#it's been so long since I shared a few snippets

[alena-draws]

What's the worst that can happen when two evil wizards are on an ultimatum to perform as many evil deeds imaginable just before the start of the New Year? Well, they could come up with the Wunschpunsch. Now only their two familiars can stop them…

Woah what's this? More about the project and Making Of under the cut!

“Wunschpunsch” is my thesis movie and a trailer for the children’s book “Der satanarchäolügenialkohöllische Wunschpunsch” by Michael Ende. Yes, that is the real title. The project includes creating the overall visual design, the storyboard and 2D animation.

For the music I am using the song 'No. 3' by Cosmo Sheldrake used with kind permission of the artist. An amazing artist, please look up his work and don't miss the chance to see him live at one of his cozy concerts!

Also: Here's some extra content and Making Of!

[bakugosgothhoe]

You made reader a different kind of hero.

It's beautiful.

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development. 

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun? 

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago. 

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide. 

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki. 

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: Spin-off

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Update: Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized (That's it, that's the plot). Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, slight crack (literally. lmao, you’ll see), FLUFF! A/N: Finally starting the spin-off! Hello again 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 I’ve got a rough outline for the flow and a few key chapters mapped out, but I’m keeping it flexible for the most part. This isn’t gonna be a full structured story, so think more like vignettes of their life, w/ some world-building here and there (laying some groundwork for future chapters hehe). Come thru if you wanna see what error!Sylus and our lil player are up to post-reality jump 🙂‍↕️🙏🏼 Also: no posting schedule! I’m treating this like a chill side project I can pick up whenever, so not every part’s gonna be lengthy/that polished hehe. Mostly short snippets, unless the chapter calls for a longer one. (P.S. Just send a DM if you want to be taken off the taglist lol. I just assumed you guys would still want to follow along, but no pressure at all if you don’t! 💕)

(main series) - Pt. 1 - Pt. 2

You keep waiting to wake up.

For the sound of your phone alarm to blare somewhere beneath the covers, forcing you to fish it out at seven-thirty-something in the morning. For this absolutely wonderful, absolute mindfuck of a dream, to end—and for the real world to set in. 

For another uneventful day to begin, the way it usually does after a short reprieve from the hustle and the bustle of life.

From behind the bathroom door, the sound of the shower cuts off.

You scramble to open the cupboard overhead, grabbing the pepper shaker from the first shelf. You do four rotations over the half-cooked omelette before flipping it over with a rubber spatula, trying not to lose your cool. Or what’s left of it.

Three days. It’s been three days since it dawned on you that Sylus has actually managed to cross the threshold – through a tiny, impossible fissure in the fabric of reality – just to get to this dimension. Your dimension.

Three days since you locked eyes with the other half of your soul from across a room, no screen separating the two of you for once. No physical barrier to stop him from catching you as you ran toward him past the counter, just as twilight kissed the sky goodnight, sobbing at the first touch of his skin—electric against yours. The taste of his lips, the bittersweet notes of extant longing and pure bliss blooming on your tongue as he captured your mouth in his; the two of you lost in each other, uncaring of anything beyond that precious, shared moment. 

And three days for your mind to finally catch up to the sheer impossibility of it all.

As far as your Sundays go, you’d say this one takes the cake.

He’s been staying in a modest little rental just a couple of blocks away from you. Nothing extravagant – just a transient house he’s leased for the week. Not that you’ve technically been inside to know; he only pointed it out once, the single-storey residential from across the main street, as the two of you were heading back home—your home. To your little studio apartment.

Him. Sylus. In your condo. You can’t even begin to wrap your head around it.

You know that he’d just arrived in town two days before that fateful encounter at the bistro. That he’d already done his research to know exactly where you were going to be during that hour, and that he’s been here, on Earth, for quite some time now. Even before meeting you.

But past this knowledge, you haven’t actually covered much of anything, really. Just this little awkward dancing around you’ve been doing since you’ve been together.

And you know you should ask, probe, have him break down the hows of his existence to you, a clearer timeline of exactly when he popped into this world, what he’s been up to in all the time he’s been here… and why he’s even waited so long to come to you directly.

You’re painfully aware that it’s just you who’s keeping yourself from getting the answers you want. You’re the one making this harder than it needs to be. You can’t help it.

There’s no manual to tell you how to deal with your emotions when your virtual lover appears in front of you, in the flesh, miraculously defying all laws of physics in the process. No handbook telling you what to do next when something you’ve been wishing for every night before going to bed – for the past two years – actually manifests into being. 

Someone you’ve always longed for, staked deep within the confines of your heart, but never truly imagined the consequences of until your wishful thinking bled into reality.

And now he’s here.

All things considered, you think you’ve done an okay job at acting like everything’s normal. Mostly. Probably.

(You haven’t.)

The day after he showed up at your proverbial doorstep, you almost couldn’t believe everything that had transpired a mere twenty hours ago was even real. That maybe your brain had just gotten creative enough to invent a Hallmark-worthy scene to win you a one-way trip to your therapist—and that, maybe, you’d conjured him up simply because you missed him and you’re so down bad, your mind decided to start playing tricks on you.

...which nearly had your soul catapulting out of your body at the sight of the—extremely corporeal, extremely attractive—raven-haired (!) man moving through your kitchen the first morning he stayed over, wearing a black V-neck and a pair of grey sweatpants, ambling barefoot like he already knew the place by heart.

You suppose he does, you allow cautiously, an odd sort of warmth blooming in your chest at the thought. Of course he would. 

Still. It didn’t erase the surrealness of seeing Sylus, the Sylus—mortal, perfect, wonderfully alive—brewing you a cup of coffee at nine in the morning, your brain failing to fully comprehend the image of his towering figure working your faulty, secondhand De’Longhi like a pro.

"Are you," he started, eyes zooming in on the spot between your thumb and forefinger, mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh, "pinching yourself?"

You had quickly withdrawn your hand, schooling your face into a poor attempt at nonchalance as you reached for the steaming blue mug he was holding out to you. "...No."

You can't help but hover around him, like some weird satellite desperate for orbit. You find yourself sneaking glances every five seconds—and more often than not, he meets your gaze with a wayward look of his own.

He never calls you out on it; he just gives you an infuriatingly impish smirk that sends your heart into overdrive, making you feel younger than you are. 

You’re still stewing over the events of the past few days, absentmindedly worrying whether the eggs needed more salt, when you hear the bathroom door open.

You whip your head around, and all systems crash to a stop.

Oh god. Oh fuck. 

He’s standing there—all six-foot-five of pure, lean muscle, like sin sculpted out of marble and left to walk your unvacuumed parquet wood floor without so much as a care for the cluttered little living space he’s in, looking completely at ease. Fresh from the shower, steam rising lazily from every inch of bare skin laid out in front of you, and it’s like The Neuron™ in your brain activates. The towel slung low across his hips leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, reducing your thoughts monosyllabic, like some half-evolved primate ready for mating season or whatever. Hot man. Hot man shirtless. Involuntarily, your eyes track a stray rivulet sliding down; right where the faintest suggestion of a happy trail (!!!) begins and ends… and you’re gone. Lost in some kind of trance. 

Utterly hypnotised, you watch as it soaks into the edge of the borrowed sage green terry cotton, faintly wondering if what’s beneath it could soak you the same way, shit—

A strangled noise slips past your lips. 

It’s terrible. You sound like a dying cow. Hot man’s fault. Bad.  

A snort breaks you out of your shameless ogling. 

Your head jerks up like you’ve been caught red-handed doing something you're not supposed to, guiltily meeting his eyes. You see Sylus already watching you wryly, the heavy drag of his half-lidded stare rooting you in place. 

Your face starts to flush red with embarrassment, heat climbing all the way up to your ears. 

He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe; arms crossed loosely over his chest, completely relaxed, and clearly getting a kick out of whatever expression you’ve got at the moment. His gaze doesn't waver, stuck on you like glue, drinking in every flustered reaction with quiet amusement. 

You swallow nervously. His eyes flicker down, tracing the movement of your throat, and his lips tug up into a semblance of a smile.

Fuuuuck.

"You already started on breakfast without me, sweetie?" He tuts in mock-disapproval. "I told you it’d take me less than twenty minutes to shower."

You don’t manage much in response, just a dumb, garbled, "mhm, s’okay."

You're completely blanked out at this point—bluescreen dead if you will—except for one panicked thought flashing through your brain: Holy shit, he's practically naked. Sylus Qin from Love and Deepspace is practically naked in my house. 

Then, not long after, a chorus of, “oh my god oh my god oh my god” starts looping in your head, overriding what little composure you had left like some raunchy PSA warning you about the dangerous rise of moisture down south.  

Sylus cocks his head slightly, sending you a sly, knowing look—one that says he knows exactly what's going on in that overstimulated little brain of yours.

Slowly, he pushes himself off and saunters closer to where you are, taking his time crossing the distance with easy, measured steps. As if he’s in no rush at all to get to you. As if he’s merely curious whether you’ll combust just from him shortening the proximity between your bodies. 

(You think you just might.)

And when he’s standing barely a few inches away – close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him – Sylus leans down, effectively trapping you between the counter and the solid wall of his chest. Between granite and sinew. 

You lose all capacity to speak.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out a hand to shut off the burner stove behind you with an easy flick of his wrist, the brief brush of his arm sending a shiver down your spine. Then, with maddening tenderness, he pinches your cheek between two fingers—his thumb caressing the spot right after.

In a voice filled with faux sympathy, he coos, “What’s got you all distracted, poppet?”

He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing. 

He’s done nothing but tease you with his devastatingly good looks, his overwhelming presence, and syrupy words spoken so sinfully in that low cadence of his voice, ever since he arrived. And, oh, you’re not sure whether to scream or kiss the smug look off his face silly.

You’re so bad at being subtle. You always have been, especially when it comes to him. And you know you can’t hide anything from Sylus – from the smallest flicker of microexpression on your face, down to the shortness of your breath. Both of you know this. Both of you painfully aware of the effect he has on you.

And just as much, you know he’s been holding himself back—that no matter how flirtatious he gets, he’s still keeping enough control to pull away whenever you start to get too overwhelmed.

Despite his provocations, Sylus never pushes. He waits, patiently. Giving you the space to volley back if you want to. And if you don’t, he backs off in a second, with the same effortless ease he uses to tease you. Leaving you room to breathe again. 

Rinse, repeat. 

It’s almost as if you two are playing a game with poorly drawn rules. You don’t know who’s winning.

The little spell breaks when you feel a disgruntled meow against your shin; it's immediately followed by a cat headbutting you, twice in succession, with a surprising amount of aggression.

"Not used to sharing your mother, are you?" Sylus sighs, pulling back from where he’d been caging you in—his movements slow, reluctant. 

A warning hiss rises from below. He raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to a safer distance, just out of swiping range. 

"Yes, yes. You win,” he grumbles in acquiescence at the testy feline, a comically put-upon look on his face. “For now.”  

You pull your eyes away from his bicep—look, you're just a girl, okay—to blink down at the temperamental little creature who’s now self-appointed himself as your personal foot guard. 

He’s making some vague, cryptic noises, something between a purr and a growl, while keeping his eyes locked firmly on Sylus’ leg. 

"He–um, he might just be hungry," you manage to mutter. A quick glance at the food bowl says otherwise. "...or not."

Sylus huffs under his breath, a low sound, equal parts understanding and mildly affronted. He tilts his head – eyes narrowing at the untouched kibble, then to the small furry menace claiming your feet like a jilted lover.

Unfortunately, Maru’s reception to the new person has been... less than cordial.

From the moment Sylus walked in the apartment, Maru had hissed at him as if to say: There is no reason for a Man to be here, before darting beneath the coffee table – tail lashing with all the theatrics of a petulant child. The churlish product of a mother who's been single for far too long, that he’s decided he’s the only boy she’ll ever need. 

It strikes you as a little odd. He never usually gets antsy around guests, and you'd even thought he and Sylus got along—or at least, back when the man in question was confined to mere pixels on screen. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have counted on that.

Sylus, to his credit, hasn't once tried to close the distance or force a peace treaty. Amused, definitely; the way his eyes glint whenever Maru glares at him could almost qualify as charmed. But since stepping into your home, he’s been mindful about giving the creature a wide berth, moving with the quiet understanding that respect here is sacrosanct, something to be earned. That he’s the one imposing, and the truce between him and the (true) man of the house is a fragile, delicate thing. 

You honestly haven’t decided if Maru’s behaviour is because he’s protective... or just pissed that someone else is hogging your attention.

"It’s alright, sweetie," Sylus—your son’s chosen rival—soothed you reassuringly; his hand rubbing a slow, comforting circle over the small of your back when he caught the slightly crestfallen look on your face. "He’s just feeling territorial about his space right now. Give it some time."

“I’ll get dressed,” Sylus murmurs. “Don’t start on the coffee without me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another between your brows; the casual, freely-given affection leaves you warm and gooey inside. He turns toward your vanity, where his black duffel bag rests on the small plastic saddle chair.

You watch his retreating figure for a few seconds—long enough for him to glance back over his shoulder, one brow lifted in lazy inquiry. And the look is so familiar; so painfully reminiscent of the one he gives you in-game, right after you’d deliver a ‘slap’ to his ass, that it knocks you a little off-kilter. 

… Which might explain why you don’t react fast enough when his eyes flash with mischief, and he casually undoes the knot of his towel.

The fabric drops.

You catch a glimpse—more than a glimpse, hello—of the perkiest butt you’ve ever seen in your life, and you spin around so fast you slam your elbow into something undoubtedly solid in the process.

A half-pained, half-mortified wheeze escapes your throat.

"Careful," he calls out to you—and though amusement colors his voice, there's a real thread of worry beneath it, enough to make you want to slam your head against the counter for some inexplicable reason. "Don’t feel the need to grant me modesty on my behalf, kitten."

"Kitten’s about to kill herself," you lament with a whine. 

It earns you an unimpressed scoff.

“I just got here, my love,” he deadpans without missing a beat. “Daddy’s gonna have to ask you to hold on a little longer.”

You choke on nothing but air. Critical system failure. 

Buffering… buffering… buffering…

You inhale sharply.

"Okay, pause," you beg, a slightly hysterical edge to your tone as you claw your way back from a full-blown breakdown. In an attempt to divert the topic, “D’you–uh, do you want anything on your eggs? I’ve got ketchup, hot sauce... barbecue sauce..."

"A proper chef now, are you?" And oh, the next thing you know, he’s right behind you again. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt. 

He smells faintly like your body wash, like Dove nourishing coconut and your calendula shampoo, a heady mix of something sweet and herbal.

The thought of him—of the both of you—smelling the same, actually makes you feel giddy. 

What a stupidly trivial, novel thing to find joy in. 

Snap the fuck out of it, it’s just soap, you chide to yourself. 

You don’t even notice you’re trembling until Sylus curls a large hand around yours; steadying the shaky fingers reaching for the bottle of Cholula on the condiment tray, while his other hand gently cradles your hurt elbow. 

Your breath hitches when he presses a kiss to your temple.

"Oh, sweetie," he murmurs, and it’s the way he says it—low and unbearably fond—that loosens some of the tension on your shoulders. "You’ve wound yourself up."

"I'm good," you mumble, though your voice betrays you, thinner than you mean it to sound.

"It's just me," he says, his tone as gentle as the breeze slipping through the open window, ruffling the choppy bangs that frame your face. "Nothing so different from how it’s always been, hmm?"

And you know he’s right. It's just him. Just Sylus. Your Sylus. No different from the one from two years ago.

"I know," you sigh, finally turning to face him, having to crane your neck slightly to meet his eyes. 

His expression is softer now, the type of softness reserved solely for you, something that never fails to make you ache. The teasing is gone, tucked away for the time being. 

"I just need a little time to wrap my head around this," you admit, voice quieter now. "Is that... is that okay?"

The greys of his eyes melt into something silvery, moonlit—impossibly tender. 

In one smooth motion, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter and steps between your legs, closing what little space remains between you. You yelp in surprise, but before you can react, he’s already leaning in, stealing a kiss from your lips. Just a quick one, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed a taste to hold him over. He chuckles when he sees your wide-eyed look.

"Of course, my love," he says, voice wrought with promise—in love with the way your lips part, bitten pink and unsure, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. "We’ll go as slow as you want. Forever, if that’s what you need." Forever, as what you two have. 

… 

For over a year, you’ve learned how to enjoy the small things alone. And you did—enjoy it, you mean. Once, almost a lifetime ago, you took for granted the quiet joys of a slower life. But you learned to take it day by day. One hour at a time, minute after minute. 

It made room for reflection, and it moulded you into something stronger, and softer, all at once.  

But this—with him—brings you back to another time. A sweeter time; the dog-day summer of your life. 

The morning hums with a kind of quiet normalcy you’ve grown accustomed to. You’re used to the sunlight spilling through the linen curtains, lining the floor with streaks of honey-gold, soft as a happy memory. Used to the noise of the outside world bleeding through the walls, a constant presence you’ve long since accepted as a permanent fixture in this tiny apartment, like a second heartbeat.

He’s right, in a way. 

This isn’t so different from the mornings you once shared with the same man—back when he wore a different face and led an extraordinarily polarized life, completely at odds with yours. The ones spent laughing into a screen, your fingers ghosting across glass, desperate to grasp something you never could. 

That life feels like it belonged to someone else now. Someone lonelier. 

So, no. Maybe not quite the same – maybe not even close.

–

You finally allow yourself to give in; to sink into the warmth of him, folding yourself smaller in his embrace like a tired bird nestling into a safer sky, your heart fluttering wild and restless against your ribs. Too big for your body, too full to contain. Here – tangled together in this sliver of morning light – everything that has hurt you feels small in comparison. You were never alone to begin with. But with Sylus in your arms, the world feels brighter than you ever remembered it could be.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset

[bueckersstuff]

HER NEW OBSESSION

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Your new dorm is surprisingly cozy. It’s smaller than the one you shared with Paige, but it feels warmer, more lived-in. Your new roommate, Lena, is someone from your psych class—someone who had always been friendly, even before all this mess. It’s ironic, really. Last week, you were losing your mind trying to understand why Paige wanted nothing to do with you. Now? Now, you can’t even stand the sight of her. Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s betrayal, or maybe—maybe you just don’t care anymore.

You’ve stopped overanalyzing your emotions, stopped letting them dig under your skin like splinters you can’t pull out. It’s easier this way.

The classroom is buzzing when you walk in. Lena sits beside you, nudging your arm. “You good?”

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah.”

But then, she walks in.

Paige.

It takes everything in you not to look, not to acknowledge her presence, not to flinch at the way the room still seems to shift when she’s in it. You keep your focus on Lena, on anything but Paige. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you swear you can feel Paige’s gaze on you, burning, searching—but you don’t give her the satisfaction of meeting it.

The professor clears his throat. “Alright, class. For this project, you’ll be working in pairs. Since this is an extensive assignment, I’ve taken the liberty of pairing you up beforehand.”

The group project was announced, and the professor immediately paired you with Paige, assuming you were still roommates. The class murmured in agreement. It was common knowledge before. But you didn’t hesitate.

“No.”

Your voice cuts through the room before you even realize you spoke. Silence blankets the class. All eyes are on you now, wide with shock, with disbelief. The weight of their stares presses against your skin, but you don’t waver. You sit up straighter, your voice unwavering when you continue.

“I don’t room with her anymore.” You glance at Lena, your expression softening. “I’d rather work with my actual roommate.”

A few hushed whispers ripple through the room. People exchange glances, some amused, some impressed. You catch snippets of murmured words—

Did she really just refuse Paige? Damn, that’s bold. I didn’t think anyone would have the guts to do that.

But none of it matters. Not the whispers, not the stares.

You don’t even want to look at her, but something—some stupid, masochistic instinct—forces your gaze toward her anyway.

And there it is.

The look on her face.

Like she was hoping—just for a second—that things weren’t completely ruined. That maybe, despite everything, you’d still be in her corner.

But you’re not.

You see it happen—the way that flicker of hope dies right in front of you. Her jaw tightens, her expression schooling into something unreadable, something controlled. But her eyes? They betray her. They hold something raw, something aching.

It doesn’t make sense. She’s the one who pushed you away. She’s the one who made this choice.

So why does she look like you just ripped her heart out?

The professor, sensing the tension, clears his throat awkwardly. “Alright, then. You’ll be paired with Lena. Paige, I’ll find you another partner.”

You don’t hesitate. You turn to Lena, smiling, forcing yourself to look happy, unaffected, free.

But even as Lena grins back at you, even as you pretend this moment means nothing—you can’t shake the way Paige is still looking at you.

Like she just lost something she didn’t know she wanted to keep.

The project continued, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were truly living. Your new roommate, Lena, made things so easy—easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and easy to work with. The two of you were constantly together, studying in the library, grabbing coffee, and finishing your project late at night in your dorm. It was the kind of companionship you hadn’t realized you needed, the kind that reminded you that life wasn’t just about navigating through Paige Bueckers’ mess.

Late at night, as you settled in your bed, your phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

KK: Hey, it’s KK. Got your number from Paige. Hope that’s cool.

You barely had time to process before another message came through—a forwarded file. You clicked it, and suddenly, a series of images filled your screen.

The first photo was of Paige in her dorm, sprawled on the couch, fast asleep. A jacket covered her face, one you recognized instantly. It was hers, but you were the one who had been using it lately. The one you had left behind when you moved out.

The next photo showed her sitting at the kitchen counter, two mugs in front of her, staring blankly into nothing.

The last was a video. You hesitated before playing it, but curiosity got the best of you.

"Paige, seriously?" Jana’s voice rang out, frustration laced with exasperation.

"I just don’t see why it’s a big deal," Paige mumbled, her voice hoarse. She was pacing the dorm, rubbing a hand over her face.

"You want to switch rooms. Again." Jana deadpanned. "Paige. It’s been what? A week?"

Paige didn’t answer. Just ran a hand through her hair.

Jana sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "Look, I get it. I’m not, like, the best roommate replacement or whatever—"

"That’s not it." Paige cut in quickly. Too quickly.

Jana narrowed her eyes. "Then what? ‘Cause no offense, but you’ve been acting like a total weirdo since your last roommate left."

Paige let out a breath. "I just—" She stopped, pressing her lips together. "I don’t sleep well here."

Jana blinked. "Damn, I didn’t know I was that unbearable."

Paige shook her head, letting out a dry, humorless laugh. "You’re fine, Jana. It’s just—"

Silence.

Jana stared at her. Then, realization flickered in her expression. "You miss her."

Paige’s jaw tensed. "I just need a change of scenery. That’s all."

Jana scoffed. "Sure. And I just need a million dollars."

Paige groaned, rubbing her temples. "Can you just drop it?"

"Fine, fine," Jana raised her hands in surrender. "But for real, Paige? You fucked up."

The video ended there.

You stared at your phone, heart pounding, stomach twisting.

KK’s message followed right after.

Paige is acting like an idiot.

You locked your phone and tossed it onto your desk, exhaling sharply.

You weren’t going to reply.

Jana had just returned from practice when she found Paige exactly where she left her that morning—sprawled out on the couch, an arm draped over her face, still in the same hoodie and sweats from yesterday. The dorm was a mess, a few empty water bottles on the floor, a half-eaten granola bar on the counter, and a general air of chaos that Jana wasn’t used to.

She sighed, shutting the door behind her a little louder than necessary. “Alright, nah. I’m putting a stop to this.”

Paige didn’t even flinch.

Jana marched over and snatched the pillow from under Paige’s head, smacking her lightly with it. “Paige, you know I love you, right? But what the fuck is going on with you?”

Paige groaned, pushing the pillow away and sitting up, rubbing her face. “Jana, I swear to God—”

“No, you swear to God what?” Jana folded her arms, staring her down. “If you’re not drowning in your own sadness inside this dorm, you’re whoring around. And when you’re done, you come back here and I hear someone sobbing in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea how fucking creepy that is?”

Paige’s jaw tightened. “Mind your business.”

“Oh, I would love to, except my business is being your roommate, which means I’m forced to watch this self-destructive spiral firsthand.” Jana shot back. “You’ve been slacking at practice, Paige. Coach is bound to notice soon, and I swear I have no idea how the hell he hasn’t already.”

Paige ran a hand down her face. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

Silence. Paige refused to meet Jana’s gaze.

Jana exhaled sharply, pulling out her phone. “You leave me no choice.”

“What are you doing?” Paige asked, barely interested.

Jana put the phone to her ear. “Calling Azzi. Someone who actually gives a damn about you and will get through that thick-ass skull of yours.”

Paige finally looked up, but before she could protest, Jana turned her back and walked toward her room, waiting for the call to connect.

An hour later, Azzi was standing in the dorm, arms crossed as she took in the sight of Paige.

“Damn, P, you look like shit.”

Paige scoffed, shaking her head. “Thanks.”

Azzi sighed, walking over and sitting on the couch beside her. Jana was leaning against the counter, arms still folded, watching.

“Alright, talk to me,” Azzi said. “What’s going on?”

Paige stared at the floor. “Nothing.”

Azzi scoffed. “Try again.”

Paige remained quiet. Azzi nudged her knee. “Paige, come on. Jana said you’ve been… spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

Jana let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, okay. Tell that to the two mugs you leave out every morning like you’re waiting for someone. Or the jacket you sleep with like it’s a person. Or, I don’t know, the fact that you literally tried to swap rooms with me last night.”

Azzi’s brows furrowed. “Paige, talk to us.”

Paige sighed, finally looking up at her. “I just… I thought maybe if I sleep in that room, I wouldn’t—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Azzi studied her for a moment before speaking again, softer this time. “Paige, are you regretting it?”

Paige swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

Azzi tilted her head. “That’s not true. You do know.”

Paige clenched her jaw. “Yeah. I regret it. Okay? I fucking regret everything.”

Jana and Azzi shared a look, but neither said anything. Paige exhaled harshly, rubbing her temples.

“I pushed her away,” Paige admitted, her voice quieter now. “I thought… I don’t know. I thought it was for the best. But now she’s gone, and I feel like I can’t breathe. She won’t even look at me, and I don’t blame her.”

Azzi watched her for a long moment before nodding. “Then fix it.”

Paige let out a dry laugh. “How? She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Azzi leaned forward, leveling her with a look. “Then make her want to. Do something, Paige. Anything. Don’t just sit here and drown in your own misery.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, looking away. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Azzi stood up, patting Paige’s knee before walking toward the door. “Follow your heart, P. That’s always a good place to start.”

With that, she left. Jana lingered for a moment before shaking her head. “She’s right, you know.”

Paige stayed silent.

Jana sighed. “Figure it out before it’s too late.” Then she walked off, leaving Paige alone with her thoughts.

For the first time in weeks, Paige realized how loud the silence was.

It started last Monday. At first, you thought you were imagining things. Maybe it was just a coincidence. But now? Now it’s beyond coincidence.

Paige Bueckers is everywhere.

At first, it was subtle. You’d glance up in class and find her staring—not the casual, spaced-out kind of staring, but the kind that burns. The kind that makes the back of your neck prickle. The second your eyes met, she looked away, but it happened too often to be a fluke. Then, in the library, as you and your roommate, Lena, buried yourselves in research for your project, Paige conveniently ended up at a table nearby. She wasn’t even pretending to study, just flipping through a textbook she clearly had no interest in. She was listening. Watching.

Then, today happened.

You and Lena were walking through campus, laughing over some dumb joke, when suddenly, Paige materialized in front of you, effectively cutting you off. You stumbled back a step, startled.

Paige barely glanced at you before her sharp, ice-blue eyes landed on Lena. “You don’t have class right now?” Her tone was flat, almost accusatory.

Lena, unfazed, raised an eyebrow. “No? Why?”

Paige tilted her head, expression unreadable. “Just wondering why you’re always up in her space.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

Paige ignored you, her eyes still locked onto Lena. The hostility in her gaze was clear. It didn’t make sense—she and Lena weren’t even acquaintances, just classmates. And yet, Paige was looking at her like she’d just stolen something from her.

Lena scoffed, crossing her arms. “I dunno, Paige. Maybe because we’re partners for a project?”

Paige let out a short, humorless chuckle, shaking her head like she didn’t believe a word of it. “Right.”

And then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she turned and walked away, leaving you both staring after her.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Lena muttered.

You had no answer. But one thing was clear—Paige wasn’t done.

The encounters kept coming, each one pushing the boundaries of coincidence.

In class, she always found a way to sit near you, even though she never used to care about seating arrangements. Her foot would nudge yours under the table, and when you moved away, she’d do it again, just to let you know she was there. When the professor asked a question, she answered louder than necessary, like she needed you to hear her voice.

In the dining hall, if you were with Lena, Paige would always pass by. Always. You’d see her walking one way, then five minutes later, she’d pass by again, this time slower, glancing at your table but never stopping.

You knew what she was doing, but you didn’t know why.

And you refused to acknowledge it.

Then came today, the final straw.

You and Lena were in the common study area, laptops open, deep in conversation about the project. You were actually enjoying yourself—things had been lighter, easier lately, now that Paige wasn’t in your space every second of the day.

But, of course, that didn’t last long.

The door opened, and in walked Paige.

She didn’t even pretend she was there for anything else. She walked straight up to your table, her presence a heavy weight in the room.

“Lena, you can go now.”

Lena blinked, then let out a laugh, looking at you as if asking, ‘Is she serious?’

You clenched your jaw. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Paige’s gaze snapped to yours, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.” You forced yourself to stay composed. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”

Paige exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair in frustration. She glanced at Lena again, and for the first time, it hit you—this wasn’t just her being weird. Is she jealous?

Of Lena?

Of all the things Paige had done, this was the most unexpected. And maybe the most infuriating.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snapped. “You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me, and now you’re—what? Following me? Harassing my friends?”

Paige flinched like you’d hit her, but just as quickly, her expression hardened. “I never said I wanted nothing to do with you.”

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You didn’t have to.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. For a second, it looked like she wanted to say something, but then she just shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and walked out.

Lena whistled low. “Damn. That was intense.”

You didn’t respond. Your hands were still shaking.

Because for the first time, you saw it—Paige wasn’t just being annoying.

She was fighting for you.

But you had no idea why.

You were hunched over your desk, fingers tapping lazily against the keyboard as you worked on your project with your roommate. The soft hum of lo-fi music played in the background, a comfortable contrast to the quiet concentration filling the room. For once, things felt normal again. No unexpected drama, no lingering glances in class, no unwanted tension. Just you, your work, and your new friend.

But peace never lasted long when Paige Bueckers was involved.

The sharp knock at the door shattered the calm, making both you and your roommate jump slightly. You frowned. No one ever came over this late. Lena shot you a questioning look, but you ignored it as you got up to open the door.

And there she was.

Paige stood in the doorway, her breathing uneven like she had sprinted all the way here. Her eyes, those sharp blues that you had once admired, looked wild—desperate. You blinked, taking a step back out of sheer instinct.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your voice was cold, detached, but your heart was hammering against your ribs.

Paige’s gaze flickered over your shoulder, where your roommate was still sitting, staring at the both of you in confusion. And then it clicked.

Her jaw clenched. “So this is what you’ve been up to?”

You scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“You and her.” Paige gestured sharply toward your roommate, her entire body tensing like she was ready for a fight. “This is why you were so quick to move on? Didn’t took you long, huh?”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Are you serious right now?”

“Paige, I think you need to—” your roommate started, but Paige cut her off with a glare.

“Stay out of this,” she snapped, her voice laced with venom.

Your roommate raised her hands in surrender before shooting you a look, silently asking if you wanted her to leave. You gave a slight nod. With a sigh, she grabbed her laptop and muttered something about studying in the common room before slipping out the door.

The second it shut, Paige turned back to you, her chest rising and falling heavily. “So that’s it?” she demanded. “You just replaced me?”

Your blood boiled. “You made me leave.”

Paige flinched.

“You think I wanted to move out?” you continued, stepping closer, anger seeping through your words. “You think I wanted to lose my home—my comfort—because you decided I wasn’t good enough to be around anymore?”

“That’s not—” Paige ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “That’s not what happened.”

“Then tell me, Paige,” you shot back. “Tell me what happened. Why did you push me away? Why did you act like I didn’t exist, like I meant nothing, and now, suddenly, you’re here, acting like you have a say in my life?”

Paige exhaled sharply, like she was trying to hold herself together. “Because I was scared, alright?” she admitted. “I was fucking scared.”

You frowned. “Scared of what?”

“Of you.” Her voice cracked, raw and unfiltered. “Of how much I fucking need you.”

Silence.

Your chest ached, but you refused to let yourself soften. “No,” you said. “You don’t get to do this.”

Paige’s face twisted in frustration. “Do what?”

“This.” You gestured between you both. “You don’t get to throw me away, regret it, and then come back like nothing happened. Like I owe you another chance.”

Paige stepped closer. Too close. You could smell the faint traces of her cologne, could see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “I never wanted to throw you away.”

“Then why did you?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Paige swallowed, her gaze searching yours. “Because I thought it would hurt less.”

Your breath hitched. You wanted to believe her. You wanted to believe every damn word. But the wounds she left were still fresh, still aching.

Paige lifted a hand, hesitantly brushing her fingers against your arm. Your body tensed, and for a split second, you considered leaning in. Considered falling back into the warmth that once felt like home.

But then reality hit you like a train.

“Did you love me?” you asked suddenly, your voice quiet but firm. “Or was it just your fleeting desire?”

Paige’s eyes widened, her hand dropping like she had been burned. “What?”

“You heard me.” You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “Because right now, it feels like you only wanted me when it was convenient. When you needed me. When you wanted something to hold at night.”

Paige shook her head quickly. “No. No, that’s not—”

“Then why did you push me away?” you cut her off. “Why did you make me feel like I was nothing, Paige?”

Paige’s lips parted, but no words came out. For the first time, she had nothing to say.

You nodded, feeling your chest tighten. “That’s what I thought.”

You turned away, gripping the edge of your desk to keep your hands from shaking. “Go home, Paige.”

She hesitated, lingering in the doorway like she wanted to say more. But in the end, she didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the second she was gone, you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

And that was the last time you saw Paige Bueckers, at least face to face.

It had been weeks since that confrontation in your dorm, and in that time, she had become a ghost. She stopped acknowledging you in the hallways, in class. Stopped being anywhere you were, as if you had never existed to her at all.

You were furious, humiliated, and worst of all—hurt. Because you haven't been the one to walk away first. You haven't been the one to set everything on fire and leave without looking back. She had.

And you couldn’t even get an explanation.

You left UConn the second you could.

Graduated, packed up your life, and never looked back.

There were moments, of course, where you wanted to—when a game would come on TV and you'd see her on the screen, or when you'd overhear someone talking about women’s basketball and her name would come up like a legend in the making.

But you trained yourself to tune it out. Paige Bueckers didn’t exist in your world anymore.

You built a new life.

Moved to the city, got a stable job in a company downtown, found a beautiful apartment just perfect for you to live in, a loving best friend who makes your life a little bit happier. She knew about Paige, about the past, about everything that had nearly ruined you.

“You don’t miss her?” she had asked once.

You hesitated, then shook your head. “No. I miss who I thought she was.”

And it was true.

Paige had been your friend, your roommate, your almost-something before she threw it all away. If you missed anything, it was the version of her that didn’t exist anymore—the one who used to wait up for you in your dorm, who used to shove an extra granola bar into your bag before class, who used to look at you like you were the only person in the room.

But that Paige was gone.

Or so you thought.

Because on a random Friday night, in a bar you had never seen her in before, you looked up—and there she was.

Years older. Sharper. The weight of her career settling into her features like something heavy, something unshakable.

And she was looking directly at you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The bar was dimly lit, music thrumming in the background, a blur of conversations and clinking glasses filling the space between you. And yet, all Paige could focus on was you. Sitting at the far end of the room, elbow resting on the bar counter, a half-empty glass in front of you.

You looked different. Not just older, not just sharper, but—settled. Like life had been kinder to you than it had been to her.

And for a split second, something flashed in your eyes. Recognition? Discomfort? She didn’t know. But she knew one thing for sure—you weren’t happy to see her.

You turned back to your drink, pretending she wasn’t there. Pretending she hadn’t just unraveled years of carefully built distance with one look.

But ignoring you had never been easy for Paige.

Minutes passed, maybe more, and just when she thought she should leave, she found herself walking toward you instead. The pull was still there, even after all this time.

She stopped beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of your presence but not enough to invade your space.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Your posture stiffened, but you didn’t turn to her right away. Instead, you took a slow sip of your drink, as if gathering your thoughts. “Yeah, well. Life’s full of surprises.”

She let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

Paige didn’t know what she expected—maybe that you’d brush her off, maybe that you’d demand answers she still wasn’t sure how to give. But as she stood there, watching you, she realized she needed to ask. Needed to know.

“Are you happy?”

She saw the way your fingers tightened around your glass, the way your shoulders locked like you were bracing for impact. You turned to her then, eyes sharp, guarded.

“Why do you care?”

Paige swallowed. She didn’t have an answer you’d want to hear. Didn’t have the right words to explain why she had walked away back then. Why she had forced you out of her life when all she had ever wanted was to pull you closer.

But she had to know. Had to believe that what she did had been worth something. That the sacrifice she made—the one that shattered her, the one you never even knew about—had meant something in the end.

She looked away, swirling the remnants of her drink in her glass. And finally, almost too quiet to be heard—

“Because I had to believe it was worth it.”

Your expression flickered, something unreadable flashing in your eyes, but Paige saw the moment your walls went up. The moment you shut her out, just as she had once done to you.

You pushed back from the bar, grabbing your coat.

“You don’t get to ask me that, Paige.”

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to stop you, wanted to explain—but she didn’t. She just sat there, watching you walk out of the bar, out into the cold night air, leaving her behind.

Just like she had left you.

The cold night air did little to settle the storm in Paige’s chest.

She watched you leave, her fingers twitching against the condensation of her glass, an old instinct screaming at her to run after you. To stop you. But she stayed rooted to the barstool, letting the moment slip through her fingers like so many others before it.

Maybe she deserved that.

No, she definitely deserved that.

But that didn’t mean she was done. Not this time.

A week passed. Then two.

Paige told herself she wouldn’t look for you, wouldn’t make this harder than it needed to be. But then she saw you again—by chance or by fate, she wasn’t sure.

The coffee shop was tucked in a quiet corner of the city, one she rarely went to, but there you were.

Sitting by the window, scrolling through your phone, completely unaware that her world had just tilted on its axis again.

Paige took a slow breath, adjusting the cap on her head, as if that would somehow make her presence less jarring. She told herself to leave, that she had no reason to be here. But her feet moved before she could stop them.

And then she was standing in front of you.

You looked up, blinking in surprise before your expression hardened.

“Seriously?”

She had the audacity to smile. Just a little. “Hey.”

You exhaled sharply, setting your phone down. “What are you doing here?”

She hesitated, because she could lie—say she was just grabbing coffee, pretend this was another coincidence. But she was done lying, done pretending.

So she pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, ignoring the way your brows shot up in disbelief.

“I wanted to see you.”

Your jaw tightened. “Paige—”

“Look, I know you don’t owe me anything. I know I left and that I never gave you a real explanation. And I know that seeing me again is probably the last thing you want.”

You stayed silent, watching her carefully. Paige took that as a sign to keep going.

“But I just—I just need to talk to you. Not about the past. Just—just let me sit here for a minute.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You discarded me, Paige. And now you just want to sit and talk?”

The words stung, sharp and direct, but she didn’t flinch. She nodded instead, fingers clenching against her thigh. “Yeah. I do.”

You studied her for a long moment, something flickering in your expression.

Then, with an exasperated sigh, you leaned back. “Fine. But I’m not making this easy for you.”

Paige let out a quiet breath. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The conversation started awkward, filled with stilted small talk and long pauses. But Paige didn’t mind. She wasn’t here for easy. She was here for you.

And if she had to work for it, she would.

She’d spent years running from what she wanted.

Now, she was ready to chase it.

Paige had always been good at winning.

On the court, she knew how to read plays, how to adjust, how to push through obstacles until she got what she wanted.

But you weren’t a game. You weren’t something she could just strategize her way back into.

And that terrified her more than anything.

A week after your reluctant coffee shop conversation, Paige saw you again.

This time, it wasn’t by accident.

She knew where to find you—your favorite bookstore, a quiet place tucked away from the chaos of the city.

She told herself she wouldn’t approach you, that she’d just catch a glimpse, maybe remind herself that you were still here, still real. But when she spotted you in one of the aisles, she couldn’t stop herself.

“You really like this place, huh?”

You turned, startled at first, then visibly annoyed when you realized who it was.

“Paige.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Not here to bother you. Just… thought I’d check out some books.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when do you read?”

Paige smirked. “Since now.”

You exhaled, clearly debating whether to engage or ignore her. Eventually, you turned back to the shelf, tracing the spines with absent fingers.

Paige stayed a few feet away, not pushing, not forcing conversation. Just existing in your space, letting you get used to her being there.

And maybe—just maybe—hoping you’d let her stay.

Over the next few weeks, she found ways to slip into your life, never demanding too much, never making it obvious.

A casual nod when she saw you at a café. A brief conversation in passing. A small joke here, a quiet comment there.

She didn’t expect you to trust her again overnight. She wasn’t that naive.

But she wanted you to see she wasn’t going anywhere this time.

She wanted you to know she was serious.

Paige exhaled, gripping the strap of her gym bag as she stood outside the arena.

She had invited you to the game tonight.

You hadn’t said yes. But you hadn’t said no either.

And when she looked up, scanning the crowd filtering through the entrance, she saw you.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

You weren’t alone—your friends flanked you, keeping the atmosphere light, but Paige could see the tension in your posture. Like you weren’t sure why you had come.

But you were here.

That was enough.

For now.

Paige played like she had something to prove.

Not to the crowd. Not to the coaches.

To you.

Every shot, every pass, every moment on the court was a silent message—Look at me. See what I can be.

And when the final buzzer sounded, when the game was won and the cheers rang loud, her eyes searched for you again.

You were still there.

Watching.

After the game, she found you by the exit, waiting.

She approached carefully, wiping the sweat from her forehead, heart pounding louder than it had on the court.

“You stayed.”

You shrugged, arms crossed. “You played well.”

Paige took a slow breath. “Thanks.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, the years of distance still palpable.

Then, softly—“Why now, Paige?”

Her throat tightened.

Because I already gave you your normal life. Now it’s my turn to have a life with you.

But she didn’t say that. Not yet.

Instead, she let a small smile tug at her lips. “Because I’m done running.”

And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

Paige had never been good at waiting.

But she had to be patient now.

The next morning, she found herself lingering by her phone, resisting the urge to text you. It had taken everything in her to tell you she was done running, but words meant nothing without action. And she wasn’t about to mess this up again by moving too fast.

Instead, she let things happen naturally.

Days passed, and Paige made sure to be present without pushing too hard. Little moments—liking your posts when she never used to, casually showing up at places she knew you’d be. Each interaction was subtle, an unspoken invitation.

She had spent so many years keeping her distance that she had to relearn how to be in your orbit.

And she knew you noticed.

One evening, she saw her chance.

A mutual friend’s birthday dinner. You were there, seated with a few others, and Paige made a deliberate choice to sit across from you.

Not next to you. That would be too much.

Just close enough that you couldn’t ignore her.

She watched the way you stiffened slightly when she greeted you, then relaxed into neutrality. That was progress.

The night went on, and as conversations swirled around the table, Paige kept her focus split—engaging with the others but never letting you fade into the background.

Then came the moment that caught her off guard.

Someone cracked a joke about past relationships, and the table erupted into laughter. But Paige felt her pulse spike when your gaze flickered—just briefly—to her.

It was gone in an instant, but she caught it.

You weren’t unaffected by her presence.

And she held onto that.

After dinner, she found you outside, waiting for your ride.

Paige hesitated, then stepped closer, standing beside you in silence. The cool air was thick with unspoken things.

Finally, she murmured, “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

You gave a small shrug. “I almost didn’t come.”

Paige’s chest tightened. “But you did.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Why are you suddenly around again, Paige?”

She exhaled slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I told you. I’m done running.”

You looked away, as if weighing her words. Paige could tell you weren’t convinced yet. And that was fair. She had spent years pushing you away.

But she had time now.

She was going to prove it.

You scoffed, exhaling sharply. “That doesn’t mean anything, Paige. Not after everything.”

Her throat tightened. “Then tell me how to make it mean something.”

Your arms crossed over your chest, frustration bubbling over. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t just get to decide when you want to be here. You disappeared, Paige. You left me with nothing. No explanation, no closure—just gone.”

She flinched. She deserved that. Every word.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I thought—”

“You thought what?” you snapped. “That I couldn’t handle your world? That I wasn’t enough?”

She ran a hand down her face, the weight of her silence pressing between you. Then, finally—

“Because you said you wanted a normal life.”

Your breath hitched.

Paige looked at you then, really looked at you, and her expression was raw. “You said you wanted normal, and I knew I could never give that to you. So I let you have it.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy.

Then, your laugh came—sharp, disbelieving. “You let me have it? Are you kidding me? You never even gave me a choice, Paige.”

Her jaw clenched, guilt washing over her. “I know. I was scared. I convinced myself I was doing what was best for you. But it wasn’t my decision to make.”

You shook your head, years of frustration unraveling in real time. “Damn right, it wasn’t.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But if you’ll let me, I want to prove that I’m not going anywhere this time.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Because for the first time, the truth was laid bare between you.

And now, the choice was finally yours.

Paige didn’t wait for your answer that night.

Because this time, she wasn’t just asking.

She was proving.

The shift was subtle at first. But undeniable.

Paige started showing up. Not just at events or places where she could conveniently cross paths with you, but in ways that made it impossible to ignore her presence.

A text—simple, direct: I know I don’t deserve it, but can we talk?

A coffee order at your desk one morning—your exact order, no note, just an unspoken understanding.

A glance from across the room that held more weight than a thousand words.

She was making it clear—she was done running.

But were you ready to stop running too?

It all came to a head one night when you found yourself at a restaurant with mutual friends. You weren’t expecting her to be there.

But she was.

And she wasn’t alone.

Paige sat with her teammates, but her attention never wavered from you. Even as conversations swirled around the table, she only seemed aware of one thing—where you were, who you were talking to, how close someone else was standing.

Then, as if drawn by an invisible pull, she excused herself. And when you stepped outside for air, she followed.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?” she asked, voice steady but soft.

You sighed, leaning against the railing. “Paige, I don’t know what to believe.”

She hesitated, then took a step closer. “Then let me say it again. I was wrong. I was wrong to decide for you. I was wrong to leave. And I was wrong to think I could be happy without you.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t get to say that now. You made your choice.”

Her jaw clenched. “And I’ve regretted it every single day since.”

Silence stretched, thick with years of unsaid things.

Then, softer this time—“You wanted a normal life. I wanted to give that to you.”

You turned to face her fully. “And what if I wanted you more?”

Her breath caught.

For the first time, she looked shaken. Vulnerable. “Then let me fix it.”

You let out a slow exhale. “How?”

She didn’t hesitate. “By showing you that my world can be yours, too. That this—us—can work.”

A beat. Then another.

And then, finally—

“Let me try.”

And for the first time in years, maybe—just maybe—you considered letting her.

Paige didn’t expect an answer that night.

The weight of her confession still hung in the air, and she knew you needed time. She had stolen your choice once—she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

But she wasn’t done fighting for you. Not this time.

She started showing up even more. Not just at the places she knew you would be, but in the ways that mattered.

She learned your schedule, not to intrude but to be available. If you needed space, she gave it. If you wanted presence, she provided it.

Little by little, she wove herself back into your life.

When you had a late-night work event, she sent an Uber to make sure you got home safely. When you had a rough day, she texted without expecting a reply: Just so you know, I’m here.

And when you finally started responding—small things at first, short answers, a dry remark here and there—she took it as progress.

Because you weren’t ignoring her anymore.

The night everything changed, she found you alone on the balcony at a mutual friend’s gathering.

“You hate crowds,” she noted, stepping beside you.

You scoffed. “Then why are you here?”

She hesitated, then answered honestly. “Because you are.”

A beat of silence. Then, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “Paige, this… it’s exhausting. I don’t know what you want from me.”

She turned to you, eyes steady. “I want you. I always have.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that now. You left me.”

“I know.” Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “And I hate myself for it. But I can’t change the past. All I can do is ask if there’s still a future for us.”

You stared at her, torn between frustration and something deeper, something that never really left.

Paige swallowed hard. “You said you wanted a normal life. I let you have it. But the truth is… I never wanted normal. I wanted you. And if you’ll let me, I want to give you a life where you don’t have to choose between love and normalcy.”

You exhaled sharply, emotions swirling. “And if I say no?”

Paige’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “Then I’ll respect it. But I had to try.”

Your fingers curled around the balcony railing. The city stretched before you, endless and full of possibilities.

Finally, you looked at her, searching her face. “Then prove it.”

A slow smile tugged at her lips. “I will.”

And for the first time in years, it felt like something real was beginning again.

The weight of Paige’s confession lingered between you, heavy and unshakable.

You had spent years wondering why she left, why she walked away without a word. And now that you knew the truth, it didn’t make things easier. If anything, it made them harder.

Because she thought she was protecting you. And in doing so, she shattered you.

She didn’t push anymore after that night.

Instead, she let her actions speak.

She showed up. Consistently. Not just when it was easy or convenient. Not just in the spaces where it was expected.

She found ways to be in your world, the one she once thought she had to let you have on your own.

When you had a late night at work, she sent food to your office. When she had a game in your city, she made sure you had the option to come—never asking, just leaving tickets in case. When she was free, she met you where you were instead of expecting you to follow her pace.

And slowly, the walls you built started to crack.

The final step was hers to take.

She invited you to a game—one that mattered. A championship. A moment where the world would be watching her.

She didn’t ask for anything more than your presence.

So you went.

And after the game, when the confetti settled and the cameras pulled back, she found you waiting in the hallway outside the locker room.

Her hair was damp, her jersey still clinging to her. But none of it mattered. Not the victory, not the celebration.

Only you.

“Come with me,” she said, breathless and certain.

You hesitated. “Paige—”

“I already gave you up once. I’m not making that mistake again.” She exhaled, stepping closer. “You got to live your normal life. Now let me have my turn. Let me have you.”

The words struck something deep inside you.

She wasn’t asking you to give up anything. She was asking you to choose.

For the first time, the decision wasn’t made for you.

And this time, you knew your answer.

The mornings were your favorite.

Not because they were peaceful—Paige was anything but quiet.

She hummed while making coffee, danced around the kitchen in nothing but a hoodie and socks, occasionally bumping into you just to steal a kiss.

“You’re in my way,” you muttered as you tried to grab a mug.

She grinned, blocking you with her body. “No, I think you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t move away.

Balancing your worlds wasn’t easy, but it was never about easy. It was about effort. About making it work.

Some nights, you were in her world—attending games, sitting courtside, holding her hand in moments she once thought she had to face alone. Other nights, she was in yours—picking up takeout after your long workday, helping fold laundry, blending seamlessly into the life you once thought you had to protect from her.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you had told her once, watching as she stacked plates after dinner.

She gave you a look, one that said you should know better by now. “I want to.”

That was the difference. Before, she thought she had to choose. Now, she refused to.

Later, she lay on the couch with her head in your lap, scrolling through her phone while you absentmindedly ran your fingers through her hair. It was easy now—touching, being close. No tension, no hesitation. Just you and her, like it was always meant to be.

“I have a game in Chicago next week,” she murmured, looking up at you. “Come with me?”

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin. “Hmm… what’s in it for me?”

She sat up, wrapping her arms around your waist, her lips brushing against your ear. “Everything.”

And she meant it.

No more running. No more regrets. Just Paige, and the life you built together.

Finally, home.

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[daycourtofficial]

Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one - part three

Pairing: Eris x reader x Azriel | WC: 3.3k | warnings: general angst, some violence

Summary: after a week of avoiding talking to him, Azriel invites you out for a meeting that only leaves you with a more urgent sense of jealousy

Author’s note: happy new year’s eve!! I know it hasn’t been too long since the last part, but I wanted to spread some holiday joy! This year has been awful but my time online and the friends I’ve met through here have been so lovely and kind and you guys have gotten me through a lot do here’s some pain!

Last part | Next part | Masterlist

Your conversation with Nesta left you reeling, some deep part of you rattled at her words. A deep loneliness settled in you after she left, a swirling storm of anger and jealousy threatening to fester into a hurricane out on the balcony.

‘He’s a challenge on his best days.’

Why had the Mother given her most loyal follower a mate who was so difficult? Weren’t mates supposed to be a blessing?

Rhys and Feyre, Nesta and Cassian - they all had their own fair share of turbulence. You remembered the stories from Mor about Feyre throwing her shoes at Rhysand, or Nesta’s seemingly complete apathy around Cassian.

The journals left you confused, both smitten and giddy and a deep questioning of should it be this hard? Azriel and Eris had already seen the worst of each other and still chose and defended their bond. Would the same be said of you if Azriel saw your faults? Or would one flawed mate be enough for him?

Would another fae be able to look past your status as a second choice? Would you be able to even look at other fae if Azriel rejected you?

It had only been a few weeks since the bond had snapped for you, but in that time you didn’t notice other fae. They were just background characters, no one in particular ever catching your notice.

Except Eris. That was nothing though - merely Azriel’s feelings about him swirling within you.

None of it made any sense, your body subconsciously leaving the balcony and moving to find Azriel, repeating to yourself that an answer laid in one of his journals. You stopped by your room to gather the journal before following the bond to find the shadowsinger alone in the library. He looked incredible - his large wings stretched out over the black leather, the definition of his body evident through his loose fitting clothes. He was hunched over a small table, flipping through a book and jotting things down on the paper next to him. All your time spent reading this past week made his handwriting a familiar sight.

“Hi Az.” You stopped before him, presenting him with your most recently finished journal. This one had contained much the same - fighting between Eris and Azriel, occasional snippets about Cassian and his drunken antics. It seemed Eris and Azriel were in a constant cycle of never getting too close, one or the other always finding some fault to keep their distance.

He accepted it wordlessly, the replacement journal ready in his lap. How you hadn’t noticed it says more about the focus of your attention than you would like.

“Expecting me?”

“You usually find me around this time.” He huffed, the slight smile on his face enough to know he’s being light hearted. You took the new journal, about to turn on your heel when you spotted the empty chair next to Azriel. You waited a moment, turning back to find him still looking at you. Your chest felt tight with vulnerability, looking back to the empty chair, something inside of you begging to sit in his presence.

It felt like a good sign finding him in the open. You usually found him in his room, his door closed in front of you once the exchange was made. But now he sat on display, his own work spread out before him. You weren’t certain you had ever seen him work so openly.

You took the sign as an invitation, sitting in a chair opposite him, the spine a harsh crack in the silent room. He did nothing more than watch, hazel eyes tracking the delicacy and respect you showed to the journal before looking back to his own notes.

It was silent save for the turning of pages and his scrawling. It felt so warm being in his presence, sharing this time with him. It was so easy to get lost in it that the next time you looked up you realized he had pulled out a fresh journal, scribbling away in it. It was a cleaner version of the one you spent every night hunched over, staying up until the last word was comprehensible to your sleep-addled brain.

“Have you ever done that in front of someone before?” You croaked the words out, throat dry from your lack of water in hours, too afraid if you got up, your return would show an empty room.

“No, I haven’t.” His scrawl hadn’t stopped, and you straightened up, trying to catch a glance of what he was writing, if your name made an appearance. Shadows swirled at the top of his journal, obscuring your vision. You looked at the shadow, a cross expression trying to threaten them. They only seemed to dance more rapidly, in agitation or preening beneath your gaze, you weren’t sure.

“None of that.”

You sank back deflated, surprised you were caught. Picking up the journal once more, you flicked to the page you had left off at, settling back in.

“You’ll see this one soon enough.” The book snapped shut at his words as you readjusted to sit back up.

“I will?” Azriel only nodded, finally looking up at you instead of the pages of his journal. His eyes darted around the room before a shadow curled around his ear. Whatever the shadow told him, he relaxed a little, his posture easing into his seated position.

“I gave them to you to understand Eris and I’s relationship. But I think it’s impossible to figure out this situation without getting completely up to date.”

You nearly salivated at the thought of Azriel’s present journals. To know what he’s thought about you this whole time, in his own words, even without knowing about the bond? Priceless.

He had said he had been interested in you, drawn to you.

Azriel smiled, a soft pulsing of the thread around your heart. Tonight had been a step forward - you didn’t want to push your luck and find out if he was pulling the cord tight in reassurance or suffocation. You kept the question to yourself, nestling into the chair and the comfort of Azriel’s scent.

-

Mindless chatter moved across the breakfast table, your eyes constantly flickering to Azriel. It was impossible to keep them off of him, his emotions roiling in your chest kept you up half the night once you had retired from the library. You had been avoiding him for a week now, and the hours spent in his company reminded you of just how nice it was to linger in his presence.

This past week had been an anomaly, one you weren’t certain your friends had noticed or not. Azriel was usually a source of company at some point during your day - a meal, transportation, or just someone to go out walking Velaris with you.

If this past week showed you anything, it was how ingrained into your daily life Azriel had become.

You looked at him again, your eyes lingering on the lack of sleep beneath his eyes. He was tired. You couldn’t pinpoint it exactly- it wasn’t in his face or in his movements. Was it the bond? Was it your late night insomnia that kept him up?

Could mating bonds do that?

“Azriel, what time are you leaving?” Rhys’s question brought you from your focused gaze, waiting to hear Azriel’s response. So focused on Azriel, you hadn’t bothered pretending to even eat or notice Cassian’s glances to his own mate.

“I’m leaving in the afternoon.” Azriel’s head turned to you, his hazel eyes capturing yours in a gaze you couldn’t look away from. Where was he going? You had been so wrapped up in your thoughts you had missed the beginning of the discussion.

“I think it would be better if you came with me.” The table had turned quiet, the clattering of cutlery pausing for just a moment, all eyes slowly directed your way, waiting for your response.

So they’ve noticed this weirdness between you two.

“Are you sure, Az?” Azriel didn’t look away from you at Rhysand’s question, merely waiting for your response. Something in you was drawn to his gaze, wanting to linger in it for the rest of your days. His eyes held such softness, a look he reserved just for you.

And his other mate. The bitter thought made you grimace. Azriel and Eris had something real, something tangible that they fought for every single day.

But surely the moments in the library were also real. Not as intense or passionate, but full of a warmth you had hardly experienced before, a domesticity many would dream about.

“Yes, I will. Where are we going?”

Azriel was quick to answer, one of his shadows nearly muffling Rhysand’s voice so Azriel could be the one to respond.

“I have a meeting with Eris.” You were too focused on Azriel’s face to notice Nesta’s eyes widen imperceptibly on the other side of the table.

-

Your fingers tapped against your thigh, an anxiety coursing through you at the thought of seeing Eris again. He was something - a sharp face, even sharper tongue, decadently dressed. You hated to admit it, but you could understand why the Mother had mated him to Azriel - the two were quite possibly the most gorgeous fae in all of Prythian.

You had stayed up late again pouring over Azriel’s journals. Each notebook left you more and more territorial over him, romance pouring through every page. It was so different from the books Nesta read - the fictitious couple having grandiose gestures, no depiction of how the day to day worked.

But Azriel’s notebook was filled with longing for Eris. Recaps of long conversations they have had, almost word for word detailings of what they spoke about.

They had been together for a little over a century by now. They both fought it - Azriel all but withdrew from his family, avoiding them for over a year while he figured it out.

It took nearly a decade for them to come to terms with it - one of them never quite ready to dive in, both playing the hesitant role at different points.

It seemed one day Eris just snapped. Tired of talking in circles and exhausting every avenue, he went for it. He kissed Azriel and it spiraled from there, consummating the bond. It was a romantic tale of longing and distance and overcoming any and all odds for each other.

A story you had no business playing a part in.

Azriel pulled you from your thoughts, reaching out a hand to winnow the pair of you away. You took it, remembering all too well the last time you were gathered in his arms.

You both rematerialized in a densely packed forest, the trees so close together it was difficult to move between. You steadied yourself against Azriel, hands pressed to his broad chest. Winnowing yourself anywhere wasn’t an issue, but someone else winnowing you left you unmoored, your feet unable to find solid ground for a few seconds. The bond tightened around your heart, the beat of it speeding up at the contact.

“Come to gloat?” Your head whipped towards Eris as you yanked your hands from Azriel’s chest. You didn’t notice Azriel bringing his hands back up, reaching for you, trying to keep you close.

But Eris did. He schooled his features, looking toward Azriel with hardened eyes.

“No, I brought her so we can figure this out.”

Eris scoffed, the sound loud enough to be heard over the bird song high above the group. He stomped forward in a direct path towards Azriel, a trail of smoke in his wake.

His long red hair flowed behind him as he moved, reflecting the light of the sun so beautifully the homes of the Autumn Court could be full of portraits of the male before you and his beauty would still surprise. Your heart hammered in your chest, unable to look away from him.

“I’m sure that’s exactly what you’ve been up to this past week. Trying to figure this out with her, shutting off your bond to me.” The last words came out as a whisper, the underlying accusation one Eris couldn’t bear to say. He looked almost hurt as he said it.

“Er-“ Eris cut Azriel off, pushing his back into a tree, his hands curling into the leathers. Your feet followed the action, a hot sense of protectiveness overcoming you.

“No, Azriel. You don’t get to play house with her and show up here with her.”

“She can hear you, ya know.” You pushed Eris off of Azriel, the male staggering back in shock at your actions.

“How sweet. What a waste of my time to be here if you’re going to tell me you’ve finally picked someone else when you’ve had a century to do so.”

Azriel reached out for Eris, his grip tight around Eris’s forearm. Eris tried to push Azriel away from him, but his hand remained around Eris. He pulled the redhead closer, his thumb slowly stroking over his mate’s skin. It felt so intimate you wanted to look away.

“Eris, I am not picking her. I am trying to figure this out.” Azriel’s words stung, no matter how pragmatic they were. A teeny, tiny part of you wanted to blurt out to Eris about the journals, certain it would send the Autumn male out of your life for good. The action stayed in your mind at the betrayal Azriel would feel.

Some part of you knew something so hurtful would end in Azriel having no mates.

“‘Figure this out’? What is there to figure out? Which one of us you would pick?”

“No!” Azriel’s rebuttal was frantic, his lack of sleep more prominent now in the sunlight. It didn’t stop the sun from highlighting how gorgeous his brown skin was, though. “Can’t you think past your own self for five minutes and realize my soul, my entire being is connected to the both of you?”

The words did something to Eris, causing him to finally look at you. You couldn’t help the heat rushing to your cheeks beneath his gaze, a small part of you hoping he finds something interesting. You straightened, taking the time to look over him as well. It was nearly unfair how good he looked in his riding clothes. His shirt opened just enough to see his collarbone and the top of his sternum, his pale chest decorated with freckles. His loose, billowy shirt tucked into some well fitting trousers, thighs nearly ripping the fabric.

He wasn’t as big as Azriel - a bit shorter and not nearly as broad, but he was lean and strong, and you were certain they both threw each other around the bedroom with ease.

“I suppose severing this bond would mean lifelong consequences for you.” Eris spoke to Azriel, but kept his gaze on you as he walked toward you. Heat crept up your body the closer he got, each step raising the temperature by ten degrees. It was nearly unbearable by the time he stood in front of you, so close you had to look up at him.

Eris’s anger made him more beautiful - the sharpness of his face poised and ready for attack, the red shades of anger perfectly matching his skin and hair.

Heat coursed around your neck, the flames dancing across your skin. You were enraptured with Eris, this moment only for the two of you. You could hear Azriel start to object, but paid him no notice, your full attention on Eris.

“I could end it all now, remove the most painful thorn in my side you’ve been.”

You smiled up at him, overcome with a new feeling of competition. The flames around your neck tightened, but you kept on, stepping infinitesimally closer to Eris.

“If my mere existence is a pain to you now, just wait until I’ve decided you’re worth the effort to bother. You’ve only known me for a week and already I’m worth your ire.”

“Go home to Velaris. Go be a small town healer and find a small town male for you to fake your orgasms with.”

Your jaw dropped and you felt Azriel’s hands wrap around your upper arms, trying to pull you back, but you rooted yourself to the ground, pulling from his grasp.

“At least my constituents will look me in the eye out of respect and not fear. At least my patients know I had to work for my job and that I wasn’t given it because of my father!”

The flames were choking now, your breaths coming in hard and shallow. You were trying to fight it, to win whatever this was, but breathing harder and harder, fresh air a luxury you couldn’t remember.

“Eris!” Azriel all but growled as he wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you into him. You reached up, trying to pull the collar off, tried to get any air, but it was impossible.

“The Mother is absurd for mating Azriel with someone so foolish who speaks of things she knows nothing about.” Eris relinquished his power as you sagged into Azriel’s arms, but Eris cupped a hand around your jaw. His eyes burned with fury and something you couldn’t quite make out, the amber color replaced with the blown pupils of his ire.

“Az, come back to me when you’ve decided the bitch isn’t worth your time.”

Chest heaving, you squared your jaw, a rebuttal on your tongue, but Eris had turned, walking into the trees before disappearing completely into them.

He was everything Nesta had warned you he was. He was cruel, difficult, and maddening.

And if the Mother wanted Azriel to pick one of you, you would do whatever it took to beat out Eris Vanserra for Azriel’s affections.

You’re stuck so deep in your head, you don’t even notice Azriel winnow the two of you back to the House of Wind, the two of you landing in the dining room. You turned to ask him about Eris, to talk to him about how ridiculous his mate was, but Azriel had dropped your arm, winnowing away immediately after. Your hand instinctively reached out for the shadows, but it was too late.

He was gone and he left you here.

You sighed, not knowing what you expected him to do. Coddle you? Tell you Eris didn’t mean his threats? Tell you Eris is a big meanie head?

You shook the thought away, your steps soft as you made your way through the house, a journal calling your name to pour through.

Your adrenaline was wearing off, the grime of the forest stuck to your clothes making the bathtub’s siren song call to you from many rooms away.

“How was your meeting with Eris?” Nesta’s voice found you as you were about to climb the stairs, one foot raised. You spun on your heel to look at her, her face indecipherable. Just his name filled you with anger and confusion once more. How was it him that had received Azriel’s affections?

“He’s worse than you made him seem. Vile and cruel, just like everyone says.” You spat the words at her, not receiving the reaction you wanted from her. Nesta only raised her eyebrows as her nose twitched.

“Are you sure?” Your anger had flared too much to notice her strange tone or the look in her eye.

“I’m positively certain. Anyone having to spend time with that awful, awful male is a saint or somehow even worse than he is.”

She approached you, her eyes lingering on your neck. You weren’t certain if you had scorch marks or not, unsure if Eris’s wickedness scarred. She was quiet as she looked at you, eyes of silver intense as they locked onto yours. You weren’t sure if she found what she was looking for or not before she brushed past you to go to her own chambers, her words quiet in the stillness of the house.

“If you say so.”

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

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[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 2)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 3122

(Part 1)

_________________________________________

“When you said you got me a t-shirt,” you sigh, once again adjusting the hem of the jersey Mor provided you. Notshirt; jersey. The bottom of the Velaris Bats uniform has been trimmed—startlingly low. Or is it cut too high; you wonder with a swallowed curse. The damned thing nearly shows off your entire midriff. “I thought you meant, like, a normal fucking shirt and not whatever this is.”

Mor scoffs, shoveling a handful of popcorn into her mouth as she weaves her way through the throng of people towards your seats. Her long strides in her black heels hard to keep up with. “That is a Mor Original, and I only made it cuter,” she huffs indigently, like your discomfort is the sole inspiration behind her “designs.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve allowed Mor to pick out your outfit, but it’s definitely going to be your last, you try to remind yourself. The handful of times you’ve thought this exact thing before is laughable, and you’ve never once remembered. She’ll continue to cut the hems of shirts and alter skirts into even shorter skirts until the end of time, probably.

She’s been the crafty type since you first met her. Anything that she could add personality to was subject for a good old shot of “Mor’s Touch:” clothing, home décor, even the cocktails she mixes—which often go from something as simple as a Dirty Shirley and turning it into a cherry-passionfruit with a hint of lime drink, mixed with tonic instead of Sprite and garnished with a frilly umbrella stuck through three Maraschino cherries because “one is simply not enough.”

You agree, and you’d never admit to your eccentric roommate that it’s the most delicious drink you’ve ever had. Goes down like lemonade and has you going from a corner-stander to someone in the center of the dancefloor in two drinks flat.

You wish you had one right about now to get you through the night.

Your mind wanders to Gwyn back at the dorms, wondering what she’s going to be getting up to tonight. You don’t need to wonder, you know how your red-headed roommate prefers to spend her nights, curled up on the couch beneath a thick blanket, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels within reach, and her laptop in her lap, creating fantasy worlds for her characters to live in some day.

A surge of pride for your roommate fills your energy tank. Sometimes people truly do find exactly what they were made for in life, and Gwyn was born to write. You’ve only read a few snippets she’s been willing to share, but you can’t fathom forming sentences the way she does, creating worlds and characters from her mind alone, seeing a vision in your mind so clear that it would be a crime not to share it with the world.

You’re not sure you’ve ever loved something that much, but Sports Medicine is pretty damn close. Psychology, is not.

You shiver as the cold of the arena hits the sliver of skin that’s exposed itself once again while you were taking a sip of your drink. Goosebumps pebble in response, coursing over the entirety of your body within seconds, causing you to shiver.

You should’ve fought Mor harder about bringing your jacket, but at least she left you sleeves, her shirt has been cut into a tank that hardly reaches the bottom of her ribs, and there’s a deep cut down the collar, creating a perfect ‘V’ that shows off her incredible tits.

You’d know, you’ve seen them before.

“Oh. My. Gosh. You two look so good,” a girl gushes, steps into you and Mor’s path, halting you from your first steps down the stairs to your seats. She’s chipper, a camera poised in her hands, the thick strap around her neck. He shiny, chestnut hair is braided into two tails, draped across her shoulders.

Behind her thin-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes sparkle with excitement as she peruses you and your roommate up and down, admiring your outfits.

“I told you,” Mor murmurs, elbowing you in the side before raising her voice to answer. “Thank you so much! I spent all day on these, and this one doesn’t appreciate my hard work at all. It’s a refreshing change of pace to hear a compliment instead of ‘Mor, don’t you think this is a little too much?’” You scrunch your nose at Mor’s terrible impression of you. Too nasally, too annoying.

The photographer laughs like it’s her full-time job, and you scowl.

Way to throw me right under that speeding bus, Mor.

“Do you mind if I take your picture for the team’s social media account? You two would make a great first slide in a carousel for school spirit,” she gets this faraway look in her eyes as if she’s picturing it now. “The interaction you’d get us,” she sighs dreamily. “I might even get promoted.”

You groan internally when Mor perks up even further. “I think I love you,” she blurts, pupils heart-shaped. “Do you want to sit with us? We have an extra ticket.” She’s bought one for Gwyn, hoping she would join in on this sporty girl’s night, but your other roommate had been adamant about her dislike of the sport, and had gotten a pass while you were dressed up like a doll and dragged out of the dorm.

The girl’s laugh is like a windchime, soothing and melodic. “I wish I could, but duty calls,” she waves her camera around in answer. “Maybe I’ll catch you at one of the after parties, though. Here, you can give me your Instagram and I’ll DM you after tagging you in the photos.”

She and Mor exchange socials and names. Feyre. It’s unique and suits her well.

After adding your own Instagram on her phone, you hand the phone back, posing with Mor. Of course, knowing your roommate as you do, it’s not just one picture that Feyre takes. They’re both beaming, and one picture turns into ten. Ten poses, nine sips of your drink because you don’t know what the hell else to do. Eight frantic smiles, seven internal sighs, and six side-eyes from passerby, trying to find their seats. Five giggles from friends, four embarrassed blushes, three warnings that you are so done with this, two people ignoring you, and one announcement overhead signaling the start of the game in a few minutes.

“So nice to meet you, Feyre,” Mor calls as you begin guiding her away. You have no clue where you’re going, but any movement closer to any empty seat is better than the photoshoot you just had in the middle of the walkway. With a parting smile at the photographer, Mor continues, like she’s all for standing there all night instead of supporting her cousin on the ice. “Message me!”

“Clingy, much?” You grunt at the poke to the arm that gets you.

“Oh, come on! It’s not like I’m going to replace you,” she scoffs with a brush of her long blonde hair over her shoulder. You swear, the guys sitting in the front row swoon. “Besides, you can never have too many friends. It’s not possible.”

You’re pretty sure it is possible to have too many friends, but you keep that thought to yourself. You suppose you have one more spot in your life for a friend, but if the pictures turn out terrible and are blasted on the Bat’s Instagram, that spot might disappear. You’re already feeling mortified enough from the public display of taking photos.

“Yeah, yeah,” is what you decide to go with. “Now, where are our seats?”

“I don’t like the look of that,” you mutter wearily, squinting to see what’s happening on the ice. You might not know anything about hockey, but you know malicious intent when you see it. It’s in the way that the Penguin’s player leans closer to the Bat’s center, nudging his shoulder as he speaks, his slimy grin growing with each jab.

The game’s been fun so far, much to your surprise. The crowd surrounding you is all for the team, chanting songs that you need to learn immediately because they’re so much fun. The music that blasts around the stadium during every break is on-point, not too old of songs and not too overplayed like at the one football game you’d been dragged to last year (also by Mor, but not because of a family member on the team, because of an entirely different member.)

“Is that my cousin?” She asks, brown eyes sharp as she examines the players. Their fronts are to you, no seeing the names painted across the back of their jerseys. You refrain from mentioning how Mor should at least know her own cousin’s number—since their written on the sleeves—but you keep that thought to yourself when her red painted nails tighten around the box of popcorn, crushing the flimsy cardboard. The strain of the muscle in her jaw matches the boy on the ice’s, you notice with a fleeing glance at your roommate.

Tension coils your gut. You find your fingers wrapping around the edge of the seat you’re perched in, gripping the bleachers so tightly that you swear you feel the cool metal warming and warping.

You’re not the only two who have noticed the shift in the moods of the players on the ice, parts of the crowd are beginning to rise from their seats, cheering growing from a low rumble to a thunder of screams, caws, and jeering.

The puck is barely a millimeter from the referee’s hand before sticks are thrown to the ice, gloves following as the two players slowly begin to circle each other. It looks like something out of an animal documentary: two predators about to snap at each other’s throats in a fight for the territory.

The anticipation of them going blow for blow lights a fire deep within your belly, your core perking up for attention.

You shouldn’t be thinking like this, shouldn’t get getting turned on by the idea of two boys about to knock each other’s teeth out. Should be thinking about your best friend’s cousin like this at all.

Shooting a guilty glance at your roommate, you breathe a soft sigh of relief that’s swallowed by the shouts of the crowd when you see that Mor hasn’t picked up on your sudden shift in mood—both mentally and physically.

All the players on the ice slide back to make room for the brawl that’s about to break out and a sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, almost overpowering the arousal as you wonder why no one is attempting to stop them.

There isn’t time to voice your concern, isn’t time to do anything except bolt to your feet with a gasp so harsh it sears your lungs when the Penguin’s player is the first to swing. Your heart is lodged in your throat, your breathing holding in your throat as you watch in anticipation. He lashes out with a curled fist so fast that by the time you blink, it’s over.

His hit doesn’t land.

There’s no time to feel the relief trying to rush through your veins because the Bat’s center is retaliating, throwing himself forward after swiftly dodging the attack. He grabs the other boy by the collar of his ice blue uniform and hauls him into his closed fist.

His opponents helmet goes flying off with the snap of his head backwards. He stumbles, but manages to stay upright, snagging a handful of the Bat’s jersey to try and steady himself.

You look to the benches flanking the ice, wondering why no one is joining the fray. It’s now that you realize it’s not that they don’t want to help their teammate who is quickly ducking away from another fist, it’s because they can’t.

There’s a boy standing nonchalantly, hazel eyes pinned on the scene before him. He looks eager almost, leaning so casually against his stick, chin propped on the edge of it like he’s watching the newest action movie from the best spot in the house.

Even the goalie seems to be unconcerned, taking the few moments he has to take a swig of water and adjust his helmet, squatting low and shooting side to side in his box, as if trying to keep limber for when the game resumes.

One of the refs is attempting to hold back a burly boy who seems much too large to be skating at all. His helmet has also been shucked off, revealing long, shoulder length wet hair that clings to his face and neck like a bee on honey. His gloves are abandoned on the ice too, and his stick has skidded to a stop upon hitting the sideboards nearby. You can’t make out the words he’s shouting, but with the feral grin you make out, you know they’re fighting words. With each bark he seems to be inching closer, like the full-grown man in the stripes trying to hold him back is nothing more than a soft breeze, and his is a twister barreling right through.

When he shakes his head, you catch sight of a bloodthirsty grin that has a shiver sliding up your spine. He’s enjoying this?

“Mor,” your worry tries to escape, only for the words to stick in your throat as more noises join the fight, loud as gunshots. Both the Bat’s and the Penguin’s players are rapping their hockey sticks against the boards separating their benches from the ice, war cries falling from their lips.

They’re all enjoying this.

“That is my cousin,” Mor screeches, her perfectly plucked brows pulled tight as she tries finally makes out the number on the back of the jersey that’s gripped so tightly in the offending players grip that you’re pretty sure the stitches are popping with the force. “Kick his fucking ass, Rhys!”

Casting a frantic look to your roommate, you realize that not even she seems to be fazed by the fact that her cousin is in the middle of a fight that could very seriously end badly, especially with the knives on the bottoms of their feet.

But, if everyone’s rooting for their player to win this battle, you can too.

As gruesome as the scene before you is, you wish you had a better seat, somewhere with a better viewpoint than all the way on the other side of the ice. You can’t to be able to hear the threats they’re growling at each other, your attention completely enraptured now that you’ve shoved your worry to the wayside.

With his newfound hold, the Penguin’s player strikes again, and this time, his hit slams across Rhys’ jaw. His head snaps to the side with the nasty hook and his helmet slips to the ice, the sound eaten up by the goading of the crowd.

They swing around, unsteady on their skates as each of the boys tries to topple the other over. You catch a glance at his face. It’s hard to see, and his shaggy black hair is splayed across his face like a spiderweb, keeping you from making out his features. You catch the blood dribbling down his chin, the anger etched in the clench of his jaw as he grits his teeth, managing to twist himself into a position where he has the upper hand on the Penguin’s player: a headlock.

Your heart thunders in your chest as you watch Rhys pound his fist into the other boy’s face once, twice, three times before his opponent’s feet fall out from under him. Rhys releases his hold, allowing the boy to slip lamely to the ice.

“Atta boy, Rhysie,” Mor shouts, once again shoveling popcorn into her mouth with a grin so bright it could melt the ice in the rink before you. She turns to you, golden brown of her eyes glowing with excitement. “Our parents would be so proud.”

She turns back to the scene before you can voice your confusion on that statement, tucking away the information that if you win a fight in hockey, it’s a great accomplishment.

You watch Rhys as he’s escorted by referees who guide him towards the penalty box. He’s examining his knuckles, not caring that he’s abandoning his equipment as he goes, grimacing as the adrenaline begins to fade. He pokes at them, frowning at whatever he feels.

You pray they’re not broken.

The rest of the players seem to be getting back to the game, like one of their teammates isn’t being casted away on an island across the ice. Okay, so it’s just another bench and he’s not that far from them, but you’re shocked that this is the end of the fight, both players carted into separate timeout boxes away from their teams.

Rhys plops down on the bench, pulling a water bottle from a hidden holder, washing the blood from his knuckles before examining them for a second time. You watch him flex his fingers, twist his wrist this way and that. You can’t seem to keep your eyes off him, even with the game picking back up and Mor shouting cheers when the Bat’s manage to steal the puck right from the drop, carting it down the ice with a speed that rivals a racecar.

He must be satisfied with his examination because Rhys is throwing his head back, and it’s almost as if he’s squirting the water from the bottle directly onto you with the way that the apex of your thigh’s wet at the sight of him. He sips the water, holding the bottle a few inches from his face, and you watch the water cascade down his chin and over his throat, bobbing with each swallow. It mixes with the blood from his split lip and slides into the collar of his gear.

You swallow harshly, suddenly parched.

When he’s had his fill of the drink, he moves the bottle further back, using the spray to wash his hair away from his face, and your breathing shallows. It’s as if the hand he’s using to squeeze the life out of the bottle is constricting around your throat, because suddenly, you recognize the sharp of that jaw, the curve of those eyebrows and the straight of his nose. All his angular features come together in the perfect picture of hotness, knocking the breath fully from your chest when he straightens his chin, looking out onto the ice to watch his teammates score the last goal of the second period.

He's the boy from this morning: the overachiever, the one who called you darling.

Mor’s cousin.

Rhysand Cunningham.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125

[magickizu]

The New Girl

Crossover dp x dc. So I've got this time line in mind, for my crossover AU and this is a snippet of it. Master Post: Lost Retirement

In order to further Damian's social skills, keep up illusions and maybe in an attempt to give the boy some form of normality in his life Bruce negotiated with him to attend High School. The only condition Damian set, on which he would not budge, was that Jon and him will attend the same school, to not start off completely alone.

When a new girl got transferred to their school, who happened to share a majority of their classes, a few things changed for both boys.

Math is boring. High school in general is boring. Not to mention, that he already knows most, if not nearly all of what the teachers say anyway! It's just frustrating... Especially, ever since his classmates found out who he was, which didn't take that long due to public appearances of the Wayne family. So many people, try to be cool or smart or pretty in front of him for his attention, to gain his favour and with that his status. The same shallow talks and compliments from galas and high social events. Honestly, if Jon wasn't here to make it bearable in any way, chances are Damian would have made sure, his first day would've been his last.

Not to mention the materials taught here are so dry for the most part. There are things and concepts that are good, sure... But for the most part? It felt so useless. When would someone like him, someone who was going into the medical field, ever going to need to know that in Poe's works-

Damian sighs. It's Monday morning and math is supposed to start soon, the first double period of the day. He already sits in his chair, materials open. He can hear a particularly noisy group of girls chit chatting about 'grand, expensive weekend getaways' and how 'school is so easy right now', as they deliberately sit a row in front of him... tt, a special form of mental torture, that he has to go through alone for now, as Jon actually had a doctor's appointment and it takes a while to fly back. The rumbling comes to a halt, as the teacher walks in, yet picks up in hushed whispers again, as a new girl steps in behind the teacher. After a few shared thoughts the class quieted down, as the teacher stood behind his desk,

"Class, from today on we have a new student with us, I expect your best behaviour only. Would you introduce yourself, please?" The teacher turned to the girl, she looked at him for a moment then sighed.

"'kay... Hi, I'm Ellie Nightingale. I uh... Just moved here with my family from Wisconsin and yeah..." As she talks, it's definitely clear; she has a thin midwestern twang but strong enough to notice, a light tan and soft freckles. Although the black hair and blue eyes do seem familiar... But the white streaks, that didn't really look natural, throws him off and the electric blue in her eyes, that barely balances the line to normal; even Kryptonians have a more natural blues. Yet Damian just knows, if he wasn't so observant, he could have missed it. Just a meta, he thinks.

"Well, welcome to Gotham Academy Ellie. Go and take a seat, please." The teacher says, the Nightingale girl nods and scans the room for a free seat. The girls in front of him started to cackle already, tt how moronic... Yet he does nothing to clear the seat next to him, even though he knows fullwell that the seat next to him is one of the two empty seats. But he is not about to sacrifice his -somewhat- peace here, for no good reason, and so the lesson begins.

The teacher introduced a new topic, as he spoke and explained, Damian noticed the girls in front of him giggling and then he saw it: a paper ball zooming through the room, hitting the new girl in the head in a moment of inattentiveness from the teacher. Well that's just rude and unnecessary, she didn't even do anything yet. Damian rolled his eyes at these childish antics. Throughout the rest of this double period of math, the behaviour continued; paper balls thrown, cackling into her direction and one of them, Sabrina Portman, made snide comments towards her. Damian just observed, of course he'd intervene if it became too serious, but Nightingale held herself quite well so far, ignoring it well. At least until the teacher had to leave the classroom for a very brief moment, leaving the students unsupervised for only a few minutes.

"Hey, soo... you're really from Minnesota or something?" Portman asked, the class just watched.

"Wisconsin, actually." Nightingale spoke, without looking up from her text book. Good priorities, he admitted to himself. The girls giggle.

"So did you like grow up on a farm or something? Because you kinda look it, country bumpkin." Damian scoffed silently, the rest of the class seemed to snicker at this. "How'd they even let you get in here? Because I kinda doubt, that a farm dweller like you could afford it. Sorry, not sorry." More snickering, Damian just gives Portman a snide and slightly disgusted side glance. At least Jon isn't here to hear this, that boy would be furious. ...on second thought, that is really not acceptable in any form-

"Ow, ou, ouch! That sting! That burn!" Nightingale threw herself over dramatically onto her table, just to prop herself up again, grinning with a weird mix of mischief and indifference. "Be honest, two entire periods and this is the best you can come up with? Well I guess you're right, I wouldn't wanna pay the amount of people necessary to educate you either." Damian blinked, the rest of class looked dumbfounded, Portman seemed absolutely flabbergasted. Yet the raven after a moment of silence, couldn't help the very subtle way the corners of his mouth would form an infinitesimal smile. Then his breath hitched, as their eyes met directly, time stood still for the moment as did his heart, skipping a beat only to make up for it, by beating faster. But it was over just as fast as it came by. This feeling, still stuck in his throat like a lump he can only hardly swallow, the tingling in his head and stomach. He drew in a sharp breath, it hit him, ran through him like a shock. A feeling he knew all too well... Could it have to do with her powers? It had to be, she must be a meta, that's the only explanation. The slight metallic taste, similar to blood, of the feeling, still lingering on the back of his tongue and down his throat, his heart just slowly calmed again and now he understood it wasn't just stunned silence filling the room in-between his classmates. It was something else:

Pure fear.

Damian had to keep an eye on the new girl, just to make sure nothing happened...

"You did what!?" Jon gasped in utter disbelief, gaining a confused look from his best friend. They sat in the cafeteria, Damian sat them down in a spot to keep watch over the new meta. To be ready, just in case. But for the moment right now, the kriptonian in front of him held his attention.

"I didn't...-" He got cut off by said half alien.

"Exactly! You didn't do anything- honestly Dami, you see someone get bullied and you do nothing??" The boy bit down on his snack carrots in a huff, the clear disappointment still on his face. The other also huffed.

"In my defence, she handled herself very well, there was no need for me to step in and help-"

"Damian..." The bigger one laid his head into his hands and sighed, defeated. Sometimes Jon really wished Damian's vast knowledge would also incorporate a few more social skills, on the other hand he's probably never seen real bullying. "It is. This is bullying. And you step in, not because they can't handle themselves, but to show comradery and that they are not alone."

"Hm..." Jon was right, he himself thought what happened was truly unacceptable, as Damian took another bite of the breakfast Alfred made him. "You're right... I suppose I should apologise for my incorrect behaviour yesterday." It had been rather quiet the rest of yesterday and for the most part of today, except that Portman's friend group talked about her in hushed tones. One glance over, Nightingale sat alone at a corner table headphones in and scrolling through her phone while sipping on a juice box. Damian sighed defeated and made a motion to stand up, "Are you coming with me or would you prefer to stay seated?"

"Hm? Mmh... I'll join." Jon thought it over, maybe he can help Dami when he's got trouble putting his emotions into words.

Nightingales eyes shot up at the two boys immediately, as they stood in front of the table and Jon could feel a slight shudder down his spine... Damian didn't exaggerate, there's something almost sparking, not sparkling but like lightning sparking, in her truly electric blue eyes.

"Hello, Nightingale. I am Damian Wayne, this is my best friend Jon Kent, we share-"

"I know, same class. What do you want?" She cut him off, seemingly a little tense, training her eyes to keep either of them in view at all times. Both boys knew that look, yet they were a little taken aback by the harshness of her tone.

"...right." Damian cleared his throat, that bone chilling and irrational feeling comes back. "I wanted to apologise for my lack of comradery yester- and today as well. I should have at least said something, even if solely to stand up in solidarity." Slurping on the straw of her juice box, she listened, processed, only to look confused at them. Jon decided to say something,

"What he meant to say was, that it was not okay for you to be bullied and we will help if we see something happening. We also know it's hard to find new friends in new surroundings and if you'd like you could sit with us?" Damian nodded, Jon can put his thoughts better into words- at least for their civilian forms. Well... Damian has gotten better, he just likes that Jon knows what he means but as if he'd ever admitted to it. Vise versa too; Damian can formulate words better when there're reports and other hero related issues. Sure Jon learned over the years, but this just feels more comfortable and he likes how close it shows them to be.

Nightingale looks them up and down, her eyes narrow slightly, thinking, contemplating about something. "Thanks, but I'm fine. I can handle myself."

"Are you sure? We really don't mind-" Damian put a hand on Jon's shoulder, pulling the attention of the bigger one towards himself.

"The offer still stands. See you around, then." He nods and pulls Jon away, who looks confused.

"Why did you keep it so short? Sure, she was a little defensive, but..."

"Not just defensive, Jon. She kept her guard up constantly and walls sealed shut; this conversation would have led nowhere." Damian explained his observations, "trust me, I should know..." Recognition of this behaviour flares in his eyes and Jon understands immediately, nodding in understanding. Then a small smile forms on his face again, growing,

"Then we have to make actions, speak louder than words. And consistency is key! I mean, for how long did I annoy you, before you realised I wouldn't go?" Damian gave him an honest smile at the now fond memories, he hummed in agreement, which in turn earned a bright grin from the Kryptonian.

"It is settled, then. I also highly suspect she is a meta. If we get close enough, we can properly guide her to the good, when the time is right."

Operation: The New Girl

"Yes, let's go!" Jon laughed, that settled it most definitely for their plan,

Goal: befriend the new meta, before the wrong people get to her and use her powers for bad.

[kheprriverse]

I mentioned Volga’s family at the end of this post and wanted to get into it a little more, it just took a LONG time to finish the refs I needed for it. But now I think I got what I wanted done. There are a few I maybe wanna work on in the future but for now… Volga family/lore dump!!!

I like lore-dumping through him since he's Ares's way of learning about dragons. It's not often you'll get a fire dragon willing to share his experience with you and I like making Ares the know-it-all mouthpiece.

I mentioned he was born from a clutch of 6 eggs. The eldest is his sister, Scorn, who is also the largest and most fierce.

I want her to make an appearance eventually, relating to this post funnily enough (I’m actually reworking when this meeting even takes place so while that post will still be sorta relevant to their relationship it’ll have nothing to do with Scorn). He knows the most about her which... is not much tbh. Usually after dragons migrate away from families they'll likely never see each other again.

The second oldest are his sisters Blitz and Blaze, twins born from the same egg. He doesn't know much about them aside from what Scorn would tell him in the future. That they continue to be inseparable, insufferable, and downright wacky. They rule their territory together and don't have (or don't want) mates, unlike Scorn who had her own family at one point.

He knows his three other siblings; Flare, Sear, and Burn, all of which are female. He knows of them, but doesn't know what they've been up to since they all migrated. He's the youngest, the runt, and funnily enough (one of) the most odd. He's had to exaggerate just about everything about him in order to keep his siblings from treating him like he's weak, which happened to play into his current arrogant and prideful self now. Though, sometimes he lets that facade fall when alone with Ares.

They're in no way the only hatchlings their parents had, but Volga wouldn't know any of them outside of his clutch.

Then there's his parents: his mother Smolder, and his father Gargoyle.

He's not exaggerating when he says they're the largest dragons someone could meet. They've lived and ruled their territory for many years unchallenged. Though he does make an off comment about Smolder being bigger than Hyrule Castle sometime in a future conversation, but he never makes it clear to Ares if he's truly joking or not.

Fire dragons don't leave their eggs, nor do they leave their hatchlings out to survive on their own unless there's some crazy exception that would make them think abandoning is the best choice. Could be from the current situation being unsafe, like having just been driven out of territory (in Scorn's case) for example. Or it could be the hatchling has some mutation or is too weak. Though not every fire dragon will abandon their hatchlings unless they think there's no other choice.

They're raised for about a year, taught what's important (how to hunt, how to breath fire properly, how to defend oneself and fight, what is honor and how to have an honorable fight, territory and what it means, how to hoard, social cues, etc). After that initial year the hatchlings, now fledgling dragons, will migrate to claim their own territory or challenge another dragon for theirs.

Volga was actually going to have a snide comment at the end here like "not anymore at least". This is just snippets from a storyboard so it may or may not appear in the future.

Some instances, dragons may stay with their parents and help defend the nest and hunt for future siblings. I'm sure if Volga ever went back to his birthplace he'd maybe see a few siblings still, but it doesn't always happen. Sometimes they'll stay on the off chance that they can challenge their parents for their territory when they're older, but Smolder and Gargoyle aren't really dragons you wanna challenge.

Volga chose a rather dangerous route when migrating and that was over the Great Sea. Likely to prove a point to his family. The ocean is much too large for a 1-year-old dragon, especially his size at the time, to fly over. But he managed to do it anyways, whereas the rest of his siblings likely stayed within reach of their parents, or each other, or even just within the same continent.

His decision to migrate across the ocean likely caused his family to believe he probably died before he got to the other side because of how difficult it is to get across. Which is something I plan for Scorn to point out when they finally reunite. if I ever get to drawing it.

He arrives in Hyrule when its already established, but manages to keep himself hidden long enough to find Eldin Volcano -- the perfect home for a fire dragon. But before he can become comfortable he meets another fire dragon! An old one even, burrowed deep within the volcano with its hoard of monster bones and jewels, and a large community of lizardfolk working for it while it sleeps.

The dragon is much too old to fight, and Volga at the time is much to small to challenge anyone. So he ends up blending into the lizardfolk and bringing the elder food, though its likely the dragon knew he was there. It would be a couple years of Volga running random errands the lizardfolk give him before the older dragon finally leaves its burrow and makes himself known; Obsidian, as the lizardfolk would call him.

Volga was pretty lucky the dragon was so old. He had built up the territory for multiple centuries, had a deal with the gorons and lizardfolk, but was having difficulty keeping peace with the rito and newly settled hylians. Because of his age, Obsidian didn't see a need to feel threatened nor threaten the 3-year-old fledgling, instead he found potential in Volga and decided he'd be a good successor. So he took the smaller dragon under his wing (haha) and its been history since.

Volga learned much of his prowess from Obsidian and many of his current techniques as well. Many fire dragons have potential to shift into an alternate form and this is who Volga learned and perfected his from. It wasn't until this ability was practiced to perfection before Obsidian decided Volga was ready to challenge him and take his place.

Often times when fire dragons are trying to find territory and encounter another dragon, they much "challenge" the current dragon. Challenges are done honorably, either ending in death or when one of the opponents forfeits. When a dragon challenges another, they unfold their wings and hang their head high to make themselves look larger before letting out a "challenge roar". The fight starts when the second dragon initiates.

Volga has kept his word to Obsidian to keep the peace between the gorons and lizardfolk, as well as repair the relationship with the hylians and rito, and keep the territory running for the rest of his life. And a dragon's word is unbreakable.

[styllwaters]

KNIGHT DEITIES

It's been a hot minute since I posted Vivere 44 art. Been intensely busy with school for the past few months but now that I've graduated I've got a lot of time to kill! Since the Knights post surpassed 1k notes I figured I may as well elaborate on them more. I'm so blown away by how much love they're getting already! Thank you all <3

I'm gonna talk a bit about Mountain and Plains Knight religions, mythology and a snippet of evolutionary history. I will cover Polar Knight religions in another post. The focus is on two gods in particular, Uwet-Jana and Kiraiarik.

_______

Uwet-Jana is the demigod of good health, vitality, and inner balance. In some regions they are also the god of fertility. The name of their Host is Uwetsil, and their Helmet is Serrjana. Mainly worshiped by Mountain cultures, Uwet-Jana takes the form of a Knight whose Host and Helmet are physically merged into a singular being.

Kiraiarik [pronounced ki-rai-ah-rik] is the personification of the host-helmet symbiotic relationship. They are the god of symbiosis, rebirth, and love. Kiraiarik was the name given to two immortal partners, a Host and a Helmet, who began as a singular being born to the sea in Ettera’s prehistoric era. Ettera decided to make them Two, one half (the Helmet) ruling over the sea and the other (the Host) having domain over the land. The story goes that in every form they take, they try to find each other - for their body remembers being One.

Both gods have lots of lore to their name. Further information below!

UWET-JANA

Uwet-Jana's Host body has long spines and red stripes like a Pike, and long fingerlike paws like a Helmet's manipulators. The Helmet section sports two long horns and elegant facial markings. Uwet-Jana has an iridescent sheen on their golden fur, catching the rays of the sun in a shimmering glow.

The story of Uwet-Jana is as follows: Both Uwetsil and Serrjana were born as runts, in a dark time when sickly Knights were seen as curses and not worth caring for. Their Order, believing them to be bad omens, cast them out to wander the tundra alone. They believed that the natural forces of Ettera (the Knight’s homeplanet) would quickly end them. However, Ettera took pity on the castaway, sending them three blessings. The first gift was a bone with marrow inside that ensured one is never hungry or thirsty again. Then, Ettera sent a warm, sweet wind into Uwet-Jana’s lungs which warded off all sickness and disease. Finally, a sun shower fell, the rains cleansing them and blessing them with a coat made of ivory and gold.

Transformed into a demigod with a hybrid body, Uwet-Jana was offered a place among the deities in the sky - but they refused, preferring to stay on the ground to share their gift with the mortals. Unbeknownst to them, their Order who had exiled them was struck by three curses from the Gods to mirror Uwet-Jana’s blessings: all the rivers in the area dried up and all their hunts were unsuccessful, leaving them with no food or water. Infections and diseases picked them off one by one, and a great storm ravaged the land, destroying their home and all remaining survivors. Uwet-Jana now blesses Knight Orders who take care of their sick and ailing members, and ignores those who don’t, leaving them to the wrath of the Gods.

Although they are nomadic and always on the move, many Mountain Orders will refuse to leave any sick members behind. They may also keep ivory statues of Uwet-Jana in their bags as a token of good fortune. Sometimes these statues are filled with bone marrow, or have holes which make a whistling sound as wind passes through it as a reference to Ettera’s gifts. Occasionally Pike Helmets are born with an extra long ‘horn’ spike, and are considered a child/reincarnation of Uwet-Jana. Additionally, whenever it rains while the sun is still shining, it is seen as a blessing from the demigod.

_______

KIRAIARIK

Kiraiarik's Host is depicted as a small creature with a striped pelt to mirror its ancestral form, and the Helmet as an aquatic beast with long, trailing red fins. It is frequently shown twisting around the Host, sharing its blood. Kiraiarik is also often simplified as two disembodied eyes looking at each other. (And yes, the artstyle is a nod to medieval depictions of heraldic beasts!)

To understand Kiraiarik, one must be aware of how much Plains religions are intrinsically tied to concepts of evolution and paleontology.

Digression on the origins of Etteran symbiosis: 

Large stretches of Plains Knight deserts and scrublands were once submerged beneath the sea. As a result, there are countless fossil hotspots which have been unearthed over the centuries. These high concentrations of fossilised remains have lead to Plains cultures basing their religions around said discoveries. Although many features have been warped, the general timelines are strikingly similar.

For instance, a mass extinction event occurred on Ettera millions of years ago, caused by a series of catastrophic volcanic eruptions on a worldwide scale. This event is known in Plains culture as The Remaking, traditionally interpreted as the planet shedding its skin. Many species were decimated, but some groups survived; these happened to be phyla who possessed an exposed ‘Interfacer’ organ, a precursor to the specialised Integrator organ which connects the Host’s brain to the Helmet’s. Before The Remaking, there was no prior record of the deep symbiotic connection which Knights possess (scientifically deemed ‘Hyperadvanced Mutualism’). The Interfacer organ was used in the phyla for species to communicate simple stretches of data to each other, such as health and reproductive status. After the extinction, populations of these species were dwindling. To ensure their survival, an odd phenomenon occurred in which many individuals began to interface with different species who possessed the same organ - strangely enough, some were able to successfully exchange information. These individuals survived and passed on the practice to their offspring, eventually culminating in what would be discovered as a very primitive form of mutualism. Host and Helmet ancestors (pictured above) were some of the first species to achieve this.

As the planet recovered and populations increased, the relationship continued to solidify and become more complex, with symbiotic species sharing memories, emotions and complex thought. In modern times there is now an entire class of organisms on Ettera which possess an Integrator organ for Advanced Mutualism, including Knights.

Kiraiarik is said to be a manifestation of this relationship. After The Remaking, their two halves finally managed to find each other again, eternally locked in a joyous dance of love. (Side note: the love in question is not platonic nor romantic, but a deeper kind which is indescribable and not easily understood. Due to their intricate nervous systems, Knights have a higher degree of emotional intelligence and can experience sensations we would consider alien). When a Plains Knight is experiencing inner turmoil, they will often pray to Kiraiarik to restore a healthy connection. The god’s blessing is also called upon when an infant Host and Helmet first Assimilate.

Note: Many Plains ‘saints’ and deities have palindromic names which can be read both forwards and backwards, an indicator of holiness. Fun fact, the word Kiraiariku means “Your heart and mine are very old friends.”

Thank you for reading! More Knight content coming soon ;)

[hellfire-state-of-mind]

i'll do anything you say (if you say it with your hands)

pairing: Pero Tovar x fem!reader

rating: E for Explicit

word count: 2.2k

warnings: 18+ content, fingering/hand job, unprotected piv, creampie, praise kink, brief talk of injury/treatment (reader gives him stitches), reader has no physical description besides breasts and feminine clothing, Tovar is able to lift reader

a/n: my submission for @iamasaddie's kinky may challenge! i was given the honor of writing Tovar with a praise kink 😤 i haven't written smut in a long time so please be gentle 🥲 extra special shoutouts to @frannyzooey and @joelscruff for hyping me up with the snippets i shared with them. feedback is always welcome, i was equal parts excited and scared to write this so i'd love to hear what y'all think 🙂

Tovar squirms again, making your hand slip and press harder on the wet rag you’re using to clean the sizeable gash along his right collarbone. He hisses slightly through his teeth before glancing down at you. You glare at him and huff once more.

“I told you to stop moving.”

Before he can respond, you hike up your skirt with your free hand and straddle his thighs. Tovar freezes completely upon your sudden movement, gripping the bench now supporting the both of you, his brows raised as you lock eyes.

“Now, hold still.”

You twist to the table next to you and pick up a sewing needle and thread, taking a moment to hold the needle in the flame of a lit candle to sterilize it before threading the eye. You don’t ask if he’s ready before beginning to stitch the wound.

Your stitches are slow but precise in the low candlelight. When you finish, you lean forward slightly to cut the thread with your teeth and secure the ends. It’s only when you pull away to set aside your tools that you notice Tovar’s breathing, or rather the lack of. He’s completely still as a statue, focused on a vague point off in the distance behind you.

“Did it really hurt that much?” You maneuver to try and catch his eyes but he veers away. You teasingly brush your fingertips down his muscular bicep. “I thought a big, tough mercenary like you could handle more than a few stitches without a fuss.”

Tovar clears his throat and his voice comes out lightly strained and breathy. “It is…not my wound that is the trouble.”

He shifts uncomfortably beneath you and you feel it. His full erection is pressed against your bare inner thigh. You can feel his weight and warmth just as he can feel yours. You bite back a smirk when he passes you a guilty glance.

“Forgive me, my dear. It has been a long time since I’ve felt a woman’s touch.”

You pause to consider your next move. You can’t deny your own attraction to the man, and you’ve been experiencing an extended dry spell of your own. It’s a miracle your own arousal hasn’t found its way to the front of his trousers where you’re still perched. Who knows how long he’ll stay here at the Wall? Who knows if he’ll even live to see another moonrise? What’s the harm in a little release?

You smirk and look up at him through your eyelashes. “Allow me to relieve your pain, then.”

You slide back on his thighs far enough to reach between the two of you and unfasten his pants. He grips your wrists with one thick, massive hand to stop you from going further.

“I cannot ask you to do that.” His voice and eyes are stern, intent on not crossing any unwanted boundaries.

You look back at him with sincerity. “You’re not asking me. I want to.”

“Querida-”

“No one ordered me to tend to your wound. I came because I wanted to. I wanted to help you,” you gently pry your hands from his grasp, “and I’m not leaving until I’ve finished helping you.”

Tovar’s expression is difficult to read. You can see the turmoil behind his eyes, so you try to make the decision easier for him. Shifting closer once more, you take his hand and guide it between your own legs. The corner of your mouth twitches up as his pupils dilate upon coming in contact with your soft, damp hairs. You press him further into your wetness, cupped fully in the palm of his hand now, and he breathes in sharply.

“If you truly want me to go-”

“No.” Tovar cuts you off quietly. You smile in satisfaction when you remove your hand but his does not budge. “But I will not indulge in what is not offered.”

Striking your final blow, you undo the strings closing the top of your tunic, shrugging the shoulders off and letting it fall around your waist. Your breasts are exposed, nipples peaking in the cool night air from the window beside you. Tovar’s eyes are ablaze now as he takes you in, using every last bit of his willpower to resist until you give the word.

“Is this offering enough?”

The breath is stolen straight from your lungs as Tovar plunges one thick finger inside you up to the knuckle, his other hand smoothing up your bare thigh to your ass cheek and grasping it. He tugs you close so your tits are pressed to his solid chest as he slowly pumps in and out of you.

Your hands fly to his shoulders to steady yourself, but you move them away just as quickly when you put pressure on his fresh stitches. Tovar only grunts softly, otherwise not acknowledging the slip. You instead find a handhold along his ribs, gripping him tightly as warmth begins to spread up into your belly. He nuzzles his nose into your cheek, breathing deep and focused as he eases a second finger inside and increases his speed. You gasp at the foreign stretch and claw at his sides.

Tovar’s hips buck into you at the pinch, and you’re reminded of your initial mission. One hand slips past his waistband and settles on his hip. You bow your head and spit into the other before reaching down his front to grasp his length. The two of you groan simultaneously at the new sensation. You start pumping him, matching the pace of his fingers.

Your motions soon falter, though, as Tovar curls his fingers to press into your sweet spot. Your head falls to the side and rests on his, unable to stay up on its own as the wave of euphoria builds and threatens to crest. You fight to maintain your own strokes as Tovar chuckles from deep in his chest into your ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, querida. So soft and warm, so tight.” He cuts himself off with a stronger groan as your hand on his hip circles back to the top of his ass, while the one wrapped around his cock slides down to cup his balls as well. “I know you’re close. Don’t fight it, bonita. Give it to me.”

 The wave comes crashing over you with his encouragement. You mouth drops open as you make no attempt to smother your cries. Tovar flexes as your hips rut against him.

“Very good. Let it out, let me hear you.”

Tovar continues his movements until you’ve completely come down from your high, though it begins to build again almost as soon as it dissipates. Finally, he removes his fingers, making a soft pop as your walls try to suck him back inside. He raises them to his lips and generously sucks off all your release from them, never once breaking eye contact. You feel a fresh gush of arousal drip down your thigh at the sight. You quickly fumble to pull down his trousers and free his raging cock. Tovar tilts his hips, tugging them down to his mid-thighs, but grasps you by the waist before you can impale yourself on him.

“I need you to say it first, mi amor. I simply cannot take what is not freely given.”

“Then take me,” you huff impatiently.

Tovar loosens his grip enough for you to rise onto your knees, notching the weeping head of his cock at your entrance. You lock eyes with him and take a deep, steadying breath before sinking down. You cry out in both pain and pleasure, the stretch more intense than his fingers especially after so long without. Tovar moans along with you, letting out a pained shout of his own as you take him all the way inside, settling onto his lap once more.

You nuzzle into his neck, inhaling his scent of sweat and a hint of gunpowder, your breath hot against his skin. You try rocking your hips to relieve some of the tension, but Tovar abruptly stands, slipping out but clutching you to him tightly. You whine at the loss, then gasp when you feel the coolness of the thin sheets adorning the simple bed in the opposite corner of the room.

Tovar settles above you, supporting most of his weight on his knees and forearms. His pelvis rests lightly between your spread legs, his hardness bobbing against your mound with every breath. The dark trail of hair leading up his abdomen tickles your stomach, and you take the opportunity to truly admire the specimen hovering above you. The rippling muscles in his back, littered with long-healed battle scars breaking up the smooth skin. His dark hair, cut short but curling slightly at the nape of his neck. You rake your fingers through it, pulling him close. Tovar rests his forehead against yours, lips parted, exchanging breath. His gaze is piercing but you feel yourself being pulled in rather than pushed away.

Tovar must feel the same as he leans down just enough that your lips brush, but not seal together. You whimper his name on the verge of desperation and he closes the gap. He immediately takes charge, his tongue invading your mouth, feeling and tasting every crevice. You buck into him once again and he rips away from you, pinning your hips to the bed with one hand splayed across your lower belly.

You want to scream in frustration. “Tovar, please!”

“Shh, I know, mi amor. I know what you need. And you’ve been so good for me, I promise I will give it to you.” He moves his hand away and guides his tip back inside, pressing in slowly until his hips are flush with yours. The two of you groan in sync again and you wrap your legs around him, locking him in. “But we must go slow. I would hate to finish too quickly and bring an end to such pleasure that has only just begun.”

With this, he captures your lips with his own once more. You two stay locked like this for a while, savoring each other’s taste and touch. Tovar’s hands explore your body as you did his, tracing bones and squeezing flesh. Only when you feel totally consumed by him does he retreat from you, leaving only his tip inside. Tilting your chin up to look at him, he sinks back in to the root. And again. And again. Your second high hits you without warning as he sets the perfect rhythm.

Tovar bites back a guttural moan as he feels you tighten around him. “Dios mio, mi amor. You’re taking me so well. I would stay just like this forever if I could, buried in this cunt.”

You feel as if you’re floating, evaporating into the air from his heat and force of his thrusts. Your pleasure reaches new heights as he cups the back of your knee and pushes it up to your chest, welcoming him impossibly deeper. Tovar’s intense gaze remains on your face as he fucks you, committing every sound and expression of bliss to his memory.

You feel the wave cresting again just as his hips begin to stutter but never lose their force. You try to call out his name, a warning of your impending release, but you only manage pleading cries of “please.”

He understands immediately, snaking his other arm underneath you and up to your shoulder, pulling you against him as he slams into you. His voice is just as desperate, strained from holding off his own release to wait for yours.

“That’s it, mi amor. Cum for me. Cum on my cock. I want it. I need it. I crave it.” His snarling in your ear tips the scales in your favors, sending you over the edge. Your legs tighten around him as your back arches off the mattress. Tovar takes one breast into his mouth, biting and sucking his mark onto you. He unlatches in time to smack his hips to yours once, twice, three more times. A roar erupts from him as his cock pulses, forcing out rope after rope of his cum to coat your walls, content to plant there and never escape.

He fills you to the brim, milky white droplets beginning to seep out from where your hole has sealed around him. When he’s finally spent, he lowers himself flush to you, arms curling around your back. The salty, heady scent of your activity surrounds the two of you as you each fight to regain your senses.

You card your fingers through his hair once more as Tovar turns his head to press his lips to your neck. Soft at first, then open and hungry, nipping at the skin to coax out another mark matching the one on your breast, tongue soothing the spot after each bite.

You hear his breath begin to deepen and slow, feel his heartbeat matching it. You know you shouldn’t allow yourself to fall asleep beneath him. But how could you rip yourself from his arms now?

As if sensing your thoughts, Tovar rests his head atop yours, gazing into your eyes once more, lids half-closed.

“Ay, mi amor. I have half a mind to steal you away with us. What kind of man would I be to leave behind such perfection?” He seals your lips together and, at the same time, your mind.

What’s the harm in being his forever?

[k-s-morgan]

Those Gentle Slopes That Lead to Hell: Snippet 2

Here we go! For those who haven't seen it, here's snippet 1.

--------

Ciel was struggling to put a name to the emotions circulating through him now that he could see Bard stuck in a bed. Despite the heavy covers, he was still shivering badly. His skin was bluish, resembling something that belonged on a corpse, not a living human, and deep, vicious gnashes were embedded deeply in his neck.

Even if Bard recovered, these ones would scar. They would always serve as a reminder of what was done to him.

“I never ordered you to do this,” Ciel said evenly. Sebastian shifted, his lips twitching in an almost petulant expression.

“I believed it was implied.”

Such a light-hearted, simplistic response stood in wild contrast to what was appropriate at the moment. Uncertainty continued to gnaw on his bones, and Ciel tried to mask it, sending Sebastian a long, cold stare.

“What makes you think you can rely on your faulty interpretations of my orders to act?” he asked. “Who gave you the right to maim one of my most loyal servants without getting my explicit approval first?”

Sebastian seemed to have finally understood that he, himself, was standing on increasingly thin ice right now. That despite his incessant attempts to close the obvious gap between them through some shared activities, he failed — again. Amusement died, with agitation coming to replace it.   

“I thought you standing there and watching qualified as your explicit approval,” he replied, just as coldly. Ciel couldn’t help but flinch, stung.

Sebastian… wasn’t wrong. Ciel was there; he stood by without a word. He watched. He liked it — some parts of it, the power that came with it. But…

Bard flailed his arms suddenly, gasping and trying to suck in some air. It was like he was underwater again, desperate for a single breath, only this time, his eyes remained closed. His panic, though, his mindless, animalistic terror — it was the same, and nausea twisted Ciel’s insides into a tight, rotten knot of regret.

“It’s Bard,” he murmured hoarsely, wrapping his arms around himself. Strange. He wasn’t even cold, Sebastian made sure of it. “He’s one of us. One of ours. It’s not right to— we shouldn’t have done it. It’s too much.”

Sebastian let out a laugh. Somehow, even after everything that happened today, it still struck Ciel as far too callous — he glared, and the laughter was instantly cut off.

Sebastian’s face went blank: his eyes were the only part of him that remained alive, and they flared with rage so profound that Ciel’s breath caught in his throat.

“He harmed you with my hands,” Sebastian hissed. “He gave me something that could have killed you and watched me hit you to force you to drink it. The fact that he is ours is the only reason why he is still alive at all.”

Delight skittered across his chest, leaving a trail of perverted heat that made him shiver. Ciel licked his lips, unsure what to say, unsure what to feel.

It’d been a while since he’d last felt so out of place. The whole night was one of the strangest and most uncomfortable experiences he’d ever had — and few things could unsettle him these days.

“Bard didn’t know,” Ciel found himself saying. “He didn’t think an allergy could have such serious effects. If I had died, it would have been an accident.”

The moment the words were out, a wave of self-disgust crashed into him, trying to drown him in shame and censure.

These words weren’t in Bard’s defence. Not at all. They were an attempt to poke at Sebastian yet again, to see how he would react, to give more fuel to his anger — as if everything that happened wasn’t enough. Was there no limit to his greed?

Well… in all the things that still had the power to shame him, morality wasn’t included.    

Sebastian growled, and Ciel’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he drank the sound in.

“If you had died from an accident he caused,” Sebastian said poisonously, “it would have taken Bard decades of torture to finally be released from this life. If you had died from an accident he made me cause…” Sebastian shuddered, his eyes flashing pure, violent red, and more caustic pleasure spilled through Ciel’s veins.

Yes. That was the reaction he’d been looking for. 

[hoovesandfloorpaws]

Louis' rocky path to his first album

..and how it might have been the reason/one of the reasons why Louis shared Always You with us the way that he did.

I don't want to saddle this amazing post about the Always You snippet and little scavenger hunt Louis took us on on Aug 24, 2017 with a too-long derail, so i'm gonna make this separate post. But please definitely read that post, too, it's so good! It'll make you shake your fist and go "LOUIS!!" (affectionately) 💙💚

-

This is for possible context re: him saying he was "pissed off about industry shit" and it resulting in him sharing the snippet in August 2017 and what long breath Louis had to have in order to finally get to release his debut solo album. Disclaimer: obviously there was much more going on in Louis' life during those 3 years - lots of yucky stunting that left Louis looking dead behind the eyes (esp. because on top of it he was also still grieving heavily), Harry releasing his first album, starring in his first Hollywood film, and going on worldwide tours. Louis obviously not being able to accompany him publicly to premieres or to all the shows - in combination it likely resulting in a lot more physical separation than they were ever used to, possible rough patches between them as a couple, Louis' sister unexpectedly passing away and the subsequent massive grief after already having lost his beloved Mum just 2.5 years prior, weekly appearances on TV with the giant asshole who iron-closeted him and his spider mouse ever since they were teenagers, a few public slip ups/outings from within their work circles, Harry turning into a horse on live radio despite being able to yell NO when he wanted to, Louis beaming with pride every single time he was asked about his Harry - and much more. His/their life is complex and busy and I'm only shining light on a couple of things here.

We know Louis had wanted to finally record his album in 2017 and release it in 2018. He said it again and again in his tweets and I personally don't think he was lying or stalling. (additionally, a plan for a 2018 album release + tour for 'a managed artist' was mentioned in a strategic report of the 1D company One Mode Productions Ltd., but by that point it was directed purely by 3 big players from Modest! Mgmt and that plan could've been BS from the start and could have still been an old remnant of the original plans Modest had for 1D after their hiatus; it never happened and the company was acquired by Universal Music in July 2020. Exact detail about that will be/are in my H&L companies masterpost)

In June 2017 Louis had been finally supposed to be signed with a new label under Sony, RSA...

(tweet)

...but then an exec from Epic Records campaigned to get Louis to them instead, because she had loved Just Hold On, so he signed with Epic in July 2017.

(tweet)

It needs to be said that the reason for Epic wanting to sign Louis based on that collab with Steve Aoki potentially meant they were hoping he was going to make more of that kind of music. -- which he never did, so he possibly also never wanted to in the first place (quite the recipe for disaster). And Louis was lagging behind to the public eye; he was the only member of 1D who hadn't released more than 1 single since the start of the hiatus. Zayn and Harry had already released an album by that point, Liam had had 2 pretty successful singles, and Niall had his first album set to be released in October that year. Louis being at a disadvantage wasn't his fault or within his control at all, though, with having lost his Mum 8 months prior. Syco and Sony faffing about with the record deals for him is certainly not something a grieving (and closeted & stunt-riddled) first-time solo musician needs when they just want to focus on finally releasing their first album and wanting to focus on that. During that time, it's especially essential to have a record label on board which understands and shares the same vision of the album, so concepts can be discussed, demos sent and given feedback on, timelines for PR and marketing coordinated, release dates planned, etc.

Within the same month, on July 21, 2017, Louis did release Back To You on via his own label, 78 Productions. (78 Productions Ltd. is also one of his companies) and Epic Records. Syco helped with promo in the UK. Back To You wasn't a first single of the album, though! Like with Just Hold On, Back To You's genre was vastly different from the albums Louis would later come to release, so it leads me to believe it was a fun filler project for him to work on with Bebe Rexha and Digital Farm Animals and vice versa, and to finally put out some music that year and also do a few live performances.

A month later, he tweeted this:

(tweet)

4 days later, Louis gets pissed off "about some music industry shit" and a day later, he tweets:

(tweet) - and this is when he drops the snippet of Always You right at the part with the "I went to Amsterdam without you, all I could do was think about you". part and he keeps dropping hint after hint and we figure it out 💙💚 - and ends up putting that song on his debut album.

(1 month later, Harry leaves to start his first ever solo world tour in San Francisco, USA on Sep 25, 2017)

Months pass and still no album single incoming.

On Oct 11, 2017, Louis announces his next single will be postponed, but also drops Just Like You out of the blue:

(tweet) / (tweet) - although Louis says the song is "from the album", Just Like You never ends up on his first 2 albums.

Months pass again.. the single he said would come "later this year" turns out to be Miss You, released on Dec 1, 2017. The song doesn't end up on the regular album, only appears as a bonus track on the Japanese Edition.

(On Dec 8, 2017, Harry finishes his world tour in Tokyo, Japan)

The year turns into 2018... and Louis seems to become increasingly more frustrated:

(tweet)

3 more months pass..

(Harry leaves to start his 2nd solo world tour in Basel, Switzerland on March 11, 2018)

Another month passes..

(tweet)

3 months later, and as a first step into a hopefully better direction, on July 19, 2018, it is announced that Louis has switched management and is now with Matt Vines from 7 Seven Management.

In July 2018 it's announced that Louis will appear on X-Factor as a judge that year.

(Coincidentally, Harry finishes his world tour on July 22, 2018 in New York City, USA)

Louis' X-Factor filming takes place (with breaks in between) from July 28 until Dec 2, 2018. (together with Simon Cowbell, so that must have been quite unpleasant at times, but Louis' contestant won! HA!)

Most importantly: no music at all gets released for Louis in all 2018!

(Harry leaves to start a very short tour in Singapore on Nov 23, 2018 and already finishes on Dec 7, 2018 in Tokyo, Japan)

The year turns into 2019...

And then fucking finally, in Feb 2019, it is announced that Louis has signed with Arista, who also belong to Sony. Louis can finally really start working on the album now!

On March 7, 2019, he releases Two Of Us - the first proper single of the upcoming album and a beautiful song he wrote for his Mum. But the joy doesn't last long -- sadly only 1 week later, on March 13, 2019, Louis' sister Félicité unexpectedly passes away and this completely throws life off its hinges again :( 🖤

(Harry plays only 2 shows on March 28 + 29, 2019 in New York City, USA, because he inducts beloved Stevie Nicks into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame - but he doesn't tour again until October; is also in the process of finishing the recording of his 2nd album, Fine Line)

4 months later, Louis tweets this:

(tweet)

Things finally go according to (an obviously existing) plan now and it's clear that there's a proper release schedule at work. The single and music video releases are firing on all cylinders. Starting from September, there's basically a new Louis release every month. There's concepts for all music videos, as they all tell a multiple-part continuous story. Kill My Mind is released on Sep 5, 2019 We Made It follows up on Oct 24, 2019 Don't Let It Break Your Heart on Nov 23, 2019 then there's the usual Christmas break (X-mas is mostly for album releases, case in point: Harry's Fine Line's released on Dec 13, 2019) Walls, the album title single, is released on Jan 17, 2020 -- 2 weeks before the album release.

When asked what's his favorite song on the album, he replies with this:

(tweet) And on Jan 31, 2020 Louis' finally gets to release his debut solo album Walls! 🙌🏼

3 years in the active making and a frustrating 2 years later than he'd hoped for.

Because within just 3 years, Simon tried/succeeded to sign Louis to three different Sony-owned record labels! Possibly also because Louis made it clear he was not going to release his album with Syco alone, but that's just speculation on me part. (I also need to mention that Simon had already sold 50% of his shares in Syco Music to Sony in July 2015, leaving him with only 20% and he never re-acquired them, meaning since 2015 Simon was already 75% out of the door back then. Guess what he already knew would happen since the beginning of 2015, hmmmm?)

Personal thoughts: To me, that’s all absolutely wild behaviour to treat an artist like that. Someone who's made you such a fuckton of money already, too. (because let's be honest, the money's all people like Simon Cowbell and his Modest! minions care about) Simon's never had an ounce of integrity or loyalty in his body. To treat an artist, who to the public he claimed he was 'so close' to like this and to then see him struggle and still try to manipulate or bribe him into your own plans (the girlband, the management company, the DOA Triple Strings label) instead of finally letting him pursue what he so clearly wanted.. it's classic and disgusting. From my own professional experience of 15 years as an artist & tour manager, it is not surprising to me that Louis wasn’t able to establish any consistency within his career for the first 4 years. (And we probably only know half of the contractual shit Louis has had to deal with.) You'd usually need at least good management that you trust, that's ready to take the brunt of forces, but also makes sure you don't make certain mistakes (again), and that's ready to work with & for you in this. Record labels come second, especially since it's become easier nowadays to release shit indie and it's not like Louis' (and Harry's) household didn't have some funds-- but yeah, proper management is key! They're the junction where everything leads together. I have no idea what the James Grant Group thought they were doing with Louis, but it was complete weak sauce.

And although I'm also not a fan of Matt Vines and 7 Seven Management, they're definitely some kind of improvement. I understand Louis in preferring to work with people he's become close with and who he's already trusting, rather than taking the risk and choosing someone new - especially given Louis' very awful prior experiences with management. I hope Matt Vines steps up his game in the future, but from what I have learned in the past months, sadly I don't think 7 Seven Management have a good grasp on Louis' target group and fanbase and I'm not sure how much use they're making of proper market research. For an artist of Louis' caliber, they're doing too little.

Anyway, back to Syco, I think nobody is surprised that Louis had enough of it 1.5 years after Walls was released and finally ended things with Syco on July 11, 2020.

Now I want to end on saying that i'm only speculating something about his own record label / album delaying situation could've been the reason for him being pissed off. It also could've been something to do with the music industry in itself, something to do with Harry and him, something closeting- or stunt-related. I mean he did release a snippet of a song that's obviously about Harry and him. But he also released a snippet of a song that was supposed to be on his album. So yeah, the reason could've been a mix of both.

But even though we can't say that for sure, it was valid as hell that he was pissed. And he got to share the Always You snippet with us for it, such an incredibly special song; so clearly about Harry & him and he didn't give a fuck that night. And I think that's beautiful.

[slaaverin]

Reading this brilliant post made me go through various emotions.

I'm not sure that I can articulate this well,

Jikook have been through so much together. SO MUCH. A decade of nerve-wracking experience, ups and downs, beauty and joy but also struggle. They've seen the best and worst of each other. They know each other on a level we can barely fathom.

And it got double downed by this military experience.

Some might say it's nothing compared to what their relationship endured before.

But I beg to differ.

Reading these stories and snippets of experience, it really puts things even more in perspective.

I'm sure jikook did their research about the buddy system and were aware of such things beforehand.

And yet, they said they weren't worried. They say they didn't think they would fight. Even if they were put in the worst unit. Even with all the hardships that were awaiting them.

They trust their relationship so much, they were confident their bond would come through the other side of this. They knew they wouldn't grow apart, first because of the band, they technically can't. But in their mind it wasn't even a possibility. There was no risk.

That's how certain they are of their bond.

But as stated by some of these soldiers, this enlistment, it is no small feat.

They still have to go through the hardship and the ups and downs. They still have to endure. And they are doing it.

They keep reinforcing how intertwined they are, by weverse messages and stories and shared wreaths.

From the looks of it they will come through and end up even stronger than before.

And it makes me shed rivers of tears because it is exceptional. It's jaw-dropping, astonishing, and so damn beautiful.

We live in a world when sometimes relationships are so fleeting and weak, so changable and painful and complicated, love in all of its shape isn't easy these days.

It should be, of course it should. But that's not most people's experience.

But then there is jikook and their bond. It is so incredibly rare that I can barely believe it.

(And we wonder why most people don't believe it...can we really blame them...)

Can jikook really come to the other side stronger? Can their relationship grow even more? Can their love deepen even with these hardships?

I think it will. I think it will.

And I don't even have words to say how incredible this is. There aren't enough superlatives in our vocabulary.

This only deserves our endless praises, celebration, love. It deserves to be cherished and shined upon because DAMN were you aware that this existed???? Not in a fantasy ideal world of how things should be, but in a tangible, real people with complex emotions way?

I'm in disbelief. I'm in disbelief for real.

This is...

This is what true love looks like. This is it. It's true love. It's unconditional love.

It's everything anyone could wish for.

I have only immense joy that jikook share that. Oh, how grateful we can be.

Don't mind me while I have emotional breakdowns the next few months. Let's brace ourselves. My heart isn't ready. I'm barely keeping it together now.

How boring must it be to have a life without jikook in it. People are truly missing out.

I'm gonna go make my edit and cry even more while doing it now

GOODBYE

Edit:

Great addition by @atlas-of-the-sea I totally agree 👏

One thing I loved and I guess I took a different approach based on the subtitles is that when they said that they weren't worried about fighting because they will support each other more than anything. I took that as it doesn't matter if we fight. (Not as if they won't fight) We'll be fine if we do, we have fought before and we got through it. It speaks on how deep their bond is, not matter what anyone classifies it as. They have shared a life together for so long, especially living together for more than 10 years. A bond like that can't be compared to that of friends that have known eachother since middle school for example. When you live with someone, you see more of their true colors than when you just share common hours of days with them as friends. And it's not because they have lived together that will make them better at resolving issues. It's the fact that they have very likely argued enough in their lives, that they have the mental capacity, maturity and understanding of eachother boundaries and ways of handling the situation. With a bond like that, you learn how to handle fights if you do love and respect eachother. Those are the only type of bond that last for life.

[starry-bi-sky]

Hello Starry! I just had a thought about your Danyal al Ghul AU, and didn't have anyone else to share it with, so here we go:

If in this universe Bruce is Jewish, and Danny knows this(probably from a google search), he may wear a Star of David necklace to have a piece of his father with him at all times, since he knows he will never get to meet him. Or maybe the necklace sits in a box under a floorboard, because he can't stand the constant reminder of the father he'll never get to have. Maybe he observes Sam and her family celebrate Jewish holidays, or he learns how to by himself, but uses the time to mourn, instead of celebrate.

Anyways, hope all is well, and thank you for sharing your writing!

AAHHHH??? YOUR BRAIN??? Thank you!! I love sharing my writing, it soothes my need for attention lol. lmao, even. (Also how did you know i was thinking of my danyal al ghul au today -- i have an unfinished draft that i was thinking of delving into after my work meeting) also aahh!!!!!!!! im so happy that you wanted to share your thoughts with me about it &lt;333

But dude BOTH of these ideas are soo?? GOOD and ANGSTY. I love angsty. Danny would for sure know if Bruce was Jewish, lil guy did an obsessive amount of research on his dad the moment he got his hands on a computer and figured out how they worked. Danny has like, a three inch thick folder almost on his father alone. Anything he could get his hands on, he's got it. That thickness is almost exclusively from his first like, six months in Amity Park. He keeps it in a box in his closet, along with his growing-folder on Damian and his achievements as Damian Wayne. He pages through it when he's feeling like mourning.

First off: him wearing a Star of David necklace to feel connected to Bruce. That is SO sad and I love it so much. He bought it with an allowance he'd been given when he first started living with the Fentons, he keeps it tucked under his shirt so nobody even knows he has it. Sam and Tucker don't until it slips out while he's hanging out with them and when they ask him about it, Danny very reluctantly tells them that his father is Jewish. When he's distracted, nervous, or sad, he fidgets with it. How this looks is that he looks like he's kinda rubbing his chest, like ungrasping and grasping something.

Second Off: him keeping it in a box under the floorboards. That is also so, so good. He's got it in the box along with a few other things that remind him of his father and Damian and his mother. He takes it out when he's feeling particularly lonely and homesick, it's a feeling that never really goes away even after five years of living in Amity Park. It's like a longing for something you'll never see again, but isn't that just how grief works? i can just imagine him sitting against the bed, late at night and back from patrol. He's still in his ghost form, his katana laid on the ground next to him, and his almost bird-like cape pooling down beside him as he cups the necklace in his hand like he's cradling an egg. Maybe he's bleeding from somewhere, and he's telling the necklace about patrol, murmured soft in Arabic.

When he finds out Sam is Jewish he probably, after much consideration, asks if he can observe their holidays -- after all, researching Jewish holidays only does so much. Sam agrees when he explains why, much to her parents chagrin, and he sometimes tags along. But once he gets an understanding of how they go, he starts doing it on his own. Somewhat. He celebrates with Sam for most of it, and then has some time to himself where he celebrates it on his own. So it's a little bit of both.

^^^ which brings me to thinking about my danyal snippet here where Sam is at a Wayne gala and tears into her parents over Danny in front of Bruce. And it's making me think of, with this idea in mind, Sam in a moment of emotional impulsivity, saying "I know that he wears a Star of David because his father is Jewish and he wants to be closer to him, because he loves him so very fucking much." And while saying that, briefly makes direct eye contact with Bruce as a way to tell him "I know you're his fucking dad. Look at the son you have left behind."

If only for the emotional gut punch that can leave Bruce with. 🥰

Thank you for the ask! I had a lot of fun responding to it, have a fantastic evening/day/night.

[xxnashiraxx]

WIP Whenever 🖤

Going off the last line challenge and the wips I've been tagged in, namely by the wonderfully talented @lanafofana, @andromedaancunin, & @vividiana to name a few!! I love you guys! 💖

Here's a little snippet from Chapter 20 coming out tomorrow!!

His lips a delicate introduction, he presses them over her quivering pulse point, ever so gently. His touch barely skims across, like she’s made of glass, seeking the perfect entry in contrast to the savagery he’s about to enact. Slotting his fangs above his old mark, tentative press to the divots, she sucks in a breath in anticipation. Not for weeks have they done this- not since her feelings were barely past their inception, not since she’d spiraled into whatever presence occupies space alongside the tadpole… The line dividing them from the past and uncertain future is gone the instant his teeth sink in, a prick of delicious agony, the time between them struck from the record. Elegant points perforate the conduit carrying what he seeks most until it flows from her into his mouth. She suppresses the whimper that hangs taut in the air, her own canines blunt as they bite down hard on her lip. His moan of relief is vulgar, fingernails digging through the fabric of her pants as he grips her leg, the other sliding up her waist to rest over the healing injury, still sensitive. For a moment she’s afraid he’ll claw at her there, too, but he doesn’t… Instead, he caresses the soft flesh until she can no longer hold back the sounds trapped in her throat. Such a contrast to the sharp digging of his fangs, tearing with an almost amateur fervor that spurs tears in her eyes. It hurts, gods, it hurts so much… “Don’t-” She gasps, feeling him loosen his jaw. A muffled huff of disapproval melts against her shredded derma, and in resignation, he clamps down again. Her body spasms beneath his touch, every inch of her fighting the impulse to shove him away, to ask him to stop. It’s neither cruel nor merciful- frostbite that claims each digit as it snakes its way up her arms and down her spine. Indiscriminately it claws and rips as it extracts tears from her and she shudders in his arms, trying to latch onto the gentle soothing of his fingers at her side. She sobs, the threads of his connection leashing her thoughts to his. It’s a sweet and excruciating concession, spreading like a blight through every limb. As he intertwines them further, pushing past the tadpole to connect them in a different way entirely, she admits defeat with a sorrowful whine. Because making it hurt still isn’t enough… There’s no escaping how good it feels- not even when he’s trying to rip my throat out. “O-okay,” She rasps, voice gravelly and raw. He can feel her submission before she speaks, tongue running over the torn skin like the sear of an iron. His approval heady and thick in her skull, he moves to the other side and kisses her there, fingers wrapping her long hair around his wrist to tug her head back. Anchoring her in his grip, leash loosening around her laughable self-control, he sinks in, her eyes drifting shut at the soft bite of pressure- surrendering to the warmth that pulses through her body. It’s torture, fighting the instinct to touch him, weightless in his lovely embrace both in body and mind. If this is what all those books and movies hoped to portray, a dominion all-consuming and passionate, then the meager self-control she’s maintaining isn’t long for this world...

Anyway!!! This is ready to go!! I am equal parts terrified and excited to finally move past the total freeze out we've had and god I hope the dialogue is good. I've been mentally torturing myself over it for like three weeks.

No pressure tags! Share with me your words!!! @pinkberrytea @khywren @caffeinatedmunchkin @bby-bel-art @bloodinwine @bum-dragon @inkymoonbunny @verbenaa @preciouslittlebhaalbae @elinorbard @nerdallwritey @lanafofana @obsessedwhyyes @larvasmoonlight @deadly-diminuendo @heylittleriotact @aldisobey @emmg @bhaal-battle-beer-bard @coyote-mint @hellethil @bardic-inspo @marlowethebard @badbloodwitch @justabiteofspite @roguishcat @alwaysmauria

[nicksbestie]

Nooks And Crannies - M. Sturniolo

a series

part five (read part four here)

Summary : You always seem to be somewhere in the bookstore Matt works at, never buying anything, just reading, and while Matt is technically not supposed to talk to customers for so long while he's on the clock, he can't help himself.

Warnings : none!

Word Count : 1038

Pairing : Matt Sturniolo/Reader (romantic)

A/N : i didn't forget about this little project, don't worry!!

You stared at the bookmark, and the number scribbled onto it, pushing down the anxiety and deciding to send a message.

hi! is this matt?

You didn’t have to wait long for a response, the almost immediate ping of your phone catching you by surprise, indicating a reply.

(XXX)-XXX-XXXX : yes! i assume this is ____?

You quickly saved his contact, simply saved as “matt :)”.

“yes! how are you?” 

The conversation only blossomed from there. You were glad that you lived alone now, because had you still been living at home, your family would have teased you about just how much you were smiling at your phone. You texted Matt nearly nonstop, and you had been enjoying every moment of it. It was just like your normal conversations at The Ivy, sharing book thoughts, or snippets of your day, or even funny jokes. You had received a ton of silly pictures from Matt’s brothers, as they had a habit of stealing his phone and sending random selfies. You found it funny, Matt found it annoying, but either way, you always had something to talk about. Conversation with him was never dry, which you had been slightly afraid of when you had texted him for the first time, and he always replied as quickly as possible, unless he was at work. 

When you weren’t talking, you couldn’t deny the fact that you missed speaking to him. It was really nice to have someone who actually wanted and enjoyed talking to you. It was another couple of days before you could actually take any time off to leave your apartment, and of course, the first place that you went when you left that afternoon was The Ivy. It had been pouring rain, but you couldn’t stand being inside your room for one more minute. So, you pulled on a raincoat, grabbed the umbrella by your door, and began the short walk downtown. Since it was warm out, and the sun was peeking through some clouds, the walk wasn’t miserable, and you actually quite enjoyed it. You had always loved the rain, and since you had an umbrella to keep you dry, you didn’t mind being out walking in it. 

It wasn’t long before you pushed open the door to The Ivy, shaking your umbrella out beforehand. You wrapped it up, putting it into your bag, and moving to a shelf that had some colorful book covers, as they had caught your eye the second you walked in. You noticed that a lot of them were new shipments, having just been placed on the shelves, and you were so excited to pick up a couple of them and pore over the pages. You read the backs of a few of them, and they seemed intriguing, so you held them in your arms as you made your way over to the cafe to get a cup of coffee. Besides, you deserved it after your insanely busy previous couple of days. However, when you got over to the counter, there was already a cup with your name scribbled on it, with it being your usual. 

You went and picked it up, smiling when you noticed Matt waving at you, sitting at one of the tables with his own cup. “Was this you?” You asked, motioning to the cup. He smiled at you, nodding. “I saw you walk in, figured I’d order your usual for you since I was grabbing my own coffee anyways.” You smiled, taking a drink from it, enjoying the way you automatically felt relaxed. “Well, aren’t you sweet.” He grinned, a smirk on his face. “I try.” You read the back of the book that he was reading, nodding in slight interest, and it was at this point that you noticed the name tag being on his shirt.

“Wait, are you working right now?” 

He shook his head, turning a page.

“Nope. I’m on my break, but I took it so late that I actually get off only fifteen minutes after I go back on shift.”

You sat with Matt for the rest of his break, chatting about random things, mostly books and coffee, but also how both of your mornings had gone prior to being at The Ivy. Matt had worked a short mid-day shift, so he hadn’t been there all morning, which he was grateful for. He had picked up a coworker’s shift since they had been searching for coverage due to a family emergency, and he was heading right back home as soon as he got off. You found a good book to read when Matt had to clock back in, and you dove right into it. You were enjoying the gentle atmosphere, and the time flew. You were a fast reader, so you got through a good chunk of the book before Matt got off the clock and found you still at the coffee table, coming over to say goodbye before he left The Ivy. 

“So, where are you heading after you leave here?” 

You softly laughed, shrugging.

“Honestly, I’m not sure. The rain has gotten a lot worse, and I was going to go walk around shops, but I’m not sure I want to go back out into that. I may just stay here for a while until it lets up, but I’m glad I got to see you! Even if it was within your working hours.”

He smiled, removing the name tag off of his shirt.

“Yeah! One of these days, we’ve got to hang out outside of this shop. I do have a personality other than work.” 

“Oh, I’m sure that you do. You’ll have to show me it eventually.” 

Matt looked like he was pondering an idea, so you quietly waited for a response.

“Why don’t you come home with me?” 

You were slightly taken aback, and nervously laughed.

“Damn, you have to ask me out first!” 

Matt smiled, shaking his head.

“Not like that. Just for dinner. You can meet my brothers, we can spend time together outside of where I work, a nice get to know you more night. If you’re not interested, I totally understand!” 

You smiled at him, walking towards the door with him.

“I would love to.”

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