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nhmkhnh · 2 days ago

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#SPECIAL ──── HOT N' BOTHERED.

CHARACTERS: VI ;; CAITLYN KIRAMMAN ;; CASSANDRA KIRAMMAN ;; SEVIKA ;; JINX ;; AMBESSA MEDARDA ;; GRAYSON ;; ELLIE WILLIAMS ;; ABBY ANDERSON ;; MIZU ;; CLAIRE REDFIELD ;; JILL VALENTINE ;; ADA WONG ;; CHLOE PRICE. PAIRINGS: DOM!CHAR X SUB!FEM!READER (one for each scenario) PREFACE: HOT MILFS IN YOUR AREA. WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni) TAGS: milf!char ;; older!char ;; soft yet rough!char ;; petnames ;; mommy kink ;; choking (light) ;; strap-on sex ;; discipline kink ;; jealousy sex / punishment sex ;; control kink ;; soft degradation ;; brutal dom (sevika) ;; chaotic dom (jinx)

vi’s hand was on your throat before you even realized she’d moved—her rings cold, grip firm, but never cruel. you gasped, hips arching into her as she pinned you against the mattress, her knee spreading you open with no room to close.

“still gonna act shy after the way you were begging?” she growled, voice low and velvet-rough, brushing her lips just barely over your ear. you whimpered, nails clawing weakly at her biceps, but she only chuckled, slow and mean.

“shh, baby,” vi murmured, pressing the strap flush against your slick heat. “you said you could take it. let me see you try.”

and then—she pushed in, slow but so deep it made you cry out, eyes rolling as your thighs trembled around her hips. vi’s palm slid from your throat to cup your jaw, tilting your face to hers as she started to thrust, a steady, grinding pace that left no mercy between kisses.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” she hissed, watching you unravel. “always so eager for mommy’s cock, huh?”

you nodded frantically, words lost in moans, and vi rewarded you by snapping her hips harder, dragging that swollen tip exactly where you needed—until you were shaking, sobbing, begging.

she grinned. “good girl. come for me.”

caitlyn kiramman

you were folded neatly over caitlyn’s lap, silk nightgown bunched at your hips, cheeks hot with shame and something far more desperate. her fingers traced idle circles along the curve of your ass, nails grazing just enough to make you squirm.

“oh, darling,” caitlyn cooed, voice like smoke and wine. “you promised you’d behave tonight.”

a sharp slap. you jolted. she smiled.

“three minutes alone at the party and you let that little thing touch your waist?” another slap—firmer, slower. “do you enjoy making me jealous, sweetheart?”

you sobbed her name, and caitlyn sighed. not angry. just… disappointed.

she slipped her fingers between your thighs, already soaked. “tsk. of course you’re wet. my spoiled little thing.”

the next moment, you were on your back, caitlyn towering over you in her unbuttoned dress shirt, lace bra still on. her strap—long, velvet-wrapped, gleaming with lube—pressed against your trembling entrance.

“you don’t deserve this,” she murmured, pushing in slow, steady, filling you to the hilt while you cried out. “but i’ll give it to you anyway.”

her pace was brutal but elegant—deep thrusts, calculated and punishing, her hand splayed across your lower belly, feeling every twitch you gave under her.

“you’ll look at me when you come,” caitlyn said, low and lethal. her fingers grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze into hers. “no one else. no one ever again.”

you nodded frantically, too far gone to speak, too ruined to resist.

she smiled. “good girl.” and kept going—until your legs shook, your voice broke, and the only thing left on your lips was her name.

cassandra kiramman

cassandra’s hand was wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head with terrifying ease as she loomed over you—hair still perfect, pearls still on. her thigh was pressed snugly between yours, keeping you spread. her strap was already inside you, slow and deep, dragging against that unbearable spot again and again.

“you thought i wouldn’t notice?” she whispered, breath warm against your cheek. “the way you looked at her during dinner?”

you whimpered. denied it. she only laughed—low, cold, possessive.

“i saw you, darling. smiling. flirting. acting like you weren’t already marked.” her pace quickened, sharper now, and your legs trembled beneath her. “mine. say it.”

“y–yours,” you gasped.

she let go of your wrists just long enough to grab your chin, thumb slipping into your mouth. “that’s right. my sweet, needy little thing. so pretty when you cry.”

and you were crying—soft, overwhelmed tears streaking down your cheeks as cassandra fucked you with all the precision of a woman who never, ever, loses control. except now. now she was claiming you.

“such a good girl when you’re stuffed full of my strap,” she murmured, voice syrupy and cruel. “all those manners just melt away, don’t they?”

you moaned against her thumb, legs tightening around her hips.

her mouth brushed your ear. “come for me. make a mess. show me who you belong to.”

you did—helplessly, shaking, broken open beneath her. and as you collapsed back onto the sheets, breath stolen and eyes glazed, cassandra leaned down, kissed your forehead sweetly, and whispered:

“let that be a lesson, my love. i do not share.”

sevika

the weight of her was suffocating. not just her body—towering over yours, her arms caging you in—but her presence. that growl in her chest. the smirk she gave when you whimpered. the glint of her gold tooth when you said her name like a prayer.

“you thought you could tease me all night and walk away?” sevika’s voice was rough, low, and dangerous as her metal arm dragged slowly up your thigh. “nah, baby. you’re not leaving this bed until you learn.”

her strap kissed your entrance and you were already shaking, wrists pinned above you with one brutal, steady hand. her other arm—cold steel—gripped your thigh and spread you wider.

“fuckin’ look at you,” she growled, sliding in inch by inch, so deep, so slow it burned. “already crying and i haven’t even started.”

you sobbed, breath hitching, and sevika chuckled darkly—mocking, fond.

“that’s it. that’s my girl.”

she started to move—hips snapping hard, deep, perfectly cruel. every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, every roll of her hips dragging the tip right where you needed it most. she watched you fall apart, eyes half-lidded, sweat dripping down her chest.

“god, you’re so tight,” she muttered, licking her teeth. “all that attitude, and now you’re just whining under me like a fucked-out toy.”

your hands trembled in her grip. you were close. too close.

“say it,” she growled, nose brushing yours. “say you belong to me.”

“i–i’m yours—”

“louder.”

“i’m yours!”

she grinned—feral, proud—and slammed into you, hard enough to knock your voice from your throat. you came undone, sobbing her name, and sevika finally kissed you—biting your bottom lip and whispering:

“good girl. next time? beg first.”

jinx

jinx had you flat on your stomach, legs trembling, fingers clutching the sheets like they could save you. they couldn’t. not from her.

she was laughing—quietly, breathless, the sound of someone who was having too much fun watching you squirm.

“look at you,” she purred, dragging her strap up your soaked folds before pushing it in with a slow, wicked grind. “you were so mouthy earlier. what happened, sweetheart? cat got your tongue, or was it my strap?”

you gasped, back arching as she bottomed out. her gloved hand smoothed down your spine, deceptively tender.

“aww, poor baby,” she cooed mockingly, rolling her hips with a lazy rhythm that had you crying out into the pillows. “you can’t take it, huh? but you always beg for it. gotta pick a side, sugarplum.”

her free hand gripped your jaw, tugging your face back so she could lean down and lick a slow stripe up your neck. you sobbed her name, and she giggled.

“there she is.”

she picked up the pace—sudden, brutal, deliciously cruel—the squelch of your arousal loud under her groans.

“fuck,” she muttered. “you’re clenching—are you gonna come already? seriously? i haven’t even blown anything up yet.”

you could barely breathe, body shaking, so close you couldn’t think.

and jinx? jinx was feral now, sweat-slicked and wild-eyed, fucking you like it was the last thing she’d ever do.

“go on, sweetheart,” she hissed, hand back on your hips, forcing you to take it all. “be my pretty little mess.”

you came so hard you forgot your name.

she kissed your temple, strap still buried inside, and whispered sweetly:

“next time, i’m tying you down first. just to watch you lose it.”

ambessa medarda

you were trembling beneath her—naked, flushed, spread open across silk sheets you didn’t dare wrinkle without permission. ambessa stood over you like a god carved from war and indulgence, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to hold you in place.

“you’ve been spoiled,” she murmured, voice low, regal, dangerous. “no discipline. no control. that ends tonight.”

she slid in slowly—too slow. thick, unrelenting, her strap stretched you open inch by inch until you whimpered from the fullness. she didn’t blink. didn’t flinch.

“quiet,” she snapped, pinching your jaw. “if you want to cry, you’ll ask first.”

you bit your lip, nearly sobbing, as she pulled halfway out—then slammed back in, knocking the breath from your lungs.

ambessa rolled her hips with ruthless precision. every thrust was deep, deliberate, commanding. her eyes never left yours, watching every flicker of pain, pleasure, desperation.

“do you know how many women beg for this?” she growled, biting along your throat, hips grinding into your soaked cunt. “but i chose you. and now you’ll take everything i give.”

your hands clung to her shoulders, helpless. she didn’t soften—not even when you sobbed her name.

“you’ll thank me for it later,” she whispered, voice silken as steel. “but for now, be good. be still.”

her thrusts turned brutal, your body rocked with every movement—too full, too much, but she held you together, her palm flat on your belly as you shook and moaned under her.

“come, little thing,” she ordered. “show me you're worthy of being fucked by a medarda.”

you shattered. completely.

ambessa kissed your cheek once—soft, possessive—then leaned down to your ear with a smirk:

“next time, i won’t be nearly as gentle.”

grayson

you didn’t mean to disobey her. really, you didn’t. but now you were here—naked, on your back, wrists pinned to the bed with one of her strong hands while her strap pressed slow and steady inside you, every inch a lesson.

“such a sweet girl,” grayson murmured, voice low and rich like smoke. “but you don’t listen, do you?”

you whined, back arching as she bottomed out. the stretch burned, the pressure so good it ached, but she gave you no time to adjust—rolling her hips in deep, grinding strokes that made your breath stutter.

“eyes on me,” she said, tilting your chin up with two fingers. her expression was calm, but her gaze was unrelenting, hungry. “you want to act like a brat, baby? fine. but you’ll take every inch until you learn how to behave.”

her hand slid from your chin to your throat—just a suggestion of control, just enough to make you melt beneath her.

“you’re mine when i say you are,” she whispered. “you come when i say you can. and right now?” she thrust deep and held—making you sob. “you’re going to take it. silently.”

you bit your lip, trying so hard to obey, tears prickling at your lashes as your thighs trembled. grayson’s mouth was at your ear now, her breath steady, warm.

“you’re doing so well,” she whispered, so soft it shattered you. “my perfect girl.”

you came with a choked cry, clenching around her strap so hard she groaned against your throat. her grip tightened, her pace finally faltering just enough to let you breathe.

then she kissed your forehead and said gently, firmly:

“you’ll ask before touching yourself next time, won’t you?”

and all you could do was nod, ruined and hers.

ellie williams

you shouldn’t have smiled at that girl. shouldn’t have let her touch your arm. ellie hadn’t said a word the whole ride home—but now you were bare beneath her, thighs spread, legs shaking, and she was quietly furious.

her strap was already inside, slow and deep, her forearm pressing hard against the mattress beside your head, caging you in.

“you think that shit’s cute?” ellie rasped, voice low and strained. “flirting when i’m right there?”

you whimpered her name, but she didn’t let up. just kept fucking you in steady, punishing thrusts that made your breath stutter, her hips rolling to grind inside you like she knew every weak spot—and she did.

her hand slid between your legs, two fingers finding your clit with devastating ease.

“was she touching you here?” she whispered, biting your ear. “was she making you wet like this?”

you sobbed, too full, too overwhelmed, and ellie just chuckled darkly.

“didn’t think so.”

she shifted, leaning back to look at you—lips parted, tattoos glistening with sweat, eyes blown wide with jealousy and need.

“you’re mine, baby,” she breathed, fucking you harder now, your wetness echoing between your gasps. “you wear my shirt, my rings, my fuckin’ marks—mine.”

you nodded, crying out when she hit that spot again, stars sparking behind your eyes.

“say it,” ellie demanded, hand tightening on your throat. “say who you fuckin’ belong to.”

“y–you, ellie! i’m yours—yours—!”

that broke her. she groaned, shoved in deep, and you came with a strangled scream, thighs clamping around her hips. ellie held you there, kissing your temple, your jaw, your lips.

then she whispered, low and breathless:

“next time, you even look at someone else—i’m fucking you in front of them.”

abby anderson

abby had you face down, ass up, spine curved under the weight of her palm pressed hard between your shoulder blades. her strap filled you—deep, thick, overwhelming—and you were already shaking, cheeks flushed against the pillow, breath coming in gasps.

“you know i hate when you act like that in public,” she muttered, hips snapping forward with sharp precision. “batting your lashes, giggling like a little tease…”

you cried out, but she didn’t stop. just groaned, low and wrecked, as you clenched around her cock.

“god, you like getting punished, don’t you?”

she gripped your waist tighter, fingers leaving bruises you’d feel for days. her thrusts got rougher—measured, brutal, every one dragging her strap right where you needed it, again and again until you were sobbing into the sheets.

“too fuckin’ pretty,” abby hissed, leaning over to bite the back of your neck, her heavy body blanketing yours. “so goddamn perfect like this. all mine.”

you could barely breathe. could barely think.

she shifted, one hand sliding down to rub firm, fast circles over your clit.

“come for me, baby,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “show me who owns this sweet little cunt.”

you shattered—loud, trembling, soaking the sheets as abby kept fucking you through it, relentless and soft all at once.

when you finally collapsed, ruined and breathless, she eased out slowly and pulled you into her lap, her massive arms wrapping around your waist like a cage.

“shhh,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, voice suddenly gentle. “i got you, pretty girl. you’re okay.”

and then, almost teasing, almost fond—

“next time you act like a brat in public, i’m bending you over the nearest sink. don’t test me.”

mizu

you shouldn’t have touched her sword. you knew better. but curiosity got the best of you—and now you were paying for it.

your kimono was in tatters on the floor, and mizu had you straddled on her lap, your wrists pinned above your head with one hand, the other guiding her strap inside you—slow, thick, punishingly deep.

“you don’t lay hands on what’s mine,” she murmured, voice flat, precise, like her blade. “that includes me. that includes you.”

you moaned her name, but she didn’t flinch. just pressed her forehead to yours, breath calm while her hips drove up into you with ruthless control. every thrust was calculated—sharp angles, deep pulls—like she was dissecting your willpiece by piece.

“stop whining,” she said, fingers tightening around your wrists. “you can take it. you will.”

you bit your lip, trying to hold back the sob building in your throat, but her cock brushed that devastating spot again and you broke, hips jerking, tears slipping free.

“beautiful,” mizu whispered. “even your pain is graceful.”

her hand released your wrists only to slide down your back, gripping your hips and forcing you down harder onto her strap.

“you don’t touch my sword again,” she murmured. “or i’ll fuck you on it next time.”

you came with a silent cry, thighs trembling, body going limp against her. and still, she held you—close, unshakable, her nose brushing your cheek like a promise.

“you’re mine to discipline,” she said quietly. “mine to protect. mine to break, if i choose.”

and then, softer—cruel in its tenderness—

“now clean yourself up, little one. and beg for forgiveness properly.”

claire redfield

you were pinned against the wall of the safehouse, legs wrapped around claire’s waist, her strap buried deep inside you—so deep you could barely breathe, let alone think.

her vest was half-unzipped, red hair messy, face flushed. one hand held your hip firm, the other covered your mouth.

“quiet,” she hissed, hips rolling slow and hard, dragging her cock right along your sweet spot. “unless you want them to hear you on the other side of that door.”

you whimpered beneath her hand, eyes wide and glassy, and claire smirked—sharp, teasing.

“what happened to all that backtalk, huh?” she murmured, pressing her lips to your jaw. “you run your mouth all day, but the second i fuck you, you turn into the sweetest little thing i’ve ever seen.”

she pulled out just enough to make you cry, then slammed back in—fast, brutal, perfect. you choked on a moan, thighs trembling.

her mouth ghosted over your ear. “you wanted my attention, baby. now take it.”

you nodded, too wrecked to speak, and she praised you for it—kissed your cheek, whispered, “that’s it, good girl,” while grinding deeper until your entire body trembled.

her hand slipped between you, fingers rubbing quick, messy circles against your clit.

“come for me,” she ordered, voice low, breath hot against your neck. “so good for me. so tight—fuck—gonna soak my strap, aren’t you?”

you did. hard. body seizing, mouth open in a silent cry against her palm. claire held you through it, hips still rocking slow, eyes on you the whole time.

then she leaned in, lips brushing your sweat-slick temple, and said—sweet as sin:

“next time you tease me in the field, i’m bending you over the nearest desk. loaded or not.”

jill valentine

the door had barely shut behind you before jill had you up against it—kiss bruised lips, flushed cheeks, her gloved hand wrapped tight around your throat as she fucked you with a slow, brutal rhythm that left you trembling.

“thought i didn’t notice you acting up today?” she murmured, voice calm and terrifyingly composed. “wearing that short little skirt. dropping your gear just to bend over in front of me.”

you whimpered, her strap stretching you wide, deep, unrelenting. jill smirked, fingers flexing gently at your throat.

“begging for attention like a brat,” she breathed against your mouth. “well… you’ve got it now, sweetheart.”

her hips snapped forward, hard enough to make your back arch, a broken moan slipping out before you could stop it. jill clicked her tongue.

“too loud,” she whispered. “i told you i’d make you beg quietly.”

her hand left your throat to grab your thigh, yanking your leg higher around her waist, sinking deeper. you nearly sobbed.

“you gonna be good for me now?” she asked, dragging her teeth down your neck. “or do i need to fuck the attitude out of you again?”

you nodded frantically, already close, already ruined.

jill’s thumb found your clit—tight, rough circles that had you clenching around her cock like you’d break apart if she stopped.

“come,” she ordered, breath hot, eyes burning into yours. “do it for me. right now.”

you shattered, legs shaking, walls clenching, mouth open in a silent scream as she held you pinned and shaking.

jill kissed your temple, once, firm.

then leaned in and whispered:

“you don’t touch yourself this week unless i say so. that little body’s mine now. understood?”

ada wong

the silk sheets were cool against your skin, but ada’s body was fire—hovering above you, heels still on, red dress hitched up around her thighs. her strap was already inside you, slow, controlled, devastating.

“you looked too comfortable talking to that woman tonight,” ada said softly, dragging her nails down your stomach. “i don’t like sharing, sweetheart.”

you opened your mouth to protest—only for her gloved hand to press over your lips, silencing you.

“no excuses,” she murmured. “you flirt, i punish. that’s how this works.”

she snapped her hips forward, making you cry into her palm, eyes rolling as her cock filled you deep—perfectly, like she knew every inch of you.

her voice dropped lower. “you take me so well when you’re sorry.”

she leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “are you sorry?”

you nodded frantically. she smiled.

“good girl.”

ada kept fucking you—slow and cruel, grinding in circles until your legs trembled, your whimpers muffled under her palm. her other hand slipped down to your clit, fingers working tight and fast, the pleasure unbearable.

“look at me,” she said, removing her hand from your mouth. “i want to see your face when you come.”

you obeyed—gaze locking with hers, wide and desperate—and she rewarded you with a sharp thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

“say it,” ada ordered. “say who you belong to.”

“you—you, ada—”

that was all she needed. you came with a strangled moan, body shaking, tears slipping free. ada held you through every twitch, stroking your cheek with a gloved thumb.

and then, low and dangerous:

“next time someone touches you without my permission, i’ll fuck you in front of them. slowly. until they learn.”

chloe price

you didn’t even make it to the bed.

chloe had you bent over the couch, panties pulled to the side, her strap buried so deep you couldn’t speak—just moan, fingers clawing the cushions like they could ground you. her tattooed arm was wrapped tight around your waist, holding you still while she fucked you from behind, hard and relentless.

“bet you thought i wouldn’t notice,” she growled, biting the shell of your ear. “the way you let that loser put her hand on your back.”

you whimpered, eyes glassy, legs trembling, but chloe only fucked you harder—her rings cold where they gripped your hip, her low, wrecked voice right in your ear.

“you think i won’t mark you up? make sure everyone knows who you fucking belong to?”

she pulled your head back by your hair, forcing your eyes to meet hers in the mirror across the room—your mouth parted, cheeks flushed, tears slipping down.

“look at you,” chloe hissed. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. ruined. dumb for me.”

you sobbed her name, and she groaned, rutting into you like she couldn’t get close enough.

her hand slipped down, fingers circling your clit, fast and filthy. you cried out.

“come,” she snapped. “now. or i’ll edge you ‘til sunrise, babe.”

you shattered—legs giving out, vision going white as she held you through it, whispering “that’s it, good girl, that’s fucking mine.”

she kissed your shoulder, teeth dragging over your skin.

then, breathless, possessive, grinning:

“next time someone flirts with you, i’m fucking you in their lap.”

and somehow—you knew she meant it.

#vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #cassandra kiramman x reader #sevika x reader #jinx x reader #ambessa medarda x reader #grayson arcane x reader #ellie williams x reader #abby anderson x reader #mizu x reader #claire redfield x reader #jill valentine x reader #ada wong x reader #chloe price x reader

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moonstruckme · 3 days ago

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First time request! I'd love a poly Jily fic based on the prompt "blood swirling down a shower drain." Maybe the reader just got back from a mission that went wrong and is kinda out of it, trying to wash everything off. James and Lily find them and refuse to let them deal with it alone, just soft, quiet comfort, lots of gentle touches, and reassuring words.🥹 Thanks!!

Thank you for requesting! This turned out so much angstier than I intended. I really don't know what happened but...I'm sorry? Or for the people who are always asking for angst I don't deliver, you're welcome I think? I don't know it just happened I wasn't on the decision-making panel

cw: blood (lots of blood), reader is a bit in shock, nonsexual nudity, death (of a minor canon character, not someone we really know and love), set in canon so there's death eaters/the order/etc., quite angsty (for me at least) but there is comfort I promise

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

James and Lily are cuddling when you come home. Well, they’re sort of just holding each other and trying to pass it off as cuddling. Any one of you going out on an assignment for the Order always makes nervous wrecks of the two left behind, but Lily and James doing their best to distract themselves, a film on the television and each trying not to look like they’re glancing out the window every minute.

The crack of apparition outside puts an abrupt end to the facade.

They’re both up in an instant, but Lily puts a hand to James’ chest when he goes for the door. “Wait,” she says. She leaves a spot of blood on his shirt from where she’s picked the skin by her nail down to nothing.

James’ heart revolts, but he listens. They both listen, until they hear the two-three-two knock that means it’s you.

Lily manages to move faster than him. She has both the muggle and magical locking mechanisms undone in an instant, opening the door to you.

To you, absolutely drenched in red.

It’s in your hair; it stains your clothes; it cakes your face and your neck and your hands. There’s hardly an inch of you left clean. James can’t comprehend it. Was there…was there an explosion of some sort? Did you get splattered by something? He feels sick.

“Is that blood?” Lily’s voice is admirably steady.

You nod. “Yeah.”

James really feels sick.

“Are you hurt?” She reaches for you, bringing you inside. You move like your body weighs a thousand pounds.

“No, I’m—it’s old. I’m fine. Remus fixed it.”

“Good old Moony,” James croaks. It’s meant to be a joke, but truly, he’d love to fly to Remus and Sirius’ flat right now to give his friend the hug of his life. If only there weren’t things for James to take care of here first.

“What happened, sweetheart?” Lily asks, running a gentle hand up your arm. Blood flakes under her touch.

“They were waiting for us.” Your voice is low, like it’s the sort of truth that becomes worse once said aloud. Your eyes look bigger and brighter in the midst of all the mess. James wants desperately to hug you, and yet—shamefully—he’s afraid of touching you; like despite what you say, he might find you less whole than you were when you left a few hours ago. “It was just supposed to be Dolohov there, but there were a lot of them. They knew we were coming.”

“They did this to you?”

“It…I…” Your gaze moves from Lily, to James, back to Lily again. You look exhausted, haunted, but worried beneath that. A moment later, James understands why. “It was Severus.”

Lily reacts as though you’ve hit her. Her expression looks like a heart cracked open, but she doesn’t let go of your arm.

“He used this spell,” you tell her, seeming sorry to do it, “that opens cuts all over the other person’s body. Remus was able to figure a counter-curse before I bled out. I don’t think Severus was aiming for me…”

Even looking at your face, James is unsure of whether you mean that. The odds that Snape would try to hurt you seem equally as likely to him as those that he wouldn’t. You may only be trying to protect Lily. She looks so devastated, James wants to wrap you both up and never let you go again.

Something Lily and James have always had in common is how they love. They may not always show it in the same ways, but once they’ve chosen someone, that’s it; they’ll live and die for them. They give away their whole hearts. James has just been luckier in who he’s chosen to give his to. His first love—outside of his family, of course—was Sirius. Lily’s was Snape.

But, as much as James loves Lily, if Snape showed up on your doorstep right now James thinks he would kill him.

“I’m sorry,” Lily says to you, her eyes shining.

“It’s okay.” You extricate yourself gently from her grasp. “I’m going to shower.”

“Sweetheart…” James reaches for you, but you ghost past his hands, only mumbling again, “It’s okay.”

Nothing’s okay. Lily’s looking after you like her heart’s been cracked open. From the sound of it, you actually were cracked open for a while. There’s a fracture between the three of you that James doesn’t know how to fix. But certainly he’s going to try.

“Come on.” He takes Lily’s hand, encouraging her down the hall with him. When she comes, he wraps an arm around her shoulders to kiss her hair. “It’s alright. Come on, lovely.”

The shower is already running when they open the bathroom door. James shuts it behind them before starting to strip, and Lily’s questioning look only lasts a moment before she’s doing the same. He sets his glasses on the counter.

“Hi,” he says, pulling the shower curtain open enough to pop his head in. You look surprised, which is a surprise in itself; you must really be lost in your own head not to have heard them enter. “Room for two more in here?”

There is, of course, room—as if James would ever let you get a place without a shower big enough for three—but still he’s relieved when you nod. He steps the rest of the way in, making room for Lily to squeeze in behind him. You seem to have scrubbed your face clean and now are letting the water do the work on the rest of you. Blood swirls down the shower drain.

James steps closer, giving you long seconds to back away, to let your face reveal hesitation or denial, before he kisses you. Slowly. Warmly. You soften like butter in the sun, arms coming around him as his do you.

“Didn’t get to do that properly when you got home,” James murmurs after your lips part.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He fights to keep his lips from twitching at the now-familiar dazed quality to your tone. It is taking every ounce of his concentration to not think too hard about the two stunning women he’s sharing a shower with right now.

Since Lily is no longer up to being the asker of questions, James gives it a whirl. “Do you want to tell us any more about what happened tonight?”

Your eyes go weary and somber. He sees your throat bob as if around something painful. “We, um. We lost Edgar.”

Lily makes a wounded sound. “Bones?”

James has already drawn you into a hug. You nod against his chest, choking out a weak, “Yeah.”

“Was it…”

“It was Lestrange,” you answer before Lily has to finish asking. Not Snape. She breathes out.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, joining your hug. Water runs in rivulets down the three of you, transferring from one body to the other, off James’ nose and Lily’s hair and your chin, pooling in all the places you’re pressed together. James fights an ache in his own throat. You’d all known Edgar, but only you watched him die. This is a grief he and Lily can only share in parts of.

There’s lots more kisses and murmuring before you get to the business of washing. James runs you over with a soapy cloth while Lily shampoos your hair, the both of them making sure no inch of you goes unseen to. Remus has done a good job; there are no scars where Snape’s curse tore you open. As the blood clears away, James can’t tell where it originated from at all.

He tells you how happy they are to have you home. You smile at his exaggerated jokes about separation anxiety and squeeze his hand when he presses a thumb into the corner of it, chuffed with himself. Lily apologizes again for Snape, and you both promise her she’s not responsible for him until it seems almost like she believes it. James is kicked out of the shower in disgrace after mistaking your body wash for conditioner. He warms towels in the dryer while Lily works the tangles out of your hair with her fingers.

When you go to bed, you’re still as exhausted as you were when you came home. You move like your body weighs a thousand pounds, and there’s a haunted look about your eyes, and you don’t seem up to saying much. But you curl up with James’ chest to your back and Lily’s leg draped across your own, and you’re loved, and that counts for something.

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iamespecter · 18 hours ago

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THIS.

I've actually seen people say they got "bad vibes" from Ragatha's niceness and are using her explosion on ep 5 as "proof" for her being malicious like. How fucking STUPID are you. What kind of shit are you smoking, because I need to stay the fuck away from that

Ragatha is clearly socially incapable of handling emotions correctly. Stemming from an abusive home with a mother who yelled and belittled her every step of the way, she tries to be everything that her mom isn't, which is why her toxic positivity feels so forced.

And wanna know something? That's HARD to do. Trying to be a genuinely good person when you grew up in such a toxic and hostile environment is HARD because it's clear that Ragatha didn't have anyone to guide her on the right path. She didn't even mention having a dad. So the closest thing she had to that was taking care of her horses. And even THAT was taken from her the moment she was trapped inside a circus. And when you're trapped inside a circus with an all-powerful AI that can literally do everything, of course Ragatha's going to be in people-pleasing and denial mode, trying to repress her emotions and frustrations.

You can dislike a character simply because you dislike her, I PROMISE YOU DON'T NEED A REASONING. People will understand you better if you just outright say that instead of creating shit out of your ass with no evidence.

People somehow always try to justify their hatred for a character when you can just say that you don't vibe with the way the creator wrote this character and it's fine. YOU DON'T NEED TO MISCHARACTERIZE HER ENTIRELY JUST SO YOU CAN FEEL LIKE YOU'RE ON THE CORRECT SIDE OF THINGS.

YOU CAN DISLIKE THINGS NATURALLY AND NOT HAVE A REASON FOR IT.

Btw, women can be just as misogynistic as men. It's all about patriarchal hierarchical views, nothing to do with your gender. You can be born a girl and still be misogynistic because you've adopted a misogynistic men's viewpoint subconsciously. So don't try to justify your Ragatha mischaracterization by saying you're "not being misogynistic because you're a girl". Instead, take a moment to reflect on what you're saying and re-evaluate.

#ziku's insane rambles #the amazing digital circus #ragatha #jax #tadc #tadc ragatha #tadc jax

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solxamber · 11 hours ago

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Winner Takes It All

The one in which they're too late.

Characters: Ace - Deuce, Leona - Vil, Jamil - Kalim

Angst no comfort!

divider credits to @chocolatebearstrawberry i love you <3

Ace - Deuce

"So, uh..." Deuce's face is redder than Riddle's hair as he fidgets with the hem of his uniform jacket. "We wanted to tell you something."

Ace glances up from his phone, sprawled across his bed in their shared dorm room. "Yeah? Did you finally figure out that two plus two equals four, Juice?"

You elbow him lightly, but you're smiling—that soft, fond smile that makes something warm unfurl in Ace's chest every single time. The same smile he's been hoarding like treasure for months, telling himself he has all the time in the world to make it his.

"Be nice," you chide, and God, he loves when you do that. Loves the way you defend Deuce but still laugh at his jokes. Loves how you've somehow managed to make your chaotic trio work when by all rights, it should have fallen apart ages ago.

"We're dating now," Deuce blurts out, and the words hang in the air like a death sentence.

Ace's phone slips from his fingers.

For a moment, the room is so quiet he can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Can hear the way his breath catches in his throat like he's been sucker-punched. Can hear the world reshuffling itself around him, rearranging into a configuration where you belong to someone else.

Where you belong to Deuce.

"Oh," he says, and his voice sounds strange and distant even to his own ears. "Oh, cool."

You're watching him carefully, your expression uncertain. "Ace? Are you okay?"

And that—that breaks something in him. Because of course you'd be worried about him. Of course you'd care about his reaction even in your moment of happiness. You've always been like that, always putting everyone else first, always making sure no one gets left behind.

He should have known you'd fall for someone who does the same thing.

The laugh that bubbles up from his chest tastes like blood and sounds like broken glass. "Okay? I'm great! This is hilarious." He sits up, forcing that familiar cocky grin onto his face even though it feels like wearing a mask made of knives. "Deuce actually managed to get a partner before me? Man, I really am losing my touch."

Deuce flushes darker. "It's not a competition, Ace."

"Isn't it though?" The words slip out sharper than he intended, and he sees you flinch. Sees the hurt flash across your face, and he wants to take it back, wants to swallow the poison before it can spread. But it's too late. It's always too late with him.

"I mean," he continues, dialing back the venom and cranking up the trademark Ace Trappola charm, "someone had to win eventually, right? And hey, at least it wasn't some random guy from another dorm. That would've been embarrassing."

You and Deuce exchange a look—one of those silent conversations that couples have, and isn't that just perfect? You're already developing your own language, your own secret world that doesn't include him.

"We were worried about telling you," you admit quietly. "We didn't want things to be weird between us."

Things are already weird, he wants to scream. Things have been weird since the day I realized I was in love with my best friend and did absolutely nothing about it.

Instead, he shrugs. "Why would it be weird? You're both my friends. I'm happy for you."

The lies taste like ash in his mouth.

"Really?" Deuce asks, and there's something fragile in his voice. Something that makes Ace remember they're supposed to be best friends too. That he's supposed to care about Deuce's happiness.

And he does. That's the worst part. Even through the jealousy and the pain and the way his chest feels like it's caving in on itself, he genuinely cares about Deuce. Loves him like a brother. Which makes this whole situation feel like a betrayal and a tragedy all rolled into one.

"Really," Ace says, and this time he almost means it. "You're good for each other. Deuce needs someone who'll keep him from running headfirst into traffic, and you need someone who actually listens when you talk."

Unlike me. The words hang unspoken in the air.

You beam at him, relief written all over your face, and lean over to hug him. For a moment, you're in his arms again—warm and familiar and perfect—and he lets himself pretend. Lets himself imagine this is you telling him you love him back, not you saying goodbye to whatever chance he never took.

"Thank you," you whisper against his shoulder. "This means everything."

You mean everything, he doesn't say. You meant everything, and I was too much of a coward to tell you.

Instead, he pats your back and grins when you pull away. "Yeah, yeah, don't get all sappy on me. Save that for lover boy over here."

Deuce groans and covers his face with his hands. "Please don't call me that."

"Oh, I'm absolutely calling you that. And Juicy. And honey bun. And—"

"Ace!" you and Deuce protest in unison, and the sound of your laughter mixing together is beautiful and terrible and everything he'll never have.

Later, after you've both left to go celebrate or whatever it is new couples do, Ace lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling. His phone buzzes with notifications—probably Cater posting something stupid on Magicam, or Grim demanding tuna.

He ignores it all.

The thing is, he'd always just assumed. Assumed you'd be there when he was ready. Assumed that someday, when he'd gotten his act together, when he'd figured out how to be the kind of guy who deserves someone like you—someday, you'd still be waiting.

He'd been building himself a fence, thinking he was being smart. Playing it cool. Not wanting to ruin the friendship if you didn't feel the same way. Too scared of rejection to risk it all.

But while he was busy protecting himself, Deuce was being brave. Deuce was showing up. Deuce was becoming everything Ace was too much of a coward to be.

And now Deuce gets to hold your hand in public. Gets to kiss you goodnight. Gets to wake up every day knowing he's the one you chose.

The winner takes it all.

Ace rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, finally letting the mask slip. Finally letting himself feel the full weight of what he's lost, what he never even tried to win.

His phone buzzes again. A text from you: Thanks for being so cool about this. Love you, Ace.

He stares at those three words until his vision blurs, knowing you'll never mean them the way he does when he types back: Love you too, loser.

The gods threw their dice, and someone way down here lost someone dear.

And all Ace can do is smile and pretend his heart isn't breaking.

Leona - Vil

The words hit him like a physical blow.

"Did you hear? They're dating now—officially."

Leona's grip tightens around his phone, knuckles going white as Ruggie's voice continues on the other end, oblivious to the way his housewarden's world just tilted off its axis.

"Vil and—"

He hangs up before he can hear your name spoken in the same breath as his. The phone clatters onto his desk, and Leona stares at it like it's personally offended him. Like it's the messenger he wants to shoot.

But the damage is done. The words are already echoing in his skull, bouncing around like shards of glass.

You're with him now.

Leona sinks back into his chair, one hand dragging down his face as something hot and vicious claws at his chest. It burns—Sevens, it burns like he's swallowed fire, like there's molten metal pooling in his lungs. He can't breathe around it.

He should have seen this coming. Should have known that someone like you wouldn't stay single forever. Should have known that when he let his pride and his fears drive you away, someone else would be there to catch what he'd been too much of a coward to hold onto.

And of course it had to be Vil.

Perfect, untouchable Vil Schoenheit. Everything Leona isn't and never will be. Where Leona is rough edges and lazy afternoons, Vil is polished perfection and ambition that burns brighter than the sun. Where Leona pushes people away with his sharp tongue and sharper truths, Vil draws them in with charm and grace.

The worst part? He can see it. Can see exactly why you'd choose Vil over the memory of what you had together. Vil won't make you feel like you're asking for too much when you want to hold his hand in public. Won't make you question if he actually cares when he gets distant and cold. Won't make you cry in empty hallways because he's too proud to say the words you needed to hear.

Leona's jaw clenches so hard it aches.

He wants you in his arms instead. And that's the thing that's killing him—you had belonged there. In his arms, in his space, in his life. You'd fit against him like you were made for it, like the universe had crafted you specifically to fill the hollow spaces he'd carried around his whole life. And for a while, a brief, shining while, he'd let himself believe it could last.

But he'd been a fool. Playing by rules he'd never understood, building walls when he should have been building bridges. Every time you'd reached for him, he'd pulled back. Every time you'd needed reassurance, he'd given you silence. Every time you'd tried to make it work, he'd found a new way to sabotage it.

Because that's what second sons are good for, right? Destroying things. Being the one who doesn't get the crown, doesn't get the happy ending.

The chair groans as he pushes back from his desk, stalking to the window. The sun is setting over the garden, painting everything gold and orange, and he wonders if you're watching it too. If you're watching it with him.

His reflection stares back at him from the glass—tired eyes, bitter smile, the face of someone who's lost everything that mattered and knows it's his own damn fault.

"The winner takes it all," he murmurs to his reflection, voice rough with something that might be tears if he were anyone else. If he were the kind of person who got to cry over lost love instead of just... enduring it.

But he's not. He's Leona Kingscholar, second prince of the Sunset Savanna, and he doesn't get to fall apart just because the best thing in his life chose someone better.

Even if it's ripping him apart from the inside out.

Even if he'd give anything—his pride, his title, his very soul—for one more chance to hold you and do it right this time.

Even if the thought of Vil's hands where his used to be makes him want to scream until his throat bleeds.

The sun disappears behind the horizon, and Leona closes his eyes.

Why should I complain?

Jamil - Kalim

"Jamil! Jamil, you'll never guess what happened!"

Kalim bursts through the door of Scarabia's lounge like a miniature sun, all bright smiles and boundless energy. He's practically vibrating with excitement, and Jamil doesn't need to guess what's put that particular glow in his eyes.

He already knows. Has known since he saw you and Kalim dancing together at last night's party, saw the way you laughed at something Kalim whispered in your ear, saw the way Kalim looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

"Let me guess," Jamil says, not looking up from the paperwork spread across the coffee table. His voice is perfectly level, perfectly controlled. Years of practice have made him an expert at hiding the cracks in his composure. "You asked them out."

"Yes! And they said yes!" Kalim spins around, arms spread wide like he wants to embrace the whole world. "Can you believe it? I was so nervous, but you know how you always tell me to just be honest about my feelings? So I did, and—Jamil, I think I'm in love."

The pen in Jamil's hand stops moving.

Be honest about your feelings.

Of course. Of course that's the advice that would come back to haunt him. How many times has he told Kalim exactly that? How many times has he watched him succeed simply by wearing his heart on his sleeve, by being brave in all the ways Jamil has never allowed himself to be?

Jamil clears his throat, forces the words out.

"I'm happy for you."

And the truly devastating part is that he means it. Even as his own heart is crumbling to dust in his chest, even as every breath feels like swallowing glass, he genuinely wants Kalim to be happy. Because that's what he's been trained to do his entire life—put Kalim's happiness above his own.

Even when it destroys him.

"I have to plan the perfect date," Kalim continues, oblivious to the way Jamil's world has just collapsed. "Maybe a carpet ride at sunset? Or we could have a picnic by the oasis! Oh, or—"

"The carpet ride," Jamil interrupts quietly. "They mentioned once that they'd always wanted to try flying."

You'd mentioned it to him. During one of those late-night conversations when it was just the two of them in the kitchen, when you'd help him prep for the next day's meals and talk about everything and nothing. You'd looked so wistful when you said it, so quietly longing, and Jamil had filed it away in his heart like every other precious detail about you.

He'd planned to take you himself. Had been working up the courage for weeks, crafting the perfect moment in his mind. After the next exam, he'd told himself. After Kalim's birthday celebration. After the inter-dorm tournament. Always after, always waiting for the perfect moment that would never come.

"Really?" Kalim's face lights up even brighter, if that's possible. "You always know exactly what people want, Jamil. You're the best!"

The praise feels like a knife between his ribs.

"I should go tell them now!" Kalim heads for the door, then pauses and turns back. "Actually, wait. You don't mind, do you? I know you two are friends, and I don't want things to be weird..."

Mind? Jamil wants to laugh, wants to scream, wants to grab Kalim by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that this isn't just friendship, that Jamil has been desperately, hopelessly in love with you for months.

But he can't. Because Kalim is looking at him with such genuine concern, such innocent worry about disrupting a friendship, and it's clear that Kalim has no idea. No clue that Jamil's feelings run deeper than casual companionship.

And why would he? Jamil has spent so long hiding, so long keeping every emotion locked behind layers of duty and propriety and fear. So long being the perfect servant who wants for nothing, who exists only to facilitate his master's happiness.

"Of course not," Jamil says, and his voice doesn't even waver. "Why would I mind? You're perfect for each other."

More perfect than we could ever be.

The thought tastes bitter as poison. Because it's true, isn't it? Kalim can offer you everything Jamil can't. Freedom. Adventure. A future without the weight of servitude hanging over every moment. Kalim can love you openly, publicly, without having to hide behind carefully constructed walls.

Kalim can give you the world. Jamil can barely give you an honest conversation about his feelings.

"Thanks, Jamil!" Kalim beams and rushes out, leaving Jamil alone with the wreckage of his carefully guarded heart.

The paperwork blurs in front of him. The numbers don't make sense anymore, each figure dissolving into meaningless shapes as something hot and desperate claws at his throat.

He'd been so careful. So cautious. Waiting for the right moment, the right words, the right everything. Terrified of rejection, yes, but more terrified of what acceptance might mean. How could he ask you to tie yourself to someone who isn't even free? Someone who can't promise you anything beyond stolen moments and hidden affection?

But while he was busy protecting himself, protecting you from the complications his feelings would bring, Kalim was simply... being Kalim. Open. Honest. Brave in the way that only someone who's never had to hide can be.

The winner takes it all, and the loser has to fall.

Jamil sets down his pen and buries his face in his hands, finally allowing himself this one moment of weakness. This one moment to mourn what never was and never could have been.

Tomorrow, he'll smile and congratulate you both. He'll help plan the perfect dates and give the perfect advice and be the perfect friend, because that's what's expected of him. That's what he's good at.

But tonight, in the silence of his own failure, Jamil lets himself grieve for the love he was too afraid to fight for.

Masterlist

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ao3commentoftheday · 2 days ago

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I don’t seem to know how to write fic without being mean to the characters. There was a time when I could write fluff, non-angsty slice-of-life, and so on, but now I don’t seem to be able to tell a story without SOMETHING that hurts them.

I’ve had a lot of mental health issues in the intervening years, which I’m sure is related to the why, but doesn’t answer the what or how. It’s a problem because it’s led to me no longer being able to show my partners hardly any of my writing (a lot of dead doves hanging about, which isn’t something they can really stomach). It bothers me that I can’t share my creativity with people I care about.

Do you have any tips for lightening up, or where to find nice wholesome ideas that might spark some joy?

I don’t want to stop writing fucked-up stuff entirely, I just want to find my “nice voice” again.

*hugs* I get it, anon. Sometimes the things that we want to write aren't things we want to share - or at least, not with certain people.

I think a good first step to branching out from your current writing focus is considering what it is about this type of story that's appealing to you right now.

Do you want to make someone else experience a kind of pain or suffering that you've suffered? Pain is a lot easier to manage when you aren't doing it alone.

Do you want to feel a sense of control over someone else's fate? This can be a big comfort when you either didn't have control of your own or you feel as if control is currently slipping out of your grasp.

Do you want the catharsis of seeing someone survive the impossible? It can be extremely satisfying to watch someone claw their way out of the worst situation you can imagine. They get to be the hero in the end. They get to survive.

Do you want to feel a different kind of catharsis? Like the release of emotion that comes with a character's death? Whether they find peace in that moment or whether it's also a torment, it's still a release in the end.

These are just a handful of reasons why you might be writing these kinds of stories right now, and I'm glad you don't want to stop. They are important to you, and even if your partners don't have the same interest that's okay.

You might still be able to share your existing stories if you give your partners a version with the particularly dead doves removed and replaced with a summary, like [Character is tortured until they reveal the secret location. They are left beaten and barely alive.] Then they can pick the story back up after that point.

Of course, if you're writing shorter works then that might not be possible. One way to get back to "nicer" stories that are also on the shorter side could be to write hurt/comfort. You could still get some of what you need by hurting the characters, but then your partners would get the wholesomeness you're looking for when another character takes care of the one you've hurt.

I'll leave it here for now and open it up to ideas from the blog. I know how tough it can be when you want to share something you love with someone you love, and I hope we can get you back to being able to do that.

#asks and answers

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 2 days ago

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you want more erik? here more erik. him and reader getting caught in different situations

Warnings: 18+, undressing, caught by family member,

Let me know what you want to read about next! I don't have many Erik requests...

—

Getting caught in compromising situations was a recurring event in your and Erik’s relationships. It’s like you were both cursed, and every time you were alone, someone had to come in and interrupt.

Erik’s mouth moved across your neck while his hands gripped your thighs. The sight of you in that dress sent feral thought to his brain — and dick. You wore it without any particular intentions, but you had to admit that it made your boobs look really good.

His grip tightened, fingertips digging in just enough to make you gasp. ‘’You wore this just to mess with me, didn’t you?'' he muttered against your skin, lips brushing that sensitive spot just beneath your jaw.

You shook your head, breath catching as he pulled you closer. ‘’Didn’t even think about it,'' you replied honestly, flexing your fingers into his hair as he moved his kisses down your collarbones and decolletage. ‘’But I'm not mad that I did.''

Usually, Erik hated to be interrupted when he was gaming, but the controller was abandoned on the couch, and his character left to its death on the screen.

You grinded against him, feeling him harden in his pants. He groaned into your neck, the sound vibrating against your skin as his hands slid upward. His fingers found the thin straps of your dress, and without a word, he hooked them with deliberate ease and slid them down.

As much as you wished for Erik to hurry up, taking things slow and savouring the moment was nice too.

His lips found the curve of your shoulder and you tilted your head back, eyes fluttering shut as he nipped lightly at your skin and pulled the top of your dress down. You felt the chill air on your breasts, but Erik’s mouth quickly engulfed your nipple, and you arched your back instinctively, pressing yourself further into his touch.

It was risky to give in to any sexual activities in the living room on a Wednesday afternoon, but you and Erik were too caught up in the moment to care. You didn’t even think about the curtains not being shut. Such a sight would have given Mr. Wolowitz a heart attack.

‘’Those tits are so fucking gorgeous,’’ he praised, moving to the other nipple.

He sucked gently, then harder, sending a bolt of heat straight to your core.

‘’Erik,’’ you gasped, just as the front door opened and Julia came in, back from her hot pilates class.

Julia stopped in her tracks, dropping her gym bag with an audible thud as disgust spread on her face. ‘’Oh my god, gross!” she screeched in horror, snapping you and Erik out of your bubble.

You scrambled to pull your dress up, nearly elbowing Erik in the jaw in the process. ‘’Shit— Julia, hi!”

Below you, Erik let out a long, frustrated sigh, jaw clenched as he rested his head briefly against your collarbone. ‘’For fuck’s sake,’’ he muttered under his breath.

‘’Seriously? Can’t you do that in your own room? Not the familial couch,’’ Julia continued, voicing her disgust. ‘’I need a fork.’’

‘’A fork?’’ Erik repeated, frowning.

‘’To stab my eyes with!’’

—

#erik campbell x you #erik campbell #erik campbell x reader #final destination #final destination bloodlines

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once-in-a-blood-moon · 2 days ago

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Newlywed Solomon HCs

Solomon x GN! reader

Summary: Things Solomon does now that he's officially married to you.

AN: Hi all! I'm trying to get myself out of a writing funk (my event requesters, I'm so sorry, I'm trying ☹️). Since the new app won't have the side characters until later, I decided to just make some headcanons for Solomon so my brain could un-mushify itself. Nightbringer was but a mere taste of what married life with Solomon could be like and I need more, lol.

Warnings: Reader refers to Solomon as "my love," lengthy (I got carried away), other than that, it's all fluff!

Newlywed Solomon who wakes you up in the morning with soft whispers of love in your ear. “I’m so lucky to wake up next to you. You have no idea how much I love you.” He holds you close, legs tangled, happily sharing his warmth with you as he presses soft kisses around your face, occasionally nuzzling his nose against your neck.

Newlywed Solomon who brings you coffee in bed. He knows how you like it and makes sure every measurement of milk, sugar, or creamer is perfect. It’s bitter… almost sour, despite the effort he puts in, but you’ve learned to hold your grimace as he sips his own beside you peacefully, his off hand thumbing over your knuckles.

Newlywed Solomon who sends little texts throughout the day if you’re apart. He wants to know if you’re thinking about him like he is of you. Expect anything from a meme he found, a gif of a cat, an emoji, or even a photo of himself showing what he’s up to. If you send a photo of yourself back, be prepared to have him spam you with heart reactions and words of love. He’s happy to know you’re safe and having a good day.

Newlywed Solomon who tries to keep up with housecleaning. He’s not particularly good at it, but he’s learning as he goes. You’ll find the bed sheets freshly washed and on the bed, though the fitted sheet is clinging to the corners of the mattress by a prayer. Sometimes one of his shirts ends up folded and tucked away amongst yours (you think this is on purpose so you’d see it and wear it). A lot of it he does with magic, but your kisses of encouragement make him want to do better each time without the added help.

Newlywed Solomon who mentions extending the family… in the form of cats. Easily agreeing, you both end up walking through a shelter with the hopes of rescuing a kitty in need. He stops in front of a cage with a pair of siblings inside, and after reading about how they’ve spent their lives in the shelter, he turns to you with misty eyes and a hopeful smile. That night, you bring home two kitties that are already spoiled by Solomon in the form of a large cat tower, a fluffy bed, and a bag full of toys, treats, and pretty collars.

Newlywed Solomon who loves matching with you. Matching robes hung side by side on the wall, matching mugs sitting patiently in the cabinet to be used, even matching toothbrushes that sit on either side of the bathroom sink. He’s even imbued your wedding rings with magic to connect your hearts so that every time you touch the banding, a soft pulse of the other’s heartbeat can be felt.

Newlywed Solomon who’s only allowed to watch as you prepare meals. He’ll quickly set the table before rushing over to hold you from behind. It’s the only way to keep himself from assisting, and besides, any moment holding you is a good moment. His help in the kitchen is in the form of grocery shopping, though he tends to get a little sidetracked from the list you wrote and you end up with a fully stocked inventory and random ingredients you have no idea what to do with.

Newlywed Solomon who’s devoted to your care when you’re under the weather. If you’re physically sick, he’s constantly checking your temperature, feeding you soup (that you requested he order), as well as offering some spells to cure/comfort whatever ails you. If you’re struggling mentally, he’s doing whatever he can to support you. Whether you need to be held as you cry into his shoulder or ask for a cup of tea and some space as you sort yourself out before confiding in him, consider it done. Your well-being is the most important thing to him.

Newlywed Solomon who loves spending quality time with you. Your legs rest on his lap as you sit opposite of him on the couch, watching something on TV, while he reads a book and strokes your calf mindlessly. He’s easily distracted, studying how you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re invested, the steady rise and fall of your chest, your little reactions to a sudden twist in the show. He loves how expressive you are in these calmer moments. You’re way more interesting than a thousand words on a page.

Newlywed Solomon who watches in awe as you get ready for the day. Laying against the headboard, his eyes trail along your scantly clad body while you sift through outfits. There is no lust in his eyes, just admiration for the person you are. He loves everything about you and he loves that you trust him to see you like this. He’s vocal when you ask for his opinion, but never cruel or hurtful as there’s never anything negative to say. To him, you look wonderful in any style and he hopes you’re able to see yourself the way he sees you.

Newlywed Solomon who lets himself get dragged off to bed when he stays up too late. Even when his eyes sting and neck aches, he finds it difficult to pull away from his work and finish it the next day. So, when the bed feels too big and cold, and you come looking for him, he’s grateful. Cuddled close in the bed after you generously cover him up more than yourself, fingers card through his hair, coaxing him to sleep easily. Through a crack in his droopy lids, the last thing he sees is you, smiling softly as you whisper words of love to him. “Get some sleep, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up, just like always.”

#obey me #obey me solomon #obey me solomon x reader #obey me fluff #jo writes

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lefteagleblizzard · 1 day ago

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ℭ𝔞𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔶𝔢 𝔤𝔬 Remmick x male reader

Summary: Life’s never been easy in a town where your name and your voice mark you as different. He came in one night, same accent and struggles. But when he returns soaked in blood, you’ll have to decide what’s more dangerous: the monsters outside, or the one who wants to make you his.

Tags: stranger to lovers. Irish reader. Dark!Remmick. Dub-con. Possessive Remmick. Lots of flirting. Corruption. Manipulation. Obsessive behavior. Stalking. Minor character death. Make out session. Vampire x human sex. Blood drinking. Blood kink. Blood play. Top Remmick. Bottom male reader. Anal sex. Reader gets turned into a vampire.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 8000

The bell above the door hadn’t rung the whole night.

Outside, the street was near silent, dark and damp through the crooked alleyways of the old quarter. The lamp posts flickered on occasion, their gaslight hiss audible even from within your little shop. Rain must’ve come and gone without you noticing, the windows fogged at the edges and distorting the outside world to make it seem dreamlike.

Inside, it was faintly warm. The shop smelled of paper and wood, floorboards groaned with every step from decades of foot traffic.

The walls, a muddled cream turning to yellow, were mostly hidden behind high libraries full of books. Tomes and hardcovers stacked deep in some spots, the topmost layers leaning like towers on the edge of collapse.

The front door was cracked open the slightest to let the breeze of fresh night air pass inside the store.

On the floor in the middle of it all, you were bent over a box of books, spine aching, forearms burning as you tried to wrestle it into place for the fourth time tonight. Sweat gathered at the edges of your hairline and trickled slowly past your temple, running slick down your cheek and jaw. You weren’t even halfway done reorganizing the philosophy and theology section as you adjusted your grip on the box.

“Still got yer door hangin’ open, have ye?” A deep and casual voice cut through the cluttered stillness of the shop.

Your muscles froze mid-lift from that accent just like yours, and not. Irish undoubtedly, but not watered down by years abroad. Northern, maybe.

Dark hair, damp and curling where it clung to his temples, his fringe matted to the smooth, slightly flushed plane of his forehead. The top buttons of his white shirt undone, a glimpse of white beneath, a flash of chest slicked in sweat.

The silver chain around his neck clung to his skin, catching the warm lamplight as he stepped further in. Those suspenders stretched over his shoulders gave him that boy-from-the-docks charm that didn’t match the alertness in his eyes a bit too still.

There was amusement there, head tilted slightly with a smirk shallow as he caught sight of your struggle.

“Strugglin’ with that, are ye? Could lend a hand if ye ask sweet.”

You sucked in a breath, rolled your shoulders and let the box thump to the floor with a deep thud. One hand on your hip, the other smearing sweat from your brow, you gave him a good long look.

The heat from exertion hadn’t left your face yet and your chest rose with shallow breath.

“Shop’s open. Ye can come in,” you managed. “And, aye… wouldn’t say no to help. Been shiftin’ these bastards since sunset.”

He didn’t move immediately, rather stood there in the doorway, tilting his head. The hairs on the back of your neck stir. Something about him made the air feel wrong.

His boot met wood as he stepped inside, the door-bell unleashing a small melody in the process. One stride, then two and before you could blink, he was closer than you’d been ready for.

Body betrays your calm as your pulse surged, the beat hammering against your sternum. You tried not to flinch but you saw the moment his eyes dropped and settled on your chest.

Gaze lingering for a second too long before drifting downward, slow and smooth, to crouch and curl his fingers around the heavy box.

Your aching arms proved how much it weighed but he lifted it like it was nothing. Barely a flex of effort and his biceps strain against the fabric of that too-thin shirt. Muscle coiled and moved under his skin, the line of his forearm dense with veins and taut.

You swallowed thickly, having been alone too long, used to silence and to not having anyone look at you like that. Your eyes lingered longer than was polite and when he glanced up at you again, his lip twitching at one corner and you realized he’d noticed.

“Remmick.” He said his name low, like a secret just for you. The syllables sat rich and intimate in his mouth.

You looked away, cheeks prickling in embarrassment and immediately set to organizing the nearest stack of books as if that could erase what just passed between you.

“Right,” you muttered, voice unsteady but trying for casual, already stacking without a plan. “Nice t’meet ye.” All while you tucked those books onto the shelf with shaky logic, placing volumes wherever they’d fit.

You reached for words to fill the silence.

“So what’s a man like y’self doin’ ‘round these parts, then? Can’t imagine you’re from here.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you with those eyes of his sharp, quiet, lips parted slightly, breath slow and shallow.

“Just passin’ through.” The faintest smile again.

“Mm,” you hummed, peering over your shoulder. “Could tell from the voice. You’ve got it same as me. North? West?”

He nodded once. “Bit of both.”

You smiled a little at the difficult to describe level of comfort at knowing your shared origins, turning to him and patting your chest with mock pride. “All Irish blood here as well,” you said, trying to joke and bond with him.

Something shifted in his face. The subtle and barely visible glow in his eyes was like a candle catching breath.

His jaw tightened, lips sealing shut like they were locking something in and, suddenly, you were very aware of how quiet the shop had become, while he heard your heart skipping and the blood rushing hot beneath your skin.

Books in your arms, he observed as you slotted them onto the shelves like it mattered, though you couldn’t have said why, not truly. Always shifting and reordering the little kingdom of your shop like maybe if you got it right, the world would finally take notice and stop pressing down on your shoulders so hard.

You didn’t see him wipe at the side of his mouth to remove the bead of spit that gathered at the edge of his chin.

“Ye always reorganizin’ like this?” he asked, the lilt still mild.

“Dunno. Helps me think, I guess.” You shrugged while pulling another from the box, a worn leather-bound copy of The Children of Lir, running your thumb along the engraved spine before placing it down. “Or maybe I just like torturin’ myself. Could’ve picked anything but I went to a place that doesn’t even want me here.” A short, breathy laugh came next.

Your tone was light, but Remmick heard the bitterness just below the edge. You picked up the next book, thinner and water-damaged but still, your hands handled it like it was sacred.

He could see how your fingers trembled just a little and he tilted his head slightly.

“An’ how’s the place been treatin’ ye then, mm?” he asked.

The words came light and sounded friendly, but even to his own ears it landed too measured.

He was holding the edges of his wrath like glass in his palms and it took everything in him not to let it bleed.

“Not as bad as it was at the start. Folk here don’t forget you’re not from ‘round these parts. Accent sticks out like bruises on a nun.” You laughed to yourself. “But it’s gotten better.”

You stepped back from the shelf and set your free hand on your hips, twisting to crack your spine.

“There’s two wee ones that come in every week with their mam to read fables,” you continued, tugging another book from the box. “Little lads, properly obsessed with selkies and monsters and all that shite. Think they believe they’ll see one if they squint at the pages hard enough.”

Remmick said nothing, watching how your shoulders moved with each breath, still holding the box for you.

“The mother though…” you smirked, turning back toward him with the book still in your hand. You straightened your spine and pinched your lips into a perfect haughty sneer. “‘Excuse me,’ she says, voice tighter than her corset. ‘Are these books…appropriate for children?’ Like she’s not lettin’ ‘em climb dead trees in the graveyard behind her own house.” You laughed outright now, open and honest at recalling the woman’s superior attitude.

“And there’s a man. Comes in Thursdays, like clockwork. Won’t say what he’s collectin’ but always buys somethin’. He pays full price so he’s welcome.”

You turned again, brows lifting as you reached into the box for the next one.

“Ye happy here?” No lilt or smirk in his voice, those words felt like rocks being thrown at ye.

Your hand paused above the box, blinking and suddenly breathless in a way that had nothing to do with lifting books.

You turned your head slightly, half-glancing toward him, unsure if you’d imagined the tone but it had been real.

Happy?

No one asked that.

People asked how sales were, if you’d dusted the poetry shelf or where the toilets were, even though the shop didn’t have any.

You swallowed and before you could stop yourself, the words started tumbling out, spilling from your lips like you’d been holding them back too long.

“Don’t think I’ve been properly happy since I got here,” you admitted, quieter now, voice stripped of its playfulness. “Not really. Folk look at me like I’m squattin’ in their church or put some foreign curse on their kids for touchin’ the encyclopedias.”

You laughed bitterly, eyes flicking to your boots.

“I try so hard. Keep the place tidy, learn their names and say ‘mornin’’ when it’s pissin’ rain and I haven’t slept. But it’s like I’m just tolerated.”

Your voice broke slightly then, not enough for tears but it made you stop, looking down at the book in your hands. The gold flake on the spine was peeling.

“I guess I just wanted somethin’ simple,” you said, quieter still. “Somewhere I could belong. Books don’t judge how I say things or where I’m from. They don’t get cold when they realize I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Fuck. Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump all that on you. You’re just holdin’ a box, you’re not my priest.” You turned your head quickly, looking up at him with a sheepish, crooked smile and embarrassment in full display, voice dropping into a murmur.

He didn’t speak.

With those eyes you had, clear and glinting with self-deprecation, Remmick thought you might be the most precious fuckin’ thing he’d seen in years.

“S’alright,” he said softly. “You talk like that, I listen.”

Your hands grazed his as you finally reached to take the box from him. Skin touched skin, the briefest brush of warm fingers over cold ones. Your arms flexed delicately, straining under the weight as you drew the box in close.

Veins popped just faintly under your skin as you cradled it gently and it made something twist in his gut.

He wanted to press his mouth to the thudding pulse in your wrist and drink until the sweet, earnest blood poured past his teeth like wine blessed by saints and the ache in his chest quieted.

You set the box on the counter, arms shaking just slightly, exhaling through your nose.

“So, uh…” you looked up at him then, trying to reclaim some air of normalcy. “You lookin’ for anything in particular?”

He blinked once. The question had caught him off guard because he hadn’t come here for books.

“Might be I came lookin’ for somethin’,” he said, his voice low—warmer now, but only just. “Figured ye might have a title or two, maybe somethin’ nearly as interestin’ as yerself.”

There was something wrong with the smile now, a little too slow and wide, like it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your eyebrows rose instinctively at the challenge buried beneath his words, eyes darting downward toward the box still cradled on the counter beside you. You muttered softly to yourself, half in Irish and half-broken English, the way people do when they’re thinking too fast for their tongue. “Swear I saw it… t’was in here somewhere.”

You dug, shifting aside volumes, leather-worn, threadbare and torn-lipped, before your fingers found the cloth-covered spine tucked half-hidden behind a row of older, heavier works. You gasped faintly in triumph as you drew it out.

The cover was green. Not bright but mossed, softened by age and the oils of countless fingers before yours. The edges of the pages curled slightly inward. Gold flake still clung to the title, just barely. You brushed your thumb over the words, reverent in your delivery.

W. B. Yeats — The Wind Among the Reeds.

“Here.”

You turned then, arm outstretched, book offered like a gift. A smile lingered at the corners of your mouth, proud of having found what you believed to be the perfect thing for him.

He hadn’t moved, stood rooted to the floor like a shadow nailed to the shape of a man. Hands tucked deep in his pockets, face unmoved, eyes locked on your mouth.

Your pulse told him more than your face ever could.

You cleared your throat, voice dropping softer, suddenly shy.

“It’s not really a love story,” you told him, glancing down at the book in your hands. “It’s the kind that doesn’t end so much as a haunt. Lovers that ruin and leave behind bones.”

An exhale through his nose as his head tilted slightly, curls shifting across his forehead, his eyes never once leaving yours.

“Yeats always knew how t’bruise a heart. Beautiful words for things that rot ye slow.” His tongue slid over his lower lip, absent, almost thoughtful.

The way he said it made your throat tighten. He stepped just a fraction closer.

“Never could tell,” he added, “if his pain came from the livin’ or the ones already dead.”

Your smile was small then, brave in the way only someone unarmed could be and you replied with a shrug.

“Bhraith mé… is cosúil le rud a léifeadh duine mar tusa faoi dhó.”

(Felt like the kind of thing someone like you might read twice.)

The grin that split his face was too wide. Lips parted, teeth sharp and stained faintly darker at the gums.

“Maybe ye just wanted me dreamin’ of ye when I read it,” that voice now a velvet purr.

He leaned back to glance down at the book again. “An’ what do I owe ye for that, then?”

His head tilted again, a predator pretending he wasn’t hunting.

You smiled. That soft, cocky thing again to tease.

He wanted to bite it off your face.

“Nothin’ yet. Read it first.” Your fingers brushed the corner of the book before you offered it to him and tilted your head. “If I guessed right, if it hits ye just the way I think it will… then maybe next time, I’ll show ye what else I’ve got a knack for choosin’.”

That did something to him.

“Oh, now that’s wicked, darlin’,” he breathed, crooked smile back and full of meaning.

He held the book lightly now to keep the smell of your hands on it.

“Careful now,” he whispered, leaning forward again just a fraction. “If ye keep guessin’ me right, I might think ye were made for me.”

His voice dipped on the last word, turning it into something worse than a promise.

The book shifted in his hands as he turned to leave. The sky beyond the windows had begun to glow faintly at the approach of dawn.

He had to leave and it killed him.

Then something dropped from between the pages and it made a small clicking sound. It bounced once against the wooden floor and rolled a bit toward your boot.

A small pin the shape of a four-leaf clover that you remembered vaguely. Probably used it as a bookmark and forgot about it entirely.

If you had been thinking then you would have definitely not have done what was about to occur.

One second you were dusting the pin in your palm, the next, stepping into his space, your hand brushed the white fabric of his shirt, fingers lifting the right suspender to adjust the strap where it lay taut across his chest.

“Here, let me…” you whispered.

Knuckles grazed the edge of his chest as you carefully attached the pin to his chest and he leaned forward slightly.

Why did it felt like he wasn’t breathing?

You could feel the stillness of his chest, the absence of rise and fall. The muscle beneath the shirt was hard and you hadn’t even meant to feel that.

He hadn’t been touched like that in decades. Not with tenderness or that unconscious affection in the curl of your fingers and the little crease between your brows as you focused on pinning the clover to the perfect place on his chest. Your knuckles brushed the skin under the edge of his collar and his throat ached — dry and tight — with the weight of restraint.

His fangs ached, pressed behind the gumline like blades, cock twitching in his trousers at the innocent intimacy of the moment.

Once you were done, you stepped back, arms crossing over your chest. “Bit o’ luck never goes amiss,” you said. Your voice was quieter now. “Not for folks like us.”

He stared at you, that strange stillness again.

“Pretty thing that is, aye… but not half as lovely as the one puttin’ it on me.” husky tone, low and soaked with smug amusement.

You snorted, too flustered to be clever and your hand lifted before your thoughts caught up and smacked his chest lightly. A friendly scold and you soon turned away before your face betrayed just how his words made you feel.

You were halfway to the counter when he called your name and it made your body stop in your track.

It hit you like a cold hand down your spine.

“Things’ll be better soon. I promise ye that.”

The door swung gently closed to alert you he was gone. A minute passed as you stared and then the cold realization began to crawl up the back of your neck.

You never told him your name.

It didn’t start all at once.

The night after he left, the rain had been tearing at the city for hours, drumming against the windows with a fury that blurred the streetlights outside.

You’d stayed later than usual and when you went to close up. The brass bell above the door gave a small jingle as you turned the lock.

That’s when you saw the mat inside the threshold had patches at the center and it was soaked at the edges, as if someone had been standing there for a long time.

And the lock was still latched.

The next night, late in the hours. You’d just finished shelving a donation box of old encyclopedias. You were getting ready to close again when the bell above the door chimed.

You turned slowly toward the front but no one was there.

Waited. Five seconds. Ten.

Then walked to the door in case this was one of the usual local teens pulling a prank.

Nothing.

You shut the door fast, locked it and backed away from it, heart now thudding.

It happened again the next night.

And the one after.

The bell would jingle once and make your nerves snap taut.

Every time you turned your back to the deeper shelves, you felt a prickling under your skin. Like the sensation of being observed like a painting hung in a mausoleum.

You kept telling yourself you were just tired from all this working too hard late at night.

Hence why you would accidentally fall asleep in the place. You’d be sitting at your desk, notes scattered, cheek pressed into your palm as the ink bled slowly across the margin of a receipt. Then you’d jolt upright when waking up.

Hand still tucked beneath your chin, elbow asleep from the pressure and the windows you had far away from you would be fogged at the outside edges.

In the center a perfectly clear circle, wiped clean like someone had been standing there watching.

Today, the street outside was empty and you didn’t mind, really. The quiet suited you. Your shift had started an hour ago, the sun now sliding low and red over the distant rooftops, shadows stretching long across the hardwood floor. The place had been entirely yours up until that moment.

The brass bell above the front door sang its usual delicate tune and then came a smooth and easy voice equipped with a deep Southern drawl.

“Well now, there he is. Thought I was gonna have t’send up a search party this time.”

You stopped mid-step on the high library ladder, one hand still gripping the spine of a dark blue collection of books.

That voice was well known and you smiled while climbing down.

“Mornin’, Mister Price,” you called as your boots hit the floor, accent thick and rolling, Irish vowels softening the name as it passed your lips. “Or I s’pose evenin’, now, with the way the light’s goin’.”

He chuckled, that warm, molasses laugh he always carried.

“Evenin’, aye,” he mimicked gently, the Irish lilt stumbling on his Mississippi tongue. “You say it sweeter, though. If I’d’a grown up with a voice like yours round, I reckon I’d be readin’ poetry to walls.”

You stepped from behind the shelf and emerged into the main aisle, brushing your hands on your trousers absently. Price stood by the doorway, hat in hand like he was afraid to bring in dust with it, his boots perfectly clean, dark hair combed back, sleeves rolled to the forearm.

“You flatter me, sir,” you said, walking toward the counter with a grin tugging at your mouth. “Now, are ye here for more actual readin’, or are we playin’ the same old game again?”

His eyes lit up at that like usual.

“I s’pose I’m here to tempt fate,” he said, slowly making his way to the front desk. “Maybe see if the fine gentleman behind the counter can suss me out this time. Think yer luck’ll hold?”

You leaned one elbow on the counter and raised a brow.

“Well now, that’d depend, wouldn’t it? I’ve been at reorganisin’ all mornin’, got a few weapons lyin’ about if ye fancy pushin’ yer luck.”

“Dangerous,” he grinned, resting one hand on the edge of the desk, thumb tapping gently against the wood. He leaned in slightly, his grin easy but sharp behind the charm.

“You ever think maybe I’m just tryin’ to impress the man behind the counter?”

You huffed a small laugh, walking to the end of the counter where another pile waited for sorting.

“Tryin’ too hard, then,” you said over your shoulder. “Impressin’ someone usually works better when you’re not collectin’ cursed documents, y’know.”

“And here I thought you’d be flattered.” He followed, hands in his pockets now, tone warm and low. “A man comin’ all this way, spendin’ his hard-earned on your favorite shelves.”

You turned slightly, giving him a glance, lips tugged into a half-smile.

“I’m flattered,” you said. “Don’t mean I’m takin’ the bait.”

He laughed again, that laugh always a little rough at the edges.

“Ye ready f’me guess?” you asked, walking back behind the counter.

He folded his arms, one brow lifted. “You don’t even know what I’m lookin’ for.”

You raised your hand, pointed a finger in mock warning.

“Ye never say what it is yer after, and still I’m meant t’divine it outta dust an’ guesswork.”

“Aye,” he said, mimicking your accent again and terribly. “That’s half the fun.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and then leaned down, rummaging under the counter until your hand closed around a title you’d pulled out earlier in preparation, just in case he came. You liked this more than you admitted.

You laid it out in front of him with a flourish, palm flat on the cover.

Witchcraft and Superstitious Record in the South, compiled by H.B. Adams.

His eyes dropped to the cover and a grin started to pull at the corner of his mouth but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Close,” he drawled, “not quite it, though.”

You blinked. “What d’ye mean?”

He chuckled, tapping the cover once with a knuckle. “I’ll give you credit, sweetheart. You always get close. But today I’m after The Cross and the Scalpel. You know it?”

Your mouth parted. “The medical missionary memoir?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, smirking. “1843, original press. Ol’ Reverend Tinsley down in Vicksburg. Talks about savin’ souls while cuttin’ tumors out of ‘em.”

Your brow furrowed and you let out a breathy little scoff. “Well Jesus, that’s unexpected.” You put your hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. I concede.”

“You always do,” he winked.

You shook your head, already stepping away from the counter. “I’ve got it. Somewhere in the theology shelf. Won’t be but a tick.”

“Take your time,” he said, voice low. “I enjoy the view.”

You didn’t look back since you were already disappearing behind the tall row of aged wood and teetering volumes, heart still amused and light. You moved quietly, hand trailing across the spines, muttering to yourself.

There were two books out of place and tutted under your breath, pulling them free and fixing the order.

You glanced up to see the sun was gone.

The window showed nothing now but darkness. You stared at it, some tight thing pressing under your ribs and just as you were about to turn, your eyes snapped to the front glass.

Two small, glowing gold points.

Set too high and unmoving to be headlights and too still to be fireflies.

They observed and you couldn’t breathe. One blink and they were gone like they were never there.

It’s not real. You’re tired. You haven’t slept well recently. You’re seeing things, that’s all it is.

“Got it,” you said aloud to no one, to break the tension choking your own throat, pulling the book from the shelf with a puff of dust, cheeks puffing and blowing it off in one breath.

Seconds later the door exploded open.

The book nearly flew from your hands when your heart punched into your throat, turning sharply at the noise, breath caught in your chest.

The door stood wide, the handle cracked and hanging loosely, the wood around it splintered like something had struck it hard.

Setting the book down carefully on the shelf, you stepped back and turned.

No Price. He was gone completely. You called softly and there were no answers.

You moved between the aisles, weaving through the stacks.

Nothing.

The shop was silent again but it didn’t felt empty.

You walked back to the counter, fingers ready to pull open the bottom drawer to maybe find something to fix the door handle, but stopped halfway there still between libraries.

There was a bright glint on the side of the counter against the warm wood that you spotted from far away.

Droplets of fresh blood exactly where Price had been leaning earlier, a small smear where his hand must have been.

Behind you, the old wood of a floorboard behind creaked.

You stepped back instinctively to turn and your back hit something solid.

A warm chest.

A sharp, broken gasp got caught halfway to a scream and you spun, staggering back two full steps.

Remmick stood there, hands raised in front of him, palms outward trying to show you he wasn’t any harm. His hair was wet, curling slightly, damp with sweat or something worse. The tank top clung to his torso, white and soaked in patches, the thin silver chain at his neck catching the dim light.

His suspenders hung loose at his hips, swaying slightly with his breath.

That emerald pin that you gave him the first night you met was now there in the same place you had placed it on his white shirt.

But that wasn’t what caught you.

It was the blood on the side of his mouth that caught your attention.

A thin trail, smeared down from the corner of his lips to his chin, half-dried and half-wet.

On his neck, faint red streaks dragged down the skin, patchy and raw.

Beneath his jaw, a streak of red dragged crooked across his neck, not deep but messy, as though he had wiped at it in a panic and only spread it further.

On the side of his nose there was a thin trail that dried there, dark against his skin, carving a path down to the corner of his mouth where it pooled faintly. A smear across his chin and a bloom of it at the base of his neck.

His thumbs were stained dark, the colour seeping under the nails. Droplets and streaks of blood clung to his tank top showing the built he had beneath it.

He looked wrecked.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it. “Didn’t mean to scare ye,” he said softly, voice low and fragile. “I—fuck—” he looked to the side, staggered half a step, like it hurt him to stand. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You forgot the question forming on your tongue as you stepped forward, instinct more than thought. “What happened to you?” you whispered.

“Ye said it yerself. Some folk ‘round here just don’t like us,” he said, smile faint and hurt.

You stepped closer to him until your feet closed the short distance between you before your mind could catch up with your body.

And Remmick watched it happen with something dark blooming slow behind his eyes.

The light overhead caught the thin sheen of sweat on his chest, right where the neck of his white tank dipped low over the thick muscle there. The cotton clung to him in parts, translucent at the collarbone, streaked in patches where the blood hadn’t dried yet.

His hand rose then, slow and steady and you didn’t flinch when it cupped your cheek. The faint tremor in his palm wasn’t hard to miss.

He was lost for a second as he looked at you, the flickering light catching in the amber of his eyes. His thumb ghosted just beneath your cheekbone, breath shallow and jaw tense.

“I’m leavin’ tonight. I’ve no choice.” He said suddenly, voice rough and you blinked.

“What?”

You stared at him and his gaze never left yours. “…I needed t’see ye once more ‘fore I go.”

That quiet desperation wrapped in a calm mask made your throat tighten.

“Why?”

“Because I want ye t’come with me.”

Your spine straightened in instinct, like you’d misheard him and you stepped back.

Or tried to.

His other hand moved, landing at your waist and keeping you where you were. Warm fingers spread at your side, thumb digging slightly into your hip.

“Remmick—” you whispered.

Your gaze dropped from his face, from those awful, beautiful eyes that never seemed to blink. Your heart was pounding again, harder now, stammering against your ribs like a warning.

The lack of immediate opposition, the silence and your hesitation were an answer in itself. You were thinking about it and that alone was enough for him to lean in closer.

“I’ve been down ‘round here f’ years an’ I’ve never felt anything like that night with ye.”

You were trembling now, fingers barely touching the fabric of his shirt, knuckles brushed red where your grip had tightened.

“I don’t want ye left behind in this place,” he went on. “I can’t stomach the thought of them layin’ a finger on ye. I’d never forgive myself if somethin’ happened,” he whispered.

The weight of his words cracked something in you.

You didn’t speak or pull away.

Your eyes drifted to his face, the naked want behind his eyes and the lips stained faintly with blood.

The blood on him wasn’t his.

None of it was, like he wanted ye to believe.

It soaked into the seams of his pants, still damp beneath the waistband, painting streaks down his forearms, flecked across his chest and beaded in faint rivulets across his collarbone, clung to the silver chain around his neck, and trickled from the corner of his mouth.

It all belonged to the man who played games with you about books, who smiled with all his teeth like he’d earned you just by being persistent. The one who leaned on your counter and called you sweetheart.

Remmick had watched the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at that bastard. Heard your heartbeat shift when Price leaned too close, tasted the flicker of excitement behind your words when you caught him off guard with your guesses. You didn’t even know what you were giving away, how sweet your affection looked from the outside.

How desirable and unacceptable.

It was all it took. He waited just beyond the alley while the sun dipped and your laugh floated out behind the tall and old shelves.

In seconds, Remmick was already behind him. The man never made a sound from how fast everything happened.

His body left the earth with a choked noise and hit the brick wall at the back of the shop like a sack of meat, pinned through the chest by Remmick’s knees while his fangs sank deep inside the man’s jugular. Blood spilled fast at first, then slow until it went still.

But Remmick didn’t stop there because the rage in him bloomed and spread fast violently.

He shredded the man apart.

First the throat with his fangs. Then, the sternum, fingers splitting bone like wet bark, yanking ribs open with a shuddering crack that felt better than it should’ve. Finally, the jaw, because he’d used it to speak to you, so Remmick wanted to hear what it sounded like breaking.

He hid the rest left with his now ruined shirt soaked beyond salvation after it clung to him heavy with blood.

Peeled it off with hands shaking not from guilt, but from restraint.

He knew what he’d done and he’d do it again.

Because you were his.

Now, standing in front of you again, all trembling breath and sweet voice, he wore the aftermath like bait.

Letting you believe it was him who had been hunted. That the blood was his and not of the man whose neck he’d crushed for smiling at you too long.

You stood there, too close to him, heart pounding like a war drum behind your ribs, your body wound tight in the space between fear and want. He’d backed you into this moment with words spun like scripture, palms warm at your waist, voice like honey over poison. Still, despite every signal in your bones telling you something was wrong, your mouth parted and the question fell out anyway, soft, trembling and stripped down to your most vulnerable self.

“How’m I meant t’trust ye?” It lingered there, heavy, hanging in the warm air of the bookshop. You kept your eyes low but because looking him full in the face might have broken the fragile hold you had on your own will.

Remmick smiled. Not that wolfish grin you’d seen before, this smile was quiet and softer.

“Ah, darlin’,” he whispered, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek. “Trust ain’t about bein’ safe. It’s about choosin’ the one who’d burn the world down just t’keep ye from breakin’. That’s me, mo ghrá.”

He said the word like it was sacred.

“I won’t ask ye to give it to me all at once. Not now. But think about what it’d be like. You and me. Nothin’ holdin’ us back. Nothin’ in our way. No one shovin’ us to the side of the street like we’re rot in their gutters.”

You swallowed, throat tight. He leaned down more, lips ghosting inches from yours, forehead resting against your own.

“Ye’ve a heart far too big for a place this mean, darlin’. They’ll tear it to bits if ye stay an’ I swear t’ye, I’ll rip every last one o’ them apart ‘fore I let ‘em touch it.”

Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering and a knot formed inside your throat.

“Come with me an’ I’ll build us a place with these two hands an’ not a soul breathin’’ll lay a finger on it.”

His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, painting the skin beneath his thumb with rusty red.

He was glowing with sweat, with blood you had no clue wasn’t his own, curls still damp and clinging to his forehead and despite the fear and wrongness that crept along your spine, you wanted him.

‘My mouth is wet with your name and the night knows not which lips have spoken it.’ he murmured, voice low and lush as the words pierced you like a blade slipped beneath the ribs.

It came from the book you gave him that night. You’d read it more than once and marked that line. The one you never admitted made you ache with a kind of hunger that books never truly quenched.

“I’d set the world alight for ye, just say the word, darlin’. I’m yers.”

Your lips crashed into his in surrender, desperately grabbing the back of his neck, fingers curling into damp curls, tasting copper on his mouth and not caring. He groaned low, almost inhuman and crushed you to him, hands sliding down to your waist, locking there.

Your body arched into his, chest to chest, the heat of his skin bleeding through the tank, the blood smearing between you unnoticed. His grip was hard and possessive, lips parting to catch and devour yours in a fierce kiss.

His mouth tasted of iron, clung beneath the sweetness of him, rich and heady, laced into the heat of his tongue as it slid across your lower lip and deeper into your mouth.

Your back struck the tall bookshelf behind you with a low thud. The thick, stained wood shuddered behind you from the impact, but you barely noticed.

He hovered over your fame and leaned to deepen the kiss.

Hot, wet and endless as his tongue slid against yours, tasting you like a man denied water for days. You gasped into him and he swallowed it, the sound lost in the slick slide of your tongues moving against each other.

The shelf behind you creaked.

A futile warning that got ignored as he kept pressing.

His body pinned yours to it now, the muscles of his chest flexing as the fingers on the side of your face tightened enough to tilt your head and drink deeper from your lips.

Books began to topple, thumping to the floor as you kept engaging in the kiss.

A deep and guttural groan rolled from the pit of his chest and bled out between your bodies, humming against your sternum, a pulse of something primal and possessive that shook you to your core. His lips parted wider against your own.

Teeth a bit too sharp pressed just barely into your bottom lip and before you could flinch, before your mind could name what was happening, they pierced.

A sting sharp and precise that caused the warmth of your blood to flood out between you.

The second he tasted it, he pushed harder into you, breath shaking with lips now slick with your blood now and his tongue lapped eagerly at the wound, dragging over it to gather every drop with slow, greedy strokes. The hand on your cheek slid around to the back of your neck, gripping the nape like a claim as he pressed his body.

The shelf cracked and you barely registered it because his mouth was everywhere, tongue teasing, lips tugging, kiss growing more desperate and wild as if your blood had unlocked something he’d kept chained until now.

With a crash, the shelf behind you fell.

You yelped, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth and books tumbling around, the shelf falling like a toppled cross and he came with it, on top of you, his weight pressing you down, solid and unrelenting as your body landed on the wooden bookshelf now on the floor.

The impact was only a fraction of what it could have been because his arm moved fast, catching your neck and cradling your head, absorbing the worst of it so your skull barely felt the impact with the wood.

All you did feel was the full weight of him, thighs tight around yours, chest heaving above you and the tank top sticking to his skin, damp with droplets and small streaks of blood and sweat. His silver chain dangled above your neck as he kissed you again, still hungry and lost in it, moaning quietly into your mouth as the rest of the shop seemed to collapse around you.

You heard the domino crash of other shelves falling in succession, toppling one after the other. Books spilling everywhere and pages getting torn.

The heat of him rolled off in waves now that he was completely above you, a heavy press of sweat-slick muscle and breath that never seemed to draw deep, only expelled in low, guttural sounds that ground out through clenched teeth.

His groan dragged long and wet against your open mouth, broken in the middle by a grunt. He tongued at the corner of your lip again, sucked it into his mouth.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered between kisses, tongue slipping over your teeth as his hand on your waist clamped tighter, hard enough to bruise, likely already painting your skin in hand-shaped marks you’d find later, hot and purple.

The wood beneath you groaned as you further sunk in it. Your fingers curled harder into his hair, tugging his curls tight against your fist and he gasped against your mouth with a hiccuped, “Nnnhh—fuuuuck—” as your other hand slid up the breadth of his shoulder, feeling the hard bunch of muscle under soaked cotton and sweat.

His breath was all teeth now, panting through his nose when his lips weren’t devouring yours, huffing and snarling into the kiss.

His hand drifted down, large palm spreading flat against your lower back before he started to haul you up off from the bookshelf, one thick arm behind your spine pulling you into the crook of his body. The other hand braced behind you against the nearest shelf fir support and, the second he did, the wood cracked under the force.

The shelf let out a long groan before snapping, a surprised moan muffled against his open mouth as you felt the jolt of weight shift behind you, more books cascading to the floor in a torn flurry.

His groan was frustration made flesh, low and vibrating. “Shite—” yours instead, when it followed, was a breathless chuckle.

“Ye’re—hahh—makin’ a fuckin’ mess of the place, Rem,” you murmured, your breath ragged against his mouth, lips raw from the friction, “An’ here I thought you were leavin’ tonight—”

He didn’t smile or laugh. His eyes were locked to your mouth, amber-red in the way of dying coals in a fireplace, pulsing faint, like heat building behind the surface.

“We’re leavin’. You an’ me. Ye said yes.” He rasped, voice hoarse, voice not right, like something was fraying at the edge of it. His head lowered toward your neck, breath hot and mouth dragging open kisses across your collarbone.

His lips found a smear of blood on your jaw coming from your bleeding lip and he licked it up slow, wet and audible, his tongue dragging back to your mouth as he went.

“Ye’ve no idea the things I’ll do t’thank ye proper, darlin’.” He breathed, his voice low and ragged, broken in places like an old pipe giving way.

Another kiss, this one deeper. You moaned into it, his tongue sliding wetly against yours, his grunt when your tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth was loud, a desperate growl that ended in a breathless, “Nnnhhhhmm—fuck, yer killin’ me—”

His hand released your waist only to drop lower, palm sliding over the curve of your arse as he hoisted you up from the wrecked shelf.

When he broke from the kiss, he hovered close, breath hot, lips smeared in blood and spit brushed your throat, pressed wetly there, then dragged lower, followed by his tongue dragging along your pulse, thick and slow.

His palm wrapped around your upper arm tightly, fingers pressing too deep as he began to guide you back toward the counter.

Thick and glutinous drool gathered at the corner of his chin as he tugged you rapidly through the narrow aisle.

God, something in you whispered to run because men didn’t act like this, nor would they ever get so hungry and turned on by the taste of blood.

But your fucking soft, yearning heart didn’t listen.

The way he looked at you and how he held you was everything you’d ever imagined but never found. Only read in books. Longed and cried for behind the shop curtain when the days were long and cold and lonely.

The counter met your back with a bang, everything on top of it rattling violently as he was over you again, lips dragging your mouth open once more with his own.

“Mmmfff—” you gasped into him as his tongue sought yours again, shameless, open-mouthed, desperate. He licked up the side of your lips, tasting sweat and blood, the low groan in his chest vibrating through your whole skull.

The drool against your skin smearing from his jaw landing just under your cheekbone.

Both of his hands had disappeared beneath your shirt, the callouses on his fingertips scraping up your ribs, the pads of them catching on hair and bone and muscle. He palmed your sides like he meant to memorize them, dragging his thumbs inward along your stomach, slow and greedy, until they pressed into the soft curve below your pecs.

Down their path, his fingers left smears of drying blood and the coppery scent of it, filled the small air between you.

Your own hands, trembling slightly now though not from fear, flattened against his chest. He kissed you harder before moving.

An hand of his flew to your waist and turned you, your hips slammed into the edge of the counter with a thud that knocked your breath out, head ducking forward instinctively, both hands flying to brace yourself against the surface.

His hips ground into yours from behind, his cock grinding right up along the cleft of your ass through both your clothes. You gasped, the pressure immediate and blinding.

Even through the thick fabric of his trousers, you could feel it hot and throbbing, the curve of it thick and wide. Your own hips jerked instinctively, trying to relieve the ache, grinding back into him with a muffled moan.

“Ahh—shite—Remmick—” you gasped.

He groaned into the back of your neck, both hands pressing down on your hips to still you, hips rolling once more, slow and agonizingly deliberate.

His fingers fumbled down at his waistband, rough and quick. The zipper screeched down loudly even over the thunder of your own heartbeat hammerin’ through your skull.

You scrambled for your own belt, clumsier than him by far, hands shaking as you yanked it open, button popping, trousers sagging. The whole time, his mouth never stopped, panting against your skin, speaking between kisses, low and breathless:

“Soon as I laid eyes on ye that night, standin’ there with yer cheeks flushed, little sheen o’ sweat slidin’ down yer jaw, I knew ye were the one f’me.” His voice dropped, all rumble and want.

The second your trousers were down, half-falling past your knees and felt the air hit your arse, one of his hands dropped between your thighs and wrapped tight around your cock, stroking once, firm and sure and your whole body bucked with a strangled hiss.

You pushed back into him instinctively, ass grinding against the thick line of his cock, greedy for friction, as felt it twitch.

He groaned, teeth clenched, hand sliding up from your hip and back to his mouth.

Turning your head enough to see through the haze of desire you saw the glisten of drool and blood mixed from your earlier kiss.

He scooped it with two fingers, collected it fast and shamelessly, jaw hanging open, tongue flicking against the back of his teeth as he worked his own spit between his fingers before down.

The second his cock touched your entrance slicked, thick and pulsing, your whole spine arched.

When he entered, the sound he emitted was inhuman as he sank in, inch after inch, stretching you with a brutal, steady thrust.

Stretch blinding and the only thing keeping you grounded was the iron grip of his fingers digging into your waist, anchoring you there as his cock pushed deeper until he was all the way in, shaft so thick your toes curled.

He didn’t ease into it. His hands were iron at your hips as he fucked into you with force that rattled your bones, brutal thrusts that shoved your body forward against the counter hard. The wood beneath your fingers creaked, not unlike you with a jaw clenched, breath stuttering and the edge between agony and bliss blurring until all you could do was hold on and take it.

You bit down on your bleeding lower lip, trying not to scream and stay upright.

He wasn’t helping ‘cause he wouldn’t slow down.

Every thrust was deep and ruthless and… so perfect.

Remmick groaned, lips dragging against your shirt-covered shoulder when you felt multiple sharp points there, the delicate kiss of blades beneath fabric.

He wasn’t hiding his fangs anymore, too lost in the bliss of the moment and, with a savage growl, he bit down straight through cloth, shredding the shoulder seam of your shirt with those terrible, beautiful teeth.

The second it occurred, a scream tore through your lips as pain exploded bright, the fabric of the shirt was torn away with his mouth. The wound opened beneath the bite instantly, blood welling up fast and his mouth latched over it.

He sucked in greedy, wet and loud laps, tongue lashing over the gash with shuddering sighs of pleasure that vibrated into your flesh.

You could feel the suckling drag of his mouth as he took your blood in, throat working audibly, while drinking you in mouthfuls.

All occurring as he kept fucking you harder, cock pistoned in and out of you, your arse red from the slap of his hips meeting you over and over, the squelch of friction mingling with your breathless, trembling moans.

The fingers that were wrapped around your own deck felt wrong now. Too long as they curled with unnatural precision, stroking your length in tight, perfect jerks.

He snarled around your shoulder, tongue sweeping the wound again, gathering blood in his mouth, lips smeared red.

Then that other clawed hand reached up and ripped your shirt wide on the other side, baring more of your shoulder and chest to bite down on.

Another wound bloomed, skin splitting beneath his bite with fangs buried deeper than before. A warm rush of red liquid pouring down your chest, and his mouth worked on the gash, tongue working fast to make sure nothing more would trail away, grunting as he lapped.

The more he fucked you, the more blood was pumped into your body and the more he drank and the more blood he drank, the harder he fucked you.

You felt your heart begin to race too fast, adrenaline surging to keep you you alive but your body was failing.

Legs trembling now and head swimming, mouth parting for breath that came too shallow.

And behind Remmick moaned deep into your neck now— when did he even got there in the first place?— as his fangs hovered at your jugular now, tasting with his tongue dragging over the skin there.

Desserts f’r last.

You turned your head, slow and dizzy, catching a glimpse of him at last.

His tank top, once white, was now soaked in your blood, plastered to his body. His chest was smeared with crimson, dripping in places. That bright green pin at his collar, the four-leaf clover you’d given him, was ruined, stained deep red, barely clinging.

His eyes burned.

Red irises glowing bright and wrong. His fangs, fully bared, hung from his mouth like daggers, coated in blood same as his crimson lips, stained and glistening, mouth open as he panted over your skin.

His claws at your waist dug in as he slammed forward one final time.

You screamed, body clenching tight and came hard.

Your cock erupted in his clawed grip, pleasure ripping through you as you spent your last resources of adrenaline. You collapsed forward on the counter, chest hitting wood.

Your hole clenched around him in spasms and with a feral snarl, Remmick thrust deep and came inside you. His cock pulsed hot, thick spurts filling you full, the sensation near unbearable.

His fangs sank deep into the artery inside your neck, piercing straight through flesh. The delicious blood gushed hot into his mouth as he groaned, loud and shameless while drinking.

Lips latched tight to your throat, as he felt your heartbeat stagger.

Your vision went dark at the edges, knees giving out, body slumping limp on top of the counter. Your last sight before the black took you was of that once emerald pin that had slipped from his shirt and fell onto the counter.

It clicked faintly on the blood-slick wood.

His clawed hand reached up, tilted your head and his mouth found yours.

One last, greedy, bloody kiss before everything f’ye went black.

He pulled back when your pulse faded, kissed your lips once, a gentle press, reverent.

Then tucked himself back into his ruined trousers, the blood still soaking the waistband.

He lifted and carried you like a lover.

With one claw, he reached for the pin, looked at it for a moment before attaching it to your chest.

Red on red.

A gift returned.

You had that thing for so long, few to non bad things happened. When you handed it to him to wish all the best, it became ironically inverted.

Your luck ran out the second you said the first words to him, a spell you didn’t know you casted, dooming yourself right from the start.

That pin, now soaked in your blood, placed by his claws directly over your heart like a wedding ring.

The first thing anyone might recognize when they’ll see you again, eyes golden, lips red, glued to Remmick’s side for eternity.

He bent down to kiss your cheek.

Whispered, voice horse and hungry. “Got lucky, didn’t I?”

Before vanishing with you into the dark.

198 notes · View notes

sowerpatch · 1 day ago

Text

terms of play [chapter 7 - in transition]

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Paige and Azzi said it was over.

Boundaries drawn, feelings shelved, rules in place. But with every game, every glance, every unexpected moment off the court, the line gets harder to hold. They agreed to stop, but how long can they mean it? Word count: 5,577 Author's note: first, I'd like to thank everyone for reading this fic. i'm overwhelmed but very happy with the comments, messages, and reactions. i didn't know a lot are reading this nonsense, but thank you! second (and you may not want to hear this), i may not update for a couple of weeks. i am going on a trip so i'm not sure i'll be able to do so. i hope you'll still want to read this if it's not frequently update until third week of july. third (if you're also reading my other on-going), unfolded will be updated but i also apologize it will not be that frequent due to the same reason above. thanks for supporting and reading my works.

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. May 2025.

The sky outside her windows had settled into its noon haze, but Azzi hadn’t looked up from her desk in hours. Her monitor cast a soft glow across the dark wood, spreadsheets opened and minimized in equal measure. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, scrolling through a document she had already reviewed twice that morning.

The knock on her door was brief. Nika stepped in without waiting for permission, balancing a takeout bag and two bottled teas in her hands.

“I know you didn’t eat again,” Nika said as she shut the door behind her. “And I’m not letting you call a candy bar lunch.”

Azzi sat back in her chair, one brow lifting. “You’re persistent.”

“I work for a woman who hasn’t taken a real lunch break in ten days,” Nika replied, placing the food down. “Persistent is the bare minimum.”

Azzi didn’t argue. She slid the papers to the side and reached for the tea, unscrewing the cap but not drinking yet. Across the desk, Nika opened the takeout containers with practiced ease.

“How is your WNBA team?” Nika asked without looking up. “Season started last week.”

Azzi didn’t flinch, though the pause before her answer was longer than usual. “Lisa’s handling things,” she said. “It’s her role as general manager, and she’s doing it well. I step in only if I'm needed.”

Nika glanced up, reading more than what was said. “Good for her but that’s not the same as you supporting them.”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?” Nika didn’t soften her tone. “All deadlines are in. Contracts are locked through next quarter. We’re ahead of schedule with every major client. Even your advisory meeting next week was rescheduled by you.”

Azzi set the tea down, untouched.

“You’re not too busy to show your face at a home game, Azzi. And neither the team nor the city thinks you’re invisible. So if this is about being busy, I don’t buy it.”

Azzi held her posture, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window. But the pause spoke more than anything else.

Nika watched her for another beat before easing back into her chair, unpacking a fork from its wrapper.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “But don’t pretend like this is just scheduling. You’re not fooling anyone.”

The room stretched between them, filled with paper, food, and the weight of everything unspoken.

Azzi finally reached for the container, though she still hadn’t eaten a bite. Her voice stayed level, careful. “Lisa knows what she’s doing.”

“Sure,” Nika said, spearing a piece of grilled chicken. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t still look for you.”

- Valkyries Headquarters, San Francisco. May 2025.

Practice was nearly over, but Paige hadn’t slowed once. She moved through the drills like they were personal, like every missed shot meant something more than just another rep. Her jersey clung to her back, soaked through from the effort. While the rest of the team eased off, she kept pressing.

“Okay, Paige, you trying to earn Finals MVP in practice?” Kate called, grabbing a towel from the bench.

Paige gave a quick laugh. “Just keeping sharp.”

Kiki, lounging near the sideline with her water bottle, chimed in without lifting her head. “If this is about Rookie of the Year, relax. I’m not trying to take it from you.”

“I just want to do well. Don’t want to let the team down.”

Kate tossed her towel over her shoulder and walked past. “You’re not. We’ve got your back. So maybe stop trying to bleed for every drill.”

Paige nodded, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look toward the locker room when the others started filing out. She stayed at the three-point line, adjusted her stance, and kept shooting.

The gym thinned out, noise fading as bodies left the floor. Lights still buzzed overhead. The sound of the ball hitting the rim echoed louder in the emptying space.

One more shot. Then another. She moved like she could outwork the ache settling deep in her chest.

Barclays Center, Brooklyn. June 2025.

The arena buzzed with rising energy. Lights swept across the court, catching on polished shoes and tailored jackets. Courtside filled with the usual rotation of executives, celebrities, and carefully groomed donors.

Azzi sat quietly among them, legs crossed, her posture composed. Ines sat on one side, Tony on the other. Neither drew attention.

Three nights earlier, New York liberty owner, Clara Wu had attended the foundation’s gallery fundraiser uptown.

Toward the end of the event, in the space between polite farewells and final handshakes, Clara had asked if Azzi would be attending the Liberty vs Valkyries game. It hadn’t sounded like pressure, but Azzi understood the subtext. Clara rarely asked for anything directly.

Azzi had smiled and said yes. She didn’t want to appear distant or detached, not while her team was in town, not so early in the season. By the next morning, Ines had secured the only tickets still available.

Courtside, unfortunately.

Across the floor, the Valkyries were already deep in warmups, moving through drills with controlled intensity.

Paige stayed near the top of the arc, locked into rhythm, her eyes focused straight ahead. If she noticed Azzi’s presence, she didn’t show it. The game had turned brutal in rhythm and pace.

The Liberty held a five-point lead, and the crowd rode every possession like a wave, roaring with each defensive stop and every made shot. Bodies hit the floor more often now. Elbows flared. Timeouts were used sparingly.

Paige moved with urgency. Her focus locked on the ball like nothing else existed. Sweat clung to her temples, her movements crisp and tight, no motion wasted.

When a tipped pass ricocheted off a defender’s arm and spun wildly toward the sideline, she didn’t hesitate.

She dove.

The hardwood scraped beneath her as she slid forward, arms reaching, hands wrapping around the ball just before it could bounce out of bounds. But her momentum kept going. Her body skidded past the line, straight toward the courtside seats.

She crashed at Azzi’s feet, shoulder brushing against her legs before she caught herself.

“Shit—sorry,” Paige breathed, looking up. Her voice came low and rushed, all heat and adrenaline.

Azzi’s eyes met Paige’s, calm and unreadable.

For a second, the noise in the arena blurred behind them.

Then the whistle blew. Paige scrambled up, tossed the ball to a teammate, and jogged back onto the court.

Azzi didn’t look away right away. The faint trace of contact lingered in her skin. But her face gave nothing back.

- Team bus on the way to the airport, New York. June 2025.

The internet had caught fire.

Clips of Paige diving out of bounds and crashing at Azzi’s feet spread across every platform.

Slow-motion edits looped the way Paige looked up at her, the brief glance that passed between them, the stillness of Azzi’s expression.

Screenshots froze the frame at just the right second, turning a routine hustle play into something cinematic.

Fans called it poetic. Dramatic. Predictable in the way only stories you couldn’t write better in fiction tended to be.

“This is gay history,”

“She literally landed at her feet. You cannot make this shit up.”

“It’s giving princess and her knight,” another caption declared beneath a still of Paige on the floor, Azzi seated above her, untouched, statuesque.

#ValkyriesCourtship alongside #PrincessAndTheHooper trended before the fourth quarter highlights even aired.

Even sports media picked it up. A panel segment ran on afternoon television, showing side-by-side clips with commentary that couldn’t resist the subtext.

ESPN headlined it “better than anything on Netflix.”

Paige had seen enough of it by the time she reached the team bus. Her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing, but she left it face down on the bench.

Kiki had sent her the clip with three crying emojis and “Oscar-worthy fall.”

Kate pulled up another edit as she sat beside Paige, this one layered with a ballad and a dramatic fade to black.

“You good?”

“It was just a save.”

“Sure. You threw yourself at the sideline like a knight charging into battle and landed at Miss Fudd's feet like you meant to bow.”

Paige adjusted her hoodie without answering.

Behind them, Kiki laughed.

“She’s blushing.”

She didn’t turn around. If she was, she wasn’t giving them the satisfaction.

The Venetian Resort, Las Vegas. June 2025.

Las Azzi stared at her calendar, one hand pressed to her temple, the other resting over her laptop’s trackpad. The confirmation email sat open in front of her, clear as day.

She leaned back slowly in her chair, eyes narrowing.

There was no way this wasn’t deliberate.

The Valkyries were playing the Aces. In Las Vegas. Tonight. And somehow, despite the number of ways she had tried to avoid repeating last week’s coincidence, here she was again. Same city. Same schedule. Same team.

She remembered Nika casually handing off the file three days ago. Something about a last-minute scheduling conflict, how the developers were pushing for face time, how it made sense for Azzi to take. At the time, it hadn’t sounded strange.

Now it did. Another email which held two tickets to the game had found its way to Azzi. Right.

It wouldn’t look good if she didn’t show up to the game. Not when people knew she was in the city.

If Nika and Ines had planned this, they weren’t going to admit it. But Azzi knew them both too well.

She should have seen this coming.

Michelob ULTRA Arena, Las Vegas. June 2025.

The game was tight. The Aces pushed in transition, fast and aggressive, but the Valkyries kept pace, sharp in their switches and relentless on the glass. The score stayed close, every possession carrying weight.

Azzi sat still through it all. Close enough to feel the vibrations under her heels. She didn’t react. Didn’t lean in. Just watched.

Paige was everywhere. Fighting through screens, calling switches, sinking shots like she was burning through something no one else could see. She didn’t slow down. She didn’t ease up.

When she hit a three just outside the arc, her eyes searched briefly beyond the baseline.

Azzi met the look.

The moment was brief. The game pressed forward.

The Venetian Resort, Las Vegas. June 2025.

The machine clinked quietly as Paige pressed the button again. Lights blinked. Nothing hit. She reached into the cup and slid another coin in.

The Valkyries had pulled off the win. A tight, scrappy six-point finish that left the Aces frustrated and the bench breathing hard.

Paige had smiled when she needed to. Nodded during the interviews. Let her teammates pull her into the photo. But once it was done, she slipped out early and didn’t look back.

She found herself now hunched at a forgotten corner of the casino floor, staring through the slot machine like it owed her an answer she couldn't phrase.

A pause behind her, then Azzi’s voice.

“You know I’m not paying you to lose your money on a stupid machine.” Paige slid in another coin and pressed the button, not bothering to turn around. The reels spun and missed again.

“I know you’re ignoring me,” Azzi continued. “And I deserve that. But I wanted to say congratulations. You were great tonight.”

Paige’s eyes stayed on the machine. “Hm, ‘s that all?” Azzi wanted to say more. To sit down, to explain, to ask for something she hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

She stood there for a moment, unsure if she should say more or walk away. The noise around them was constant—machines whirring, voices rising and falling, the usual chaos of a casino floor. It wasn’t the right place for this type of conversation. “Yes. Have a good night, Paige.”

Azzi moved through the casino without looking back, weaving past clusters of tourists and cocktail servers until she reached the elevators.

One had just arrived. She stepped inside, pressed her floor, and leaned back against the wall as the doors began to close.

A hand shot through at the last second.

The doors jerked open.

Paige stood there, a little breathless, eyes steady. She stepped in without asking and let the doors slide shut behind her.

“D'you already have dinner?”

Azzi shook her head.

Paige glanced at the buttons, then back at her.

“Wanna order room service with me?” -

The coffee table was a mess of wrappers and half-crumpled napkins. Paige leaned back into the couch, one leg tucked under the other, working through the last of the fries like it was a timed competition.

Azzi watched from the armchair, equal parts fascinated and horrified.

She had offered a quiet space for their impromptu dinner since Kiki was already asleep in Paige's room.

Paige had inhaled three burgers in under fifteen minutes and was now making quick work of the fries without so much as a breath.

Azzi reached for her untouched sandwich, glanced at it, then looked back at Paige.

“Do you want mine too?”

Paige didn’t even pause. “What is it?”

“That was sarcasm.”

“You’re gonna need to be more specific if food’s involved.”

Azzi shook her head, sinking deeper into the chair. “I’m genuinely alarmed.”

“You’ve seen me play,” Paige said through a mouthful of fries. “How is this surprising?”

“You didn’t unhinge your jaw during the game.”

Paige grinned, tossed a fry in the air, and caught it with her mouth.

Azzi sighed and reached for the water bottle on the table but didn’t drink. Her gaze lingered on Paige, still working through the fries like nothing in the world could distract her.

“You’ve been playing really well lately,” she said. “The last few games especially.”

Paige slowed her chewing just a little. “Oh.”

Azzi smiled.

“I mean, thanks. I didn’t know you were watching.”

There was a pause. Azzi could have let it pass, could have deflected or changed the subject, but the quiet between them felt too close to something real to lie through.

“I haven’t missed a game,” she said. “Even if I’m not there, I watch. Every one of them.”

Paige blinked, then looked down, a trace of pink blooming along her cheeks as she reached for another fry she clearly didn’t need.

Sitting with her hands loosely clasped in her lap, Azzi’s eyes fixed on the untouched sandwich beside her. The weight between them had been there the whole night, carefully unspoken, but now it pressed harder, closer. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “For what happened. For how it happened. It wasn’t fair to you. If I could take it back... I would.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She wiped her hands clean with a napkin, taking her time, then leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees.

“I don’t regret kissing and making out with you that night,” she said.

Azzi finally looked at her.

“I only regret putting you in a position. You were already carrying too much, and I pushed you when I should’ve backed off. That’s on me.” Her voice dropped. “I’m sorry for that.”

Azzi shook her head slowly, the words already forming before Paige could say anything more. “No. Paige, I was the one who kissed you.”

“And I kissed you back.”

Azzi looked away, lips pressed together for a moment before she spoke again.

“I let my emotions get the best of me. That night... I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“That’s exactly my regret,” Paige leaned back slightly, eyes holding firm. “I didn’t stop to think what you were going through. I shouldn’t have let it go that far when I knew you weren’t steady.” She stood up abruptly. “God! Azzi, you just had to deal with your brother that night and all I could think was myself and my stupid ego.” Azzi’s brow lifted, disbelief flickering across her face.

“You’ve really been carrying this like it’s on you?”

"Well...”

Azzi motioned to the couch. “Sit down.”

Paige hesitated but did as she was told, settling into the cushion with a quiet breath.

“Listen,” Azzi started, her tone even but not cold. “I don’t know why you’re blaming yourself, but don’t. And if it makes you feel better, I appreciate your thoughts about me. It’s been a long time since anyone’s cared enough to think about what I’m feeling.”

She paused, eyes fixed forward.

“But I’m not going to lie. We’re re-opening something we shouldn’t cross again.”

Paige sat still, her body tight, listening.

“We started on the wrong path, Paige. And if we keep walking it, it’s going to lead both of us somewhere we won’t come back from. Whatever this was, we can’t keep going. There’s too much at stake. Not just for me. For you too.”

Paige kept her gaze on the floor, jaw tight. The words weren’t new. Not really. She had imagined this conversation too many times—Azzi choosing control over closeness, reason over feeling. But now that it was happening, the actual weight of it pressed in deeper than she expected.

She had been holding on to guilt, turning it over in her head like a stone she thought she could smooth down if she just kept at it long enough. But hearing Azzi say it out loud, the finality of her tone, made it clear that nothing she’d been carrying would change the ending.

Still, it stung.

It stung to be told they had started on the wrong path when it had been the only one that felt right.

She nodded slowly, barely.

“Okay,” she said, though it didn’t feel like one.

Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. May 2025.

The Valkyries were rolling. Eleven wins, three losses. The best start of any expansion team in league history. Their chemistry was sharp, execution cleaner with every game, and the league had started paying attention.

Paige was a headline regular now. Her stats held weight, her plays made highlight reels, and the noise around her name had shifted from hopeful to certain. Rookie of the Year wasn’t just possible—it was probable.

All-Star voting opened with her name already at the top of the ballots.

She felt it, the momentum. The lift of it. Practices ran smoother, her body felt lighter, even the travel days didn’t drag.

But that talk in Las Vegas hadn’t left her.

Azzi hadn’t shown up to a game since. Not once. Not even for the home stands.

The gym had emptied out over an hour ago, but Paige was still there, catching her own rebounds, the steady rhythm of the ball echoing through the quiet space. Her body moved on instinct—one dribble, two, rise, release. Net. Repeat.

She wasn’t tired. Not enough to stop.

The sound of the door clicking open didn’t pull her attention right away. Only when footsteps drew closer did she finally glance toward the baseline.

Azzi stood just inside, arms crossed, the faintest trace of something amused in her voice.

“Practice ended a while ago. If you’re staying this long, I should start charging you gym maintenance.”

Paige caught the ball and held it. Her breathing slowed as she turned to face the person living rent free in her head for the past couple of months.

She let the ball rest against her hip, then spun it slowly in one hand.

“I don’t want to slack,” she said. “We’re on a five-game win streak. Last thing I need is my boss getting mad I’m not putting it all out there.”

She looked up, a flicker of something teasing behind her eyes.

“Last I heard, she never misses watching our games.”

Azzi scoffed, stepping forward without hesitation. She plucked the ball from Paige’s hand like it belonged to her. “You really think flattery’s going to make me overlook the fact that you’re hogging the gym?”

Paige grinned and walked backward toward the free throw line, holding out her hand, shrugging. “If I said I was staying late to honor the legacy of the franchise, would that make it better?”

Azzi turned the ball slowly in her hands. “It might make it worse.”

Paige laughed, stepping back with a bounce in her step. “I’m just trying to keep the lights on. You know, making sure your multi-million dollar floor space stays in good use.”

“I should charge you rent.”

“Add it to my contract,” Paige said, motioning toward the court. “Tell you what. You make one shot, I’ll clear out.”

Azzi tilted her head. “You think I’m just going to embarrass myself for your amusement?”

“I think you’re dying to see if you can make one,” Paige said, voice low and teasing. “Come on. You’re standing on the floor of your own team’s gym, and you’ve never even taken a shot?”

Azzi stared at her for a long second, then shook her head and let out a sigh.

“You’re relentless.”

Paige grinned and walked toward the free throw line, tossing the ball up and catching it. “One shot. I promise I won’t tell the world. Unless it’s perfect.”

Azzi followed her slowly, arms folded.

“This is ridiculous.”

“This is team bonding.”

“You’re not my team.”

“I’m your headache. Close enough.”

Azzi let out a breath, finally taking the ball back. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when this ruins my reputation.”

Paige stepped in, already adjusting her grip. “If anything, this is gonna make it better.” Azzi stared at the hoop like it was challenging her. She adjusted her grip on the ball, stepped awkwardly toward the free throw line, and squared her shoulders like she had watched athletes do a hundred times from the sidelines.

She launched.

It left her fingers too flat, spinning awkwardly in the air before clanking off the front rim and bouncing back with a dull thud.

Paige bit her lip, then broke into a jog to chase it down before it rolled out of bounds.

“That was…” She paused, dribbling the ball once. “A very brave attempt.”

Azzi crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it.”

“I’m not.” Paige grinned. “I’m saying you’re clearly an expert at hitting the exact part of the rim that guarantees it won’t go in.”

She walked the ball back, but instead of handing it over, she stopped in front of Azzi and held it with one hand. Her voice dropped, softer this time, and something in her face shifted.

“Let me show you.”

Azzi hesitated, watching her closely. There was no mocking now. Paige’s grin had settled into something quieter. Not serious, but careful. Like she was trying not to move too quickly through a moment that meant more than it should.

She nodded once.

Paige stepped closer, placing the ball in Azzi’s hands again, but this time kept hers there too. She adjusted Azzi’s grip gently, her thumbs brushing over Azzi’s knuckles.

“Right here. Let your shooting hand sit under the ball. Other hand just helps guide it.”

Azzi didn’t look at the hoop. She looked at Paige. Their hands were tangled around the ball, Paige’s fingers warm and steady. Close enough to feel her breath when she spoke again.

“You don’t need to force it. Let it roll off your fingers. It’s about rhythm. Trust.”

Azzi swallowed hard.

“Trust the shot?”

Paige’s eyes met hers. “Trust yourself.”

The gym felt too quiet. Just the creak of sneakers on polished wood and the low hum of lights above. Paige stepped behind her, setting her palms lightly on Azzi’s elbows, guiding them into position.

“Bend your knees a little. Keep your elbow under the ball.”

Azzi followed. The motion was stiff, but she listened.

Paige leaned in, voice at her ear. “Now lift it slow. Let it go at the top.”

Azzi raised her arms and released. The ball floated, not perfect, but cleaner. It hit the backboard and bounced toward the rim before falling away.

Better.

Azzi turned to look at her, something flickering in her eyes. Not frustration. Something else. A heat she didn’t name.

“That was almost good,” Paige said.

“Almost?”

“I think you need another lesson.”

- Paige’s apartment, Oakland. June 2025.

The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of Paige’s phone. She was sprawled on the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched toward the armrest. Her hair was damp from a shower, and there was a half-finished protein shake on the coffee table.

Her thumbs tapped quickly.

Paige: You looked good last night. Paige: But I still think your hair looked better during draft night.

She attached a photo.

It was Azzi, polished and poised, walking into a real estate conference. Hair pulled back in a sleek twist, dressed in a charcoal pantsuit that made her look every inch the power executive Twitter loved to obsess over.

Azzi: Where did you get this?

Paige answered before the read receipt even registered.

Paige: Internet. You’re famous, remember?

Azzi exhaled through her nose, typing slowly.

Azzi: Are you stalking me now?

Paige: Maybe. Paige: Just enough to form an opinion about your hairstyles.

Azzi: And here I thought you were too busy chasing Rookie of the Year.

Paige: I multitask.

Azzi sat up straighter in bed, the corners of her mouth betraying the start of a smile.

Azzi: You really liked my hair that night?

Paige: I like a lot of things when it comes to you. Paige: Want a list?

Azzi hesitated.

Azzi: I’m scared of that list.

Paige: You should be. It’s long.

Azzi: Paige.

Paige: Azzi.

Azzi: I thought we weren’t doing this.

Paige: You texted back. Paige: So maybe you’re doing it too.

There was a pause. Paige watched the typing bubble appear and disappear three times. Then finally:

Azzi: Goodnight, Paige.

Paige stared at it. Then sent one more message without thinking.

Paige: I still like your hair better down.

She set her phone down beside her, the softest grin tugging at her mouth as she leaned back into the couch.

While Azzi lay still in the dark, phone on her chest, heartbeat louder than it should be. She didn’t reply again. But she didn’t stop reading it either.

Rocco's Cafe, San Francisco. June 2025.

The clink of glass against ceramic filled the space between them. Afternoon light poured through the tall windows of the restaurant, the kind of place Nika always picked—unassuming, elegant, with an outdoor view that cost more than it looked. Azzi sat across from her, shoulders relaxed, her phone turned face down for once.

Nika stirred her espresso, eyes flicking to the plate Azzi had barely touched.

“Westlake signed,” she said. “The rezoning permits came in yesterday.”

Azzi nodded, lifting her glass. “Good. I want the contractors briefed by Friday. We’ll reroute phase three if they can’t break ground in time.”

“They will.” Nika took a sip, then leaned back in her chair. “What about the Dallas project? Still holding?”

Azzi glanced past her toward the window. “We’re waiting on final numbers. But I’m not rushing that one. The board will push if I give them a reason.”

A beat passed, comfortable and slow. Nika tilted her head, her voice quieter.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine?”

“You’re more than fine.”

Azzi looked at her confused.

Nika smiled, sharp but kind. “You’ve been smiling. Laughing. You even left the office before seven last week.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, daring Nika to continue.

“You’re glowing.”

She shook her head, but her mouth twitched like it wanted to smile.

“And forgive me, but I have a feeling Jake’s not the reason.”

Nika lifted her cup with a knowing tilt, like she was letting Azzi keep her secret while quietly reminding her it wasn’t all that well hidden.

- San Francisco International Airport, San Francisco. June 2025.

Azzi reread the message from the Valkyries’ training staff, the words sharp in their precision.

Concussion protocol.

Paige had been pulled from practice following a hit during the game against Indiana two nights ago.

Azzi had watched that game from a bar in Dallas, her tablet propped up between half-finished cocktails and development briefs. The meeting with local contractors had stretched past dinner.

Her flight home today was late and quiet, and somewhere over the Rockies, exhaustion claimed her.

The message hadn’t registered until she was standing outside Terminal 2, luggage beside her, the San Francisco air cutting through her blazer. She scrolled absently while waiting for the car.

Another text sat beneath the first.

Let us know if you’d like to see the medical report.

She didn’t reply right away. Headlights pulled up. The town car stopped cleanly at the curb.

She typed her reply.

Not necessary.

Tony stepped out, moved to the trunk. Azzi got in without a word. The door closed with a soft click, and the city hummed low around them.

She stared straight ahead. Thinking. More thinking. “Tony, we’re making a detour.”

- Paige’s apartment, Oakland. June 2025.

Paige blinked, hard, like it would help make sense of the shape in front of her.

Azzi stood at the doorway, calm as ever, hair tucked neatly behind one ear, as if she belonged there. She hadn’t called. Hadn’t messaged.

And now Azzi was stepping inside like she hadn’t just knocked a minute ago, like being let in meant she belonged there.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “You know, knocking doesn’t mean you get to just walk in like it’s your office.”

Azzi took two more steps in, ignoring the comment entirely.

“You’re in concussion protocol,” she said. “I got the update this morning.”

“I—what? Wait, how do you even—” Paige closed the door slowly. “You’re not even on the medical distribution list.”

“I don’t need to be.”

“Okay. Cool. Great. Love the vague billionaire surveillance energy,” Paige muttered. “That’s definitely what every injured rookie wants.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “I didn’t hack into anything, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Paige snorted. “You didn’t have to. One look from you and half the staff probably tripped over themselves to send an update.”

“I asked, they answered.”

“Right. Because that’s totally normal. Just your average team owner flying across the country to check on a player with a bump to the head.”

“I’m not your average team owner,” Azzi’s gaze didn’t waver. “And it wasn’t just a bump.”

Paige’s breath hitched before she could hide it.

She tried to mask it with sarcasm. “So what now? Are you here to run your own tests? Gonna flash a penlight in my eyes, ask me who the president is?”

"Would you answer if I did?”

“Depends,” Paige said, voice lower now. “Are you gonna tell me why you really came?”

Azzi didn’t look away. “Does it matter?”

“It does if you want to keep pretending this is just about basketball.”

“Paige.” “Azzi.”

Azzi exhaled, slow and tired. “I was worried.”

Paige stepped closer, the tension in her shoulders softening as she reached out and cupped Azzi’s face with both hands.

“I’m fine,” she said gently. “You don’t have to worry.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on Paige, and before she realized it, she was leaning into the warmth of that touch, drawn by something quieter than reason.

Paige moved in without rushing, her hands sliding down until they rested on Azzi’s waist. She pulled her in, carefully, like she didn’t want to spook her. Their bodies met in a slow, steady hold.

Azzi let herself be held.

“Didn’t we agree we need to stop this?” Azzi’s voice was soft, but the weight behind it settled between them.

"I only agreed half-heartedly.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and gave her a light smack on the arm. Paige caught her wrist before she could pull away, grinning.

“Let’s just have this night, please.” Paige said, voice lowered to something more honest. “We don’t have to do anything. I miss you.”

There was a pause, then a quiet mumble from Azzi. “I miss you too.”

Paige wrapped her in a hug, slow but firm, the kind that said more than words could carry. She held Azzi tightly, grounding herself in the contact, in the relief of having her this close again.

“How was your flight?” she asked after a moment, still not letting go.

Azzi answered once they finally pulled back, their fingers laced. “Long. Delayed twice. I hated every second.”

“Stay the night,” Paige said without thinking.

Azzi blinked. Her body stilled. “Paige—”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Paige added quickly. “We both need rest. That’s all. Just... don’t leave.”

Azzi hesitated for only a beat, then reached for her phone. She typed out a message to Tony to go home without her.

Paige disappeared for a moment and came back with a folded UConn sweatshirt and matching joggers. “You’ll look better in these than I ever did.”

Azzi gave her a look, took the clothes, and changed in the bathroom. When she emerged, the room was dim, Paige already under the covers.

She climbed in, the air between them thick with hesitation. They left a small space between their bodies, but not for long.

“Come here, ma,” Paige said, voice almost teasing.

Azzi didn’t bother pretending. She folded into Paige’s side, resting her head on her shoulder.

“I’m only doing this because of your concussion protocol,” she murmured.

Paige laughed, the sound low and grateful. “If it means I get to have you like this, I’ll bang my head every day.”

Azzi let out a quiet laugh of her own, her breath brushing against Paige’s neck.

Paige pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you for coming. And for checking on me.” “We’re so bad at stopping this.”

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic #pazzi #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn wbb #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #terms of play series

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julessuretries · 1 day ago

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Seeing people call Ragatha an "abuser" post episode 5 is actually insane to me because for me, episode 5 singlehandedly sold me on her character, whereas before I was kind of apathetic.

She's not "toxically positive" - she's just got some sort of fawn response given her mommy issues and feels like she needs to be "well-behaved and proper" in order for people to like her.

One of my closest friends from college was exactly like this and it was hard to see them go through the recurring issue of being unable to break past surface-level acquaintanceships with people precisely because they were "too nice". Like, do you know how uncomfortable it is to have to explain to someone they'd probably have an easier time connecting with people if they, just, stopped being overly helpful? It's a really weird conversation to have: like, am I actually encouraging this person to be worse? I kid you not at one point I think I actually said "you'd be better of if you were meaner", but, like, no one else was willing to say it and he was desperate so I guess I had to.

But unfortunately the only person who'd ever be bold enough to do that in the show is Jax (because he's literally already done it) but it's hard for Ragatha, or anyone, for that matter, to take any advice he gives sincerely even if he's kind of right because he's already such a jerk (and might be projecting some of his own mommy issues if we're being honest).

Looking back at the pilot, Ragatha's behavior towards Pomni seems all the more depressing. She literally pounced on the opportunity to befriend Pomni from minute one because newcomers are rare and I imagine she's been lonely for a very long time. Which is why seeing Jax do a better job bonding with Pomni gets under her skin because from her perspective she's put in way more effort and therefore deserves her friendship more. That's obviously a very transactional and problematic way of viewing relationships, but isn't surprising given what we've learned about her upbringing. She's likely been taught that love is something that can be earned with enough effort and is now reaching her limit having to come to terms with that not being the case.

The best things in life come free. Genuine connections have to form naturally. While I'm not totally convinced that Jax is being fully honest in his attempts to befriend Pomni, I do think he understands something that Ragatha doesn't. People want to be friends with people they can relate to and trust. And even if Pomni isn't a jerk like Jax, she at the least can rest assured she's seen the worst of him, whereas Ragatha could reveal her "real self" at any time. It's about taking a calculated risk - even if Ragatha deep down is still a nice person (which I personally think she is), there's no way for anyone else to know that for sure. It's less risky to be friends with people who are more open about their flaws than with someone who feels like they could crack at any moment and you'd have no idea what would spill out.

Ragatha is a really tragic character but also so incredibly real. Unfortunately even if she did decide to be more "genuine" with who she was as a person she'd still have a long journey ahead of her, since I'm not very convinced she even knows who she is.

Wow this episode was good.

“We need more complex female characters”

YALL COULDNT HANDLE HER

It’s crazy that her character flaw is thinking that if she ever expresses a negative emotion everyone will dislike her and yall immediately proved her right. Goddamn.

#tadc ragatha #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc ep 5

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nekonaps0 · 3 days ago

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Little rival

✦fem!reader

✦characters: Kageyama, Nishinoya, Oikawa, Kuroo, Atsumu

✦A little kid walking up and innocently telling their girlfriend, “When I grow up, I wanna marry you!”

Kageyama Tobio

You and Kageyama are walking together when a chubby-cheeked kid tugs on your sleeve and boldly declares,

“You’re really pretty! When I grow up, I’m gonna marry you!”

Kageyama freezes. Like, full on system error. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then slowly turns to look at the kid like he’s a new challenger entering the match.

“…Hah?” he mutters, so confused he might actually think the kid is serious. “You’re, like, five.”

When you start laughing, Kageyama frowns, crossing his arms. “Why are you laughing? He just proposed to you. That’s not funny. He said he’s gonna marry you! Isn’t he too young for that?!”

You try to explain it was cute and harmless, but Kageyama is now in serious mode. “You are my girlfriend. This isn’t a competition…” he mumbles.

Later that day, he’s quieter than usual. Eventually, he mutters, “I can’t believe I got jealous of a five-year-old…” he covers his embarrassed face with his hands.

Nishinoya Yuu

The moment the kid says, “I’m gonna marry you when I grow up,” Nishinoya gasps so loud it’s theatrical.

He immediately drops into a squat so he’s eye level with the kid, hands on his knees, expression serious.

“Whoa, WHOA, buddy. Bold move.” He grins, but there's a twitch in his eyebrow. “But you gotta earn her heart. This isn’t just a fairy tale, my dude.”

Then he turns to you, gripping your hand dramatically.

“Babe. He wants to steal you from me.” He acts like he’s been betrayed by fate itself.

You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, while Noya is now giving the kid a motivational speech about love. “When you’re older, you’re gonna meet someone awesome. But this goddess right here? Sorry, already taken. And I would rather DIE than let anyone take her!”

Please stop him before he traumatizes the little boy…

Oikawa Tooru

The second the kid says it, Oikawa puts on the fakest, most plastic smile of his life.

“Awww, that’s soooo sweet of you,” he says through gritted teeth.

Then he crouches next to the kid, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, little man… she’s already dating the most gorgeous, talented, and charming person alive—me. And, well… you’ve got a long way to go before you can compete.”

He throws you a wink, but you can tell he’s definitely sulking. “You like her smile, huh? Yeah, me too. It’s mine. Now move on.” You have to slap him on the back of his head to stop him before he makes the kid cry…

Later, as you’re walking away, he whispers, “You still think I’m cuter than him, right? Right?! Say it.”

And if you tease him even a little by saying, “I mean, he was kind of charming,” Oikawa gets offended. Like you just offended his whole bloodline. “I’m being replaced by a toddler! Is this the end?!”

Kuroo Tetsurou

The kid walks up confidently and says, “I think you’re really pretty, and I’m gonna marry you someday.”

Kuroo arches a brow and glances down at the kid, fighting a smirk. “Oh? That so?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder casually. “You’ve got good taste, kid. But unfortunately, you’re about ten years too early, and about one girlfriend short of a chance.”

You giggle and play along with the kid, who pouts when he realizes you're already taken. Kuroo kneels down, smirking just enough to tease but not scare him.

“Tell you what,” he says. “If you still feel this way some years later, look me up. Until then… hands off.” Then he winks and tousles the kid’s hair.

Later, he teases you about it. “I’m gonna have to keep an eye on you, huh? Even the kindergarteners are after you.”

Atsumu Miya

The second the kid says he wants to marry you, Atsumu’s jaw drops.

“Huh?? Did I just get challenged by a toddler?!”

He steps between you and the kid like he’s defending his title as your boyfriend.

“First of all, she’s mine, ‘kay? Second of all, you’re, like, in preschool. You even brush your own teeth yet?”

The kid just blinks at him while you try not to die laughing.

Atsumu scoffs. “Listen, lil’ man. I get it. She’s amazing. But I buy her clothes, bring her snacks, giving her massage. Can you do all that? Didn’t think so.”

You eventually pull him away before he starts arguing about taxes with the kid.

Later, he sulks with his head in your lap, mumbling, “Tch… can’t believe I got cock-blocked by a baby…”

You laughed so hard how childish he is but you give him a kiss and tell him he’s your #1 forever, and he immediately lights back up like the sun.

“Damn right I am.”

..............................................................................................................................

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inseobts · 1 day ago

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Hello! I'd like to please request a little scenario for multiple characters if possible; I'm especially interested in your take on this with Law, Sanji and Ace given their backstory. If you're open to writing for the ladies as well then adding Robin into the mix would be appreciated! My idea is simple; an S/O with a child, and the aftermath of discovering that fact. I don't mind if it's an established relationship and there just wasn't an opportunity to meet the kid before or something else, I just like the idea of these characters dealing with the concept of surprise family/parenthood, the angst that may arise from dealing with the role of a stepparent if they want a relationship (and its happy ending if possible!) Good luck with all the requests, I hope you have fun with them!

Found Family (Reader with a Kid)

gn!reader

characters: law, sanji, ace, nico robin

tags: under each character + secret child

a/n: I started it with a fem!reader in mind and changed it to gender neutral only later since the post didn't mention the gender, so please if I missed some changes please tell me

words count: around 0.8k - 1.7k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Law:

Tags: Established Relationship, Surprise Family, Angst to Comfort, Fluff

The wind blows soft through the port town. Law steps off the ship, coat flapping behind him, hands in his pockets. He’s quieter than usual, eyes scanning the street ahead. He’s not here on a mission. He’s here for you.

You sent a letter three weeks ago.

Just one line: “I need to talk. Come if you can.”

Law doesn’t like surprises. But he comes.

He finds you standing outside a small house with peeling paint and flower pots on the windowsill. You smile when you see him, but it’s tight, like you’re scared.

He frowns “You alright?”

You nod “Yeah… I just—can we go inside? I don’t want to do this out here.”

Law follows you in. It’s warm. Smells like soup and soap. A small jacket hangs on a hook by the door. Not yours. Too small.

His sharp eyes catch it, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

You lead him to the living room and sit. He stands. Watches you.

You look down “There’s something I never told you.”

Law’s voice is low “I figured.”

You breathe in deep “I… have a kid.”

Silence.

You look up. His face is unreadable. Like ice. You hate that expression, it means he’s trying to think without feeling. To stay calm.

He speaks finally “How old?”

You blink “She’s five.”

He does the math. That means before him.

“She yours?” he asks, even though he already knows.

You nod “Yes. Mine. The... other parent's gone. Completely.”

He nods slowly. His voice is cold, but not cruel “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared.” You twist your hands “We met during a war. We never talked about kids, or… futures. Then we got together, and things felt good. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You thought this would ruin it?”

“I thought you might walk away.”

He looks away “You didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not fair,” you say, standing now too “I’ve been through things. I didn’t know how you’d react. You’re not… You don’t talk about family. You barely talk about your past.”

His jaw tenses. You hit a nerve.

You try softer “I wanted to wait for the right moment. But there never was one. Until now.”

Silence again.

Then small footsteps.

You freeze.

Law turns just as a tiny figure walks into the room, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

“Who’s this?”

Her eyes are big, curious. Law stares.

You kneel “Sweetheart, this is Law. He’s… He’s my friend.”

Law doesn’t speak. He just looks. She hides behind your leg.

You don’t blame her.

“She’s shy,” you say “But she’s smart. She reads pirates like storybooks.”

Law kneels too, finally, lowering himself to her level. His voice softens.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he says “I’m just… surprised.”

Your daughter peeks out “You talk funny.”

Law blinks.

You laugh nervously “He’s from the North Blue.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head “Do you have a boat?”

Law nods “A submarine.”

Her eyes widen “Cool…”

She steps forward. He doesn’t move.

Then she offers her rabbit “You wanna hold Mr. Bun?”

You almost cry.

Law takes it. Careful. Gentle. Like it’s glass.

He looks at you over her head. Still unsure. Still quiet.

But he’s here, and he’s not walking away.

The rabbit sits on the table between you.

Law hasn’t said much since dinner. He eats quietly, politely. Your daughter sits beside him, munching rice balls like they’re treasure. She’s talking to him. A lot.

“Do submarines have beds?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sleep in them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you dream of fish?”

“…No.”

You nearly laugh into your cup. Law sends you a look. It says help me. You shrug. You’re doing fine.

When she finishes eating, you ask her to brush her teeth. She runs off with Mr. Bun in her arms. The house falls quiet again.

Law leans back in his chair.

“You didn’t even flinch,” you say “When she offered you the rabbit.”

He shrugs “She trusted me. I didn’t want to break that.”

You nod, chewing on your lip “That means a lot, Law.”

He looks at you. Eyes sharp but not cold “I’m not angry.”

“Really?”

“I’m hurt.” His voice is honest now “You didn’t tell me. I could’ve helped. Been there. Or at least known what I was walking into.”

“I know,” you whisper “I was scared. I didn’t want to push you away.”

“I’m not made of glass, Y/N. I’ve lost family. I’ve lost everything. But I never said I didn’t want to build something new.”

You look down at your hands “She’s my whole world.”

“I can see that.”

“And now that you’ve met her… what do you want?”

He pauses.

That pause stretches long and sharp between you.

Then, softly “I don’t know.”

You nod. You expected that. You’re not mad. Just scared again.

Law stands and walks to the window “She’s a good kid. Brave. You raised her well.”

You smile a little “She’s got my temper.”

“I noticed.”

You walk over to him. You both stare outside. The moon is bright tonight.

“I’m not asking you to be her father,” you say “You don’t have to… take that role if you don’t want it.”

He turns “What if I want to?”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he continues “A father. A parent. I’m… I’m a surgeon. A pirate. I know how to fight, how to cut, how to survive. Not how to raise a child.”

You place your hand over his “She doesn’t need perfect. Just present. Just kind. Even I didn’t know how to be a good parent.”

He watches you. Something cracks in his expression.

“I want you.” he says.

“I want you too.”

“But I can’t lie to you… I’m afraid. I don’t want to mess this up.”

You squeeze his hand “We’ll learn together. She’s not looking for perfect either. She just wants someone who doesn’t leave.”

That hits hard.

He nods and then tiny footsteps again.

Your daughter peeks from the hallway “Hey... can he read me a story?”

Law blinks “Me?”

She nods “You have a cool voice.”

You laugh softly “What do you say?”

He hesitates. Then walks over.

“Alright, let’s try.” he says “But only one.”

She beams.

You stand in the hallway, listening through the door. His voice is low, slow, careful. Reading a picture book about sea creatures. She’s tucked in, eyes half-closed. The rabbit is between them on the bed.

Law finishes the page. She murmurs, “You’re not scary like someone said.”

You gasp quietly. Betrayal.

Law chuckles “Someone said that?”

“Mhm. They said you’re all sharp eyes and brooding. But you’re kinda soft.”

Law mutters, “I am never going to live that down.”

You grin and walk back to the living room.

He stays. Finishes the story. Even tucks her in.

When he comes out, he looks… changed.

“You did good.” you say.

“I didn’t even sweat.”

“Liar.”

He sighs, then smirks “Okay, maybe a little.”

You take his hand again “So…”

“So.” he echoes.

“You staying the night?”

He raises a brow “You asking?”

You smile “I have tea. And a couch. Or a bed, if you behave.”

He smirks “I’ll try my best.”

── .✦ Sanji:

Tags: Flirting Sanji, Soft Sanji, Humor, Fluff, Unexpected Bonding, Found Family

Sanji flirts with you every time he sees you.

At the market “Ah, Y/N! Did the sun rise just to see your face today?”

At the docks “Want me to carry those for you, my love? Your hands are far too lovely for heavy lifting!”

Even after the battle in your city, where the Strawhats helped “You’re even more beautiful covered in blood. Should I be worried about how much I love that?”

You never fall for it. You roll your eyes. You walk away. You don’t even blush.

It drives him insane.

“You’re difficult to get,” he says one afternoon, following you through town “but I like that.”

“I don’t fall,” you say flatly “Especially not for men with hearts in their eyes.”

“Ahhh, but my heart is sincere!”

You stop and face him “Sanji. You don’t even know me.”

“I want to.”

You pause. He’s annoying, yes. But not bad. He’s never pushed you too far. Never said anything mean. Just flirty. Charming. Too charming.

You sigh “Fine. You want to know me?”

He lights up “Yes! Of course!”

“Then come with me.”

You lead him through town, away from the market, away from the noise. Into a quiet part of the island. A garden path. A small house tucked in the trees.

He’s still smiling “So this is where the beautiful Y/N hides. A date, then?”

You don’t answer. You open the door. Inside, it’s neat. Warm. Lived-in. There are toys in the corner. A tiny pair of shoes by the door.

Sanji frowns “Is this… your house?”

“Wait here.” you say.

You go into the back room. A few seconds later, you return, holding a small child. Sleepy-eyed. Holding a stuffed whale. While another lady leaves the house as if her job there is finished.

You look Sanji in the eye.

“This is my daughter.”

Sanji freezes.

Dead silent.

You wait.

You expect a nervous laugh. A fast goodbye. A dramatic “I’m not ready for this!” speech.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead…

“Her hair’s like yours,” he says softly “She’s beautiful.”

Your daughter rubs her eyes, looks at him “Who’s that?”

You answer “Just... a friend.”

Sanji kneels slowly “Hi, sweetheart. I’m Sanji. Can I say hello?”

She shrugs. He waves. She waves back with the whale.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Whale.” Sanji says seriously.

You blink.

She giggles.

You didn’t expect this.

You make tea. Sanji helps. He insists, actually.

“She can’t have sugar this late.” you say.

“Then honey,” he says “Gentle on the stomach.”

You watch as he puts her cup in front of her like a butler. Bows. She bows back. You nearly choke on your tea.

“Do you cook?” she asks.

“Oh yes,” he says “Better than anyone.”

She claps “Make us dinner!”

Sanji glances at you. You nod. Why not?

He makes a simple meal. It smells amazing. Your daughter eats two full plates.

After, she sits in his lap and shows him a book of sea animals. He listens. Really listens.

You don’t understand what’s happening.

You were trying to scare him away.

Instead, he’s… perfect.

When she falls asleep, he carries her to her bed. Quiet. Gentle.

He tucks her in, fixes her whale beside her, and kisses her forehead.

You follow him back to the living room in silence.

“Well...” you say, still confused “That wasn’t what I expected.”

He smiles but smaller this time. Softer.

“I flirt because it’s fun,” he says “But I stayed because I wanted to see you.”

You stare at him “You weren’t scared?”

“I was shocked,” he admits “But not scared. You’re a single parent. That’s strong. She’s lucky to have you.”

You look away “I thought it would make you leave.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

You smile at that and look at him again. This time longer.

Sanji isn’t just charm. He’s heart. He’s warmth.

And… maybe you were wrong about him.

Your daughter’s asleep.

Sanji’s sitting on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest like he belongs there. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, and a soft smile on his lips.

He looks so… calm. Like this is normal. Like he wants this.

You sit across from him, legs tucked under you. You sip your tea. Your hands are shaking just a little, but you hide it well.

“Thanks for dinner,” you say “She loved it.”

“She’s adorable,” he says, smiling “And polite. You’ve done an amazing job.”

You stare into your cup “I didn’t do it alone. But… it’s been a long time since I shared her with someone.”

Sanji watches you quietly. No teasing now. Just listening.

You swallow. Here goes nothing.

“So,” you say “I’ve decided something.”

He leans forward “Oh?”

You lift your eyes to meet his “I’m saying yes.”

His brows lift “Yes to what?”

You smile “A date.”

He freezes “Wait. A—really?”

You nod.

“I mean, I’ve been asking for weeks, but I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say “I just didn’t believe you.”

“And now?”

“Now I do.”

He stares at you for a second. Then a slow, beautiful grin spreads across his face. Like he’s won a war. Like the clouds finally moved for the sun.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“You—you have no idea what this means to me, Y/N.”

You chuckle “I might have some idea.”

“Do you want flowers? Candles? Music? Should I wear a suit? I’ll cook, of course—”

You laugh softly “Just come as you are.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly flustered “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You sip your tea again. Calm on the outside.

But inside? Your heart is thundering. So loud it feels like it echoes in your chest. And he doesn't even know your heart is actually beating faster than his own.

You’ve had to be strong for so long. For your child. For yourself. Love always felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford.

But Sanji… he’s something else.

Not because he’s charming.

But because when it really mattered, he stayed.

And now, you let yourself fall a little deeper.

You stand. Walk over. And press a soft kiss to his cheek.

He goes still.

You pull back and say quietly, “Can't wait for the date.”

His eyes widen, then fill with something warm surprised, happy, maybe even a little nervous.

“You… really?” he asks, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You nod “Don’t make me regret it.”

His laugh is breathless “Never.”

You smile, heart pounding, but you don’t let it show. He doesn’t need to know yet how much this means.

A few nights later for your first date Sanji goes all out, but not in a flashy way. It’s thoughtful. Intimate.

He sets up dinner on the ship’s deck. Small candles, soft music from a den den mushi radio, and a view of the sea under stars. He cooks something warm and comforting, not fancy, just full of love.

You talk for hours. About silly things, quiet things, your pasts and dreams. It’s easy. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does talk, it’s gentle.

No cheesy lines. Just Sanji. Real and warm.

After dessert, he walks you home in silence. Not awkward, just peaceful. The kind of quiet where you don’t need to fill space.

At your door, he looks at you with hopeful eyes but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for your choice.

So you step closer.

You kiss him.

Soft. Sure. Just once. But it’s full of everything you’ve been holding back.

When you pull away, he blinks like he’s just been hit by a wave.

You smirk “You were taking too long.”

He laughs, dizzy and full of stars.

And for the first time in a long while, so do you.

── .✦ Ace:

Tags: Friends with Benefits, Angst, Humor, Emotional Reveal, Mutual Feelings Hidden, Teasing to Serious, Marine Conflict

The sun burns above you. You’re lying on the deck of your ship, one leg over the other, a half-empty bottle between your fingers. Ace is beside you shirtless, grinning, sweat on his brow, flame flickering off his fingers like it’s breathing with him.

“You always steal my rum.” you say, kicking him lightly.

“You always keep it warm,” he shoots back “I’m doing you a favor.”

You roll your eyes “Your idea of favors sucks.”

He leans closer, his voice lazy and smug “You didn’t say that last night.”

You groan “Get a new line, fire boy.”

He grins wider. You punch his arm. He fake-winces, like it hurt. It didn’t.

That’s the two of you: teasing, biting, half-fighting, half-kissing. No promises. No labels. Just good fun and bad timing.

Pirate life is rough. You take what joy you can.

“Hey,” you say after a long silence, watching the sky “Wanna hear a secret?”

Ace smirks, eyes still closed “If it’s about that thing you did in the galley with the honey—”

“No, dumbass. A real secret.”

That makes him open his eyes. He turns to look at you “Alright. Hit me.”

You sit up. Serious now. The bottle rests on your knee.

“I have a son.”

Ace snorts “You what?”

You nod, eyes still on the horizon “Yeah. He’s five. His name’s Ren.”

He blinks. You go on before he can interrupt.

“I had him before all this, before the piracy, before you. I got caught in something messy with the Marines. To keep him safe, I left him with my parents. Changed my name. Ran.”

Ace stares.

You keep talking “I go see him when I can. Disguised. Just for a day or two. He thinks I’m some traveling doctor or something. He doesn’t know who I really am.”

You pause. Swallow.

“It’s hell, leaving every time. But I’d rather he grow up safe than have him hunted.”

Ace starts laughing.

You blink “What the hell?”

He’s full-on laughing “Holy shit, you got me! I thought you were serious. What is this, some new kink? Roleplay? Mommy pirate stuff?”

You just look at him.

Dead quiet.

No grin. No tease.

Ace’s smile dies instantly. The flame on his fingers goes out.

“…Wait,” he says “You’re not joking?”

You don’t say anything.

His expression changes fast… shocked, confused, then something close to guilt “You really…?”

You nod once “I’m not playing around.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly tense “Shit.”

“Yeah,” you say, dry “That’s usually the first response.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again “Why are you telling me this now?”

You shrug “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a real connection in years. Or maybe I just got tired of lying all the time.”

He stares at you.

You look away “I didn’t expect you to laugh. That sucked.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“No,” he says quickly “I’m serious. That was a shitty reaction. I just… I didn’t think you were the kind of person to hide something that big.”

You exhale “Turns out, I’m full of surprises.”

The silence between you is heavy now. Not like before.

Then Ace says quietly, “What’s he like?”

You blink “Huh?”

“Your kid. Ren. What’s he like?”

You smile a little “Stubborn. Smart. Messy. Loves drawing fishes. Hates carrots. Thinks I have the coolest boots in the world.”

Ace nods, quiet. He looks down, then up at you again.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs “I’m sorry for laughing. And I’m… kinda honored you told me.”

You raise a brow “Didn’t peg you for the emotional type.”

He shrugs, eyes soft “Didn’t peg you for someone with a child.”

Touché.

Ace doesn’t talk much for the next few days.

No flirting. No teasing. Just quiet looks when he thinks you’re not watching.

You try to act normal with some old jokes, same smug grin as always, but you feel it too. Everything changed with that one secret. The space between you now holds more than just fun.

It holds truth. Real, heavy, warm truth.

You’re standing at the helm when he walks up beside you.

“I want to come.” he says.

You glance at him “Come where?”

“When you go see your son.”

Your hands tighten on the wheel “Ace—”

“I’ll stay out of sight. I swear. I just… want to see him. I want to understand what you gave up. What you’re protecting.”

You study him for a moment. His eyes don’t waver. There’s no joke. No smirk.

Just Ace. Real. Honest.

You nod.

Months later — The island is quiet. A small village with stone houses, chickens in the streets, a little bakery that still smells like your childhood.

You pull your hood low. Ace wears a cap, sunglasses... he looks ridiculous, but no one’s looking at him. Just another traveler.

Your parents’ house is at the end of the road. Garden full of wildflowers. Paint peeling on the fence.

Your son is playing outside.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s chasing butterflies. Laughing. Barefoot.

Ace stops walking.

“That’s him?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod “Ren.”

Ace just stares. His hands slowly curl into fists.

You call out softly, “Ren?”

The boy turns. His face lights up.

He runs to you screaming. You drop to your knees and catch him in your arms. He’s warm. Real. Solid.

Ace looks away.

Inside, your parents keep things short. They know who Ace is. You warned them. They’re not happy, but they trust you.

You all sit outside. Ren sits on Ace’s lap by accident. You try to grab him, but Ace just holds him steady.

“It’s okay,” he says “He’s light.”

Ren shows him a toy ship made of sticks “I made this!”

Ace chuckles “Really? That’s better than some ships I’ve sailed on.”

You stare.

Ren grins proudly “My parent used to tell me stories. About pirates and fire powers. Did you know there’s a pirate who can set his fists on fire?”

Ace raises a brow “Sounds dangerous.”

Ren gasps “But so cool!”

You laugh softly. Ace sends you a small look. It’s gentle. A little sad.

Later, when Ren naps, you and Ace sit on the back porch.

“He’s amazing.” Ace says.

“I know.”

“You’re amazing,” he adds “You left this. For his safety.”

You stare at the grass “I think about quitting all the time. Just staying here. Being at his side full time. But… the world’s not kind. And if they find me—”

“I get it,” he cuts in “You’re doing what you have to.”

You glance at him “I didn’t expect you to care so much.”

He shrugs “Neither did I.”

Then he adds, “But now I can’t stop.”

Your heart stumbles.

“He’s got your eyes.” Ace says softly.

“Don’t get attached.” you warn “This life… it’s dangerous.”

“So is mine,” he says “But that didn’t stop you from letting me in.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I didn’t plan for this...” you whisper.

“Neither did I.”

But here you both are.

And suddenly, fun doesn’t feel like the right word anymore.

The sound of quiet laughter wakes you.

You blink against the morning light, still groggy, still warm under the blanket. It takes a second to remember where you are... your parents’ house, back in your old bed.

And then you hear it again.

Ren’s voice.

And Ace’s.

You sit up, heart skipping.

You slip out of bed, still barefoot, and pad toward the living room. And there they are.

Ren sits cross-legged on the floor, his little wooden ship in one hand, while Ace sits across from him, mimicking an enemy pirate voice.

“Noooo! You got me again, Captain Ren! My ship is sinking!”

Ren giggles and throws a pillow at him “That’s what you get, bad guy!”

Ace dramatically falls back, hands in the air “Ughhh… defeated by the mightiest pirate on the seas…”

Your heart squeezes.

Ace looks so natural. Hair messy. Eyes full of warmth. Like he belongs here.

But then your parents come in.

They freeze when they see the scene.

Ace doesn’t notice at first, he’s laughing with Ren, his smile unguarded.

“Ren.” your mother says, sharply.

Your son turns.

“Come away from him,” your father says quickly, stepping forward “Now.”

Ace blinks, confused “I—”

“Ren,” your mother repeats “Come here.”

Ren looks at you, unsure.

You step in “What’s going on?”

Your father’s jaw tightens “We don’t want him near the child.”

You stare “Excuse me?”

“He’s a pirate,” your mother hisses “A famous one. Fire Fist. He’s dangerous.”

“He’s also sitting on the floor playing ships...” you snap.

Your parents say nothing.

“You trusted me enough to come here with him,” you continue, voice rising “Now you’re trying to pull Ren away like he’s some kind of monster?��

“We’re protecting our grandson.” your father says coldly.

“From what? A man who’s been nothing but kind to him?”

“You don’t know what kind of life he brings.”

“I do,” you shout “I live it too. If you forgot. And yes, it’s dangerous. Yes, it’s hard. But Ace has done nothing but respect my family, protect me, and treat Ren with more care than anyone ever has!”

They go silent.

You’re shaking now, fists clenched.

“And for your information, I love him.”

The words fall like a hammer in the room.

Ren blinks.

Your parents’ eyes widen.

Ace just stares at you.

You don’t move.

You didn’t mean to say it... not like this, not loud, not angry... but it’s out.

And real.

You look at Ace, heart thundering “I love you.”

A beat.

Then Ace stands slowly, eyes locked on yours. He walks to you, quiet. The room holds its breath.

He stops in front of you.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say it first,” he says, voice low “Didn’t want to scare you off. But you beat me to it.”

You blink.

“I love you too.” he says.

He reaches out, gentle, and takes your hand.

Your parents stay silent. Ren looks between the two of you, then claps once like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Can I have pancakes now?” he asks.

You and Ace laugh at the same time, breathless.

And just like that, the tension cracks.

── .✦ Nico Robin:

Tags: Established Relationship, Soft Confession, Emotional Intimacy, Bittersweet Past

It’s late.

Most of the crew has gone to bed, except you and Robin. You're both in the library room. She’s reading. You’re not. You're just holding the edge of a piece of paper... frayed, uneven, and pulsing with life.

A vivre card.

You don’t have to look at it to know it’s still there. Still pointing somewhere far away, where you can’t be.

Robin closes her book softly “Is that what’s been on your mind all day?”

You glance over.

Of course she noticed.

You nod “Yeah.”

She tilts her head slightly “Can I ask who it’s for?”

You hesitate.

You’ve never told her. Not because you didn’t trust her, but because it always felt like a story that belonged to a different version of you. The you from before the sea. Before the Straw Hats. Before her.

But she’s already part of everything now.

So you answer.

“My son.”

Robin says nothing but her gaze sharpens. Attentive. Careful.

“He’s with his other parent now,” you continue, voice quiet “I raised him alone before I joined the crew. He’s the one who said it was okay. Actually, we were always together, in another small crew. Then he wanted a different kind of life. One with… peace. So we contacted his other parent.”

Robin nods, slow “He sounds mature.”

“He was always like that. Smarter than me, I think.”

There’s a short silence.

You look at the vivre card “I haven’t seen him since I joined. We talk through letters, sometimes den den mushi. But I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him again.”

Robin’s eyes soften “Do the others know?”

You shake your head “No. Just you.”

She reaches out. Her fingers brush yours, just enough to touch the vivre card “Thank you for trusting me.”

You smile, small but real “I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want you to see me differently.”

Robin hums “I already see you. Clearly.”

You blink.

She looks at you steady and kind “You carry something heavy. And still laugh with the crew. Still help cook. Still stand beside me in battle. That’s not weakness.”

Your chest aches in the best way.

She pauses, then adds, “If one day… you want to try and see him again, I’d go with you.”

Your voice catches “Really?”

She nods “Of course. I’d like to meet him. He sounds like someone I’d admire.”

You look down at the vivre card.

Still warm. Still burning.

Maybe not as far away as it feels.

It’s just past dinner.

You’re with Robin as she asked you to stay close. A soft excuse about helping her with some documents. You're both sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a soft lamp between you.

You have the vivre card on the table. You don't always keep it out, but tonight you felt the need to hold it.

You glance at the Den Den Mushi nearby.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up and dial a number you’ve had memorized since your hands first held his.

The snail blinks sleepily… then perks up.

“Hello?”

Your chest tightens at the voice.

You smile “Hey, kiddo.”

A pause, then, “IT’S YOU!!”

You laugh, caught off guard by the pure excitement.

“Oh my god—FINALLY! You didn’t forget me, right? You didn’t sail into a storm and disappear forever, right?”

Robin lifts an amused brow, watching you with quiet interest.

“I didn’t forget you,” you say softly “You know that.”

“Just making sure. I’ve been drawing so many sea monsters lately you would not believe. I made a kraken with three hats.”

You laugh again, voice cracking slightly “Three hats? He must be important.”

“Very.” He pauses, then adds, “...I missed you.”

You shut your eyes “I missed you too.”

Robin looks away respectfully, but stays close.

Then, from the snail: “Hey, wait—who’s near you? Are you with someone?”

You glance at Robin, who blinks, caught.

“She’s... a friend.” you say carefully.

Robin speaks, her voice soft “I hope I’m more than just a friend.”

The Den Den Mushi mimics a shocked face.

“...OH MY GOD. IS THIS YOUR GIRLFRIEND??”

You bury your face in your hand.

Robin chuckles lightly, graceful even when embarrassed “Hello. I’m Robin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

There’s a long pause.

“...You sound really cool.”

Robin smiles “Thank you. So do you.”

“Wait—how much do you know about them? Like... do you know about the time they tried to cook without instructions and set the wall on fire?”

You groan “Don’t tell her that.”

“It was a microwave! The noodles caught on fire!”

Robin’s shoulders shake with laughter.

You shoot her a glare that holds no heat “I regret this entire call.”

“No you don’t.”

And he’s right. You don’t.

Not even a little.

Later, when the call ends, you sit in silence.

Robin’s hand reaches for yours “He’s amazing.”

You nod, voice soft “Yeah. He really is.”

She squeezes your hand gently “He has your spark. And your chaos.”

You smile through the ache in your chest “He’s better than I’ll ever be.”

Robin rests her head against your shoulder.

“You’ll see him again. When the time is right. And I'll be with you... if you want me.”

"Of course I do."

And somehow, with her beside you, that feels like a promise you can believe in.

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xo-adeline · 2 days ago

Text

"To Change For You..." - Twisted Wonderland

⋆°• ☁︎ - Things they do after picking it up from you!

Feat. Pan Nikos, Peyn Algos, Idia Shroud, and Leona Kingscholar

AN: The wonderful Pan Nikos and Peyn Algos belong to @kokii-omii ! (I’m so tempted to write for a bunch of the their other oc’s as well-) ☁︎ - Gn!Reader - Reader is described as Yuu (Leona’s Part and Peyn’s Part)

Pan Nikos - Gets (a little) better at not yelling at/threatening people during multiplier games If you had asked anybody in the Ignihyde dorm, or really anybody who had come in contact with him while playing video games, they would tell you the same thing: He’s scary. Whether they explained about the time that he had tried to leak the dorm's browser history, or just any time that they had been playing a co-op game, and they got a loud earful from the vice-housewarden. But everything was still the same, other times, though he could definitely mellow out, especially not in super stressful instances.

The first time that it had even been talked about was the night after a 5-hour co-op game between Idia and Pan. Of course, at the time, it was a little confusing, but even when Idia had stumbled into Pan later, he still seemed much more chill, even with all the hectic stuff that had been throwing the dorm members for a loop. And at every new problem that was brought up, there was a sense of tension in the air, and every time, there was a deeper scowl on Pan’s face. But before he could actually blow up and threaten anybody else, there was a deep breath, and he just let it go? Not only did it confuse the hell out of everybody who had seen it, but also Peyn and Idia, who were just standing there.

The second time this had ever shown up was when he was mid-boss battle, and one of his characters, which he had spent months building and perfecting, didn’t crit. Even with the lineup being perfect and every artifact in place, signature weapon, even 10-10-10 talents. And still it didn’t work, so in anybody's situation, they would have been pretty upset, and Pan, of course, was, but yet this time… There was just a little bit of some under his breath words, a pained noise, and then that same sigh, and instead he moved onto building one of his other characters. This was the time that they finally started to question it. And lo and behold, the only thing that was in common between both occasions. The fact that you, of all people, had made mention of the fact that it wasn’t the nicest to yell at everybody and that they were just trying to do their best, and yet somehow, even when Idia had mentioned the same thing, he only applied it when you had said it. And this had only added to the fact that he definitely played favorites, but hey, at least he was getting better at it?

Peyn Algos - Being (a little) less spiteful If there was one thing that anybody close to Peyn knew, it was the fact that he would only go out of his way to do things that would piss people off, case in point the many times that he would get into arguments with Riddle due to the abserdity of the Queen of Hearts rules. So, the first time that at a clear opportunity to make some sort of snide comment, he didn’t, people started to question everything. Was the world finally ending? No, or at least not yet. But the more times it happened, the more people started questioning it. Riddle was probably the first person to notice it, knowing how the Ignihyde student was one to jump at any moment to call him out on something, especially when it came to one of the 810 rules. Even the next time that he didn’t argue with Sebek about anything across the sun was the tell sign that something else was happening. And with their game on an update, Pan and Idia were about to find out why. Pan had the upper hand here when it came to understanding the majority of Peyn’s attitudes towards things; they were really good friends after all. But, it wasn’t long before they finally started to notice that this was an ongoing thing. Even if at some moments he didn’t end up making more comments, and the times that he didn’t, there were definitely unspoken words, and the way that he was really trying to bite his tongue was also supporting that fact. Now, after a few more minutes, there was only one person who really stuck out against everybody else. You. The one person who already stood out enough at the lack of magic, but even more so at the fact that you could get Peyn through a scolding without him back-talking whatsoever.

But that was the main thing that Pan and Idia noticed, the way he didn’t even seem like he wanted to. There was no sense of malice, no matter what you had said; it was like he really didn’t care what you were saying, just that you were around him and talking to him. And the more that the two of you talked, the more they had noticed that even at chances were there could have been a comment made, he didn’t even look like he was thinking about it. Or more often, when there was a chance that either he or you could leave the conversation, he never took it. Peyn had even when the extra mile to walk you back to Ramshackle, even knowing that Ignihyde was almost the exact opposite direction. Now it all made sense; it was only because you were the one who had mentioned it to him that he would have even considered it.

Both Pan and Idia were definitely making note of this for later dates…

Leona Kingscholar - Showing up to classes more often Safe to say that the first time in months that the Savanaclaw housewarden had actually shown up to class, there was a bit of a shock to everybody else. Most people had even forgotten that he was at the school, let alone even in their class. That’s how bad it was… Even the teacher had a confused look on his face when he saw Leona sitting in his assigned seat, when class was set to start. Of course, the initial reaction was just thinking that it was only because he knew that he had to get a certain number of days in to graduate, and it must have only gone towards that. But that idea was quickly shut down when the lion showed up 3 days in a row, was he on the verge of falling asleep every time? Hell yeah. But was he at least there? Also yeah.

This is also why a few of the students had launched a full-fledged undercover plan to figure out why he was coming so much. It didn’t take long or very much following around of Leona before they had found out the true reason behind his return. You. The magicless prefect that resided in Ramshackle. The very one that over anything else, had at least showed up to class and tried to keep their grades as high as they could, even without the use of magic. The group that had looked on this from afar was confused when they realized that one person could break him down and actually make him show up to class, but the more they started investigating, the more they found out about why that was.

The subtle glance from the housewarden when he watched as you spent your hangout time studying, the talks about some of the material that you were working on at the time - and more about asking him if he remembered anything about it and could help you, and last but certainly not least, the repetitive questions about how he could do nothing during the day and not get bored? Wasn’t there anything that he wanted to do other than just being part of the royal family? Wasn’t there anything that he wanted to learn about, or even just learn more about?

And maybe it was the way that you often asked these questions, that he finally started to do as you, offhandedly, suggested, and showed up to class. Now, there was no way that he was showing up with nothing in return. And what was he getting in return? For everything he was doing in class, he was also able to help you more and more, which meant less time for you to be constantly studying, and more time that you could be spending with him. It was a subtle difference, but to him, it meant everything in the world.

Idia Shroud - Leaving his room once in a while Before you, it was safe to say that he almost never left his room, and if he did? It was a beeline almost anywhere he actually needed to go. And being the good partner that you were, there was a constant trying to get him to at least see the sun before the end of the day. And yet, every day, there would always be some reason that he wouldn’t be able to leave. Whether it was some new event, online grinding for an upcoming event, or even some rereads of manga that you know he read, but says he didn’t, just so he didn’t have to go outside. Even Ortho had tried his hardest to get him up and out of the dorm, but there was only once in a few months that he would end up leaving the room, and for no longer than 15 minutes, max.

So there definitely was some gasps and onlookers the first time that you had actually dragged him on a walk around the campus, and for longer then the time he would normally be seen outside. Many of the people who had known about the ignihyde housewarden's tendencies were shocked to say the least. Luckily for Idia, nobody really interfered with the two of you at all, just choosing to stay away and instead pass the news on to friends through text message. Even if you were oblivious or not to the onlookers, there was a slight firmer grasp on the hand that he was holding, even if it did turn the ends of his hair slightly pink in the process. Good thing he had his hoodie that was pulled up ever so slightly.

From that day most people had just assumed it was a one time thing, they knew that both you and the housewarden were close so of course you would be trying to look out for him a little bit, but that was quickly shut down when a week later, around the same time, the two of you were back out and walking through the same area. And how long did this continue for? Months. Once a week, around the same time every week, and through some times the same area, other times different ones. But for some reason, it was only around you that he would ever even make the chance to leave the room he loved oh so much.

And little did anybody else know, that the whole reason was because he knew how much you hated that he never left his room. It was bad health after all! So, he was the person who proposed the idea of maybe taking small walks here and there, until it became a weekly trend that the two of you would partake in. It was a win-win in his eyes, he was able to spend more time with you and you got to see that he was actually leaving his room and getting some of the fresh air and vitamin D that he oh so desperately needed.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #pan nikos #pan nikos x reader #peyn algos #peyn algos x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingsholar x reader #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #xo-adelinewrites

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