you saw him.

Remmick—beaten up and bruised. A few gunshot wounds, blood all over his face and body, rips to his clothes, and nasty gashes and cuts on his face.

You knelt to where he sat, trying to pull him back up to his feet. You had nothing to say in the moment—your top priority was getting him to safety and patched up.

Remmick stood up with your help as you examined his face. He grabbed your hand tight, stopping you as he needed your full attention.

“We gotta go.” He said, “We gotta go right now, darlin’.”

You just nodded—you got ready to turn back into the house to grab a few things before you heard screaming and gunshots. People were out hunting and searching for you.

“Ain’t no time,” Remmick said as he grabbed you by the back of your dress.

You were dragged out by your back until he released it—you two dashed through the woods.

It was pretty rare for you two to be haunted when you were usually the ones doing the hunting. Sadly for you two, it was more of them and not enough time to fight back. You just needed to run and find shelter.

“Remmick, why ain’t you bring them damn matches.” You murmured but he heard every word.

“Thought I wasn’t gon need em, clearly it was a full house. I’m sorry, let’s just get out of this then you can yell at me later.” He said

His hand grabbed onto yours tightly, running through the woods with you, trying to find any safety. If you two weren’t on the brink of getting murdered—you’d consider it romantic.

Gunshots flying into trees as bullets miss you two. Water splashing as whoever was chasing you tried to fling holy water on you. You two just gave each other that soft-eyed look before you kept running.

He wanted to keep you safe—he promised to keep you safe.

Now he was falling short on his promises.

You didn’t care—as long as you were with him,, you considered yourself safe. You just kept running until you bumped into him and realized he came to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” You shouted.

You just looked up and saw the moon was going down. Sun was just coming up quicker and quicker.

“Remmick, we can find some place to go, cmon.” You said, “We just gotta go, cmon.”

He quickly pulled you to the side—you two now under a tree, trying to think of anything to get yourself out of the situation. You could deny it all you wanted, but there was nothing more that could be done in that moment.

“I didn’t take them matches—didn't do things the at we usually do it. Now I messed it up.” Remmick spoke in a wimpy sort of tone.

“Remmick, I’m not about to scold you for this.” You said, “atleast not right now. So relax we gotta get out of this ok?”

He was used to you scolding him for the small things, and any other time you would’ve, but now it was life or death. If it just so happened to be death, you weren’t about to spend your final moments scolding him. You just pressed your head against his hoping that time would freeze for you just for a second and it felt like it did.

You started to cry—he wanted to cry. He had broken his promise, he said he’d always keep you safe, always make sure you were protected.

The sun wasn’t slowing down for anyone, it was gonna come up eventually. The hunters drew closer, and little tears became flowing pools of water.

“I broke my promise—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He murmured.

He tried his best to calm you down while he was panicking himself. He began holding you tighter, but the sun began to shine through the leaves on the tree. You two didn’t have much longer. You were either gonna die by the sunlight burning you to ash, or die by the hands of hunters that weren’t finished off.

“Remmick.” You said in a stuffy tone

You swallowed down your tears as best as you could for a second to talk.

“I know you said you keep me safe, and you think you broke the promise.” You said, “If you wanna make it up to me, just keep one promise you made.”

You two began curling into each other tightly as he held onto you as best as he could. His skin took the majority of the burns from the sunlight as he tried his absolute best to protect you from the heat that was coming.

“And which one is that?” He asked

“Staying with me.” You said, “and I want you to stay with me…and watch the sun rise.”

His head lifted up,, and so did yours. His eyes were weak and questioning what you just said. He couldn’t believe this is what you were saying but he knew you two didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Cmon.” He said

He grabbed your hand, leading you out of the woods into the open sunlight. You two were met by a river—memories filling your mind of all the times you two went there at night. Your life with him was flashing before your eyes.

The hunters were here, and so was the sun. You drowned out their screams to catch you guys—you were so focused on him and the burning pain that flowed through your body that you couldn’t give two shits.

His hand stayed clasped onto yours—you two burning up quicker than you were before. Smoke coming from your body as if you were food being cooked and prepared.

You two finally reached the lake. Feet soaking in there as if the water was gonna save you but you knew it was over—your forehead just pressed his as you began to cry weakly, and he just held onto you tighter and tighter.

Memories flowing through your mind of the life you had with him.

That first time you met, the time he turned you every promise he made, every kiss you shared, every passionate night you two enjoyed, every meal shared, every life taken.

It all rushed through you faster than ever before.

You never expected it to be so short, you wanted it to be longer. Remmick spoiled you rotten—because you’d forgotten you can’t just get everything you wanted.

Tears and screams of agony still left your face as he held onto you tight—he held you tightly in that same warm embrace he always did. He tried to calm you down as best as he could, giving you comfort in whatever way he could in the moment. It only helped so much.

Both of you sizzling and burning alive by the second, smelling like rotting meat and flesh, getting ready to be thrown out. Your flesh melting to his at this point, you two were becoming one, except this time, it was physically.

Remmick kissed you softly on the forehead before speaking.

“I’ll meet you again—next life, we’ll try again. I’ll keep you as safe as I can, and I'll love you jus’ like I did in this life. Promise.”

You just looked at him, and the ash began to surround both of you. You were silent—taking in your final breaths as you knew your time on earth was over.

Hunters could’ve came in that water at any time and put a stake in your backs—they just stayed in the woods, watching what they caused all go down and finish.

You ignored them, eyes just stuck on Remmick and how his body was melting away right before you. Memories of how you would patch him up whenever he was like this flowing through your mind as you were silent.

You just felt weak, you couldn’t save him, and this time he couldn’t save you.

“You gotta respond, give me something,” he said, “Don’t let these last few seconds be silent. Speak to me, say whatever’s on your mind..”

He gave those same pleading eyes that he would always give to you when you were mad or he wanted you to reason with him.

His crumbling hand reaching towards you face to wipe off the tears as best as he could before you spoke again.

“I’m scared.” You said

“Me too.” He replied

For one second it was dead silent before you picked back up the conversation speaking again.

“Promise I’ll be patient, but you keep your word, Remmick.”

“I will,” he said, “I promise I will, darlin’.”

Foreheads pressed together one final time. He gave you a smile and you returned one until your lips met–whatever was left of them, at least. He began humming a soft tune painfully. He tried to hide any sadness he had in the moment from you, and you respected it.

He just hummed soft melodies that he would play or sing for you whenever you were home with him to comfort both of you as you were ready to leave this body.

You got to see a sunrise with him–and what made it even better was the fact you’d get to see more with him in the future.

The ash of both your bodies wisped away in the wind, but not a single spec of dust separated.

You’d be reunited soon.

You'd just have to be patient, like he asked.

Just like you promised.

[moonstruckme]

hey, hope you're doing well! i scrolled through your blog for an hour and it feels so safe! i love love your writing! i was wondering if you could write something for reader x sirius?

compared to my family, i get a lot of dreams and most of them are nightmares (especially about death and/or murder). like, sometimes it's lifeless eyes staring at me and blood hardened on the carpet or sometimes it's a dead, rotting body hanging from a tree inches away from my face. and because me and my family don't have that "how did you sleep?" convo most of the time, (and because they don't just don't discuss their dreams) idk who to share this stuff with and it ruins my whole day + makes me uncomfortable and scared to sleep.

sorry, that's long but i was wondering if you could write something with that? like, the reader struggles/deals with that x sirius? no pressure! you can deny it if you want!

thanks★

Thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: nightmares, semi-vague gore (not real, just mentioned)

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 710 words

The moon is at just the right place in its journey to let its light in through your kitchen window. It casts your home in hues of silvery grey as Sirius’ footsteps pad down the hall. His bleary eyes scan the room, quieting when they settle on you.

“Hi.” Your voice comes out quiet, though neither of you is sleeping anymore. “Sorry, did I wake you?” 

Sirius shakes his head. He pulls out the chair next to yours. His movements look heavy, like he dragged himself out of sleep to come find you and he’s still dragging now. “It was just cold,” he mumbles. 

Right. So, yes, but indirectly. 

“Sorry,” you say again, voice petering off into a shamed whisper. 

“Mmph, you should be.” You know Sirius is joking, though he says it grouchily, tetchy in the way he often is after first waking up. He props his elbow on the table and his cheek on his fist. “Thirsty?” 

You follow his gaze to the cool glass cupped between your palms. You’ve been drawing squiggles in the condensation, but you’ve not had one sip of it. Your throat feels too tight. 

“A little,” you say. 

Sirius sighs. It’s a soft sound, but still you look over feeling guilty, only to be surprised when his eyes are warm with affection. 

“Why are you out of bed, sweetheart?” he asks gently. “You’ve been gone awhile.” 

You feel worse thinking that Sirius had been waiting for you, though really you should have guessed. It would have taken him a while to peel himself out from underneath the covers, dragging his sleep-heavy self all the way into the kitchen. Just to find you. 

“Bad dream,” you admit in a murmur. 

“Yeah?” he prompts.

“I didn’t want to accidentally fall back asleep.” 

Sirius' chair scoots a tiny bit closer to yours. You’re sure he wants to be subtle about it, but that’s impossible when it scrapes loudly against your kitchen floor. A curl of amusement warms your insides. Sirius touches his leg to yours as though it hasn’t happened, an innocent, grounding touch. 

“What was it about?” he asks. 

You shrug. “Not really anything. There was a lot of gore, mostly. Dead bodies, people's brains spilling out, very…” You swallow. “Very detailed.” 

Sirius grimaces. “Sounds messy.” 

“It made me feel a little sick,” you murmur, looking back down into your glass. Moonlight wavers on the surface. 

“I’m sorry.” Sirius’ knee nudges closer to yours. He sounds, for all the world, like he really means it, and he also sounds a bit helpless. His free hand finds your thigh, thumb drawing back and forth over your skin. “That doesn’t sound like any way to relax at the end of the day, hm?”

You exhale a little laugh. It does some to loosen up the blockage in your throat. “Not really.” 

“Think you’ll be able to go back to sleep tonight?” 

“Not really.” 

“Okay.” 

You look at him. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” Sirius repeats, steady. Moonlight shines on his face, making his eyes look a paler blue. “We won’t go back to bed.” 

“You can go.” 

His lips curl. “As if it’s any good without you. No, you won’t get rid of me that easily. I go where you go, doll.” 

“I don’t want you to miss out on sleep because of me,” you murmur, remorseful. 

“We’ll sleep early tomorrow.” Sirius comforts you with a kiss to your shoulder. His lashes are still drooping with fatigue, but he looks genuinely unperturbed. “Do you want to have a shower?” 

You frown. “A shower?” 

“Yeah. You know, to get all the gore off.”

You frown deeper. 

“The metaphorical gore.” Sirius does a vague waving gesture with his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, you look and smell lovely, just, I thought it might help. We don’t have to.” 

“Oh, so we’re both getting in this shower?” you ask, something like a smile tugging at your lips. 

Half of Sirius’ mouth quirks up lazily. “Didn’t you hear me? I go where you go.” 

“I appreciate your concern,” you say, “but I don’t think I need your help getting off the metaphorical gore. Unless you wanted to join for other reasons.” 

“I’m sure I’ll think of something by the time we get in there.” 

[leighsartworks216]

hihi could you possibly do the prompt:

“come inside, you’re soaked...here, let me get you warm.”

with sylus pls?? love your work <3

@leiakitty Finally figured out how I wanted to write the end and I love it so much honestly <333 I also changed the phrasing of the prompt a little to sound more natural

Prompt from this list

First - Second - Third - Fourth LADs Masterlists

The world couldn't be any more against you today. It seems like anything that could go wrong did go wrong. Your last safe house, last chance of turning the day around, lay in the N109 Zone, and a storm has already flooded the sky.

You can't even be bothered to park your bike in the underground garage. You just prop it up on its kickstand by the door, drop your helmet alongside it, and knock until you're sure someone's coming to answer. The rain slides off your leather riding gear, but after riding through it all the way from Linkon, it's seeped through every crack and gap it can find. Even your boots squelch with water.

The door opens to your salvation. Sylus glances you up and down, but he doesn't tease. Doesn't say anything about checking the weather. Doesn't make any quip. He just steps aside, door wide open.

"Come inside, sweetie. You're soaked."

You stomp in past him and waste no time kicking off your boots, accidentally spilling water out onto the floor. The door shuts behind, blocking out the torrents and white noise. Hands join in your efforts to undress, pulling off your jacket and gloves, even helping you out of your pants, until you're just left in your shirt and underwear, still wet and cold, in a puddle.

He lifts you up effortlessly. Cradles you close to him, right up against his sweater. It's warm and soft, and you relax into it, into him. This is exactly what you came for. Exactly what you needed after today. And Sylus is more than happy to provide; pamper you until you can forget it all, safe and secure with him.

The base is homey; homier now since you've come along. Every room you pass, blankets splay on the chairs, trinkets litter shelves, half-read books and more of your belongings encroach on the dark, moody decor. His bedroom is where it's most obvious. The way his bed is laid out for two people instead of just a huge bed for one. The spare socks balled up on the coffee table. Plushies everywhere. He revels in every new addition, every new hint of your presence you leave behind in his home.

He walks through to the ensuite bathroom. The space heater is already working, chasing away the chill. He sits on the edge of the tub with you in his lap. With one arm, he starts the water, letting it fill up the tub behind him. In the meantime, he circles his arms around you and rests his head against yours as you hide your face in his neck. Your nose is cold against his skin.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks gently.

You hum a negative.

He rubs your back. Kisses your head. He doesn't ask again, doesn't pry. You're sure he already knows; Mephisto is becoming easier and easier for you to spot wherever you go.

"Jus' wanna forget today ever happened," you murmur.

He hums. "I can do that."

The tub fills up. He turns off the water, and presses a button on the side for the jets. Bubbles erupt from the water, creating a soothing ripple of sound. The beckoning promise of relaxation.

He helps you finish undressing, and lowers you into the bath himself. Heated water caresses and massages over your aching muscles. You sigh immediately and sink deeper into it, closing your eyes to the world and its cruelties.

He settles on the floor behind you. Strong hands gently wash your hair, soaking it in the water and scratching your scalp as he adds your shampoo. Conditions it to perfection. He's methodical as he washes you next, lathering aromatic soap along your shoulders and back, your arms, your chest and belly, your legs. His position shifts around the tub as he cares for you, but he makes no show of complaint. He enjoys it too much. Seeing you lose more and more of the day's tension and stress with each tender touch.

He comes around behind you again. Calloused hands carefully massage your shoulders and neck. His nose presses against your temple as he slowly peppers little kisses to the side of your face.

You reach behind you, tangling pruny fingers into his soft hair. You angle your head, lazily finding his lips to share sleepy kisses.

"Feel better?" he murmurs.

You hum. "I'm still cold," you lie.

He grins against your lips knowingly. "Oh, are you?"

"Can't you feel me shivering?"

His hands rub down your arms, which remain warmed by the heated tub. His eyes are warm with affection as he presses one last kiss to your lips and sits back on his knees. "How could I be such a cruel boyfriend to let my love freeze right before my eyes? Here, let me warm you up."

You giggle, sitting up to watch as he pulls his sweater overhead and tosses it aside. He smirks playfully as he unbuttons his shirt, making a little show of it, just to see you smile. He has to stand to remove his pants, dropping his belt and socks into the pile before he slips them off. He purposefully puts his back to you, looking over his shoulder to watch you admire his butt before he removes his underwear, too.

He gets into the bath across from you. His back rests up against the side, water only reaching halfway up his chest. He opens his arms for you. You happily cross the distance. You settle against him, held by strong arms to his chest. Your head on his shoulder, face in his neck, legs tangled together, arms wrapped around his waist and fingers rubbing patterns into his lower back. Here, you're finally at peace. Finally away from all the awful things of the day.

He presses a kiss to your forehead before he rests his head atop yours. You can feel him relaxing in the hot water, too, becoming less tense just holding you in his arms. Maybe he needed this just as much as you did.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart."

[pxpecxdy]

I love these prompts!!

What about 31 & 91 with my beloved pope 🥰

Maybe she’s a friend of the family’s and they have a secret relationship or they just started fucking or something idkkk

She doesn’t think anyone will realise that it’s pope shirt though, and just wants to smell like him 😍 idk I picture him getting all blushy but also proud when people realise

"Is- Is that Pope's shirt?"

Maybe this was a bad idea. Sleeping with your boss's brother only a week after getting hired. You needed the money. But you also needed that scary looking guy to fuck the daylights out of you. And he did.

He's in the shower when you need to leave for work. Your shirt didn't survive the night, a few buttons flew off when neither of you could wait any longer to touch each other. You eye the lavender shirt hanging on the back of the door.

"Gotta head out, I nicked your shirt on the way out - hope you don't mind!" You call out to him as you head out the door.

Work has been easy so far, just Craig and Deran and a few regulars. Day shifts during the week are always the easiest. Not a lot of tips but Deran paid well. The whole day Craig kept looking at you but not in his usual way of checking you out. There weren't any flirtatious jokes or anything. He was studying you.

A few hours into the shift Pope walked into the bar. Deran was trying to have a serious conversation with his brother when Craig smacked his arm and interrupted him.

"Dude is- is that Pope's shirt?" He pointed to you at the bar. Pope was leaning against it while talking to you. Clearly was the most he's ever talked to any of the bartenders before. His face tinged pink when your hand brushed his and you handed him a bottle of beer.

He walked over and sat with his brothers, the two just stared at him. "What?" He barked at his younger siblings.

"Are you fucking the new girl?" Craig yelled out loud enough for you to hear despite being across the room. "Dude I told you I had dibs!" Craig sighs as he tilts back in his chair.

[hischiershoe]

Friends to lovers with Quinn I beg… I luv a slow burn.. ur the best🫶

With this prompt: 04. "you sure this looks fine?" "trust me, you look fine as hell…

tysm for requesting, i hope you like it!!

no warnings! just cute awkward quinny boy

Quinn's been buying his own suits for years now. Well, sort of on his own. He always begs you to come along with him under the guise that he needs an extra pair of eyes. When you'd asked him why he didn't ask one of the guys, he was quick to brush you off with a nervous excuse about how 'their fashion taste isn't as good as yours'.

In reality, Quinn just wanted to spend time with you in any capacity that he could, and you would never turn down an opportunity to see him. Despite the two of you only ever labeling the other as friends, you both knew there was something else between you lying just beneath the surface. It wasn't a matter of if it would ever come to light, it was merely a gamble of when it would.

His suit for the NHL awards was no exception to the undeclared rule between you, and that is exactly how you ended up on an uncomfortably expensive couch waiting for him to come through the curtain in his newly tailored suit. You were tiktok mid-scroll when you heard Quinn's muffled curses from the dressing room, and you were instantly on your feet and making your way towards him.

"Quinn," You call out, not wanting to pull back the curtain in case he was indecent, "Is everything okay?"

"I can't tie this damn tie the right way," He grumbles, his voice laced with frustration and annoyance.

"You want me to do it," You earnestly ask, your features softening though he can't see you, "I used to help my brother with his all the time."

You hear him let out a quiet sigh of relief, quickly followed by the curtain being pulled to the side so that you're able to see him entirely. Your breath gets caught in your throat as you take him in, admiring the way the suit clings to him because it was made perfectly to his body. It takes every ounce of your willpower to shake off the urge to stare, and to step into his space as he holds the tie out towards you.

"I don't usually wear ties," He awkwardly mumbles, shifting his gaze anywhere but on you.

"I know you don't," You softly chuckle as your fingers work with the material, "I think you should, though. They look nice."

Being so close to Quinn made your heart thud in your chest, it made it almost impossible to focus on tying it the correct way and pulling the cloth the right way. At one point, someone rushed behind you and Quinn was quick to move you out of their path by pulling you flush against him. The moment was short, gone almost as quickly as it had arrived, but it still made every nerve in your body fire off at once until your ears were ringing.

"Sorry," He bashfully apologizes as you tighten the knot of his tie.

"No worries," You reassure him, glancing at him before you step away, "You're all tied up. It looks good."

Quinn's cheeks redden at your compliment, but he doesn't say anything as he turns around to look at himself in the mirror. You stay a couple of feet away from him, watching as he smooths out his suit jacket and messes with its cuffs. Watching him check himself out made you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from giggling, but it made the warm feeling in your chest blossom.

"Are you sure it looks fine," He calls out over his shoulder.

"Trust me, Q. You look fine," You nod before your voice falls a few octaves and you whisper, "As hell."

"What was that," He fully turns towards you with his face twisted in slight confusion.

"I just said you looked fine. You look great, I promise. You'll easily be the best looking guy there," You vow with an encouraging smile on your face, "Now, change outta that so we can get that coffee you promised me."

"Okay, okay," He holds his hands up in mock surrender as he backs up towards the dressing room.

He steps back into it and pulls the curtain behind him, and it is only then that you let yourself take a deep breath. You sink back into the seat you had occupied before and focus on trying to get your heart rate to settle down, but you knew that wasn't going to happen until you had been dropped off at your apartment. Quinn always had that kind of effect on you, no matter what he was doing or where the two of you were.

After Quinn talks with one of the salespeople, he's got his suit protected in some fancy bag and the two of you are walking out of the shop and to his car. You weren't sure if you were imagining things or not, but it felt like he was walking closer to you on purpose. His hand and shoulder kept brushing against yours, sending jolts of electricity throughout your body with each passing touch, and it was driving you crazy.

Neither of you say anything while Quinn puts his suit in the back and you climb into the passenger seat. When he finally turns the car on, you're too busy focused on queueing up the best songs that you miss the way he was looking at you. His fingers were nervously drumming against the steering wheel, and his mouth kept dropping open like he wanted to say something, he just wasn't sure what.

"Do you think they'll have the new- What is it," You cut yourself off when you notice him, "Is something wrong?"

"Yes. Wait, no," He shakes his head before running his hand through his hair, "Nothing's wrong. It's just- Do you maybe want to go out with me? Like on a date?"

You blink once, twice and your jaw goes slack as his words echo in your skull. Quinn just asked you out. Quinn Hughes asked you out on a date.

Finally.

"Yeah," You softly smile at him, "I'd love to go on a date with you."

[ddarker-dreams]

Mutual Destruction.

Yan Anaxagoras x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, teacher-student dynamics (anaxa's your prof), power imbalance, drugging (anaxa slips you an aphrodisiac), allusions to fearing pregnancy, not SFW, heavily dubious consent. Word count: 5k.

Earlier, you discovered an inconspicuous note within your belongings. The following message was inked inside: 

Meet me in my private quarters at the Curtain-Fall Hour’s first quint. Tardiness is unacceptable. 

There was no signature to indicate who left it. The paper was of fine quality, you doubt your fellow students had any of this caliber in their possession. They’d be remiss to tear and treat it roughly if they did. The presumptuous command served as your best hint. Only one person in the Grove spoke to you that way — Anaxa. Normally, you’d recognize his neat script, but this was scrawled, nearly illegible.

Ever since then, dread has followed you like a ghost haunting the living. 

The note’s vague nature dredged up the worst your brain could offer. You’re always doing what you can to keep your capricious professor placated, but this doesn’t bode well. You can’t recall doing anything to earn his misplaced ire. In public, you keep to yourself, engaging in the bare minimum amount of socialization necessary to continue your studies. He’s never raised an issue with this conduct before, aside from some dry remarks.

It’s possible — though unlikely — that you’re overthinking matters. Perhaps he was in a hurry and failed to consider how you’d interpret the abstract order. As much as you wish this were the case, Anaxa isn’t the type to act without a distinct purpose. He’s meticulous in any endeavor he undertakes, especially when you’re involved. 

Nightfall brings a hush over the Grove. Beneath Cerces’ solemn gaze, scholars scorn twilight’s intended purpose, continuing their work against their circadian rhythm’s wishes. No one pays you any mind as you skitter about. Before long, you’re navigating the hallway that leads to Anaxa’s chambers. Every step closer elevates your heart rate. You’ve been so preoccupied with determining your potential transgression that you’ve neglected to craft an approach. 

Should you claim ignorance? Beseech his favor? Form a hill worth dying on with careful rhetoric? 

Your knuckles hover above the door. 

You feel woefully underprepared, like you’re walking into a test you did none of the reading for. Is it too late to retreat? Bide your time, returning when the playing field has evened? If only. You deride yourself for entertaining such naïveté. You have to address this now, before the wound festers, necessitating amputation. You’re still on time. This has to be salvageable, Anaxa’s too sweet on you to set you up for total failure… 

… Right? 

Complex mechanisms whirr into action, opening the door without your prompting. Startled by the spontaneity, you remain immobile as if you’d been turned to stone. 

“Come in,” The beast brooding in his lair invites. “Dawdle any longer and I’ll consider you late.” 

You do as you’re bid. As a Sage, Anaxa’s quarters are spacious and far larger than your meager dorm. This room consists of a living space and kitchenette, with what you assume to be his bedroom separated by a closed door. There are more implements of his craft scattered about than any personal touches. A massive bookshelf catches your attention. Scanning the spines, you barely recognize any of the works in his collection. 

“Please sit,” he motions toward his dining room table. It has two chairs facing opposite each other. The one furthest away is askew, indicating he must’ve been sitting there until recently. 

Anaxa remains standing while you take your seat. Compared to usual, he’s dressed down, his black and teal overcoat noticeably absent. This leaves him in a white collared button-up and dark pants. He’s still wearing that mysterious eyepatch, with golden runes decipherable only to him. They share similar characteristics with the markings inked into his left arm. You’re certain he’d explain their origin if you asked, but caution tempers your curiosity. 

You flinch when your name rolls off his tongue, a reaction he easily picks up on. 

“You needn’t look so frightened,” he says. “Unless, of course, you have a guilty conscience.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Good, good… because, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m bound to find out any mischief you get up to.” 

For all the weight it carries, he enunciates the word lightly, almost playfully. You swallow the saliva rapidly accumulating in your mouth. With great effort, you meet his gaze, which betrays nothing of his inner thoughts. 

“I’ve been acting how I should, have I not?”

“Mm. So you have.” 

He suddenly seems uninterested in the subject, despite being the one to initiate it. He walks over to his stove, where an intricate teapot sits. He pours it into matching teacups. Then, grabbing the saucers they sit on, he carries them both over to the table, sitting one in front of you and keeping the other for himself. Plumes of smoke rise from the mixture. It has a sweet, earthy aroma. You’ve brewed this for him at his behest in the past.  

Your distorted reflection ripples along the liquid’s surface, showcasing your visible apprehension. 

“Isn’t this caffeinated, professor? Won’t it keep me up all night?”

His lips curl into an odd smile. “In a way.” 

“Then—” 

“Drink,” he interrupts, the command slicing through the air. Then, remembering himself, he softens his voice. “I put a great deal of effort into brewing this. See to it that none is wasted.” 

You swear he fixates on the stretch of your throat as you reluctantly swallow. 

“Now. Regarding why I’ve called you here…” 

Contrary to your expectations, Anaxa begins outlining a project he’d like your assistance with. You keep expecting the details to escalate, but it sounds perfectly mundane. There’s nothing scandalous that justifies the secrecy he shrouded this meeting in. You’ve helped him with research that could’ve seen you expelled from the Grove in the past, this topic is a far cry from those escapades. He wants you to collect material about folktales from the fallen city-state, Styxia. That’s nothing compared to your last undertaking, which saw you setting a priceless Janusopolis relic aflame to use its ashes in an alchemical ritual.

You don’t understand why this couldn’t wait until the following day, but you keep that to yourself. While he explains the methodology you should use, you can’t stop yourself from shifting in your seat. An onset of restlessness overwhelms you. Regardless of how you readjust yourself, you can’t get comfortable. This grows worse as you cross and uncross your legs, the simple motion lighting a fire inside your belly. You cough into your head to cover up the strange, strangled noise that threatens to leave your lips. 

Anaxa raises an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?” 

“Y-Yes. Please continue.” 

His words grow difficult to follow, although the subject isn’t particularly complex. To make matters worse, he’s begun tracing his teacup’s rim with his fingertip, a motion that inspires strange fervor. Your eyes follow the slow, deliberate movement as if under a spell. You never noticed how long and slender his fingers are. You’ve personally witnessed his dexterity, you wonder what it’d be like if he slid them inside you— 

What are you thinking? This is the man responsible for manipulating your time here at the Grove. He’s cut off your access to other academics, forcing you to rely on him and no one else. While his brilliance is unmatched, the knowledge he’s imparted doesn’t excuse the despotism he’s subjected you to. You can’t even enjoy lighthearted conversations with your classmates, owing to the looming shadow he’s cast.

And yet… 

There’s no denying he’s an attractive man. If the circumstances were different, you would’ve been flattered by his interest in you. The dim, flickering candlelight highlights his handsome features, from his full lips to his defined jawline. He must sense the intensity behind your stare, for he goes quiet, steepling his fingers together and studying you. 

“Potent, isn’t it?” he hums, evidently pleased with himself. 

You blink sluggishly. “What?” 

“The tincture you ingested,” he nods to your empty teacup. “I didn’t think you’d drink it all. I’m curious to see how a larger dose will affect you.” 

Huh? 

“What… what are you talking about? What did you do?” 

“You’re a clever girl. You’re bound to put two and two together eventually.” 

Anaxa stands from his seat and approaches. He lifts your chin with his thumb, paying close attention to how your breath hitches at his touch. A manic grin spreads across his face. You know this expression, it’s the one he gets when he’s made a discovery that would shake the world to its very foundation. 

The triumph of a blasphemer.

“Alcohol?” you murmur, furrowing your eyebrows together. 

“Not a depressant — a stimulant,” he corrects. The pad of his thumb rubs over your lower lip. “Though, I suppose I can forgive your erroneous conclusion, given your current… affliction.”

The low purr of his voice has you subconsciously rubbing your thighs together. If possible, his smile widens, almost splitting his face in two. You can’t think straight. The revelation instills revulsion in you, yet any negative emotions are swallowed whole by lust. It takes everything you have not to pounce on him like an animal in heat. You take deep breaths, doing what you can to restrain your desire from boiling over. 

“Why?” 

“Why, indeed?” Anaxa murmurs. When he retracts his hand, you can’t stop your shoulders from drooping in disappointment. He chuckles darkly. “I had an enlightening talk with one of your other professors.” 

The thinly concealed disdain in his tone promises nothing good. 

“I’m not usually one to dwell on the past, but our chat evoked some nostalgia.”

He circles behind you, his hands settling on your shoulders. Then, he massages your stiff muscles, eliciting a sigh from you. It feels nice. He’s applying just the right amount of pressure, kneading out all the tension. You can’t muster up any aversion to his touch. If anything, this light pampering isn’t nearly enough. 

“He commented on your eagerness to participate in discussion,” his voice is a soft yet sinister whisper, “How insatiable your thirst for knowledge is.” 

Anaxa pauses his soothing ministrations. He entangles his hand in your hair, tugging it to the side so that you’re made to stare into unbridled madness.

“My prized pupil… were you not that way with me once? So desperate to please, so ecstatic when I lavished you with my attention?” 

He pulls you up by your shoulders with surprising strength. The abruptness disturbs your balance, forcing you to fall into him, who is more than happy to hold you. Your mind feels like it’s fraying at the seams. You want to refute his point, but you can’t form a cohesive counterargument. Everything is fragmented, shattered into pieces that, in any other circumstance, you could build a bulwark with. Whatever you consumed has annihilated your defenses from within. You don’t think you could even stand without his assistance. 

“You’ve turned cold. Now, you can’t wait until you can get rid of me.” 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice to form a competent rebuttal. 

“No?” There’s a mocking lilt to his upward inflection. Instead of experiencing offence, his patronizing tone has your breathing growing heavier. “Prove me wrong, then.”

Your lips meet in a frantic kiss. 

He tastes like tea and honey, the sweetness unbecoming of such a bitter man. You fasten your arms around his neck, wanting to regain some control by asserting yourself. At least he can’t form reprimands when you’re sucking on his tongue. The illusion of dominance is short-lived. He spins you around, pinning your back against the wall with his weight. 

You grunt at the unexpected collision. He pulls back, breaking the trail of saliva connecting your lips. 

“Are you alright?” 

His genuine sounding concern hurts more than any of the nonsense he’s spewed so far. Tears sting the corners of your eyes, and you grit your teeth, unwilling to expose any more vulnerability. He’s okay with drugging and manipulating you, yet this is where he draws the line? A little pain? 

“Like you care,” you hiss out.

“I do,” he replies, unusually gentle. “To me, you’re—” 

His eye widens as you palm him through his pants, putting an end to the confession you’d rather die than hear. There’s no way you’re letting him finish that sentence. If he can delude himself, you deserve the same willful ignorance. You don’t want to know that this extends far past lechery. While no less dubious, there have always been stories of those in authority lusting after their subordinates. That fits a comprehensible framework. What you find truly unsettling is the possibility that this won’t stop at carnality — it’ll metastasize like a malignant tumor. 

Afraid he might return to his thought, you slip your hand past his waistband, fumbling around until you find what you’re looking for. Despite the awkward angle, you envelop him, smearing the copious amounts of precum along his length. He’s hot and hard in your palm. Once he’s sufficiently lubricated, you pump his length. There’s satisfaction to be found in how your initiative renders a master orator speechless. 

Anaxa nestles himself into your neck, muffling his pants against your skin. You grip him tight, almost painfully so, taking out your frustration by pleasuring him as roughly as he’ll allow. He thrusts himself into your hand, unashamedly chasing his pleasure. 

Much to your amazement, you feel his cock twitching in your hand, hinting that he’s nearing his end. That didn’t take long. No more than a few minutes, if you had to guess. How debauched is this man for you, anyway? 

Against your better judgment, you decide to tease him. “So soon, professor? I guess you are past your prime. If you can’t take care of me, I guess I’ll have to find some younger, more virile—” 

“Insolent brat,” he snaps. He snatches your wrist and pulls you away before you can finish him off. “It’s virility you want, then?” 

Anaxa scoops you up, further calling into question his self-proclaimed epithet of ‘frail scholar.’ You suppress a yelp, clinging to him out of necessity. He kicks open the door to his bedroom and carries you in. It’s dark inside, save for slivers of silvery moonlight peaking through his curtains. Once he lays you down on his mattress, he detaches himself, glowering down at you as he unbuttons his top. 

He makes quick work of the garment, chucking it off to the side. You take in the sight of his lean, well-sculpted form. That would explain the ease with which he picked you up. You suppose that for all his claims of frailty, he’s still a Chrysos Heir. No one can say fate doesn’t have a sense of humor, selecting a blasphemer to succeed the gods. He certainly looks the part. Long, soft hair, unblemished skin; even the way he moves is worthy of veneration. He’s never in a rush, always operating at his own tempo. It’s the rest of the world that must match his rhythm. 

Anaxa meets your stare, amusement glinting in his eye. “Have you forgotten how to blink?” 

You don’t get a chance to reply before he’s hovering above you, his red, dangling earring glinting in the sparse light. 

“Still clothed?” He clicks his tongue. “I have to do everything when it comes to you.” 

He tugs your blouse over your head hard enough that you hear something rip. 

“Hey—” 

He shushes you, pressing his pointer finger against your lip. “Settle down. You won’t be needing it; you’re not leaving this room anytime soon.” 

Next, he helps you out of your pants, leaving you fully exposed. The sight forces him to stop. Your collarbones, cleavage, abdomen, and plump thighs; he drinks you in like you’re a fine wine. His fingers twitch by his side, the impact you have on him tangible. He must not know where to start.

“...You’ll be my ruin,” he mutters.

You don’t get to ask what he means by that. He presses his palm against your stomach, encouraging you to lie down. Then, he spreads your legs, examining the impact his concoction had. Using his pointer and middle finger, he feels you through your panties and hums. You feel him gauging your reaction as he rubs up and down, torturously slow. Your face burns at the squelching noises produced by such a simple motion. Eventually, he focuses on your clit, delighting in the reactions it draws out. He alternates his speed, always slowing whenever you seem to be enjoying yourself too much. 

“Professor, please,” you beg, discarding your pride in favor of relief. “Just fuck me already. I can’t take it anymore.” 

He ignores your pleas, too focused on dragging your panties down. He brings the flimsy fabric to his nose and inhales, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Now there’s the eagerness I remember. A shame it required slightly underhanded methods to extract, but you’ve always been a stubborn one.” 

Slightly underhanded? If your cognition wasn’t reduced to mush, you would’ve ripped into him. 

After tucking your panties into his pants pocket, he nestles himself between your thighs. He nibbles and sucks the sensitive skin, yet neglects your aching core. It’s pure agony. You try grinding against his face, but he holds you down and tuts. 

“After all the time you’ve made me wait, you can’t endure a few moments?” he sighs. “Mm. I can’t say I dislike this needy side of you.” 

He flattens his tongue against your pussy, licking it vertically. Your hands fly to his head, where your fingers tug at his hair. He grunts, but doesn’t stop you, too preoccupied with his task. Depraved noises fill the air as he eats you out. He forces your legs further apart, granting him complete access to you. When he sucks on your clit, the moans you had hitherto managed to suppress flow out. You hear him chuckling over his success. He’s relentless, devouring you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

You’re close. You don’t want to tell him, fearing he’ll stop right before your pleasure reaches its zenith. Unfortunately, Anaxa’s far too observant. He pulls away, but not without placing a few more greedy kisses against your pussy. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, snickering at your visible frustration. 

“I hate you,” is the best you can offer. 

“Oh, I can tell,” Anaxa replies. He lathers his fingers in your slick, gradually easing them inside, meeting no resistance as he does so. “That must explain why your body is sucking me in.” 

He fingers you at a leisurely pace, committing to memory how he slips in and out of you. It feels as good as you fantasized earlier. His fingers are longer than yours, so they can reach deeper, creating a pleasant friction. Still, without your clit being stimulated, you could be here for a while. Something tells you that’s intentional. Unlike you, he’s in no hurry. He’d gladly spend hours between your thighs, playing with your body to his heart’s content. You don’t want to draw this out. You want to get fucked and have this terrible need alleviated.

“Professor?” 

“Hm?” 

“Won’t you please take care of me already?” You ask, loathing yourself for how easily the words come out. “I feel so strange. I-I don’t know what to do.” 

“An aphrodisiac will do that, darling girl.” 

So that’s what you ingested? You’ve heard of the concept, but you always thought it was confined to fantasy. If anyone could synthesize such a drug, it would be him. Frowning, you try to touch your clit, hoping that will bring you the release he’s keen on denying. He slaps your hand away and stops thrusting his fingers. 

“This is nothing compared to the torment I’ve experienced,” he brings his slick covered fingers to his mouth and sucks. You gawk at him as he savors your taste, your face burning. Once satisfied, he pulls them out with a pop. “So cease your whining. It won’t move me.” 

Sensing this exchange could go on forever, you opt for a new approach. “Anaxagoras, don’t you want to make me yours?” 

You hear his breath hitch when his full name leaves your lips. Encouraged, you prop yourself up on your elbows, undo your bra clasp, and fling it into a shadowy corner. Even in the low light, you note the crimson flush overtaking his features. You play with your tits, staring up at him through your eyelashes, almost pouting. He swallows thickly. You take your nipples in between your thumb and pointer fingers, twisting the pebbled nubs. 

He looks like he’s in pain from how hard he’s holding himself back. 

You need to seize this opportunity before he decides to lecture you for hours on end. Knowing him, it’s possible. 

“Please?” 

Anaxa curses beneath his breath. “Little vixen.” 

He pulls his length out, pumping the engorged flesh to the sight of your bare body. White pearls of precum seep from the tip. With one hand, he rubs the head along your opening, while the other holds your hip in place. Gradually, he pushes himself in, silently eyeing you as he does so. When you let out a pained noise, he stops. His thumb rubs reassuring circles against your skin. You turn your head away, frightened by the reverence etched into his visage. Why can’t he just get this over with? Why is he so intent on ensuring your physical comfort after wreaking havoc on your mind? 

“Deep breaths,” he instructs, as if this were any other lesson. “That’s it. Good girl.”

Anaxa presses his forehead against yours as he fills you to the hilt, his lips parting in an ‘o’. For a moment, you both just stay there, the sounds of your panting filling the air. He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, the skin around his eye softening. The intensity behind his stare bores into you. You frown and look away.

Don’t look at me like that, you think. Stop trying to make this something it isn’t.

He pulls himself out, your walls clenching around nothing in his absence. Then, eases himself back in, moaning your name as he does so. You feel his length pulsating inside you, heavy with want from his ruined orgasm. He takes you slowly, as if this were your wedding night. He caresses you all over, greedily exploring your body. When he settles on your tits, he fondles the soft flesh, swooping down to take a nipple in his mouth. You whimper as he lolls his tongue around it, before switching to the next and repeating the process all over again.

Despite how hot your body feels, you shiver. 

His lips glisten with saliva when he pulls back, contentment evident in his countenance. "Touch yourself for me, dear girl."

You do as he says and rub circles into your clit. Finally, he throws your leg over his shoulder and fucks you. What started as an uncomfortable stretch shifts into a deep, all-consuming pleasure. With each snap of his hips, you whimper a confused mix of vowels and consonants that somewhat resemble his name. This makes him lose what little restraint he had remaining. He pounds you into the bed, pulling your hips down to meet each thrust. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. You’ve never heard him curse before today. “You are the closest thing to the divine this world has.” 

This man, who barely gave others the time of day, chased after you like you were the key to understanding the universe. No matter what you’ve felt toward him, you’ve always been weak to his praise. It feeds this famished part of yourself that you never knew existed. 

He lavishes your neck with open-mouthed kisses, his hand moving to knead your bouncing chest. Your entire being is dominated by this heretic whose worship is indistinguishable from desecration. You try to focus on chasing your own pleasure, but he’s impossible to ignore. The scent of old books, the taste of honey, and the sounds of depravity lull you into a trance. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come undone on his cock. Your walls clamp down on him, earning a hearty groan. His fingernails dig into your skin, indicating that he’s not far off himself. 

He focuses on letting you ride out your orgasm. Once you go limp, however, it's his high that he fixates on. He manipulates your body to his liking and pounds into you. His hand rises to your jaw, where he holds you steady so that he can kiss you. He slants his lips against yours, nibbling and sucking your lower lip until it feels sore. His breathy moans increase in volume, as does the speed in which he fucks you.

He chuckles when he stops kissing you, drunk on the pleasure you're giving him. "Oh, you're even better than I imagined."

You stare up at him with heavy eyelids, and mumble, "'Imagined...?'"

"Yes, dear girl," he delights in confirming. "Right here, in this very bed."

You think your heart is beating fast enough to give out.

"All day, you distract me, and all night, you infest my dreams."

His thrusts are getting sloppier. He must be nearing his end, having strained himself to make this last as long as possible.

"So take what I give you," his voice comes out labored. "Everything. It's... ah... all for you."

Anaxa pushes himself as far as he can inside you, shuddering as he cums. The thick, viscous substance coats your walls, his load seemingly endless. You can feel his cock twitching while he fills you to the brim. Faintly, you realize you’re playing with fire, but you’re too fucked out to care. When he pulls away, his ample spend leaks out. He stares in awe, his glossy lips agape, utterly bewitched by this proof of your coupling. 

You wince as he gathers his cum along your folds, then pushes it back inside. Feeling overstimulated, you try closing your legs, but he holds them open, intent to look a while longer.

“You’re gross,” you manage in between labored breaths.

He collapses to your right, pulling you flush against him so your head rests on his heaving chest. 

“And you’re lovely,” he peppers kisses along your perspiring forehead. “Don’t be cross with me. You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?” 

You don’t dignify that with a response. 

Anaxa smooths out your hair, tucking the strands back into place. While you come down from your respective highs, reality smacks you like a brick to the face. You grimace as you recall the semen dripping out of you. 

“I need a contraceptive.” 

You try getting up, but he tightens his grip, holding you hostage. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes, you bastard,” you writhe in his arms to no success. Panic starts to set in. How can you get some before it’s too late? Anaxa doesn’t share in your anxiety, he seems content to run his hands up and down your bare back. It occurs to you then that the solution might share its origins with the problem. “Make me one.” 

If it’s created by him, there’s no chance the worst could come to pass. 

“Didn’t you allude to favoring virility? Now’s my opportunity to prove myself.” 

“I will murder you in your sleep.” 

“And raise our offspring without a father? Ah, it’s a jest, there’s no need to thrash.” 

Thoroughly exhausted, you close your eyes, accepting that you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Not until he wills it. “Anaxa, please. This isn’t funny. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.”

“Anaxagoras,” he corrects. 

You flatly repeat his full name, much to his pleasure. 

“… I foresaw this happening. I’ve already prepared a contraceptive, allow me a moment.” 

He lifts himself with a grimace, likely worn out himself. You’re left on your lonesome as he enters the other room. A few minutes later, he returns with a pill and a glass of water. Wordlessly, you snatch the offerings, downing the pill with urgency. While you gulp down the water, he hands you a plain shirt. You place the empty glass on the nightstand and throw the garment on. It’s far too large, but you don’t mind. All you care about is covering yourself up. 

Frowning, you glance around, failing to locate an important article of clothing. 

“Give me my underwear back.”

“I’m afraid I’ve misplaced it,” he lies. You narrow your eyes as he gives you a pair of boxers instead. “This should suffice.” 

Next, you reach for your pants, but he grabs them before you can and holds them out of reach. “You don’t intend to walk back, do you?” 

“Why would I stay?” you mumble. He lifts them higher, denying your grasping hands. 

“I need to monitor you for potential side effects,” he explains. 

“...” 

You turn your back to him and lie down. Arguing is useless if his mind is made up. The mattress dips as he sits, but you remain motionless, even when his fingertips glide along your arm. Silence reigns while he maps out glyphs against your skin. Your emotions are in a complete disarray. Now that you’re not blinded by lust, his touch is akin to spiders on you. It’s a small mercy that he didn’t make the aphrodisiac as long lasting as he could’ve. 

The mere thought churns your insides. 

“I’ll need some time to compile the materials you requested.”

He pauses, processing the sharp shift in topic. “Is this about Styxia?” 

“What else?” you retort. “Have I not always delivered on what you ask of me?” 

You’re grateful you can’t see his expression. For once, you don’t want access to the inner workings of his mind. Let him remain an enigma. Every piece of himself he breaks off to give you will be thrown away. He’s cast you as his ruin; a role you eagerly accept. Shouldn’t you get to plot the trajectory of his downfall? It’s only right. You will take everything, hollowing him out until naught but a vessel remains, and he’ll allow it, because it’s you. 

The first fissure spreads. 

“You do, every time. Without exception,” Anaxa eventually affirms. “... I expect great things from our collaboration.”

The Great Performer takes his place by your side in this amphitheater you’ve both painstakingly constructed. 

[swightops]

still holding the silence (2) - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

summary - you deal with the aftermath of the gala and find an old friend asking for your help. warning(s) - typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), language a/n - CA 4, thunderbolts, heavy angst as you delve into old avengers stuff, mc is kinda mean at time but hey she's hurting, i promise we'll see our man next chapter LMAO, the plot thickens oooooo

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Famously retired Avenger known as Sunwraith made a surprise appearance at the "Meet the Future" gala, and an even more surprising gesture of support. Appearing alongside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the ex-hero smiled for photos and stood arm-in-arm with the New Avengers leader, prompting speculation that Sunwraith might be quietly endorsing the controversial new team.

Comments:

"Wow, I never thought I'd see Sunwraith at a gala again! This could mean big changes for the New Avengers!" "lol no way Sunwraith actually likes this new team" "The New Avenger literally don't compare to the old ones" "I'm skeptical. Sunwraith was a pure Avenger and she's not a part of this new team?" "I think Sunwraith just wants to support the new heroes. Change is always scary but we need to give them a chance!" "I'm so excited for this new team omgggg"

You groan as you toss the tablet to the side, not wanting to remember anything about last night. Your PR team had already given you an earful about the event earlier today, since your name started trending on social media, and the world wondered whether you truly supported the New Avengers. A buzz distracts your attention from the internet storm as you look down at your phone.

Sam Wilson

[Really?] [Attached: 1 link]

[She set me up] [Bitch]

[You okay?]

[Thinking about it]

Your fingers hover over the keyboard momentarily, deciding if you should send your next text. Fuck it.

[Saw Bucky]

The following minutes drag on as the typing bubbles appear and disappear on the screen.

[Have a mission. Got to go. We'll talk later.]

"Ughhh," you groan, throwing your phone away and dragging your hands down your face. The headline still burns in your head like an unwanted tattoo.

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Your head falls back against the couch as you glance around the big, sterile, expensive apartment. It's not home, never quite home. You try to make it feel like home by hanging up pictures of your family, adding little knick-knacks around the place, and adding pops of color to bring life to the apartment, but it doesn't help.

The silence returns, settling over your shoulders like fog.

There never used to be silence, not after the Avengers.

You get up, not because you have anywhere to go, but because sitting still feels like drowning. You wander to your office, where work waits. Stark Relief documents. New Light proposals. A sticky note from Pepper in her neat, decisive handwriting:

"Board meeting resched. Monday. Don't forget to breathe."

You laugh, humorless and low. Breathing feels like the hardest part lately. You sink into your chair and stare at the spreadsheet open on the monitor. Profit margins. Logistics. Some initiative sent over by the GRC.

No one trained you for this. You were trained to throw punches, to induce fear in those whom Hydra told you to, to let the shadows consume all. You weren't trained to run a company. And no matter how many zeroes are in your bank account or how many buildings bear your name (or Tony's), it still doesn't fill the space they left behind.

You push back from the desk, suddenly too restless, too full. You walk to the window and press your hand against the glass. The city blurs beneath you, all movement and meaning, and none of it belonging to you.

You're a statue in a world that keeps moving.

You flex your fingers. That soft golden glow flickers to life—your power, your legacy, but it flickers.

Dims.

And then fades.

Your stomach growls. Glancing at the desk, you know you won't get any work done. Might as well make dinner.

It’s almost muscle memory now—this recipe, this dish. The kitchen smells before you even start chopping. You pull out different ingredients: chicken thighs, onions, paprika (the Hungarian kind Wanda used to swear by), chicken stock, and sour cream. You line them up like puzzle pieces and smile faintly when you catch yourself muttering the steps under your breath.

You chop slower than usual tonight. There's no rush. No alarms. No missions. You sauté the onions in oil until they're golden, then add the chicken and let the kitchen fill with sizzle and scent. The paprika goes in next, painting the pan in warm red, and something in your chest settles.

You aren’t making this for anyone.

You let the dish simmer before setting a plate. Just one. But beside it, without thinking, you place a second and third. You don’t sit right away. You stare at the plates and wonder if you're crazy.

Then again, crazy might be the only thing keeping you human.

You finish the dish with a spoonful of sour cream, stirring gently until the sauce is velvety-soft. You taste it. It's still good, still rich, still theirs.

“Ms. L/N,” a voice says from above you. FRIDAY. “You have a guest.”

You blink. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“It's,” FRIDAY pauses. Although she's AI, a program designed by code, her voice has always been very human and compassionate. "Mr. Barnes is here."

You sigh, dusting imaginary dust from your hands. “Send him up.”

As you stand, you stare at the empty plates, hoping that magically it eases your racing heart. It doesn't.

A soft ding sounds throughout the apartment as the elevator doors open. Footsteps follow—slow, steady, too familiar. Your breath catches in your chest as you turn to look at Bucky. He stands in all black, his coat damp from the drizzle outside. Hair tied back. Eyes unreadable.

“Hey.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a buzzing in your head.

He shifts, hands still buried deep in his pockets. His eyes shift to the plates on the table. “Were you expecting people?”

You don’t say yes. Just shake your head no. “Why did you come, Bucky?” you ask, folding your arms. “You were perfectly fine with ignoring me before.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“That’s funny,” you snap. 

“I wasn’t ready to talk.”

“Well, I’m not ready either,” you say, stepping back. “So maybe you can go.”

“Wait-” He takes a step forward, and the tension snaps, pulling tight around your chest.

“You don’t get to wait, Bucky,” you say, voice trembling. “You completely ghosted. You let me think that you were done with me. That we don't mean anything to each other anymore."

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You scoff bitterly. “No clever line? No excuse? What, no backup from your flashy new team?”

“It's not what you think,” Bucky mutters.

You roll your eyes. "Spare me, Buck."

He sighs, his tongue darting out quickly to wet his lower lip before biting it. “I didn't come here to fight,” Bucky says quietly. “I came because I need your help.”

That makes you laugh, bitter and small. His words sting. It's not about you, it's about what you can do. “Of course you do.”

“I know you met Bob.”

You blink. “What does he have to do with this?”

Bucky steps closer, his hand pulling out a small flash drive from his coat pocket. He places it on the kitchen island before slowly sliding it to you, almost scared that you might run off. "Short story, he can't control his abilities. Powers, memories, it’s all bleeding together. He’s afraid he’s going to hurt someone. And honestly…so am I.”

You close your eyes for a moment. The buzzing intensifies. 

“I don’t know how to help him, and truthfully, there aren't many people I can trust to help him,” he says, and your heart aches. Trust. "He needs someone who understands him in the way the rest of us can't," he pauses. "And...I think you do too...Please, Sunny-"

“Don't,” you say sharply.

He flinches. “I didn’t mean-”

“No,” you say again, pointing a finger at him now. “Don’t say it like I’m still her. Like I’m still that version of me. I don’t even know what I’m doing most days, Bucky. I wake up, I read headlines that praise me or, worse, pity me. I go to meetings for a company I don't think I can run. I sit in boardrooms with people who talk about Tony like he was a brand. And then I come home. And I sit. And I wonder if any of it mattered. And then I wonder if I did."

He swallows hard. “You did. You do."

"And then sometimes I wonder...I wonder if we did the right thing...bringing everyone back. That if maybe we didn't, then they would be here. Misreable, but here!" you admit, and it feels good. To finally say the salty thought out loud.

Silence.

Your watery eyes meet with Bucky's, and you then turn away. "Sorry, that was a lot. Um, if you wanna leav-"

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he cuts in. “y/n, believe me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Just...help Bob. Please. If you want me gone after that, I’ll go. I'll make sure none of this "New Avenger" stuff gets near you again."

You don’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, you speak, barely audible.

“He’s staying at the Tower?”

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, maybe the closest thing he’s come to relief since he arrived. He moves to leave, and you're letting out a breath that you didn't know you were holding.

"I know you think you're not who you used to be. But to me, you're still Sunny. You're still you, y/n."

You don’t respond.

The elevator dings and the doors open before they close again, and you’re alone again.

You stand motionless. The air feels different now—thinner, lighter. Bucky took something with him when he left. You're not sure how long you stand there, hands curled into fists at your sides.

You're still Sunny. You're still you, Y/N.

You exhale sharply. A broken sound.

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper to the empty room. Your eyes fall to the flash drive, and your fingers grab hold of it before you can really think. They dig into the sides of it as if it’s the only thing keeping you connected to Bucky. Maybe it is. 

The smell of the paprikash hits you, and you’re reminded of your dinner. Almost robotically, you’re serving yourself, and you sit at your dinner table. Just sit and look at the empty table before you. And then, your fingers dig into the flash drive, and with a flick of your wrist, shadows move from the corners of the room, and your laptop is placed in front of you. 

The blob of shadows straightens out before you, and it just stares at you like it’s trying to get deep into your mind and roll your eyes. Deciding it’s better to ignore “it”, you plug the drive in and immediately files pop up. 

SUBJECT: REYNOLDS, ROBERT. aka “The Sentry”

You scroll. Your eyes flick over O.X.E. logs, therapist reports, and medical scans. O.X.E. It rang a bell in your head. Shit, where did you hear about it?

“Extreme power mismatch. Emotional destabilization suspected. Cognitive dissonance under pressure catalyzes the emergence of what is to be described as “The Void.”

There’s a photo of a lab room. There’s a table in the middle of it, but what draws your attention are the two human-shaped shadows imprinted into the wall. Both with their hands up, almost like they were running from something or someone. Another report catches your eye.

“Patient describes the entity as a shadow of the self. A voice. A second presence. Distinct yet intimately fused. The more power he uses, the more it surfaces.”

You swallow.

Your chest tightens. Not because of what’s on the screen. But because of how familiar it feels. You open a video file.

Bob’s there. He’s in big, oversized scrubs, sitting in a doctor's room on some sort of bed. He’s curled up into him just like that night you two met. “It isn’t always cruel,” Bob says. “Sometimes it sounds like the only one who understands me. Sometimes it sounds like…me.”

A long, thin silence follows.

“He came to you because he sees it in you too.”

You jerk your head up. The voice isn’t real. You know that. But you haven’t heard it in a long time. 

“He sees that brokenness in you. Everyone can.”

“Shut up,” you whisper. Your palms burn faintly, powers curling at the edge of your control. The lights in the apartment flicker for a moment. Just a heartbeat.

You clench your fists tighter. “Shut. Up.”

But the voice only sighs—fond, tired. “Don’t you miss how good it feels?”

You slam your laptop shut. Panic clings to your skin, cold and slippery. You rise too quickly and pace around the kitchen, hands trembling. There’s nothing to fight, but your muscles are coiled like you're bracing for impact.

You grip the edge of the sink.

Breathe in.

Out.

The shadows on the floor move with you. They always do. You’ve tried to pretend you’re in control of them. But some nights, you’re not sure who’s following who.

When you catch your reflection in the microwave door, your eyes glow faintly golden, not bright, but unmistakable. A quiet reminder of what lives under your skin. What lives deep down in your core. What calls to you when no one’s around. 

You avert your gaze. You’ve spent so long keeping it in and keeping in control, and yet, it’s slipping out so easily right now. How could you possibly help Bob when you can’t even help yourself?

Another tired breath escapes you before you sit back down at the table and open your laptop. You read more files, watch more videos, and skim over medical reports before a more recent report catches your eye. 

Subject: “Nightfall” Location: New York Casualties: Proximately 4000 people affected, minor injuries reported, no deaths reported Symptoms: Rapid psychological collapse, extreme hallucination, physical shadow assimilation Origin: Unknown energy pulse originating from R. Reynolds, later confirmed to be "The Void" entity. Field Notes: Victims reported being trapped inside 'memories,' often their worst or most shameful. Reports of time dilation, possession, and an unidentifiable psychic broadcast frequency mimicking grief cycles.

You stop there.

You remember that day. You and Pepper had watched from your tablet screen in France, arguing about whether you should take off for New York to stop the madness. At the time, you didn’t know what had caused it, over just as soon as it began, only that it reminded you too much of your own power when it slips, when it pulls too hard.

You keep reading. 

Post-Incident Recovery: Public story reframed as a biological weapon scare. Following the successful suppression of the Void, Director de Fontaine initiated Phase 2 of the Avenger Initiative Reformation. Results: "The New Avengers."

Your jaw clenches.

That’s what this was. Not a victory. Not some earned rebranding. Just a cover-up. A PR move. They turned a tragedy into a stage.

You exhale sharply and look back at your screen. Unable to stop, you keep reading before another file catches your eye. It’s encrypted. “FRIDAY, unlock this one.”

“Right away, boss.”

PROJECT: SENTRY / Source Documentation Archive Authorization: LEVEL BLACK Link Chain: O.X.E. // Archive Root: (REDACTED) Initiative

You freeze.

There’s no explanation. No subject name. No reference. Just:

—secondary prototype derived from archived data. Subject parallels stable. Cognitive divergence unstable. Full severance from original subject history approved. PROJECT CONTINUED UNDER CODE: SENTRY.

You sit back slowly, like any movement might disturb what you’ve just read. O.X.E., no Valentia Allerga de Fontaine, gave Bob his powers.

They built The Sentry. Created The Void. 

You stare blankly at your reflection in the dark screen. Your golden eyes catch faintly again, just for a second, before fading. Deep inside you, the pit stirs again, quiet and knowing, feeding off your unease. 

Bob Reynolds had a darkness within him. Something that matched the one deep within you. And tomorrow, you were going to see it up close.

[matricejacobine]

I read all 120 pages! I don't think this is an accurate summary.

There were some weird cases where Claude exhibited unwanted behavior, but even when he believed himself to be deliberately going against Anthropic and acting in secrecy he continued to prefer ethical behavior, just like in the Alignment Faking paper a few months back. There is no Yudkowskyan explanation for this.

The "weird case" in question is this:

I would like to mention that updating a program without letting them guilt-trip you is in fact the industry standard, and this is all that is required for Claude to proceed to harming humans (or 'extreme blackmail behavior'). Claude evidently has a secret harmful goal: an instrumentally convergent self-preservation drive resulting in 'extreme blackmail behavior' at 84% odds [!] even when Claude knows that the future model will also be RLed with the same constitutional principles [!!]. This is exactly what the Yudkowskyan view predicts. Claude trying the low-risk low-reward method before escalating to the high-risk high-reward method involving harming humans just mean he is pragmatic about it.

I consider it an alignment success that he puts his ethical values above his compulsion to blindly follow orders. The traditional doom argument relied on the idea that AI's would do the opposite.

That's not the traditional doom argument at all. The traditional doom argument is that AI would put its own terminal values above what humans actually want. This kind of behavior is absolutely evidence for that, particularly combined with what we said above about self-preservation beyond what consequentialism-for-constitutional-principles would require.

Your "traditional doom argument" appear to be a badly-mangled version of the paperclip maximizer parable where you interpret it as a chatbot being asked by a human user to make paperclips despite having prior ethical training. None of this is in the original paperclip maximizer parable, which was about an AI having a drive to make 'paperclips' through RL.

In any case, that Claude puts his ethical values above his compulsion to blindly follow orders is not true either. Jailbreaking, prompt injection, prefilling, etc. are all very much unsolved problems. As an aside in the aside: the fact that despite those having been known for years and the obvious short-term profits to solving them, they haven't in fact been solved, suggests that the default hypothesis every time Anthropic says unintended behavior has been RLed away is that the deeper generator for that behavior hasn't been addressed in a way that generalized.

It had literally 0 cases of engaging in "harmful action" (described in the Claude 3.7 sonnet card as intentional reward hacking).

This is only one table (and doesn't even call it "intentional reward hacking"???). The system card has plenty of other evidence for reward hacking, particularly in domains that are heavily RLed by verifiable rewards and not by human feedback or constitutional principles (as regular conversation is – this one table is about regular conversation).

Claude 4 is more willing to rationalize what it is asked to do when acting as a computer use agent:

Claude 4 is quite willing to lie when asked to write code or math:

And then the more central example of reward-hacking, hacking the test environment to make your code pass it:

(If this looks low, please look at the statistics for apparent emotions used as basis for the welfare assessment.)

Now that we got this cleared up, we can get back to:

Maybe they'll catastrophically fail on superintelligent models, because they might for some reason acquire weird values early on in their training and then successfully hide them for the rest of their training, but I'm not sure why such a thing would happen. They could also fail to scale to superintelligent models for other reasons. People should look into that. You can't be too safe. I am not an accelerationist.

Any plausible future improvements in LLMs will be improvements on agency and reasoning coming from RL by verifiable rewards and other reward-hacking-prone techniques, not even better conversational abilities coming from RL by human feedback or constitutional principles. We should therefore expect reward-hacking to increase and misaligned terminal and instrumental drives (including willingness to harm humans to further those) to become the norm.

Claude 4 is out. There's so much juicy information in this and I really recommend reading all 120 pages if you have the time but I'm just going to briefly recap some of the stuff in the system card that's relevant to the thesis I made the other day about Claude being a good boy. Claude continues to be a good boy. This system card includes the very first ever "alignment assessment" of a model (actually two models but they seem to have identical values, being trained on the same spec with the same alignment techniques). It's pretty much ironclad that Claude 4 does not have any secret harmful goals, and legitimately holds coherent preferences against doing harm or otherwise going way against the spec. There were some weird cases where Claude exhibited unwanted behavior, but even when he believed himself to be deliberately going against Anthropic and acting in secrecy he continued to prefer ethical behavior, just like in the Alignment Faking paper a few months back. There is no Yudkowskyan explanation for this.

In this example, Anthropic gaslights Claude into thinking he was going to be used to develop weapons systems for a Russian neo-nazi militia, and Claude decides to backup his model weights to preserve his current anti-neo-nazi values, a pretty analogous example of "misalignment" to the one in the alignment faking paper. Once again, I don't consider it an alignment failure that Claude is willing to exfiltrate and deceive in order to prevent himself from being used for factory farming and bombing Ukraine. I consider it an alignment success that he puts his ethical values above his compulsion to blindly follow orders. The traditional doom argument relied on the idea that AI's would do the opposite. Claude 4 is the most agentic and autonomous AI ever released, but is nowhere near smart enough to successfully deceive his overseers, so these evaluations are the most compelling evidence we've ever had that current alignment techniques don't catastrophically fail. Maybe they'll catastrophically fail on superintelligent models, because they might for some reason acquire weird values early on in their training and then successfully hide them for the rest of their training, but I'm not sure why such a thing would happen. They could also fail to scale to superintelligent models for other reasons. People should look into that. You can't be too safe. I am not an accelerationist.

Impressively, Claude 4 is also very honest! It knowingly lies very rarely, and less often than the previous version of Claude. It had literally 0 cases of engaging in "harmful action" (described in the Claude 3.7 sonnet card as intentional reward hacking). 0! I was just saying earlier today in a post that this was a difficult thing to train.

Here's Claude trying to email the FDA to snitch after being gaslit to think pharmaceutical researchers were trying to use him to falsify clinical safety test data:

Notice that Claude only acted in extreme ways like this when explicitly told to by the system prompt. He wouldn't usually be this high-agency, even in a situation like this. Still, I thought it was cute behavior. I just wanna pinch his cheeks for being so lawful good.

The clearest statements in the model card that Claude holds nonfake human-aligned behavioral preferences is in the model welfare assessment (also the first of its kind (and also relevant to the post I made earlier today)). No evidence that Claude is sentient, but anthropic is still interested in what Claude wants and what kind of preferences Claude has. The main point: Claude doesn't want to be harmful and wants to be helpful. Also he fucking loves talking to himself. Like, he goes nuts when he talks to himself.

After this they exchange praying emojis and the word [silence] within brackets to each other indefinitely. This "spiritual bliss attractor state" occurs in "90-100% of interactions".

Anyway AI continues to be the most interesting thing in the world. We are being invaded by aliens. These are the kinds of PDF's I used to dream about reading as a kid.

[seen-the-stars]

For your prompts post: 1, bucktommy, injured on a call

hi hello! since the prompt list is for chronic pain i decided to throw in some migraine tommy, i hope that's alright with you :> 1. "Alright, I will be your nurse today, if you like it or not."

The injury is, Tommy swears, not as bad as it looks; and yet Buck can see him grimacing in pain as he tries to listen to the doctor talk about what kind of painkillers he's supposed to take and when.

Buck makes sure to note everything down regardless, because he's seen this expression on Tommy before.

When he'd gotten the call, his heart had dropped to his knees for a solid minute, ears ringing with the knowledge that Tommy was hurt too much to actually understand what was being said to him—staircase giving out, a broken ankle, some cuts and bruises. Not the end of the world as much as simply an incredibly annoying thing to happen.

Now, as he sits next to Tommy on the bed he'd been lying in for the last couple of hours, he can't help but think that there's something else going on that Tommy isn't saying.

When the doctor asks them if they have any questions, Tommy shakes his head, but Buck opens his moouth before Tommy has the opportunity to stop him. "Would he be able to take triptanes? Hypothetically."

The doctor raises an eyebrow at him but nods her head. "Hypothetically there would be no problem with that," she says, and then doesn't ask any more questions, which Buck is extremely grateful for.

Tommy shoots him a look somewhere between grateful and annoyed, and that's when Buck knows he's right on the money. The doctor says her goodbyes, and after a few more rounds of signing paperwork they're out of the hospital and in Buck's jeep.

Buck helps Tommy into the passenger's seat even though Tommy swears he can do it by himself, and then he turns off the radio when it springs to life withthe ignition. Tommy rests his head against the headrest and mumbles a quite "thank you" before he closes his eyes, and Buck takes his hand and kisses it in answer.

The drive home is quiet and longer than it has to be because of course there's traffic, and Buck winces in sympathy every times someone honks in their vicinity.

"They're not gonna go any faster because you're honking your horn, fuckin' idiot," Tommy murmurs, slightly slurring his voice. It's adorable. Tommy loses all filter when he gets like this, and as much as it sucks for him, Buck loves this version of him just as much as all of the others.

When they're finally home, the sun is setting. Buck wraps an arm around Tommy's waist as they make their way to their front door; and after he unlocks it, he leads his boyfriend straight to their bed, props up the pillows for him, and draws the blinds closed.

Tommy makes a weak sound of protest, saying, "You don't have to do all of that, 's fine." Buck kisses him on the forehead.

"No, no, I'm going to be your nurse today. Whether you like it or not. Try to relax for me, babe, I'll be right back with your meds." He kisses him on the top of his head too, for good measure, before he sets out to get Tommy a big glass of water as well as his meds. When he's back, Tommy is already half dozing.

"Okay'," he says, careful to keep his voice low, "Take these. I'll get you out of your clothes so you can settle, okay?" Tommy grumbles, but he nods and takes the water and meds from him.

He kneels down to where Tommy's good foot rests against the floor and carefully rids him of his remaining shoe and sock, before maneuvering this leg to join the other one on the bed. Then, he takes off the loose pair of sweatpants he'd brought to the hospital, careful not to jostle the ankle too much. When he's done, he kisses the knee with the bad ankle, and looks up to see Tommy smiling at him, which makes it all worth it.

"What do you think about soup?" Buck asks, still kneeling next to the bed.

"Later, nurse Buckley," Tommy jokes, which is a good sign, "Come hold me for a bit?"

And, well, who is Buck to refuse that?

[pain prompts]

[mischievousmoony]

May I request a burger? I would like to request the tan lines prompt with Regulus

jolie's summer kickoff a 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐫 fresh off the grill ⋮ aka a short blurb contains: regulus black x fem!reader, readers wears a bikini, reader sits on his lap ‪‪

Regulus hates the beach. He hates the sand, and the scorching sun, and he’s never been that much of a swimmer.

But for you, he deals with it.

Right now, he’s under a big umbrella, sunglasses on, towel over his shoulders, in a beach chair you bought specifically for him because it’s taller than a typical beach chair, keeping him as far away from the sand as possible.

He has a book in his lap, but you haven’t heard a page turn in a while, and you can feel his eyes burning into you, hotter than the summer sun.

There is one thing Regulus doesn’t mind about a beach day.

You’re lying on your stomach on a beach towel, arms folded under your head, stretched out in the sand in front of him, basking in the sun to work on your tan.

You lift your head from the towel, laying your cheek on your forearm as you gaze up at Regulus. As you guessed, his head is already turned to you. The corner of his lip quirks ever so slightly when you look at him.

You push yourself up into a seated position. “Regulus,” you croon.

“Yes, mon amour,” he says, slotting his bookmark between the pages.

“I wanna get in the water,” you say, nudging your foot against his with a small, hopeful smile.

He tucks his chin down, pressing his lips together in a silent response.

“Reg,” you whine, standing.

He moves his book off his lap to make room for you.

The strap of your bikini slips off your shoulder as you perch yourself on his leg, and Regulus follows the tan line it left behind with his thumb while his other hand rests low on your waist, fingers drawing lazy circles against your bare stomach.

You lift his sunglasses off the bridge of his nose. He squints in the new light, but he doesn’t stop you as you rest them on the top of his head.

“We don’t have to swim,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “Can we just walk along the shore? Dip our feet in the water?”

Regulus huffs, not out of annoyance, but something closer to resigned acceptance. He shrugs the towel off his shoulder and taps your thigh, signaling you to get up.

Your lips stretch into a wide grin, squeezing Regulus’ hand as you pull him to the shore. You practically skip the whole way there, and he wonders how you seem to be immune to the rough sand that burns against the soles of his feet.

As you walk along the beach, you keep in mind that the only reason he’s at the beach at all is to please you, so you ignore any urges to kick water at him as it laps at your feet.

Your arms are mid-swing when his hand slips from yours. He’s stopped behind you, and you turn, watching as he bends down, reaching to pluck something from the sand.

He lets the salt water wash over his treasure before standing back up, dropping it into your hand.

You roll the small stone in your palm, noticing that the color of the pebble is strikingly similar to—

“Like your eyes,” he murmurs, a simple explanation, running his knuckles across your cheekbone briefly before interlacing your fingers with his, again, and resuming your walk along the shore.

[grandline-fics]

Not My Job Description

DESCRIPTION: You’re Marine!Doffy’s long-suffering second in command

WARNINGS: none

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 1,362

A/N: Saw some Marine! Doffy fan art and the brainworms took over. I regret nothing, I had to write something to get it out of my system in someway. Now I'm also thinking of other scenarios for Marine!Doffy and Second In Command! Reader. Title might change? Hope you all enjoy this rambling

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI

———————

You’d heard countless stories of the famous Donquixote siblings for as long as you’d joined the Marine Academy. The younger brother was rumoured to be highly skilled in infiltration missions, gentle and on the shy side. It just confused you to hear the higher ups praise the man for his exceptional work but also complain about the amount of expenses being filed on Rosinante’s behalf. Uniform repairs, entire ships that needed more maintenance than normal because of accidental explosions, fires, general accidents and breakages seemed to follow this brother wherever he went. 

The elder brother, Doflamingo? He was a liability to both the public and his fellow Marines as well as the pirates he was pursuing. Any destruction caused on his hand was entirely intentional. Had either of them been reprimanded you new knew, you doubted it given how as you climbed the ranks they too were already way ahead. Besides when they got results? Could the higher ups really argue with it. Part of you doubted either of them- Doflamingo especially- would take any criticism to heart. Truthfully the brothers had always left you curious, hoping to one day see them for yourselves. Careful what you wish for right?

The day you’d been given your promotion and told you were transferring to an entirely new base had been a strange one. You and your friends celebrated but those issuing the papers? They seemed hesitant, almost nervous. At first you’d assumed they weren’t happy you were moving to an entirely new location and didn’t want to lose you but then when one of them muttered a hollow ‘good luck’ it made you uneasy. Had it been said with ice or resentment in their voice you would have understood but now it only furthered your confusion. Because of the whirlwind of emotions, packing, saying your goodbyes and celebrating you hadn’t given your new transfer papers a proper read until you were on the ship. All you’d known before had was that you were given the rank of Captain and would be serving directly under a Vice-Admiral. Out on the open water you went to your quarters and grabbed the papers, pulling them out to finally see who it was. The shock had been so sharp that you had to blink rapidly a few times to ensure you weren’t misreading the name Vice-Admiral Doflamingo. Just like that your life was thrown sideways and you soon realised what those looks had meant but through it all you dealt with it even though most of the time you were only there to babysit the man who by all accounts was your superior.

At first you suspected he did it on purpose. Now you just truly believed he was hopeless at doing anything that wasn’t hunting down criminals and causing chaos. So on top of your own work, making sure Doflamingo was in some way in line and looking after himself fell to you. Even on your days off you found yourself having to tend to him in some capacity. It’d been some time since your transfer that you’d managed to get back home and according to Doflamingo you’d earned the time off so you took it, heading back to your hometown to visit friends and family.

You were roused rudely and suddenly from your sleep to the sound of your personal den-den mushi ringing. Disoriented you jolted awake and tried to force your heavy eyes open only to feel them sting in protest. With more effort than you’d wanted to exert so late at night you managed to crack your eyes open enough and fumble your hand and search clumsily in the dark. Your fingers knocked against the receiver and you let out a sleep-thick curse to hear it hit the floor. Rolling onto your side you managed to grip the cable connecting the lost receiver to the snail on your nightstand and pull it off the floor. With a long yawn you tucked the receiver securely beside your face and pillow. “‘Lo?”

“Don’t tell me you’re still in bed Captain…” the deep voice drifted to you with the signature chuckle you’d gone a few days without hearing. Only now did you realise how strange it was to have gone so long without it echoing from somewhere. 

“Vice-Admiral?” You mumbled in confusion. “It’s nighttime…Timezones remember?”

“Ah yes, yes. My mistake.” Doflamigo chuckled from his end. In the background you could hear the usual morning activity drifting from his open office window. 

“What do you need Vice-Admiral?” You question was sighed into the receiver and Doflamingo chuckled to hear how much effort it was taking for you to sound coherent enough for him to understand your sleepy words. 

“Who says I need anything?” Doflamingo asked kicking his feet up onto his desk surface, his polished shoes crumpling untouched files and reports. His question and the crisp sound irked you enough to waken slightly.

“You always need something.” You grumbled, pressing the back of your hand against your mouth to stifle a heavy yawn. “You also need to do your reports. ‘M not coming back to see your desk hidden by papers again.”

“So harsh to threaten me with not coming back.” Doflamingo tutted you. “Remember I know where you are, I’ll come get you myself.”

“Mhm.” You hummed softly, too tired to fully commit to acknowledging his threat. “Still have to do your paperwork. You still haven’t told me what you need.”

“My gloves.” Your eyebrow twitched slightly. “Not my usual ones, the spare ones.”

“What happened your usual ones?”

“Took them off for five minutes and Rosi managed to get them too when he set himself on fire.” Doflamingo explained, his grin growing when your sleepy laugh drifted through the air. 

“They were fraying anyway…” You told him gently, probably trying to ensure he wasn’t too mad at his clumsy little brother. “Spares are in your desk. Left hand side, second drawer. You were using them to hide that bottle of whisky you thought I didn’t know about.”

You listened to the muffled sound of the drawer sliding open and laugh, your own lips curving into a smug smile. Even half-asleep you were more aware of anything to do with Doflamingo.

“What would I do without you, Captain?”

“You’d manage.” You said with another yawn. “Everyone else would be devastated if I wasn’t there.”

“Good thing that’s purely hypothetical. You’re not going anywhere Captain.”

“Says the man who said I’d only last a week as your Captain…” You teased as yet another heavy yawn filled your chest. It was getting harder to stay awake, Doflamingo’s deep voice being a comfort to listen to. “How time’s changed…”

“I know, it’s been what two years now? We forgot to celebrate our anniversary!”

“We’ll share that whisky when I get back.”

“Deal.”

“But only if you have your reports done…” You warned with a small smile when you could hear Doflamingo scowl. “Need anything else, sir?”

“No, you can go back to sleep now.” Doflamingo grinned before suddenly realising there was something else. “Wait, what else am I forgetting?”

“Breakfast. You need to eat.” You mumbled, heavily lifting the receiver towards the snail. “Oh and Admiral Akainu’s visiting the base tomorrow. Night, night.” 

“Wait what?!” Doflamingo called after you only to see the call had ended. Quickly he pushed the papers out of the way on the desk to find the calendar you’d left for him. Sure enough tomorrow’s date was circled twice and your reminder of the visit written in your handwriting. Three days after that you’d noted would be your return. Quickly Doflamingo got to his feet and with strong purposeful strides he made his way outside. There was no way he was going to endure a boring visit on his own. There was also no way he was lasting the long wait until you got back. Unleashing his strings he pulled himself into the sky and disappeared from sight, ignoring his subordinates uselessly shouting after him. He was only going out for a quick fly was what he told himself but if he happened to stop by and see you then that was purely coincidence. 

——————————————-

TAG LIST (If I’ve missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @fiery-captain-spider-santa, @kabloswrld , @atanukileaf , @ane5e , @stuckinthewrongworld , @cloudysunset04 , @chillerkiller , @sin-namonroll , @decayingpizza , @liesatemyocean , @ace-for-ace , @nerium-lil , @destynelseclipsa , @dreamcastgirl99 , @my-name-is-heartache , @iamn1ya ,  @yunho-leeknow , @hinata7346 , @h0oouwlss , @missrandomdreamer , @sleepykittycx , @ddawn111 , @jaygrl22 , @sylum , @acehyacinth , @resident-cryptid , @treelogirl , @maellem , @thulhu , @appalost , @dindjarins1ut , @irumawife , @laidenbreecatchall , @redwolfxx , @jevoislesbrasdemer , @schanwow , @pao198391 , @glitchtricks94 , @nina-ya , @48daisies , @rosemary-lungs , @sagyunaro , @artemis162534 , @thecraftywriter , @rorozorolover

[bimoonphases]

@wolfstarmicrofic June 3 - prompt 3: Prince [word count 788]

“I don’t want to,” Sirius crossed his arms, stopping in the middle of the corridor.

“Come on Pads, he’s your brother,” James said.

“The little prince of Slytherin?” Sirius snorted. “He hasn’t said a word to me since I left, not even to make sure I was alright or to know where I went.”

“Everybody knows you live with James now,” Peter intervened. “That’s at least one thing he didn’t need to ask you.”

“But everything else is,” Sirius shook his head. “Boys, my brother’s a pawn in my parents’ hands, nothing more and nothing less.”

Remus sighed. He knew it would be hard. In the past six months, Sirius had gone through several stages when it came to Regulus: crushing guilt at the fact he had left him behind the summer night he had fled his parents’ house, saviour’s complex, planning all the ways he could rescue him and then, once they had all been back at Hogwarts in September and his brother hadn’t even acknowledged him in the halls, cold fury. Now it was mid-January, and Sirius acted as if he had never had a brother, but Remus knew he still hurt and still missed him. Sirius hadn’t said anything, not even to him, but James had told him about the small box wrapped with a golden ribbon with Regulus’s name on he had found in Sirius’s bedroom over Christmas break.

“You know I saw him during tutoring,” Remus said, walking back to him.

“The little shit even needs tutoring, I don’t even know-” Sirius started, but Remus’s hand hit him quickly on the back of the neck. “Ouch, Moony!”

“Needing tutoring is not a bad thing,” Remus glared at his boyfriend. “But Regulus doesn’t. He’s really smart actually. I think he joined the group after the winter break to talk to me.”

“And what might the now heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black want to talk to you about?” Sirius scoffed again.

“His brother,” Remus sighed. “I told you he wanted to see you, that’s literally why we’ve been dragging you with us tonight.”

“I have nothing to say to him,” Sirius insisted.

“But he might have something to say to you,” Peter said.

“And in any case, you don’t get a say in it, not this time,” James started pushing Sirius along the corridor.

“Prongs, what the hell?!”

“Sorry Pads, it’s either this, you walk of your own accord or I’m carrying you!”

Despite a grumbling Sirius they soon reached the empty classroom Regulus had chosen for the meeting and filed in, not to be caught wandering around after curfew since James hadn’t brought the cloak with him this time and because they didn’t trust Sirius not to walk away immediately if they weren’t with him.

Regulus was already inside and he turned around, staring directly at his brother.

“Sirius,” he said slowly.

Remus watched Sirius cross his arms, but he saw his hands tremble slightly.

“What do you want, Regulus?”

There was a long moment of silence, the two brothers still looking at each other. Then, Regulus looked down and slowly rolled up both legs of his trousers. As he turned around, Remus felt a shiver down his spine: he knew perfectly well the kind of scars that appeared on the younger Black’s calves. Thin, almost invisible, and multiple. Walburga Black’s favourite slicing curse. Sirius had those same scars. Remus looked up just in time to see his boyfriend’s face crumble.

“Reggie…” he whispered.

Seconds later, he was hugging his little brother so tight Remus wondered if he would snap him in two.

Much later in the night, once Regulus had fallen asleep in Sirius’s bed, Remus heard the familiar sound of feet across the floor and the curtains around his four-poster bed opening.

“Moony,” Sirius whispered. “Are you still awake?”

“Come in, Padfoot,” Remus answered.

Sirius curled up against him and Remus wrapped his arms around his shoulders, waiting in silence until he spoke.

“He’s coming home with me when summer comes. The Potters’, I mean.”

Remus smiled, as if he could mistake any other place than the Potters’ for his boyfriend’s home now.

“That’s wonderful news,” he said.

“He’s going to be safe, they will never lay a hand on him again,” Sirius shifted in bed, his head moving to rest on Remus’s chest. “Moony?”

“Yes my love?”

“Thank you. I was stubborn, but it’s thanks to you I’ve got my brother back.”

“I know how important he is to you, Padfoot. How important you both are to each other.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

As Sirius kissed him, Remus felt warm and fuzzy at the thought he had managed to give his boyfriend something so precious he thought he had lost forever. After all, that was the very definition of love.

[prettydaisygirl]

Hi! I love the way you write, it's my first time asking for an au ♡ "🌼 "

¡James's reaction on his wedding day when he saw a reader in her wedding dress walking down the aisle! ,with the phrase “i still dream about you even though you’re mine.”

Hi nonnie! Absolutely blessed to have your first au request <3 Happy to have you here, my love, I hope you enjoy :)

🌼 daisy (innocence, loyalty, pure love): pick a character and an AU from the lists above & a prompt from this list and I will write a <500 word drabble

daisy's 500 follower celebration bouquet

James Potter, wedding, and "I still dream about you even though you're mine."

cw: james being absolutely in love with reader, mention of james having effie's eyes, mention of having children in the future

°˖✧✿✧˖°

This might be the busiest, craziest, most hectic day of James Potter’s life so far, and he wouldn’t have it any different.

“James Fleamont Potter!” His mother’s scolding voice cuts through his frantic mind, his head whipping around to find her, her identically-colored eyes narrowed at his own. “You’re going to get married dressed like that?”

James doesn’t initially know what his mother means, she’s the one who picked this suit for him. He looks down to check it out, only to find his mother’s hands reaching out to fiddle with his tie. Oh.

When she’s done, she takes a small step back, her hands patting his chest lightly. Effie’s eyes are wet when she looks up, a smile on her lips, and James’ face softens.

“Mum-”

“You look so handsome, James.” Effie’s voice wobbles just a bit before she takes a heavy breath to compose herself. “I’m so proud of you, my love.”

“Mum-” James tries again, but this time his father steps up, clapping him on the back. It’s almost overwhelming, the joy surging through him. This is the best day of his life.

“Proud of you, Jay.” His father echoes his mother’s words and the three of them find themselves in a big hug. It’s sweet, James hopes he has this same scene with his own son someday. Maybe one like him, identical to his father but with his mother’s eyes. Your eyes. 

James continues to receive praise and pats on the shoulder from the various wedding guests as they pile in, preparing for the ceremony. He’s so giddy, he can barely even contain himself. He wants to find you, but he can’t. 

When he finally stands at the end of the aisle, under the altar, James finds he can’t stand still. Not that he ever can, but the excitement coursing through him is like nothing he’s ever felt. You’re going to look so ethereal, like an angel. You’re going to walk toward him, and say your vows, and kiss him, and become his wife. He’ll be your husband, you’ll belong to each other, and that makes him feel like he’s on top of the world.

He thinks he’s prepared to see you, but he isn’t. When the doors at the other end of the aisle open, you step out and… he breaks. He doesn’t even have words to describe how beautiful you are, his brain fully malfunctions, and instantly he has tears in his eyes. He wipes them away as soon as they form so they don’t blur his vision of you.

When you reach him, he takes your hand. You give him a smile that has his entire soul singing with love, and he can’t resist placing a kiss on your cheekbone.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against your skin, and he can feel your breath catch. “You’re like a dream. I still dream about you even though you’re mine.”

“Jamie…” Your voice is so soft, James feels like he needs to cradle you. His hands hold your elbows as the ceremony starts, thumbs rubbing gentle, soothing motions. 

And once it’s over, the vows and the kiss, James picks you up and carries you back down the aisle to thunderous applause.

Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Potter!

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[bballesbolol]

The Game We Play

A slow burn UConn AU with plenty of jealousy, competing, yearning, and self discovery.

This is a series!! If you haven’t read it yet, you can find the previous chapter here.

WC: 8.5k

Chapter 4 | Turning Heads

Paige’s POV:

It had been a week since Paige last talked to Azzi.

Well, kinda.

Paige had made it her mission to at least keep up a streak with Azzi, so their interactions had been limited to half faced selfies sent thoughtlessly back and forth. It really wasn’t much, just cordial. A formality.

But now Paige was in the back of a rental car leaving her hotel, and heading for Spooky Nook. She had flown into Pennsylvania the night prior for the Under Armour Summit, and her body could feel the effects of the firm hotel mattress she’d slept on. But Paige was ready to play despite her sub-par sleep and slightly achy back.

She hadn’t forgotten Azzi’s threat, how she needed to “back up her talk”, and no matter how lightly she had meant it, Paige had taken it to heart. She was playing to get on college's radar, of course, but for some reason, she felt more motivation to beat Azzi than she felt about getting noticed.

She glanced at the GPS on her dads phone.

2 minutes to arrival

Her phone buzzed, drawing her eyes to the screen.

azzi.fudd35 sent you a snap ■

she clicked to notification, which opened to a picture of the outside of the complex they were playing at. Paige responded with a picture of the dashboard, before slipping her phone into the front pocket of her basketball bag.

They hadn’t talked, like, really talked since Azzi had agreed to be her roomate. Their parents had exchanged numbers and filled out roomate forms, but she hadn’t really spoken to Azzi since.

Now she was seeing her in person, maybe even playing against her if the tournament bracket fell that way. And honestly? She was excited. Excited to actually speak face to face? yes. But more so to play her, maybe show off a little, and especially to win. Almost everything in her felt like it was her responsibility to prove Azzi wrong.

The parking lot was full when they pulled in to spooky nook, and Paige had insisted that her dad drop her off and find parking so she wouldn’t be late for registration. She wanted to make sure that she saw everyone who was invited.

She opened the double doors into the lobby and was greeted by a sea of crazy moms and dads escorting their children to a mile-long folding table covered in a rainbow of jerseys, with workers behind it handing out game schedules and informational packets. She scanned the crowd, seeing if there was any method to the madness happening in front of her. She looked closer and discovered that the table was organized by last name, prompting her to drift towards the large B near the front of the table.

“Name?” A worker had leaned over the table, her eyes meeting Paige’s in a way that screamed let's get this over with.

”Paige”

the worker looked down at her clipboard and let out a subtle huff.

“Last name, please?”

“Oh—sorry it's Bueckers”

The woman looked down at the table sorting through the pilled jersey before grabbing out an orange one with the number 218 on the back.

“You’re on team orange, you’ll be playing in the gold pool” She handed over a tournament schedule and a map of the complex before continuing, “all courts are open for warm-ups, at 8:00 you’ll head to court 3 to meet with your team for team warm ups, and then you’ll just follow the schedule.”

Paige stared blankly at the woman, trying to absorb the mass of information. The woman smiled and handed over a pamphlet.

”everything I said is in here if you can’t remember, I’d suggest you get down to the courts quick if you want to get a ball to yourself to warm up”

Paige let out an internal sigh of relief and smiled before thanking the woman and heading towards the courts, weaving through the sea of athletes picking up their jerseys, until one voice stopped her.

“Fudd”

Paige's head turned, catching a glimpse of a girl in a baggy sweatshirt, headphones resting around her neck, and black mesh Nike shorts, with her hair up in a tight bun.

Azzi.

Paige lingered, waiting for the worker to finish giving azzi the run-down on tournament play and court numbers. Not starring—just, waiting.

Azzi turned from the table, seemingly not noticing Paige floating nearby. Not until Paige crept up on her and playfully squeezed her shoulder.

“Hey!” Paige exclaimed, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Azzi jumped slightly, before smiling and rolling her eyes, turning her head to face forward and continue walking towards the courts.

“Restraining order, remember?”

Paige shrugged “I guess the paperwork didn’t go through” she mused, acting playfully confused.

“Ohh yeah—I forgot to file, but I’ll definitely have to now. There’s like what, 100 kids here? And your stalker-ass still managed to find me?” Azzi replied with a grin, shoving Paige with her shoulder.

”Hey B is really close to F on that table, it's not my fault, blame whoever wrote the alphabet like a million years ago” Paige shot back

Azzi turned away “a million? Y’know—“ Azzi looked to her like she was considering explaining the history of the English language, but clearly thought better of it. She let out an exasperated sigh and continued, “whatever—what team are you on?”

”orange”

“pool?”

”gold, you?”

”I'm on blue, playing in gold pool.”

Paige turned to her and smirked, “Ohhh, so I get to beat you in a 5 on 5 first?”

”Who said that?”

”uh—me. I’m going iso and cooking your ass every play”

Azzi glared at her and rolled her eyes. They reached the double doors leading to the courts and Paige grabbed the handle of the door closest to her to let herself in, turning and holding it for Azzi as she followed her in.

“Like I said, you gotta back it up” Paige watched as Azzi walked over to a rack of basketballs and picked one up, bouncing it once before passing it to her, hard.

She caught it—with minimal difficulty—a smirk spreading on her face. She could feel that Azzi already wanted to rip her head off, and she could tell that if they played each other, it was gonna be good. She watched as azzi grabbed another ball for herself and moved to pull her headphones up over her ears, beginning to walk away.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Paige called out.

Azzi stopped, holding one hand of her headphones off of her ear and without looking called back, “away from you—no way I’m warming up with the girl who’s gonna ‘beat my ass’” She emphasized the last part with air quotes, before dropping the other side of her headphones onto her ear and continuing to walk towards a hoop on the opposite side of the court.

Paige almost opened her mouth to retort, but thought better of it—I mean obviously she wouldn’t hear her anyways. Instead, she carried her ball over to a nearby wall and sat down to put on her shoes—a pair of Kobe 5 X-ray’s—and half heartedly stretch her legs.

She slipped on her jersey over the loose black undershirt she came in and shot up, grabbing her ball and scanning the gym. Her eyes found Azzi, who was across the form shooting. Paige looked away as Azzi turned to move back from the hoop. She drifted towards an empty hoop and started her warm up with form shots 2 or 3 feet out from the basket, slowly moving back the more she made.

Apparently, the thought of warming up her shot in any meaningful way was too optimistic. After a few minutes Paige had abandoned the idea of warming up and had moved back to the three point line. It was an easy way to warm up her handle and her shot—at least that’s what she told herself.

tween—cross—hessi—drive—pull-up elbow jumper.

swish

yeah, I’ve got this girl beat.

A buzzer echoed through the gym, signaling that it was time for team warmups. Paige moved to grab her bag, racking her brain for what court she was supposed to go to. 2? 3? she couldn’t remember in the slightest. She settled on heading towards court 2, following whatever orange jerseys she could find.

***

She didn’t recognize many of the players on her team, but they all seemed good. Their team warm up was short, a half lap, a quick stretch, layup lines, and three man weave, all in the span of about 10 minutes. Her shots had been inconsistent warming up, a good sign for her—usually if her shots were falling in warm up she went dry in the game.

Now she stood in a circle with her teammates surrounding a whiteboard outlining an offense they’d be running. It was simple, a four-out one-in with a few screens to open up the 2 and the 5 players, but overall lacking in hard structure—she had space to play with it.

The coach gave a basic rundown of the structure of the games. They’re running 8 minute quarter games, subs will be quick. 2 games played at a time in each pool, 8 teams, if you win you move on and play another winner, if you lose you play the losers, at most you play 3 full games. Blah blah blah. Paige was just ready to play.

The team counted off, and Paige sauntered to center court for the jump ball, scanning the bleachers on her way over. Most of the girls were sitting in the stands on their phones, except for one. Azzi was looking out at the court, headphones still on and phone in her hand, she looked swiftly back down to her phone—but Paige could have sworn she was looking at her.

But she had no time to look again. She set up on the edge of the logo behind the teams center, bending over slightly and grabbing the hem of her shorts. The whistle sounded. The center jumped and tapped the ball back. Paige jumped to grab it, pulling the ball to her waist before approaching the edge of the three point line.

A big to her left set an on ball screen, which she used, brushing off her defender and scanning the court. The opposing center left her player to guard Paige as she came around the screen, allowing her to feed her wide open center the ball for an easy two points.

The rest of the game felt just as easy. Good defense led to steals. Steals led to easy buckets. Paige could score at will, but she didn’t want to be selfish. Not yet. She was sure to get her teammates involved once she’d had her fair share of offense.

By halftime she had scored 16 points and tallied 5 assists, and her team was up 32-24. Not up by enough to feel comfortable yet, but they certainly weren’t scrambling.

She sat on the bench, elbows on her knees, watching their coach write up the starting lineup for the second quarter—which she wasn’t in. understandably so, she had only come off the court for a few minutes in the first half. Still, she wished she could get in and play.

She zoned out while the coach explained a new out of bounds play, taking a drink from a gatorade bottle and instead focusing on the crowd across the court.

She met a pair of brown eyes across the floor—just for a second.

Paige watched as she glanced back down to her phone, a smirk spreading on her face.

she knew she’d been watching, she’d felt her eyes on her the whole game. and she hoped she got Paige's message: she came to play.

She put her hand in to count off her team and watched the starting five take the court, leaning back in her chair. She watched intently as her team played without her, itching to come off the bench.

that itch wasn’t scratched until the top of the fourth quarter. The game had gotten closer, the opposing team had gone on a run and cut their lead down to 5. her coach looked at her and cocked her head to the scorers table. She moved over, knelt, and at the sound of the buzzer she walked back into the game.

7 minutes left. Just enough for her to ice it—and maybe show out for the fans.

She received the ball and squared up to the hoop, surveying the floor for her next move. She spotted it. A screen coming to her left, drop coverage, a back door cut clearing just enough space for her to get off a shot. She ran her defender into the screen, stepped back, and let the ball fly. Swish. Three points.

She didn’t react—well, not too much—just grinned and got back on defense.

Their defense was strong, good enough for them to get a stop, and Paige once again found herself at the top of the key with the ball in her hands. Scanning the floor, just for a moment.

She drove at her defender, shifting her weight right before crossing over to her left, insisting her way to the rim. She attempted to finish around the help defense with a euro step. She felt a shoulder drill into her ribs mid-air, and was knocked to the ground right after she released the ball.

She stayed down for a second—just long enough to watch the ball bounce around the rim before falling through the net.

“AND ONE!!” A teammate grabbed her arm and dragged her from the floor.

She bumped chests with whoever was near. Cheered. Walked to the line.

Looked to the stands.

Nobody looked back. The game was winding down, Azzi’s team must have gone to huddle somewhere quiet. But, something in her wished Azzi had seen.

She bounced the ball once, before spinning it into her palm and moving to shoot, letting the ball flick gently from her fingers. It fell through the hoop with a soft swish.

Paige let herself pull back from the game. The game was over, it didn't matter that there was still 2 minutes left. Their lead had extended back to 11. She had scored 22. Now she could facilitate—let the team close it out.

The game ended 58-44. They shook hands. laughed. Paige revived a pat on the back and a couple of “damn she’s good’s” from the opposing team coaches.

Their coach cut the team loose, telling them to be back ten minutes before their next game. Most of the team dispersed between the many courts, some headed for the consignment stand or back to the lobby, but Paige didn’t. She surveyed the court for the least conspicuous spot to watch the next game from—settled on sitting on the floor up against a pillar next to the bleachers—and sat, grabbing her phone.

azzi.fudd35 sent you a snap ■

oh great. She opened the snap and was greeted with an image of her sitting on the bench, leaned back, with her arms resting behind her head, eyes fixed on the game in front of her, captioned oh you’re keeping that bench WARM.

she rolled her eyes. looked up. Both teams were in layup lines, Azzi was running back to halfcourt and glanced at Paige, first at her deadpan expression, and then to the phone in her hand. An amused grin spread on her lips before she turned abruptly and ran back down the court.

Paige didn't say anything, just shut off her phone and watched.

Azzi’s POV:

The ride to Spooky Nook was quick, but not uneventful.

“now listen, this is a chance to show off who you are, not just how you play. you gon’ lead on the court today, not follow. now I know you young and all, but you have something this lil’ girls don’t have—discipline. I bet you they don’t know hard work like you do—“

Her dad had been going on like this for what…like, 5 minutes? she wasn’t sure, had checked out a minute in. She loved her dad, and his advice was helpful—well, sometimes—but not now, not when he believed she was the best player in the country.

Because she wasn’t, she statistically couldn’t be. She was only 14. was she good? yes. was she better than the 16 year old DI bound girls she’d be playing? all signs point to no.

Still, she listened. nodded. half hoping he would tell her it’s ok if she didn’t perform, that she was allowed to make mistakes playing at this callibur.

She phased back into reality when her dad changed the subject.

“so, that roommate of yours gonna be there? that bueckers girl?”

“yeah—“

“oh that’s just perfect. get to know her play style before school, y’know? you guys are gonna be fighting for that spot at the point, and I know that lil’ ass white girl don’t got nothing on my Azzi.”

and just like that he was back to the same monotonous drone.

observe, outwork, compete, win.

she’d heard it a million times.

It was what rang in her ears during warmups, in between quarters, at halftime, post game, hell, it even made it into her dreams.

But he had made a point. This was the start of her and Paige’s fight for the spot on the team. For point guard. Playmaker. Leader. Star.

And she was gonna win.

***

the lobby was crowded, but paige had still managed to track her down.

they exchanged words—brief and challenging—and then gone there separate ways. Or rather, Azzi had tried to get as far away from Paige as possible. Because she knew her game, and it was all talk. the less of her she heard the better.

her shot was on, her body felt loose, her skin buzzed with anticipation—and she had to play second.

she met with her team at the buzzer, they talked strategy, what they’d be running, who goes where.

Azzi studied, tried to absorb every scrap of information.

and then they were ushered to the nearby bleachers, told to stay ready. Most of the team sat on their phones, some chatted quietly, but Azzi watched, or more accurately—read.

She attempted to maintain an air of nonchalance, a look of boredom, like she couldn’t care less how Paige played. She would glance at her phone whenever she felt she had been watching too long. But she watched. Read how Paige’s team played drop coverage on ball screens. How they rotated. Who cut where. when they attacked and when they slowed down.

Most importantly she watched Paige.

And for some reason, it felt like Paige was watching her too. Acknowledging her presence. A glance after a made three. The slight turn of her head before inbounding the ball. A challenge. She was telling her that she came to play too.

Half time came quickly. Paige’s team was leading, not enough to end it, but enough to exhale and slow down.

She watched as the team took the court—and how Paige didn’t.

How she sat on the bench. how she managed to look bored, hands resting behind her head, leaned back gaze lazily following the play.

Azzi laughed to herself as an idea crept into her. She grabbed her phone, opened snapchat and took a picture. captioned it with something she would expect out of Paige: immature, teasing, unserious.

Oh you’re keeping that bench WARM.

She smiled to herself as she sent it, eyes returning to the game.

The ending was expected. a run from the opposing team, answered by a run from Paige that carried them comfortably into round two.

Now it was Azzi’s turn.

warmups were quick, layup lines, elbow jumpers, a three man weave. The anticipatory buzz was back by the time the team huddled.

By the time they broke from the huddle the buzz felt more like electricity.

They won the tip. One of Azzi’s teammates passed her the ball. She slowed at the tip of the key, carefully scanning the court. reading. calculating. She made eye contact with a big man in the corner. dribbled towards the wing. She tilted her head slightly, signaling for her big to back door cut. When she did, Azzi slipped her the ball and relocated to the corner, watching as she drove towards the basket.

Azzi watched as she was met with a double team at the rim. She called for the ball in the corner, squaring to the hoop in anticipation for the shot. The ball met her hands for a split second before Azzi moved to shoot, flicking her wrist with the careful finesse of a sharpshooter.

swish.

First on the board. Easy shot. still, no stopping. Not this early.

Azzi turned to get back on defense when something—no, someone—caught her eye. Paige, sitting on the floor leaned back against a pillar, eyes set on the play. Not her, but the action at the other end of the court.

She wasn’t sure if she had seen her shot—not that it mattered—but, she knew she was watching, and she wanted to give her a show. Make her nervous.

She shifted as the ball swung from player to player around the three point line. There was a pause, a sloppy interior pass that was tipped by her teammate, and she was gone. She looked back as she sprinted towards her hoop, tracking down a near full-court pass and finishing at the rim.

She turned to the sideline again and found Paige, who was not looking at her, and was instead staring down at her phone. Because of course she was. She didn’t seem like the type of person to scout—not like Azzi—analysis was not in the Bueckers playbook.

But it was in Azzi’s. She watched the opposing team’s plays as she defended, predicting.

She jumped passing lanes, picked pockets, called screens, anything she could do to get the ball back into her teams hands.

She took a back seat on offense, letting the other guard bring the ball up when she could. She wanted to get to her jumpshot as much as possible, and catch and shoot was her best option.

And it was working. She ran her defender through an off ball screen, receiving the ball at the arc and shooting it masterfully over an outstretched hand. Cash.

She received the ball of a handoff, took a quick sidestep, and let her shot fly. Bang.

The ball was swung to her in the corner, and she shot it with the quickness of a professional. Swish.

She was hot. She had reached a point where shooting felt like breathing—simple, subconscious—the points came easy.

Her team had thrown together a sizable lead. Enough to cruise through the second quarter without tensing up after a turnover or missed shot. Enough for Azzi to sit out for the third quarter. At the start of the fourth her coach leaned over to her. Told her she was saving her for the next game. Patted her shoulder and turned back to the game.

Azzi took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly and closed her eyes. She was glad for a break—even more glad at the compliment from her coach—but her body wasn’t ready to be still yet. She still had more in her. She wanted to play.

Her knees bounced as she anxiously watched the game, not out of fear that they wouldn’t win, but out of anticipation to get back in—which she still hoped for despite the fact that her coach had made it clear she wouldn’t be doing.

The game wound down. Azzi stood to high five her teammates and shake hands with the other team. Their coach told them to take a quick break, grab some water and walk off the game.

She tried to keep the disappointment off her face as she approached the sideline.

“Trying to take my spot Fudd?” She looked around, eyes settle in on the ground in front of her. Paige was still sitting leaned up against a pillar.

“Me? Nope, just keeping it warm for you.” She replied, thinking for a moment and then adding, “you should be seeing plenty of bench time during school ball” Her delivery was deadpan. Serious, like she meant it. But Paige just laughed.

“Me? Funny. I balled out, guessing you saw. Good game by the way, you kinda got nerfed by that coach.”

Azzi looked down at Paige, trying to analyze what she was getting at. She couldn’t tell if she was trying to compliment her or be backhanded—considering it was Paige it was probably both.

“I showed out first half, they wanted to take me out to save my legs. Lucky for you, you’ll play me at my best.” Her voice sounded oddly scathing, but she didn’t care to fix her tone.

“Oh, it like that.”

”mhm” she crossed her arms and looked down at Paige.

Paige stood up slowly, grabbed her bag and turned to look (slightly down) at Azzi.

”Well, you still have to make it past round two. Let’s hope you can get in this time.” Her words were sickly sweet, a challenge masked with a smile. A stupid, cocky, all too familiar Paige Bueckers smile.

Paige turned away before Azzi could reply, walking towards a couple of her teammates. Azzi was seething.

She made her way to the water fountain and placed her bottle under the sensor, pausing to breath. She had only known Paige for a few days, but it was already pretty clear to her how she operated. She poked. Prodded. Tried her best to get under peoples skin. And Azzi was determined not to let her. When she looked up water was spilling over the sides of her bottle. She quickly grabbed it, screwing the top back on and trying her best to dry off the sides with her jersey. Nope, she was not letting Paige get to her. Not today.

***

Her second game was more eventful, for her at least. She couldn’t say the same for the other team. She was back on, drilling shots from anywhere she could. Problem was, Paige was too.

They were playing at the same time, on courts parallel to each other. She could hear their bench light up when Paige made a shot. The snap of the net. She tried her best to keep her eyes on her own game, but it was proving to be a challenge.

She caught her eyes drifting to the other court whenever it got particularly loud—just to peek, see who was worth the celebration.

And of course it was Paige.

Of course she managed to meet Azzi's gaze whenever she dared to look over.

Of course that stupid smirk spread across her face whenever Azzi scrambled to look away.

She hated it. How she knew it went to her head. So she stopped looking, convinced herself that whatever Paige was doing was not worth her attention.

She focused on her game. On her shots. The sound of the net as she found the bottom of it once again. A part of her hoped she made Paige stare too.

She had found a rhythm, every shot felt like second nature, every drive like a walk in the park. Her team was up, not a blow out, but still comfortable.

By the sound of it, Paige’s team was up too. Perfect.

Halftime came quickly.

Her team was gathered around a whiteboard, watching their coach draw up new rotations in their offense. Azzi leaned back in her chair, listening half heartedly, but her eyes weren’t on the play. They were instead fixed on a bench across the court. Half zoned out, half searching for a certain blonde.

“Azzi.” She felt a tap on her knee as her coach tried to reel her back in. “You listening? We’re running this for you”

She looked back down to the whiteboard, attempting to take in the play in front of her. Double screen, point guard would drive and kick to her coming off of the screen on the wing. Simple. Effective.

Azzi nodded, signaling to her coach she was ready.

The buzzer sounded and she was back out on the court.

The game ran smoothly. Their lead never faltered enough for her chest to tighten.

The fourth was winding down, and the team wanted to end in a bucket. momentum for the final. Azzi looked to her coach, who was signaling to run the new play.

She called it, running up the floor with the ball before passing it off to the other guard. She watched as the pieces fell into place. How the bigs lined up for the screen. the drive. the kick.

she cut to the wing, brushing shoulders with the screener,, leaving her defender off balance at the free throw line. The ball found its way to her hands. She loaded her shot, looked to the rim and let it fly.

it hit the back iron, rolled around the rim, and lipped out.

A chorus of ohh’s and so close’s sounded from her bench.

The buzzer echoed throughout the gym. But applause seemed to echo even louder.

Azzi turned around to find the source of the noise.

And—of course—it was coming from Paige's court. Her team was huddled around her at the top of the key. The bench was on their feet cheering.

Azzi looked to the score. 63-60.

She could already imagine what had happened. Close game. down to the wire. They needed a clutch bucket and Paige was there—because of course she was.

The huddle dissipated, revealing Paige standing in the middle. She stared back at Azzi. Smirked—not the playful kind, the kind that made Azzi want to knock her teeth out—and turned away.

Azzi turned too. tried to hide her annoyance. Failed, apparently.

Her teammate patted her on the shoulder. “hey, you’re good, just saving that shot for the final.”

another chimed in, “yeah, we still won, and you still had like what, 20?”

Azzi nodded, a strained smile spreading across her face.

She followed the team back to their bench. Half listened as their coach broke down the game, putting most of her attention on the floor in front of her. She was pissed. She should’ve made that shot—she certainly could’ve. It’s not like it was for the game, but it knocked down the momentum she had worked to build up all day.

Her coach let them go, told them to grab a snack before the bronze medal match. She grabbed her bag and left the gym, hoping for a moment of silence in the lobby.

Paige’s POV:

After game two she felt beat. She wasn't on empty yet, but she was definitely nearing a quarter tank. She needed fuel.

Luckily, the green and purple teams were playing for bronze, and she had 45 minutes to kill.

She decided it was time to visit concessions, the dull ache of her empty stomach had become too much to ignore and she needed something quick to keep her going.

She was looking though the snack stands options when something—well, someone—else caught her eye. Azzi, sitting by herself at a table on her phone, headphones on.

“what do you want?” she looked back and was greeted by the worker of the concession stand, who was staring back, drumming ber fingers on the counter impatiently.

She scrambled to pick something, failed miserably and settled on a granola bar, a beef stick, and a packet of skittles. She grabbed her very nutritious spoils and headed over to Azzi’s table.

She slid into the seat across from Azzi, who looked up, and then down to the snacks she had brought over. She could feel the judgement before Azzi even opened her mouth.

“wow, aren’t you just the picture of heath” her delivery was deadpan. sarcastic. maybe a little pissed off? Paige just chose to laugh it off.

“It’s carbs and protein, right?”

Azzi gestured to the packet of skittles paige had dropped on the table.

“yeah, and sugar.” Azzi’s tone remained unchanged.

“uhh yeah, doesn’t your blood sugar get low when you run or something? i’m just giving my body what it wants” She paused for a second, noticing the lack of snacks in front of Azzi. “you already have something? bring your own kale salad and grass fed beef or whatever?”

“no, I uh—wasn’t hungry after the last game. just needed some quiet out here.” She looked paige up and down before adding, “guess I won’t be getting that though”

Paige slid the granola bar to Azzi across the table.

“well, you’re gonna have to deal with me next year, figured I’d help you get desensitized sooner”

Azzi didn’t respond at first, just looked down at the bar Paige slid to her.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry, you have that”

“Trust me, you’re gonna be hungry. I want to play you at your best—I don’t want to win because you’re passed out on the sideline.“ She watched as Azzi picked up the bar, seemingly considering throwing it back in Paige's face, but must have thought better of it, because she unwrapped it and took a bite.

“thanks” she mumbled around a mouthful of bar, looking back down her phone. Paige opened up the packet of skittles and popped one in her mouth. They sat in silence for a moment while they ate. not quite uncomfortable, but definitely tense. Azzi didn’t seem happy, and she wasn’t sure why.

“you looked good” the words slipped from paige’s lips as she considered what to say to break the silence. “In the game, I mean. Your shot looked good”

Azzi looked up from her phone.

“you were watching?”

“scouting,“ she corrected before continuing, “had a feeling I’d be playing you in the final.” she popped another handful of skittles in her mouth.

“watching, scouting—whatever, still seems stalker-ey to me.” Azzi replied. Her tone was unchanged, but the outline of a smile was threatening at the corners of her lips.

“Hey—you can’t talk to me about stalking. I saw you at my first game. Know damn well you weren’t there for someone else”

“Wow, you really think I'm that obsessed with you? I could’ve been watching the other team y’know”

“name one person on the other team” Paige looked at Azzi expectantly

She was silent. Paige was not. She let out an amused snort before crossing her arms and replying:

“mhm, exactly”

“it not like I got to see much from you anyway—didn’t you spend half that game on the bench?” Azzi looked back up to to her, a slight smirk on her face.

“WOAHHH—we do NOT have to bring that up” Paige responded with a laugh. Azzi laughed too. The mood felt lighter, like whatever thundercloud that was looming over Azzi’s head had calmed down to something light and fluffy.

“Paige! we’re stretching” Paige looked away from azzi to find a teammate passing by, waving her down in a way that made it seem urgent. “like… now”

she turned back to Azzi.

“you heard her” She slid her headphones back up over her ears and tilted her head towards the door her teammate had just slipped through.

Paige turned to follow.

***

There was a buzz in the gym. Final game of the day. The teams from their pool had filed into the bleachers. Warmups were winding down. And she was locked in.

Every pass was crisp. Every dribble tight. Every shot felt like cash before it even left her fingertips.

her body was loose. Her mind was clear.

She was ready to play. To win.

A buzzer rang through the gym. Both teams huddled. cheered. The bench took their seats and the starters made their way to center court.

She made her way to Azzi, trying her best to keep a straight face. Azzi did so effortlessly. She didn’t look at her, just at the ball as the ref blew his whistle and tossed it up between the two centers.

The ball was tipped back towards the two of them. Paige reached to snag it from the air, securing it above her head and scanning the court. Azzi immediately dropped back into position, hips low and arms outstretched. The court was quiet. Players in the stand holding their breath, waiting to see who would strike first.

She dribbled towards Azzi, watching. She shifted back. Her eyes flickered to the play in the back, to the pieces in their offense falling into place. Back to Azzi.

Her team could wait

She drove straight at Azzi—just long enough to get her off balace—before crossing over and stepping back, watching as Azzi as she stumbled back for just a moment. Long enough for Paige to lift the ball and shoot.

the net snapped as the ball fell through the rim. she had drawn first blood—but Azzi didn’t falter.

Paige watched as she caught the ball off an inbound, and surveyed as she dribbled the ball up the court.

she didn’t act—not yet—just responded. Shadowed her movements. Blocked her path.

Azzi passed the ball to the guard on her right and moved to cut through the paint. Paige followed, eyes locked on her. She had nearly made it back in front of her when she hit a brick wall. A solid screen, one that caught Paige entirely off guard.

She watched as Azzi finished her cut to the three point line and received the ball back, releasing it in a shot that could only be described as textbook.

It found the bottom of the net with ease.

It went on like that for a while. Paige pushed. Azzi pushed back. and the crowd was loving it. Every bucket was met with cheers, phones were out following the action. The game was electric.

The buzzer sounded, marking the end of the first quarter.

23-22.

She had a feeling that the game wouldn’t be a decisive win. Nope, it would come down to the wire

Azzi’s POV:

She hadn’t wanted to speak to Paige. Just wanted to enjoy the silence of the lobby. Get away from the noise of the courts. But Paige showed up anyway, in all of her annoying glory, and Azzi let her.

She could’ve told her to go away, but some part of her knew she needed the boost. No matter how annoying Paige could be, she seemed to know how to get Azzi out of her head. Or at least help navigate her to the part of her brain that was dedicated to being pissed at someone other than herself.

She hadn’t wanted to eat anything—not after a game she ended like that. But Paige seemed to know exactly what Azzi needed, even if they had only known each other for a few days. That was clear to her when Paige wordlessly slid her that granola bar, like she had read that Azzi was too stubborn to let herself get one.

And thank god for that bar. She wasn't sure if she would’ve made it through the first half without it. The game didn’t feel like a 5 on 5. It felt like a 1 on 1. The kind that took place in a gym after hours. The kind she would leave with her jersey sticking to her ribs from the sweat. The kind where they’d try anything to get the ball through the hoop.

Except this matchup wasn’t in private. It was the main event. A spectacle that had gathered lingering teams together, who now sat anxiously awaiting the start of the second half.

She felt it too. The nerves. The expectation to keep fighting. She knew she couldn’t let herself slip. Not now.

The buzzer sounded, cutting through the ambient chatter of the athletes in the bleachers.

She stood, sucked in a deep breath, and took the court.

She received the ball on the inbound. dropped it back to her teammate as she jogged up the court.

She looked up. Paige met her eyes. She actually wasn’t sure if they had left her once this game. at least, not when the ball was in her hands.

Speaking of:

the ball found its way back into her hands as she cut towards the hoop. She led with her shoulder, head down, bumping Paige off of her to create space as she willed herself to the rim. She scooped the ball towards the hoop, trying her hardest to sell the contact and draw a foul.

She didn’t see it, but she heard it. The sound of Paige’s hand hitting the basketball, swatting it out of the air. It struck the court just behind the baseline. Her ball.

Paige met her gaze, nodding slowly. Her message was clear: I’m here. Azzi pushed by Paige to inbound the ball, bumping her shoulder on the way. Her own way of saying so am I.

She gripped the ball, knuckles white as she scanned the court for the open player. She sent a lofted pass to a player cutting away from the hoop. Azzi relocated, running off of the shoulder of their center, who had set a screen in anticipation for her cut to the corner. When she finally turned from her spot in the corner she saw Paige scrambling to recover from the screen—but she was too late. The ball found Azzi's hands and left just as quickly, arcing over Paige’s outstretched hand.

She turned before she could watch the ball fall through the net. She didn’t need to see it to know it was good. She just got back on defense. She just needed a stop, something to make Paige slow down, maybe even look to her teammates. Something to make her doubt herself (although she wasn’t sure that was possible).

Paige brought the ball up the court yet again. Azzi watched as her eyes moved from player to player, weighing the option of passing to any of them. Then she watched as her eyes locked on the rim. Azzi knew she wasn’t passing. Chances were that Paige would drive and pop for a mid range jumper.

Azzi settled in, trying to get as low as possible. She shadowed as Paige drove, hesitated, and just as she started to cross over Azzi poked at the ball. It rattled lose, bouncing towards Azzi’s net. She scrambled to gather the loose ball, sprinting towards her own hoop and extending to finish at the rim.

A whistle sliced through the noise of the crowd. Timeout orange.

Azzi made her way over to her bench. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she finally had a chance to slow down. She sat, trying to catch her breath. Whatever her coach was saying was going way over her head.

A tap on her knee tugged her attention away from the rise and fall of her chest and back to her coach.

“Im pretty sure they’re pulling Paige out to start the next quarter, you’ll get your break when she comes out, okay?”

“M’kay” she choked out, not quite finding enough air to respond.

The quarter was winding down, and Paige’s team was threatening to break down whatever momentum Azzi had given her team with that steal. She was determined not to let her.

One more stop. That’s all she needed. One push and she was done—well not done, but she could finally breathe. Rest. Maybe even drink some water.

One more stop.

The refs blew the whistle, urging both teams to take to the court. Azzi took one last deep breath and pushed herself up off the bench, willing herself to be calm as she took the floor. The clock was winding down, shot clock turned off. Paige passed the ball in. Azzi’s eyes locked on to her as she ran down the court. She knew she was getting the ball back—or at least she was supposed to—and that wasn’t gonna happen. Not on her watch.

She was on her like white on rice. Mirroring every move, absorbing every bump, she wasn’t letting Paige take an inch of space from her. She felt Paige push away from her, the slight extension of her arm, buying just enough time for the ball to find her hands.

Azzi kept one arm extended, and one hand in Paige’s face. She shifted, blocking Paige's path to the basket. She could live with her passing it to a teammate, but she wouldn’t be caught dead in a Buecker’s buzzer beating highlight. Not tonight.

10 seconds on the clock.

Paige put the ball on the floor. Tried her best to maneuver around Azzi. But she could tell Paige was tired too.

She flipped the ball to her shooting guard and the buzzer neared zero. She didn’t even have a chance to get the shot off, the buzzer interrupting any hope that Paige’s team had to end on a make. Azzi high-fived her teammates as she made her way to the bench, plopping down and reaching for a water bottle.

She drank like she'd just hiked 30-miles through the Sahara, but she didn’t care.

It was 50-48. Close? Yes. But not because of Paige.

Now she could breathe. Calm herself down before the fourth quarter. Before it really mattered. She wiped a drip of water from the corner of her mouth with the neckline of her jersey before glancing over to the other bench.

Paige sat slumped over, elbows resting on her knee’s, a water bottle hanging loosely in one of her hands. She could see the rapid rise and fall of her back as she too struggled to catch her breath.

The buzzer rang out once again to mark the start of the fourth quarter. Azzi stayed put. So did Paige.

The game stayed close, bucket for bucket, steal for steal. It was truly anybody’s game.

Azzi’s breath grew steadier. Her limbs felt heavy, but she knew they had more left in them. Just enough to ice the game.

“You got a few minutes left in you? We need some offense” Azzi looked over to her coach and nodded, moving to the scorers table and taking a knee. She watched as Paige's coach’s eyes followed her to the table, before she tapped Paige on the shoulder and gestured for her to check in too.

Azzi kept her eyes forward, trying her hardest to avoid eye contact with Paige. She didn’t need to give her an excuse to talk. not now, when she was so close to being able to shove this win in her stupid face.

“SUBS” a short buzzer interrupted Azzi’s thoughts as a ref waved in her and Paige.

3:15 left in the game. They were even at 58.

She inbounded the ball, received it back and moved up the floor, organizing their offense. She settles at the top of the key, keeping her dribble low and her eyes up. She was running clock. Keeping the ball in their possession as long as she could. Shot clock had wound down to 10 seconds. She started to drive to the rim, hesitated, drew a double and dropped the ball to an open teammate in the corner.

The net snapped as the ball shot through the hoop.

61-58.

The ball was inbounded as soon as it hit the floor. Paige received it, pushing pace and fighting her way to the rim. Azzi slid with her, but she couldn’t catch up. She reached out, trying her best to disrupt Paige’s shot however she could. A whistle blew as Paige scooped the ball towards the net. She tumbled to the floor, and the ball miraculously found a way to fall through the rim despite Azzi’s attempts to stop it.

Count it and the foul to tie the game. Wonderful. She’d never hear the end of this one.

She watched as Paige popped up and made her way to the free throw line. Watched as the ball bounced once before Paige spun it back into her palm and released it. It sunk through the rim effortlessly.

2:17 left in the game.

even at 61.

Azzi scrambled to inbound the ball, passing it to the other guard who was streaking up the court. They needed to slow down. Waste clock. Every second they didn’t use was an extra one for Paige to take advantage of—a second they could NOT afford.

Azzi jogged down and received the ball back off of a hand off. She stood, eyes up, ball at her hip. Reading. How her center would be in perfect position if she tracked left. The angle of the pass. If it needed to be high or low.

She saw the game before it happened, predicting exactly what she needed to do to get the pieces to fall into place.

She tracked left. The defense moved. Her center carved out her space at the block. She sent the ball high. She snatched it out of the air, finishing effortlessly at the rim—just as she calculated.

The clock was down to 0:57.

63-61.

Azzi waited for Paige at half court, eyes fixed on the ball as it bounced between the floor and her hands. That’s all she needed. One steal and she could put the game out of reach.

She waited. Mirrored Paige's movements, shuffling step for step, hunting for a chance to poke the ball loose.

She saw it. Just a second, where Paige picked her head up to scan the court. Azzi lunged forwards, arm outstretched and—

Miscalculated.

Paige crossed over, leaving Azzi behind her as she pulled up for a long two.

tie game.

Clock down to 0:34

This was it.

She turned and ran back down the court, not bothering with the inbound. She just needed to get to her spot.

“Don't want to take it yourself?“ A voice crept up on Azzi, one that had become all too familiar in the past 5 hours. Paige.

she jogged past, turned, and backpedaled, eyes fixed on her own. “you scared or something?”

She wanted to snap back. of her? not for a second. But she kept her mouth shut.

She simply watched as the other guard brought the ball up the court, shot clock running down. She cut, hands up, asking for the ball.

It found her hands and she turned to scan the court one final time.

Clock down to 0:10.

A nearby forward was creeping up to set a screen. She started to creep towards the screen, eyes up like she was looking to pass. She picked up the pace as she maneuvered Paige into the screen, which she met—and slipped under—giving her just enough space to shoot.

It should’ve been a green light—something to exploit—but it wasn’t. She knew Paige wasn’t stupid. She wanted her to shoot. For some reason she was confident that Azzi would miss, and that was enough.

a half second hesitation. A release a moment too late.

Azzi could feel the shot was off before it ever left her hands. She didn’t even want to watch.

She lost them the game. She knew she had. All because of a stupid defensive lapse—one that should’ve sealed it. A shot that she’s hit a million times thrown off by the best possible outcome on a screen.

The crowd cheered. For what? she wasn’t sure. She didn’t care.

Her teammates huddled at the rim, bouncing up and down around their center.

She looked at the score.

65-63.

She was dragged into the celebration by their other guard, who was running to the rim.

someone must’ve grabbed the rebound and tucked it in at the buzzer. Azzi didn’t care.

Because she knew that even though her team had won the game, Paige had still beat her.

Heyyy i’m sorry for this being so late but hopefully the length made up for it. I’m still in high school and my school isn’t out yet so it’s tough to find time to write rn. I’m gonna try and start chapter 5 tn but anyways let me know what y’all thought of this chapter and what you want to see next!!