#[Strike this from the Record] - Crack

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

for pez dispenser debris, has the third sports festival not happened yet or did it happen and it just wasn’t as cool as the second one

Ehhh, this one is kind of a loose thread I’ve been leaving open to do something with if I come up with something cool, but in my mind I’ve sort been playing with the idea that Class 3-A didn’t compete their third year.

The rest of the year didn’t want to compete with them for reasons of personal safety (they were all completely insane and known biters) and the school didn’t want to let them compete for reasons of legal liability. Literally every single year they had competed, these kids had tried to kill each other on live tv. Izuku and Todoroki had tried to murder specifically each other twice. Uraraka put Bakugou in a medically induced coma after their second match. Every single year they cut it closer to a fatal injury, and considering the year before involved a medically induced coma, they thought their luck might just run out the third time around.

There were also safety concerns about just how much information they were letting out about these kid’s Quirks. Before, it wasn’t as much of an issue? The UA sports festival was big, don’t get me wrong, but it usually resulted in the high performers getting recognized by a few more dedicated heroics fans for a few days after the event. Other heroics students looked at them so they could kick their ass in exams, but villains weren’t exactly bothered enough by heroic students to actually study them up in advance of their debut. But for Class 3-A? Villains were watching them.

And the Sports Festival just didn’t do for them what they needed it to anymore. It was meant to be an advertisement of their ability. A way to say “hey, look out for me,” and get agencies, the press, and the public primed for their careers. Class 3-A doesn’t need help with any of that. They are already too famous. But Class 3-B and the rest of their year? They could use a time to shine.

Class 3-A sort of sucks the fucking air out of the fucking room, honestly. Especially for Class B. Like. They are part of the most famous generation of heroes to come out of UA. And they are the less impressive, mostly unknown class. The rest of the school sort of has mixed feelings about Class 3-A. They’re proud of them, but it sucks being their classmates.

There’s nothing to be done about it. Class 3-A has just taken way too big a position in the public eye. The school could put the entire year on with them as usual and give them no special treatment, and the news would still only give a shit about what 3-A did. They’re actively detracting from their classmate’s abilities to get noticed, because everyone’s too busy fawning over one class out of eight.

The teachers also had to have a serious conversation about how including Class 3-A legitimately introduced concerns of societal destabilization. Aizawa had to take some deep breaths to will his way through that conversation.

Again, after their second year, the public started considering Class 3-A a source of new hope—with Izuku at the forefront as the next symbol of peace. A huge amount of that and to do with the miracle they pulled off handling the Tartarus Prison Break. But specifically Izuku came out of the entire mess with a lot of global hope riding on his shoulders.

He was the new unbeatable hero. The world had lost the guy who could be counted on to win any fight when All Might retired. But there was Izuku, shiny and bouncy and fresh to fight, whose Quirk was everything All Might’s was and more. And he had won fights that during Yokohama that no one thought he would win.

Taking down the Fatal Five was a big part of it. I have all this lore built up in my mind around them, these fanfictions villains who only exist in my head and are only based off canon in the loosest sense. It’s so dramatic in my head. There’s espionage. There’s betrayal. There’s gay love. I can’t get into that it’s too far afield. But when they were active, people were legitimately afraid of going outside. They were the only villains that All Might noticeably relied on help to defeat, because Sir Nighteye was so fundamental to their final capture.

Defeating them without All Might seemed more likely than defeating All for One and the League, but not by much. It was expected to take months, if not years, to recapture them again. These were villains who were credited with hundreds of fatalities—and the confirmed injuries clocked at over a thousand. They were city destroyers during their first run. People were absolutely fucking terrified of them doing it all a second time.

Izuku and Mirio pulled off an absolute Hail Mary play with their takedown. No one thought they would win, including them. They couldn’t let these guys go without a fight, but they also thought that they probably weren’t making it out the other side of this match. They weren’t aiming to die, but that just made this a kamikaze where they hoped to survive the plane crash. They went into this fight expecting to both die.

They understood that they lost this match up 99 times out of 100. But they told themselves that they just needed to find the one time they won and make it tonight. And just barely, through a lot of luck, they managed it. People lost their minds when news broke that the Fatal Five had been defeated by two teenagers.

And as stated in a different post, Izuku gets primary credit for taking down all of them because most of the fight happened where no one could see it and people love to discredit Mirio’s abilities. Not everyone thought that way, but the ones that did? They thought it was a sign Izuku would be better than All Might. Izuku did it without help. Even though, objectively, this was very much a two man job.

It was enough to make the world start hoping that Izuku was their new unbeatable hero. He had already won fights that should be unwinnable. So if he could beat the Fatal Five, then maybe he can beat every other opponent he faces. Maybe he can replace All Might.

What happens if that kid fucking loses a low stakes sparring match?

As it stood, Izuku, Todoroki, and Bakugou were considered the most likely to win the third year’s festival. But the other kids were fantastic, and they had a shot still even if it wasn’t as good. So how does the world react if some random fucking kid in class b manages an underwhelming victory after Izuku fumbles it?

Izuku’s existence in pez is basically that wad of napkins you wedge under the short leg of a wobbly table to try and make it stay level but like. For global social stability. Class 3-A rolling up to Yokohama and throwing hands with a bunch of adult murderers and somehow fucking winning is the reason why this Japan isn’t at the Refugees In UA And Chaos In The Streets portion of canon. They were so sparkly and inspiring and heroic that the entire country unified around loving and believing in them and shit stabilized. And everyone stopped freaking out about what they were going to do without All might because the next one was already in the pipe.

So what the fuck do you do if your new unbeatable mega celebrity hero fucking eats it at his friendly school sparring match and proves to everyone that he is, in fact, fallible on live TV? What if the entire class has an off day and does poorly, thereby undermining the current reason the world has for hope?

You’ve got a class that’s so unprecedentedly important that the school has to field phone calls from world leaders feeling out what the situation is with the ol’ sports festival. The fuck do you do about it?

It became almost unfair to the other students to make them fight against Class A, which is what Present Mic said and immediately got both Aizawa and Vlad King violently mad at him.

Aizawa, because he has started to profoundly resent the implication that his kids somehow need to atone to the rest of the school. Admittedly they’re all completely insane and do bite but that’s unrelated to why the rest of the school resents him so it’s a nonissue. Fuck everyone, it’s not their fault that adults have tried to kill them since like their fourth day of school, and UA has never handed out participation medals. If they wash out against his kids it’s because they just weren’t as good.

Vlad, meanwhile, was angry at the implication that his kids weren’t as good as Class A and needed to have them taken out of the running entirely to even stand a shot. Fuck you.

There was a lot of yelling.

But Mic just meant that it was unfair to pit them against Class A in the eyes of the public. Like, hey kids, let’s have a good ol’ fashioned competition for fun, do your best, but just as a reminder that if Midoriya from class a doesn’t win then it may legitimately destabilize the nation. Yeah the ministry of finance called he’s worried about the economic ramifications. But don’t worry, because no one really thinks you’ll beat him anyway. Now let’s all get out there and have fun.

It just felt like it set everyone up to fail while giving villains more footage to find potential weaknesses with. The school decided to just cut them from the competition, which Aizawa shouted at a lot of people about, even though he wanted them cut when the conversation started. He wanted the world to have less of them to chew at, and then he got mad at the implication that his kids somehow would be a problem if they got to participate in a school wide event. He talked himself all the way around to the other side out of spite.

They told Class A that they had lost privileges to the sports festival because they had repeatedly tried to murder each other and also everyone else on live TV, which was fair, really. The school didn’t trust them to not almost kill each other again, which was a concern Class A understood and agreed with, because they were totally going to do that. Plus Ultra, Sensei.

I think they let the kids do like an escape room or something just so they wouldn’t be totally left out, which they ended up televising to quell some of the backlash after they announced Class 3-A would not be participating in that year’s sports festival. It didn’t endear them to the rest of their classmates, because Class 3A Tries To Leave A Room In Groups of Five With Only Marginal Success turned out to be more popular than the sports festival. It bred some resentment amongst the other students, because to them, it seemingly confirmed that the faculty thought of them as lesser than class 3-a.

In the school’s defense, they did have concerns about someone actually murdering the other on live tv and having to deal with the liability. Through sheer luck of the fucking draw, Izuku and Bakugou had never had to do a one on one match with each other for two years running. They couldn’t possibly be that lucky a third time, and someone would die, and the stadium would probably be destroyed in the process, and bystanders would die, and what would they say in the lawsuit? Oh, we didn’t know they’d do that? They try to do that every time. They thought that doing a nice escape room involving no physical contact whatsoever would prevent injuries.

There were still injuries.

[bueckets]

The Prophecy | Part 1

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One (you're here) | Two

Description: They call her The Prophecy—basketball’s impossible phenomenon, rewriting what it means to be perfect on the court. With a near-flawless shooting record and a mind just as sharp in aerospace engineering as it is in breaking down defenses, her name sparks awe, envy, and relentless scrutiny. But perfection has its cost.

But even legends have weak spots. When a high-stakes matchup against LSU draws the attention of Paige Bueckers—the golden face of college basketball—The Prophecy’s flawless world starts to crack. On the court, they’re rivals, locked in a battle for supremacy. Off the court, late-night texts and shared moments blur the lines between competition and something much harder to define.

WC: 11.9k

Authors Notes: Slow Burn, Competitors to Lovers, SLOW, I'm heavy into world building so expect a lot of story, SMUT in next chapter. I've like proof read 70% there's already 40k words written and I've changed shit up like 40 times by now lol

They say there are two kinds of impossibilities in basketball: the ones you laugh at, and the ones that make you hold your breath. Your entire career has been about the second kind.

The numbers shouldn't exist: 847 shots attempted in college. Two misses. A percentage that makes statisticians check their math and then check it again. The first miss was a seventy-footer your freshman year that hit the rim so perfectly the sound echoed through the arena like a bell. The second? Sophomore year, caught an elbow to the face that had blood streaming down your jersey—the shot still almost went in.

Two misses in three years. They call you The Prophecy because watching you miss is like seeing a meteor strike, so rare that people mark their calendars by it.

Every sports network has tried to explain you. ESPN did a special called "The Prophecy: Breaking Down Basketball's Perfect Player." Sports Illustrated put you on the cover: "The Future Came Early." The New York Times ran a feature: "Harvard's Double Threat: Engineering the Perfect Game." They all tried to capture what makes you different. None quite managed it.

Because how do you explain someone who turned down every basketball powerhouse in the country—UConn, Stanford, South Carolina—to study Aerospace Engineering at Harvard? How do you rationalize someone who spends mornings in advanced fluid dynamics classes and afternoons making impossible shots look like a simple routine?

Your teammates get it, though. They've nicknamed you "Rocket”— partly for your major, partly for how you launch yourself through defenses. You're the heart of a Harvard team that's won three straight championships, turning the Ivy League school into a basketball dynasty that no one saw coming.

But that legacy isn't built on game days alone. It’s forged in moments like these: the hum of anticipation, the camaraderie, the banter that cuts through the tension as the team gets ready to take the court.

They say the silence before a storm is the loudest. But whoever said that never sat in Harvard's women's basketball locker room before a big game.

"I swear to god, if you try to explain zone defense using thermodynamics one more time—" Sierra launches a rolled-up sock across the room that you catch without looking up from your pre-game ritual: left shoe, right shoe, double-knot both, check laces twice.

"That was ONE time," you protest, but Maria's already cackling.

"One time? Girl, last week you tried to break down UNC's press using some dynamic—“

"And it WORKED, didn't it?"

The locker room erupts in laughter, the kind of easy joy that only comes from three years of championships, late-night practices, and inside jokes that no one else would understand. Taylor's already started your pregame handshake sequence; each title has added new moves until it's practically a full choreographed dance. 

"Speaking of Carolina," Jasmine pipes up while adjusting her headband, "did y'all see their point guard tried to claim she's almost as accurate as you?”

"How'd that work out for her?" Sierra grins.

"Shot 3-for-15 against Duke." Taylor shakes her head. "Meanwhile, our girl over here—"

"845 for 847," the team chants in unison, then breaks into laughter again.

You roll your eyes but can't hide your smile. 

"Yo, check this out though," Sierra's scrolling through her phone. "LSU's talking mad shit on Twitter. Their center says she's gonna 'expose the myth’ tonight."

Tonight's game against LSU has been circled on calendars since the schedule dropped. Defending national champions versus the team that's rewriting what's possible in college basketball. 

The banter continues as everyone goes through their pregame routines. Maria's got her headphones in, mouthing the same Drake lyrics she's been using since freshman year. Taylor's meticulously re-taping her ankles for the third time. Jasmine's practicing her crossover in front of her locker, adding a little extra flair each time.

That's when Coach Matthews steps in, game face already set. The room doesn't exactly go quiet- this team's never been good at that, but the energy shifts— focuses.

"Ladies," she begins, but Sierra can't help herself.

"We know, we know, sold out crowd, national TV, time to show them why they call us the best team in the country."

The locker room buzzes with the easy confidence of a team that knows what they're capable of. You've all been together three years, grown from underdogs to unstoppable. 

Coach tries to look stern but fails. "I see three rings have made you cocky."

"Nah, Coach," Jasmine grins. "We were cocky before the rings. Now we’ve just proven that we were right all along.” 

The team cracks up again, but you catch something in Coach's expression, a mix of pride and concern. Her eyes find yours across the room. You know what she's thinking: LSU's not here just to play basketball. They're here to make a statement. To prove that Harvard's dynasty, your perfect record, all of it, is just smoke and mirrors.

You peek out at the arena as you head to warm-ups. Every seat filled, signs everywhere:

"The Prophecy Has Spoken: Harvard by 20"

"845/847 ≈ Perfection"

"Future WNBA GOAT"

"Rocket Science + Basketball = 🐐"

The student section erupts with enough thunder that you’d think there was an earthquake outside as you step onto the court. Three years, and the roar still hits different every time. Your teammates spread out for warm-ups, but you can feel every eye in the arena tracking your movement.

"Remember freshman year?" Sierra bumps your shoulder as you start stretching. "When you were still trying to convince everyone you were just 'pretty good' at basketball?"

You laugh, remembering that first practice. You'd shown up in glasses and a Harvard Engineering t-shirt, trying to downplay the high school highlights that had ESPN calling you the next Sue Bird. Then you went 50-for-50 in shooting drills.

"Pretty good," Taylor mimics, feeding you the ball. "Meanwhile Sports Center had a ticker counting your made shots."

The ball feels alive in your hands as you start your warm-up routine. Crossover, behind the back, step-back three. Swish. The Harvard crowd counts each made shot, a tradition that started your freshman year. They're at "thirty-seven" when a murmur ripples through the stands like a shift in the air pressure.

That's when you see them.

The entire UConn women's team, filing into their seats behind your bench. Their presence is magnetic, commanding, like the world has suddenly shifted to center on them. Your breath catches for just a moment, but you keep moving. Eyes forward, muscles loose. Don’t look. Don’t look.

Your gaze flickers up, and that’s when it happens. Paige Bueckers—UConn’s golden child, the face of their dynasty—locks eyes with you. The briefest of seconds, but it feels like a spotlight on your skin. She's not just watching; she's studying. Calculating.

Without breaking stride, you add a little extra spin to your next move. A crossover that’s sharp enough to slice, a step-back three so effortless it’s almost insulting. Swish.

"Showing off for UConn?" Maria teases, but her voice feels distant, barely cutting through the thrum in your chest. You don’t answer. The crowd is at "forty-two" now, and so is Paige. You can feel her counting.

"Please," you roll your eyes, draining another three. "They're the ones who showed up to our house."

The arena's practically vibrating now. LSU's warming up on the other end, trying to look unbothered. Their coach keeps glancing your way, everyone knows their game plan will revolve around stopping you. Good luck with that.

"Rocket!" Jasmine calls out. "Give them the space shot!"

It's another team tradition. End of warm-ups, you launch one from near half-court, high enough to clear the International Space Station. The crowd holds its breath as the ball arcs through the air—

Bucket.

The place goes absolutely nuclear. Even some LSU players stop to watch the replay on the jumbotron. You don't celebrate, just turn and jog back to the bench, but you catch Paige Bueckers leaning forward in her seat. Yeah, she felt that one, too.

In the huddle, Coach Matthews keeps it simple. "They're going to try to get physical. They're going to try to get in your heads. But what do we do?"

"Let the scoreboard talk!" the team responds in unison.

You look around the circle—these girls who've become family. Sierra, who's never met a defensive assignment she couldn't lock down. Maria, whose no-look passes seem telepathic. Taylor, who crashes boards like gravity's just a suggestion. Jasmine, whose trash talk is almost as legendary as her three-point shooting.

The starting lineups are announced. LSU's players get scattered applause, but when they call your name, the sound is deafening. "At guard, a junior from Boston, Massachusetts, averaging 32.5 points per game, shooting 99.8% from the field—The Prophecy!"

You high-five down the bench, each teammate adding their own flourish to the routine. The crowd's chanting now:

"M-V-P! M-V-P!"

But you're already in game mode, that familiar calm settling over you. You can feel Uconn’s members watching from the stands, feel the weight of every expectation, every camera, every scout with an NBA team's future in their hands.

The referee holds the ball at center court. LSU's center—all six-foot-five of her—tries to stare you down.

You just smile. They have no idea what's coming.

The game opens exactly how LSU planned: double-team before you even touch the ball. Their guard and forward shadow your every move, leaving gaps all over the court. Rookie mistake.

You catch Maria's eye, give her the smallest nod. She drives right, drawing attention, while you slip backdoor. The defender realizes too late—you're already airborne, catching the lob one-handed. The rim's still shaking as you get back on defense.

"That's my point guard!" you shout, giving Maria her props. The crowd's already going wild, and you're only thirty seconds in.

LSU tries to establish their post game, but Sierra's having none of it. She strips their center clean, and suddenly you're off to the races. The ball finds you at the three-point line. One defender recovers, rushing at you with a hand up.

Time slows. You see every option: the drive, the pass, the shot. But there's something poetic about making the hardest choice look easy. You rise up, release. The defender's hand grazes your wrist—doesn't matter. Swish.

"And The Prophecy strikes first! Two possessions, two baskets!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "She's making this look like a shoot-around!"

Your teammates are feeding off the energy. Taylor's owning the glass, Jasmine's picking pockets, and Maria's threading passes through impossible angles. By the six-minute mark, you're up 18-7, and LSU calls their first timeout.

"They can't guard you for shit!" Sierra laughs as you huddle up. She's right—they've tried three different defensive schemes already.

Coach Matthews keeps it tactical. "They're getting frustrated. Gonna start trying to bump you off your spots. Stay composed."

You nod, taking a quick swig of water. Your eyes drift to the UConn section. KK Arnold shoots you a smile which you return. Sierra’s shown you enough of her Tik Tok’s for you to recognize the Freshman.

Back on court, LSU switches to a box-and-one. Four players in a zone, one dedicated to face-guarding you. Cupcake stuff compared to what you see in practice.

You set up on the wing, let them think they've got you contained. The defender's playing so tight you can smell her shampoo. Maria starts her drive, draws the zone's attention. You wait... wait...

Then it happens. Quick as thought, you plant your back foot, cut hard to the corner. The defender's still turning when you catch and release in one motion. The ball hasn't even hit the net before you're heading back on defense.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" The announcer's losing it. "The Prophecy with another! She's 5-for-5 to start the game!"

The Harvard student section's going ballistic. Even your teammates are shaking their heads—three years, and you still find ways to surprise them.

LSU's getting chippy now. Their forwards are throwing elbows on screens, talking under their breath. You've seen it before: when skill isn't enough, they try to get physical.

"Yo Rocket," Taylor mutters after a particularly hard screen. "They're hunting."

You just nod. Let them hunt. You didn't get here by backing down.

With two minutes left in the first quarter, they try to trap you at half-court. Two defenders, both bigger, trying to muscle you into a mistake. You hit them with a crossover so nasty the crowd gasps. Split the double-team, euro-step around the help defense, and finish with a finger roll that looks like it defies gravity.

The LSU coach is screaming now, face turning purple. Nothing's working. Every scheme, every adjustment, every physical play, you've got an answer for all of it.

Ten seconds left. You let the clock drain, waving off the screen from Taylor. Your defender's in perfect position, textbook stance. Doesn't matter.

You rise up from NBA range, the defender's hand right in your face. The ball arcs high, the crowd holding its breath—

Swish. At the buzzer.

Harvard's bench explodes. Your teammates mob you as you head to the sideline, perfect quarter in the books. 15 points, 6-for-6 shooting, 3 assists. Just another day at the office.

"Show off," Sierra teases as you sit down.

"Actually," you grin, slipping into your best professor voice, "according to my calculations, that was just the warm-up."

The team cracks up. This is what the cameras miss, what the stats can't show. The joy of playing the game you love, with people you love, at a level few have ever reached.

But LSU's huddle looks different now. There's an edge to their expressions, a darkness in their eyes. They're not just losing—they're being embarrassed on national TV.

You've seen that look before. It usually means someone's about to do something stupid.

Second quarter opens with LSU trying something new: they're running a full-court press, getting extra physical on every possession. Their coach has clearly given them the green light to push boundaries.

"They big mad now," Jasmine laughs as she inbounds the ball to you.

You weave through the press like it's a morning jog, finding Maria with a no-look pass that has the crowd buzzing. She drains the three, and you make sure to flex for the LSU bench on the way back. Their coach calls for a substitution, sending in Williams—their enforcer, known for walking the line between aggressive and dirty.

"Heads up," Taylor mutters as she runs past you. "Number 32's got that look."

You've seen players like Williams before. They show up in every big game, thinking they'll be the one to throw you off your rhythm. They usually learn.

The next possession, Williams tries to bump you off your cut. You absorb the contact, spin away like water, and catch the ball in perfect position. She's still recovering when you rise up for three. Nothing but net.

"That's 20 for The Prophecy!" The announcer's voice carries over the roar. "Still perfect from the field!"

The Harvard student section starts a new chant: "YOU CAN'T GUARD HER!" 

You spot some NBA scouts courtside, furiously taking notes. There's already talk about you leaving early, being a top pick. But that's future stuff. Right now, there's just this game, this moment, this next possession.

Williams is getting frustrated. Each bump gets a little harder, each screen a little later. The refs are letting them play physical, and LSU's taking full advantage.

"Yo Rocket," Sierra says during a free throw. "Want me to accidentally trip her?"

You shake your head, smiling. "Nah. I got something better planned."

Next play down, you call for a clear-out. Everyone knows what's coming, your teammates, the crowd, even the UConn section leans forward. Williams squares up, trying to look tough.

The move is pure poetry: crossover so quick it looks like the ball's on a string, between the legs, behind the back. Williams lunges, trying to stay in front. That's when you hit her with the step-back, creating just enough space to rise up.

The shot is perfect before it leaves your hands. Williams can only watch as it drops through, pure silk. The crowd absolutely loses it.

"SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Jasmine screams, running past Williams, tongue out in mockery. "But not for her!"

Even some of the LSU players are trying not to smile. What else can you do when you're watching someone operate on a different level?

That's when you notice Paige Bueckers isn't just watching anymore—she's studying. Taking in every move, every counter, like she's downloading your game for future reference. You catch her eye for a split second and there's something there: not just respect, but recognition. Game recognizing game.

The half continues like a highlight reel. You're seeing everything in slow motion: every cut, every screen, every defensive rotation. It's like playing basketball in IMAX, everything crystal clear, every possibility visible.

With three minutes left in the half, Harvard's up 45-28. The game's starting to feel less like competition and more like an exhibition. That's usually when things get dangerous.

You see it coming in slow motion: Sierra bringing the ball up court, Williams setting up for what looks like a normal defensive position. But there's something in her stance, something in her eyes.

Williams launches herself at Sierra, sending her crashing into the scorer's table with a sickening crack. The crowd gasps as Sierra crumples, blood already streaming from her nose.

The arena goes dead silent.

Then everything happens at once. Your teammates rush to Sierra. Jasmine gets in Williams' face. The refs are blowing whistles. But you, you're standing perfectly still, a different kind of calculation running through your mind.

Three years of friendship. Three championships. Countless late-night study sessions where Sierra helped you with orbital mechanics homework while you ice your knees. All those moments flash through your mind in an instant.

You start walking toward Williams, and something in your expression makes everyone—teammates, refs, even the crowd—go quiet.

The silence in Lavietes Pavilion is deafening. Blood drips from Sierra's nose onto the hardwood—each drop echoing like thunder in your ears. Your teammates are surrounding her, but your focus is laser-locked on Williams, who's still trying to act tough, shoving Jasmine.

"Get the fuck out my face," Williams snarls, pushing your teammate back.

You cross the court in long, measured strides. Your teammates part like the Red Sea, something in your expression making them step aside. Williams turns just as you reach her, and for the first time tonight, you see fear flicker across her face.

The crowd holds its breath. Every phone is up, every camera pointed at this moment. Even the refs seem frozen, waiting to see what happens next.

You step right into her space, close enough that only she can hear you. Your voice comes out low, deadly calm. "Touch my teammate again," you say, each word precise as a scalpel, "and I promise you'll regret ever stepping foot in this fucking gym."

Williams tries to maintain her tough act, stepping forward. "Oh yeah? What you gonna—"

"Try me one more time," you cut her off, voice even quieter now, "and when I catch you outside this gym I’ll make sure you don’t get back up.” 

The refs finally restore order, whistles blaring. Technical fouls all around. As you check on Sierra—her nose definitely broken but she's insisting she can play—you hear the murmur rippling through the crowd. Nobody's ever seen you like this. The Prophecy's always been about grace under pressure, about making the impossible look easy.

This is something else entirely.

Coach sends you to the bench to cool off. You end up near the Harvard section, your teammates who aren't on the court surrounding you like a protective wall. Behind them, the UConn section hasn't made a sound, but you can feel their attention like a physical weight.

"I've never seen you like that," Taylor whispers, a mix of awe and concern in her voice.

"Nobody touches our people," you say simply, eyes locked on the court where LSU is shooting their free throws.

Sierra's getting patched up beside you, tissues stuffed up her nose. "You know I've taken worse hits in practice," she tries to joke.

“That’s beside the point." Your voice is still deadly quiet. "They came into our house thinking they could punk us. Thinking what—because we're Harvard we're soft? They can suck my dick.” 

The energy in the arena has shifted. Your teammates are fired up, talking amongst themselves. The crowd's still buzzing, cameras alternating between you and Williams. But you're not playing for them anymore. This isn't about highlights or SportsCenter or draft stock.

When the buzzer sounds for you to return, your teammates stand as one. "Light them the fuck up," Sierra says through her swollen nose, and the team erupts in agreement.

You step back onto the court, and the ball finds its way to your hands like it's meant to be there. Williams tries to meet your eyes, but she flinches when she does. She knows what's coming.

They all do.

The ball leaves your hands before their defense can set. Swish. 34 points.

Maria screens Williams hard—legally, but with extra emphasis. You curl around it, catch, release. Swish. 37.

"The Prophecy is taking no prisoners now," the announcer's voice carries over the chaos. "This isn't just basketball anymore, folks. This is personal."

Each possession is a message. No more fancy moves, no more style. Just pure, devastating efficiency. Catch and shoot. Drive and score. Again and again until the numbers blur together and the only sound in the arena is the whisper of the net.

Williams tries to guard you on a switch. You look her dead in the eye as you rise up. She knows it's good before you even release. 45 points.

The fourth quarter becomes a massacre. Not just because of your scoring, but the way your whole team moves now—like sharks that have tasted blood. Every screen is a statement. Every cut is a challenge. Harvard basketball isn't just winning anymore; they're sending a message.

With thirty seconds left, Harvard up by 35, Coach tries to sub you out. You wave her off. There's one more thing to do.

You catch the ball at the opposite baseline—ninety-four feet from your basket. The crowd realizes what you're about to attempt and rises as one. Williams is still trying to guard you, bless her heart.

You don't even look at the basket as you launch it, eyes locked on hers the whole way. The ball soars through the air, high enough to scrape the rafters. Time seems to stop as 4,000 people hold their breath.

Swish. As pure as a layup.

The arena explodes. Your teammates storm the court as you take off on a victory lap, tongue out, arms spread wide. The Harvard band is playing, the student section is losing their minds, and somewhere in the chaos, you catch Paige Bueckers standing up, shaking her head in amazement.

December hits Boston like a cold slap to the face. Three months since the LSU game, and Harvard's still undefeated, 12-0, ranked #2 in the country. Tonight's the game everyone's been circling: #1 UConn at Harvard. The Game of the Year, ESPN's calling it. Every headline is the same story in different words: you versus Paige, like the rest of the teams are just here to watch.

You haven't spoken to any of the UConn players since that night in your locker room. Sure, you see the occasional Instagram story when Jasmine reshares KK's posts (they're dating now, apparently, something that started with DMs and turned into weekend visits), but, that's about it. You don't even follow Paige Bueckers on social media. Why would you? 

"Earth to ____,” Sierra waves a hand in front of your face during warmups. "You good?"

"Yeah," you snap back to reality, draining another three. "Just locked in."

The arena's packed to the rafters, twice as loud as the LSU game. During layup lines, you catch glimpses of the UConn players, especially Paige, who moves with that same fluid confidence you remember. She's got that look in her eyes, the one you recognize in your own reflection: the quiet certainty of someone who's never doubted their greatness.

Your pregame outfit, fitted black turtleneck under your warmups, gold chain catching the light, has already made its rounds on social media. “She looks SO good!!” is trending on Twitter, complete with fire emojis. Not that you care about that stuff. (But okay, maybe you spent an extra minute on your appearance today. Professional reasons only.)

The game starts like a prize fight, both teams trading blows, neither willing to blink first. Paige opens with a three; you answer with a step-back jumper. She hits a floater; you counter with a drive that leaves her defender spinning. It's not personal, you tell yourself. Just basketball.

By the first TV timeout, you've both got 8 points and the crowd's already losing it. The energy's different from the LSU game, no cheap shots or trash talk, just pure, elite basketball. Almost like you're speaking the same language, even if you're on different teams.

"Yo," Maria whispers during a free throw, "is it just me or is Bueckers playing extra hard when she's guarding you?"

"Everyone plays hard against me," you shrug, but you've noticed it too. The way she locks in, the extra intensity in her defense. Like she's got something to prove.

The second quarter is where you start to take over. UConn tries everything, double teams, box-and-one, even a triangle-and-two. Nothing works. You're seeing the game in slow motion again, every passing lane, every defensive rotation crystal clear. By halftime, you've got 24 points on perfect shooting, and Harvard's up 48-39.

In the tunnel heading back out, you pass Paige. There's a moment— brief but loaded— where your eyes meet. She gives you this little nod, competitor to competitor. Nothing more. (But why does it feel like something more?)

The second half is a masterclass. You're not just scoring anymore; you're conducting an orchestra. No-look passes to Sierra for corner threes. Behind-the-back feeds to Taylor for breakaway layups. And when UConn makes their inevitable run in the fourth, you shut the door with a sequence of moves so filthy they'll probably end up on SportsCenter's top 10.

Final score: Harvard 89, UConn 78. Your stat line: 38 points, 9 assists, still haven't missed a shot this season. The handshake line is respectful, none of that LSU energy, and when you reach Paige, her grip is firm, professional.

"Good game," she says simply.

"You too," you respond, and mean it.

After the media obligations, your phone buzzes. It's Jasmine: 'Bar. Tonight. Both teams. No excuses.'

You consider begging off, you do have that Thermodynamics problem set due Monday, but something makes you change your mind. Professional courtesy, you tell yourself. Networking.

The bar is one of those trendy spots where the grad students pretend they're not drowning in student debt. You show up fashionably late in black jeans, a cream-colored silk shirt, and boots that add an extra inch you definitely don't need. The teams are separate at first, Harvard at one end, UConn at the other. Only Jasmine and KK bridge the gap, wrapped up in their own world.

You stick with your teammates initially, nursing a Moscow Mule and trying not to notice how Paige looks in a baggy jeans and a button up when she arrives with some of her teammates. The groups slowly start to mix as the night goes on, pulled together by Jasmine and KK's gravitational field.

"So," UConn's shooting guard, Emma, ends up next to you at the bar. "You always play like that, or were you just showing off?”

You arch an eyebrow, a light smile tugs at the corner of your lip. "Just playing my game." 

"Right," she smirks, ordering another drink. 

You change the subject, asking about their upcoming schedule. Basketball is safe. Basketball makes sense.

The night continues, groups shifting and reforming. You end up in a conversation with some UConn players about the WNBA draft, carefully maintaining your distance when Paige joins the discussion. But you can't help noticing things: how she commands attention without trying, the way her laugh carries over the bar noise, how she seems to know exactly where you are in the room at all times.

Or maybe that's just in your head. Maybe, you’re just down bad.

"Paige is single, you know," KK says later, appearing at your elbow with the subtlety of a brick through a window.

"Good for her," you say neutrally, even as something flutters in your chest.

"Good for you, you mean," KK mutters, dodging the half-hearted shove you send her way before melting back into the crowd.

The night winds down, groups splitting off for Ubers, some players already making plans for late-night food. You're standing near the door, tugging your coat tighter around you against the Boston chill seeping in, when you hear your name.

You turn, and there she is, bathed in the hazy glow of the bar's neon sign, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. For the first time all night, it's just the two of you, the noise of the bar fading into a distant hum.

"Good game tonight," she says, and it’s almost funny how understated it sounds after the week of media buildup and ESPN countdowns.

"Thanks." You pause, letting the silence stretch. "You too."

Her smile tilts, like she knows exactly what you’re doing. "You don’t have to play it cool all the time, you know."

"Who says I’m playing?" you counter, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, quirking up just enough to give her the edge.

Paige steps closer, the space between you shrinking but still electric. "You’re good, Rocket. Even better than the headlines give you credit for."

"Don’t tell me you came out here just to boost my already inflated ego," you say, leaning back just enough to keep the balance of power from tipping entirely her way.

"Maybe," she says lightly, though the way she holds your gaze feels heavier than that. "Or maybe I just wanted to see for myself what all the hype’s about."

"And?"

Her smile deepens, slow and deliberate. "I wasn’t disappointed."

The air between you crackles, her words lingering in a way that feels deliberate, intentional. But before you can decide what to say—or if you should say anything at all—one of her teammates calls her name from the curb.

She glances back, then at you again. 

"Don’t overthink your game plan," you say.

"And you don’t underestimate mine," she calls over her shoulder, her voice light but the glance she throws you anything but.

You stay there a moment longer, the cold biting at your skin but your chest feeling oddly warm. As you finally step outside, something about the night feels unfinished—like a play halfway through its best scene.

As you slide into the car, you realize your heart's racing—and it has nothing to do with the cold.

Maybe KK was right. Maybe this is good for you.

Later that night, lying in bed, you find yourself replaying moments from the game. Just the game, you tell yourself. The way she moves on court, like water finding its path. Her defensive intensity. Her competitiveness that mirrors your own.

Your phone buzzes: a follow request on Instagram from Paige Bueckers on your private Instagram.

You stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Finally, you press accept. No big deal. Just professional courtesy.

But you can't help smiling as you set your phone down.

March suddenly feels very far away.

That night, sleep feels impossible. The win keeps looping in your mind—every play, every shot, every moment after the final buzzer. You’re still riding the high, but it's the interactions off the court that keep replaying, too. The way Paige’s eyes locked on yours during the game, that quiet intensity between you two. It was almost like there was something unspoken, an invisible thread pulling you together.

You try to shake it off as you lay in bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Eventually, you post a late-night story: just you in your Harvard champion sweatshirt, hair a little messy, looking tired but satisfied. Caption: “some nights hit different 🏀✨"

You're not thinking about anyone in particular when you post it. Really. No, seriously.

But a couple of minutes later, your phone lights up with a notification: "paigebueckers viewed your story."

You freeze. Your heart does that annoying skip, the one you wish you could ignore. You try to play it cool, but the small smile on your face gives it away.

Before you can stop overthinking it, another story pops up from Paige. It’s her on the team bus, the weariness on her face somehow just makes her look even more perfect. Caption: “good games make you better. great games change you. 📈"

You stare at the story longer than you should. Three times, maybe four. Then you catch yourself. No, you're not doing this. You’re being professional. Totally. You swipe past it, but not before watching it once more—just for, you know, "research purposes."

Wednesday practice, you’re on the floor with Sierra, trying to explain orbital mechanics while stretching out your legs. The routine’s familiar, your voice calm and focused, like you’re explaining a simple layup. "So basically, if you account for gravitational force and initial velocity—"

"Rocket," Sierra interrupts, "you've been checking your phone every thirty seconds."

You look at her, feigning confusion. "Have not," you protest, but your fingers are already reaching for your phone, like they’re on autopilot. You can’t help it. Paige posted a drill video this morning, just pure basketball content—nothing that special, just her hitting a perfect jumper, maybe some footwork drills, nothing groundbreaking. You dropped an eyes emoji in response. Professional admiration only. That's it. Nothing to see here.

"Right," Sierra raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "And I'm sure you've watched every other point guard's practice clips fifteen times too."

You give her a deadpan look. "I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, reaching for your foam roller and throwing it at her.

Thursday afternoon finds you in Advanced Fluid Dynamics, usually your favorite class. The equations and concepts feel like second nature to you, but today, your thoughts keep drifting elsewhere. You keep finding yourself thinking about basketball — about how certain players move like water, finding the path of least resistance, flowing through defenses with a grace you can’t help but admire.

You’re not sure if it’s the subject of the class or the strange pull you’re feeling, but your mind is elsewhere.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glance down discreetly. It's a notification from Instagram: Paige has liked your last three posts.

Including one from six months ago.

You blink. The screen feels like it’s glowing too brightly in your hand. You immediately glance around, making sure no one saw you checking, before quickly hiding your smile behind your textbook.

Because yeah, you definitely didn’t mean to feel this giddy. But here you are.

Friday night, you're in bed scrolling through film when you get the notification. Paige posted a new story: her at the gym, late night shooting session. Caption: “late-night grind. gotta stay sharp for what’s ahead. 😤"

Before you can overthink it, you reply: "living rent free in that head huh? 😌"

Three dots appear immediately. Your heart rate picks up.

just practicing for march 😘

You stare at that emoji for a solid minute. Professional rivals don't use kiss emojis. Right?

Saturday morning practice rolls around before you can even process what happened last night. Your mind’s still buzzing, trying to dissect the interaction with Paige, but you push it aside. Focus. You can think about that later.

As you’re stretching before drills, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. When Coach catches you grinning at it, she narrows her eyes.

"Whatever’s got you distracted better help us win games."

You quickly stuff your phone back in your bag, fighting to keep a neutral expression. "It’s just a text. No big deal."

"Sure, sure." Coach raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

You try to shake off the grin still tugging at your lips. Definitely not in the middle of a debate with Paige about whether Kobe or Jordan had the better footwork. No. Definitely not.

Sunday night in the library, you're supposedly working on your Thermodynamics problem set. But your eyes keep flicking back to UConn's schedule page, calculating when they’ll be back in the northeast. You try to focus, but you find your thoughts drifting back to Paige.

A message pops up: "Shouldn't you be solving rocket equations or something?"

You bite back a smile, tapping out your reply: “shouldn't you be working on your left hand? Saw that weak drive yesterday 😴"

A few seconds pass. The dots appear, then disappear. You try not to let your heart race.

Finally, the response comes: “wow. and here i was about to say your last IG fit was 🔥"

You stare at your screen, biting your lip. The banter is easy, but there's something else there—something electric. Your pulse thuds louder than usual as you hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys. It feels like there's more hanging between you than just jokes. Did she feel it too? You quickly swipe back to your notes, trying to shake the feeling

Something that makes your skin buzz.

Tuesday, 2AM. You can’t sleep. Again. But this time, it’s different. The nervous energy swirling in your stomach isn’t from the game. It’s... something else.

Your phone lights up with a message:

you up?

Your breath catches in your throat. Two words. That’s all it takes.

You hesitate for just a second, fingers poised over the screen, and finally reply: “depends who’s asking 👀”

A beat. Three dots.

just your future march matchup.

You feel a grin tug at your lips, even as you try to keep your response cool. 

bold of you to assume you’ll make it that far.

guess you’ll have to wait and see.

You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out. There’s something about these late-night exchanges that feels different.

You roll over, pulling your blanket tighter, trying to convince yourself it’s just another game, just another rival. But when your phone buzzes again, you’re already looking forward to her next message.

A month after the game, your phone buzzes again as you’re reviewing game film late at night. You glance at the time—1:47 AM. Too late to be analyzing, but you can't help it. The game keeps replaying in your head. Then another message appears:

you always study film this late?

You glance at the reflection of your laptop in the dark screen of your phone. It’s like she knows. You smirk, replying.

how'd you know i was watching film?

saw your laptop reflection in your glasses in that last story

Something warm settles in your chest. You didn't think anyone had noticed those details.

stalker much? 🤨

just scouting the competition 😌

You're about to reply when three dots appear again.

want company? i'm looking at our clemson tape

Your heart skips a beat. You weren't expecting this. You pause before responding, a nervous twinge running through you.  "facetime?"

Seconds later, the call comes through. You almost hesitate, but there’s something about it that pulls you in. You accept, suddenly hyper-aware that you're in your oversized Harvard hoodie, glasses perched on your nose, hair tossed into a messy bun.

When her face appears on the screen, you’re momentarily struck. She’s wearing a UConn sweatshirt, hair tied back, no makeup. She’s raw, real—like you’ve caught her in an unguarded moment, and for some reason, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"So," she starts, then seems to lose her train of thought. "Um. Basketball?"

You laugh, some of the tension breaking. “Uh-huh.”

"Listen," she grins, "I'm better at talking with a ball in my hands."

The conversation shifts easily into basketball, the two of you sharing screens and breaking down film together. She catches things you miss, and you point out nuances she hasn’t noticed. The back-and-forth flows—something about it feels natural. Like you’ve been doing this for years.

Hours pass without you even realizing it, and suddenly you’re talking about other things: favorite movies, worst recruiting stories, childhood dreams.

"Wait," she's saying through laughter, "you really wanted to be an astronaut AND a basketball player?"

"Still do," You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as something inside you aches with the lightness of the moment. "Who says I can't be the first WNBA player in space?"

Her expression goes soft for a moment. "You know what? If anyone could do it..."

There's something in her voice that makes your skin tingle. You clear your throat. "Anyway, uh, it's late."

"Yeah," she says quietly. "This was... this was nice."

"Yeah," you agree, not quite meeting her eyes through the screen. "Maybe we could do it again sometime y’know?”

"I'd like that."

Neither of you moves to hang up. The silence stretches, full of things unsaid.

Finally, she breaks it: “Well, goodnight, Rocket."

The nickname hits different in her voice at 4AM.

"Night, Paige."

You end the call, staring at your screen for a moment before you finally fall back onto your bed. The silence is deafening, but your mind is racing. You force yourself to calm down, to let your heart slow to a normal pace.

Then your phone buzzes again:

sweet dreams 🌙

You definitely don’t replay the entire call in your head. Definitely not.

And you certainly don’t dream about the way she looked when she laughed at your space joke.

Definitely not.

You’re sprawled on the couch in the apartment you share with Jasmine and Sierra, supposedly reading your Aerospace Engineering textbook. Actually, you're doing everything you can to avoid looking like you're grinning at your phone. The cursor keeps blinking in the reply box, like it’s daring you to type something stupid.

"earth surface temps are literally insane rn"

"why are you even awake?"

"says the girl who's also awake 🤨"

"homework doesn't count"

"nerd 🤓"

"bet you won't say that to my face"

"bet i will. next time i see you"

"when's that gonna be? 👀"

A part of you knows you should be focused on the problem set in front of you. But instead, your thoughts keep drifting back to the screen, to her messages. You bite your lip, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. There's something different about this—about her—that you can't quite put into words. Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast for it to just be casual.

"Oh my GOD," Jasmine’s voice startles you, making you jolt and nearly drop your phone. She's leaning over the back of the couch, eyes twinkling with that grin that’s a little too knowing for comfort. "You're texting Paige!"

"What? No, I'm—" you fumble your phone, nearly dropping it. "I'm doing homework."

"Mmhmm." Jasmine vaults over the couch to land beside you. "That's why you're making the same face I make when KK texts."

"I do not make a face."

"You literally look like this—" Jasmine demonstrates an exaggerated dreamy expression that makes you throw a pillow at her.

"I'm going to KK's this weekend," she says after dodging the pillow. Her voice is deliberately casual. "UConn has a home game Friday. You should come."

Your heart does a little flip. "I have that Physics midterm Monday..."

"Right, because you definitely weren't just texting about wanting to see her."

"I wasn't—" you start, but your phone buzzes again, Paige’s name lighting up the screen in a way that makes it impossible to ignore.

"Girl," Jasmine says, softer now. "It's okay, you know? To want something besides basketball."

You stare at your phone, fingers hovering again over the keys as those three dots show up. Paige is typing, and your chest tightens. Your heart’s racing now, too fast for this to just be some rivalry. You’ve never felt this way about an opponent before.

"It's complicated," you finally manage, your voice coming out quieter than you intended.

"When is it not?" Jasmine squeezes your shoulder as she gets up. "Think about it, okay? KK says the whole team's been asking about you anyway."

Later that night, Sierra finds you on the roof of your building. It’s your thinking spot—the place where you go to clear your head when the world feels too loud or when the equations refuse to make sense. Tonight, though, the equations have nothing to do with physics.

"Spill," Sierra says, sliding down to sit beside you.

"What?"

"You've been different lately. Good different, but different." She bumps your shoulder. "And I saw you smile at your phone six times during practice today."

You let out a long breath. The city lights blur below you, and somehow it feels easier to talk without making eye contact.

"I think... I think I like her," you say finally. The words feel huge in the quiet night air. "Paige, I mean."

"No shit," Sierra laughs softly. "I figured that out when you watched her coffee story four times."

You blink, feeling caught. "You saw that?"

"Girl, everyone saw that." She pauses. "The question is, what are you gonna do about it?"

You lean back against the roof, your gaze on the stars that are barely visible through the light pollution of the city. "I don’t know. It’s complicated," you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "We’re rivals, and we’ll probably face each other in March. If the media got wind of us, it’d be a circus. Not to mention—" You cut yourself off, because it sounds even worse when you say it out loud.

"Okay, forget all that for a second." Sierra interrupts, her voice quieter now. She turns to face you, her eyes soft. "How does she make you feel?"

Your breath catches in your chest. How does Paige make you feel? You think about those late-night video calls that always start with film study but end with laughing over something stupid. About how she remembers little details about your life—like your favorite late-night snack, your favorite places on campus, or how you sometimes still get nervous before big games.

"Like I can be both," you say finally, the words tumbling out before you even realize their weight. "Like I can be The Prophecy, but also just... me."

Sierra's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you've spent three years being perfect. Maybe it's time to be happy instead."

You stare at the stars, trying to find your footing in this new reality that feels both foreign and exciting. "I don’t know if I’m ready for that."

Sierra nudges you, her tone playful again. "Then at least try. You deserve it."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and for a moment, you forget about everything else. You pull it out, heart skipping when you see the name on the screen: Paige. The message.

 miss watching film with you

Sierra leans over to peek at the text, a grin spreading across her face. "Smooth," she says, barely suppressing a laugh.

"Shut up," you laugh.

"Is that why Jasmine invited you to Connecticut this weekend?" Sierra asks, an eyebrow raised.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "She told you?"

"Girl, I’m not blind," Sierra says, standing up. "Please. She’s been planning this whole setup for days. And you know what? You should go."

You look up, your gaze meeting hers. "I don’t know. The physics exam is coming up, and—"

"Physics will still be there when you get back," she interrupts, her voice light but serious. "But this? This might not be here forever."

You chew on that for a moment, the weight of it settling in.

"She’s waiting for you to say something," Sierra says quietly, her gaze flicking between you and the screen.

You hesitate, then smile softly to yourself. This is your chance.

You type back: "guess you'll have to come study in person sometime."

Sierra gives you a teasing look. "Oh, it’s on now."

Your phone buzzes again, and this time, Paige’s response comes quickly: "is that an invitation?"

Your fingers hover over the keys for a moment, and then, with a deep breath, you reply: "maybe. you gonna show me around campus?"

The message comes back almost immediately: "only the important spots. like where i practice my weak left hand drives 😏"

You can’t help it. You burst into laughter, your heart light and carefree for the first time in what feels like forever. Sierra shakes her head, smiling fondly at you.

"You’re totally down bad, huh?"

"Shut up," you laugh, feeling the warmth of it rush through you. But even as you tease her, you feel it too—this rush of excitement, the anticipation of something new, something that could change everything.

Sierra heads for the roof door, pausing just before she goes inside. "Hey Rocket?"

"Yeah?"

"Just... be careful, okay? Not because of basketball or rankings or any of that stuff. Just... because your heart's on the line too."

You nod, your chest tight as the weight of her words settles in. "I will."

She gives you one last look before disappearing inside, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your phone, and the lighthearted texts you’ve been sending all night.

Another buzz from Paige lights up your phone: "but seriously. come this weekend? i want to see you."

Her response makes your whole body warm: "can't wait 💫"

You stay on the roof a while longer, letting the night air cool your flushed cheeks. March feels both too far away and too close, but right now, in this moment, you let yourself focus on a different kind of countdown:

Three days until Connecticut.

The minute you step onto UConn's campus, you remember why being The Prophecy is complicated.

"Oh my god," you hear someone whisper. "Is that—"

"Holy shit, that's really her—"

"The Prophecy is here—"

You pull your hoodie up, hoping for some anonymity, but it’s futile. Jasmine’s already ditched you to find KK, leaving you standing in the middle of the chaos, awkwardly clutching your duffel bag. You check your phone, hoping for a distraction, when you see a text from Paige.

how’s campus so far? are you surviving the hype? 😂

You type back quickly, trying to act casual.

surviving. But UConn is like a zoo. 🙄

Before you can put the phone down, a text buzzes again.

i’m in the quad, come meet me? i’ve got your escape route ready 🏃‍♀️

You smile at her message, your nerves a little lighter now, but that doesn't make the reality of the situation any less surreal.

"Should I just text her when I get there?" you mutter to yourself, typing out a quick reply:

on my way. see you soon.

The crowd's whispers grow louder, and as you move through the sea of students, your phone buzzes again, this time with a message that makes your heart skip a beat.

turn around

You turn, and there's Paige, looking unfairly good in joggers and a UConn hoodie. For a second, you both just stare at each other, all those late-night texts and video calls suddenly feeling very different in person.

"Hi," you manage, hyper-aware of the growing crowd pretending not to watch. "Um. Nice campus."

"Thanks, I—" she starts, just as you say, "Should we—"

You both stop. Laugh nervously. God, where did all your game go?

"Yo, Paige!" some guy calls out. "Is that The Prophecy? Can we get a picture?"

Before either of you can respond, the crowd swarms in like a tidal wave. Students materialize from every direction, phones out, voices overlapping, and it’s all happening too fast. You’re caught in the whirlwind of questions and flashes.

"Can you sign my jersey?"

"Is it true you haven't missed a shot since high school?"

"Are you really majoring in rocket science?"

"Can you do the space shot right now?"

It’s nothing new. You've done this a thousand times, but today, it feels different. You're hyper-aware of Paige standing there, watching, her gaze unreadable. Her eyes flick from the crowd to you, amusement playing at the corners of her lips, but there’s something else there too.

You keep your composure—signing autographs, taking selfies, answering questions—but it’s harder when she’s so close. You try not to look over at her too much, but you catch her looking at you once. And her smile? It makes the whole world feel lighter, even in the chaos.

Then someone from the crowd asks, ���Yo, did you come to see Paige?”

You freeze. All eyes are suddenly on you, the crowd waiting for your response.

“Just checking out the competition,” you say smoothly, though your heart skips a beat. But then you catch the subtle curve of Paige’s lips as she tries to hide her smile.

“She's already kicked our ass once,” Paige adds, her voice playful. “Maybe I’m trying to learn her secrets.”

The crowd laughs, and the tension in the air eases. You finally manage to break free from the swarm, and Paige leads you out of the madness, pulling you toward a quieter part of campus. She glances over at you as if to gauge how you’re holding up, and then says, “Sorry about that. I probably should’ve warned you… You’re kind of a big deal here.”

“Here?” You raise an eyebrow. “Not just at Harvard?”

She rolls her eyes with that charming little smirk of hers. “Please, you know what I mean.”

She bumps your shoulder lightly, and for a second, you’re both frozen in that little moment, and then—quickly—she steps away, as though surprised by the contact. She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly before continuing, “The perfect record? The space shot? Your major? You’re like basketball mythology at this point.”

The words settle over you, like a weight that makes you stand a little straighter. It's odd, but you can't deny the truth in what she’s saying. You pass a group of girls, and they absolutely squeal when they spot you. One of them is wearing a t-shirt with your number and "The Prophecy" written on the back, and it's like you’ve stepped into some weird alternate reality.

"That's..." you start.

"Weird?" Paige offers.

"I was gonna say flattering, but yeah, weird works too."

She chuckles, a little breathless, as you continue walking. You can’t help but notice how she looks at you—like she’s caught between admiration and something else.

By the time you reach the athletics center, the crowd starts to thin, but there's still a palpable buzz in the air. Students part for you like you're some kind of celebrity, whispering as they pass.

"—never misses, like ever—"

"—turned down every WNBA scout—"

"—heard she's already got a NASA job lined up—"

"—next GOAT for sure—"

You can’t hear it all, but enough of it sticks to your skin. You make eye contact with a few of the UConn players as you pass, and they do double-takes. The whispers don’t stop. The world still hasn't figured out how to react to you, and you’re still trying to wrap your head around it yourself.

When you get inside the locker room, you spot KK, draped over Jasmine on a bench. She sits up as soon as she sees you, and a wide grin spreads across her face.

“The Prophecy graces us with her presence!” KK announces, her voice carrying through the room.

You and Paige both turn to each other, saying “Shut up” at the same time. You exchange a glance, and immediately, you both look away, your cheeks heating up.

“Oh my god,” KK stage-whispers to Jasmine, her voice dripping with mischief. “They’re actually awkward. This is adorable.”

“I will literally murder you,” Paige threatens, but her face is flushed, the playful tone in her voice not matching her serious words.

You drop your bag, trying to act casual despite your racing heart. "So, this is where the magic happens?"

"Something like that," Paige responds, her voice quieter now. Then, her tone shifts, just a little, as she adds, “Want to see where I practice those trash left-hand drives?”

Her smile is nervous but hopeful, and something in your chest flutters in response. You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes meeting hers.

"Lead the way, Bueckers."

The gym is quiet, empty this late—just the two of you and the space stretching out around you like a vast, hollow echo. The squeak of your sneakers against the court floor seems louder than usual, and the rhythm of the ball bouncing between you is a steady heartbeat in the silence.

You grab a ball, the motion automatic, instinctual. Some habits don’t break just because your heart’s doing backflips.

"So..." you start, dribbling slow, almost hesitant. Your palms feel too hot on the ball, like everything about this moment is too much, too close, but you can’t pull away.

"So..." she echoes, her voice low, mirroring your movements with a fluid ease that makes your pulse pick up a little faster.

"This is..." you trail off, looking for the right word. Something that fits the electric tension hanging in the air. 

"Weird?"

She raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. "I was gonna say nice," you add, voice a little softer, but still trying to brush it off, to keep control. "But yeah, weird too."

She laughs—just a soft sound, but it breaks something between you. You feel your shoulders loosen, and the tightness in your chest starts to ease. "Want to play? Or are you scared I'll ruin your perfect record?" Her words are light, playful, but there’s an edge of something else there. Something beneath the surface.

"Please," you scoff, but the words come out softer than you expected, a little breathless. "You couldn’t guard me with a restraining order."

Her smile widens, but her eyes stay locked on yours, sharp, like she can see right through you. "Big talk from someone who's been stalking my coffee stories."

You nearly drop the ball at that. "I— that’s not—" You choke on your words, heat rushing to your cheeks, the sudden shift in conversation throwing you off-balance.

"Four views," she grins. "I counted."

"Professional research," you manage, trying to ignore how your face is burning.

"Right." She steps closer, her body moving fluidly, effortlessly, still dribbling the ball with that same steady rhythm. "And all those late-night texts?"

"Scouting reports," you shoot back, but your voice cracks, betraying the lie.

"The two-hour video calls?"

"Film study," you mutter, voice barely a whisper.

"And coming to Connecticut?" Her tone shifts—lighter, but with a question in it now. A challenge in her eyes, daring you to say something.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your chest. "Would you believe advanced aerospace research?"

She's too close now. You can smell the faint scent of her perfume, feel the heat radiating off her as she steps forward just enough to close the space between you. The ball’s still bouncing, the rhythm matching your heartbeats, and you can hear the beat of her pulse too—steady.

"Try again." Her voice is soft, but the challenge in it is unmistakable.

You take a breath, the air thick with something unspoken. "Maybe... I just wanted to see you."

The ball stops bouncing. It’s almost like everything around you freezes for a second. The echo of the gym fades out, and all you can hear is the steady thrum of your heartbeat, racing now, too fast, too loud.

Her eyes search yours, the gold flecks in them catching the light, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. She doesn’t move. You don’t either. There’s a moment between you, raw and exposed, like you’re both just standing there, waiting for something to happen.

Then, her phone buzzes, breaking the stillness—KK, asking where you both disappeared to. The moment shatters, and you both step back, like you’ve both just been jolted awake.

"We should..." she starts.

"Yeah," you agree quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Team dinner, right?"

"Right." The word comes out like a sigh, a soft release, but neither of you move for a beat.

You both head back toward the locker room, but it feels like the distance between you has doubled, despite being only a few feet apart. You’re careful to maintain some space, but the air around you still crackles with the memory of the moment.

Just before you reach the door, you feel the lightest touch on your wrist. It’s a shock to the system, warm and soft, and you freeze.

"Hey."

You turn to face her, heart still thundering in your chest, your breath caught in your throat.

"I'm glad you came," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air between you, heavier than anything she’s said so far.

You open your mouth, but no words come out, your mind a blur, trying to make sense of the shift in the air between you. Before you can speak, though, she’s through the door, vanishing into the locker room, leaving you standing there, breathless.

You stand there for a moment, your heart still racing, trying to collect yourself. The touch of her fingers on your wrist is still warm on your skin, like an electric spark that lingers long after the contact ends. You can still feel the weight of her gaze on you, the way she looked at you just before she left—open, vulnerable, and for a second, everything in you just... paused.

You’re so fucking screwed.

Inside, KK takes one look at your face and starts laughing immediately. "Oh yeah," she says to Jasmine, her voice full of knowing. "March is gonna be interesting."

You throw a towel at her, but you can't help smiling. Because yeah, March is going to be complicated. But right now, watching Paige try not to look at you while she gets ready for dinner, you can't bring yourself to care.

Some things are worth the complication.

The team’s already piled into the upscale Italian place, the kind of restaurant where the hostess gives your group a double-take, eyes wide as she tries to figure out if you’re all really who she thinks you are. Emma starts giggling beside you, and you can’t help but let a laugh slip too. The entire UConn starting five, plus you, Jasmine, and a couple of bench players, fill up the space like a small parade. The table’s enormous, but somehow, fate—or possibly KK—decides that you should sit next to Paige. You know it's not her doing, but the thought of it makes your stomach do flips. Definitely not subtle.

Your knees brush under the table, and you both jerk away so fast it feels like a live wire just zapped both of you. It’s... a weird moment, but it’s over quickly.

"So," Caroline leans in, practically smirking with that devious look of hers. "We finally get to hear how The Prophecy got her name."

"Oh god," you groan, sinking back in your seat, hoping to disappear into the padded booth. But Paige perks up next to you, eyes lighting with interest.

"Wait," she says, "I don’t know this story."

You shoot Emma a glare, but she’s already opening her mouth, ready to spill the beans.

"Nobody tells it," you warn, but Emma's already launching in.

"Freshman year," Emma begins, her voice a little too loud in the suddenly quiet room, "first practice. Coach put her through this insane shooting drill—"

"It wasn't insane," you protest.

"Hundred shots from five spots," Emma continues, undeterred. "Most freshmen hit, like, sixty percent if they’re lucky. She goes perfect. Coach thinks it’s a fluke, makes her do it again. Perfect again."

You can feel Paige’s eyes on you, her attention sharp and focused. You don’t know how to feel about it, but you try not to squirm under her gaze.

"Third time," Emma's building to it now, "Coach says 'What are you, some kind of prophecy?' And right as she says it, this girl—" she points at you, "—sinks a half-court shot backward without looking."

"I was stretching!" you defend, but the table's already losing it.

"The name stuck," Caroline finishes. "Even before the no-miss streak."

"Speaking of," Tessa jumps in, her voice suddenly a lot more serious, "how do you actually do that? The never-missing thing?"

The entire table quiets down, all eyes suddenly fixed on you. Even the waitress, hovering nearby, pretends not to listen, but you catch her glancing over every few seconds.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of everyone’s attention on you, but the pressure isn’t all bad. You glance over at Paige—she’s still watching you, her expression unreadable, but there’s something in her eyes that makes it hard to focus. She shifts slightly closer, and it makes your heart race.

"I just..." You pause, unsure of how to explain the weird, inexplicable thing that happens when you’re on the court. "I guess I see it differently. Like, you know how some people have perfect pitch in music? They hear things that other people can’t even pick up on?"

Nods around the table.

"I see angles that way," you continue, trying to sound more confident, but you’re still not used to talking about it. "Trajectories, force vectors... like physics and the feel of it—they just... merge in my head, I guess?"

Jasmine, who’s been watching you this whole time, cuts in with a smirk. "She’s being modest. Yesterday, I watched her solve a quantum mechanics problem while sinking thirty straight threes."

You roll your eyes. "Multitasking," you mumble, but Paige’s knee brushes against yours again. This time, neither of you pulls away, and your concentration goes from laser focus to absolute mush. You feel heat rising in your chest, but you try to keep your voice steady.

The conversation shifts, but you’re barely listening anymore. Every little movement from Paige, every time her hand brushes your arm as she reaches for her water, every time she leans in a little closer to hear you speak—your mind is barely keeping up. Her perfume is subtle but intoxicating, making it impossible to think straight.

"Y'all should see her in class," Jasmine's saying. "Professors literally use her as an example in physics."

"One time!"

"Three times," Jasmine corrects. "Remember when Dr. Peterson used your jump shot to explain projectile motion?"

KK, who’s been silently watching you both like this is her personal reality TV show, grins. "No wonder half the team has a crush on you."

You nearly choke on your water. Paige freezes next to you, and you can feel the shift in the air.

"I mean," Caroline chimes in, clearly trying to smooth over the tension, but only making it worse, "who wouldn’t? Best player in the country, genius-level IQ, and look at her—"

"Okay!" Paige cuts her off, a bit too loudly. "Who wants dessert?"

The change in pace is enough to shake everyone out of the sudden tension. But as dessert menus are passed around and people start laughing again, your mind is still racing.

Later, as the group walks back toward campus, you notice how easily the team starts to scatter. KK and Jasmine vanish into the distance almost immediately, making some excuse about practice. The rest of the team drifts off to their own plans—study groups, dorms, whatever—but you and Paige end up walking together, side by side in the cool night air, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.

"So," Paige says, her voice soft but a little uncertain, "the hotel’s that way."

You glance at her. "Yeah."

Neither of you turns toward it.

"I have, um," she starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "I have a single. In my dorm. If you wanted to watch a movie or something."

Your heart goes into overdrive, doing flips and twists like it might just leap out of your chest. The words feel stuck in your throat, but your mind is running wild.

"Or something?"

Even in the dim streetlight, you can see her blush. "I didn't mean— I just thought—"

"I'd like that," you cut off her rambling, and the smile she gives you makes your knees weak.

Her room is exactly what you'd expect - basketball posters, team photos, neat desk with game notes spread out. What you don't expect is how intimate it feels, being in this space that's so completely hers.

"Make yourself comfortable," she gestures to her bed, then immediately looks panicked. "I mean, you can sit— I'll take the chair—"

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

She laughs, some tension breaking. You sit on her bed, back against the wall, and after a moment she joins you, careful to leave space between you.

"So," you say.

"So," she echoes.

"Half the team has a crush on me, huh?"

She groans, covering her face. "KK has the biggest mouth—"

"Just half though?" You're pushing it, you know you are, but something about the way she's blushing makes you brave.

She lowers her hands, looks at you directly for the first time since dinner. "You know exactly how many people have a crush on you."

"Do I?"

Her eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second. "You must."

The air feels thick, charged. Your hand is on the comforter between you, and slowly, so slowly, her pinky finger hooks over yours.

Just that small point of contact sets your whole body on fire.

"Paige?"

"Hmm?"

"I didn't come to Connecticut for film study."

She turns her hand, letting her fingers intertwine with yours properly. Your breath hitches.

"I know," she says softly.

You sit there for what feels like hours, neither moving except for her thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles. The touch is so light, so careful, but it feels like the most intense thing you've ever experienced.

"I should..." you start reluctantly.

"Stay," she says quickly, then blushes harder. "I mean, it's late, and the hotel's far, and—"

"Okay."

She blinks. "Okay?"

You squeeze her hand gently. "Okay."

Later, lying in her bed (she insisted, taking the floor despite your protests), you stare at the ceiling in the dark. Your hand still tingles where she touched it.

"Rocket?" her voice comes softly from below.

"Yeah?"

A pause. Then: "I'm really glad you're here."

You close your eyes, smiling into the darkness. "Me too."

Neither of you mentions March. Neither of you talks about rankings or rivalries or what any of this means. For now, there's just this: her steady breathing in the quiet room, the lingering warmth of her touch, and the feeling that something huge is beginning.

Just before you drift off, you hear her whisper something that might be "perfect." But you're already falling asleep, wrapped in her blankets that smell like her, dreaming of basketball and physics and the way her hand felt in yours.

Some equations, you think hazily, don't need solving.

Continue to part two.

[chrattvibe]

you can make it up but can you do smt like chris being really pda with the reader and like matt and nick make fun of him but the reader loves it

៹ Seen. chris sturniolo.

The pins fall with a clean, solid crash.

“STRIKE!” Chris shouts, in his head. On the outside, he stays cool, just turning around. When he notices my phone recording him, he does a silly celebration dance. Then he searches for my eyes once he sees I stopped filming.

"Did you get that? Did I look cool?"

He walks over with that proud grin and his arms already wide open, expecting a hug. I don’t even get a chance to stand — he drops right next to me on the seat, wraps me in his arms, and hides his face in my neck. I run my hand down his back and feel a soft kiss on my skin.

Just a few feet away, Nick rolls his eyes from his seat.

"You guys are actually disgusting." he mutters, right before it’s his turn. Without waiting for a reply, he heads off to grab his ball.

"Don’t say that!" Chris says, now properly settling next to me, slipping an arm around my waist.

"He’s joking, relax," I say when I notice his frown. I rest my hand on his chest, smiling. His face softens and he adjusts his hat, brushing his hair back.

Chris doesn’t even flinch at his brother’s comment. He pulls me in with that cozy warmth he only gives off when he’s comfortable. He fixes a strand of my hair and caresses my cheek. He looks so comfy, like we’re sitting in his living room, not in the middle of a bowling alley under blue lights and surrounded by people.

"Careful, anyone here could take a picture of you," I say, gently holding his wrist. "Chris Sturniolo spotted flirting with a mystery girl at downtown LA bowling alley..." I read aloud in the voice of a random gossip account.

"Couldn’t care less right now," he says with a lazy smile, pressing a soft kiss to my lips.

"I just don’t wanna cause you drama or headlines. I know what the Chris girls might say," I add, teasing.

He looks at me, suddenly serious.

"Then let 'em know. Let 'em all find out. You're good for me and that's all that matters."

His words catch me off guard. I smile — it’s the only thing I can do. I gently cup his face.

"Did you spike your Pepsi and not tell me?"

"I’m just drunk in love with you," he says, immediately back to being goofy. I roll my eyes, and he flashes a long, sweet smile before giving me a slow kiss and lacing his fingers with mine.

Matt walks past us with a slice of pizza in one hand and a lemonade in the other. He hears the tail end of it and raised his eyebrows.

"Wow. Did I miss something? Chris became boyfriend of the year while I was grabbing food?" he says, sitting across from us.

"First of all, I’ve always been boyfriend of the year. And second, you didn’t miss anything important. Just made the best shot of the night." Chris says with a shrug.

"Cocky." Matt mutters with a mouthful of pizza. My name flashes on the screen, signaling it’s my turn.

Chris gives me a wink, a little squeeze on my thigh, and I head off to the lane.

While I’m lining up my shot, the boys keep chatting behind me.

"Are you two celebrating an anniversary or something and we’re just the third wheels now?" Nick says, dropping down next to Chris.

"What are you talkin' about?" Chris chuckles, sipping his soda.

"We’ve seriously lost you, kid." Matt says, cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms.

"I’m just happy, dude. I’ve never felt like this before..." Chris says quietly, like he’s confessing something they all already know.

"We’re happy for you. It’s weird seeing you like this, in public. Makes me wanna throw up, but it’s kinda funny." Nick says, earning a light punch in the arm from Matt.

"We’re just messing around, okay? But keep those corny Instagram stories in close friends for now. The world’s not ready for two cuties like you guys." Matt teases with a grin, getting up to take his turn. "But seriously, we’re happy for you. Both of you." He claps Chris on the shoulder and heads off.

Matt gives me a half-smile as we cross paths, and I head back to Chris. I stay standing next to him, and one of his arms wraps around my thighs from where he’s seated, resting his head on my stomach. I run my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

And this time, I don’t care if anyone sees us or recognizes him. Because I like seeing him like this too — almost wanting to be seen.

Masterlist!

Notes: thanks to the person who made this request! I hope you find this post and like it <3 let me know!

—chrattvibe.

[starkeyisthelastname]

OHHH ANOTHER THOUGHT!!!!!!!

idk how the porn community works HALSJKS but if its a thing to like ….. ship them ig??? … how would rafe react to r’s video with another dude being posted on twitter (maybe the first vid she’s made since her vid with rafe) and everyone’s in the comments being like “omg yas this is so hot!!!” “omg this is so much better than her and rafe!!” BALJEKS IDK

the first time someone’s talked negatively about him and it’s actually effected him 😅 he doesn’t like this ego being bruised

It was rare that Rafe checked social media, he just didn’t care about what people thought. He was pornstar and was used to being judged for his career choice and especially for the brutal way he fucked his costars. It was the Twitter notification he got though, with his name and your name tagged along with someone else’s who he didn’t know that caught his attention.

He opened the video, his blue eyes darkening as soon as he saw what it was. It was some nobody with a dick half the size of his, trying to make you cum. He could tell by the moans you were giving that it was all an act, and it ignited something in him he didn’t like. Watching another man fuck you, even if it was your job wasn’t something he particularly was a fan of. He had always loved pussy and money, and never once thought of ever quitting his rather successful porn career for anyone, until you started occupying his mind all day every day. He just couldn’t bring himself to end it yet, his addiction to sex and money way too deep.

As he went to exit out the app, a comment caught his eye. “Wow. She’s a pro at taking dick.” He scoffed as he read it out loud. What dick were you takin? That clown was the size of a pinky compared to him. It was the next one down that had his head raging in a way he had never experienced. ‘Her and @therafecameron video was weak compared to this. 🤣’ He seethed, these stupid idiots comments getting to him and bruising his extremely high ego. His knee bounced rapidly, thumb at the edge of his mouth as his mind raced wildly.

It was the phone, turned into landscape mode as Rafe’s long arm aimed it down to let it capture you taking dick. His free hand was wrapped in your hair, yanking your head back as he drilled into you at a brutal speed. The makeup you had on was smeared, tears streaming down your sparkly cheeks as he had some point to prove. He didn’t exactly say what, but it was a chance to get fucked by the man you were becoming obsessed with.

“Who’s fucking dick are you takin?” Rafe asked, his voice dripping venom as he yanked your head to make you look at him. His blue eyes, peered down at you in a predatory manner as he forced you to give him an answer.

The answer you gave was incoherent, your words coming out in babbles as an insane amount of pleasure was taking over your body. Your eyes rolled back, his huge dick tearing you apart as he wrapped his fist around your hair even harder. The phone that was recording the raw homemade scene was now shoved in your face, his hand on your head forcing you to look at the lens.

You were still so pretty, completely cock drunk off his monstrous ways as you were being his good personal whore. He leaned down, mustache brushing over your ear as he looked at the camera. It was quite a sexy sight to see his wild hair and striking blue iris’s making eye contact with the phone. “Tell them who’s dick your fuckin takin.” He spoke lowly, eyes watching your face through the screen. “Don’t make me repeat myself, I swear you’ll fucking regret it.” He gritted out, toned hips slapping against yours.

You cried out, his hand removing itself from your head to force your chin to look at the camera. You had no choice but to let out a loud whine, screaming the man’s name that you just wanted as yours. “Rafe Cameron! I’m t-takin Rafe Cameron’s dick!” Your voice cracking as you clamped down onto his cock.

As soon as heard that, a smirk came to his face and his nuts tightened. He tilted your chin towards him, sloppily kissing you with his tongue as the camera caught something Rafe never did with anyone. If the kissing wasn’t enough to make people a little shocked, it was that he posted it to his Twitter account, caption reading ‘The only dick that can get her screaming 😱 remember the fucking name bitches.’

[4unnyr0se]

❥ being satoru gojo's sugar baby

warnings: rich asf gojo, reader is a bitch in the first part, fem! reader, lingerie, riding, cunnilingus, doggystyle, breeding, mentions of pregnancy, gojo hates stupid people, not proofread, reader gets so spoiled, spanking, asphyxiation

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 1.6k

Being Satoru fucking Gojo wasn’t easy. Being handsome, rich, and popular with the ladies? Talk about a workout. He had so much money he didn’t know what to do with it all. It’s only the result of being fucking brilliant at business practices, always knowing when to strike a perfect deal. And that bore the fruit of luxury cars, Italian jackets, and beautiful women aplenty. Gojo liked fucking the pretty girls he met in the clubs, sure. They were good for a decent cock-sucking, their expensive lipstick always forming a nice little ring around his dick. Poor things, it was probably the only nice lipstick they owned. Gojo felt bad for them in a way, they would never know what it was like to be spoiled by a man such as himself. They were so fucking fake, expecting to be spoiled just for having a decent pussy to fuck. Don’t get him wrong, Gojo liked fucking the college girls he met in the clubs, but he wanted something that was real. He wanted a good girl to spend his infinite cashflow on, not a whore who didn’t know what a fucking tax bracket was. 

He met you at his usual club, not recognizing your face from behind the bar. Hm, you must have been new there, Gojo would never ignore a pretty face like that, even though you were so grumpy looking. Did you hate your job like he hated bimbos? Gojo wasted no time in sitting himself down in your section of the bar counter, ordering a shot of the most expensive vodka the club offered. You called him an asshole and Gojo could have proposed right then and there. 

Gojo attended the club every night, sitting at the exact same spot and ordering a different, expensive drink each time. He noticed how you softly smiled when he told the local club bimbos to piss off, no doubt enjoying him shooing away drunken, stupid girls. Eventually you finally caved and gave him your number, resulting in him giving you a kiss on the back of your hand like a prince would.

Every day he would call you, text you, ask about your day. Did anyone give you trouble at the club? If it was a shitty coworker of yours, Gojo would have them fired. It didn’t matter if he didn’t own the club, he was half of the club’s monthly revenue. Gojo could do whatever the hell he wanted, he was practically paying everyone's salaries. His texts brightened your day, along with his visits to the club when you worked long evening shifts. He had stopped ordering drinks altogether, just slipping you a healthy $300 every hour or two. You had refused at first, but Gojo had this really annoying habit of being able to convince anyone of anything. It got to a point where you just held out your hand for the money at the start of every hour, which made his cock throb with desire. You were growing accustom to being spoiled and he fucking loved that. You were spoiled without being stupid, that was so fucking sexy to him.

One night, after a very annoying shift, you invited him to visit your crappy apartment downtown. Gojo jumped at the opportunity and practically threw you into his Bently, no doubt breaking a couple of traffic laws to make it to your place in record time. It was so humbling, your apartment. There were cracks in the fall and the faucet had the most annoying drip, this would absolutely not do. You deserved to live in a fucking castle in the sky, not in this shithole.

Gojo bought you a townhouse a stone's throw away from his penthouse. You protested and groaned at him not to, claiming you weren’t worth it. Gojo quickly shut you up with a passionate and longing kiss, whispering against your plush lips that he would buy you the moon and the stars. After that, you really couldn’t complain. Everything was paid off for the fifty-year lease that Gojo had signed; he was so disgustingly rich. Why did you have to go back to working at that sleazy club? Oh, right, you had to afford to eat and shop. Don’t worry; Gojo gave you a ridiculously large sum of money every week to buy whatever the hell you wanted, sending you more money if you run out. You only spend a couple of hundred dollars a week on groceries, but then there was this stunning vintage Dior dress in a shop window, and you simply had to have it. You sent Gojo a picture that displayed the price tag, and he swore he came in his pants. Fuck, you looked amazing wearing designer dresses. And you were modeling for him; he wanted to marry you so badly.

You bought lingerie one time, lacy and black, and so fucking expensive. Garters and stockings and the works, a gorgeous French design. Gojo just about lost his mind when he saw that photo you sent, driving over to your townhouse as soon as he had an opening. He tackled you in a passionate and longing kiss, ripping off the lingerie with his hands. Whatever, he’d buy you another set. No, twenty more sets.

His lips trailed across your body, leaving searing, hot kisses in their wake. You were covered in Gojo’s bites and bruises, looking like an ancient Greek sculpture. Gojo fucked you right on the floor of your living room, not bothering to carry you up the flight of stairs to your bed. You just looked so good in the lingerie you purchased with his money. His money, his lingerie, his sugar baby. Your sobbing pussy was squeezing his massive fucking cock, sucking him into you like a vortex. Your manicured fingernails left angry crescent-shaped prints on his back, his Italian jacket, and other expensive clothes long forgotten about in a pile next to the door. His cock slammed into you over and over again, the tip of his dick kissing your cervix until you were screaming his name, swearing you were gonna cum all over his cock. Gojo fucking loved hearing your moans; they sounded so expensive when his ringed fingers were wrapped around your throat, squeezing it ever so gently. He moaned into your ear as your orgasm washed over you once more, the third one in the hour. He still wasn’t finished, oh no. He had you folded into a mating press, begging and whining to be cummed in by one of the wealthiest men in the world. And who was he to deny his princess? Gojo shot himself deep inside of you, painting your womb with his seed. It looked so pretty seeping out of who; he just had to take a picture. You wouldn’t mind, right? He’d just give you another five grand for a few more dresses. 

Oh, even his aftercare was expensive. Running you a bath infused with freshly-pressed lavender and rose oil, soaking into your skin beautifully. Your fucked-out face was flush from the steam in the bathroom, making your already perfect skin so smooth. Gojo never wanted to stop touching you, not for a moment. He wrapped you in your Egyptian cotton sheets and held you tightly in his arms, thanking you for being his baby. As he whispered sweet nothings in your ear, his precious baby’s ear, you drifted off.

After that perfect night, Gojo basically lived in your luxury townhouse. He would be there when you opened your eyes and when you closed them. There to take you out on romantic restaurant dates and feed you the highest quality sushi there was. He was there to buy half the fucking boutique if you wanted him to. Those dresses were too pretty for anyone else to wear besides you. You no longer protested when he bought you stuff, only kissing his chest while humming a thank you in his ear. The expensive lipstick you wore stained his cheek, not that he minded one bit.

Apart from the expensive gifts, dates, and other such things, Gojo loved fucking you. You modeled every single set of lingerie he wanted you to, especially black and blue sets. He loved your little fashion shows, the way you would always sit on his lap and grind down on his thigh, your arousal soaking the delicate fabrics. His hand would slap your ass, commanding you cum on his thigh and ruin your panties. He’d fuck you face down ass up with an expensive vibrator on your puffy clit, smirking sadistically as you sobbed that it was too much, you couldn’t take it. He’d make you ride him in his home office, making sure his video camera was always off during meetings so no one except for him could see that pretty ass bouncing up and down on his cock, milking it for all it was worth. He’d demand you sit on his face, not letting you off until he had his fill, your cum covering his mouth and face. Gojo would command you to lick it off him, hands squeezing your waist, and was adorned with a leather garter belt.

God, he wanted to breed you. He never wanted to use protection, which you objected to at first. But he whined and pleaded, claiming it would only be once. Well, once turned into always. He always came inside of you multiple times a day. He wouldn’t stop until he was sure that he had fucked his cum inside of your pussy, sticking a finger inside just to make sure it was still there. He would babble on about how you two would have the most perfect wedding and have such cute babies, how he would take care of you. You would be so pretty, all swollen with his child. 

Satoru Gojo took care of you from the moment the two of you met, your companionship being the most valuable asset he had. To him, you were the most precious thing, and he would take care of you until the day that he died.

[theveryworstthing]

time to learn a little bit about the Yells. i've been writing a few lore posts for a while and instead of continuing to let they grow and fretting over them, i think i'm just going to throw a few out there and try to finish up the rest this week.

The Yells

Despite their imposing size, strange behaviors, and mysterious keepers, the Signallusc (or The Yells as most rabbits call them) are considered just another part of the island landscape. These towering faux trees serve as the island version of radio towers, and make all radio communication above and below ground possible.

Though the 2 largest of the naturally formed Yells are still upright and active (and heavily protected so that their natural life cycle can be properly studied), these days rabbits prefer to cultivate the towers so that they don’t grow in problematic areas or do…other things.

Wild or free growth Yells make their homes in dead rotting wood as natural decomposers, and many live out their lives as simple slime molds (or as simple as any slime mold can be). Certain conditions must be met to trigger the drastic color change and vertical growth that make them viable for communication use, and so wild Yells are usually found growing in small clusters in or around the resources they need to sustain their new forms. Dead trees or stumps with roots still in the ground are prime hosts for these slime molds and they’re actually seen as beneficial since they stabilize potentially dangerous dead trees and kill diseases or especially destructive insects that might harm surrounding living trees. Once inside these dead trees the slime mold eats them from the inside out, taking the branches first, and then devouring the mass from the top down.

Compared to other slime molds they can handle direct sunlight quite well, but wild yells still tend to favor hosts in shady areas and from the way these trees are devoured they seem to try and keep some sort of shell around them for as long as possible. This wooden shell not only serves as food, but also gives the growing Yell a moist, dark, home until its outer membrane is thick and strong enough to handle being constantly exposed. When wild Yells “die”, it’s usually because they’ve run out of host tree long ago, and have stiffened into a rigid structure that eventually cracks (usually due to being struck by lightning) and crumbles, releasing clouds of spores. The remains of a Yell dissolve in the first rain after they fall and tend to leave the area around the strange lotus pod-ish pit in the ground where “roots” used to be spotless, but smelling very metallic with a hint of foulness. Almost like not so fresh blood.

Through the observations recorded by island botanists and the specific botanical sect known as the Antenna, rabbits (and hares, as they were the first to investigate and made great strides in understanding the process before they left the island en masse) have learned exactly what triggers Yell vertical growth and have used this knowledge to cultivate Yells quite successfully. A combination of owl feathers, metal ore (mainly bog iron), charcoal sticks and or ash (best if created by lightning strike, wood preferred but animal remains like burned out hawks are perfectly acceptable), and a little starter wood are fed to the slime mold, and after it’s broken everything down it begins its transformation. It is then introduced to a host plant sprout, a type of fast growing, woody, creeping vine in the Grasp family bred specifically for this purpose (wild cultivars work fine but they’re half as hardy and the bond has a greater chance of triggering very upsetting mutations. These are different from the upsetting mutations, which are fine and harmless). From then on the slime mold seems to guide the host plant’s growth, forming a shell from the vines that is constantly growing and shedding. This serves as both a home and an ample food source.

The botany world is torn on whether this forms a mutualistic symbiotic relationship or whether it’s straight up parasitism. And yes, plant nerd blood has been spilled over this argument. Not a ton of blood, it’s not like this is the great lichen wars, but still.

The Antenna

All yell care-taking is done by the Antenna sect. This is a mysterious group of witchy botanists and engineers who, like the previously referred to upsetting mutations, are harmless despite their entire vibe. Well. Harmless enough for botanists anyway.

Not a lot is known about them by the general public but they keep things working smoothly and show up quickly when something isn’t.

Members of this sect haven’t had a set “look” or uniform for about a generation and a half due to the ending of a lot of the the founding member’s bloodlines, but each Yell site has it’s own culture that attracts certain kinds of people. Despite their differences, there are a few things that make Antennae easier to pick out of a crowd if you know what to look for. The skin of their inner ears develop thin branching markings or wave-like ripples depending on how they interact with Yells. Some have obvious hare ancestry and sport roughly branching horns that grow quite long and shed every year (these shed horns are fed to the Yells). Newer members wear a lot of lightweight ear jewelry to help pick up important signals and behavioral quirks from the Yells, but the longer they stay in the Antenna the less tolerant they are of this. Things get…loud. Behind their eyes. Inside their teeth. Seasoned members usually can’t stand wearing any metal jewelry at all. The head botanist of one of the most remote Yells wears ear plugs almost 24/7 because of left behind shrapnel from an accident in his youth.

He is deaf.

He says he’s not really blocking anything out, just sorting it properly.

No one really knows what he means. It’s fine.

[inkievoid]

NSFW ALPHABET

[DI! Leon S Kennedy Edition]

❗Minors Do Not Interact ❗

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

Cuddler, massive cuddler. Honestly I see Leon as enjoying his partner being cuddled up to his chest but as long as you're touching each other he really doesn't mind. He just needs to be grounded after sex because he's not use to intimacy. (Remember y'all, aftercare in important FOR EVERYBODY INVOLVED DOM/SUB/SWITCH WHOEVER!!!)

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

Definitely proud of his arms. Man's got two pythons where his forearms are supposed to be. I'd be proud of those bitches too. It also doesn't help how often you tend to cling to them, admire them while cuddling up together or compliment how they look when he flexes.

When Leon's asked the good old "tits or ass?" question older than time itself he smirks and simply says thighs. He loves something plush to nap on when he comes home from work. He always says it'll be a quick 30 minute nap but he's always out for 3 hours when he's laying his head on your lap. They're just such a nice pillow and even nicer wrapped around his head.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Usually prefers finishing inside. If not then on your stomach. There's just something mesmerizing about watching his cum slowly drip out of you on down your belly that just makes him so horny that he can't get enough of you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Okay... So you send Leon pictures and he saves them. (He'd never share them though) But he secretly has an album in his phone labeled as WORK meticulously organization so that when you open the album it has important looking photos but if you scroll far enough it's just things you've sent him. Nudes, videos, even screenshots of steamy texts.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Decently experienced. Enough to get him by but also good at listening to his partner. Takes criticism well in the bedroom. Just wants his partner to have a good time and show that he loves you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

On your side or anything he can see your face. He's often tired so slow easy strokes on his side and using his hands is right up his alley. But for when he's feeling more energetic he's definitely up anything he can see your reaction with. He aims to please and the man is a good shot.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Definitely 50/50. Leon can crack jokes when his life is at risk I'm sure he'd probably say something goofy to make you laugh or even something stupid like "come here often?" When you're changing positions and his creaky body pops or cracks he'll say some smart ass comment about the bed makes weird sounds again.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Definitely trimmed. Leon doesn't strike me as a massively hairy guy to begin with. But what hair he does have is well kept.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Intimacy is his favorite part of it all. Very tender and soft compared to what he is during work. Enjoys the touching the most. He's very touch starved. Cuddle him and he'll melt into a puddle. He LOVES being little spoon.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Jerks off often. Uses it as a stress relief thing but doesn't do it as often when he gets a partner. But I do think when he's away on cases and he has downtime at night he tends to call his partner and have phone sex.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Begging, biting, breeding, dirty talk, edging and roleplaying

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere at home. Leon would most likely be super hesitant about doing anything outside of the house and risking criminal record.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

His partners touch. Leon just really likes being touched. If you mostly just kiss him and move to his neck (it's sensitive, that's why he rarely wears anything that constricts his neck) you'll get him going in no time.

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

No hitting, nothing with feet, no bathroom related stuff, no voyeurism or exhibitionism and no humiliation

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

50/50. But definitely more giving in the oral department. Uses it as a form of foreplay. Enjoys it because he loves hearing your slowly break and cry for him.

Sometimes he's just to exhausted to fuck so those are the times he'll just straight up tell you to sit on his face. He doesn't care if you're bigger, he knows you're not gonna hurt him. If you try hovering her will definitely wrap his arms around your thighs and pull you down on him. The man is skilled with his mouth and hands. So be prepared for the time of your life.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Definitely slow sensual type of guy. He likes making every moment last. But there's definitely been a flurry of passion after gets back from particularly long cases.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If he has to go out for work and he has a little bit of time before leaving, most definitely he'd be down for a quickie.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He's fine with experimenting but not often.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Good for 3 rounds unless he's super tired. Last decently long, always makes sure his partner gets off first each time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Oh Leon definitely owns one of those vibrators that work with apps. Sometimes when he's due to come home and he knows you have it in you he'll just tease you on the way home.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Usually Leon doesn't tease but when he's in a particular frisky mood, he will make beg to cum. And he doesn't care if you want it. If you don't beg like he wants he will make you wait and keep bringing you to the edge over and over like an asshole.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Not loud in the slightest but he's definitely not scared to moan or whimper. Even curse under his breath, especially if he has you on your side and he's right in your ear.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Said I love you for the first time during sex. Was mortified with himself, he meant it but was extremely embarrassed. Apologized profusely and told you he did mean it. And thankfully you love him back, obviously.

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

Ah yes, python 3. I'll be honest, I'd say he's at the higher average end in size but makes up for it in girth... Like a fucking coke can.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Leon had little to no sex drive but once you two got into a relationship he's like a teenage boy again. Can barely stop from wanting you all the time. But he's still more of the romantic intimate type and would rather just exist with you than constantly be at each other.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He clings onto life afterwards. Just wants to make sure you're taken care of but the second you relax against him he's down for the count. Like a god damn bear in hibernation.

[caffeinatelove]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ happy birthday isagi!

𝐛𝐲𝐫: these are just headcanons! female reader, intended lowercase, includes swearing, possible out of character / mischaracterisation, established relationship, extreme crack, fluff, suggestive and sexual themes — { lingerie, thigh riding }

in a frighteningly rare moment of mercy, one that would probably go down in history and end up in some guinness world record book of things that seemed impossible, ego allowed isagi to take the day off.

one day off. away from blue lock. for exactly twenty four hours and only twenty four hours, were his words.

actually, it wasn’t even his words.

"come on." anri had insisted. "he’s been working so hard. just give the kid twenty four hours. he deserves it."

ego merely sighed. "what’s wrong with him celebrating his birthday here? we have cake. i think. you can get cake, can’t you?"

anri just gave him a pointed look before turning to the striker in front of them.

"you have twenty four hours, isagi-kun." she nodded her head curtly. "it’s our gift to you."

"don’t make us regret this." ego added, voice cold like a robot. "go. celebrate your birthday or whatever."

isagi didn’t dare to ask any questions. just nodded once, grabbed his duffel bag and sprinted out of the facility like it was some kind of prison. to be fair, though, there was a striking resemblance. the place didn’t even have windows.

now, he was standing in front of your doorstep while still in uniform. blue lock hoodie, pants, slightly dirty cleats and a bashful smile on his face.

knock.

knock.

knock.

his clenched hand was trembling slightly; excited to see his girlfriend after so long.

you barely manage to get the door open before launching into him with a surprised squeal, arms wrapping around his neck.

"yoichi? yoichi! you’re here! it’s your birthday! happy birthday, sweetheart!"

he grunts, stumbling back a little by the sheer power of your hug. you kiss his cheek. then the other one. then once more for good measure. he lets out a sheepish little chuckle — clearly basking in the attention.

you suddenly pull away, hands resting on his firm shoulders. "wait, you’re here?" you squint in confusion.

"yeah." he mumbles, wasting no time to pull you in again by the waist, burying his face in your neck. he lets out a dreamy sigh after inhaling your ever familiar scent, planting his own kiss against your pulse. "they let me out for my birthday."

"when you word it like that, you really make that place sound like an asylum." your fingers card through his short dark strands.

"trust me, it is."

you snort, nose crinkling. "then we’re gonna celebrate your freedom. come on."

reaching for his hand, you pull him into the house with a pretty ambitious goal: a homemade birthday cake.

"but wait, i don’t even know how to make a cake." isagi says, standing in the middle of the kitchen dumbly.

"me neither. just have faith! i’ll pull up some recipe on my phone."

he didn’t find that response very convincing but he went along with it anyways.

isagi then asked why he had to participate in making his own birthday cake. you gasped and told him that blue lock really was turning him into an egoistic brat. he grumbled at that, already walking to the fridge and tugging some ingredients out to prove that he could still be a good humble boyfriend.

you snicker under your breath. gottem.

it takes you around thirty minutes to figure out if you even have all the ingredients for his desired flavour. which was adzuki bean paste, by the way. you had no idea why he couldn’t have just said something more simple like vanilla, but you weren’t going to question the birthday boy. anyways he ended up getting flour everywhere, and you dropped an egg on the floor.

after getting everything cleaned up, you were finally mixing the batter, focusing on the recipe that was displayed on your phone.

see what’s happens when you trust the process?

that’s when you glance over for a second and notice that isagi is already licking the spatula.

before stealing the bowl and doing the same to it. feverishly.

"woah." you mutter, eyes widening. "calm down, sweetheart."

he looks up at you with the most deadpan expression. cake batter smeared on the corner of his mouth.

"do you know what i have to eat in blue lock? it’s so bland. i haven’t had anything this sugary in months. let me have this. please. it’s my birthday."

you blink at his theatrics. he just goes back to licking.

"jeez. okay. continue. but if you get salmonella later, it is not my fault and i’m not holding your hand in the emergency room."

he doesn’t answer. he just looks at you one more time before continuing to indulge in the mix.

"you’ll be holding my hand." he mumbles knowingly into the bowl. you roll your eyes.

while the cake bakes, and probably burns, you decide to drag isagi out of the house into the afternoon sun. it’s the first real breath of fresh air he’s had in weeks.

"come on." you tug your intertwined hands excitedly. "there’s this new boba place that opened a few weeks ago. it’s got honeydew, taro, matcha–"

"that’s a lot of sugar." he quirks an eyebrow.

"weren’t you just eating raw batter?"

"…it’s my birthday."

you arrive at the quaint little boba shop. it smells like sweet syrup, fresh dough and warm milk. he stands behind you in the line, arms loosely wrapped around your waist as his chin rests on your shoulder.

you stare up at the menu thoughtfully, telling isagi what you’re thinking of getting.

"i knew it." he chuckles. "it’s been months and you’re still getting that flavour. are you sure you aren’t addicted?"

"so what?" you retort defensively. "addiction just shows consistency. which is a good skill to have."

his dark eyebrows raise. "that is… an interesting point of view."

"thank you." you hum, stepping closer to the register once the person in front of you takes their receipt and stands at the waiting bay.

the two of you decide to sit at a bench in your local park with the drinks. he’s stealing sipping from your cup, eyes half-lidded like it’s the first time he’s truly relaxed in weeks.

you watch him quietly. "how’s the sugar crash hitting?"

he lifts the cup, handing it back to you. "not yet. but i think i’m getting drunk off this."

"it’s tea, yoichi."

he chuckles breathlessly. "no, i mean this," his eyes flicker from his own drink, to you. "you. being here. all of this."

your face unwillingly flushes at that.

you set your drink down beside you, reaching to hold onto his bicep before leaning forward to plant a kiss on his nose.

"dork." you whisper, smiling. "that was sappy."

he catches your hand before it falls away, threads his fingers through yours, and leans in to properly press a slow kiss to your lips. he tastes faintly of tapioca.

"i think i’m allowed to be." he murmurs. "it’s my birthday. remember?"

cue your face flushing even harder.

the two of you decide to wander around the area some more. it was mostly his idea, since the luxury of not being in a confined space was being presented ever so deliciously.

you eventually stumble across a market area that has lanterns hanging above every stall. it’s crowded and loud, with shop owners calling out their deals, so isagi squeezes your hand a little bit tighter.

just to make sure you don’t get separated.

when all of a sudden, he stops dead in his tracks right in the middle of the crowd. you follow his gaze to find some sort of vintage soccer merchandise booth. that’s when you realise his eyes are practically sparkling.

"no way. is that a 2014 noel noa france away jersey?" his lips part in awe.

not that you had any idea if it was, but you were already reaching for your wallet. his reaction told you more than enough.

"wait, wait," he stops you. "you don’t have to buy me anything–"

"it’s your birthday, sweetheart, i have to get you something. besides, you already paid for the boba."

his ears turn a faint shade of red. he tries to gently swat your hand away. to manoeuvre your wallet back inside your purse.

"no. it’s fine. seriously. i was gonna ask my mum for new cleats or something later, so you don’t have–"

you gasp at the newly revealed information, immediately grabbing his face in both your hands. the action shuts him up instantly.

"you wanted new cleats? and you were going to ask your mum?"

his eyes are wide, caught between flustered and amused. "i mean… she always got them for me before…"

you squish his face together with your palms. isagi lets you. honestly, he lives for it.

"no. i will buy it for you. you want new cleats? you get new cleats. from me. because i am your girlfriend. your number one fan. and you are my baby. now say it." you can feel his skin grow warmer under your touch.

"i am your baby." he mumbles through squished lips.

"again." you demand.

"i’m your baby."

you kiss his puckered mouth, before finally letting him go. "good boy."

his entire face is red, and it’s not just from the friction of your hands against his flesh. you almost think he might combust with how hard he’s blushing. in fact he walks away for a moment to clear his dizzy head while you hand the vendor your card.

the two of you walk down the lantern lit path together, plastic shopping bags swinging at your sides. he’s bumping his shoulder into yours ever so often. just to feel you closer.

"hey." he says after a while.

"yeah?"

"thanks."

you look over to see him already staring at you. eyes warm with affection. hair tousled from the breeze. his cheeks somehow still flushed from earlier. for once he looks like a boy in love, not just a rising star with the weight of japanese soccer on his shoulders.

"you deserve a good birthday." you shrug.

"i already have it." he returns.

the two of you finally arrive back home just after golden hour ends. to the cake. it’s a little uneven and there’s a small crack down one side, but damn it, it’s heartfelt.

you jab a singular candle in it, fiercly striking up a match that isagi instantly tries to do for you. but you weren’t going to let anything stop you from making it a special moment for him. so you held it out of his reach.

which was incredibly dangerous, but it’s fine. the couch almost caught on fire, but it didn’t.

that was the main thing.

after he backed down, you successfully lit the candle. before bursting into song. he pretended to be mortified. but honestly, he was so grateful for it all.

"happy birthday to youuuuuu."

he’s biting back a smile, unable to conceal how much he really is enjoying everything. "your singing is very off-key."

"yeah, well, i never said i was auditioning for glee, so shut up." you snap, before tacking on, "now close your eyes and make a wish."

you push the visually challenged cake forward, watching as his eyes flutter shut. his lips curve upwards completely now. in a small sweet smile. the singular candle brightens a warm glow around his face.

he doesn’t say anything. he just leans forward and blows it out in one soft breath.

after that, you both sit curled up together on the couch. a slice of the cake split between you on a small plate. less dishes that way.

you feed isagi a bite off the fork, grinning as a bit of icing sticks to the corner of his mouth. "you’ve got something here." you reach to swipe it off.

he catches your wrist and kisses your fingertips instead.

your realise your face is flushing again as you shuffle against him. "so, can i know what you wished for?"

he looks offended that you even asked. “hey, it won’t come true if i say it out loud."

"oh, you really believe in that stuff?" you chuckle, before prodding. "come on. tell me. what did you wish for?"

he doesn’t even blink, setting against the couch. "you."

you freeze with the fork halfway to your mouth. great. there had to be some sort of world record for how many times someone’s face could go red in one day, and you were about to break it. you try to laugh his response off, but it’s real.

you can see it in his eyes.

a moment passes where you mentally recollect yourself, before inhaling. "actually, it’s funny you should say that."

you suddenly disregard the piece of cake on the coffee table, standing up with a new kind of vigour. almost jittery.

isagi tilts his head. "huh? where are you going? this is the exact opposite of what i wished for. i told you i shouldn’t have–"

"just stay here." you instruct, looking oddly suspicious.

he watches you curiously as you leave the room before leaning forward to shove. another forkful of cake into his mouth.

a few moments pass, before you walk back in and stop right in front of him.

now, wearing something so lacy and so tiny that it could barely even qualify as clothing. delicate mesh clings to your body, leaving just enough to the imagination. but not nearly enough to spare isagi’s sanity.

there’s a satin bow tied at your sternum like a present. his present.

and then he sees the ruffled garter snugly looped around just one thigh. now that little thing was actually sending him into oblivion

isagi immediately chokes on his own breath. his entire face flares up with heat, red rushing up his neck to the tips of his ears.

you’re in lingerie.

and that perfect little garter was driving him up the wall. he adjusts his sweatpants as subtly as possible.

"what–" isagi finally opens his mouth when he realises he can’t just continue to stare at you for the rest of the day, and unfortunately, the rest of his life. he sputters stupidly. "what are you–?"

he’s redder than the adzuki bean paste.

"gosh. don’t look so surprised." you almost whine, feeling embarrassment course through your body under his gaze. "it’s been months since we last saw each other. i thought this would be cute."

"no! it is! i’m just…" his mouth goes dry completely. "are you sure? i don’t want you to feel like we have to–i mean, i want to–obviously–but–"

"yes!" you squeak, suddenly feeling very self conscious. "why else do you think i would buy this?"

"when did you even buy that…?" he trails off, eyes shamelessly dragging down the length of your figure.

isagi suddenly shakes his head. like he needs to be mentally recalibrated.

"come here. please." he says instead, hoarsely, like a whole new train of thought just hit him all at once.

your entire body is warm as you shuffle closer. his hands automatically reach for your hips, gently guiding you down onto his lap.

you settle against him, fingers clutching at his shoulders to steady yourself. your faces are close. way too close.

he exhales shakily now that you’re in his arms, and the intimacy only makes your body burn more.

"i’m sorry. i was just shocked because you look so beautiful." he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your neck. "this is honestly the best gift i’ve ever gotten."

you can’t stop blushing, and you suddenly wonder if this is pay back for earlier at the market place. your fingers flex against his hoodie, grounding yourself with the fabric.

"thanks, yoichi." you whisper. then you lean back just enough to meet his eyes.

"wanna unwrap me?"

for a second he doesn’t answer. he just stares at you. with his blue eyes wide, and his hands still resting on your ruffle-clad hips.

you almost wonder if that teasing little line was too much, but then he says something back. very quietly.

so quiet you almost think you misheard him.

"can i…" his voice is low. "can i just watch you ride my thigh first?"

you blink, faltering at the oddly specific request.

staring at him blankly for a good moment.

mainly because nothing could’ve prepared you to hear that.

"your thigh?" you slowly repeat.

now his entire face was burning red.

“i-i’ve been thinking about it for a while. to be honest. i just miss the way you move. you don’t even have to do it for long! just a bit."

your stomach literally flips. there’s something vaguely mortifying about getting off in front of another person. but there’s no way you can deny isagi when he’s looking at you like that. all needy and devoted. and on his birthday, too. that would be cruel.

"okay. just don’t make fun of me."

"i’d never." he whispers.

you shift, knees bending slightly as you straddle just one of his thighs. his sweats are soft under you, but you can feel his muscle flex instinctively as you settle down. his breath stutters hard against your collarbone.

your hands are still on his shoulders for balance. his grip finds your hips again. and you start to move. it’s just a little bit at first.

but the friction immediately makes your breath hitch.

the lacy fabric of your panties heightens the sensation, as you grind yourself on the thick muscle. it already feels humiliatingly good, and your thighs begin to shake. your form probably would’ve been wobbly if wasn’t for isagi firmly pressing you down on him.

"shit." you gasp. "this is… okay, this is embarrassing."

isagi’s eyes are locked on you. and they’re wide. more animalistic than you’ve ever seen them. and you’ve seen them during that u-20 match. he’s practically heaving as you rock back and forth.

"no. no, it isn’t. you look so good like this." he murmurs, pulling you into a kiss almost desperately. he still tastes like the cake.

"yoichi–"

"dont stop. please don’t stop." the plea tumbles pathetically from his lips.

he looks wrecked, and he’s not even really doing anything. just watching. just feeling you on top of him. feeling that warmth between your thighs on top of him.

you manage to find a rhythm, getting a little bit more confident as you fall into it. little noises escape from you, each one sending isagi spiralling further. you can feel the tension in his thigh, how he’s flexing it subtly, almost like he wants to help you grind harder without even moving.

"you like it?” he asks quietly, like he genuinely needs to know. if it’s ruining you as much as watching it is ruining him.

that’s when you notice the two wet patches on his pants. one due to his own arousal leaking. and one from you. your face goes even redder; you were enjoying this more than anticipated. it did kind of help that your boyfriends thigh was made up of solid muscle. although you weren’t sure how he was going to bring this soiled pair back to blue lock. it probably needed to be bleached.

he follows your gaze, noticing it too, and that seems to answer his question. he groans. like he’s never been so turned on his life.

"fuck." he breathes, not even pretending to be composed. "i think about this all the time."

you falter again, fingers tightening once again in his hoodie. "…you do?"

he’s red. he’s so red. but he nods with the confession. "i think about you getting off on my thigh. a lot. i imagine it when i can’t sleep in the dorms and sometimes when i shower. i imagine your face–this face–fuck. i-i didn’t think i’d get to see it for real–"

your entire body buzzes with heat.

"and now that i am seeing it, i never want to forget it."

you let out a quiet moan that morphs into a breathless laugh, the realisation that this whole thing is just an unusual fetish he’s been harbouring dawns on you.

"why didn’t you tell me this earlier?"

"i-i didn’t want you to think that i was some kind of pervert. sorry. i’m sorry." his voice quivers.

"don’t be." you mumble. you’re still grinding slowly, every roll of your hips dragging your soaked core across the hard press of his thigh. your breathing is starting to catch and you let out a whimper, mostly to yourself. "i think i could actually come like this."

a faint gasp leaves him, like your words just physically hit him in the heart.

"you…" he stammers. it’s a helpless sound. "you want to? like this?"

your face is on fire now. you weren’t even talking to him. you were just overwhelmed. but he’s processing it like it’s the most life altering information he’s ever received.

breathless, he doesn’t even wait for a response. "okay. okay–i’ll help."

his voice is urgent and soft and it cracks a little, as he brings a hand down, sliding between your thighs to gently press his fingers over your panties.

"you wanna come like this? just on my thigh?" he repeats. probably for good measure. probably because it’s really doing something for him.

but the way he’s forcing you to repeat yourself makes you flustered. "yes."

"fuck. okay. yeah. yeah, please–please do it. I wanna see. I’ll help you–just let me help."

his fingers move over your clit in slow circles, matching the rhythm effortlessly. all that time apart and he still hadn’t forgotten how to make you fall apart. It’s not rushed or sloppy. It’s so attentive it almost hurts. like he needs this just as much as you do.

your head drops to his shoulder. you’re breathing harder now, panting into his neck as his fingers works you closer.

you can’t help but to moan softly, hips beginning to stutter.

"you’re so beautiful. like–it’s insane. don’t know how i got so lucky. i didn’t think–shit. i thought about this but not like–this.”

isagi’s talking in broken little bursts now, hands trembling as he watches you fall apart. like he can’t believe you’re really doing it. like you’re some daydream that came to life.

and that’s when you feel him press a kiss to your temple. then your cheek. then your mouth. it’s deep and hot, tiling his head to brush his tongue against yours.

it makes you moan again. the sound is shaky and high, and he groans into the kiss again like it’s actively wrecking him.

"come for me." he begs. "please. just like this. on me."

you can’t help it — you do. it hits hard and fast as the heat in your stomach breaks loose. you shake, with a loud gasp of yoichi!

he holds you through it, planting breathless kisses at the top of your head. you feel him, so hard against your hip, straining through his sweats. untouched.

"that’s my girl. you’re so perfect."

he murmurs, hand gently stroking your back, still reeling himself in. after a long pause, when you’re finally able to catch your breath, he clears his throat.

"it’s a good thing you came when you did."

you lift your head. half in confusion, half wondering if you heard him correctly. your expression prompts him to continue. so, he swallows. hard.

"i was about to come in my pants."

you stare at him. he’s dead serious. just genuine concern. like he was worried for himself. you can’t help but to burst into laughter against him.

practically wheezing against his chest. "oh my gosh. yoichi. you’re serious!" you state, in complete amusement.

he groans. "it’s not my fault, you said it yourself! it’s been months since we’ve seen each other. and you just looked so insanely good, and–"

you’re cackling. he decides to hide his face in your shoulder to save himself the shame.

"you poor thing." you gasp, trying to catch your breath again but for an entirely different reason now.

"i would’ve never recovered from that." isagi mumbles into your skin. you let out a snicker, turning your head to kiss his neck, then his jaw, then his cheek.

a moment passes.

"that thigh riding stuff really turned you on, huh?" you hum. it’s not even teasing. it’s more in the same tone you’d use when making an interesting observation.

his face is still bright red. "i don’t know why it does, but it does. and i’m still turned on." his voice goes quieter, letting out his own huff of amusement. "it hurts."

you shift back in his lap slightly, eyes locking with his.

"good thing i’m here to help, then." your fingers toy with the ribbon tied at the front of your chest. "you still wanna unwrap me?"

his breathing stutters. "more than anything."

and this time, he doesn’t hesitate to pull at the bow. the two of you spend the rest of the day together, attached by the hip.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

a few days later after his birthday, a package arrives at blue lock.

it’s got your handwriting on it.

isagi opens it carefully, expecting new cleats, and they’re there! a sleek new pair in the exact colour he mentioned when you were passing by the market place.

but tucked beside it? there’s a small bubble wrapped keychain.

he blinks.

it’s him.

chibi style isagi yoichi. dribbling with his eyes narrowed and blue lock jersey on. there’s even a little sparkle next to the figurines mouth like he’s mid-dialogue.

your little note reads:

can you believe i found this when i went to pick up your cleats? couldn’t resist getting it. i keep one on my bag too so i guess we’re matching. xoxo from your biggest fan.

he stares at it for a long time.

like he can’t believe there’s an actual keychain of him existing.

"they made my calves too big." he mumbles to himself, blushing furiously.

later that day, rin sees it hanging from isagi’s duffel bag and squints.

"you attached a toy of yourself to your gear, lukewarm?"

isagi shrugs, also staring down at it.

"it was a gift. from my girlfriend. you know, cause i have one. cause i’m not a cold jerk. like some people."

bachira gasps somewhere in the distance.

"where’s my isagi keychain?"

[kazmura]

‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ badboy!niki x fem, 1.1k, est relationship kinda angsty to fluff, ‎‎‎ when getting punched in the face is the only way to stop ur boyfriends heated fight

› duck boy collection

Fights were a common occurrence at your school. Fortunately, you had never witnessed one yourself. Your friends would relay the gory details. It would always start with two students bickering aggressively until one of them finally throws a punch. From there, it turned into an all-out war, with students crowding and pushing each other to capture videos of the chaos. It would only end when a teacher finally stepped in, prompting everyone to scatter, not wanting to get in trouble.

Walking out by the side of the school, the sounds of students yelling and loud grunts caught your attention. Students crowded around each other to form a circle, cameras held high in the air trying to capture the scene. You had definitely missed phase one, and you sure weren’t sticking around for the rest. But as you turned to walk away, your heart stopped at the sound of a familiar voice coming from the direction of the circle.

Your boyfriend had never been much of a fighter. Though he sometimes came across as cold, you knew him as sweet and gentle, someone who avoided conflict whenever he could. The sight of him now, standing in the center of the chaos, fists clenched, made you immediately worry. What could have pushed him to this point? Your stomach twisted as you debated whether to step in or call for help. The crowd roared as the tension between the two boys escalated, but all you could focus on was the look in his eyes, one you’d never seen before. His face was littered with small cuts, and his lip was swollen, likely from a hard punch. Determined, you began pushing your way through the crowd, ignoring the protests and shoves from students more interested in capturing the fight on their phones than stopping it.

“Move!” you shouted, your voice sharp with urgency. The closer you got, the clearer the scene became, his opponent, equally battered, was gearing up for another strike. Without thinking, you stepped into the circle, placing yourself between them. Before you could react, a sudden force hit the side of your face, a wild swing meant for your boyfriend but landing squarely on you instead. Pain exploded through your jaw as you stumbled back, the world tilting for a moment. Niki's eyes widened in horror as he caught you before you fell, his hands trembling as he held you.

“yn!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking with panic. The fight immediately lost its fire. His opponent froze, guilt flickering across his face, while the students around you began murmuring. The circle quickly dissolved as the reality of what had just happened set in.

Niki gently helped you to your feet, his hands shaking as he steadied you. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice full of concern, his anger completely replaced by worry.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, though the throbbing pain in your jaw said otherwise. You glanced around at the scattering crowd, some students still lingering, their phones lowered but still recording.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said softly, his arm slipping protectively around you.

-

The nurse’s office was quiet except for the soft sound of Niki’s movements as he tended to your face. His hands were gentle as he carefully wiped away the blood from your lip, his brows furrowed in concentration. You sat silently on the examination table, your arms crossed tightly, giving him the cold shoulder.

“I’m really sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret. You didn’t respond, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor, the silence between you both growing heavier.

He let out a soft sigh, continuing to work with the supplies in front of him. “I didn’t mean for any of that to happen. I never wanted you to get hurt.”

You bit your lip, the anger still simmering inside you. Whatever it was, he should’ve never let it escalate this far.

Niki paused, glancing at you with a quiet plea in his eyes. “Please talk to me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t stand this silence.”

“Why did you fight?”

His hands paused for a moment, then he sighed deeply, his eyes not meeting yours. “They were saying horrible things about you,” he admitted quietly. “I couldn’t just let them talk like that about the person I care about.”

You felt a pang in your chest, but the anger still clouded your judgment. “I don’t care what they say,” you replied firmly, turning your head to finally meet his gaze. “I just want you to be safe. I don’t want you to get hurt for me.”

His expression softened, and he set the medical supplies down, his hands now resting on his knees. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and understanding. "I promise," he said softly. "I’ll never do it again. I just didn’t know what else to do. I couldn't stand them talking about you like that."

Leaning forward from your spot on the nurse's bed, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. He instinctively wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close as you both stood there, the tension between you slowly melting away.

"I just want you safe," you whispered against his shoulder, feeling his breath hitch as he held you a little tighter.

"I know," he murmured, his voice soft. "I’ll never let anything happen to you."

You pulled back slightly to look at him, your hands still resting on his shoulders. His eyes were full of sincerity, and for the first time since the fight, you felt your heart calm. "I trust you," you said, your voice quieter now. "Just please, no more fighting, okay?"

He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. "No more fighting," he repeated firmly. "I promise."

You smiled faintly, then leaned up to kiss him gently. The soft contact between your lips lingered for a moment before it deepened, the kiss growing more intense as your hands found their way to his hair. His grip around your waist tightened, pulling you even closer, and you could feel his heart beating just as fast as yours. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

"I mean it," you whispered, still holding him close. "No more fighting."

He nodded, his lips brushing against yours once more. "I promise," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ll do anything for you."

pulling this one out the drafts, its lowk iffy bu this is the start of my blog revampp 💓💓

© kazmura, all rights reserved‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ @kflixnet

[ghstyles]

Idea for the fratrry blurb: can u do one where yn is already having a really bad day and then Harry comes around being his usual annoying self and she kind of breaks down, so he gets really concerned

Daisies | Windows Facing

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Windows Facing Masterlist

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The rain patters steadily against Y/N's window, matching her gloomy mood as she drops her backpack on the floor and collapses onto her bed. The weight of the day—no, the entire week—presses down on her shoulders like a physical burden.

Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. Her research proposal was rejected by her advisor, who suggested she "rethink her academic priorities." She bombed the statistics midterm she'd studied three days straight for. Her laptop crashed, taking half her term paper with it. And the cherry on top: she'd just received a call from her mother, who casually mentioned that her ex-boyfriend from high school was now engaged to her former best friend.

Y/N stares at the ceiling, too exhausted even for tears. She should get up, make dinner, try to salvage what's left of her paper. Instead, she lies motionless, listening to the rain and feeling utterly alone.

The soft glow from the window across from hers catches her attention. Harry's room in the Sigma house lights up, and she can see him moving around, tossing his jacket on the bed and running a hand through his rain-dampened hair. Under normal circumstances, she'd quickly close her curtains to avoid his notice, but today she lacks the energy even for that small movement.

Harry spots her almost immediately, his face breaking into that familiar grin that usually precedes some form of teasing. He moves to his window, opening it despite the rain and cupping his hands around his mouth.

"Oi! Psychology girl!" he calls out. "You'll never guess what happened in Dr. Peterson's class today!"

Y/N sighs deeply but pushes herself up to a sitting position. Maybe Harry's ridiculous antics will provide a momentary distraction from the disaster that is her life. She opens her window reluctantly, the cool, damp air washing over her face.

"What, Harry?" she asks, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge.

Either not noticing or choosing to ignore her subdued tone, Harry launches enthusiastically into his story.

"So Peterson's going on about Freudian symbolism, right? And this freshman in the front row, complete kiss-ass, hand up for every question, he starts arguing that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Harry's eyes dance with mischief. "And I say, loud enough for everyone to hear, 'But sometimes it's definitely not, mate, especially the way you're fondling that pen.'"

He pauses expectantly, clearly waiting for her usual eye-roll or cutting comeback. When none comes, he continues undeterred.

"The whole class lost it! Peterson tried to look disapproving, but I caught him smiling when he thought no one was looking. Even gave me a nod after class. Think I'm finally winning him over with my charming personality and deep analytical skills."

He strikes a pose, hand on his heart, looking so ridiculous that on any other day, Y/N might have cracked a smile despite herself. Today, however, the contrast between Harry's carefree attitude and her own misery only makes her feel worse.

"That's great, Harry," she says flatly, moving to close her window.

"Wait!" he calls, his smile faltering slightly. "I haven't even told you about how Louis accidentally set off the fire alarm during the pledge meeting. Or how I beat my own record at the gym today. Or—" he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively "—how I've been thinking about that green dress you almost wore to our rain-checked dinner."

It's the last comment that does it. The casual reminder of the dinner that never happened, the green dress she'd been so careful selecting, the entire emotional rollercoaster of that evening—it all crashes down on her at once. To her horror, Y/N feels her eyes fill with tears, which spill over before she can stop them.

"Just—" her voice breaks "—just leave me alone, Harry. Not today. Please."

Harry's playful expression vanishes instantly, replaced by genuine concern. "Y/N? What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, unable to articulate the accumulation of failures and disappointments. A sob escapes her, and she claps a hand over her mouth, mortified to be breaking down in front of him of all people.

"I'm fine," she manages unconvincingly, tears still streaming down her face. "Just go away."

She slams her window shut and yanks the curtains closed, then collapses back onto her bed, allowing the tears to flow freely now that she's hidden from view. She presses her face into her pillow, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Five minutes pass, then ten. The storm outside intensifies, rain lashing against the windows as thunder rumbles in the distance. Gradually, Y/N's sobs subside, leaving her feeling hollow and drained. She should get up, wash her face, try to be productive, But the bed holds her like quicksand, and she can't find the will to move.

A sharp knock at her apartment door startles her. Y/N freezes, hoping whoever it is will give up and leave. The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

"Y/N?" Harry's voice calls through the door. "I know you're in there. Open up."

Y/N sits up, staring at the door in disbelief. Why would he come here?

"Go away, Harry," she calls, wincing at how raspy her voice sounds from crying.

"Not happening," he responds immediately. "I'll stand out here all night if I have to. Your neighbors already think I'm weird. Oh, and the guy from 2D just gave me a very judgmental look on his way to the trash chute."

Despite everything, Y/N feels a tiny smile tug at her lips. She can picture Harry, soaking wet from the rain, charming his way into the building and now standing stubbornly at her door.

"I'm serious, Harry. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."

There's a pause, then Harry's voice comes again, softer this time. "I brought ice cream. And those chocolate biscuits you pretend not to like but always steal from my plate in the dining hall."

Y/N stares at the door, torn between wanting to be left alone in her misery and being genuinely touched by the gesture. With a deep sigh, she pushes herself off the bed and crosses to the door, not bothering to check her appearance in the mirror. Harry has seen her cry now; a blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes hardly matter anymore.

She opens the door to find Harry standing there, hair dripping from the rain, holding a plastic grocery bag in one hand. His usual cocky expression is nowhere to be seen, replaced by genuine concern that only deepens when he takes in her tear-streaked face.

"Jesus, Y/N," he says softly. "What happened?"

The simple question, asked with such sincere worry, almost sets her off again. She steps back, allowing him to enter rather than answering immediately.

Harry follows her inside, closing the door behind him. He sets the grocery bag on her small kitchen counter and shrugs off his wet jacket, hanging it carefully over a chair. There's none of his usual swagger or teasing as he moves around her space with unexpected consideration.

"You didn't have to come over," Y/N says, wrapping her arms around herself. She's suddenly acutely aware that she's wearing old leggings with a hole in the knee and a Northwestern sweatshirt that's seen better days.

Harry looks at her, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Yes, I did."

He begins unpacking the grocery bag: a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy, a package of the imported chocolate biscuits from the international foods section of the campus store, a bottle of red wine, and—surprisingly—a small bunch of daisies, slightly bent from being stuffed in the bag.

"The flowers were an impulse buy," he explains, looking almost embarrassed. "The cashier was judging my ice cream and alcohol purchase pretty hard. Thought they might make me seem less like an alcoholic with a sweet tooth."

A small laugh escapes Y/N, surprising both of them.

"There she is," Harry says with a gentle smile, holding out the slightly crushed flowers. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

Y/N takes the daisies, twirling them between her fingers. "It's nothing. Just... a bad day."

Harry raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "A bad day makes you sniffle a bit during a sad commercial. Whatever this is—" he gestures to her tear-stained face "—is more than a bad day."

He moves to her kitchenette, opening drawers until he finds a glass that he fills with water for the flowers. His easy familiarity in her space should irritate her, but somehow it doesn't.

"You don't have to talk about it," he continues, locating spoons for the ice cream. "We can just eat our feelings and get drunk on cheap wine. But if you want to talk... I'm told I'm a surprisingly good listener when I'm not being an insufferable prat."

The self-deprecating comment draws another small smile from Y/N. She watches as Harry efficiently opens the ice cream and pours two glasses of wine, all without his usual performative flourishes or innuendos.

"It's just been..." she starts, then sighs heavily. "Everything's falling apart. My proposal got rejected. I failed my stats midterm. My laptop crashed with my paper on it. And my high school boyfriend is marrying my ex-best friend."

She hadn't meant to share all that, but once she starts, the words tumble out. Harry listens quietly, handing her a glass of wine when she finishes.

"Well, that's properly shit," he says simply. "All of it."

His straightforward acknowledgment of her problems, without immediately trying to fix them or minimize them, loosens something in Y/N's chest. She takes a sip of wine, grateful for its warmth spreading through her.

"Yeah," she agrees. "It is."

Harry guides her to the small couch, setting the ice cream container between them with both spoons stuck in it.

"For what it's worth," he says, digging his spoon into the chocolate therapy, "your ex is an idiot. And your advisor probably has a stick up his arse the size of Big Ben."

Y/N laughs softly, taking her own spoonful of ice cream. "Dr. Winters is a woman, but yes, definitely something large and uncomfortable lodged up there."

Harry grins, and for a moment, they eat in comfortable silence. The rain continues to drum against the windows, but the sound feels cozy now rather than depressing.

"You know," Harry says eventually, "I failed my first university exam. Back in London, before I transferred here."

Y/N looks at him in surprise. "You did?"

He nods, taking another sip of wine. "Spectacularly. Like, set-a-new-record-low kind of failed. My professor actually called me into his office to ask if I was feeling alright or if I'd suffered a recent head injury."

Despite herself, Y/N smiles at the image.

"What happened?" she asks.

Harry shrugs. "I panicked. Stayed up all night studying, then my brain just... empty. Completely blank during the exam." He twirls his wine glass thoughtfully. "I was so embarrassed I didn't tell anyone. Just smiled and nodded when my mates asked how it went."

"What did you do?" Y/N asks, genuinely curious about this glimpse into a less confident Harry.

"Wallowed for about a week," he admits. "Considered dropping out, changing my name, maybe becoming a shepherd in the Scottish highlands."

Y/N laughs, the sound more natural this time. "A shepherd?"

"I look good in wool," he defends with a mock-serious expression, before his face softens again. "But then I talked to my sister. She's always been the smart one in the family. And she told me something I've never forgotten."

He sets down his wine glass and turns to face Y/N fully, his expression earnest.

"She said, 'Harry, failure isn't falling down. It's refusing to get back up again.'"

Y/N absorbs this, feeling something shift in her perspective. She's always seen Harry as someone who glides effortlessly through life—charming, confident, unbothered by the academic pressures that weigh on her. The idea that he's faced similar struggles and insecurities is both surprising and oddly comforting.

"So what did you do?" she asks.

"I got back up," he says simply. "Went to the professor, asked for extra help, studied my ass off for the next exam. Still didn't get top marks, but I passed." He smiles, a genuine smile without his usual cockiness. "And more importantly, I learned I could handle failing without it being the end of the world."

Y/N nods slowly, understanding dawning. "Is that why you're always so... confident? Because you know you can handle it if things go wrong?"

Harry considers this, head tilted thoughtfully. "Maybe partly. But also—" he grins suddenly, a flash of his usual self "—I'm just naturally charming and devastatingly handsome. Can't help that part."

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she's smiling now—a real smile that reaches her eyes.

"And there's the Harry Styles I know," she says dryly. "I was starting to worry you'd been replaced by a surprisingly decent human being."

"Nope, still me," he assures her, popping the 'p' sound. "Just showing you the premium version. Limited time offer, exclusive to crying girls with good taste in ice cream."

They fall into a comfortable rhythm after that, sharing the ice cream and wine as the conversation flows more easily than it ever has between them. Harry tells stories about his childhood in Holmes Chapel, his sister Gemma, and his decision to study abroad. Y/N finds herself reciprocating, sharing anecdotes about growing up with strict parents and her passion for psychology.

As the ice cream disappears and the wine bottle empties, Y/N realizes that her earlier despair has receded. It's not gone completely, her problems still exist, but they no longer feel insurmountable.

"I should probably go," Harry says eventually, noticing the late hour. "Let you get some rest."

Y/N nods, walking him to the door. There's an awkward moment as they stand there, neither quite sure how to end this unexpected evening.

"Thank you," she says finally, meeting his eyes. "For the ice cream and the wine. And... everything else."

Harry smiles, softer than his usual grin. "Anytime, psychology girl. I mean that."

He hesitates, then reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. "For what it's worth, I think you're brilliant. One setback doesn't change that."

The simple sincerity of his words catches Y/N off guard. There's no teasing, no hidden agenda, just honest appreciation that makes her chest feel warm.

"Even if I'm not in a sorority?" she asks lightly, referencing his protest after she'd beaten him at Game Night.

Harry laughs. "Even then. Though it does make it harder to justify why I let you keep winning at poker."

"Let me?" Y/N raises an eyebrow. "I believe I earned those victories fair and square."

"That's what I let you believe," he says with a wink, and just like that, they're back on familiar ground, the teasing banter that defines their relationship.

Except it's not quite the same anymore. Something has shifted between them tonight, a new understanding that can't be undone.

"Goodnight, Harry," Y/N says softly.

He nods, stepping into the hallway. "Goodnight, Y/N."

As she closes the door behind him, Y/N leans against it, a small smile playing on her lips. Her problems haven't disappeared—tomorrow she'll still need to rewrite her paper, talk to her advisor, and study for her next exam. But somehow, they all seem more manageable now.

She moves to her window, pulling back the curtain just in time to see Harry crossing the street back to the Sigma house, hunched against the rain. As if sensing her watching, he looks up, catching sight of her at the window. He gives her a small wave, which she returns before letting the curtain fall back into place.

Y/N turns to survey her apartment—the empty ice cream container, the wine glasses, the slightly crushed daisies now standing in a water glass on her counter. Physical evidence of the evening that has somehow transformed her worst day into something unexpectedly meaningful.

For the first time since meeting Harry Styles, Y/N finds herself looking forward to seeing what happens next between them—not dreading their next encounter or planning her defensive strategies, but genuinely curious about the person behind the cocky exterior he shows the world.

Taglist: @hisparentsgallery @toosarcastic03 @practistyles @sstyleszzz @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @pbandnutella @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhundTaglist: @hisparentsgallery @toosarcastic03 @practistyles @sstyleszzz @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @pbandnutella @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhund @loloooo1989

[eddiesghxst]

CRUEL INTENTIONS - part one: genesis

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: steddie x innocent/shy!reader

summary: you're a new student at All Saints Catholic Academy and Steve and Eddie have every intention to sink their teeth into you.

contains: enemies to lovers between steddie, blasphemy/religious talk, drug and alcohol use, SMUT - 18+, fingering, mentions of smoking, corruption kink, blood kink, mentions of a knife kink, very mild violence, subtle bullying, NON-CON/DUB-CON, and steddie being pervs <3

word count: 7.1k

WARNING: this fic contains dark themes including - NON-CON/DUB-CON,  manipulation, coercion, and corruption. Again, THIS IS A DARK FIC, do not read it if you’re not comfortable with it!

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| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

PREFACE…

“Here at All Saints Academy, we aim to ensure staff will equip students with everything needed to succeed physically and spiritually.”

Your mother and father are beaming on each side of you as you nod to the lady’s words, smiling in agreement. Mom and Dad have been busy with business, and they were starting to get weary about how much time you spend home alone, so they enrolled you in the best catholic boarding school money could buy.

It’s a beautiful campus with big Romanesque architecture-styled buildings. The halls are vast and well-lit with high-hung candle chandeliers. You have yet to visit the dorms, but from the pictures, you were able to tell they’re nothing short of spectacular. You don’t have much to complain about other than the absence of your parents.

“Based on your records here, I can tell you’re a bright student,” She smiles at you, folding her hands atop her desk, “We’re so glad to have you here, young lady.”

You preen under her praise; cheeks warm when your mom proudly squeezes your knee as you thank her. There’s not much left that the lady goes over; she mostly just lets your parents know how and when it’s appropriate to call to check on you or visit— and before you know it, you’re hugging your parents goodbye and waving from the main buildings front steps as they drive off. You’re clutching the folder and pamphlet to your chest, nerves racing through your body now that you’re officially on your own.

A new chapter, and you couldn’t be more excited to start it.

Eddie’s late to his last class of the day.

He’s late, and he’s praying that he doesn’t reek of weed because he’s on his last strike with this teacher, and he really can’t afford to get another call back home. It’s Eddie’s luck that the classroom has a door in the back, so he’s able to slip in quietly.

And Eddie’s not exactly thinking when he slides into the nearest seat, but he thinks maybe the universe is rooting for him because next to him is the prettiest girl he thinks he’s ever seen.

You’re wide-eyed from shock, given Eddie’s just casually slid into the seat next to you, and Eddie cracks a pearly white grin. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says with a slight undertone of sarcasm, “Is this seat taken?” Eddie asks.

You don’t even attempt to open your mouth in response; you just shake your head no, and Eddie’s grin widens. He holds a hand out for you to shake and introduces himself, “Eddie Munson. And you are?”

You’re shy, and your voice is sweet, but Eddie can hear you clearly as day when you say your name, gently shaking his hand with a visible blush dancing in your eyes. Eddie’s chest stirs when your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you shy away from his gaze. He smiles, caressing your warm knuckles as he responds, “Pretty name for an even prettier girl.” 

You smile, glancing at him with burning cheeks, “Thank you… I, um, I like your hair.”

Eddie laughs at that. He tries not to be too loud to draw any attention, but you’re the cutest thing, and you’re looking at his hair like you want to sit down and spend hours practicing different plait patterns. “Thank you,” he grins. Eddie’s eyes fall to your chest, and he snickers to himself before reaching forward, gently picking up the shiny pendants hanging from the silver chain on your neck. A cross and a purity ring. Fucking ace.

Eddie hums, twirling the purity ring between his fingers, “This is nice. Would you like to trade?”

Your face twists in confusion, “Trade?”

“Yeah, I’ll give you my hair for this cute little chain.” He gently tugs on the pendant, and you giggle. It’s a saccharine sound. Fucking beautiful, absolutely the best thing Eddie’s ever heard since his first listen to his first Metallica record, and Eddie thinks he could dedicate his life to pulling that sound from you. Thinks he wants to pull other noises from you too, ones that’ll make you preen with embarrassment and beg him to stop teasing— because your knees are brushing against Eddie’s thigh, and Eddie doesn’t even bother being slick about the way his gaze drops to your thighs, praying for your school skirt to ride up higher.

Eddie’s limbs have a mind of their own apparently, because his knuckles brush against your nylon-covered knee as you open your mouth to respond, but fucking Mrs. Lockwood steps up to you both with a clear of her throat. You jump, your hands settling in your lap as you turn to the teacher, “Munson. I didn’t see you walk in today; when did you arrive?”

You distract yourself with writing notes like a fucking scolded puppy, and Eddie almost ignores Mrs. Lockwood so he can just watch you in awe, but she clears her throat again, and Eddie shrugs, “Been here since the start of the period, miss.” Eddie responds.

Mrs. Lockwood hums with a tilt of her head, “I took attendance already, and you didn’t answer.”

Eddie shrugs again, glancing at you as you practically cower from the class's attention that’s now on you both, “I didn’t hear you say my name.”

And even though Mrs. Lockwood knows Eddie’s nothing but a bullshit liar, she also knows that Eddie can argue like he’s getting fucking paid for it, so— “Get your work done, please.”

And Eddie shoots a wink your way when the teacher turns away, but you’re too focused on your notebook, and Eddie thinks— Jesus Christ, he can’t wait to break you.

Classes end sooner than you know, and you find yourself in the dormitories. So far, you seem to like it here— the teachers are friendly, the workload isn’t too bad, and the students seem to keep mind to their studies— there was even one kid, Eddie, who made you feel nice and welcomed and you appreciated that more than you could express.

Still, even though your day was lovely, you’re exhausted from new faces and sceneries, and your eyes are begging for a moment to relax with a quick nap. With your mind so caught up on taking a nap, you forget to knock on the door to your dorm before you enter, twisting the doorknob and pushing the door wide open. 

You regret your mistake immediately.

“Oh my god!”

“Oh, goodness! I’m so sorry!” You turn and cover your eyes, shoulders tense as you spew out a slew of apologies to your roommate and the man she’d been busy with. How great! Your first day, and you’re already being a rude roommate. “I’m sorry, I should’ve knocked! I can just— I’ll just.” You move to blindly reach for the doorknob to make your exit, but your roommate speaks up before you can escape, “No! It’s fine, we— stop it— He was just leaving anyway.”

“I wasn’t actually—” “Steve.”

“Okay! Okay.”

You stay turned around with your back to the couple, embarrassment broiling in your veins as you try to ignore the rustling of clothes and sheets and their hushed whispers. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?” The man— Steve, you gather— whispers. You hear a wet smooching noise and a grumble from the girl to, ‘stop being gross.’ and your cheeks burn. The man huffs out a laugh, and you only turn when you can feel his presence behind you since you’re blocking the doorway. He’s tall, broad shoulders with a handsome face, and brown eyes to match his fluffy brown hair. His lips spread into a smirk, eyes dancing across your face as he winks, reaching around you to grasp the door handle, “Keep an eye on this one for me, okay?”

You don’t mean to, but with the handsome man so close to you as he shuffles to move past you, warm body brushing against yours, you can’t help but blush as you nod. He huffs a small laugh before bidding his last farewell to your roommate and disappearing into the hallway. You’re unsure how he can easily slip in and out of the girl's dormitory, but you don’t ask when your roommate clears her throat, “Sorry about that.” She mumbles, “I’ll be sure to be more… mindful in the future.”

You nod with a welcoming smile, stepping further into the room as she rises to her feet and extends a hand for you to shake, “I’m Nancy, by the way.”

When Nancy asked you if you were busy tonight, you weren’t under the impression that the night's final destination would be a party. You surely weren’t under the impression that it would be as big as a party as this one— it’s something you’ve only seen in movies… well, only the few movies you’ve been allowed to watch.

It looked somewhat fun in the movies, but this? This was anything but fun. It was a mistake tagging along with Nancy tonight.

You’ve only just finished your first day at All Saints, and you’re already surrounding yourself with terrible things, things your parents have warned you time and time again to avoid— drugs, alcohol, sex, etc.

It’s everywhere: your classmates are drunk and cheering on as the rugby team chug beers, Tommy and Carol have been making out on the living room couch for nearly an hour, and Nancy— god, you don’t even know where she is, and you’re overwhelmed and scared, and you wish you had stayed in your dorm when Nancy asked what you were doing tonight.

You didn’t want to seem rude, and Nancy is so nice despite Carol evidently hating your guts, and you would hate to throw it back in her face. And sure, maybe she’s only being nice because you’re her roommate, but you still feel as if it’s a little obligatory to accept whatever plans she throws your way.

You’re still in your school uniform, making you feel out of place since everyone here seems to be straight out of a magazine, revealing dresses and neatly done hair. You’ve been glued to the living room wall since you arrived, too scared to do anything but blink and stare in shock. It’s when things start getting rowdy with the rugby team that you decide to peel yourself from the wall, desperate for some sense of reprieve from the absolute zoo you’ve been thrown into, but a body slides up beside you and catches your attention.

A handsome man, tall with dirty blond curly locks that dust across his broad shoulders. His eyes are dark with his gaze, but you can see the ice-cold blue peeking through when a light passes. “You’re too pretty to be hiding in the shadows, you know?”

It’s strong and direct and should make your nose scrunch up in distaste, but with the drawl of his voice and the way he’s leaning a solid hand onto the wall, it makes your cheeks warm. He drops the hand that had been on the wall and reaches out, offering a handshake, “Billy.” He introduces himself.

You only blink at him, glancing at his hand, and he chuckles, a dashing white smile flashing on his face. “Okay. Well, can I offer you a drink? Haven’t seen you with a cup all night.” He points out. You’re not sure why, but the comment makes your stomach twist. He raises a seemingly kind eyebrow, and you shake your head, shying away and pressing further against the wall, “I-I don’t really drink.” You respond.

Billy snickers, head tipping to the side with an unamused look, “Have you ever had a drink?” He questions. Your face warms at that, embarrassed by the truth when you shake your head, “No…” You mumble. The man laughs again, hearty and clean, before he shrugs. His other hand, the hand that’s been wrapped around a can, reaches out between you both, and his eyes glisten when he gazes at you, “Try some of mine?”

You quickly shake your head, curling your fingers into your palms, “No, thank you, I think I’m gonna—” “Come on. It’s not like I’m trying to poison you; just take a sip.”

And well… he’s right, right? He isn’t trying to poison you. He’s being kind, offering you his drink, and you’re being rude and acting like he just asked you to kill your childhood dog. Your shoulders drop, physically giving in as you reach forward, but Billy pulls the can away with a smirk. You’re confused as you gaze up at him, eyebrows furrowed when he steps closer.

He slinks his fingers beneath your chin, rough fingertips sending shivers up your spine as he roughly tells you to “Open up.”

You’re against the wall with nowhere to go, so you obey his orders, opening your mouth, eyes squeezed shut as you try to ignore his chuckles. Your nails are cutting into your skin at this point, stinging and sure to leave a mark as you await the drink on your tongue. You nearly choke when he pours the drink right onto your throat— no, you do choke. You fidget beneath him, wriggling and accidentally getting some of the drink on your chin, and Billy hums like he’s enjoying the sight. “Keep going, doll, you’re doing fuckin’ great.” He chuckles.

You whine, reaching up to press your hands against his chest as the drink threatens to overflow your mouth. But Billy doesn’t stop. He keeps going until the drink is spilling over the sides of your mouth, and you have no choice but to shove at him, choking on the bitter liquor as he chuckles— he’s so strong he doesn’t even budge. But then suddenly, someone is grabbing the boy and tearing him off of you with a loud curse. They’re arguing, that much you can tell, but your head is foggy as you try and catch your breath.

The front of your shirt is damp with the bitter-tasting drink, and you frown, angrily wiping at your mouth as you look at the two men arguing. “The fuck is your problem, man?” It’s Steve, Nancy’s boyfriend. You had all arrived together, but Steve and Nancy seemed to be in the middle of some quarrel, given the way they had immediately parted ways once they stepped into the party.

Your chest tightens, knowing he had come to practically save you, watching as he furiously shoves at the other boy. “Relax, Harrington, we’re just having fun,” Billy snickers before looking at you with a smirk, “Right, Cherry? We were having fun.” And it’s then that you catch the group of people across the room laughing and snickering from the scene you’d just caused. It was planned.

You catch Carol and Tommy giggling, and then you see Nancy locking eyes as she sends you an apologetic look. With a frown on your face and tears brewing in your eyes, you flee the scene, heart racing and embarrassment flooding your body and soul, ignoring Steve as he calls your name.

The kitchen is crowded but less than the living room, and you’re just glad to be in a well-lit room now with zero eyes on you and the promise of a glass of water somewhere.

You’re so caught up spiraling within yourself that you don’t even realize you’ve stopped right in front of your newest classmate friend— “I did not expect to see you here, lamb.”

You turn at the familiar voice, your body immediately relaxing when you meet the gaze of pretty brown eyes. You blink, tilting your head in confusion once you realize what Eddie called you, “Lamb?”

Eddie, perched up on the kitchen counter, taps the heel of his shoe against the wooden cabinet, “You’re cute like one. Lost, too.”

“I’m not lost,” you respond, shying away when Eddie raises an eyebrow, “M’just… overwhelmed. Never been to a party before, and that Billy guy is so… mean.” You frown.

Eddie hums, reaching out and gently tugging on your necklace. You’re not sure why, but Eddie seems to have a weird fascination with it. “Mm. What are you doing here? Little lamb like you should be at the dorms, studying or sleeping like a good girl, hm? Wouldn’t have run into Billy if you were being good.” He says. You frown at his words, guilt swirling in your chest from the reality that you definitely should not be here. Nothing good comes out of places like this; your parents had always warned you to avoid it, yet here you are. Your first night, and you’re already disobeying your parent's wishes.

“Uh, my roommate, Nancy, invited me.” You answer. Eddie’s eyes glimmer with something you can’t quite put your finger on, but before you can even ask, he’s sitting up straight and hopping down from the counter, “Notice you’ve got empty hands. Want a drink?”

You blink, subconsciously twirling your necklace between your fingers as you respond, “Um— a water, please?” Eddie’s lips twitch into a smile, and he nods, “One water coming right up.” He winks. You don’t know why, but the gesture makes your chest flutter. You're thankful that Eddie seems to have a kind heart.

Eddie disappears momentarily to get your water, but he’s quick about it and by your side in no time. Before you can thank him for grabbing you a drink, someone else is sliding into the frame with a gentle hand pressing to your lower back, a familiar soft yet deep voice filling your ears, “Hey, are you alright?”

Steve. You blink up at the boy, shying beneath his gaze in embarrassment from how he’d seen you not too long ago. “Uh, y-yeah. I’m okay.” You answer. Steve glares at Eddie, who’s silently watching as Steve reaches forward and takes the untouched cup of water from you. “Is he bothering you?” Steve doesn’t refer to Eddie by name, but you know he’s talking about the other boy. 

You immediately shake your head no, “No, I—” “Does it look like she’s having a bad time, Steve?”

The attention is now on Eddie as he calmly gazes at Steve, waiting for an answer. Steve’s eyes narrow, fingers subconsciously tightening around the red solo cup, “Fuck off, Munson. I know what you do to girls at these parties.” Steve says with a raise of the cup. You don’t know what Steve is talking about, but you don’t get a chance to ask because Eddie tilts his head with a grin and asks, “Yeah? What’s that?”

Steve grimaces, like Eddie’s the most repulsive thing he’s ever come across, and you frown, sad to see that your new friends seem to not be getting along. Steve places your cup of water on the kitchen island, “You’re fucking sick in the head. I won’t let you do your weird satanic bullshit on Nancy’s friend.”

Without a moment's pause, Eddie responds, crossing his arms over his chest with a tilt of his head, “Mm. Nancy’s friend or your eye candy?

And then Steve punches Eddie square in the jaw.

It happens quicker than you can comprehend, and you stand there like a deer in headlights when Tommy appears from nowhere to pull Steve off of Eddie. Eddie’s grinning, bloody, and tauntingly with a split lip, and Steve is glaring with clenched fists as Tommy backs him up to the other side of the room, mumbling stuff about Steve needing to keep his spot as captain on the rugby team— “He’s not worth it, man.”

Instinctively, as you see your new friend has gotten hurt, you step forward to assess the damage, frowning at the open wound as Steve calls out a harsh remark. You figure you should take Eddie somewhere that Steve isn’t, so you gently tug on him, but Eddie only chuckles at Steve’s words, stumbling in a daze as you drag him away from the scene.

You don’t know where you’re going, but Eddie seems to realize your intentions when you open the third door to an occupied bedroom, “Restrooms down there, lamb.” He gestures down the hallway. Surely enough, the last room in the hallway is the restroom, and when you step in with Eddie behind you, you’re too busy searching for a first aid kit to hear the undeniable click! of the lock to the door, sealing you to your fate.

Eddie, claiming he was tired of standing, made himself comfortable on the floor, ushering you down to join him with the dusty, old first aid kit you’d found. You don’t mind it, but having your knees scuffed up by the cold, hard ground of the restroom floor makes you squirm until Eddie hums, suppressing a wince when you dab an alcohol wipe at his split lip.

“What’s wrong, peach?” He asks.

You huff, shifting in your spot, “Floors hard.” You grumble, focused on your task. Eddie frowns then, and you shake your head quickly, “It’s okay th— oh!” To your surprise, Eddie’s hands are stern on your hips as they drag you forward onto his lap, making sure your thighs bracket his hips, alleviating the pressure from your knees.

It’s nerve-wracking being this close to Eddie; you’re practically inhaling him, and you can feel something hard forming against your thigh. You try your best to ignore the unfamiliar object as you dress Eddie’s wound. You clear your throat, “You and Steve know each other?” You ask.

Eddie hums, warm hands settling on your bare thighs, fingertips digging into your soft skin. “You could say that.” He responds. You frown, tossing the bloody wipes to the side once you finish cleaning his lip. “Eddie?”

“Hm?”

You fidget in your spot, and Eddie groans, but you’re unsure why. “What did… what was Steve talking about? About you with girls and parties?” You ask. Eddie’s eyes are sharp as he gazes at you, and you find yourself shying away from him, subconsciously reaching up to fiddle with your necklace. “He said you do weird… satanic things.” You whisper.

Eddie, ever the handsome man he is, cracks a grin that sends shivers down your spine. It’s alarming, and you find yourself squirming to create distance between you, but Eddie’s hands slink under your skirt, fingertips harshly digging into your skin to drag you back over his crotch. Your breath hitches, heart racing in your chest from the sudden proximity.

Eddie’s voice is a low drawl when he responds, “Does that scare you, lamb?”

You can barely look Eddie in the eye, your throat suddenly feeling tight as Eddie’s hands explore the skin of your thighs. You want to pull away; you can hardly stop yourself from glancing at the door, but Eddie’s gazing at you with this gaze— daring you to try.

You shake your head no, eyes burning with the threat of tears. “Sure about that?” Eddie asks. Eddie shifts below you, and your fingers curl into the palm of your hand, widely blinking at him as you nod. The rough pad of Eddie’s thumb drags across the waistband of your panties, and you whimper, dropping your hands to wrap around Eddie’s decorated wrists and weakly tugging.

“I think I should go, Eddie. N-Nancy’s probably looking for me.” It’s a poor excuse, and Eddie doesn’t even try to act like it isn’t when he quickly responds, “Nancy’s off sucking face with her boyfriend, lamb. I can guarantee you she’s not looking for you.”

Eddie’s sharp tone and mean words pull your lips into a frown, but Eddie doesn’t pay any mind as he leisurely teases his fingertips on the waistband of your panties, tilting his head with a menacing gaze, “It’s a sin to lie, sweet lamb.”

Your frown deepens, hips squirming when Eddie presses a thumb into the middle of your lower pelvis, “I didn’t—” Eddie cuts you off with a raise of his eyebrow, and you slump into yourself. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to lie, but…”

You gasp when Eddie hooks his thumb in the side of your panties, his other arm tightening around your waist when you shakily breathe and try to move away. “But you did. And now you owe me. Not only for saving you out there but also for lying to me.”

Your face twists in confusion, voice weak and small as you ask, “Saving me?”

Eddie doesn’t bother answering you, doesn’t bother saying anything really, because he takes the moment of your confusion to slip his thumb beneath the thin cotton between your thighs, swiftly seeking out the bundle of nerves between your lips. You jump with a squeal, pressing your palms into Eddie’s chest, “I, wait—” “Shh, shh, shh. I’m gonna make you feel good, baby.” Eddie hums.

You’re shaking in his hold, whimpering and fighting against him, but Eddie’s much stronger than you, so it’s useless trying to get out of his hold. “I wanna go home, Eddie.” You softly sob. Eddie hums, dragging you closer and nuzzling into your neck, his nose dusting across your chin and breathing in deep, “I’ll take you home, sweet lamb,” he lowly says, flicking your bud beneath his finger, “I’ll take you home right after this, yeah?”

You’re huffing in uneven breaths, on the precipice of sheer panic, but Eddie’s words hold a promise, and even if you’ve only known the man for less than a day, you somehow find yourself trusting his word. Brave through this, and Eddie will safely take you home. Right?

You sniffle, knuckles curling into Eddie’s shirt as he drags his thumb lower to your entrance. It’s slick there; it happens every now and then, this weird sensation that makes your insides curl. You’re not supposed to act on it; it’s just your body tempting you to sin, but the way Eddie dips into your hole and drags the sticky substance up to your tight nerves makes your toes curl, and your eyes roll.

“O-oh!” Your thighs quake, and Eddie grins against your skin, softly chuckling when your hips jolt into his touch. “That feel good? Has anyone ever touched you like this?” He asks, his voice seeping into your ear and down to your core. You whimper, knuckles prominent and aching from how hard you’re clenching a fist. You can’t even bring yourself to answer him, hardly shaking your head with a wet sob as he pinches the taut nerves.

Your head is spinning, lungs full with the smell of Eddie, mind whirling with his words, limbs weak with overwhelming sensation. “No?” Eddie muses, “No one’s ever touched this cute little pussy? Such a shame. You make the cutest noises when I fuck you like this.”

Eddie’s words are so lewd. So perverted and raunchy that it causes your entire body to burst into flames, subconsciously hiding your face in Eddie’s neck. Your fingers accidentally curl into the ends of Eddie’s hair, and he groans, chest vibrating against yours as he teases one finger in and out of your entrance. 

“I-I, Eddie, it feels…” “What? Feels good?”

You don’t want to say yes. Don’t want to admit that this sinful and greedy act is making your stomach twist and your body shake from pleasure you’ve never tasted before, but it does. You’re writhing in his arms, hips twitching into his palm while simultaneously trying to move away from him. “Come on, sweet lamb. You’re twitching around me, so I know you want it. Just give in.” He says. You shake your head, unwilling to admit it because, no, you didn’t want this… but it feels so good. It’s so wrong, and it feels good. Eddie grunts, humming at the slick sound coming from between your legs, and you keen forward in blissful white-hot pleasure, eyebrows furrowing when Eddie’s lips smear over the corner of your mouth.

The music and chatter of the party from outside drown out as Eddie mumbles into your skin, a gentle finger working in and out of you, teasing to sink all the way in. You’ve never felt this way before. You’ve never let the desire boil over a fleeting thought, always quick to turn to prayer, and you are, without a doubt, ashamed.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie groans, “You’re so fucking tight. Wonder how I’m gonna be able to fit my cock in this little pussy.” He speaks to himself as you loudly whimper, leaning into the immense build-up. His arm loosens from around you, and you take the opportunity to wriggle away from him, but he doesn’t let you go far. He’s making quick work to grasp onto your chin tightly, fingertips angrily digging into your cheek as he drags you forward, sharp gaze cutting across your face as he grits out, “I’ll just have to make it fit then, won’t I.”

It’s not a question, but you shake your head nonetheless, even if Eddie’s hold prevents you from doing so.

It’s when Eddie shoves the entire length of his finger into you that you topple over the edge, a sharp cry leaving your lips as your body tenses, face screwing up in pleasure. Eddie slants his lips over yours, tasting your cries and moaning into them, creating a harmony of nothing but sin. Your thighs shake, and Eddie’s finger is moving in tandem with the thumb he’s pressed to your clit, shoving you closer and closer to this immense sensation that has you sobbing out against his mouth.

You whine, squirming against his hold when his sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, harsh and claiming. The taste of metal fills your mouth, spilling onto Eddie’s tongue when he laves it over the new wound. He parts from your mouth with a wet smack; lips tinted red with your blood as he gives his second bloody smile of the night. Between the throbbing and sore sensation in your core and the aching wound Eddie has now left on your lip, your body has been pushed to the limit.

Eddie smiles, reaching up to thumb at your split lip, eyes twinkling as he admires his work. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your damp cheek, gently licking the salty tears away with a hum before settling back to gaze at you in a fond manner.

He pinches your lip, grinning when your breath catches.

“Now we match.”

Eddie doesn’t usually go to mass.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to go (he doesn’t), but who the hell is waking up at six in the morning to sing a bunch of ancient hymnals and recite scriptures that he’s already read a million times before? Not Eddie. 

The thought of dragging himself out of bed, still half asleep and groggy, to sit through a seemingly endless series of hymns and recitations he’d heard countless times before was simply dreadful. It was a chore—a monotonous obligation that stifled his soul rather than nourishing it. You couldn’t pay Eddie enough to say one good thing about mass.

Well, that’s changed now that you’re here.

One good thing about mass? The pretty girl sitting three rows ahead of him.

Sunshine-dripping smiles and flouncy skirts. Strawberry and honey-scented winds when you walk by. Pretty, kind, and innocent bright-eyed you— the star of Eddie’s dreams— wet and tame. It’s been a day, and Eddie would crawl to the ends of the earth for a second between your thighs— except Eddie doesn’t need to do all that work because he’s practically got you in the palm of his hands.

You’re so fucking clueless, so easy to bend and mold into the shape of Eddie’s little fucktoy that Eddie honestly thinks this is the universe's gift to him for fucking him over all his life. And Eddie’s had his fair share of women. Back home, he fucked over half of Hawkins PTA moms, and he’s had a few of the prissy good-for-nothing girls here at All Saints doubled over his dorm bed and sobbing his name. He’s had a good run with a few of the rugby and soccer team members as well, sometimes takes a good fuck as payment for a bit of snow.

And Eddie’s into fucked up shit, okay. Likes the whole chains and whips scene, likes it when they cry, and aren’t sure whether to ask for more or less. He likes leaving his mark, whether it be with his teeth, his hands, or his pretty Darla— a pretty, wooden hunting knife that his old man gifted him before he got tossed in the pen. Eddie can’t hunt for shit, but he figures he’s still doing the blade justice, right? Carving his initials into his catches seems better, anyway.

And Eddie likes to break things just to fix them again. When he was younger, he would take apart the home phone down to the tiny nuts and bolts and put it back together, and he would do it over and over until he got bored and moved on to the toaster.

Technically, you aren’t any different from the home phone or the toaster.

Eddie wants to take you apart, piece by piece, and study your parts until he’s an expert in all things you. And then he wants to put you back together, leave out certain pieces, and replace them with his own until you’re nothing but a creation of his doing. He wants to make you believe in him like he’s a fucking god, like he’s everything, like you were nothing before him, and you’ll be nothing without him. He wants to ruin you for anybody else.

He wants you for him and only him.

You’re cute today. More timid and shy than you were yesterday, and you’re even cuter with your head bowed as you recite prayers and confessions of your own. You’ve got the school uniform on, just as everybody else, a pleated skirt with knee highs that Eddie can’t wait to feel brushing up against his ears as he fucks you into his shitty mattress. Eddie notices you have a habit of subconsciously tugging and twirling around the pendants on your necklace, and it somehow makes you cuter.

You’re battling something, Eddie can tell, with the way you’re practically choking yourself with the necklace and chewing on your lip, careful not to nick the scabbed over the wound that Eddie had left last night— so fucking cute. 

And then, Eddie realizes what had been worrying you when you stand up and make your way over to the short line where students line up to sit in a box and confess their lousy sins to some dipshit priest that could care less.

And Eddie thinks, oh, you’re just the sweetest thing he’s ever come across— confessing to sins that don’t exist. Asking for forgiveness that you won’t receive. You were made for Eddie to destroy, and he’s already fucking winning.

And as if it couldn’t get better— there’s Steve.

Steve Harrington— captain of the rugby team, grade-A asshole, and the one thing that Eddie could never get his hands on— is looking at Eddie like he wishes he would burst into flames on the fucking spot. Eddie’s seen an angry Steve— he’s a rugby player, for fucks sake— and Eddie can admit that this look, the angry glare he’s receiving from across the room, tops it all.

Steve has never liked Eddie, and he never will— he made that clear one too many times. He’s caught Eddie looking at him in class or watching him instead of the priest during sermons, but he made sure to let Eddie know he wants nothing to do with him because, ‘I’m not fucking gay, Munson.’ And that’s fine. Whatever. Eddie’s not wailing to the sky about how Steve Harrington doesn’t want to fuck him. But something about the look Steve’s giving Eddie— the absolute murderous glare that’s cutting stars into Eddie’s vision— makes Eddie think that maybe he’s got a chance.

Like, you ever hate someone so much you wanna fuck them? That’s how Steve’s looking at Eddie. Like Steve wants to make Eddie feel so good that Eddie loathes the fact that it’s Steve making him feel good. Like he wants to make Eddie see stars. Like he wants to make Eddie regret ever looking at you.

It’s cute. So fucking cute, you and Steve.

And Eddie realizes— yeah, I hit the fucking jackpot.

The day passes fairly quickly, and the athletic period arrives before Eddie can gauge it.

Eddie very rarely participates in afternoon sports. 

It’s not that Eddie doesn’t like sports— Wayne is a big baseball fan, so he knows quite a bit about the sport— but Eddie doesn’t have a single athletic bone in his body, so it’s more of a matter over mind thing, really.

Unfortunately, athletics is mandatory, and Eddie is on his righteous way to failing if he skips one more day, so he musters up the dignity he has left and forces himself to attend the class. The sun is annoyingly bright today, and there’s hardly a breeze, so Eddie’s sticky and sweaty by the end of warm-up— and Eddie was not planning on washing his hair tonight, but alas… eh, he probably won’t either way.

It’s halfway through the period when Eddie decides the coach doesn’t give a shit about him, and he can make an escape to the locker room. It’s been roughly a month since Eddie was last in this rancid-smelling room— two weeks if you count the drug deal he made with the soccer goalkeeper; he was short on cash, so Eddie settled for a blowie as payment, and although Baine swears to fuck all that he’s never sucked dick before, the hand to mouth coordination was a little bit too practiced for a rookie, so. 

Even if there’s a fresh, raunchy memory to associate with athletics, Eddie’s still got a scowl on his face when he walks into the locker room. His skin is searing to the touch, hotter than a fucking oven, and Eddie hates being hot— there is nothing extraordinary about being a metalhead when the weather is twelve degrees above hell. He’s making a beeline for the showers, not even bothering to remove his shirt when he flips on the cold water and sticks his neck beneath the cool stream. It’s orgasmic, really, and Eddie thinks he could spend an eternity here if it didn't smell like dick and balls.

Eddie’s so caught up in the cooling sensation of water on his skin that he doesn’t even hear the locker room door open or the heavy footsteps of Steve Harrington. He fucking feels him, though, especially when the rugby player reaches around and switches off the shower head, sweat-slick skin rubbing against Eddie’s wet frame.

Eddie turns around then to look at Steve, raising an eyebrow at the deep scowl on the other boy's face. “What’d you do to her, you fucking asshole?”

Despite Steve glaring at Eddie with a look that would send anyone in their right mind running for the hills, Eddie can’t help but think him akin to a chipmunk. Cute with more anger than his little body can hold. “Not sure who you’re talking about, Harrington,” Eddie responds. Steve snarls like he’s a literal wolf and Eddie almost coos, “You know who I’m talking about, Munson.”

Eddie feigns confusion before snapping his fingers as if he’s come to a conclusion, “Oh! You mean your eye candy from last night—” Eddie can’t say more then because Steve is grasping him by the collar of his shirt and pressing him into the shower wall, anger flashing across his eyes as he glares at Eddie. “Watch your fucking mouth, Eddie—”

“Why?” Eddie presses with a glare, “You’re mad I got to her before you could? I gotta say, I owe you big time, Harrington.” He teases.

“Thanks for punching me in the fucking mouth.” Eddie shoves the boy off of him with a glare. “Really fucking hurt, by the way. But I mean, it sped up the process for me. You practically dropped her cute little ass in my lap.”

Steve steps closer, sharing a breath with Eddie as he grits out, “If one punch wasn’t enough for you to back off, I’ll gladly give you another.” He threatens. Cute.

Eddie chuckles, pushing Steve away again with a roll of his eyes. “Jesus. Loosen up, man, I didn’t fuck her… Not yet, anyway—” “Well, you can keep wishing.”

Eddie bellows out a deep, hearty laugh at that, head tossing back as he leans against the shower wall, “It’s funny you think you have a say, Stevie.”

With a glare on his face, Steve scoffs and turns to leave, but Eddie thinks now is the perfect time to give his proposal, if ever, right? So, despite Eddie’s pride, he calls out the other boy's name, stepping away from the shower wall when Steve turns back around with an annoyed expression.

“I’ll tell you what, Harrington,” Eddie says as he approaches Steve. “I’ll teach her.”

Steve’s face twists in confusion at that, glaring at Eddie as he responds, “Teach her?” 

Eddie nods with a grin tugging at his lips, “I’ll teach her. Get her nice and ready, even have her wrapped in a cute little bow for you— and when she’s ready, you can have her. I’ll even grant you the privilege of fucking her first.”

And Steve doesn’t seem to believe it, which, Eddie doesn’t blame him— it’s a great fucking deal. Steve shifts in his spot, body turning more towards Eddie as his eyes slightly narrow, “What’s in it for you?”

Eddie scoffs out a laugh, flashing a pearly white grin that seems to make the other boy's face flush with a cute light tinge of pink, “Everything, man. I get to break her in,” Eddie shrugs, “It’s the best part.”

And whether or not Steve thinks Eddie is completely insane, whether he believes in those satanic ritual rumors or not, or if he believes Eddie’s some ridiculously demented man, it doesn’t stop Steve from wanting in. Eddie can read Steve from a mile away, and nothing about Steve’s demeanor right now says he’s not interested.

“...Fine— but if I find out you fucked her—” Before Steve can finish the threat, Eddie’s holding his hands up in surrender. “Cross my heart, hope to die, Harrington. She’ll be perfectly trained and fresh for you.” Eddie winks. Steve grimaces at that, shaking his head as he begins to turn around and walk away with a mumble of, “Fuckin’ perv.”

And Eddie can only grin to himself as he watches the boy leave, knowing that not only is Eddie gonna have the time of his life turning you into his personal fucktoy, but he will also 100% turn Steve Harrington into his bitch.

part two.

freaky lil cutie taglist: @gnrquinn @otterpop13 @sirensleepingsoundly @hugdealer @poppyseed018 @your-nightmaredoll @daysinthephoenix @chaiflvrd @daisy-munson @amira0303 @kellsck @eddiesguitarskills @peaches-roses-sins @ohmeg @tellmealovestory @munsonsbtch @freak-of-hawkins @darknesseddiem @urdadsnewgiirlfriend

a/n: HIIIII, oh god here we go, another series hehe. again, thank u so much to my bae @munsonlore for brainstorming this fic w me and helping me along the way. i hope u enjoy what we have planned for these three ;)

thank u for reading, ily always!!

[iydiamartinx]

WHAT FIRE CANNOT TAME

Pairing: Maegor The Cruel x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.4k synopsis: She was bought, chained, and bloodied—but not broken. When a slave master falls by her hand, Maegor Targaryen sees more than defiance. He sees fire worth claiming. a/n: Part 2? maybe?

The air reeked of salt and sweat. Fish guts, blood, and desperation clung to the stones beneath booted feet, ground into the mud of the port’s narrow alleys. Ships docked in rows, their sails flapping in the gentle breeze. And at the edge of the marketplace, where gold changed hands and chains clinked like wind chimes, slaves were sold like cattle.

Maegor Targaryen loathed such places.

Not because he found the trade dishonourable—no, the world bent only to those strong enough to hold the leash—but because most men who trafficked in flesh were pathetic. Fat, loud, soft-fingered. Abusing what they never earned.

His horse stamped impatiently beneath him, restless from the crowd. He ignored it. His eyes had caught something.

A commotion near one of the pens.

A girl had just been sold—a new one, recently captured if the tattered foreign silks were anything to go by. She couldn’t have been older than her late teens, and already the buyer had seized her by the chin, his fat fingers bruising pale skin as he turned her face left and right like she was an animal.

Then his hand slid down.

The girl froze.

He whispered something against her cheek.

Then she moved.

Her knee drove into the man’s gut with such force that he stumbled back with a wheeze. He wasn’t prepared for the elbow that cracked into his temple a breath later. The crowd barely had time to register what was happening before she was on him—tangled hair flying, shackled hands striking, biting, fighting.

The slaver hit the ground hard, and she went with him, a snarl tearing from her throat as she sank her teeth into his shoulder. He howled. Blood stained the pale fabric of her dress, and still, she didn’t stop.

The guards lunged to pull her off. She struck without hesitation—faster than they expected—and dropped the man with a sickening crack to the jaw. Two more tried to restrain her. She broke a nose and clawed at an eye, fighting like a dragon cornered.

The man who bought her made the mistake of underestimating her. He reached to pin her arms—and she drove a jagged piece of iron into the side of his throat.

The crowd gasped.

The man collapsed, gurgling, twitching at her feet. The girl stood over him, breathing hard, crimson dripping from her fingers, her eyes locked not on the corpse—but on those around her.

Daring them.

Maegor didn’t speak. He only dismounted, his boots thudding hard against the dock.

He didn’t need to shout. The crowd watching silenced at once when they saw him approach. 

Targaryen.

Maegor knew his kin when he saw them. Even if she was a bastard born of some dishonored union, even if the records would never bear her name—she bore the blood. And it was burning.

“Stop.”

One word.

Every movement ceased.

The girl was panting, blood smeared across her lip, hands trembling with fury. She turned toward the voice that cut through the chaos and froze when she noticed him—soaked in sweat and fury, her chest rising and falling, one lock of silver-gold hair falling over her lilac eyes.

“Who is she?” Maegor asked.

The slave master—pale, limping, humiliated—managed to wheeze, “A bastard, we were told, Your Grace. From Lys. Wild bitch… you wouldn’t want her. Barely speaks—”

“She speaks well enough with her hands,” Maegor cut in coolly.

“She killed him,” the man gasped, trying and failing to stand straighter.

“He was weak,” Maegor said flatly, eyes never leaving the girl.

She stood a few feet away, flanked by two guards. The collar around her neck was iron and tight, chafing the skin raw. Her wrists were bound in rusted shackles. Blood clung to her hands—her would be master’s blood. A spatter still stained her cheek.

But her spine did not bow. Her chin did not lower. Her silver-blonde hair was tangled and damp with sweat, her tunic torn, but her violet eyes burned—untamed and unwavering. They burned right into him.

Maegor stepped forward, the clang of his boots on stone the only sound in the chamber. The guards shifted nervously. The slave master stayed silent, wisely now.

“Do you not fear punishment?” Maegor asked, voice like steel sheathed in silk.

The girl stared at him, her voice cold and clear. “I’ve already been punished. Every day of my life.”

Something flickered in his eyes—interest, perhaps. A cruel smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.

“I saw what you did,” he said.

Her lip curled slightly. “He touched what didn’t belong to him.”

“And so you killed him?”

“He was warned.” Her voice did not tremble. “He didn’t listen.”

“He paid for you,” the slave master croaked.

“Seemed he paid too little,” she said, without looking at him. “So I took the rest of what he owed—with his life.”

Maegor chuckled—low, dry, almost amused. “And what is your price then?”

The girl tilted her chin up, unafraid. “There isn’t one.”

That brought him closer, until the hem of his black cloak nearly brushed her bare feet. His gaze sharpened, the weight of it near-suffocating. Yet, his voice was still curious. “You think you’re above being owned?”

“I think I’m abovemen like him,” she said, loud enough to echo. “I would rather die than be someone’s slave.”

A tense silence followed. One of the guards exhaled sharply. Another muttered under his breath, “She should be whipped.”

Maegor turned slowly toward the man who spoke. His gaze alone was enough to make the guard flinch.

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. The silence that followed thickened—clotted with tension, and something darker. Expectation. Dread. When Maegor fixed his stare like that, it meant judgment was near. And judgment from Maegor often came in blood.

The guard faltered, lowering his eyes. He stepped back without a word, his armor clinking faintly with the retreat.

He circled her once, slow, appraising. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. She stood like a soldier awaiting execution. Like a dragon daring someone to try and leash it.

He stopped behind her, his rough callous fingers gently moved her pale hair off one shoulder and he watched as she tensed but she made no move to attack. His smile grew by the slightest, she was a little thing compared to him yet he could feel the tension thrumming through her body. She would attack him if he made even the slightest wrong move.

He stepped back. “Take the collar off.”

A stunned silence followed. The guards hesitated. The slave master sputtered.

The slaver sputtered. “My prince—she’s—she’s—”

“I said,” Maegor growled, “take it off.”

This time, no one questioned him. One of the guards stepped forward with trembling hands, fumbling with the bolt at her neck. It gave with a sharp clink, and the collar dropped into the dirt with a metallic thud.

She didn’t rub her neck. She didn’t touch the place that had been raw and bruised. She simply raised her chin higher, as if daring anyone to put it back.

Maegor studied her for a long moment. The blood on her dress. The still-dripping iron shard in her hand. The gash across her cheekbone that she hadn’t even noticed.

“You’ll come with me,” he said simply, already walking back to his horse.

He hadn’t even looked back to see if she was following, her eyes darted around as if debating escape but everyone’s eyes were on her, if she stayed she knew the slavers would punish her for killing her master. Maegor was her safest option for now and he knew it.

Reluctantly, she followed him, moving to his side, she barely even reached his shoulder because he was so tall.

As they approached his horse, she murmured, “You’re not worried I might run?”

“You won’t make it far,” he said without looking at her.

She believed him.

He mounted in one fluid motion, then extended a hand down to her. She hesitated. Only for a breath. Then her fingers closed around his, and he pulled her up onto the saddle with one solid tug, settling her in front of him.

His arm circled her waist to steady her. She was light, sharp-boned, and filthy, but her spine was straight as a blade.

She tilted her head just enough to meet his eye. “I could fight you.”

Maegor looked down at her then. Bloodied, breathing hard, radiant in defiance.

The slow curl of his lips chilled her blood.

“Then I’ll enjoy myself.”

[guiltyfemcel]

Puppy dog

•*⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ *•*⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧*•

•ᴥ︎• Anon asks: Imagine reader being joost new dogsitter!! He’s away for tour or something and he constantly asks her for updates on his dogs :-)) when he returns they have some tension ?? Friends to lovers if u may

•ᴥ︎• A/n: This is my first fic, don’t be afraid to share constructive criticism, but also be mindful of why you were invited to the xreader 😊 lmao

•ᴥ︎•(dog) tags: 2.5k words, slowish burn, slight yearning, dog slobber, reader smokes cigs and has an “accent” thats about it.

part one, part two, part three

•*⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ *•*⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧*•

Part 1

Joost had shown nothing but kindness to you when you had first moved to The Netherlands. You remember when you first met, drunkenly asking him for a light outside a club. He was quick to strike up a conversation, your sense of style and humor intriguing him, he caught the roughness in your accent when you spoke and asked about it. You haven’t had to force a conversation with him since, finding comfort in your shared interest and niche internet knowledge. It doesn’t confuse you why you became such close friends so quick, it was hard not to be charmed by his genuine personality.

That was quite some time ago now.

You had both leaned well into the comfort of your friendship, regularly seeing each other several times a week. Today was much like those other days, you both walking into a record store you frequented, the bell above the door jingled as you entered the aged building. Its shelves had long yellowed from time and dust covered records covered the walls of the store, but it had held up quite well and had an impressive array of music. You were engaged in lighthearted and colorful conversation, browsing the new arrivals section of the store as you usually do, but you were distracted by Joost’s attitude. Sure, he seemed happy to see you,still laughing and cracking jokes, yet you could tell there was something on his mind that kept pulling him away from you. You interrupted his explanation of a video he saw on instagram reels that had him crying laughing at 1am to ask him

“How has planning for tour been going?” You watched him pause, hands that were once dancing between records coming to a screeching halt.

“Great actually, everything is set in stone and now we just wait…” you watched a smile slide on his face but never reach his eyes. You had spent more than enough time around him to know when he was bullshitting. It was hard to hide the disbelieving face you wore, one accusatory eyebrow raising damn near to your hairline. Soft music from the old shop speakers filling the brief silence between you. He saw your pointed expression and quickly gave up trying to hold his tongue.

“Its just that…” He glanced again at how you now looked at him, your soft face craned up expectingly at him, and took a heavy breath in preparation.

“Apson was supposed to watch my dogs while i’m away and he just bailed on me last minute, the bastard.” He was turned towards you now fully “He’s really fucked me now, cause its too short notice to hire a dogsitter for so long im afraid.”

You were quick to understand the problem. Joost had come to you several times explaining the fear of having to get rid of his many dogs due to his career taking him away. He had managed to get away with it so far but it hadn’t been an easy task.

“Everyone else I’ve asked has had some excuse so… i was wondering…” You weren’t sure why he had hesitated so long to bring this up in the first place. Though you liked to watch him fumble over his words, you wish he didn’t feel the need to play coy with you.

“Joost, you know you can ask me anything right? If you need a dog sitter just ask!” you said nonchalantly, shrugging your shoulders.

“You say that but it’s a lot to handle, five dogs can be a lot sometimes. Plus they are very needy babies who need constant attention so you might need to stay over. I would understand if its too much.” He clasped his hands together, tall stature diminished by his slumped stature. You chuckled at his almost pathetic display, unsure if he was hamming it up to try and sway you. You hummed, pretending to think about all this, knowing really you were going to say yes the whole time. You watched as Joost tried to read your expression with sated breath, round blue eyes skirting across your features. He secretly took this moment to appreciate your current form, one finger curled on your chin and the other hand on your hip. You glossy eyes were turned away from him as you “searched” your brain for your decision.

His heart thumped at the thought of you in such a close part of his life. The thought of you in his place while he was away, making yourself at home with his dogs, It both excited him and scared him. He had long pondered the thought of you getting comfortable in his home, wondered what you would do when he wasn’t around. Many time this week he pictured you lovingly laying on his couch surrounded by several mounds of panting fur, or when you would inevitably snoop through his drawers when curiosity got the best of you. Not that he had anything to hide! But the strange intimacy of the situation made him feel a way he wasn’t quite prepared to deal with.

“Well…” Joost almost jumped at the sound of your voice in the air. “Im sure we could work something out…” You watched as the tension melted from his shoulders and his eyes disappeared behind his toothy grin.

“You seriously don’t know what this means to me! Im honestly not sure what i was going to do next, I thought maybe sledding but i’m not sure how i would make it to America” you were making it to the register by now, both with several records each. You tip your head back and laugh turning to him to say “thats a horrible idea, its wayyy too late in the season for sledding anyway.” Joost grabs your records as you begin to sift through your over flowing purse, you cursed yourself for once again forgetting to clean it out like you promised yourself.

“Bruv, you make it sound like you have such a better idea” He scoffed from beside you as you shuffled through empty lighters, old receipts. Really ashamed with yourself when you see a cigarette butt sitting in the bottom.

“I do! Just get a Luchtballon obviously, Duh! then you could paint your name on it like you do and its like free marketing.”

“You could never fit that many dogs in that thing, i would know”

Beep!

You glanced up at the sound of the register when you saw the cashier passing back one bag with all the records in it, Joost shooting him a quiet “dank je wel” Joost noticed your sudden silence and decided to get ahead of the barrage of questions you were about to spit.

“Listen youre doing me a huge favor right now so don’t even start yapping, cmon.” He turned to walk to the door and left you staring at his back. When he reached the door he finally turned and flashed his signature grin. “Hurry! don’t you wanna meet my children?”

You soon found yourself at the stoop of his door as he searched his pockets for his keys. Somehow in all the time you had know joost you had only stepped foot in his place once. He had taken you back after you went out and got sloshed at a nearby bar for your birthday, his house ended up being closer and he told you after (with tears in his eyes from laughter, the bastard) that you were babbling on and on teary eyed at the thought of throwing up in your neighbors yard for two weeks in a row. You remember waking up early morning still a little drunk and biked the short distance home. You were already embarrassed from your behavior the previous night so you didn’t think to take in your surroundings too hard.

Joost let out a happy gasp as he felt the cold metal of his keys on his large hand. He pulls out a small metal ring that has a mini stitch plushie, raccoon tail keychain, a little enamel Dutch flag and of course his keys. You both agreed it was best to meet his dogs and get comfortable walking all of them at once since they can get rowdy. You watched as he slid it in the keyhole and turned, unlocking the door. The response was instant, you heard skittering nails on the other side of the door.

“Ready?” He challenged, but swung the door open before you could say no. It was an immediate barrage of wet prodding noses and whimpers. As you and joost pushed through the mass of undulating slobbery fur they only became more excited to realize their loving owner had brought someone new home.

You honestly love dogs, you couldn’t lie, but it wavered to fear when you leaned down to offer a hand and were quickly sucked into a vortex of fur and yelping dogs. They were all quite large, all wanting all your unwavering attention. Joost had turned his back to set down the records and turned when he heard your yelps among his dogs. He saw your tousled form on the floor, splayed hand shielding your face from the onslaught of dog kisses, one sleeve of your shirt falling down your shoulder exposing the expanse of your collar bone and yet smiling through the chaos. He ignored the feeling this moment gave him and instead came over to tug you onto you feet.

“Sorry, I swear they’re nice guys once you get to know them.” Joost said apologetically, hoping to lighten the mood in case they mad a bad first impression on you.

“Its okay, some guys just don’t know how to act around a lady” you retorted with a smile, fixing your sleeve and dusting yourself off.

“They’re much better when they settle down, why don’t you help me feed them?” He showed you to his kitchen, you tried not to make it too obvious you were peeping at his home as you walked through. When Joost had his head in the pantry searching for dog food you took a moment to peek at the pictures hung on his fridge. There was a combination of pictures of him drinking with friends, and his sled team of dogs. You recognized some of the faces on there like Apson and Alanis, who you had met many times and had the most pictures. Your eyes skirted across the rest of the unfamiliar faces, feeling unnecessarily jealous when you didn’t see your own face hung up. You didn’t have time to really think about why before Joost swirled around and slammed an ample amount of dog food onto the counter in front of you.

“You ready? this might be alot”

The rest of your time spent together was spent going over their needs, He answered any questions you asked eagerly. You learned most were rescued and only one happened to be a girl. Joost was extremely animated talking about his pets, you could tell he had a true love for his animals. They were well trained and well loved and it was not hard to tell. Before you knew it the tour dates were fast approaching and Joost was packed to travel far from his home soil.

“I’m gonna miss you so much!” he cried, You felt your heart skip a beat at his words. “Awe i’m gonna miss you too, Joost-”

“Not you! I’m talking to my children now!” You watched as he tossed his bags to the side and dramatically dropped to his knees wailing. Rolling your eyes at him you approached his slumped figure, crossed your arms and watched as they swarmed around to get any attention from him they could. Joost, seemingly happy with his dramatic display, rose to his feet in front of you.

“I guess ill miss you, too” it was hard to ignore the way his voice dropped as he gazed at you one final time. It was harder to ignore how close he was to you, especially when you had to crane your neck to look up at him one final time. Joost always towered over most people, especially you, but you’ve never really noticed the view until now. His hair was getting a little longer now, framing his slim face and smooth pink lips. You never thought about how well that little mole accents his beaming smile, or how that very smile could warm right through the icy defenses you always put up.

Something about hearing the smooth words fall from his mouth had you frozen in place. Joost, ever the opportunist, seized the chance to scoop you into his embrace. He crouched down, curled upon himself to wrap long arms around you shoulders, like vines on a tree.

“Im really just gonna miss visiting the record shop” He pulled away to chide, fought against himself to not add ‘with you’ at the end.

“Don’t worry, ill keep an eye out for yo-“ you were cut off when Joost, seemingly overtaken from the dopamine of hugging you, straightened his back. Lifting you off the ground and squeezing his arms together with all his might.

“uff…. Joost….. imdying…”Your cheeks were pressed together at this point, his face clenched tight and straining from constricting you. You tried not to think how truly close you were, you could feel the corner of his curled smile against your cheek, your whole body rumbling when he let out a hearty laugh. You were interrupted by the sound of a phone buzzing, reality ripping you apart as Joost set you down to check his phone.

“Rides here…” You watched Joost scoop up his bags, seemingly in no rush to leave his fluffy friends and warm home behind. You followed him to the door, watched as he pulled out his keys to hand them to you.

“Be safe, Mr. Superstar” his had wrapped around your outstretched fingers, sandwiching the soft stitch plushies between your hands. Your eyes met briefly, you watched as Joost’s plush lips part to say something, but he’s interrupted by the rapid beeping of a car horn outside.

“I have to go, bye bye schatje!” Before you knew it he was standing by the car door, bag loaded in the trunk. You watched at the door, legs fully engulfed by mounds of fur that sadly sat watching the scene. He turned one final time to take in the image of you stood at his front door with his many dogs stood protectively around your legs. he lifted a lanky arm and flicked his wrist in an animated wave. You slowly waved the arm that wasn’t leaned against the doorframe and watched as the black suv disappeared into the asphalt horizon.

When you finally turned into the house you told yourself it was normal to feel so hollow watching your friend walk away from you, Convinced yourself that you didn’t feel the warmth of his cheek pressed to yours long after he left.

It wasn’t long before you heard your phone buzzing against your pocket, you fished it out to find out joost had already texted you.

joosti

missing my babies already (ಡ‸ಡ), hope you know i will be asking for many pictures of them

also this,

since i know you haven’t been keeping your duolingo streak (ಠ_ಠ)

The next message was a list of different dog commands translated from your native language into Dutch. You couldn’t help but smile at the messages, knowing Joost could still feel close to you while being so far away.

𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹

A/n2: again this is my first fic so any and all feedback is honestly welcome. the ending is kinda weak but i really hope you enjoyed <3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Pent Up 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you seek validation through online correspondence with incarcerated men, only for one to lock you down in turn.

Characters: convict/excon!Thor (silverfox)

Note: It’s an addiction now.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The repetitious recording crackles in your ear. You sigh. ‘You are currently in queue. You will be connected shortly.’ You lean on the building’s facade as the noontime rush honks and stomps past you. 

You usually pop over to the cafe on lunch, just to get away from Jensen and the shop. Not today. You flick your thumb against your index as your patience dwindles. What if he got in more trouble and you spend your break waiting for nothing? 

Click. 

“Hello? Hello?” There’s a scuffing then he clears his throat. “My queen, are you there?” 

You don’t answer right away. His timbre is gristly and deep, an accent lilting each syllable. Somehow, you didn’t expect him to sound like that. It sends a chill through you as the rich tone stirs your guts. 

“Thor?” You babble dumbly. 

“Ah, my queen. My apologies. Another did overstay their allotted time,” he tuts. 

The affectation in his voice explains the cadence of his emails. You thought he was just super into Shakespeare or whatever. 

“My queen?” He drawls, “you are quiet.” 

“I’m-- I’m sorry,” you shuffle around the corner and hide in the alley, cheeks burning. “I’m a bit shy.” 

It’s the whole truth. Probably the reason you strike out so often. You lock up and don’t know what to say past a point. You didn’t get far this time either. What made you think this was a good idea? You seem to be chock full of those lately. 

“I understand,” he purrs, “I don’t mind doing the talking. How long I’ve waited just to hear your voice and it is like nectar. So sweet and pure.” 

You bring your hand to your throat and dig your toe into the cracked pavement. He’s smooth. Very smooth. You didn’t expect to feel like this. You full thought you’d be bored to tears. 

“Thank you,” you waft out breathily. 

“It is only the truth,” he assures. “And that picture you sent, how every part of you is pristine.” 

“Thor,” you utter. 

“Forgive me, I do have very much time for thinking and the words overflow.” He rambles, “when I am alone in my bunk and the darkness settles upon me, there is a dearth in my chest and yet my heart fills at the thought of you.” 

You let out a strange noise. His voice, his words... You think of the photo he sent. He isn’t ugly either. Shoot. Shoot! Don’t fall for it. He’s a criminal. 

“My queen,” he intones. 

You cough, “why do you call me that?” 

“Because you rule my world,” his voice drips like syrup. “You are all I think of. It is why I have behaved. I’ve kept out of the hole.” 

“The hole?” 

“Solitary,” he explains. 

“Oh...” 

“Did I scare you? I do not mean to. It is only how things are in here,” he sniffs. “I don’t like it. I am not a violent man,” he assures. “Yet, within these walls, it is needed.” 

“Yes, it would be...” you murmur. 

“But I think of you, my queen, and I restrain myself.” He hums. “I think of your gentle hands... and your lips...” 

Your cheeks are hot. You touch one and exhale loudly. 

“It’ll all be real soon, won’t it, queen?” 

“Yeah, uh, what?” You blink. 

“Yes, upon my release. I wish we could speak face-to-face but I thought a call could suffice--” 

“Release?” 

“Yes, it has been right about five years. My sentence is up. Provided I can bide my parole--” 

“Parole?” 

“You are surprised!” He proclaims, “I knew you would be. I cannot wait. I am counting the days.” 

“I didn’t... I thought... you don’t have a life sentence?” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” he chuckles, “though I know a few of those. Not very pleasant men.” 

You’re speechless. Breathless. You stare at the brick wall across from you. You swear you checked, they all were in for good. Dang. 

“Um, I’m on my break and I have to get back to work,” you croak. 

“Already?” 

“I was on hold... a while,” you eke out. “Sorry, I—gotta go.” 

“My queen.” 

“I hope everything goes well.” 

“I will call again--” 

“Bye.” 

You end the call and nearly drop the phone. Your heart is thumping. It’s okay. You never game them any fine details. You always keep it vague. He doesn’t know who you are or where you live. It’s fine. You’re fine. 

You head back into the shop, slightly dazed. You go behind the desk as Jensen hunches over a motherboard. You put your phone down and sit stiffly on the stool. 

“No coffee today?” 

“No,” you mutter. 

“Everything okay?” 

You shake your head and flick away the fog in your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I just... I didn’t get much sleep.”  

You shift and put your focus to your computer. You open your inbox and go to the settings. ‘Delete Account’ lights up under the cursor. You learned your lesson. You’re not going to keep messing with these men. You had your fun and now it’s over. 

👄

The days grow dull. Life dims back to its usual cloudy malaise. Your mom calls to tell you she’s taking the kids away on a holiday and needs someone to watch the house. You try to think of any holiday you took as a kid. You only ever visited your nan or your aunt. 

You say yes. You need the extra money. Besides, your neighbours are friggin noisy. It will make your commute longer but whatever. 

Their house is nice. Your stepdad is loaded. And a jerk. When he started dating your mom, he made you get a job. You were thirteen and no one would hire you. You ended up going to the nursing home and playing checkers with the residents. It was volunteer only but he said the experience was worth it. You guess you had fun. 

You put your things in the guest room. You know better than to disturb anything else. A list of instructions is left by the door, right next to a camera. Wow, Andy, really? 

The change in scenery is something, you guess. Something different. No matter what you do, you just can’t seem to break the sameness. It’s pathetic that the most exciting thing going on in your life is this. 

You are sure to lock the door on your way out. Every lock, every window, has one of those censors that will alert your stepdad to your most minuscule mistake. 

The bus ride is longer than you like. The seats are dingy. Ugh. You get off downtown and hiss as you realise you forgot your thermos on the kitchen counter. That’s the thing, when you change routine, you’re bound to miss something. That one detail puts your whole day off. 

When you knock at the shop door, Jensen doesn’t answer. You have to bang on it several times before he shows up. His eyes are sleepy behind his thick lenses. You huff. 

“Game night?” You wonder as you enter. 

“Tournament. Got second.” 

“Second?” You scoff as you put your bag on the counter. “Worth it, then.” 

“Ha, I know. I got reckless. Blew it all.” 

“Jens,” you say as you get up on the stool and rub your eyes, “are there any prizes for these games or is this just you torturing yourself?” 

He’s quiet. That’s all the answer you need. 

“God, I need a red bull,” he mutters as he checks the aisles. 

“Me too, bud.” 

“What? You said those things are battery acid.” 

“They are,” you snort. “But I’m friggin exhausted.” 

“They got a dragon fruit flavour,” he suggests. 

You laugh again. “I’ll suffer.” 

He grumbles and goes through opening as you check the till. Despite the rough start, the day unfurls in its usual monotony. You sit and type, yawning as customers wander in with broken devices or hoping to sell some unused block from twenty years ago. 

You’re about to finish your last lesson in your marketing module when the door chirps again. You’re too focused to look up as Jensen leans on the counter and sniffs. He scratches his nose. 

“Hey, dude, anything I can help you with today?” He asks. 

“I am in the market for an affordable device,” the voice cuts through your concentration and tickles your brain. You blink and keep your eyes on the text. It can’t be. 

“Phone, computer, tablet?” Jensen asks. 

“Hm, I only need it for emails, truly,” the customer replies thoughtfully as he approaches the counter. “Basic but functional will do.” 

He stops on the other side. Stolid tension roils around you as sweat trickles down your temple. Meekly, you make yourself look up, assuring yourself of your own paranoia. 

The customer grins as his blue eyes are already on you. Your eyes round. It’s him! How in the heck? 

He’s older than the picture. His golden hair is longer and intertwined with hanks of silver which makes it shine brighter. His shoulders are somehow broader and he has a bit extra above his belt. His arms are hug, stretching the fabric of his flannel to excess. You gulp. 

“I have to go... pee,” you squeak and twist on the stool. You jump off so quickly, it wobbles behind you. 

You dip behind Jensen and flee towards the restroom. He grunts as your elbow hits him in your flight. You don’t look back. It’s impossible. 

You slam the door and lock it. You look in the mirror and slap your own cheek. Wake up! This is a nightmare. You pinch your side and yipe. Come on, wake up! 

It’s real. It’s real. You’re cooked. Oh god. 

You search for an out. Why is there no window in a bathroom? What if you had to do a two? Ugh, this is dumb. No, this is scary. 

You spin in circles, panicking. What do you do? There’s one escape and it’s past that six-foot-infinity man out there. Not just a man, a criminal! 

You could cry. You might. No, hold it together. This is all your own fault. You knew better. Why did you do it? Because you felt good? Ugh. How dumb. Men with no hope calling you pretty. You want to hurl. 

A knock has your shoes scuffing on the floor. You spin and face the locked door. 

“Hey, you okay?” Jensen asks. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you call back in a hollow voice. “It’s just... my time of the month.” 

“Oh... Oh!” He exclaims. “Is there anything I can get you?” 

“Jensen, go away,” you snip. 

“Right, uh... just... uh, right. I’m going.” 

You listen to his sneakers squeak away and you huff. You clutch your skull like it might explode. Maybe it will. That’s a solution, isn’t it? 

You know what you’re going to do. You’re going to explain to him what happened. He got catfished! 

Yeah, that’s plausible. Someone stole your picture and they pretended they were you. That’s so simple. 

You inhale and steel yourself. You’re going to have to lie harder than the time you broke your mom’s favourite vase. You need to earn this Oscar. 

You make yourself leave the bathroom. You stride out calmly and reclaim your perch on the stool. Jensen shows Thor a laptop as he explains its features. 

“Not very used. Apparently someone bought it for a great aunt but she only played Mah Jong.” 

Thor hums, “ah, and it is a bargain.” He rests his large hand on the counter. “I must be honest, I don’t believe I’ll use it much more. You see, I’ve only just come from a sentence in the penitentiary. A lot of this is new to me.” 

“Prison?” Jensen gasps. “Oh man, my buddy just got out on a stint. Sounds rough.” 

“Oh, a friend?” 

“He’s a good guy. You know, some people just have bad luck,” Jensen shrugs off. “I can get this set up for you easy. It’s already wiped, I’d have to dig out the charger, but I’ll throw in a laptop bag for free.” 

“Wonderful!” Thor booms and claps so you flinch. “I’ll take it.” 

“No problem. Now, I was going to offer some security too. I can get that installed with full setup. Eighty bucks. And you can come in any time in the next year for service.” Jensen continues through his usual, though he’s adjusted the number in the customer’s favour. You don’t blame him. The guy is a monster of a dude. 

“Perfect,” Thor growls. 

Your eyes flit up and meet his again. He grins at you and his hand slides closer to your computer. You squirm and quickly look back to your review quiz. He’s not going to say anything in front of Jensen, so you just need to play it cool. 

[mrsknowitallll]

All I Want Is You (Part two)

(Terry richmond x Black Plus size reader, Lawyer/Law firm AU)

Summary - Terry’s had his eyes on you for a while, like predator to prey, watching, waiting to strike. The only problem was that you were slippery, hard to get a hold of, he was gonna have to work extra hard to catch you.

Warning: Violence

A/N - Thank you guys for all the love on the first part i appreciate it so much! This one is a little long apologies in advance. I got some heat coming for yall in these next parts, i’m so excitedddd 😝

"So i ask you again Mrs thompson, did you lie about seeing Mr. Martin at the coffee shop that day?!" You raised your voice, slamming your hands down on the stand.

"YES OKAY I LIED, I LIED BUT I HAD EVERY REASON TO, IF I DIDN'T MY BABY WOULD'VE WENT TO PRISON. I DID WHAT ANY MOTHER WOULD DO!" Mrs. Thompson screamed, eyes widening manically.

"No further questions." You smirked making your way back to your seat knowing you had this case in the bag.

Terry watched from the back of the courtroom, grinning from ear to ear.

He loved when you got like this, when you weren't afraid to be loud, to command a room, to tear a phony witness apart.

The courtroom is where you shined, you didn't care about the opinions of others there, you didn't care about how you were perceived, you didn't hide, when you defended your clients you would stop at nothing to make sure they got the justice they deserved. It wasn't about you, about the money, it was about justice being served and you were gonna make sure that it would be by any means necessary, even if it meant destroying a liar psychology, ripping apart their psyche so that they have no choice but to crack, to spill their guts.

After the verdict was read; not guilty, you breathed a sigh of relief, laughing as your client engulfed you in a hug.

You burst through the double doors, the cool breeze hitting your face as you walked down the steps.

You closed your eyes as you got to the bottom, the case flashing through your mind.

Devon Martin was a 17 year old boy who was being charged with aggravated robbery, facing 5 to 15 years for a crime that he didn't commit.

How did you know? Well there's was absolutely no real evidence placing him at the scene at the time of the incident and all witness testimonies described a caucasian male, something Devon was not.

All witnesses except one, Mrs. Thompson.

She claimed that she saw someone matching Devon's description fleeing the scene holding a bag filled with cash and a bat, the same bat used to assault the cashier.

Phone records showed that she was nowhere near the coffee shop at the time of the incident, it made no sense that she would accuse Devon or anyone for that matter of the crime when she wasn't even present for it.

That was until the real suspect was taken into custody, her son, Jake Thompson.

Jake started hanging with the wrong crowds, getting involved with a lot of bad people who led him to do crazy things like robbing a coffee shop mid day, beating an employee nearly to death.

Mrs. Thompson did the only thing she knew, the one thing that worked every time without fail.

She cried, she cried those white woman tears. You know the ones that seemed to make anyone believe them, the ones that make people push all logic, common sense and critical thinking skills to the side despite clear evidence suggesting otherwise being right there in their faces, the ones that cause lies to be spun for the truth and the truth to be spun for lies, the ones that have the power to ruin lives.

White women tears were all it took for Devon to be harassed and assaulted by members of the community on and offline, get kicked out of his private academy that his parent worked extremely hard to put him in and lose his basketball scholarship.

It angered you beyond belief, if the verdict hadn't been not guilty you didn't think you could live with yourself.

"Tough one huh?" A voice spoke beside you.

Your eyes flew open and floated towards Terry.

You took a deep breath nodding.

"I bet, need a drink?" He questioned.

"Absolutely." You smiled.

"We'll take my car." He smiled too, gesturing for you to walk ahead of him.

After the incident in the break room you and Terry agreed to remain friends, no hard feelings.

Of course he still liked you, that wasn't just gonna go away but he had enough respect for you not to cross the line.

Plus he knows you'll come around eventually, you just need a little extra convincing and boy was he good at being convincing.

He opened the door for you, making sure that you were secure inside before closing it, jogging over to the other side of the car and getting in, starting the engine.

The two of you sit in silence for a while until he broke it.

"Something's bothering you." He takes his eyes off of the road for a moment to observe you.

You have your arms crossed, brows knitted together, eyes losing focus as you stared out the window, clearly deep in thought.

"Got something on your mind?" He questioned.

"It just pisses me off you know... they spew nonsense, point their fingers in blame, play victim and almost instantly they're believed, without a second thought, no questions asked." You huffed.

"But people that look like you and me, people that look like Devon, we have to go the extra mile, we have to have proof and even then it's still not enough. Devon isn't the first person to go through this and he won't be the last." You frowned.

He thought for a moment.

"Isn't that why we took this job? So that people that look like you, me and Devon could be given a fair shot, so that we can ensure that they still be treated with the same respect and be given the same opportunities as everyone else, despite all the corrupt systems put into place that actively work against us." He tilted his head, eyes finding yours.

"You always know exactly what to say." You smiled at him tenderly.

"Sometimes." He couldn't help but smile too.

The two of you arrive at the bar, Terry pulling out a seat for you at a table in the corner, then going to the front to order your drinks.

You sip on your cocktails talking about your days, upcoming cases, everything under the sun.

One drink turns into two, two turns into three and by then you're a little past tipsy.

"I think you've had enough." He takes the remainder of your drink, pushing it away from you.

"I'm fine, i could actually go for one more." You begin to stand, legs wobbly.

You nearly trip and fall on your face but Terry catches you just in time, trying his best not to laugh.

"Not funny." You glared holding onto his strong arms.

"Sorry, i'm sorry. Let's get you home." He grabs your belongings, looping his arm through yours and leading you back toward the car.

You bob your head to the radio, dancing in your seat, muttering the lyrics to some random song incoherently.

It was hilarious seeing you like this, Terry was no longer trying to hide his laughter, chuckling as you continued to sway to the beat, eyes closed almost as if you thought you were somewhere else, maybe the club.

He walks you upstairs to your apartment, letting you fumble with your keys for a moment before taking them and unlocking the door himself.

He makes you lay down on the couch, removing your shoes and placing a blanket over you.

He leaves a glass of water and a note on the coffee table, probably would've left an aspirin too if he knew where they were, that hangover was gonna be hell tomorrow, he already felt sorry for you.

He looked at you once more, eyes scanning you, lips slightly parted, lashes sweeping your cheeks, long braids that were previously pulled back into a bun now falling past your shoulders, chest moving up and down rhythmically as you slept.

You looked so peaceful, so beautiful.

He reached out to move your hair out of your face, finger brush your cheeks, hand cupping you face.

He quickly pulled away, scolding himself.

He looked at you one last time before exiting, making sure to lock the door behind him.

The next day he comes to pick you up, watching as you jogged toward the car, juggling various items.

You got inside placing them all in your lap, smiling nervously at him.

"I'm so sorry Terry, i just saw your message my phone was dead." You spoke as you buckled up your seatbelt, adjusting yourself.

"Also so sorry about last night, i'm so embarrassed." You held your face in your hands.

"No need to apologize, you were having fun, i enjoyed myself quite a bit too."He smirked.

"I bet you did, you sure seemed to get a kick out of it." You rolled your eyes playfully.

He started up the car, driving you back to yours, taking notice of the small winces you tried to hide, hand shielding your face from the sun.

"You okay?" He asks glancing over at you.

"Yeah i'll be fine, just a small headache, nothing an aspirin can't fix." You held up the small bottle shaking it.

You got into your car, following behind Terry.

You both went inside the firm, going your separate ways, your desk on the opposite side of the room from his.

You got settled in, going over some files from the case, just to wrap it up and turn in your reports.

"Y/n!" A sharp voice cut through the previously silent office.

You jumped at the harsh use of your name, turning around and coming face to face with the culprit, Luca.

Luca began working at the firm shortly after you, he was by no means good at his job, his father just so happened to be friends with the owner and that's how he wound up here.

The two of you worked a joint case a couple of weeks ago and it was beyond frustrating, you did all the heavy lifting while he just sat back twidling his thumbs, fucking around on company time instead of helping.

You took a deep breath before turning toward him, standing up and adjusting your skirt.

"Yes?" You forced a smile.

"Don't yes me, did you report me to the manager, did you tell him i wasn't fit to work here?" He spat angrily in your face, disregarding your personal space.

"I did nothing of the sort, i simply told him we weren't compatible, that it was best that we're weren't assigned anymore cases together." You spoke lowly doing your best to stay calm.

Just because you kept your head down didn't mean that you were a pushover, you just had a lot more to lose than anyone else, a whole lot more to lose than Luca for sure.

Everything was handed to him on a silver platter, he didn't even have any background in law, never went to school for it.

You on the other hand had to fight tooth and nail to get where you were, to secure your spot in a firm as established as this one, people that looked like you had to work incredibly hard while people like Luca got whatever they wanted at the snap of their fingers.

"Well whatever the hell you said caused me to lose my job." His face reddened.

Your eyes widen in suprise.

There was no way your words held that much weight, they had to have gotten tired of the man and his antics, tired enough to disregard his father's relationship with the company and let him go.

"I doubt that i had anything to do with that, as i said i didn't speak lowly of you, i simply stated that we don't mesh well, that's it." You blinked.

"Your days here are numbered, i'd watch my back if i were you, be on my p's and q's." He stepped closer to you if that was even possible, voice dangerously low.

You'd probably be scared if Luca actually intimated you, but the man did the exact opposite, he put no fear in your heart at all, if he had any common sense he try to preserve any dignity he had left and just leave instead of causing a scene like this.

You were about to open your mouth again to speak until Terry got between the two of you, pushing Luca back harshly then turning toward you.

"You alright?" He asked grabbing your shoulders, eyes scanning you worriedly.

"I'm fine." You nodded, grateful that he intervened.

Everyone else just stood around watching, whispering.

"You should mind your business, this is between me and her." He grabbed Terry's shoulder roughly attempting to spin him around but failing miserably.

"You made it my business when you got into a lady's face throwing a tantrum like a child because you couldn't handle criticism. She was actually being nice, you got fired because you're a shit lawyer, that's it, nothing more." Terry hovered over him, glaring down at the man.

Luca raised his fist, attempting to swing on Terry which he caught.

He swings again this time clipping him on the chin and Terry see's that as free reign to throw a punch himself, fist landing a nasty hit on his jaw, causing him to fall to the floor.

He was out cold.

A few of your coworkers rushed over to help him and one of them had called your manager.

"Richmond, my office now!" The older man's voice boomed throughout the building.

You gave him an apologetic look and he just shook his head before following your boss into his office.

You'd never forgive yourself if he got fired all for defending you.

The incident resulted in a two week suspension, thank god.

But you still felt bad, he was gonna miss two weeks of work unpaid because of you.

You apologized for what felt like the 100th time that day, sitting across from him holding his hand in yours, your other one placing an ice pack on his fist.

"How many times do i have to tell you, you have nothing to be sorry for, he was out of line, i don't regret a thing." Terry reassured you.

"But you could've lost your job, you could've-"

"I don't care, y/n he got in your face, he threatened you, i'd punch him again right now if i could." Terry closed his eyes, jaw clenching as the scene from earlier replayed in his head.

"If he put his hands on you I would've killed him, right then and there." His hard, cold eyes locked with yours.

You felt a shiver run down your spine and land right between your legs.

You forgot how good it felt to be protected, cared for.

You crossed your legs clearing your throat before speaking.

"Thanks, i appreciate you for always having my back." You smiled shyly.

"Always." He smiled too.

[yvesssssssss]

wat do ya think about Sakamoto Days characters with like an girlfriend/bf that's very pretty but like very ignorant to it like they're an retired assassin "they're staring at my face they must be trying to kill us!" "they're staring at u bc ur pretty .."

Nagumo yoichi

It wasn’t paranoia if you were right.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. Years of assassin work had honed your instincts to razor-sharp precision, and right now—right now—someone was staring at you.

Your fingers twitched towards a hidden knife as you leaned closer to your boyfriend. "Yoichi," you whispered. "Six o’clock. They’ve been staring for the last five minutes. Probably planning something."

Nagumo Yoichi, ever the trickster, barely hid his smirk as he took a sip of his drink. "Yeah? What do you think their plan is?"

"Assassination. Maybe a kidnapping. They could be waiting for the right moment to strike." Your voice was deadly serious.

Nagumo gave the so-called threat a once-over. It was an old woman in a sunhat, smiling as she fed birds at the café patio. "Sweetheart," he said, amused, "she’s looking at you because you’re pretty."

You blinked. "What? No. That makes no sense. She’s assessing weak points."

Nagumo chuckled, absolutely delighted by this conversation. "Oh, absolutely. You’re just so stunning that she’s trying to figure out how to take you down. But I gotta say, if that’s her plan, she’s really bad at being discreet."

Shin Asakura

"Shin, cover me. There's someone at two o’clock who won’t stop staring."

Shin, used to the constant adrenaline rush of being around former assassins, barely looked up from his food before sighing. "They’re looking at you because you’re gorgeous. Can you please just eat?"

You squinted. "No, there’s no way. It’s a tactical decision."

Shin groaned, rubbing his temples. "I can hear their thoughts. They’re literally thinking about how attractive you are. That’s it. That’s all they’re thinking about."

There was a long pause. "…Still sounds like a trap."

Shin banged his head on the table.

Natsuki Seba

Natsuki was already nervous when he realized people were looking at you. His anxiety doubled when you suddenly grabbed his wrist, eyes darting toward a group of whispering onlookers. "We're being watched."

"Yeah," Natsuki muttered, shifting awkwardly. "Because you’re, y’know, you."

"Exactly. They know my record."

"No, they—" He exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. "They think you’re beautiful."

You frowned, clearly struggling to process this information. "That makes even less sense."

Natsuki gave up.

Gaku

"We’ve got a tail."

Gaku perked up instantly, cracking his knuckles. "Where?"

You motioned towards a couple of teenagers stealing glances in your direction. "They’ve been watching for a while."

Gaku rolled his shoulders, ready to throw hands. "Yeah, okay, I’ll rough ‘em up real quick."

Before he could move, Kumanomi grabbed the back of his jacket. "No, you will not. They’re just checking out your partner."

Gaku scowled. "Then why are they looking at me, huh?"

Kumanomi sighed. "They’re wondering how someone like you pulled someone like her."

Gaku processed this for a second. "Oh. Yeah, fair."

Uzuki Kei

Uzuki didn’t even flinch when you leaned in and whispered, "That barista has been eyeing me suspiciously."

He took a slow sip of tea. "They’re looking at you because you’re beautiful."

You scoffed. "I’ve taken down over fifty people in my career. I know an assassin when I see one."

Uzuki gave you a long, tired stare. "They’re wondering if they should give you their number."

You furrowed your brows. "But why—"

"Because you’re stunning," Uzuki deadpanned.

Silence.

"…Still don’t buy it."

Uzuki took another long sip of tea. "Of course you don’t."

Shishiba

"Shishiba, there’s a guy at the ramen shop counter who keeps looking at me."

Shishiba didn’t even bother to look up from his newspaper. "Yeah."

"Should I take him out?"

Shishiba sighed, finally glancing at you. "You’re pretty. People stare. Just let it go."

You looked genuinely confused. "But what if he’s an enemy?"

"Then he’s a really bad one. Just eat your food."

You huffed but obeyed. Still, your hand hovered near your weapon just in case.

Shishiba rolled his eyes and turned the page.