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bballesbolol · 10 hours ago

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The Game we Play

Paige x Azzi boarding school roommates AU

Warnings: none

a/n: I’ve pretty much fully reworked this chapter from the original draft, so if you read the first one, trust me, you’ll think this is way better.

wc: 3.3k

Chapter 1

Paige:

Paige’s freshman year basketball season was perfect. She was the starting point guard at Hopkins High. She was recognized as a first team All-Star in her region. She led her team in scoring. She helped carry her high school team into the state tournament, one of it’s deepest runs yet. She was successful, no doubt. And she loved Hopkins, but she dreamed of playing basketball in college.

And not just at some mid-major university. She wanted real, all-American Division one basketball. She wanted to be the best. And to be the best, she had to play with the best.

And so came her hunt for a new school. One where she could really focus on developing her game.

Luckily, her skill was enough to draw scouts from some pretty elite private schools, all willing to throw scholarship money at her if she decided to play with them. Of course, she had found herself hoping to go to some big athletic school, somewhere like IMG: big and modern and basically a year round skills camp with a side of learning.

But her parents refused to let her, they thought that school should come first, a philosophy that Paige utterly despised. I mean, it was her basketball talent that got her into the school in the first place, and unless she wanted to play basketball at Harvard, her grades were really just background noise.

But according to her parents, “her future was undecided” and “she was only going into her sophomore year”, and “basketball wasn’t everything”. Obviously out of touch with reality.

She had never been an academic, and if her future unfolded how she hoped, she definitely wouldn’t be one anytime soon. So it was a given that seeking out a school known for athletics and academics was a nightmare. After months of emails, phone calls, and a never ending push pull with her parents, Paige had finally reached a compromise.

Montverde Academy. A school near Orlando with a standout basketball team and “excellent” academics.

Her athletic scholarship covered the whole year, room and board and all. The coach’s selling points were simple. She was filling the program with the best young basketball players she could recruit. Paige would get maximum exposure to the colleges the coach not-so-subtly bragged about attending each game. It would run like college. Two a days. Weights and skills and conditioning and competition.

A dream. That’s what it sounded like. And Paige was ready for it all. To get out of Minnesota. To compete. To be seen. To win. To excel.

It all sounded amazing a week ago.

But now, she found herself sitting on her bedroom floor, phone open to the Montverde Athletics instagram page, pondering a key aspect of school she had massively overlooked.

Roommate's.

It was a boarding school, so she would have to stay with another girl. a stupidly obvious fact that Paige had entirely forgotten in the flurry of committing. She had decided she wouldn’t settle for a random roommate. She couldn’t risk rooming with a NARP. And not just because she couldn’t stand some non-athletes. No, this was also for their sake. Her early morning trips to the gym, bottomless drawers of practice clothes, and over-the-top competitive personality were decidedly a disturbance she did not want to plague an unassuming student at Montverde with. So she settled on searching for a future teammate to reach out to.

This, however, was proving to be a bigger challenge than she expected.

She was naturally outgoing, of course, having grown up playing basketball she had to be. Loud. Funny. Confident, almost to a fault. She fit in with new AAU teams like she’d been playing with them for years. Honestly, her outgoing personality might be more standout than her basketball at times.

But, for some reason, her chest tightened at the idea of going to this new boarding school. Florida was a long ways away from Minnesota, and these girls she was going to school with were all so new, and so good.

Scrolling through the tagged posts on the academy’s website felt like snooping through a college scouts clipboard. These girls weren’t just going to be teammates she’d see for two hours a day. Actually, she was pretty sure they would be lucky to get two hours apart. They were going to be living together. 24/7. An entire school year. And for some reason, the thought was nerve wracking.

What if they’re rude? Or stuck up? Or what if they're all rich preppy girls and I can’t stand them? It is a private school after all…

Scrolling through the page felt like she was swiping through tinder.

Too nice.

Scroll

To intimidating.

Scroll

Too…blonde?

Scroll

She let her head sink deeper into the hood of her sweatshirt as she let out a frustrated sigh, scrolling past a post for some international player from Croatia. That was when one post caught her eye.

Azzi Fudd.

She had posted her commitment a few days ago, her post was a simple picture of her on campus with a wide grin and a thumbs up, captioned with some “i’m so grateful” speech. She knew she’d definitely heard the name before, but she could have sworn she’d seen the girl before. Maybe at AAU?

She clicked on the girl's profile, and was met with a flurry of pictures of Azzi. She was tanned, with toned muscles (that paige wasn’t jealous of at all), dark curly hair, brown eyes, and a slightly wonky smile that made her feel…less intimidating? She let herself dig deeper into her posts, In which she found that:

1. Azzi was a year younger than herself

2. She played for Saint John’s in Virginia

3. She was definitely dedicated to basketball

Check, check, and check. This girl was building a pretty good case for herself.

she came across a post from an AAU tournament, with a gym that was eerily familiar to her. Then it clicked. She had never met Azzi—like formally, handshake kinda meeting—but she had played her. The details were fuzzy, but she remembered bits and pieces. Azzi was a guard. She wasn’t super shifty, but she could definitely run. She wasn’t loud. Not cocky either. And she could shoot—like really shoot.

She let herself stare at the picture a little longer. Ran back through her very exclusive future roomate mental checklist.

Girl?

check.

Athlete?

check.

Looks nice enough?

check.

And she had to get bonus points for being in the same room as herself at least once in her life.

Overall, she was a good prospect—well, good enough to end the 3 hour roommate spiral she had been falling into.

So she drafted a message. Actually, it was more of an introduction. Sickly sweet and definitely fake and all very un-Paige.

She read it back to herself, holding back the full body cringe that threatened to take over as she looked over her text.

I know we haven’t really properly met, but like, I saw that your going to Montverde this year and I just wanted to reach out and say hi, yk ‘cause there aren’t a lot of people my age committed for this year? soooo hi

soooo, hi? Soooo I’m actually gagging. About 3 too many o’s and oozing with cautious kindness.

Paige snickered at how cautiously sweet her message was. But she hit send anyway, watched message deliver.

Her problem was that it stayed on delivered. For an hour. Then two. Then three. What could this girl even be up to?? it’s 9:45 at night, she should be home by now, is she really just just gonna ignore me?

She let a frustrated groan escape her lips. whatever. She turned off her phone and plugged it in on her dresser. she wasn’t going to wait on this reply like her whole year depended on it, worse comes to worse, she would just room with another teammate. Or even just another athlete. Either way, she could easily find someone else, right?

an exasperated sigh slipped from somewhere deep behind her ribs.

Right.

She slipped into bed and turned off her light. She would check back in the morning, and if she didn’t respond she would just ask someone else. Easy.

Azzi:

Azzi had already gotten to the gym late. She was stressed out, the school year was ending soon, and she had just fought through a day of finals and weeks of stress about her new school. Long day to say the least, and Azzi needed to decompress.

The summer was coming up quickly, with it—unfortunately for her—came the thought of moving into a new school, in a new state, with an entirely new team.

The problem was she had played with the same girls since she was in diapers, and befriending an entirely new team intimidated her to say the least.

She had posted her commitment to Monverde 2 days ago, and had received a few comments from juniors and seniors on the team congratulating her, but nobody her age had really reached out personally. Maybe that was the norm. Or maybe they could smell fear. Either way, she was stuck with barren DM’s and one pressing, unresolved problem.

Roommate's. More specifically her lack thereof.

Unfortunately, Azzi was not the type to reach out herself. so, obviously, she decided she would let herself suffer through random roommate selection and pray that the team took a liking to her when she finally met them on campus. Did the thought of it freak her out?—yeah, she would be living with some random girl for a whole school year—but it seemed simple and less life threatening than hunting for a roommate. And it was certainly less humiliating than asking and getting rejected. She would just have to leave her sanity this year up to chance by some roommate lottery.

Hence the late night gym trip. Basketball was a way for her to destress, she could turn her brain off and shoot for hours, it was an easy way to clear her mind. But fuck, today it wasn’t helping.

tween, cross, brick.

“Come on Az, that’s your shot!” Azzi dad called out, snatching the rebound and snapping the ball back to her at the top of the key. Azzi scrambled to grab the pass, but it hit her chest before dropping into her hands. Dropping back into triple threat, she sucked in a breath, tried to quiet her mind, and tried again.

tween, cross, brick.

Her mind wasn’t any quieter. Actually, it felt like the gym was making it louder. Like her thoughts had slipped through her skull and were now rattling through the rafters. Azzi let a frustrated groan slip from her lips as she used the hem of her shirt to wipe the beads of sweat from her forehead. This was her shot, it always was, but tonight she just couldn’t fucking hit it.

“Azzi, you're goin’ to a better school next year, you’re good, but these kids are better. this isn’t gonna be like home, if you want to compete-“ her’s voice added to the noise she was so desperately trying to ignore.

Azzi rolled her eyes. Her dad had always been her coach, but he had ramped up the whole tough love thing after she committed to the academy. She needed it, of course, but jesus, tonight she just couldn’t deal with it. She had already been in the gym for an hour, and her arms and legs felt like jelly. That, combined with the worries about her new school made the normally effortless task of making a shot feel like an impossible feat. She felt like sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill—except her boulder just happened to be an all-to-familiar orange ball. Her frustration with herself had already boiled over, and she could feel herself accidentally letting it slip out as she responded to her dad.

“I know I know, if I want to compete I need to outwork these girls. I’m too young, I'm not experienced, these girls are basically olympians compared to me right?” Her dad looked surprised at the tone she snapped back at him with. He shook his head, sighing as he passed her back the rebound from her missed shot.

“Look, in here I’m your coach, not your dad, and I'm not gonna go easy on you. I’m just preparing you for what you’re gonna deal with at this school. they’re are big recruits going there, and if you want to see the floor you need to make these shots” Azzi looked away from her dad with a huff, dropping the ball to her waist as she prepared to shoot again

tween, cross, sidestep, and surprise!

brick.

The sound of the rim recoiling as the ball clanged off of the side rattled through the gym.

Her dad sighed and rubbed his temples. “y’know what? I'm gonna go wait in the car, you clearly need some space. Just meet me in the parking lot when you’re done.” and with that her dad turned and walked away. Azzi could sense his disappointment, but pushed down the feeling, turning her eyes back to the stupid hoop and her thoughts to her stupid broken jumper.

She stomped towards the hoop in pursuit of her rebound, grabbing it and taking one hard dribble before walking the ball back to the three point line. She lifted the ball again, about to shoot, when she suddenly became aware of how tense she was. Her traps were wound tight, her shoulders felt like they could touch her ears, and she hadn’t taken a breath—like a real, deep breath—the whole time she’d been there.

She took a second to be still. She let her shoulders drop, shaking them out for just a second. One breath, then another. A third. The category 5 mental spiral slowly died down, even if it was only to a category 4.

You’re just frustrated, c’mon you do this every day, just forget about school for a second and chill.

She prayed what little self-soothing she tried would work, because honestly? If this ball didn’t go through the hoop, its next stop would be through a window.

she took one last deep breath and repeated the move, slower this time:

tween,

cross,

swish.

A sigh of relief escaped from her she chased the rebound, moving to another spot on the floor before shooting again.

swish.

Every shot that fell helped pull her—inch by inch—out of her head. Off of school, off of finals, off of room—

off of that. She could feel herself slowly falling back into rhythm. Smooth. Comfortable. Mindless. The gym was quiet, only interrupted by the faint swoosh of the net as she fired up shots one after another. She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she was satisfied with how many she had made. By the time she looked up at the clock it was 8:45, and she could feel a slight sheen of sweat coating her skin, sticky and hot. Her body was practically screaming for her to put down the ball and crawl into bed.

She decided to wrap up with free throws before she re-racked her ball and sat down to untie her shoes. She slipped them off, tucking them into her basketball duffel before slinging it over her shoulder and slipping on an old pair of slides.

Opening the door to the gym offered little relief from the heat of the gym. She was met by a gust of Virginia heat, making her feel sticky after her hours of shooting. Her dad had pulled around to the front of the gym and was parked near the doors, and she silently thanked him as she jogged to the car to escape the heat.

She sighed with relief when she opened the door and was met with the AC blowing a cool 65.

“you figure it out kid?” her dad looked over to her expectantly. he must’ve noticed the change in her demeanor, because his tone wasn’t cautious. Not like he was talking to the ticking-time-azzi she was before he left.

“yeah, I just needed to not think about that school, y’know?” she responded, a weak smile on her face, until she was rudely interrupted by a yawn breaking free from her lips.

“mhm, glad you could stop stressin’ over it, but next time, try and figure it out before you get to the gym, don’t wanna be leavin’ at 9 pm every night” he jabbed at her shoulder, eliciting a giggle from Azzi as she leaned back and looked out the window.

“yeah yeah, whatever” she buckled in and pulled out her phone as the car pulled out of the lot. Azzi scanned through her notifications and let out an absentminded “hm” as one in particular caught her eye.

A dm from Paige Bueckers.

She’d seen her in posts before, an effortless—maybe slightly cocky smile permanently plastered on her face, like she couldn’t feel the cameras on her. She’d been posted almost everywhere you could imagine basketball, on Overtime, Bleacher report, USA Basketball, her schools page, and recently, had seen her commitment post to Montverde.

She’s played against her before too, once. some AAU tournament. And she could understand why Paige was going to Montverde. She was talented, of course, almost impossible to pick up on D, but that wasn’t what made her stand out. It was her confidence. It was the kind of self assurance that Azzi wished she had. A noisy, and sometimes cocky aura that screamed “I know I’m good, and you’re gonna know it too”.

she clicked on the notification, opening up instagram and reading her message.

paigebueckers:

I know we haven’t really met, but like, I saw that you're going to Montverde this year and I just wanted to reach out and say hi, yk ‘cause there aren’t a lot of people my age committed for this year? soooo hi

She tried her hardest to hold back the laugh trying to escape her chest, and failed. A sort of snort slipped out. Not at the idea of the message, but at the absurdity of how it came across.

No way she’s scared to reach out to me, she must be trying to make a good impression.

She was sure that the Paige she saw all over Overtime wouldn’t be so cautious, hell, she wasn’t this cautious on the court, that’s for sure. From what she’d heard, she wasn’t scared to speak her mind. And her “mind” never spit out kind words, let alone any so painfully awkward and cautious. She found herself wondering what Paige wanted, because clearly, it was something.

Her theorizing was interrupted by the car slowing as her dad pulled into their driveway. Eventually it rolled to a stop near the side of their house. Right now, all she cared about was getting out of this car and into the coldest shower she’d ever had, and then into the biggest, softest sweat set she owned. She grabbed her bag and hopped out of the car wordlessly, excused by her tired eyes, which had singly handedly told her dad that she was done talking for the night. She shuffled up her front steps and opened her door before kicking off her slides and slipping her bag off of her shoulder, dropping it where she stood before rushing up to her room. She was desperate for that cold shower, but decided it would be rude not to send Paige a quick reply, especially since she had reached out—shit—almost 4 hours ago. She quickly typed up her reply:

Hey Paige! Glad you reached out, tbh I’ve been worried that the first time I talk to anyone from that school would be orientation lol.

It was a short response, but it would have to be enough, she desperately needed to shower and her body was screaming for her to sleep. She chucked her phone onto her bed and set out for her bathroom, struggling to keep her eyes open.

Her shower was quick and cold, but it made the dull ache in her muscles a little more bearable. She pulled on a pair of baggy plaid pj pants and a loose t-shirt and crawled into bed, relishing in the relief she felt at finally being horizontal. she reached out for her phone, checking instagram for a response from Paige. There was nothing, of course, it was nearly 10:30 and any respectable student-athlete would have long been asleep by now. She sighed, placed her phone back on her bedside table, and rolled over, letting sleep finally take over.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #pazzi #the game we play #paige x azzi #lesbian #high school #uconn wbb #uconn huskies

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karaswnee · 16 hours ago

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Nam-gyu’s NSFW Alphabet

(I’m making this because I’m so fucking depressed by S3)

A – Aftercare:

Not great.

He rolls away fast, heart still racing, wiping his face and lighting a cigarette.

Comfort isn’t something he knows how to offer.

B – Body Part:

Your thighs.

Doesn’t matter the shape—he loves gripping them, biting them, burying himself between them when the world spins too hard.

C – Cum:

Messy, needy, fast.

It hits him like a blackout—like something he didn’t mean to give up.

He’s always surprised by how much it takes out of him.

D – Dirty Secret:

He once paid for someone’s time—then never touched them.

Just watched.

Just wanted to feel like someone chose him, even if it was a lie.

E – Experience:

More than you’d expect, less than he brags about.

He’s desperate to feel something real, and sex is the fastest shortcut he knows.

F – Favorite Position:

Anything with you on top.

He wants to feel pinned, overwhelmed, almost erased.

He calls it lazy—truth is, it’s about surrender.

G – Goofy:

Only when he’s high.

Then he gets cocky, teases your moans, flashes that crooked grin, makes you laugh right before he makes you cry out.

H – Hair:

Grown-in and uneven.

He trims sometimes, but mostly forgets.

It’s not a priority when he’s chasing the next fix—or your lips.

I – Intimacy:

He’s terrible with it.

Physical? Yes.

Emotional? Dangerous.

If he lets you in too deep, he pushes you out harder the next day.

J – Jack Off:

Often, and always in his head.

He’ll stare at a ceiling, headphones blasting, imagining hands that stay and mouths that don’t lie.

K – Kinks:

Biting, breathy begging, overstimulation, being used.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he likes it when someone else takes control.

L – Location:

Back of a club, against a wall, someone else’s apartment at 3 a.m.

He likes it reckless, places where nothing feels permanent.

M – Motivation:

Friction, control, fear.

He gets off on tension—emotional or physical.

Rough touches, breathless moans, someone pulling his hair?

He’s already unzipping.

N – No:

Gentle eye contact and promises.

He can fuck, but love?

Love is a joke—one that left bruises.

O – Oral:

Rough and impatient, unless he’s trying to prove he’s worth staying for.

Then it’s slow, hands trembling, like you’re his last meal.

P – Pace:

Erratic.

Sometimes he moves like he’s got something to prove—other times, like he doesn’t think he deserves to be there.

Q – Quickies:

Yes, constantly.

It’s never about romance—it’s about distraction.

The shorter, the dirtier, the better.

R – Risk:

Part of the appeal.

He wants to get caught.

Maybe if someone sees him, they’ll remember he exists.

S – Stamina:

Runs hot, burns out fast.

If he’s clean, he can keep going.

If he’s high, it’s a gamble—could be one round or five.

T – Toys:

Nothing fancy.

Maybe a cock ring, maybe your hand on his throat.

He gets off more on sensation than equipment.

U – Unfair:

Devastating.

He’ll tease you until you’re crying, then look bored.

But deep down?

He’s begging for you to break him right back.

V – Volume:

Low, raspy, uneven.

He gasps more than he moans, sometimes too quiet—like he’s afraid someone will hear how much he wants this.

W – Wild Card:

He’ll fuck you wearing someone else’s jacket, eyes glassy, asking you to pretend he’s someone you’re not supposed to touch.

X – X-Ray:

Lean, wiry, shadows under his skin.

His body’s a map of bad decisions, and he dares you to love it anyway.

Y – Yearning:

High, chaotic, constant.

He thinks about sex more than he’ll admit—driven by impulse, chemicals, and the craving to feel something.

Z – Zzz:

Sleeps like a corpse—or not at all.

No in-between.

After sex, he’ll either crash mid-breath or sit awake until dawn, staring at nothing.

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destinysbounty · 3 days ago

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On the topic of mergeswap AUs, most of the ninja could be shuffled around to different Merge scenarios with equally compelling results, but I maintain that by far the most *interesting* swap would be Lloyd-Zane. That is to say, Lloyd gets put in the coma pod while Zane is left alone in the monastery.

Out of all the post-Merge scenarios, I think Lloyd would most severely be fucked up by completely sleeping through it - he wakes up to find that not only is the world different, but his friends have spent *years* struggling to survive without his help. He's supposed to be their leader, their guide, the chosen savior of prophecy. It's his job to look out for them, isn't it? But he wasn't there. The world fell apart, his team is in shambles, and everyone has suffered innumerable traumas as a result...and he wasn't there for any of it. Knowing Lloyd, the self-imposed guilt would absolutely eat him alive. Also, once again he is chronologically displaced - before it was the age of his mind and body being mismatched, and now he is once again missing several years of his life.

(Also I think it's funny if we put Lloyd in Zane's pod specifically, especially if he's still the Conduit. Because that means he woke up, immediately jumped into the fight against Imperium, and then like 10 minutes later volunteered to take on life-changing god powers from some random talking dragon. All without any context for anything that is going on whatsoever.)

As for Zane...god, where do I even start.

So, putting Zane in the monastery is fascinating for a number of reasons.

Out of everyone on the team, the ones who consistently cope with isolation the worst are Cole and Zane. That's not to say the others enjoy it, per se, but they're all at least able to lock in and get shit done as needed, trauma be damned. But Cole is very community-oriented and comes a bit unglued in the absence of a community to rely on (DotD, s10), and Zane...oh boy.

Zane is usually the one to die, so he is rarely put in a position of grieving the others. His only instances of mourning the absenceof a loved one are:

His father, which happened off-screen so we don't know how he handled that initially (he seems to be okay in s3, but knowing Zane he probably just repressed the feeling and moved on)

Nya in Seabound, which he was so ill-equipped to deal with that he turned off his emotions entirely

Pixal in DR, where he was so unable to handle her absence that he straight up stapled a photo of her to a broom and started talking to it. Also with Kai getting lost in superhell, which we don't really see him grieving over but also we don't see much of that from anyone so uhhh I'm choosing to ignore that for now.

Picture it. Zane, alone in the monastery, with none of his friends around and no way of knowing what happened to them. All he can do is sit and hold vigil in the hopes that they will eventually come back (something something Echo Zane lighthouse parallels). I'm not saying Zane would start taping his friends' photos to random appliances by the end of week 1 and cry over his tenth ice sculpture of Pix by week 2, but uhhhh....actually no that's exactly what I'm saying. Provided he doesn't miraculously find a way to get himself killed while chilling in the monastery, I give him like 6 months before his sanity completely unravels.

Another reason for swapping Zane into Lloyd's spot is that whoever is in the monastery at the start of DR also gets to be the mentor to the new ninja. And that puts Zane in a *very* interesting position.

Zane is, on both a meta and narrative level, a support character. He's your medic, your backup, your HQ, and he can even be your damsel in distress. He's not really a leader by nature, and it is rare for him to take charge or assume a position of authority unless the situation demands it of him. He's generally content to sit back and let everyone else take charge - he let Cole take the lead during the prison break in s4, he's one of the only ones not to express pushback when Lloyd officially becomes the leader, etc.

It's actually a bit odd how rare it is for him to lead, bc it feels like everyone else has way more instances of flexing their leadership skills. Off the top of my head, i can think of exactly three occasions where Zane assumes a position of authority:

For about 10 mins in s5, which ends in him glitching out and talking backwards

In s14 when he became Captain Zane, but that was mostly for comedic effect, and authority goes back to Lloyd and Nya once the situation actually gets serious

In s11 when he became Ice Emperor, but he had to be magically corrupted, mind-wiped, AND gaslit in order for that to even happen.

(You could argue he took charge during the Snake Jaguar incident, but he didn’t take charge of the whole team and also it didn't end well.)

All this to say, Zane doesn't have a positive track record with being in charge. Probably even worse, now that he has all that Ice Emperor baggage to deal with.

So what do you do with a character like that? Naturally, you give him a gaggle of wide-eyed children to look after and tell him to teach them how to be ninja. Lloyd was already hesitant to be their master in canon, but Zane would be even worse.

Furthermore, Zane, uh...doesn't really have many friends outside of the ninja (aside from his falcon, who hasnt existed in the show for years). Cole has the Upply and the Finders, Nya is close to Ronin and became good friends with Bentho, Kai has Skylor and Wyldfyre, Lloyd had the resistance and Akita and now the next-gen kids, Jay started an entire cult in Prime Empire and also seems to be on good terms with Unagami, and even Wu is close to Faith...but who does Zane have outside of the team? Vex, maybe? Possibly Borg, even though that relationship isn't explored onscreen? Sally, who gets one whole episode spotlighting her and Zane before vanishing into obscurity?

This even continues in DR, too. Theres a new cast of characters to befriend and connect with, many of whom share a lot in common with Zane, but he doesn't really interact at length with anyone but his old friends and Frohickey.

True, a lot of that can be blamed on Zane's gradual narrative dehumanization depriving him of meaningful personal connections, but in-universe you could also attribute that to his self worth. Zane is so wrapped up in his belief that he exists to serve and protect, and he is so strongly devoted to the ninja that he can be a bit one-track-minded about it. He loves his family so much that he doesn't have time to care for anyone else in the same way. They are his world, his everything, his life's purpose...without them, he is nothing. Can you say "codependent"?

But now, he's alone in the monastery. He doesn't know if his friends are alive. All he can do is sit and pray and hope they come back to him. And after years of waiting, he crosses paths not with his family, but with two new kids. They want him to teach them to be ninja. But Zane is too afraid - afraid of leaving his post, afraid that being in charge will bring out his inner Ice Emperor...afraid of betraying his family by finding a new one.

He does agree to help them in the end, if only because he exists to protect and they need protection. But the whole time, he is afraid, and anxious, and painfully unsure of himself. But just as he teaches them how to be strong, how to fight, how to be brave and kind and selfless...they teach him how to believe in himself. How to reclaim his sense of identity. How to stand on his own without his friends, and how to make new ones. How to live for his loved ones, rather than dying for them.

(And yeah, okay, a small part of it this is definitely spite for the way he's been unilaterally snubbed by DR canon. I won't deny that)

Personally, if I were to write a mergeswap AU that's probably the direction I'd take. But then again, I might just be on some next-level copium and desperately trying to make Zane actually relevant to DR in some meager way

#there are two things preventing me from buckling down and writing the zane-centric mergeswap au in my drafts #1) im currently doing a full series rewatch and im still on ToE #2) maybe i just dont know where to look but it often feels like zane is the least popular character in the fanfic space #and everyone loves dad lloyd. idk if itd go over well to hand that story off to zane instead #ninjago #ninjago dragons rising #dragons rising #ninjago zane #zane julien #mergeswap au #destiny post

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ladykailitha · 2 days ago

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Three Cheers for Toby the Tiger Part 4

Thank you so much for all the love this story has been getting. I'm excited to see where this story going and it's nearing the end.

In this we have the results of the mischief, Steve flirting with Eddie, and everyone thinking they're cute.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

It turned out that anyone could be ejected from the game.

Eddie sat in the hall outside the other school’s gymnasium, costume half off, and tied around his waist, the head off, and his arms crossed as he slouched against the wall.

Principal Higgins came out of the gym with a sigh. “May I ask why you chose to use the opposing team’s captain as target practice?”

Eddie tilted his chin up and said, “He deserved it for going after Harrington the way he did. If anyone should be ejected from the game, it’s him.”

“I saw the play, Munson,” Higgins said, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It was a valid play.”

“Not if they knew Harrington had a concussion and was only there to keep the school from having to drop out of the tournament all together,” Eddie said coolly.

Higgins paled.

“Yeah,” Eddie groused. “I don’t know much about the game, but even I know that’s straight up bullshit.”

“You can’t possibly believe that they are trying to deliberately hurt Harrington!” Higgins bellowed, his voice bordering on outright panic.

“I don’t know,” Eddie said with a half shrug, looking away, “how good do you think the team’s chances are without him?”

Higgins gulped. “Right. You have been sufficiently chastised. I will speak to Coach Rowland about what we can do with Harrington in the meantime.”

Eddie sat up straight and looked up at him, curiously. “I’m not going to be punished?”

“I have berated you for a long time and have gotten your express word that it won’t happen again,” Higgins said with a straight face.

Eddie blinked at him for a moment and then realization spread over his features. “Oh. Yes, sir. I have been thoroughly reprimanded and promise to not throw balls at assholes.”

Principal Higgins cracked a smile for the first time. “See that you don’t.” He turned on his heel and then paused. “And for record, Munson next time try a little harder to make it look like an accident, yes?”

Eddie burst out laughing. “Aye, aye, Captain!”

As they were getting back onto the buses that would take them back to Hawkins, Eddie spotted Harrington. He watched as he said something to Coach Rowland and then trot over to the cheer bus.

“Hey, Eddie?” he said a little breathy and all pinked cheeked.

He turned to him. “Hey.” He raised an eyebrow as he watched Steve get even redder.

“I just wanted to thank you for the assist tonight,” he said with a small smile. “Even Coach thinks they were aiming to get me injured for the season. He’s not a hundred percent sure they know about the concussion. But they know that if I’m gone, the team doesn’t have enough players to compete.”

“Hey,” Eddie said with a half shrug, “no worries. I had fun testing the limits of the refs tonight. If another team tries it, I’ll be a little more subtle.” He held up his forefinger and thumb close together.

Steve laughed. “Yeah? You going to tackle them to ground next time?”

“If it was football, I’m sure I could get away with it,” Eddie said with a snort. “Unless you basketball guys are holding out on me and you guys can tackle each other too?”

“God, I wish,” Steve said shaking his head. “It would make fouling the other guy way more fun.”

“Tough luck on that one, man,” Eddie said tilting his head to the side. “But then if you were playing something with a lot more contact they wouldn’t let you out on the court...field? Giant rectangle thingy.”

Steve laughed. “Actually you’d be surprised. They’d just hide the concussion better and send me out anyway. Got make sure the team wins!” He shook hands like they had invisible pompoms in them. “Go team!”

Eddie blinked at him. “That’s horrific.”

“Don’t act like it’s not the same in cheer,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen them do stunts that would be illegal in any other sport, but because it’s girls and not actually considered a sport, it’s all okay, right?”

Eddie stopped for a moment and cocked his head to the side. He thought about Chrissy’s ankle and Eleanor’s stalker.

“When you’re right, you really hit it on the nose,” he said with a huff. “Any word on what’s going to be happening with you for the rest of the season?”

Steve shook his head. “I just hope it’s not letting Tommy and Billy off the bench, because I think that would really suck.”

“You and me both.”

Thankfully Billy and Tommy stayed on the bench at the next game but it seemed like Coach Rowland had come up with a different strategy.

Steve still went out for the tip off, because he was the best at it, but immediately after he would get the ball, Coach would call a time out and sub Carver in. Then in the final minute of each quarter Steve would be out of the court, playing his heart out.

There was only once that game were Eddie thought that a player on the opposing team had fouled Steve deliberately as he didn’t even have the ball.

Eddie made his life hell for the rest of the game, always acting innocent. It gave Eddie great pleasure when the player was ejected from the game for getting in his face.

After the game, Principal Higgins just patted Eddie on the shoulder and murmured, “Good job.”

Steve came jogging up to him as they were filing into buses again. “You know with a throw like that you’d make a hell of a pitcher.”

Eddie chuckled. “I’ll leave the throwing balls around on the reg to the jocks, I like mine right where they are, thanks!”

Steve let out a strangled noise before dissolving into giggles. “I’ll have to remember that one next time!” He winked.

Eddie about swallowed his tongue. Because there was no way Steve Harrington was flirting with him.

“Anyway,” Steve said, running his fingers through his hair, “I just wanted to thank you for going after that jerkwad tonight. You managed to convince Coach Rowland that they are trying to take me out.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Eddie said solemnly. “I hope this means he’ll take it more seriously now.”

“Oh he is,” Steve said in wide-eyed earnestness. “So yeah, I just wanted to say thanks.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” Eddie said shoving his hair in front of his face. “It’s nice to be appreciated once in a while.”

“If any of the guys give you flack for the mascot thing,” Steve said, blush rising on his cheeks, “just let me know and I’ll sort them out.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Eddie said, dropping the strand of hair. “I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.”

Steve patted him on the shoulder. “I know you are, but I like taking care of people. I’ll see you around, Munson.” And then he turned on his heel and walked back to his bus.

Megan wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “Looks like someone’s got a crush!” she teased.

Eddie looked at her in opened-mouth shock. “I do not have a crush on Steve Harrington! You take that back, missy!”

She cackled and then hopped up the stairs of their bus, her ponytail swishing. She grabbed the railing and looked back at him with a grin. “I didn’t say you had a crush, Eddie.” She winked at him and then disappeared into the big yellow monstrosity.

Eddie turned to Coach Miller, pointing the direction Steve had gone. “Can you believe that?”

Coach Miller looked at him for a moment. “Do you mean that can I believe Harrington has a crush on you or that can I believe that Steve came all the way over here to thank you?”

Eddie’s mouth worked for a moment or two without sound coming out before he snapped his jaw shut with a click. He gulped. “Both?”

She stared him straight in the eye. “Yes. Now get on the god damned bus.”

Eddie let out a noise that he would absolutely deny was a squeak and hurried up the stairs to enter the bus. He scrambled down the aisle to sit next to Eleanor.

“Do you think Harrington has a crush on me?” he asked, chewing on his thumbnail.

Eleanor blinked at him for a moment. “Well hello to you, too.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “There is no time for niceties when both Megan and Coach think he’s coming over to flirt with me when he comes over to thank me.”

“Ah,” Eleanor said with a grimace. “Yeah, I mean if he liked boys that’s exactly what it looks like. but that’s a pretty big if, you know.”

“Yeah,” he said relaxing against the seat. “Yeah. It’s a pretty big if that the hottest guy in school would have a big, ole gay crush, let alone for the freak of Hawkins High!”

She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Though it does sound like you might have a crush on him,” she teased, sing-song.

“Eleanor Rigby Morris!” he protested. “You take that back!”

Eleanor cackled. “Not my middle name, you dork! But I’m serious! You rant and rave about the guy, but you never really call him out or bully him like you do other players on either the basketball or football teams.”

Eddie slouched into the seat and crossed his arms. “You and Jeff have been conspiring again. He thinks I have a crush on Harrington, too.”

“Jeff’s the hot black kid, right?” Eleanor said cocking her head to the side, finger on the side her face.

Eddie straightened up and looked at her with wide eyes and a slow smile spreading over his face. “Oh, this is juicier than Harrington having a crush on poor little me. Do you have a crush on my best friend, Eleanor?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head, eyes wide.

“Ooh, you do!” he cackled gleefully, clapping his hands. “You have the hots for my very nerdy best friend.”

Eleanor turned bright pink and ducked her head. “He’s sweet. He holds the door open for me in our math class every day and helps me out when Mr. Mundy is too busy.”

“And much better choice then meathead Kyle!” Eddie crowed. “I approve!”

She pushed him out of the seat, him cackling all the way down. “That’s not hard. The bar is literally on the floor.”

“Munson!” Coach Miller barked. “Get your ass off the floor! I’m not going to be the one scraping your face off the windshield if Frank has to break suddenly!”

“Aye, aye!” Eddie said with a sardonic salute.

He scrambled back to the seat and glared at Eleanor for getting him into trouble. He stuck out his hand, “Truce? I won’t tease you about Jeff if you don’t tease me about Harrington?”

She looked at his hand for a moment before she shook it. “Truce!”

Tag List: FOUR SLOTS REMAINING

1- @niniel-karenine @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @tartarusknight @gloomysoup @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @oopsallgender @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual

@disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gutterflower77

8- @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss @steddieislife @bridget-malfoy-stilinski-hale

9- @mags6422 @wheneverfeasible @blackpanzy @the-fantastical-asexual @stedestielfrattficlover

10- @themoonagainstmers

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailitha writes #school mascot au #mascot eddie

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nipuni · 1 day ago

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WE FINISHED THE GAME!!! MASTERPIECE BRILLIANT TOUCHING STUDY IN GRIEF COMFORTING POIGNANT REFRESHING NO NOTES ALL I WAS HOPING FOR AND MORE we both loved it so much what a gem of a game!!

I'm going to put all my thoughts under a cut for spoilers, don't read unless you have finished the game, please play it blind!!

This game is so consistently good all the way through and even with such a huge shift in perspective in the middle it manages to stay on theme and deliver the message it sets off to tell from the start in such a clean way. It could have been jarring but it stays cohesive because of this and suddenly so much about the world building makes sense.

It also makes it so easy for you to understand and respect every character's choices and where they are coming from, all their different ways of coping with tragedy sets them on their roles within the canvas but at their core there is just their love for each other. Everyone is so loving!! there is so much love in this story!! Every character is allowed to be vulnerable and tender and stubborn in such a childish way. You can see them all go through the stages of grief and it feels like a coming of age story, there is a playful innocence to everyone that is never punished and felt so refreshing, and you are immersed in it in Verso's world and you see so much of this through the eyes of a young girl.

I also love how they made love look messy and difficult but stronger than anything. From the start with Gustave and Sophie loving each other but also divided over this dilema mirroring Aline and Renoir. They could have gone the easy route of an idyllic relationship but they chose to show this conflict and it adds so much more weight and depth to it.

There is also this recurring theme about the value of creating something doomed, it's in the children of Lumière and the Canvas worlds, in art and relationships and attachment, it comes up over and over and it shows you every possible answer and rationalization I love that!! All these impossible questions and no right answers just people doing their best with the time they are given and being so brave.

The story started with such a devastating emotional gut punch, it took them under 10 minutes to make me sob. It sets the tone immediately and it is so quiet about it. The start of Gustave's arc was one of my favorite parts of the game, he doesn't say a word but you can follow his emotional state perfectly, you feel it, it's so real.

Act I is such an epic story in itself, the final act of resistance and all the shapes it can take "For those who come after" "We continue" it's all so human. And how you go from this grief on an existential and societal scale to this very personal family tragedy at the center, and this grieving father trying to save his loved ones from despair and from repeating the same patterns and hurting each other with their pain because he get's it, they are all so similar. He wants to make the hard choices so they don't have to and he is willing to suffer the consequences, It's so touching 😭

The acting is fantastic, the EYES, there is so much happening in the eye movements!! The voice acting and writing of the dialogue is impeccable too, I especially loved how they sometimes talk over each other. The humor is also great and unexpected.

This story felt very comforting, the views on art and family and life feel like a hug after a good cry, like acceptance. The music is INCREDIBLE I can't stop listening to the OST!!! the visuals have this beautiful dreamlike quality and the SCALE of it all feels thrilling. I have to go back and play NG+ because I think I missed a ton of stuff in my rush to know how the story ends and I want the full experience now which is a compliment too.

The worldbuilding is fascinating and new and has so much potential for further installments but at the same time the game is very self contained and complete which is rare nowadays, it felt very intentional and focused. So I'm satisfied but also would grab any other game they make in a heartbeat (Give me Clea's story give me Clea!!).

Anyway I talked a lot, we loved it, it's good!!

We are finally playing Clair Obscur 👩‍🎨 I've already cried my eyes out five times, the acting is excellent, the themes immaculate, great writing, aesthetically gorgeous. It feels tailor made to our taste, there is so much to dig into, there is so much meaning to everything

#clair obscur: expedition 33 #co e33 #clair obscur spoilers #I hope it sweeps at the GOTY awards it really deserves to win #I want to get figurines of every character this instant I love them all #nipuni blogs #personal

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all-with-angel · 8 hours ago

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ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : The Labyrinth Song

...by Asif Avidan

❥ Satoru Gojo x Reader

Or when Satoru Gojo enjoys his last 7 minutes with you.

Made for Angels Birthday Event!

Satoru Gojo lay sprawled on the couch, one arm lazily hanging off the edge, the other bent behind his head like a pillow. It was hot today, making him feel lazier, tired and more melty than usual. Still, he had kept his eyes trained on you.

“You're staring again,” you teased, sitting across from him, eyes leaving the TV and meeting those bright blue eyes that seemed to be infinite.

Gojo giggled, voice low and fond. “I’m allowed. You’re the best view I’ve got.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hide the small smile that tugged at your lips. He tucked it away somewhere soft in his mind, like how one might press flowers between the pages of an old book.

The world hadn't started fading yet, but his heartbeat already felt like something counting down.

“Give it back!” You screeched, clawing at Gojo’s chest while simultaneously trying to reach your homework. “Do your own assignment!”

“Why would I when I got yours right here?~” He taunts, waving the notebook right above you.

“Satoru, you should've done it yesterday.” Suguru hummed, yet he did nothing to help you. Instead watching with a smirk as the two of you played a tug of war with your work. “Same goes for you, Shoko.”

“Mm, I did mine just fine 2 minutes ago.” She waved her work around, scribbles and half-assed answers sprawling on the page.

“I don’t care if you did your work or not!” You kicked Gojo in the foot, which luckily made him curl into himself just enough for you to snag your assignment, rushing to your seat as you notice Yagas presence in the doorway. "This is mine!"

He could hear a heart slowing down. Was it his?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Both of you, sit down!”

Memory after memory faded into the next. Each blurrier than the last.

Hold on, just a little longer.

Satoru stood barefoot in your home, warm as sunlight started to filter through the blinds. He had his chest to your back, arms wrapped around your waist as he swayed you left and right - humming some random tune. You yawn, pouring two cups of coffee.

He laughed quietly to himself. The sound echoed strangely.

You were both nineteen when he first said it.

“I’d marry you.”

It was blunt. No theatrics, no teasing.

You blinked at him. “Are you - are you serious?”

He’d laughed then, too nervous, too fast. “Well, yeah. I mean. No! Unless like, if you want to. But that would be weird. But if you wanted -”

He could feel it now. The fade. The veil pulling him downward, something comforting telling him to let go of the pain.

Not yet.

“Senseiiii!” A pink-haired boy groaned out. Leaning against another boy, one Gojo and you had raised as your own. Dark spiky hair. “Can we pleeease go to the arcade? We finished the mission early anyway!”

“Yeah! We deserve this!” A girl cheered, brown hair with a fire in her eyes.

“Hmmm, I dunno~” Gojo had pretended to think, tapping a finger on his chin. “Do they?” He turns to you, by his side. Right where you’ve always been.

You nod. “Yeah, they deserve it.”

The three students cheer, high-fiving and thanking you. They were really like your own kids. Gojo smiled at the thought. Right before the entire scene changed, bright afternoon fading into the navy blue of the night.

He’s walking through a summer festival now. The stalls blur by in shades of red and yellow, paper lanterns floating like little moons above your heads. You’re holding his hand, fingers loosely interlaced as you point to another stall. “Can you get me that one?”

“Duh, ofcourse I can.” The memory feels a little wrong. Satoru doesnt remember hitting any of the targets straight, the orange lights flickering too often. Still, you cheer as you cuddle your new plush, soft against your features. Before Satoru could hold your face, cradle it and cover it in kisses, hes pulled away. A dark void before it blurs back to color.

Please.

Not yet.

“What kind of wedding do you want?”

“Hm?” Satoru turned to you, tilting his head. “Anything you want.”

“That isn’t an answer.” You deadpan, cuddling closer before turning over to lay on his chest. “What do you want in it?”

“Like i said,” he repeats, “Whatever you want is what I want!” But this time he pauses. A break in the memory, his own will slipping through. A lucid dream. “...I wish we had more time, though.”

“Huh?” You furrow your brows. “What does that mean?”

You blur into colors, your weight on his chest disappearing into the weight of the world. The weight of his failure.

“ –atoru? Hey!”

Your voice fades too, but Satoru doesn't forget it. His eyes are still open, staring up into the sky. He’s felt like this before. The moment you appreciate life more than anything, find every little detail fascinating and new. Back when he almost died, yet came back.

It's different this time, though.

Because this time, he has so much more to lose. So much more to leave behind. You. Another weak tug pulls at him, lulling him to finally rest after fighting for so long. Surviving for so long. It didn’t need to tug any stronger - Satoru knew that he’d fulfilled those 7 minutes, no more.

A.N. LMAO. Yall thought I was gonna keep posting fluff? in this economy?

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk scenarios #jjk drabbles #gojo x reader #gojo x reader angst #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader angst #gojo x you #jjk angst #angels drabbles •°. *࿐#༊*·˚angels b-day event༉‧₊˚.

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jacksonsturniolo · 3 days ago

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“attitude”

warnings — nick having attitude, jasper a brat tamer fr, smut, like rough sex, gay sex, so sexy, angst kinda?, fluff at the end, that’s it.

a/n — how me and him would be if we were tg tbh

Nick had been testing him all day.

Snapping back with sharp little remarks, rolling his eyes, acting like he didn’t care — like he couldn’t be touched. Pacing around the apartment with that clipped tone, brushing Jasper off when he tried to check in, that subtle smirk on his face like he was waiting for Jasper to break.

And maybe he was.

Because by the time Nick muttered, “What, gonna pout again?” — Jasper didn’t answer.

He didn’t say a word.

He just crossed the room, grabbed Nick’s wrist, and manhandled him toward the bedroom so fast the smirk dropped right off his face.

“Jasper—” Nick started, breath catching.

“Nope,” Jasper growled. “You wanna act like that? Fine. I’ll give you something to be smart about.”

Before Nick could get another word out, Jasper had him face down on the mattress, shirt pushed up, pants yanked halfway down — leaving him exposed, caught in that sharp mix of anticipation and regret.

Nick squirmed, looking back over his shoulder. “You’re mad.”

“I’m done with the backtalk,” Jasper muttered, kneeling behind him, one firm hand planted on his lower back to keep him still. “You think I won’t handle it when you push me?”

Nick swallowed hard, voice wobbling now. “…I didn’t mean—”

“Too late for that.” Jasper leaned down, breath hot against Nick’s ear. “You wanted my attention. Now you have all of it.”

Nick shivered beneath him, suddenly quiet.

Jasper dragged his fingers slowly down Nick’s spine, tracing the line from his shoulders to the waistband of his boxers. “Face down,” he said, low and commanding. “Ass up. Don’t move unless I tell you.”

Nick’s breath stuttered, hips arching up ever so slightly.

Jasper smirked. “That’s more like it.”

He settled behind him, fingers digging into Nick’s waist, not to hurt — just enough to remind him who was in charge now. His voice stayed low, firm, in control.

“Every time you open that mouth to sass me, I’ll make you beg twice as long to come. You understand me?”

Nick whimpered. “Yes.”

“Say it louder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There he is,” Jasper murmured, dragging his palm down the curve of Nick’s back. “Now be good for me.”

Nick was trembling now.

Not from fear — from tension. From that exact dizzying mix Jasper knew he craved. That place where he didn’t have to think, only feel.

Jasper leaned over him, dragging his lips down the nape of Nick’s neck, not kissing — just hovering. Breathing. Letting Nick feel the weight of his presence.

“You always talk big,” Jasper whispered, voice like gravel and heat, “but the second I put you where you belong, you go all soft on me.”

Nick’s hands clutched the sheets, knuckles white. “Jasper…”

“Mmm. Not so cocky now, are you?” Jasper slid a hand beneath him, just enough pressure to make Nick gasp and arch. “All that attitude just to get me here.”

Nick let out a sound between a whimper and a plea.

Jasper grabbed his wrists, pulled them behind his back gently but firmly, holding them there with one hand. His other hand was slow, deliberate — tracing circles along the back of Nick’s thigh, his hip, the curve of his waist. Never giving him what he needed. Just showing him who was in charge.

“You want me to ruin you, baby?” he murmured, lips brushing Nick’s ear. “You want me to take it from you?” He paused for a second “want me to take that attitude away..hm?”

Nick nodded quickly. “Please.”

Jasper growled, deep and low, biting softly into Nick’s shoulder. “Then stop moving.”

He shifted his hips forward, grinding against him through the thin layers left between them — not enough to satisfy, just enough to drive Nick insane.

Nick was squirming now, moaning softly, practically begging under his breath.

Jasper chuckled. “That’s right. You’ll take what I give you. And when I’m done, you’ll be so spent you won’t even remember why you had an attitude in the first place.”

Nick gasped, barely coherent now.

Jasper tightened his hold on Nick’s wrists, voice dark and low.

“Be still, pretty thing. We’re not even close to done.”

Nick flinched slightly when he felt Jasper’s fingers curl around the waistband of his boxers.

“Still mouthing off now?” Jasper murmured low, lips brushing the shell of Nick’s ear as he leaned forward.

Nick’s breath caught, face buried in the mattress. “No…”

“Didn’t think so.”

Slowly, deliberately, Jasper tugged the fabric down, baring Nick inch by inch — not fast, not rough. Just slow enough to make him feel every moment of it. Nick’s breath came faster, thighs tense, his whole body taut with anticipation.

The cool air hit his skin and he let out a soft, helpless sound.

Jasper smoothed a hand over the newly exposed skin, steady and firm, voice dark and quiet. “Look at you now. Not so tough when I’ve got you like this.”

In one swift motion, Jasper yanked his sweats and boxers down, his length springing free and slapping against his lower stomach with a sharp, heated sound.

He reached over, grabbed the bottle of lube, and poured some into his palm — the cool slickness Jasper slightly hissed as he spread it over his length, then down to nicks ass, pressing it gently against his clenching hole.

Jasper’s tip pressed right against Nick’s entrance, teasing and barely there — just enough to make the boy beneath him squirm. Nick let out a soft, desperate whine into the pillow, and Jasper leaned down, voice low and rough.

“You think you deserve it, huh?”

Before Nick could even beg, Jasper thrust in all at once — burying himself to the hilt. The words caught in Nick’s throat, replaced by a strangled moan as his back arched and his fingers twisted in the sheets.

Jasper didn’t give Nick a second to adjust — he set a brutal pace from the start, snapping his hips forward with force. Each thrust slammed into him, driving Nick forward on the mattress with every harsh collision of skin, the sound obscene, relentless, and leaving him gasping.

Jasper’s grip tightened on Nick’s hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave a reminder. His voice came rough, breathless against the back of Nick’s neck

“Still got that smart mouth now, baby?”

Nick tried — he really did — but all that came out was a breathy, broken sound. He opened his mouth, one hand fumbling for the pillow like it might anchor him.

“I—”

“Yeah?” Jasper snapped his hips forward again, sharp and precise. “Didn’t think so.”

Nick let out a whine, face buried in the sheets, his voice cracking as he managed, “Y-you’re s-such a—”

Jasper cut him off with another deep thrust, forcing the rest of the sentence to dissolve into a moan.

“Finish that,” Jasper growled, dragging his nails down Nick’s side. “Go on. Call me something else. I dare you.”

Nick was trembling now, legs weak, voice barely a whisper.

“Didn’t mean it…”

Jasper leaned down, lips brushing over his spine, tone rough but full of lust.

“No, you did. And now you’re taking it like you were made for this.”

Nick was barely holding on.

Every thrust knocked the air from his lungs, every rough drag of Jasper’s hips pushing him deeper into the sheets, unraveling him. His arms had given out long ago, forehead pressed to the mattress, mouth parted and gasping.

And Jasper didn’t let up.

“Gonna come like this?” he rasped, voice dark with possession. “Face down, all used up, not even talking anymore?”

Nick whimpered, his only answer.

Jasper’s pace faltered just for a second — just enough to press in deeper, his hand sliding up Nick’s back, grounding him. “You feel what you do to me, baby? How tight you are, how good?”

Nick cried out at that, hips trembling beneath the weight of Jasper’s thrusts.

“Touch yourself,” Jasper ordered, low and close to his ear now. “Come for me.”

Nick reached down with a shaking hand, and it only took a few strokes. His body tensed, legs curling in as his release overtook him — choking on a moan, his mind blurring out into white noise and heat.

The moment Nick clenched around him, Jasper broke.

His hands gripped tighter, breath hitching into a growl as he buried himself deep one final time, stuttering through the waves that hit him. His entire body shuddered, pressing flush against Nick’s back, like he had to stay there — like leaving him now wasn’t an option.

They were both gasping, sweaty and tangled and silent except for the sound of their breathing and the faint creak of the mattress underneath.

After a beat, Jasper reached up, brushing the hair from Nick’s face and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his spine.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Nick, still catching his breath, nodded against the sheets.

“Mhm. I’m… I’m good. You ruined me.”

Jasper smiled.

“Yeah. But you asked for it.”

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prettyundeadgirl · 1 day ago

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Tenderness Beneath Moonlight

gif made by me :)

Summary: Joel admires and loves you more than you know, and you are soon shown just how much he does after an unwitting awakening. Pairing: Jackson!Joel x Female Reader Word Count: 1.6k Tags: 18+ MDNI, smut, fingering (f!receiving), age gap (20+/61), fluff because I can't get enough of it, SO much kissing, no use of y/n A/N: First time writing for Joel... I like to think older him is a big softie when in love rather than rough and dominant, so if you share the same thoughts as me, then this fic is just for you!

AO3 | Masterlist

When you first arrived at the bonfire with Joel, it was at the hour when the sunlight had long since abated, and darkness lay over the outskirts of Jackson. The instilled routine of early sleep and awaking before the pale and placid sunrise, thanks to him, had made you weary before 8 o’clock.

You should be in bed by now, wrapped in the cool linen sheets and within his arms, you thought, but instead you chose to fight the gnawing drowsiness and spend time with everyone.

Joel had noticed the feeble and subtle attempt to keep your half-mast eyes wide. In his lap, you leaned your tired little head between his shoulder and neck, breath fanning against his unbuttoned flannel. The air was tepid, a comforting warmth akin to Joel’s that you had sought during the harsh, bitter winters.

“You ready to go?” You heard him ask lowly, and you wandered, following the incoherence of his voice. It felt almost distant, like he was on the other side of the sweet smelling smoke that plumed from the blood orange crackling embers.

With a simple nod, Joel assisted you up, and you lazily waved goodnight to everyone before interlacing your fingers with his.

And in his room was where you languidly changed into your pajamas, his big shirt loose and hanging mid-thigh, and underneath were simple panties with a lace trim. Normally, you’d wear pants, but the summer heat proved far too unbearable throughout the night, and you found yourself slipping them off regardless.

Soon, you drifted into a peaceful slumber, and when Joel reached the doorway, his large, looming shadow cast over you and the wall. He looked longingly at your sleeping form and the curve of your hip where his hand would encompass.

He turned off the lights, getting into bed beside you with his body pressed against yours. Joel always had the mindset of wanting to keep you safe, even within a secure area, like a bird nestled under his wing.

Maybe he was slightly overprotective, but it wasn’t the toxic kind; it was vigilance and concern for your well-being. The sight of how small you looked when his large frame was beside yours made him want to protect you even more. Although you tried to remind him that you could take care of yourself, you certainly didn’t and rather relished in his protectiveness and instinct to take care of you so dearly.

Even in his room, bereft of any light, he could still make out the edge of your shirt that had pulled up and revealed far more than intended, and with your leg bent, it exposed a wider area of your skin.

Though his broad hands were calloused from years of work and survival, his touch was feather-soft as his finger trailed your upper arm, only a light press of his forefinger before the others followed down and fell to the curve of your hip.

He fidgeted with the edge of your shirt before lifting it further and slipping his fingers between the intricate lace of your panties. The ghost of his breath ebbed and flowed at the edge of your shoulder that was bathed in the moon’s hazy glow.

Joel would never do anything more than this while you were asleep, unless it was set in motion ahead of time, but even then, an uncertainty would underlie him. At most, he simply appreciated and admired your perfections, and the places you felt insecure about in the quiet enclosure of his room with light caresses on skin, fingers threading through splayed hair, and watching the way your torso would rise and fall, expand and contract until he, too, would fall fast asleep.

It grounded him, in a way, that you weren’t just some vivid hallucination he developed over the years, and that you wanted and cherished him just as much as he wanted and cherished you.

When Joel looked at his hands, he thought about what they had been forced to do to survive and reminded him of the man he was, but in those moments when he held onto yours or touched you, feeling the softness of your skin, unmarred–beautiful, he thought deeply about the man he wanted to be, not only for himself, but for you.

Ironically, you had woken up this time, very slowly, and you were still between the realm of dreams and reality when you felt his hand smooth over your ass. You turned your head to meet him, lashes aflutter as you stared into the dark shade of his eyes that reflected your face, features warped in his tender and loving gaze.

God, the way he looked at you, saw you, it truly felt like no one ever had before him. When the two of you were together, you always felt like you were a mere breath away from crumbling beneath the weight of his gaze, no matter how much distance was set between you.

If not for time and its inevitable ticking, you might have wanted to remain under his admiration forever, yet you were still grateful that time had so gloriously eluded you both.

“‘M sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay.” You said, still coming back from your sleep with a small, weak smile. It barely took you a second to register the feeling of his hands and where it was, and oddly enough, that tiredness that once took a strong hold on you had dispersed and transformed into something else. A want. A need. You turned fully now to lie on your back, and he, with a slow, purposeful hand, reached to thumb your chin.

His thoughts remained inward for a moment, thinking of imparting a kiss upon rosebud lips and possibly all the ones to come after, but he didn’t want you to lose any sleep, and stirring you awake wasn’t his intention.

The back and forth flitting of his stare at your eyes told you everything. Your smile grew wider as you leaned into him, kissing with much fervor, and after a while, you felt him practically melt into you, savoring your taste as if it were the last he’d ever have.

Between the kiss, you heard him mumble, “Thought you were tired?”

“Not anymore.” You replied in haste, desperate to taste every inch of him. Your hands reached the edges of your panties, swiftly removing them without a second thought, and soon returned to grasp at his fragmented silver and brown hair.

The only reason he departed was to remove your shirt, leaving you fully bare, and after a quick look into those seamless eyes, he reconnected. The sounds of his mouth against yours dissolved the quiet, and the delicacy of his kiss already made you feel like you were about to come undone.

You yield a stifled moan into his mouth, and his brows tightened as his hand reached your breast. You wanted him closer and you wanted him to go faster, but Joel would take his time caring for you and showing you just how much you meant to him.

He had begun leaving trails of kisses at the edge of your jaw, moving down to the hollow of your throat, which still had that delectable, lingering scent of perfume you had put on in the morning. Your collarbone and shoulder were laced with just as many kisses before he reached your breast and took your nipple fully into his mouth. You let out a choked moan, loving the way his tongue swirled against your warm skin.

The hand that played with your other breast trailed lightly down the grooves of your rib cage, and it sent unbidden goosebumps upon you, and soon his hand had fallen between your legs. When he felt how wet you already were, he smiled against you.

“Joel…” You sighed, breathless, when he touched your sensitive clit. He started off very slowly, with a gentle press and tantalizing circling, until the pace quickened but only slightly, and in between long increments. It was sending you over the edge, and he returned once more to your mouth to stifle those pretty whimpers.

And with a strong grip on his arm, and being unable to kiss him back, he knew you had reached your climax, ever so slightly twitching beneath his persistent touch.

You breathed deeply through your nose, and your mind stilled at the warm press of his lips and the roughness of his moustache prickling against your skin. Again and again, the kiss deepened and receded like the foamy waves of a glistening ocean, and you elicited the softest of honeyed moans when you felt his middle finger enter you.

He wouldn’t stop kissing you, so eager and brimming with an undbridled, yet gentle passion, and the angle shifted, seeking something fuller. Another finger entered, and he broke away breathlessly from your swollen lips.

“That’s it.” He whispered, settling to the soft of your ear, the edge of his nose brushing your side. He coaxed you to find that pleasure in which you so desperately sought to feel again, hitting that sweet spot faster while he begged, “One more, baby,” until you were bucking your hips uncontrollably and left in that perfect state of bliss he was so easily able to put you in.

With a gleam of wonderment and flushed cheeks, you looked up at him as you came down from your climax. You felt his bulge against your thigh, and you wanted to make him feel good, but Joel wanted you to get a full rest. He redressed you with such tenderness, pulling his shirt over you and placing a goodnight kiss on your forehead before enfolding you back into his arms.

You obliged with a gentle caress against his cheek and promised to return the favor in the morning.

#sorry not sorry for all the big vocab words #charlotte bronte and virginia woolf possessed me while writing this #classic literature loving girlie writes fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel miller tlou #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #tlou #the last of us hbo #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #my writing

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velvetghoul · 2 days ago

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Take me Back

✦ One-Shot

Reader x Hiromi Higuruma | 18+ MDNI

cw: depression, emotional withdrawal, burnout, suicidal ideation, dissociation, mental health, bathing fully clothed, emotional breakdown, soft smut, possessive, body worship, crying during sex, healing through physical closeness, emotional dependency, desperate kissing, soulmate themes, slow healing,, detailed intimacy, fluff, angst

⸻

You met Hiromi Higuruma when you were sixteen. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t popular. He didn’t try to impress anyone. But there was something about him—something heavy and thoughtful and electric under the surface.

He always had a book in his hand. Always noticed things other people missed.

You fell in love with him slowly, then all at once—like slipping into deep water and realizing too late that your feet no longer touched the bottom.

He kissed you for the first time in the school library, tucked between shelves of legal philosophy books. His fingers were cold and trembling when he brushed them against your cheek, but his mouth was warm and certain.

“I think about you too much,” he confessed afterward, forehead resting against yours. “I keep trying to stop.”

You smiled. “Don’t.” He didn’t.

Hiromi still kissed you like he needed you to breathe. That was the part that made it hurt the most.

Even when his voice was distant. Even when his gaze drifted out the window like he was somewhere far from you. Even when his silence stretched into hours—he still reached for you in bed, pulling you against his chest like he couldn’t sleep unless he felt your heartbeat against his.

It was love. It was undeniably love. But it had started to feel like it was bleeding.

You noticed it the first time he came home after a trial and didn’t say anything. Just dropped his briefcase and held you from behind in the kitchen, pressing his face to your shoulder. You touched his arms, leaned into him, and whispered, “Rough case?”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded once. Barely.

Later that night, you found him sitting on the bathroom floor with the lights off. Not crying. Just… staring. Still dressed in his suit, tie loosened, the fatigue in his face so sharp it made your throat close.

You knelt in front of him. Placed your hands on either side of his face.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

“I’m here,” he said quietly, looking at you—but he wasn’t.

And you knew, somehow, that this would be your new rhythm: a man unraveling in slow motion, still touching you like he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, but already lost inside himself.

The sex didn’t stop. If anything, it got more desperate. More obsessed.

He kissed you with a hunger that felt misplaced—like he was trying to remind himself he was alive.

He’d come home at 1 a.m., undress you without a word, and sink to his knees in front of you with shaking hands, mouthing against your thighs like he was praying. Like you were the last sacred thing he believed in.

“Let me make you feel good, my love,” he whispered once, voice so raw you could barely respond.

His tongue was reverent. His touch worshipful. And when you tangled your fingers in his hair and came against his mouth, he looked up at you like that was the only proof that life still meant something.

You pulled him into bed afterward. Held him tightly.

“Stay here,” you whispered.

His voice cracked. “Where else would I go?”

He still brought you tea in the mornings. Still left little notes in your coat pocket. Still kissed your ring finger every time you held hands in the car. But his eyes stayed tired. Haunted.

Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, he would just look at you. Trace your face with his fingertips like he was scared it might vanish.

“I love you,” he said one night in the dark.

You turned to face him. “I love you too.”

He shook his head gently, eyes shining. “No. I mean… I love you. In a way that terrifies me.”

You kissed him. “Then don’t go where I can’t follow.”

He didn’t answer.

There were days when he would cancel dinner plans last minute. Days when you’d come home and find him in the shower, water running endlessly, unmoving. Days when he would stare at the TV, not watching, just blinking slowly—his hand still resting on your thigh, as if his body remembered to touch you even when his mind didn’t.

He was still yours.

Still that boy who once told you in high school, “You’re the only person I’ve ever felt safe with.”

But now he was exhausted in ways you couldn’t fix.

And every time he clung to you—gripped your waist in bed like a drowning man, kissed your skin like you were oxygen—you wanted to scream.

Because you were still the love of his life.

But love wasn’t enough to bring him back from wherever he was slipping to.

When he got into law school, you celebrated with him by dancing barefoot in your apartment kitchen, tipsy off cheap wine. He was so serious even then—sitting on the edge of the counter, lips soft against your neck, murmuring worries about tuition and internships and a justice system he already didn’t trust.

“I’m going to change things,” he told you, drunk on ideals and you. “I’m going to fix it.”

You cupped his face and said, “I know you will, baby..”

He looked at you like you were the only person who believed it. Maybe you were.

Those years were good. Not easy—but good.

You learned his rhythms. How he got quiet when he was focused. How he forgot to eat if you didn’t bring him food. How he could go a whole day without speaking but would wrap himself around you in bed like he couldn’t survive without your warmth.

You were his calm. His constant.

The nights when he got overwhelmed, he’d lay with his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist, letting your fingers run through his hair in slow circles.

He didn’t cry. Not back then. But sometimes you’d feel him press his face harder into your stomach, breathing like he needed to memorize you to keep going.

“I don’t deserve you, sweetheart,” he whispered once in the dark.

You kissed his temple and whispered back, “You do and I’m staying even if you don’t believe it yet.”

Sex with Hiromi was always… deliberate. Focused. He touched you like you were a problem to be solved and he was determined to understand every inch of you. But there were nights, rare and golden, when he let go. When he moaned into your neck and clutched at you like a man afraid to be alone.

You loved those nights. You loved the way he lost control—his teeth grazing your collarbone, his voice breaking when you pulled him in deeper.

You loved how he always murmured something afterward. A quiet “thank you.” Or “You’re the only one who makes me feel human.”

You started calling him home.

The signs came slowly.

He won his first big case and didn’t smile.

He stopped talking about his clients.

He started sleeping less, answering with hums instead of words, staying in the shower long after the water went cold.

You tried to ask. He deflected. Always gently. Always with a kiss to your hand, a tired smile.

“I’m fine,” he said. You knew he was lying. But you also knew Hiromi.

He never broke all at once. He chipped. Quietly.

Until one day, all that was left was a man who looked like your husband but carried nothing in his eyes.

But before all that… Before the grief, the silence, the withdrawal…

There was you. There was him.

There was the promise of a life you were still building, brick by brick, hand in hand.

And you would keep holding him—until he remembered what it meant to feel safe again.

You had been together for what felt like forever—half your life, really. From the shy glances in high school to the long nights supporting him through law school, all the way to the day he walked into the courtroom with trembling hands and an iron will—you were always by his side.

He used to smile more and now… you couldn’t remember the last time he did.

Hiromi had always been quiet, contemplative, intense in a way most people didn’t understand. But something in him had shifted over the years. The lines in his face had deepened. His voice had dulled. And his touches—once full of warmth and love—had become fewer, colder, sometimes mechanical. You weren’t a stranger to grief or exhaustion. You knew how his cases buried him, how the system he once believed in had betrayed him time and time again. But watching the light dim in the man you loved? That was a different kind of heartbreak.

Still, he loved you. You knew that. You felt it in the way he held your hand in his sleep, or the way he kissed your forehead like a promise when he thought you were too tired to notice. He gave you anything you asked for—except himself.

The day everything shifted was cold and quiet. The sky had threatened rain all afternoon, and you’d worked late, letting yourself believe he’d be home when you got there.

When you opened the door, you saw his briefcase—neatly placed by the entryway.

But the apartment was silent.

You slipped off your shoes, calling softly, “Hiromi?”

No answer.

The living room was empty. No coat draped on the couch. No soft music humming from his study like usual. The silence stretched.

And then you heard it. Water running.

You pushed the bathroom door open slowly. What you saw hit you like a punch to the chest.

Hiromi lay in the bathtub, motionless. The water had gone icecold and shallow. His suit clung to his body. His arms were limp at his sides. His hair was damp and stuck to his face.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he stared up at the ceiling and said, voice hoarse and flat:

“This is the only time I really feel something… for a short time.”

Your heart broke open. You didn’t speak. You just moved toward him. Lowered yourself slowly to your knees beside the tub. His eyes finally drifted toward you—tired, red, and utterly hollow.

You whispered, “Why didn’t you call me?”

He looked down, lashes damp. “I didn’t want to be seen like this.”

You reached for him—your fingers brushing his cheek. “I’ve seen you at your best. Let me see you at your worst. That’s what loving you means.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Barely. But it was there.

You climbed into the tub with him, not caring about your clothes, not caring about anything except the man unraveling in front of you. He tensed at first, then collapsed against you with a shaky breath, head resting against your shoulder. His hand gripped your thigh, hard. Like he was scared you’d vanish too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve been gone for so long and I’m still here. I don’t know how to be anymore.”

You cupped his face, turned him gently to look at you. “Then let me remind you.”

And when you kissed him, it wasn’t soft—it was desperate. Years of loneliness and aching poured into the press of your lips. He kissed back like a man drowning, arms coming around you as if you were his last lifeline. The water sloshed around you both, but neither of you noticed. He buried his face in your neck, hands trembling as they slid up under your soaked shirt. There was nothing seductive about it at first—just need. Craving. That aching hunger to feel something again.

When you slid yourself onto his lap, straddling him, you whispered against his jaw, “I miss you. I miss us. Please come back to me.” His hands gripped your waist, bruising. “I never left. I just… didn’t know how to live anymore.”

You rolled your hips against him, slowly, gently—watching his eyes flutter closed, forehead falling to yours. “I’ll teach you again,” you breathed. “Every day. I’ll remind you who you are.”

He moaned softly as you undressed each other, piece by piece, in the now barely-full tub. When he finally pushed into you, it was raw and shaky, his forehead pressed hard against yours, like he couldn’t bear to lose eye contact for even a second. He whispered your name like a prayer.

Your nails clawed at his back, not out of lust, but to hold him—to anchor him. His thrusts were slow, deep, aching. Every time he pushed into you, it felt like another wall breaking down.

And then you felt it—his breath hitching, his shoulders shaking.

He was crying. Silently. Shamefully. But you felt every drop hit your neck.

You kissed his tears away and whispered, “You’re not broken. You’re still mine. I’ll never stop holding you.”

He came with a choked gasp, clutching you so tight it almost hurt. You followed, heart pounding as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. You sat there together long after.

That night, you dried each other off in silence, and he laid with his head on your chest like he used to when you were young and untouched by the world.

For the first time in months, he slept through the night. And for the first time in what felt like forever…

The light was pale and golden when you woke up. Soft. Gentle. Like the world had decided not to push too hard today.

Hiromi’s arm was around your waist, his palm flat against your stomach like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on. His breathing was deep, slow… steady.

You stayed still. Watched him.

His lashes were damp. His brow furrowed even in sleep. But there was something different in his face now—like a thread had finally loosened. Like his chest didn’t feel so tight.

And then, slowly, his eyes opened. No alarm. No jolt. Just… awareness.

Of you. Of the warmth. Of the moment.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you.

You reached up to brush your fingers through his hair. “Hi.”

His throat moved. “Hi.” His voice was rough—too many emotions pressed behind it, still half-cracked from the night before. But his eyes didn’t drift. Didn’t empty out. They stayed focused on you.

You smiled softly. “How do you feel?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your face like he was still trying to convince himself you were real.

“Like I’m still here,” he said eventually. “Barely. But here.”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Then let’s stay here. Just for today.”

He hesitated. “I have court at ten—”

You reached past him without a word, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and placed it in his hand. “Call in,” you said gently. “You don’t have to be the version of yourself they expect today. Just be you. With me.”

He stared at the phone like it weighed too much.

Then finally… finally… he dialed.

His voice on the call was flat, but firm. “It’s Higuruma. I’m not coming in today.”

A pause. “No, no emergency. Just… not today.”

When he hung up, you exhaled. Hiromi looked at you. And then he said something you didn’t expect:

“Can we just stay in bed for a little longer?”

You smiled. “We can stay all day, baby.”

You made tea. He watched you from the couch like a man who had never really looked at you properly until now. There was something vulnerable in the way he sat—legs folded, hands in his lap, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

His eyes followed your every movement. He was still tired. Still heavy. But that haunted glaze was gone.

You brought him his favorite mug, kissed his temple, and curled up beside him under the blanket. He didn’t speak. Just leaned into you. Head on your shoulder. Arm around your waist. His tea went cold.

So did yours. But neither of you moved.

You spent the day like that—on the couch, in bed, on the floor with pillows and soft music. He didn’t ask for space. He didn’t disappear into himself.

He just stayed close. Like touch was the only language he had left.

That afternoon, he pulled you into his lap without a word. Pressed his forehead to your chest and whispered, “I think I forgot what this felt like.”

You carded your fingers through his hair. “What?”

“To feel… wanted. And not because of what I can do. Just because I exist.”

You leaned back, tilted his chin up until he met your eyes.

“I’ve always wanted you, Hiromi. Always. Not for what you do. Not for what you achieve. For you.”

His breath shuddered. And then—finally—he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Honest. Not hungry or desperate this time.

Grounded. Real.

You melted into it, let him hold you, let your fingers slide under his shirt and rest over his heartbeat. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t hide.

And when he whispered your name between kisses like a sacred word, you knew—this was the beginning.

Not the end.

Hiromi was curled against you still—his head resting on your chest, eyes closed like he could fall asleep just from the sound of your heartbeat. The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the soft tap of rain still lingering against the windows.

You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, while your legs stayed wrapped loosely around his waist on the counter. You could feel the tension still in him—not the sharp, brittle kind from weeks ago… but the leftover weight. The grief still nestled in the cracks.

And then, softly, you asked: “Honey?…”

He hummed, low and lazy.

“How often did you get into the bath in your suit?”

The question lingered.

His breath caught. Just slightly. You felt it more than heard it.

Hiromi didn’t look at you at first. His fingers just rubbed gentle circles into your hip, slower now. Thoughtful.

“Too often,” he said quietly, voice thick. “More than I want to admit.”

You didn’t say anything. You just let him talk.

“I didn’t want to feel anything,” he murmured. “Or maybe I did. I don’t know. The water helped me… mute everything. My anger, my frustration, my fucking guilt—”

He paused. Then continued, slower:

“I kept the suit on because… when it clung to me, when it got heavy, soaked… it felt like being held. Like a grip I couldn’t shake off. Like pressure where I needed it. Like—like you, almost.”

You blinked. His eyes finally met yours—ashamed, but soft.

“It felt like you hugging me tight. And I didn’t have to ask for it. I didn’t have to speak or explain anything. It was just there. And sometimes that was all I needed.”

Your heart clenched in the most tender, protective way.

You cupped his face, thumb brushing under his eye.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re not… weirded out?”

You smiled gently. “No, baby. I get it. In a way, I really do.”

He exhaled slowly, resting his forehead against your sternum, arms pulling you in a little tighter—quiet, steady relief washing through him. You let the silence linger.

Then— You smirked. Let out a quiet little snort.

He looked up, confused.

And you grinned down at him, eyes glinting. “Even then, you looked hotter than ever.”

Hiromi blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Oh, dead serious. Depressed or not, wet lawyer in a full suit? Hair dripping, sleeves clinging to those forearms—God, baby.” You dragged your fingers through his hair. “You looked like the poster child for emotionally unhinged but devastatingly sexy.”

He groaned softly and dropped his head back into your chest. “You’re the worst.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah I do,” he muttered. “I really do.”

You kissed the top of his head, laughing softly.

And in that tiny kitchen, wrapped in each other’s arms, surrounded by syrup, wet hair, and healing hearts—Hiromi Higuruma smiled against your skin.

Real. Warm. Soft. Maybe he wasn’t all the way better yet.

But he was getting there. And you were still his favorite feeling.

The day had gone to hell the second Hiromi stepped into the courthouse.

He’d barely slept the night before—not from nightmares this time, but from thinking. Feeling. Remembering the way your skin had felt against his that morning, your fingers carding through his hair as he leaned into you half-awake, the quiet domestic heaven he hadn’t let himself want for so long.

And now?

The courtroom was a mess. The opposing counsel had twisted every truth. The judge had barked without listening. His client had cried, and Hiromi had to swallow every ounce of emotion just to keep the mask on.

By the time he got to the front door, his knuckles were white around his briefcase handle.

He unlocked it, kicked it shut with more force than necessary, and didn’t even bother turning on the lights. The apartment was warm. Lived in. Safe. He could hear the soft hiss of water running from down the hall.

You were in the shower. He let out a breath. The kind that trembled.

Shoes off. Jacket discarded on the hallway floor. His tie loosened with shaking fingers. He could’ve changed. Could’ve waited.

But he didn’t want to wait. He couldn’t.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You stood with your back to the showerhead, eyes closed, forehead resting gently against the tiled wall, letting the water trail over your skin. The hum of white noise filled the space around you, soothing. Heavy.

Until something shifted. A presence.

A warmth behind you. And then—hands.

Soft, sure, steady hands, lingering over your sides, your waist, your hips. The air seemed to disappear from your lungs as your eyes fluttered open, and slowly, slowly, you turned around.

There he stood. Hiromi. Soaked from head to toe.

His button-up was undone at the top, just enough to reveal the line of his strong chest, the fabric plastered to him from the spray of the water. His hair was dripping, eyes locked onto yours like he was trying to convince himself you were real.

His suit trousers were soaked. Heavy. Clinging to his thighs like a second skin. And he was breathing hard.

Your lips parted, a question forming on your tongue—but before you could speak, he stepped in fully, hands grabbing your face, and—

He kissed you. Desperately. Fiercely. Like a man gone too long without touch.

His lips moved against yours with purpose, his whole body crowding into your space as the water rushed over both of you. You gasped into him, clinging to his soaked shirt as his tongue slid into your mouth, hot and messy and hungry.

Your back hit the wall.

His hands were everywhere—your cheeks, your jaw, your waist, your back. He didn’t care that he was still dressed, that water was pouring down over both of you. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause.

He just took you in his arms like you were the only thing keeping him sane.

And you could feel it—the weight of his day, the ache in his chest, the way his fingers shook slightly as they gripped your skin like a lifeline.

You broke the kiss for a breath, just barely, your forehead pressed to his as you searched his face.

“Hiromi… what happened?”

He was panting. His eyes were wide, glassy, and overwhelmed—but alive. And then—he smiled.

A real smile.

Small. Heartbreaking. Honest. The kind that made your stomach drop and your soul rise.

“I missed you,” he whispered. “So goddamn much.”

And before you could respond, he kissed you again—this time slower, deeper, full of everything he hadn’t said in court, hadn’t screamed into a pillow, hadn’t buried in the bathtub.

Just you. Just love. Just the desperate need to feel close.

His soaked shirt clung to your chest as he pressed his body to yours, and you let him—let him lose himself in your kiss, in your skin, in the way your hands tangled in his wet hair.

He didn’t care that he was still dressed.

He didn’t care about anything except you.

And in that moment, under the water, under his weight, under his breathless, breaking need—

You realized he was coming back to life… Through you.

The lights were low. The world was quiet. And Hiromi had spent the rest of the day by your side—closer than he’d been in months. No courtroom weight. No empty stare.

Just soft touches. Glances that lingered. Little smiles that almost reached his eyes.

You were curled up together in bed, your legs tangled under the covers, when he shifted beside you and pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder.

You turned your head, heart thudding softly.

He was looking at you like you were it—the only thing that had ever truly made sense to him.

“I missed you,” he whispered. His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, slow and reverent.

“I’m here,” you murmured.

His eyes searched yours. “I know. That’s why I think I can breathe again.”

You reached for him, cupped his jaw, and pulled him into a kiss.

It started sweet. Soft. But it didn’t stay that way.

Hiromi kissed you like a man starved—like someone trying to memorize the shape of love with his mouth. His lips moved over yours with care and pressure and intention, his tongue sliding against yours in a deep, slow rhythm that made your whole body melt.

His hands didn’t fumble. They roamed.

Over your waist. Under your shirt. Thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts with aching reverence.

You moaned softly into his mouth, and that sound—that sound—made him groan like he was falling apart again, but this time in the best way.

“I need you,” he whispered against your lips, voice husky. “Please… I need to feel you again. All of you.”

You nodded, breathless. “Then take me, Hiromi. I’m yours.”

And that was it.

He sat up, pulled your shirt over your head, eyes drinking in every inch of your skin like he hadn’t seen you in years. And in a way… he hadn’t. His fingers were steady as they traced over your chest, your ribs, your hips. He leaned in and kissed the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast.

He didn’t rush. He worshipped.

You arched into him, hands sliding under his shirt, pulling it off in one motion. You kissed every line of tension on his body—the muscles in his shoulders, the dip beneath his ribs. His hands trembled as they slid your panties down your thighs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I forgot how much it hurts to want you.”

You reached down between you and palmed the hard outline of him through his boxers, and the groan he let out was low and raw.

“Then stop waiting,” you whispered. “Come back to me.”

He removed his boxers and positioned himself between your thighs, his eyes locked on yours, searching for permission even now.

You wrapped your legs around his hips. “Hiromi,” you said softly. “Make love to me, again.”

When he pushed into you, it was slow—agonizingly so. The stretch was delicious, deep, and grounding, and your hands found his back, your nails pressing into his skin as he filled you completely.

He gasped your name like it burned on his tongue.

Long, slow thrusts. Deep and deliberate. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes locked on your face like he needed to see every flicker of pleasure you gave him.

Your moans grew breathier. Needier. His hips rolled into yours with perfect rhythm, dragging gasps from your throat with every stroke.

“You feel like heaven,” he rasped, kissing you again and again. “I missed this. I missed you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him as your body started to tremble.

“I love you,” you gasped. “You’re still mine. No matter how lost you feel.”

His pace faltered for a second—something in him breaking all over again—but then he thrust harder, deeper, his teeth grazing your jaw as he groaned against your ear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swore. “Not again.”

He moved faster now—stronger, more desperate, chasing both release and reassurance, his hands gripping your hips like lifelines.

Your climax built sharp and hot and fast, your body tightening beneath him, crying out his name as your orgasm ripped through you—shattering you in the best way.

And when you clenched around him, wet and pulsing and breathless, Hiromi broke. He came with a deep, desperate moan, spilling into you as he kissed you hard, his whole body trembling with release.

Then he collapsed against you, heart pounding, breath ragged.

You held him. You held all of him.

And when he finally looked at you again, eyes soft and red-rimmed, he whispered:

“Thank you for not giving up on me.” You kissed his forehead and smiled.

“Never. You’re my favorite person—even when you’re hurting.”

He let out a shaky breath. And finally, finally… He smiled back.

It was raining gently outside.

Not the heavy, violent kind—just a soft, rhythmic patter against the windows. A grey morning, wrapped in low clouds and the scent of coffee, made for staying in. For breathing slowly. For holding each other in the quiet moments.

You stood in the kitchen wearing one of Hiromi’s black dress shirts, sleeves rolled to your elbows, bare legs and feet brushing the cool floor as you whisked pancake batter with lazy grace. Music hummed faintly from the speaker—something lo-fi and mellow—and the whole apartment smelled like vanilla and sleep.

Hiromi sat at the kitchen table, barefoot, hair still damp from his shower. He looked freshly human—less ghostly than he had in weeks. Still tired, still quiet, but more present. Watching you like he didn’t know how to look away.

You poured a circle of batter onto the pan. You didn’t need to ask if he was okay. Because he was here.

And he was watching you with that look again—that soft, stunned kind of awe like you were his entire world and he still didn’t quite know how he deserved you.

“You’re staring,” you said, glancing over your shoulder.

He blinked, lips tugging into the ghost of a smile. “I always stare.”

You plated the first pancake, brought it to him, and leaned down to kiss his temple. He turned his head and caught your lips instead—slow and warm, his hand rising to rest on your waist.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured against your mouth. “Waking up without guilt. Watching you cook in my shirt.”

“You already do this,” you teased, running your fingers through his still-damp hair.

“Not like this,” he said softly, looking up at you. “Not without feeling like I’m choking inside.”

Your heart squeezed.

You kissed him again and brushed your thumb over his cheek. “You’re allowed to be okay again. One hour at a time.”

He leaned into your touch. “Is it selfish to want this to last forever?”

“No,” you said gently. “It’s human.”

You sat across from each other at the little table, legs tangled beneath. He took tiny bites of pancake, like he wanted to savor the simple pleasure. You sipped your coffee slowly, watching the way the light kissed the curve of his jaw and the hollow beneath his throat.

“How’s the food?” you asked. He swallowed, and his voice was so quiet it nearly broke you. “It tastes like peace.”

You reached across the table and laced your fingers with his.

He looked at your joined hands like he was still getting used to the feeling of being held without condition.

Later, the rain had picked up, misting the windows, and the world outside was a blur of grey and silver.

“You smell like syrup and shampoo,” he mumbled.

“You smell like detergent and lawyer stress.”

He let out the softest chuckle. A real one.

You looked up at him. And for a moment… You saw it.

The boy you fell in love with. The one who believed in justice, in loyalty, in you. He was still in there. Still fighting his way to the surface.

He leaned down, kissed your forehead, and whispered:

“Thank you for staying through the storm.” You held him tighter.

“Always,” you said. “I’d rather weather it with you than stand in the sun alone.”

The rain had softened by evening. The apartment lights were dim, golden pools in the quiet space you shared with the man you loved. There was no rush. No court case in the morning. No phone buzzing. Just the soft splash of water filling the bathtub and Hiromi’s warm presence behind you.

You stood by the sink as he adjusted the temperature, and you caught a glimpse of him in the mirror—his back turned, bare to the waist, steam curling around his broad shoulders. His scars were faint, but you knew them. You remembered every one. The sharp one above his ribs. The shallow mark across his left bicep from a case that had almost gone wrong.

His body was beautiful. All of him. Strong arms. Narrow waist. The soft definition of muscle shaped by stress and tension, not vanity. His thighs were thick, steady. His chest… god, his chest, speckled with droplets from the humid air, skin golden and flushed.

He looked like a painting.

Hiromi turned toward you then—fully nude now, without shame, without hesitation. His eyes met yours, and even in the haze of steam, you saw the flicker of something deeper than desire.

“Come here,” he said softly, reaching out a hand.

You let the robe fall from your shoulders.

His gaze followed every inch of your skin with reverence—like your body was holy and he was the last man allowed to worship it. You didn’t need words. Not when he looked at you like that.

You stepped into the tub and let yourself sink into the heat, the water licking up your thighs, curling around your waist as he settled behind you. His legs opened and you sank between them, your back pressing to his chest. His arms wrapped around you instantly, his chin resting on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.

“You always smell like home,” he murmured. You smiled, relaxing fully into him.

His hands slid slowly up your arms, then down again, finding your shoulders with practiced ease. His thumbs began to knead the tightness from your muscles—slow, deep pressure that made you melt.

“You’ve been carrying too much,” he whispered, voice lower now. “Let me take it off of you.”

You tilted your head to the side, giving him access, and he pressed soft kisses to the curve of your neck between every motion. His hands moved slowly, rhythmically, working out the knots beneath your skin with tenderness.

“I should be the one taking care of you,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

“You already are,” he said. “Just by letting me be here. Just by staying.”

Your hands found his thighs beneath the water, fingers grazing over his skin. He didn’t flinch. He welcomed it—pulling you even closer, until there was no space between your bodies at all. His cock pressed against the curve of your lower back, but he didn’t move. Didn’t push.

He just held you. And kept rubbing slow circles into your shoulders, your arms, your ribs.

“I missed touching you like this,” he said, lips grazing your ear. “Not just sex. This. Skin to skin. No pretending.” You reached up and covered his hands with yours.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

You tilted your head, and his mouth found yours over your shoulder—wet, slow, open. A kiss that tasted like heat and steam and quiet devotion. You didn’t need more than that.

The bathwater had gone lukewarm by the time you sat up with a soft sigh, skin flushed, muscles relaxed from his careful hands. You turned your head just slightly—Hiromi was still there, still watching, his eyes half-lidded, body sunk into the water like he was boneless. At peace.

But intensely focused on you.

You stood slowly, water sliding down your curves in long, heavy drops. Steam rose with every movement, curling off your skin as if reluctant to let go. You didn’t bother reaching for a towel.

You didn’t need to.

You padded barefoot across the bathroom floor, the cool tile sending a soft shiver through your spine. At the sink, you reached for a comb, dragging it gently through your damp hair, naked and unhurried—knowing he was still watching you. Feeling it.

Behind you, you heard the water shift.

Hiromi didn’t speak. Didn’t warn you. But your eyes flicked to the mirror, and there he was—rising slowly from the tub like something out of a dream, water dripping down every line of his sculpted body.

His hair hung wet against his face, lips parted slightly, breath slow. And his eyes—his eyes locked on you like they couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.

You didn’t move. You just stood there, meeting his gaze in the reflection.

He stepped out of the tub—still dripping, still silent—and crossed the short distance behind you with the grace of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

And what he wanted, was you.

You gasped softly as his bare chest met your back, wet skin against warm flesh. His arms slid around your waist—firm, possessive—and he pressed a slow kiss to the back of your neck. You felt the water from his body soak into yours, but it wasn’t cold anymore.

He made it burn. His voice was low, breathy, right at your ear.

“I was trying not to follow you,” he murmured. “But I can’t and I won’t.”

You exhaled shakily, your head tilting as his hands smoothed over your stomach, then higher. He cupped your breasts with reverence, thumbs teasing slowly over your nipples until your breath caught.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered. “I want you to.”

His teeth grazed your shoulder. “You look like something I dreamed. Something I don’t deserve to touch.”

You turned in his arms, facing him now—bare, dripping, vulnerable—and placed your palms against his chest.

“You do, Hiromi. All of this? It’s always been yours.”

His expression cracked—need bleeding into worship, into hunger. He backed you into the counter, the marble cool against your skin, his body pressing flush to yours, fully hard now and twitching against your hip.

“I want to fuck you right here,” he said, voice low and dark, like it was tearing out of him. “But not fast. Not rough. I want you to feel me.”

You nodded, lips parted. “Then take me.”

And he did.

He lifted you effortlessly onto the bathroom counter, never breaking eye contact. His hands splayed over your thighs, spreading them open, and he stepped between them, cock hard and slick with water, dragging the head over your folds with aching precision.

You whined softly, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Hiromi…”

“Shh,” he whispered, kissing you deeply, slowly, sliding inside inch by inch. “Let me show you how much I’ve missed this. How much I’ve missed you.”

When he bottomed out, you gasped—full, stretched, so perfectly filled.

His hips began to roll, steady and deep, every thrust pushing your body gently back against the mirror. He didn’t look away. He watched you through it. Watched the way your mouth parted, your breasts bounced, your eyes fluttered every time he hit that perfect spot.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, sweat mingling with bathwater. “You standing there… naked, glowing, like something I was never meant to have.”

You moaned, nails dragging down his back. “You have me,” you breathed. “All of me.”

His pace quickened—still controlled, but deeper, sharper. The sound of your bodies echoed in the bathroom, wet and obscene, but intimate. Intoxicating.

“I’ll never stop touching you,” he rasped. “I’ll never stop loving you.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, stealing the air from your lungs, making your legs shake around his waist. He grunted at the way you clenched around him, and a few hard, desperate thrusts later, he spilled inside you with a strangled groan, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he trembled. You sat there for a moment—his cock still buried inside you, his breath still stuttering.

“I love you,” you whispered into his damp hair.

“I love you,” he whispered back. “And I want forever with you. Even if I have to learn how to live again piece by piece.”

You kissed his temple. “Then let’s make forever start now.”

The next morning, sunlight stretched across the floor like melted gold.

You were wrapped in Hiromi’s favorite black dress shirt again—this time with nothing underneath, the buttons half-done, sleeves swallowing your hands. Your legs were bare, warm from the memory of last night, and your thighs still a little sore in the way you loved.

Hiromi stood at the stove shirtless, hair still slightly messy, plaid pajama pants riding low on his hips. A trail of faint red marks down his back caught the light—your marks.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely under your chest, biting back a smile.

He was humming softly. Cooking.

Completely unaware you were watching him like he was art.

“I can feel you staring sweetheart,” he said without turning, voice low and amused.

“You’re shirtless,” you replied, walking over, “and it’s very distracting.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, eyes immediately dropping to your legs, your thighs, the way his shirt just barely covered what it needed to.

“Right back at you,” he muttered, lips twitching. “You look like a sin wearing my clothes.”

You slid up behind him, wrapping your arms around his warm torso, pressing a kiss to the base of his neck. His skin smelled like sleep and soap, and you could feel the tension melt from his back instantly under your touch.

“You slept through the night,” you said softly.

“I did,” he replied. “First time in months.”

You tightened your hold, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. “I’m proud of you, baby.”

He turned in your arms, spatula still in one hand, and looked down at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted. “Still tired.”

“But you’re here,” you whispered. “That’s everything.” His lips found your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—soft and slow, like a secret. Then, with the barest grin, he said, “Sit on the counter. You’re getting fed.”

You raised a brow. “Are you going to hand-feed me like a spoiled princess?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “You deserve to be spoiled.”

So you sat on the counter, legs swinging lazily, while Hiromi plated up golden-brown pancakes and fresh fruit. Still shirtless. Still beautiful. The curve of his spine, the strength in his arms, the calm settling slowly back into his shoulders.

He fed you a bite from his fingers. Sticky syrup on the tip.

You sucked it clean without breaking eye contact. His breath caught. Just for a second.

“Huh, dangerous,” he murmured.

“You started it,” you teased, licking the corner of your lip.

You ate together like that—slow, close, playful. And when he finally sat between your legs, resting his head against your chest, arms wrapped around your waist, you knew something for certain:

He was still healing. Still rebuilding.

But piece by piece, love by love…

He was yours again.

And this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

@starlitnotes

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fritzes · 16 hours ago

Text

hello wimbledudes. it’s time for the wimbledraw analysis

wta:

aryna quite literally has nothing to lose here since she didn’t play last year and has nothing to defend, but she’s absolutely gonna be looking to not just do well but win. she’s lost both grand slam finals so far this year and wimbledon has been an especially frustrating slam for her so far in her career. the draw is tough; I don’t think emma raducanu can do much against her but marketa certainly can. upsetting top seeds at wimbledon is kinda her thing, and the same can be said for elina, who is aryna’s projected fourth round opponent. and on the other side of the quarter is the ao champion madison keys, though her results against aryna (and everyone) vary from day to day. paula has the chance to be dangerous here, but she’s been injured and she has katie boulter in the first round which is tough on british grass. last year’s semifinalist donna vekic is also lurking in this section, but she’s had a disappointing grass season so far. aryna has been such a semifinals lock lately, and I think this is the first big draw this year where that’s really in question. that being said, she could just outhit everyone and steamroll her way through, but I don’t think it’ll be that simple

I like this quarter a lot. I think it’s giving some players who tend to be unlucky or overlooked a chance to shine and make a big run. the top seed here is jasmine, last year’s finalist, and she has proven this year that her runs last year weren’t a fluke. I don’t think she’s the type to let point defense get in her head (the rg loss was more a case of her opponent locking in). her section is full of inconsistent power players in linda, bhm, and anisimova, with putintseva as a dark horse. it’s very doable and I think jasmine can for sure replicate some of her success. on the other end of the quarter is qinwen, FINALLY not in aryna’s quarter. she could play naomi in the second round, but naomi is decidedly not great on grass and I doubt that will be much of anything. penko is in this section as well, but she’s impossible to predict. another seed here is diana, but she’s been so shaky lately and I think she’s upset prone. but the biggest lurker in this quarter is, of course, wimbledon specialist ons jabeur. can she find her old form? I don’t know, but if any semblance of that is here, everyone else in the draw better watch out. she’s landed in a spot with fairly vulnerable seeds (penko and diana), so who knows?

I feel like jess and mirra are always in the same quarter but they never play each other, and I think this trend will continue. grass just doesn’t seem to suit mirra, and having krejcikova or emma navarro in the fourth round could be really dangerous. speaking of krejcikova… she’s back? she’s injured? both at the same time? I have no idea what’s going on with her, and I think she could either lose to alex eala in the first round or make a deep run. the upset is more likely, in my opinion. emma could definitely defend her qf points here, but that would require her to not tire herself out in long three-setters (which won’t happen) and I just don’t have faith in her when she’s the favorite to do anything. if jess is in form, she should have a simple time getting to the qfs. linette and alexandrova have done nothing on grass, and as much as I’d love to see karo making a good run, she literally can’t hit a backhand. the fact that jess finally broke her slam qf curse will also take some of the pressure off, and the draw has been very kind to her in helping her play to her seed (unless tatjana goats out again in which case jess is screwed)

the last quarter… oh boy. a week ago I would’ve said iga is cooked with danielle and marta in her immediate section, but she’s really proven herself on grass this week and I think she could surprise everyone. the only issue with that is elena in her projected fourth round, which I just don’t think iga is ready to deal with on grass. elena is obviously inconsistent, but that gets somewhat negated by this surface just by virtue of her serve, and I don’t see anyone in her section who can lock in long enough for an upset (all good players, but flashy and easily frustrated/emotional like maria and clara). coco, on the other side, is an enigma. one of the biggest wins of her career came at wimbledon against venus, but since then she’s been weirdly bad on grass. well, it’s not weird. it’s the serve and the forehand getting exposed. the draw has been pretty kind to her, with an out-of-form dasha as the highest seed. but I think samsonova could be a real issue for coco, and I do think she’s vulnerable to an upset, which could be good for iga

interesting r1 matches: sun/bouzkova, vondrousova/kessler, badosa/boulter, putintseva/anisimova, pavlyuchenkova/tomljanovic, siniakova/zheng, krejcikova/eala, kvitova/navarro, volynets/maria, kasatkina/arango, joint/samsonova, kenin/townsend

atp:

this is a great draw for jannik. a lot of his seeds (ben, tommy, grigor, lorenzo) have been either injured or heavily flopping. it’s hard to say how jannik will be mentally after that rg final, but one thing about jannik sinner is that he does NOT play down to an opponent’s level. he needs to start out with some simple, straightforward matches, honestly just to prove to himself that he can do that. and I think the potential of shapo in the third round could be good for him, a good grass guy that can push him, but probably not too much. it’s hard not to see at least quarters with this draw. the other side is completely up in the air with lorenzo injured and ben suddenly incapable of playing on grass again. there are great chances for brandon and humbert to make runs here, but humbert has gael in the first round and that could be tough. unless lorenzo is healthy, this feels like a very soft draw for jannik

jack just barely got the fourth seed, and honestly that ended up being worse for him because the fifth seed has a WAY better draw (which we’ll get to later). bublik in the third round is brutal, and considering that jack just lost to him at rg (on clay) I don’t think he’s getting his revenge here, and I’d pick the upset. I also think jack is gonna have a tough time grappling with being a home favorite at a slam, obviously he’s played wimbledon before but this is the first time he actually has a genuine chance to win it, and that pressure (and the heat on the first few days) might get in his head. this gives bublik or maybe jakub the chance to make a really good run here (I also think marcos definitely has a chance to get to a later round). the other side of the quarter is the novak section, which inherently makes it unpredictable. I think novak is gonna do pretty well here. there were more questions around him last year, and he literally made the final so why not? his seeds (michelsen, machac, de minaur) just aren’t players I can see pulling off that kind of upset and I’m sure novak wants to keep his random slam success going this year

*takes deep breath* this quarter placement is the best that taylor fritz could have hoped for. he lost the fourth seed to jack, but as I said earlier, that was a blessing in disguise. he’s in zverev’s quarter, and he’s on a five match win streak against zverev, who sucks on grass. there’s upset potential with a possible zverev berrettini match in the third round, and also on that side of the quarter is a possible fran/karen match which isn’t that noteworthy other than the fact that their rivalry (if you can call it that) is just absurd (I believe it’s currently 7-0 for karen). so, it’s pretty open for taylor, who is currently in the eastbourne final once again. his first round against gmp is tough, but if he plays the way he played in eastbourne and stuttgart, he should be fine. where it gets tricky is the projected fourth round against daniil. obviously daniil hasn’t been great this season, but he always manages to put up a good result at wimbledon and he’s been better lately. if taylor/daniil happens, it could be a banger match

will carlos pull off the threepeat? I think so, and this draw is certainly helping my case. the top seeds in his section are andrey and stefanos, both of whom will probably suffer early upsets, and felix, who just can’t challenge carlos on this surface. he’ll probably drop some sets, sure, but I don’t think carlos will have early challenges the way he has in past years at wimbledon (like the frances match last year). on the other side, holger has been saddled with a draw from hell. learner in the second round is horrible for him; he’s one of those crafty grass court players that can really throw off one’s rhythm, and that’s gonna frustrate holger. fonseca, brooksby, and griekspoor are also in this section, and they’ve all been playing really well this grass season. the last little section in this quarter has frances and jiri, and I think jiri will upset frances and maybe get to the quarterfinals depending on who comes out of the holger section. but at the end of the day, it’s all futile, because the chances of any of them beating carlos are so, so low. but hey, all the threepeats have been thwarted this year, so, as jannik says, let’s see what’s coming

interesting r1 matches: monfils/humbert, michelsen/kecmanovic, fritz/mpetshi perricard, rinderknech/zverev, rune/jarry, tien/basavareddy, fearnley/fonseca, brooksby/griekspoor

#these draws are weird but I think this could be good #tennis #pre-match writeups #wta #atp

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