#Ripple Net

[cali]

--runaway harpy-

crops under cut

+printz

[killbenedictcumberbatchagain]

can Literally anyone else do this actually

THE HUMAN RIGHTS CAMPAIGN IS REQUESTING A FEDERAL INVESTIGATION INTO NEX BENEDICT'S DEATH

(full official request by HRC president Kelley Robinson)

this request is also being backed by Rep. Ritchie Torres (D-N.Y.), and Nex's death has been acknowledged by Kamala Harris on Twitter

I really, really hope that these increasingly public calls for justice in Nex Benedict's assault and death lead to more action... this tragedy has finally recieved coverage in publications like USA Today, CNN, NBC, and even The New York Times

keep talking about this, please!!

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ Tides of Treachery

pairings: Pirate!caleb x Mermaid!reader.

notes/warnings: violence, brief mentions of blood. Nearly drowning. Reader is intended to be afab!bodied and gender neutral. no smut in this part, part 2

The sea has always been Caleb’s first love. The way the waves rolled and crashed against the hull of his ship, the scent of salt thick in the air, and the endless horizon stretching beyond his reach—it was all he had ever known.

Years ago, he used to happily laugh around and run in the water, throw sand at his friends and enjoy the rays of warmth radiating from the sun. But all good things come to an end, Caleb had learned the hard way that nothing in life was permanent—not love, not safety, not even the land beneath his feet.

His father had gone out to sea one morning to fish for their humble family business, promising to return before nightfall, but the tides swallowed him whole, leaving behind only whispers of his name in the crashing waves.

His mother, left to raise him alone, had done everything she could to keep him safe. But safety was a fragile illusion. The night the world flipped upside down for him, the thugs came, she had fought for him, desperate to keep her boy safe as she hid him in a corner, tears streaming down her face as she hugged him for the final time. Caleb still remembered the way her blood pooled on the wooden floor, how the coppery scent mixed with the salt on his skin as he was dragged outside, kicking and screaming.

He was meant to die that night. The leader of the gang had loomed over him, blade in hand, expression cold and indifferent. But something in Caleb’s eyes must have reminded him of himself—some old, bitter ghost of the past—because he hesitated

“Take him,” the man had ordered. “Teach the boy how to survive.”

And so he did.

Caleb was thrown into a world of cutthroats and thieves, learning how to wield a dagger before he could grow his first beard. The boy who once ran across the shore, carefree and full of laughter, had long since vanished. In his place stood a pirate feared across the seas, his name whispered in drunken taverns and city guards.

He should have felt satisfied. He had carved his own place in the world, commanded a crew that would die for him, listening to his every whim and commands and sailed waters that no man dared to cross.

But sometimes when his crew went to their beds and bunkers, he would step out of his own, in the quiet of the night, when the ocean was calm and the stars burned like embers overhead, he thought of the past. He thought of a life that had once been his before fate stole it away.

A creature he recalled, a siren. an abomination mix of fish and human. he never entertained the talk of catching a siren to keep it for him to sing. if one was unfortunate enough to fall in the nets of his ship would immediately have its scales taken away and itself shipped off and sold to some lord with fortune, that easily explains the amount of coats he has with shimmering scales.

It was on one such night, when the sea lay still and the wind barely stirred the sails, that Caleb saw them.

A shape, moving just beyond the reach of the lanterns’ glow, barely a ripple in the water. He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to the edge of The Wayward Star, gripping the wooden railing with steady fingers.

Then, the moonlight caught them.

A figure, half-submerged, skin glistening like pearls beneath the pale light. Their hair floated around them in thick, damp strands, creating an illusion of ink swirling around them, and their eyes—dark and knowing—locked onto his.

Caleb inhaled sharply.

A mermaid.

Not the kind sung about in sailor’s tales, with golden curls and gentle voices. No, this was something else entirely. Their gaze held no innocence, no wide-eyed wonder. Instead, they studied him, unblinking, as if deciding whether he was prey or something more. It made a humming gurgling noise, the odd scent of seasons and spices had attracted it towards the ship.

His fingers itched toward the cutlass at his hip, but he hesitated.

“You watching me?” he called out, voice low, roughened by years of salt and rum.

The mermaid didn’t answer, not in words. Instead, they tilted their head slightly, eyes glinting like two beads covered in obsidian in the dark.

Something about them made the air feel too thick, too heavy in his lungs. He had spent his life commanding men, stealing from those unfortune to pass his ship, fighting battles and staring death in the face without flinching. But this? This was different. that thing unsettled him.

Then, as silently as they had appeared, they slipped beneath the waves.

Gone.

Caleb exhaled, only then realizing he had been holding his breath.

Caleb barely slept that night. He couldn’t. After returning to his bedchambers, his eyes wouldn’t stay closed, he felt like a nail was being jammed into his head, and when he felt comfortable enough for sleep to lull him away, a thunder would wake him up.

Caleb gave up trying to get a brink of sleep. He sat at the bow of The Wayward Star, staring out at the sea as if drilling his gaze into the water infront of him would will the mermaid to return. The waves lapped lazily against the ship’s hull, rocking it. and the stars shimmered like scattered silver, but the water remained empty.

By dawn, the mermaid still hadn’t resurfaced.

He told himself to let it go. He was a pirate, not some fool enchanted by sea myths. There was plunder to seek, ships to raid, and yet—he found his thoughts drifting back to them. The way the moonlight caught the wet sheen of their skin, the quiet intelligence and stupidity in their dark eyes, the way they had simply watched him, like they were trying to understand him.

He had spent his life being feared, respected, hated by most. Never had someone looked at him like that before.

He shook the thought from his mind. Damn that fish, he had better things to do.

But fate, it seemed, had no intention of letting him forget.

The second time he saw them, it was in the middle of a storm.

The sea raged, tossing The Wayward Star like a toy, and rain pelted the deck in thick sheets. Caleb barked orders over the howling wind, his clothes soaked through, his hands raw from gripping the ropes. The storm was bad—worse than most—but he had survived worse.

Then, amidst the chaos, he saw them.

A shadow beneath the waves, moving too fast for the current to carry. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, lack of sleep always did funny tricks on people, but then the ship lurched violently to the side, nearly throwing him off balance.

He barely had time to react before a massive wave surged forward, hitting the ship with unnatural force. The wood groaned under the weight, and his crew yelled in alarm, struggling to hold the vessel steady.

Caleb barely had time to brace himself before the wave struck.

The impact sent him staggering backward, boots slipping on the rain-slicked deck. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rigging, but another violent lurch of the ship sent him sprawling. The world tilted—dark sky and raging sea spinning together in a blur—before the deck vanished beneath him.

Cold, crushing water swallowed him whole.

The ocean was deafening. It roared in his ears, filled his nose, dragged him down with merciless hands. Caleb kicked, fighting against the force pulling him deeper, but the storm churned above him, tossing him around like he was nothing more than a scrap of driftwood.

For the first time in years, true panic clawed at his chest.

His lungs burned, muscles screaming as he thrashed against the weight of the sea. He had survived battles, betrayals, and the cruel hand of fate itself—but drowning? Dying alone beneath the waves? The thought sent a sharp bolt of fear through him.

Then, just as the darkness at the edges of his vision threatened to consume him, something moved.

Not the waves. Not the current.

Something else.

A shadow slipped through the water, too fast, too smooth, circling him like a predator. a creature made for water.

He didn’t have the time to register the shape before arms wrapped around him—strong, steady, and colder than the sea itself. A rush of movement followed, the water parting as he was dragged downwards with unnatural speed.

Then—air.

Caleb’s breath came in ragged gasps, his throat raw from seawater and the force of the storm. His hands pressed into the damp sand beneath him, fingers curling around the fine grains as his body shook with exhaustion.

The cave was dimly lit, the glow of bioluminescent corals and strange, shifting lights casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of salt and something else—something unfamiliar, earthy, and deep. The sound of dripping water echoed in the cavern, mixing with the rhythmic crash of waves outside.

His mind reeled.

How was there air here? How was he even alive?

A flicker of movement made him tense.

Slowly, he raised his head.

The mermaid was there.

They lingered at the water’s edge, half-submerged, their dark eyes watching him with the same unreadable intensity as before. The glow of the cave cast shifting patterns across their skin, highlighting the smooth muscles of their shoulders, the glint of scales that shimmered with every small movement.

Caleb swallowed, still breathless.

“You saved me,” he rasped, voice hoarse from nearly drowning and coughing out salt water. He didn’t know why he was stating the obvious, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

The mermaid tilted their head slightly, considering him. Then, slow and deliberate, they moved closer.

Caleb’s instincts screamed at him to be cautious. He had spent his life surrounded by liars and thieves, men who would slit your throat for a handful of gold. Trust was something he had long since abandoned.

And yet—

He didn’t move as the mermaid reached out.

Their fingers brushed against his cheek, cool and slightly rough, like they weren’t quite used to touching something as fragile as human skin. Caleb held still, his breath catching as they traced the outline of his jaw, their expression unreadable.

Their touch lingered for a moment longer before they withdrew, retreating slightly into the water, as if waiting.

Waiting for what?

Caleb exhaled sharply, running a hand through his soaked hair. He needed to think, to figure out where he was, what they wanted. But the storm had drained him, and the warmth of the cave—unnatural as it was—lulled his body into something dangerously close to comfort.

He should have been afraid.

But for the first time in a long, long while, he wasn’t.

Instead, he found himself staring back at the creature before him, heart pounding, pulse thrumming with something dangerously close to curiosity.

“…What are you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

The mermaid didn’t answer in words.

But they smiled—slow and knowing—before slipping back into the water’s embrace.

After a few hours, you returned. Different types of fishes for your lovely guest you had dragged to your home, could you be blamed? the deep ocean was starting to get boring and dull, hunting fishes would not excite you. Days weren’t looking brighter and you felt like day by day you were evolving into a sea cucumber laying uselessly on the sand waiting for your eventual demise.

You swam through the water effortlessly, the cold depths parting for you as you carried your prize—an assortment of fish clutched in your hands, still fresh, their scales gleaming under the soft glow of the cave’s bioluminescent corals.

It had been years since anything had truly interested you. The ocean, vast and endless as it was, had lost its thrill. Hunting was easy. The other creatures of the sea were predictable. You had seen everything there was to see, done everything there was to do.

But him—the human—you had never encountered something quite like him before.

He was fragile. Small, in comparison to the beasts of the sea. His limbs were awkward and unfit for swimming, his body weighed down by the very waters that carried you with ease. And yet, despite his weakness, he fought.

You had seen the fire in his eyes, the defiance that burned even as the sea threatened to swallow him whole. A lesser creature would have gone limp, accepted their fate, but he had thrashed, struggled, survived.

That made him interesting.

And interesting things did not come often in your world.

So, really, could you be blamed for dragging him here? For watching him as he gasped for breath, the air in the cave filling his fragile lungs? For wanting to see how long he would last before his fear turned his survival instincts to recklessness?

You breached the water’s surface, the fish still held tightly in your grasp, and your dark eyes immediately sought him out.

There he was.

The pirate.

He had not moved far from where you left him. His body was curled slightly, one arm slung over his bent knee, head resting against the damp rock. His breathing was steady now, slower, but his exhaustion was evident.

You took a moment to observe. Poking his feet to test the waters before crawling out of the water and on top of him.

His skin was warm, unlike the cold-blooded creatures you were used to. His hair, still damp from the ocean, clung to his face in uneven strands. His chest rose and fell in slow, rhythmic motions, his lips slightly parted as if caught between sleep and wakefulness.

The fish in your hands flopped weakly, their gills opening and closing in vain. You had chosen well—fat, fresh, the best you could find. Surely he would be pleased.

But as you placed the offering beside him, he did not react.

You frowned.

You reached out, fingers ghosting over his skin, pressing against his shoulder. The warmth of him startled you, even now, and for a brief moment, you simply felt—the rise and fall of muscle beneath your touch, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly in response.

You raised your webbed hand and slapped it down on his firm chest.

Plap!

His eyes snapped open with a gasp. For a long moment, you two simply stared at each other.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, his gaze flickered downward—to the fish beside him, and to the naked scaled-covered chest of the mermaid hovering over his face, blocking his view of the cave. he averted his eyes to the fish, it was still twitching, their silver scales glinting in the dim light.

A pause.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, something between amusement and disbelief flickering across his face.

“…Did you just bring me food?”

You blinked.

Of course you did. What else would he eat? Rocks?

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he sat up. His fingers brushed over the fish idly, as if testing to see if they were even real.

“Well. Can’t say I’ve ever had a meal delivered to me by a sea creature before.” He glanced back at you, his lips quirking at the corners. “Guess I should be flattered.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him.

Strange.

You had given him a gift—an offering of peace, even—and instead of taking it seriously, he was… laughing, what was laughing supposed to mean here? humans were so so strange.

You narrowed your eyes, leaning closer, your face mere inches from his. His breath caught slightly, his gaze flickered to your lips that were inching just centimeters away from his, but he held his ground, his eyes returning up to watch you in return.

Interesting.

Your lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t quite a threat, either.

This was going to be fun.

[gravegoer]

MORE SEVIKA X SIREN I BEG

I hear your call [P2] ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ

HALF OF MY INBOX IS SIREN READER !! dw, i got you guys. ( also i got a lot of love in my inbox. !! thank you so much for the support. youre so sweet , im looking at 🍃 anon ily ) summary: sevika saves your scales.

masterlist , part 1 2.1k words part 3

The night after you met Sevika, you followed her ship, even throughout the darkness. The celebratory crew could be heard on the deck, along with the clanking of glasses and music.

Although this wasn't what you were interested in, you were interested in a certain captain. You assumed she didn't bother with the celebration and got bored swimming alongside the ship.

Eventually, it had come to a stop in the late night, now sitting in the dock of a well-populated island. You eyed the people that stepped off, and your gaze landed on Sevika.

She was hard to miss, her large stature and intricate outfit stood out amongst the crew, ultimately declaring herself captain. There was a sort of swagger in her walk, perhaps from booze or maybe exaustion.

Whatever the case, you were interested.

You couldn't get too close to land, deciding to lurk around the harbor instead. You ducked under the water upon hearing any movement or voices. Being this close to population was no place for a siren, especially such as yourself.

Any fisherman or pirate alike would take take you up and pawn you for a pretty price. So you heeded in your movements. Luckily, you were a skilled enough swimmer that you made little to no sound whilst in the water, barely leaving behind a ripple.

The sun was just now rising, and you assumed Sevika would be looking for a place to stay the night. There was no way you could wait around that long for her to come back. But that doesn't mean you didn't want to.

To your delight, a group of men swarmed to talk on a dock near you, and their conversation was full of exactly what you wanted to hear.

Sevika.

They were pirates looking for a crew, and from the looks of them, quite experienced pirates.

"She's headed to Shank's motel. Shall we give her a visit?"

"This late at night, man. You've got to be spewin' some blige. She'd flog you just at sight."

"Aye. Migh' as well wait till' morn' "

You grew closer to their spot, itching to hear more. Your head nearly bumped against the old wood due to your closeness.

Suddenly, a hand was in your hair, but unlike Sevika's, it was clammy and gross.

You screeched at the intrusion, being pulled out of the water.

A fourth man.

How could you let your guard down so easily?

"Now, what's a stupid lass like you doin' so far out at bay."

You crained your head up to be met with a severely shredded bald man. You clawed at the hand on your scalp and thrashed. The sting threatened to bring tears to your eyes, and you opened your mouth for a song.

The knowing man slammed your face down onto the wood, stopping you in your tracks.

"Fuck. This one be a siren, but the harder the catch, the more the prize is what I say."

Another voice came from your left.

"Knock 'er out, and I'll grab a net."

A blunt thwack was heard before your vision went dark.

..

Sevika had tied her boat to a post before leaving her crew to find a place to eat, preferably not a bar where she knew the rest of her men were headed. Having enough to drink, she sat at a stand selling calaloo and threw a few dabloons on the counter silently, waiting for her meal.

Her mind wasn't on anything except for you. The ruler of the Seven Seas was enamored with a mer-person.

How fitting.

She thought about the way your eyes sparkled when she told you stories, looking at her like no other. How your cold hands were so gentle when you touched her. Your soft lips against hers.

I mean, how much deeper could she fall.

Having been so engrossed in thought, she barely noticed the whispers around her. Barely. She, of course, was the talk of the town.

She intimidated people just by taking a seat next to them, so casual yet making everyone at the stand turn to glance at her. It wasn't often that Sevika bothered with mundane tasks such as eating anywhere but a bar, and nobody really saw her face anywhere except for wanted posters.

Although it was a picaroon town, and there was no way anyone there would bother to turn her in or snitch, she still pushed her plate away and got up to fend off the prying eyes. (Picaroon means pirate)

Her buckled boots thudded against the dirt road, now on the way to the nearest inn. She was almost desperate for a nights sleep without rocking on the mad waters.

Upon entering, a large man stomped past her, eager to get somewhere, she was just about to grab him and slam him into the nearest counter before her attention was interrupted.

"Them chowder-headed fools caught themselves a real jem, aye?"

"Heard theys' puttin' 'er up for auction"

That was never a pretty thing to hear. It either meant low-life pirates snagged themselves an expensive treasure, or worse, a living treasure. But it wasn't rare that a fisher or pirate just so happened to find a large, human-like fish in their net and put her on the market, so Sevika paid it no mind.

She did linger on the fact that it might be the one person on her mind at the moment but quickly shook away those thoughts. You were smart, quick. Theres no way any man would have you that easily.

When she approached the counter for a key, the shop-keep laughed, "What? You want a room? I think you ought to pay the stands a visit, its the first auction in a week."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes at his words, her head dipping into her previous thoughts again.

I guess it wouldn't hurt to make sure.

So she drug her tired and heavy legs right back across town for the sliver of a chance that it might be you.

..

You awoke with a harsh throbbing in your head, feeling cold and dried up. Through blurry vision, you could make out the steel bars, closing you in. And a loud voice,

"Another bid for 300 dabloons !"

Fuck. It's what you've been dreading all your life. You got caught due to your lack of awareness and clumsiness. Inwardly cursing at yourself, you grabbed at the bars and shook violently.

"Look, she's awake. How do we feel about upping the price now that we can see her pretty eyes."

The man stuck his fingers in your enclosure and tilted your chin up. At that moment, you became aware of the metallic muzzle on your face, keeping your jaw in place. You glared up at him, knowing you'd bite him if you could.

He pulled away when you jerked your head forward, as if making the motion to bite him. He laughed loudly, and another bid came from the crowd.

"500!"

The men yelled and whooped at that. You thunked your head against the bars, the loudness ringing in your ears. You can't believe you got yourself in this mess for a pirate.

It was just hollering and laughing for a while before the man beside you spoke,

"500, Aye? Going once.. going twice.."

"A thousand."

A heavy female voice stood out amongst the rest, sounding angry and tired. Your eyes darted around, looking for the source of the voice, but another shrill voice spoke up.

"1000? Is this woman kidding? 1500."

The men's laughs roared in again, smacking the mans back and slinging booze. A tall figure stepped out of the shadow, cigarillo in hand, and spoke, "Double it."

All went quiet as they eyed Sevika, her arm crossed over her chest as she brought a mechanical hand to her lips to take a drag. She blew the smoke from the side of her mouth, making a taller male cough.

Your eyes widened, and fingers gripped the bars steadier. When you made eyecontact, you could have sworn her eyes went soft for a moment before she looked to your captor.

"Well.. any final bids..?"

He spoke seemingly frightened and pleased with himself all in one moment.

Nobody spoke against Sevika, as a captian never had a bounty over their head for a reason. And her bounty was hefty.

There were no protests as she pushed her way through the crowd, seemingly more violent than usual. She put her cigar out on someone's forehead, the small tiss, standing out against silence.

Her boots clunked as she ascended the stairs and plopped three brown bags atop your cage. You looked up at her, but she wasn't looking back. Her metal hand was grabbing the key from the mans hand and pushing him backward in one motion.

He stumbled, but you looked away to eye Sevikas human hand swiftly unlocking the cage. She held her hand out to you, dark hair shadowed her eyes, and hid her expression from you.

She was who you were here for.

You hesitantly grabbed her calloused hand, and immediately, she lifted you into her arms. Now, looking into the crowd, her menacing expression was highlighted by the dim torches that surround the stands. Her cape was draped over your tail and bare torso, shielding you from the cold, and more importantly the people.

As she was stepping down the stairs, she saw your muzzled mouth, and her expression got a tinge darker. No words needed to be spoken as she balanced you with her human arm and knee, tearing the straps of the muzzle off with a sharp finger.

It was almost instinct to hum a siren song, but before your vocal chords could start, you saw her expression and buried your face in her sturdy torso. It was the look of warning, a warning that you obeyed.

Pirates gawked at the sight of her carrying you past the crowd of people. Nobody dared to reach out and touch you. Some people didn't even dare to look at you. You kept your gaze on Sevika's clenched jaw and torn expression. The angles of her face were more prominent at this angle, you would blush at the sight but your nervousness didn't allow it.

Her grip on your tail was firm, yet gentle, human arm cradling your torso without complaining about the coldness. You weren't one to be drawn to the warmth of a human, but found yourself pressed closer against her body. You now shut your eyes to rid of the feeling of stares and judgement.

As she carried you down the dirt road back to the inn, she spoke in a frustrated tone, "You are the stupidest fish ive ever met."

"And you're the sappiest pirate ive ever met."

..

When Sevika stepped into the inn with you in her arms the keep gawked at you. You were cradled like a baby, weightless in her hold. She kept a stern gaze as he passed her the keys with a room number attached "56".

The people that sat in the inn waiting room averted their eyes, shrinking under Sevika's cold grey eyes. Her eyebrows were furrowed, making you want to reach up and rub the wrinkle between them.

She walked up old rickety stairs, almost bending under your combined weight and turned left down the hall to the room. It was surprisingly quiet, and you were able to hear the woman's ragged breaths. Sevika was obviously worn out and tired from her day, and still came to your rescue.

How heroic.

She effortlessly shifted you to one arm, making sure your head was steady against her shoulder and creaked open the wooden door. Your tail barely brushed against the ground, her height compensating for the length.

"I need—," you spoke, before she cut you off with a grunt.

"Water. I know."

Opening the door to the bathroom, she sighed at the size. It was almost too small to fit her large frame and your long tail.

Dropping you into the tub gently, she turned the knob for cold water. "Want me to sprinkle in salt?"

You genuinely couldn't tell if she was joking, "No, no it's okay," You laughed, humming at the feeling of water on your tail.

"Why did you let yourself get caught," Sevika said, more as a statement than a question.

"I wanted to find you.. and I succeeded.. mission accomplished?"

She shook her head and bent down to accommodate for the space between you. She put a warm hand to your cheek, eyes soft and almost concerned, "Don't go looking for me like that again, danger follows me closely."

You giggled at her seriousness, despite being roughed around and almost being sold as fish food (or worse) you felt somewhat at ease. The woman at your side brought you a strange feeling of comfort, comfort that the sea never brought you.

"I guess ill just have to follow you closer."

i already have ideas for part three.... hehehehehe

again, thank you for the asks they are sweet ! and comment if you want to be on the taglist for part 3 , i do have some other works in my drafts but im saving them for when i finish this series :) but asks are open !!!

@misswynters @haruko--bby @thesecondhandwoman @theirlaliengirl

[rafesteddy]

𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕋𝕨𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕪-𝔽𝕚𝕧𝕖: 𝔽𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕟’ 𝕃𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕪

𝙷𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚢!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

warnings: mutual pining, swearing, drinking, rafe and the reader are intoxicated, oral (male + female receiving), bathroom sex, semi-public sex, spanking, unprotected p in v, pullout method, rough oral, dirty talk, praise wet + messy, cum tasting

📖 All of my asks got deleted 💕😭 so I'm not sure who requested this, but thank you! When you're getting hit on by a loser at your local college bar “boyfriend” Rafe comes in to save the day.

Reader’s POV:

The crowd's roar is deafening as you sit pressed against the glass of the college hockey area. The game had barely begun, but the energy was already electric—hit after hit, shot after shot. Your friend Lexi shouts and claps, pulling you out of your daze as she bangs her wool mittens against the glass.

Rafe Cameron… Your eyes track him as he streams by confidently, his red and black jersey rippling behind him as he skates, dodging the defenseman on his way to the net.

You smile, biting your lip as you look at the man before you. He sat two rows ahead of you in your accounting class, the two of you exchanging no more than two words all year. Still, there’s just something about him that has your heart racing every time you see him.

“You’re staring,” your friend smiles, looking at you from the corner of her eye. She lifts her draft beer to her lips, grinning against the rim before sipping.

“What?” You giggle as you stuff your hands in your pockets. “Am not.” You lie as the warmth of your little crush creeps up your neck, pooling hot in your cheeks.

“Yes, you are, she teases. “And, honestly, I don’t blame you…”

You roll your eyes away, but you can’t get the smile off your face. Rafe skates by the student section, glancing briefly at the glass as he cleans the snow off his stick. The corners of his lips curl into a smile, making your pulse skip, but you quickly shake it off.

I mean, it was a good shift… He had to be happy about that; you explain it away.

After the game wore on, the players moved faster, hits got harder, and the scoreboard stayed locked at an even 2 to 2. You could feel the determination and intensity radiating off him every time he hit the ice; you couldn’t take your eyes off him—like you would’ve regardless.

With less than a minute of play, Rafe broke away from the traffic with the puck on his stick. The crowd rose to its feet, getting louder and louder the closer he got until he drew his stick back and fired at the net. The sound of the rubber puck clanged off the pipe, and the crowd went wild when the red light flashed. The buzzer drones, its sound quickly swallowed up in the Goal Song.

You jump to your feet, clapping and cheering with the crowd. Rafe skates toward the middle, grinning as his teammates mob him, but once that celebration breaks apart, he turns to the student section, helmet off, hair wet with sweat, staring directly at you, smiling, sealing the deal with a cheeky wink.

There was no mistaking it… The look, the smile, the wink. It was meant for you and you alone.

“Did you see that?” Your friend screams before you can even fully process what happened.

“I… Uh…” You stammer, looking at her to confirm what you saw before you say anything, knowing full-well she could be asking about the goal and not Rafe.

“Oh, please,” Lexi scoffs teasingly as she shoves you away. “That shit was for you, and you know it.”

The car ride to the bar was filled with music and laughter. You can't help but get lost in your thoughts. Replaying that moment a few times before opening Instagram, fingers hovering over the search bar.

“Just do it,” your friend laughs, watching it all; face twisting slightly as she catches you debating.

“I didn't ask you,” you chide light-heartedly.

“You’re thinkin’ about followin’ him… Just do it,” she challenges you.

“Do you think that he would have followed me if he was interested?” You ask as you look at his handsome profile picture.

You hesitate for another second, looking through a couple of his newer pictures. And just when you’re about to take the plunge, you look up at the little heart in the right-hand corner, seeing a new notification. New follower, Rafe Cameron.

Your eyes widen on the screen, and you and your friend gasp in unison. Before you can even think about it further, she clicks the little blue confirm button for you.

“What the hell?” You scold her, slapping her away.

“I’m invested, I’m sorry,” she laughs. “What? Were you gonna say ‘no’?” You shake your head ‘no’ and smile, looking at your new friend, feeling your excitement rise.

The bar downtown is packed with post-game and Saturday night traffic. The music is loud, and the energy is high as students pour in to celebrate the hockey team’s win and the start of winter break. You push through the crowd, making your way up to the bar. You order a few mixed drinks before snapping some pictures.

”Ooh,” Lexi coos. “That one’s perfect.”

You upload the pic of the two of you holding drinks, tagging the bar. It wasn’t entirely intentional—or that’s what you told yourself. If Rafe just happens to see it and shows up? Well, that was just a beautiful coincidence.

The night rages on, drinks flowing, conversations blending into laughter, more friends arriving, turning your little group of two into a full-on party. You start to relax a little more, feeling the liquor course through your system, and then you feel something else as a large hand rests on your lower back.

“Hey, Babe.”

Your eyes widen, and you freeze, hearing a voice you were not expecting nor wanted to hear. You turn slowly, coming face-to-face with Mark, a guy from your accounting class, too. The kind of guy who made you excited about the semester’s end. Unfortunately, he was the type of guy who never took ‘no’ for an answer…

“Hi, Mark,” you mumble, keeping your tone flat and uninterested, knowing that even the slightest bit of kindness would be confused for much more.

“You looking stunning tonight,” he praises as he steps even closer, making you take one step back.

“Thanks,” you sigh.

“You here with anyone?” He asks curiously as he scans the crowd. Your friend looks between the two of you—her judgment of his hidden piss-poorly. The girl was unapologetically Team Rafe all the way, and Mark Lundell is no Rafe Cameron.

“Just my friends,” you say as you swirl your finger around lazily, gesturing to your group gathered around.

“No invite?” He fake pouts and you feel your body recoil when you hear it. Mark seems to notice your disdain, but it doesn't stop him from trying. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you in possessively. You rest your hand on his chest, pushing away slightly, but he doesn’t get the hint.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you-”

“No thanks,” you shout over the music, not even curious about what he meant to ask.

He chuckles and scoffs playfully, turning his hat to the back as he moves his face closer. “Hey-Hey, don’t be like that,” he soughs.

You close your eyes, swallowing thickly as he continues to talk, wondering what it’s gonna take to get him to fuck off- “She’s with me,” Rafe’s voice rolls through your mind like a sweet dream.

You turn, breath catching as you see Rafe walking in, just a few feet separating the two of you with his big hands stuffed in his jacket. His sharp gaze locks on Mark, and he gives him a little whistle and a nod, kindly telling him to ‘fuck off.’

Mark scowls, looking down at you and then Rafe. “Cameron?” He asks. The two boys are familiar with each other from the gym locker room—exchanging glances when the baseball boys leave and the hockey boys arrive.

“I’m her boyfriend,” Rafe says smoothly, eliminating the space between you. Your heart stutters at the word, but Rafe doesn’t miss a beat, reaching behind you to shove Mark out of the way before taking his “rightful” place at your side.

“Since when?” Mark asks as his expressions shifts.

“Since none of your fuckin’ business, Lundell,” Rafe smiles, his tone calm but firm.

“You know, if you’re not interested, you can just say that,” Mark snaps, recovering from his bruised ego by turning to the bartender, gesturing for a new bottle of Coors. “You don’t need to be a fuckin’ bitch-”

“The fuck was that now?” Rafe smiles, his eyes wide and wild as he separates from you, standing toe-to-toe with him. Mark doesn’t back down, his chest puffed as he looks slightly up at Rafe.

Rafe bites his lips, holding back a laugh, his relaxed demeanor’s somehow more intimidating than any show of aggression.

“Call her a fuckin’ bitch again, and we’re gonna have a problem…”

“Oh, yeah-”

“Honestly, bitch. We already have problems because regardless of who the fuck I am, she told you no… And you kept pushin’,” Rafe hisses, emphasizing the final word with a rough shove.

Mark’s a big guy himself, who doesn’t move too far, but the contact made him flinch, leaving Rafe holding back yet another chuckle.

“Walk away,” Rafe mumbles, his voice low and steady.

Mark’s dark eyes lock on yours. The bartender walks over, resting his beer on the bar top. He takes his out, snagging the bottle off the hardwood before rolling his eyes and sucking his teeth, disappearing into the thick college crowd.

You breathe deeply, letting out the deep breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in, quickly turning your attention to Rafe.

“You okay?” He asks protectively as he twists toward you.

You look up at him, your heart racing, and you nod, “Yeah… Thanks for that.”

“No problem,” he shrugs it off. Rafe rests his hand on your lower back, making your heart race, lighting you on fire as he flags down the bartender himself. “You want a drink, princess?”

Before you can overthink it, you rise onto your tippy toes, kissing his cheek. Rafe freezes, a soft, shy smile spreading on his lips, making her feel weak.

“Truly… Thank you,” you whisper. “Do you want a drink? It’s on me,” you assure me, turning your attention to the bartender as she arrives, but you can tell Rafe’s mind is still stuck on the kiss. “Rafe?” You giggle, resting your hand on his chest, feeling his heart bang underneath.

“Uh… Yeah. I’d love that, sweetheart. A Coors. Thanks.”

You order your drink, and Rafe reaches over you, his arms a little longer. He passes the bartender his card instead, starting a tab as you protest, but he just rolls his blue eyes and smiles.

The rest of the night is a blur of laughter, easy conversation, and alcohol. Rafe’s charming, funny, and much more than the reserved guy you had seen in class.

You talk about everything—school, hockey, your favorite places in town—and with every passing minute, your little crush blooms into something more. You feel comfortable, like you’ve known each other forever. And to Mark and the rest of the bar, that little boyfriend title he used honestly looked like the real thing.

At some point, the drinks catch up with the both of you. Rafe leans closer, his breath warm against your neck, making you turn into him. The boy quickly pulling you up onto his lap.

“You know…” He says, his words slightly slurred. “I’ve had a big fat crush on you all semester.”

Your eyes widen on his, hands resting on his chest as your mouth falls open in surprise. “You have?” You practically gasp, making him laugh at how happy you look with his admittance.

“Mhmm,” he hums as he wraps his big arms around your waist, moving closer. “You’re so—fuck,” he chuckles as the words get caught on his lips. “You are so fuckin’ pretty.” You laugh and shake your head. “What?” He asks bashfully.

“You, Rafe Cameron, are the prettiest boy I have ever seen-”

“I’m pretty?” He chuckles, lifting his eyebrow as he points to his chest.

“Mhmm…” You giggle.

“Well, shit… Thank you,” he smiles and flutters his lashes playfully.

Just like Mark did, Rafe grabs his hat, twisting it to the back, trying to eliminate the space between the two of you, but unlike the boy before, your tummy only fills with butterflies. Rafe tips his heavy head against your temple, chuckling drunkenly.

“I’ve had a crush on you too,” you admit, and as soon as the last word leaves your lips, he’s wrapping his big arms around you, pressing a rough, wet kiss against your cheek, making you squeal.

“The fuck you have?” He asks as he pulls back fast.

“I’m serious," you giggle as you turn to the side, looking directly into his gorgeous eyes.

Rafe bites his lip, studying yours, his glassy gaze hanging at half-mast. “Well, shit… S’my lucky night. Huh?” He asks.

“Feelin’ pretty lucky myself,” you whisper as the two of you get closer and closer. The air between you feels electric—charged with the buzz of too many drinks and sexual tension. Rafe’s gaze flickers between your eyes and lips, the two of you not realizing how close you’re getting until your lips connect.

The bar around you hums in the distance, and it feels like just the two of you for the moment. It’s uncoordinated—but perfect in its imperfection. Your lips move against his, making heat radiate through your body. Rafe smiles against your lips; you return the same, the pair of you pulling apart, giggling like teenagers caught in the act.

You look at Rafe—that same fire lit his eyes that’s burning in yours. He holds your cheeks in his hands, desperate to kiss him again.

“Should we-”

”We should,” you hum.

“Do that again. Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you giggle. Rafe guides you off the stool, pulling closer, the two of you stumbling slightly, giggling before your lips find each other again.

“We’re kinda drunk,” he whispers against your mouth.

“Is that okay?” You breathe, just hoping he’ll say ‘yes.’

“It’s okay with me. Is it okay with you, princess?” He asks.

“It’s okay-” You pant as your lips crash into his, warm and messy. You let out a soft moan against his lips, hands scratching into the hair at the nape of his neck as his hands roam your body. His grip on you is firm—yet another assurance that he wants you just as bad.

The world spins around you, your head fuzzy from the drinks and your perfect kiss. You break away just enough to grab his hand, tugging him toward the hallway. "Where are we-" Rafe starts, but you cut him short with another kiss, this one hungrier, more insistent.

"The bathroom," you whisper against his lips, feeling him smile again. Rafe draws back, looking both ways before opening the door. The two of you kiss your way inside, pushing back into the first open stall.

Rafe grabs your hips in his big hands, pulling you into him. You can feel his semi-hard cock pressed against his jeans, getting stiffer every second. You let out a breathy sigh against his soft, sweet mouth, Rafe taking the opportunity to slide his tongue inside as his lips move against yours.

He rolls his back against the bathroom wall, making you gasp as his thigh splits your legs. He leans back slightly, guiding you closer, leading you to grind your aching clit on his upper thigh. Rafe smiles against your lips as you take his wordless direction. He moves his hands from his lips to your ass, squeezing as you rock with the tempo of your kiss.

You gasp as you feel his cool hands rest against your tummy, your little breath turning into a deep, needy moan as he cups your laced-covered breasts in his rough hands.

You continue to grind as his lips press roughly against your neck, sucking with a bruising strength as you feel a warmth spread through you, little pangs of pleasure spurring from between your thighs.

You draw back slightly, biting your lip as you ride his leg. Rafe stares back at you, the look in his eyes painting a filthy picture of the two of you doing so much more. Thinking about you riding him just like this, your warm, wet cunt hugging him tight.

You can feel yourself soaking through your panties with each swivel of your hips. You grab his beautiful face, pulling him in for another kiss, hungry for more. “Rafe,” you whisper needily, your name leaving his lips so sweetly, making him moan into your kiss.

“Yeah, pretty?” He rasps, this voice sweet and thick like honey.

“Can I?” You ask shyly, but honestly, it’s why you brought him in here in the first place, desperately wanting your lips wrapped around him and maybe more…

“Can you what, princess?” He drawls before taking your bottom lip between his teeth, biting and tugging, making chills fall down your spine.

“Can I suck your cock?” You ask gently, feeling Rafe let out a breathy laugh like he can’t believe those words are leaving your sweet lips.

“You sure, baby?” He asks as he reaches his hand down, already working on his button.

You move down to your knees, looking at him through your lashes. “M’sure,” you smile. “Very, very sure.”

You grope his clothed cock with one hand, drawing his zipper down with the other before lowering his pants just enough, looking at his dick tented under the cotton, a wet stain of precum gathered on it. You wrap your lips around his tip, wetting Rafe’s boxers, making his breath catch in his muscular chest.

You suck the taste off, quickly pulling down his boxers too. Your eyelashes flutter as you take him in, his tip still weeping precum, long and thick… You release a desperate moan, thinking about what his length would feel like pushing in and out of your wet cunt, wondering if you could take him all.

You stroke him slowly, watching his eyes fall shut, head falling back on the metal partition. Your heart sinks a little, seeing his head sticking out over the top of the stall about four inches; those concerns quickly wave away as you hear a deep groan leave his lips.

Rafe looks down at you again as you hold his throbbing dick in your hand, running your tongue along his length before teasing the tip. Your hand drifts under his t-shirt, fingers working up his cut abs, feeling the little divots under your fingers deepening with each sharp breath he takes.

“Shit,” he pants as you bind your lips around him fully. Rafe wraps his hand around the top of the bathroom door, squeezing tightly as you take him to the back of your throat, bobbing again and again.

Rafe’s head falls back, knocking against the wall, making his eyes double at the loud sound; the man quickly shushing you with a finger up to his pretty lips and a playful smile like you had anything to do with that noise.

You wrap your lips around his tip, sucking, causing him to buck his toned hips, pitching his long cock in your throat. You lift your hand, slipping it through the slight space between his body and jeans, cupping his heavy balls in your hands.

"Fuck, princess," he groans, "I’m gonna cum.” You take your cue, gagging on him, salvia and precum drooling out of the sides of your lips. He bites his lips, stiffening deep moan.

You rest your hands on his thighs— Rafe’s muscles quivering underneath your palms. He cups the back of your head in his hands, tugging you as close as he can get as he cums deep in your throat.

His breath shudders as you draw out the last bits of his pleasure, swallowing it all as he looks down at you in a drunken, lust-ridden daze. Rafe pushes out a sharp breath as you pull off his cock nice and slow, cleaning off your lips with the back of your hand as he helps you off the floor, leading you back to him. You pant into your kiss, your deep breathing competing with his. “That was so fucking good,” he mumbles.

“Mmm… Glad I could make you feel good,” you whisper as you tug up his boxers, trapping his hard cock in the band of it, not wanting to pressure him into more, given you were the one that pulled him in here in the first place. “Should we head out?” You ask, between soft kisses.

“I don’t wanna,” he mumbles. “Do you?”

You giggle against his lips, moving a little closer. “No… I just don’t wanna pressure-“

“Pressure me?” He asks in disbelief, stopping you before you can finish the thought as his big hands cup your cheeks, pulling you into an even deeper kiss. “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

“I don’t know,” you giggle lightly.

“You can use me however you’d like, princess,” he whispers. “Told you… It’s my lucky night. I’m feelin’ lucky. I’m gettin’ lucky. This is the best night I’ve had in a very long time,” he mumbles the last three words between tender kisses. ”Let me taste you, sweetheart.”

”Yeah?” You ask softly.

“Fuck, yeah…” He hums as he fingers the button of your jeans. “Let me get you good and wet first, hmm?” He asks as he rolls you against the wall.

Rafe tugs at your pants just like you did, making you gasp, pulling them down just enough to get at your panties. He slips his big fingers into the waist pant, spreading your legs slightly, making you whimper as he runs two big digits through your slick folds.

“Shit, pretty. Fuckin’ soaked f’me already,” he hums against your lips. “Bet you’d feel so good wrapped around my cock.” He pushes his fingers inside you, making you reach for a breath; Rafe curls them, drawing out a moan from your pillowy lips.

“I want that so bad,” you pant as you stare into his sin-darkened eyes as he starts to work even quicker, broad palm smacking against your puffy clit repeatedly, making it that much harder to hold back your sounds of pleasure.

“You want my dick, princess?”

“Mhmm…” You hum needily.

“Think you can wait?” Rafe teases as he twists his hand, making a moan rip from your throat that has you both looking at each other in shock, fighting back a laugh that quickly turns into another whine as his rough thumb circles on top of your clit.

You bite down on your bottom lip, tossing your head back, and just when you think it can get any better, he moves to his knees, flicking his tongue across your clit, making your muscles jump as his fingers continue to dart in and out. Rafe chuckles against your clit, the warmth of his voice making you whimper, toes curling, fingers twisting in his hair.

“Just like that, Rafe… Don’t stop,” you plead as you feel yourself about to lose control completely.

“Cum for me, princess,” he hums against your sex, the vibrations sending you over the edge, leaving your body fluttering around his big fingers, muscles trembling uncontrollably. He doesn’t stop until your body relaxes fully, you fighting for a breath as you slump against the bathroom wall.

“Holy shit,” he practically moans as he rises to his feet again, his handsome face flushed, chin glistening with your arousal. You pull Rafe to your lips, tasting the two of you together, your body feeling like it could float away.

Rafe pushes you into the wall, his cock hard just like it was before—his want for you practically oozing off his skin. “So, should we get out of here?” He teases you with your own words, chuckling against your lips as you giggle against his; Rafe has no intention of leaving unless that’s what you want. You have no intention of leaving either as you tug at his jeans and boxers again. “Need you so fucking bad,” Rafe mutters as he turns you around, grabbing your wrists, guiding your hands on the wall in front of you as you push your ass onto his hard cock.

Rafe’s hands drift underneath your hockey jersey, lifting it slightly as you bend over. “Gonna get you one of my older jerseys when we get home, aight?” He hums, smacking your ass with his big hand.

“You’re takin’ me home?” You ask sweetly.

“Yeah, baby… ‘Course I am,” he drawls as he leans in, pressing his chest against your back, pushing a gentle kiss on your lips as he traces his fat tip through your slit, bumping your clit, making you gasp.

“We doin’ condoms or what, princess?” Rafe questions as he bullies your hole, bottom lip tucking between his teeth, teasing himself with your warm, wet pussy praying you’ll say ‘no.’

“Boyfriend privileges,” you giggle as you look over your shoulder and smile, giving him a little wink.

“Fuck, I love the sound of that, baby-”

You draw in a sharp breath against as Rafe thrusts into you slowly, his fat tip filling you before he presses in inch by inch, finally bottoming you out. His hands rub along your lower back, letting you adjust to his size; your cunt pulling him in just like he imagined, leaving him tossing his head back to the ceiling.

Rafe grabs your hips, grunting about how tight you are as he pulls out to the tip, shoving himself back inside, making you reach behind your back, wrapping your trembling hand around his wrist to steady yourself and keep from crying out.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the bathroom, but you couldn't care less. And neither does Rafe, slapping your ass again, making your pussy tighten around his fat cock as he ruts into you quicker and harder.

“Holy shit,” you whimper, your bottom lip quivering in overstimulation.

“Mpfhh…” He grunts, pounding into your soaked center again and again. “So good, princess… Taking me so fuckin’ good. You gonna cum? Fuckin’ cum for me,” he begs as he pulls you back fast, pistoning his hips, fucking you on his dick as your fingers spiral on your clit.

“Oh—Oh, fuck. Rafe,” you squeal as you cum around his cock. Rafe’s jaw tightens, using his last bit of power to fuck you through your orgasm, and the second he pulls out, you gasp, feeling his climax land hot on your lower back. His cum pools in the dip of your spine, rolling down your warm skin.

Rafe clutches your hips in his hands, taking a deep breath as his throbbing dick resting on your ass. The two of you panting and groaning, coming down from your highs together.

He cleans you off, helping you back into your clothes between soft kisses and sweet nothings. Rafe looks at your sweater, scrubbing off a little bit of cum caught on the fabric, making a joke about how he’s technically on the back of your jersey now, making the two of you laugh way too hard.

Rafe’s hand is warm in yours; his firm yet gentle grip guides you through the packed bar. Laughter and music swell around you, but all you can focus on is Rafe’s touch and his thumb gently brushing against your hand.

The two of you step up to the bar at the same spot where you started your night, standing side-by-side with your knight in shining armor. You glance up at him and smile as he orders you two drinks before closing your tab.

Rafe kiss-swollen lips curl into a small smile as he feels the heat of your gaze out of the corner of his eye. He grabs the check off her hands, scribbling a tip and a total. Rafe sets it down and moves a little closer, stepping chest to chest with you; your back backed up against the bar. His hair is messy from your bathroom romp; slightly mussed, a soft purple mark forming on his neck from your lips, a particularly rough kiss.

Rafe grabs your hand, flipping it over, pen hovering over your palm. You watch as he works: his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth, his chicken scratch handwriting tattooing your skin, but the words stop your heart.

Tomorrow night 7 pm Luna Rosa I like you a lot -RC

You blink, rereading it like your brain is playing tricks on you. But then he looks at you—those intense, drunken eyes locked onto yours—and kisses the back of your hand.

“I mean it, princess,” he mumbles softly. “In case you had any doubts.”

You rise on your tippy toes, kissing his cheek again like you did earlier in the night before tucking yourself in his neck. “I really like you too, Rafe,” you whisper.

When you pull away this time, he’s not just stunned silent; he’s ready. Rafe cups your cheeks in his hands again, kissing you deeply, pulling you into his arms, and there is absolutely no doubts. ♥️

[holyblonded]

new beginnings | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your whole life is uprooted after one fall

warnings: deadbeat and neglectful parents, arguments

notes: new series!! i am actually very excited for this one so hope y’all like it. also this is a longer one!!

You pant as the stadium lights blaze down on you, illuminating the slick, rain-soaked pitch. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you don’t stop moving— you can’t.

The air is thick with the scent of wet grass and sweat, and the roar of the student section vibrates through your chest, deafening, chaotic. You hear the distant pounding of the drumline, the frantic voices of your coach and teammates shouting instructions, but it all blurs together. White noise.

The scoreboard looms above, flashing 1-1, with the clock winding down. Your heart hammers against your ribs. If the streak ends here, you will never forgive yourself.

A messy clearance sends the ball bouncing, fast, unpredictable, through the center of the pitch. It ricochets off a defender’s shin and lands in your path, a gift wrapped in chaos.

For a split second, everything slows. The world shrinks to you, the ball, and the goal. You barely think. You don’t have time to. Instinct takes over.

With one touch, you push it forward, just enough to create space. A defender lunges in, too late. You see the keeper off their line—hesitating, shifting their weight, waiting for a pass that isn’t coming.

You pull back your leg and strike. The ball rockets off your foot, slicing through the air like a missile. You know it’s good the moment you hit it. The sound— that perfect, crisp contact rings in your ears.

The crowd collectively gasps. It climbs, spinning, curving then dipping, impossibly fast. The keeper scrambles, their hands stretching, but it’s a second too late.

The net ripples and for a second, there’s nothing. Silence. A breath held by thousands.

The stadium erupts. Your name is swallowed by the cheers, by the stomping of feet, by the chaos of bodies surging toward you. Your teammates crash into you, arms around your shoulders, voices wild in your ears. Someone grabs your face, shaking you, yelling words you can’t even process.

The scoreboard flashes 2-1. The final whistle blows. You did it. The streak lives as does your pride.

After the game, the celebration carries into the locker room, shouting, laughter, the slamming of lockers, the sharp scent of sweat and victory. You let yourself bask in it, let yourself feel it. The thrill, the relief, the high of it all.

By the time you step outside, your friends are waiting for you, still buzzing with excitement.

“That was insane!”

“Goal of the season, easy.”

“You’re a legend.”

They throw their arms around you, ruffling your damp hair, laughing, their eyes alight with pride. You try to brush it off, but their energy is contagious.

For a moment, everything is good. Eventually, one by one, they leave, disappearing into the night. The celebration fades. The stadium empties. The high starts to wear off.

And like always, you do what you’ve done after every game.

You take a slow walk along the stands, scanning the seats. Searching. Hoping.

The lights above hum, buzzing faintly in the quiet. The student section is empty now, just rows of vacant bleachers, puddles reflecting the glow of the floodlights. Your gaze drifts over every seat, your breath shallow. Maybe this time.

But the stands are empty. No familiar faces. No one waiting for you. Just like always.

You exhale, pressing your lips together. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You won. That should be enough. But the ache in your chest says otherwise.

The sun is dipping lower in the sky, staining the clouds gold and pink as practice stretches into the evening. The scrimmage has turned playful, full of taunts and laughter, the kind of session where the intensity is still there but the pressure isn’t crushing. It’s just fun… until it isn’t.

You’re dribbling down the pitch, slipping past defenders with ease, the ball glued to your foot. Someone shouts your name in warning, but it’s too late. A tackle comes in hard, way too aggressive for practice. There’s no time to react, no time to brace yourself.

You go down, and the impact rattles through your body, but the second you hit the ground, you know something is wrong. Pain explodes up your arm, sharp and immediate, radiating from your wrist.

You don’t scream, but you let out a harsh, shaky breath, cradling your wrist to your chest as you try to push yourself up only to be met with a wave of nausea as pain tears through your arm again.

“Shit, Azulita—”

“Is she okay?”

“Someone get the trainer!”

Voices swarm around you, overlapping, frantic. The player who tackled you hovers nearby, looking guilty as hell.

Your coach is there in an instant, crouching beside you. “Where’s the pain?”

You try to shrug it off, but even moving your shoulder makes your wrist throb. “Wrist.” Your voice comes out strained.

Someone helps you up carefully, supporting your arm as they guide you toward the sideline. The trainer takes one look and mutters, “We need to get her to the hospital.”

“No,” you fiercely shake your head, “No hospital please.”

“Ríos do not give me that bull today.” Your coach says in rebuttal. “You are going to the hospital. That is that. Am I clear?”

Your eyes start to water but the tears never fall. “Yes, Coach.”

The ride to the hospital is a blur of pain, muted voices, and the occasional bump in the road that makes you wince. Your teammates on the phone try to keep the mood light, cracking jokes, promising to cover your cast in the ugliest drawings possible.

But underneath it all, a weight is pressing down on you.

Hospitals mean paperwork. Paperwork means parents.

You barely process the check-in, the way the nurses poke and prod at your wrist, asking questions, nodding at your answers until suddenly, everything halts.

“Alright,” one of the nurses says, flipping through the forms, “we just need to get a hold of your parents for consent.”

Your stomach drops. They dial the number you gave them. You already know what’s coming. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail.

Frowning, the nurse glances up. “Do you have another guardian? A relative we can contact?”

You shake your head, quickly, instinctively, throat tight.

She tries again. Nothing.

“Sweetheart,” she says, softer now, “we can’t give you anything for the pain, and we can’t proceed until we get parental consent.”

The room closes in. Your teammates shift awkwardly, not sure what to say. The nurses murmur to each other. You stare at the floor, fingers tightening around the hem of your jersey, afraid to move, afraid to speak.

You could lie. Say they’re out of town. Say their phones died. Say something, anything. But the truth is pressing against your ribs, clawing up your throat. You don’t know where your parents are.

The minutes stretch long. Nurses come and go, but you refuse to meet their eyes, refuse to say anything. If they figure it out, if they realize you don’t have anyone, what happens next?

Then, a new nurse kneels beside you. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand answers. She just speaks, voice steady, familiar in a way you can’t place at first.

“You remind me of my little sister,” she says casually, watching you carefully.

You glance at her. The way she talks, the tone, the firmness, the care, it reminds you of Olga. Your throat tightens.

You don’t mean to say it. You don’t even realize the words are leaving your mouth until they’re already out, quiet and unsteady. “I haven’t seen or heard from my parents in months.”

The air shifts. The nurse straightens. Someone steps out of the room. The mood changes instantly. Your heart pounds. You shouldn’t have said anything. Now, everything is about to spiral.

Olga groaned as the sharp buzzing of her phone cut through the quiet of the bedroom. She shifted slightly, trying to ignore it, but the vibration continued, insistent.

Alexia, half-asleep, only tightened her arms around Olga’s waist, murmuring something incoherent against her shoulder.

Olga exhaled, debating ignoring the call altogether, but something about it felt urgent. Carefully, she pried Alexia’s arm away just enough to reach for the phone on the nightstand, squinting at the unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

Her stomach twisted. Calls in the middle of the night were never good.

Reluctantly, she swiped to answer. “Hello?”

A brief pause. Then, a voice, calm, professional, but carrying a weight that immediately set Olga on edge.

“Is this Olga Ríos?”

“Yes.” She sat up slightly, rubbing at her face. “Who is this?”

“My name is Linda Perez, and I’m a social worker with Los Angeles County.”

Olga frowned, now fully awake. “Okay… what is this about?”

There was another pause, this one heavier.

“It’s about your sister.”

Olga went still.

“She suffered an injury earlier this evening during soccer practice at Willow Canyon Academy. She was taken to the hospital, but they were unable to reach either of her parents for consent to treat her injury. After further investigation, it became clear that your sister has been living without proper parental supervision for several months now.”

Olga’s breath caught in her throat. “Wait—what?”

The social worker continued, voice measured, but Olga could hear the underlying concern. “From what we’ve gathered, neither her father nor mother have been home for quite some time. Their numbers are disconnected or going straight to voicemail. She has no legal guardian available to authorize medical care or provide support.”

Olga felt like the room was tilting. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to process. “You’re telling me she’s been on her own?”

“Yes,” Linda confirmed. “And given the circumstances, her parents are now considered unfit. Without an immediate guardian stepping in, she will be placed into the system as a ward of the state.”

Olga’s stomach dropped. “She’s just a kid,” she said, voice tight, gripping the phone harder. “You can’t—”

“That’s why we’re calling you.” Linda’s tone softened. “You are her closest living relative. If you are willing, you can assume temporary guardianship. However, this is a serious commitment. You would need to take responsibility for her well-being, provide a stable home, and ensure she receives proper care.”

Olga didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll take her.”

Alexia, now sitting up beside her, stiffened at the urgency in her voice. Olga barely noticed, too focused on the conversation.

“Are you sure?” Linda asked. “This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”

“She’s my sister.” Olga was already kicking the sheets off, reaching for the nearest hoodie. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

“Understood.” Linda hesitated. “Before you go— her injury. It’s her wrist. The doctors believe it’s sprained, possibly fractured. She needs surgery, but without parental consent, they can’t proceed.”

Olga clenched her jaw. “I give consent. Do whatever she needs.”

“I’ll let them know.”

The call ended, but Olga was already moving.

She threw open the closet, yanking out clothes, stuffing them into a suitcase with no real sense of order. Her hands were shaking. How did this happen? How did she not know?

Alexia grabbed her wrist, stopping her frantic movements. “Olga.”

“I should’ve known.” Olga shook her head, running a hand down her face. “She never said anything. I talked to her. I checked in. She never once told me she was—” Her voice caught.

Alexia squeezed her wrist. “You didn’t know.”

“I should have,” Olga snapped, then immediately winced at her own tone. She inhaled sharply. “She’s just a kid, Ale. She’s been alone for months. No parents, no one looking after her and I didn’t know. I should have known! Our dad has always been like this.”

Guilt burned in her chest. She thought back to every conversation, every time she’d asked, How are you? and got a casual, I’m fine in response.

Alexia’s grip on her tightened. “You are a good sister,” she said firmly. “You care. You’re doing the right thing now.”

Olga exhaled shakily, nodding. Alexia let go, only to start folding the clothes Olga had thrown into the suitcase.

“I’ll help you pack,” Alexia said.

Olga blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m coming.”

“You don’t—”

Alexia shot her a look. “Olga.”

Olga swallowed. The tension in her shoulders loosened slightly.

“Okay,” she murmured.

Alexia nodded, zipping up her own bag. “Then let’s go get your sister.”

The last time you saw Olga in person, you were twelve years old. She had come to visit for a month, and for the first time, you felt like you had a real family member, someone who truly cared, someone who loved you. You clung to every moment, every second of that summer, storing them away like treasures, hoping they would last.

Now, sitting in your social worker’s office, your leg bounces a mile a minute. Your fingers dig into the sleeves of your hoodie as you try to steady yourself, but your mind is racing. What if this doesn’t work out? What if she doesn’t want you? What if she sees you now and regrets coming?

The door swings open and Olga barely hesitates before crossing the room in quick strides. The moment she reaches you, her arms wrap around you tightly, pulling you in like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. You tense for half a second then melt into the embrace.

She smells the same, like citrus and something faintly floral. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face into her shoulder, and for the first time in months, you feel something close to safe.

She pulls back, hands still gripping your shoulders, and really looks at you. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes you in.

“You’re so—” Her voice catches, and she shakes her head. “Dios, has crecido tanto.” (God, you have grown so much.)

And you have. You’re nearly the same height as her now— maybe even taller. Your hair is longer, the tips dyed blonde. There are more piercings in your ears, and a small gold hoop gleams from your nose. Olga swallows hard. Her eyes are glassy, but she blinks quickly, shaking off the emotion.

Behind her, Alexia is speaking in low tones with your social worker, nodding as she listens. The woman slides a stack of paperwork across the desk, and Alexia flips through it, occasionally handing something to Olga to sign. It all feels so surreal.

Before you know it, you’re walking out of the office, bags in hand, stepping into the cool evening air. Alexia unlocks the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, while you and Olga settle in the back.

The drive is quiet.

You stare out the window, arms crossed, fingers tapping against your knee. The weight of everything sits heavy in your chest. Olga is here. You’re leaving your home, your LA. It’s happening so fast, and you don’t know how to process it.

Olga shifts beside you, then clears her throat.

“So…” she starts, trying to keep her tone light. “How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Any favorite classes?”

A shrug. “Spanish.”

She exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly. “Okay… uh, football? Are you still playing with Legends?”

You nod, still staring out the window. “Well, not anymore.”

Olga rubs her hands against her jeans, glancing at Alexia in the rearview mirror. Alexia gives her a small look that says, Give her time.

But patience has never been Olga’s strong suit. “Zulita,” she tries again. “I know this is a lot, but—“

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

It comes out sharp. Too sharp. You see Olga’s jaw tighten slightly.

“You needed someone to come,” she says, voice edged with frustration.

“I was doing fine.”

“Fine?” Olga scoffs. “Zulita, you were in the hospital alone. You had no one looking after you.”

“I was handling it.”

“No, you weren’t!” Her voice rises slightly, exasperation creeping in. “You’re fifteen! You shouldn’t have to handle it!”

The words hit something raw inside you. The frustration, the helplessness, the months of being on your own, of convincing yourself you were fine—it all bubbles up too fast.

“Well, I did!” you snap. “Because I didn’t have a choice! Because no one else was there!”

The car goes silent. Olga stares at you, her expression shifting from anger to something softer. Something sad. And then, she remembers.

She remembers the way you used to be as a kid— how you would lash out when things got too overwhelming, how your emotions always felt too big for your body, how you would snap and yell because it was the only way you knew how to feel heard.

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice quieter. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

You glare out the window, arms still crossed, but the anger is already fading into something closer to exhaustion.

You shift uncomfortably. “…Yeah. Me too.”

She huffs a small laugh, shaking her head. “You’re still so hot-headed, Zulita.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, lips twitching just slightly. “Takes one to know one.”

Olga snorts, nudging your knee with hers.

Alexia just smiles from the front seat, shaking her head as she drives.

Spain doesn’t feel like home. You only vaguely remember it— small flashes from the two times your dad brought you to visit Olga. The streets, the language, the way the air smelled different. But those were just trips. You were always going back to LA. Now, you’re here. Permanently. And you hate it.

The Spanish is different. The people are different. The food is different. Everything is different.

Your emotions are a tangled mess, a constant weight in your chest that you can’t shake. You don’t know how to deal with it, don’t know how to explain it, and the one thing that’s always helped, football, has been ripped away from you. You haven’t played since you landed a week ago.

Olga is smothering you. She means well, but it’s too much. She hovers, questions everything, watches your every move like you’re some fragile thing that might shatter at any second.

Alexia is different. She gives you space. She doesn’t treat you like a kid. She sees you not just some troubled teenager Olga suddenly has to take care of, but a person trying to survive in a world that doesn’t feel like theirs. She doesn’t push, just waits.

But none of that stops everything from boiling over.

You never meant to revert to your old ways. The one good thing about Spain was the fact that you had a chance at a fresh start.

But, as you’re sitting at lunch, music blasting in your headphones, trying to block everything out. Trying to breathe, you see it.

A younger kid, probably first-year, backed against a wall, shoulders hunched, eyes darting around like a trapped animal. A taller guy standing in front of him, sneering, shoving his shoulder. Words are exchanged, but you can’t hear them.

What you can see is the way the younger boy’s hands shake, the way he flinches when the older one steps closer.

And suddenly, your body moves before your brain does.

You’re up. Across the cafeteria. Pulling the guy away from the kid.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you snap.

The older guy sneers at you. “Who the hell are you, weirdo?”

You don’t think. You react. Shoving. Yelling. Someone grabs your arm, but you shake them off. A fist swings, and suddenly, you’re in it.

Then there are teachers. Hands pulling you back. Your heart pounding.

Before you even register what happened, you’re sitting in the principal’s office, hands balled into fists, jaw locked.

The secretary dials a number. You hear them say Olga’s name.

You shut your eyes and brace yourself. The car ride home is brutal.

“What the hell were you thinking? Do you know how serious this is? You just got here, and you’re already getting into fights? You’re lucky they didn’t expel you! Dios mío, do you know how hard it was to convince them not to suspend you? This is a top school, Azulita!”

You don’t answer. You stare out the window, jaw clenched, fingers digging into your uniform. You take a deep breath and bite your tongue.

Alexia is quiet for the most part, watching you through the rearview mirror.

Then she asks, voice calm, “Did they provoke you?”

You glance at her, hesitating. “…Yeah.”

“Were they hurting someone?”

Your throat tightens, but you nod.

Alexia hums but doesn’t say anything else.

Olga, on the other hand, is still going. Your breaths get more labored, “Olga. Please drop it for now.”

When you pull into the driveway, you don’t wait. You’re out of the car before it fully stops, slamming the door behind you and stalking inside.

Olga moves to follow, but Alexia stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Let her breathe,” she says.

Olga exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “She can’t just go around hitting people, Alexia!”

“I know,” Alexia says evenly. “But from what the principal said, and what she just said, she wasn’t fighting for no reason. She was standing up for someone.”

Olga’s shoulders drop slightly.

Alexia gives her a look. “You know better than anyone how she is. She doesn’t just get angry— she reacts. She’s been through a lot. You have to meet her halfway.”

Olga presses her lips together, sighing. “…Yeah. You’re right.”

She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and heads upstairs to your room.

She knocks. No response.

She knocks again. “Zulita, can we talk?” Silence. Something feels wrong.

She pushes the door open to be met with an empty bed. The window is open. Your phone is on the nightstand. Panic slams into her chest.

“Alexia!”

Alexia calms her down—barely.

“We’ll find her,” she promises, already dialing a number.

The call connects.

“Lucy,” Alexia says, straight to the point. “We need your help.”

It takes a few hours, but they find you. A park, thirty minutes away. A small, empty field. You’re there, by yourself, shooting goal after goal. You don’t even turn when they approach.

Alexia watches as you line up another shot, striking the ball perfectly into the top corner. It’s instinct. You don’t even think, don’t hesitate. Your body just knows what to do.

She and Lucy exchange a look.

Alexia steps forward. “You scared Olga half to death, you know.”

You exhale, resting your hands on your hips. “I needed to clear my head.”

“So you left your phone and ran off?”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you mumble.

Alexia frowns. “Of course we care.”

You sigh, rolling the ball under your foot. “I just—everything is too much. It’s too different. Spain is different.”

Alexia doesn’t push. She just listens. You stand there, staring at the ball as you line up your next shot, feeling the weight of everything that’s been building up inside you. The silence between you and Alexia stretches, and for the first time, you feel like you can let it out. Let her see the truth of how hard this has been for you. The truth of what you’ve been holding in for so long.

“I’m not used to this,” you say, your voice low but steady, breaking the silence. “It’s… it’s hard, you know? Everything back home just… made sense.”

Alexia’s eyes are focused on you, not speaking, just letting you continue.

You exhale deeply, trying to find the right words. “Back in LA, everything was… routine. It wasn’t easy, but it was my life. You know? I didn’t need to think about it. The corner store, Mr. García, that old man who ran it—he gave me free snacks if I swept the floors for him.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold back the emotion that threatens to spill. “He wasn’t rich, wasn’t some big store owner or anything. He was just an old man who liked to help out kids like me. And I did what I had to do. I didn’t complain about it because it meant I got to eat something I didn’t have to pay for. And I felt good doing it. Like, that was a part of me.”

Alexia’s eyes soften as she listens, and you shift uncomfortably, but keep going.

“There was also Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress who lived down the block. She used to fix my clothes when they tore or when I just couldn’t afford new ones. She’d take the time to patch them up, make them look good as new. And she’d always say, ‘I’ve got your back, mija.’ Even when I couldn’t pay her. She’d make me new stuff too, just out of kindness.”

You pause, feeling the lump in your throat grow.

“And the grocery store? They’d let me stock the juice shelves for an hour or two, and in exchange, they’d give me a bag of groceries. It was the only way I could get some food most times. I mean, I didn’t care, you know? I was just a kid, trying to make it through. But I was making it.”

You stop and look down at the ball, trying to steady your breathing. “Everything back home was like that. A hustle, yeah, but a hustle I understood. It wasn’t perfect, but it made sense. People helped each other out, and you helped them back. I knew how to survive.”

You look at Alexia now, feeling the weight of your confession. “I got a scholarship, you know? A football scholarship to the best program in LA. And it wasn’t handed to me. I worked my ass off to get there. I had to claw my way in, beat out all the other kids who had better coaches, better gear, better everything. But I fought for it. I did it alone. No one helped me get there. It was just me, and I… I made it.”

You can feel the emotion building, the frustration, the anger, the sadness, all of it hitting you at once. “And now, I’m here. And I don’t know how to make it make sense. I don’t know how to fit in. Spain is nothing like LA. The Spanish is different. The people are different. And I feel like I’m… just lost. Like I don’t belong here.”

Alexia doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer advice or try to fix things. She just nods, listening, letting you spill everything.

“I didn’t know how to handle that. I didn’t know how to adjust. And yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but…” You clench your jaw, fighting the tears that are threatening to come. “It’s hard to start over. I didn’t think I’d have to do this again.”

Alexia stays silent for a long moment, letting you talk through everything. Then, when you’re done, she finally speaks.

“You’re right,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, Zulita. I’ve been in Barcelona my whole life, so this—what you’re going through—this isn’t something I understand. But I can understand that it’s hard.”

You nod, your chest heavy. “I don’t want to be ungrateful. I know this is an opportunity. But it just feels like I’m starting over in a place that isn’t mine. A place that isn’t home.”

Alexia smiles softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out all at once. You’re allowed to feel frustrated, to miss home. You’re allowed to take time to adjust.”

You look up at her, feeling a little lighter, a little more seen. “Thanks,” you say quietly.

Alexia’s gaze softens as she watches you, clearly understanding. “But there’s something you need to do. You need to talk to Olga about this. It’s the first step in the right direction, okay?”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering it. You know she’s right, but it still feels hard. Still feels like you’re betraying everything you built back in LA. But Alexia’s words make sense.

And when you finally nod, Alexia adds, “Talking to her is the first step, but we’ll get through this together. All of us. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

You take a breath and look back at the goal, focusing on the ball again. The frustration, the anger, the confusion—it’s still there, simmering. But for the first time since you got to Spain, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can start figuring this out.

Maybe you can make this work, too. You sigh, staring down at the ball. “…She treats me like a kid.”

“She treats you like someone she loves,” Alexia corrects gently.

You chew on your lip, kicking the ball toward the goal again. It soars into the net.

Alexia and Lucy exchange another look.

Alexia smirks. “We’re gonna have to get you on a team soon.”

[theculturedmarxist]

In 2020, Robert Kuciemba, a woodworker in San Francisco was infected with covid by a co-worker after his Nevada-based Victory Woodworks transferred a number of sick workers to the San Francisco site for a few months. 

Through the proceedings of the case it turns out that the employer knew some employees might be sick but they transferred them anyway and ignored a San Francisco ordinance in place at the time to quarantine suspected covid cases.

Kuciemba was subsequently infected and he then infected his wife, who ended up in ICU on a ventilator.

The California Supreme Court just ruled against Kuciemba on the basis that a victory, while, in the court's words, "morally" the right thing to do, would create "dire financial consequences for employers" and cause a "dramatic expansion of liability" to stop the spread of covid.

There’s a few stunning details to note in this case. First, the court agreed that there is no doubt the company had ignored the San Francisco health ordinance. In other words, they accepted the company had broken the law. And then concluded “yeah, but, capitalism.”

Secondly, the case was so obviously important to the struggle between capitalism and mass infection that the US Chamber of Commerce, the largest business lobbying organisation got involved and helped the company with its defence. Remember, this is a tiny company in a niche industry. The involvement of the biggest business lobbyists in the country tells us a lot about the importance of the principle they knew was at stake.

Thirdly, the defence of the company is very telling. They said “There is simply no limit to how wide the net will be cast: the wife who claims her husband caught COVID-19 from the supermarket checker, the husband who claims his wife caught it while visiting an elder care home." 

Well, exactly. Capitalism couldn’t survive if employers were liable for covid infections contracted in the workplace, and the ripple effect of those infections. And they know it. 

This case is something of a covid smoking gun, revealing what we always suspected but had never seen confirmed in so many words: the public health imperative of controlling a pandemic virus by making employers liable for some of that control is, and always must be, secondary to capitalist profit. 

This ruling is also saying out loud what has been obvious to anyone paying attention for the last two years: employers don’t have a responsibility to keep your family safe from covid. You have that responsibility. And if you give a family member covid that you caught at work and they get sick or die – even if it was a result of law-breaking by your employer – that’s on you buddy.

It is the same old capitalist story: the shunting of responsibility for ills that should be shared across society, including employers in that society, onto individuals.

This ruling essentially helps codify workplace mass infection and justifies it as necessary for the smooth functioning of capitalism.

This is not new. This is where the ‘just a cold’ and the ‘mild' narrative came from. It came from doctors and healthcare experts whose first loyalty was to capitalism. Not to public health. To money, not to lives. Abetted by media who uncritically platformed them.

While this ruling tells us little that we couldn’t already see from the public policy approach of the last two years, it is revealing (and to some extent validating) to see it confirmed by the highest law of the land in the United States. 

[moonlight-joy]

A Reckless Rescue

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary: When a scandal threatens your reputation, Anthony steps in and claims you as his betrothed—even though neither of you have ever entertained the idea before.

Pairing: Reader/Anthony Bridgerton

Scandal could spread faster than fire in the ton, and tonight, it was your name caught in the flames.

You stood frozen in the candlelit ballroom, your breath shallow as Lady Featherington’s sharp voice rang through the air.

“Alone in the garden with Lord Bertram?” she gasped, her hand clutching at her chest in an exaggerated display of horror. “Why, the impropriety is unthinkable!”

The room fell silent. A sea of watchful eyes turned toward you, the weight of judgment already descending. Your heart pounded against your ribs.

It had been nothing—a misstep, an accident. A moment alone in the garden, barely long enough for a whisper, yet more than enough for ruin.

Lord Bertram, a bumbling and foolish man, had lost his footing in the hedges, and in the process, had grabbed your wrist to steady himself. The movement had been nothing short of ridiculous, but that did not matter now.

Lady Featherington’s voice carried through the hall. “A compromised woman has but one course—”

Before she could finish, a deep voice sliced through the noise.

“Enough.”

Anthony Bridgerton.

The crowd parted as he stepped forward, his presence like a storm rolling in. His dark eyes locked onto yours for the briefest of moments before he turned to the room at large.

“The lady is not compromised,” he said with absolute authority. “She is betrothed.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Lady Featherington’s mouth fell open, and Lord Bertram gawked like a fish caught in a net.

Your head snapped toward Anthony. “What?” you whispered, barely audible.

He did not look at you. His face was set in stone, his grip firm as he took your hand in his.

“You heard me,” he said smoothly. “We are to be wed.”

Your pulse pounded. This was absurd. Unthinkable. You and Anthony Bridgerton?

The ballroom swirled in whispers. If you denied him now, if you called him a liar, your fate was sealed. But if you accepted…

He had given you a way out. A reckless, impulsive, impossible escape.

And perhaps, just perhaps, you were reckless enough to take it.

The carriage ride home was silent.

You sat across from Anthony, the glow of the streetlamps flickering over his sharp, unreadable features.

At last, you exhaled, your voice a near whisper. “You did not have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

Your fingers curled into your skirts. “You hardly know me.”

“I know enough.” His gaze flicked toward you, steady and deliberate. “I know that the ton would have destroyed you over something so trivial. I know you did not deserve that fate.”

Your heart twisted—half in gratitude, half in something far more dangerous.

“But marriage, Anthony?” you pressed. “Do you truly wish to wed someone out of obligation?”

His jaw tensed. “It is done.”

You studied him. The viscount was a man of control, of measured decisions. And yet tonight, he had acted without hesitation.

“Then tell me why,” you said quietly.

His eyes darkened. “Because I could not stand there and watch them tear you apart.”

Something shifted between you, something fragile and burning.

But before you could grasp it, before you could say another word, the carriage slowed before your home.

Anthony straightened, his voice composed once more. “We shall announce the engagement formally tomorrow.”

You stared at him. “You truly mean to go through with this.”

He inclined his head. “I do.”

And with that, Anthony Bridgerton—your sudden, reluctant betrothed—helped you down from the carriage and disappeared into the night.

The betrothal announcement had sent the ton into a frenzy. The whispers had turned from scandal to shock—had the viscount harbored feelings for you all along?

You knew the truth. There had never been talk of love, of longing.

But something had begun to shift.

And you could not ignore it any longer.

It was late when you found him in the Bridgerton garden, leaning against the stone railing, staring at the stars as if they held answers.

“You are avoiding me,” you said.

Anthony turned, his expression unreadable. “I am ensuring your reputation remains intact.”

You stepped closer. “And what of yours?”

His lips quirked. “I am the Viscount. My reputation is unshakable.”

You studied him. “Then why does this feel like a mistake to you?”

His gaze locked onto yours. “Because it was reckless,” he admitted, his voice raw. “And reckless things…” He trailed off, jaw tightening.

“Terrify you?” you finished softly.

A flicker of something crossed his face. “Yes.”

Your heart pounded. “Then tell me, Anthony—was it truly only duty that made you do it?”

He did not answer. Not with words.

Instead, he reached for you, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his breath fanning against your lips.

“I should not want this,” he murmured.

But then he kissed you.

And everything changed.

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[p0orbaby]

Indexical Reminder of a Morning Well Spent

i sent a little of this to @wosofutbolfan and it apparently passed the test so here it is

-

The goal was fucking beautiful.

A pure, uncut masterclass in footballing telepathy.

Alexia had barely looked before she whipped the ball into the box. You were already moving, already there, like you had a GPS tracker embedded under your skin, waiting for the exact moment to strike. One touch, a ruthless finish, and the net rippled like it was bowing to your greatness. The crowd went feral. Commentators lost their minds. Pundits called it art.

Now, in the changing room, your teammates are still reeling.

“Okay, but what the actual hell was that?” Mapi demands, pulling off her tape.

Pina shakes her head, throwing a towel over her shoulder. “It’s not normal. You don’t even look at each other. It’s like—like she breathes, and you just know.”

Patri squints at you. “Do you practice that at home?”

Irene folds her arms. “Be honest. Do you two have, like, a shared consciousness?”

Kika points at you. “Are you some kind of footballing hive mind? Because I refuse to believe that was just instinct.”

You stretch out your legs, completely unfazed. “It because we fuck all the time.”

Silence.

Alexia, who had been mid-sip of her water, chokes.

Coughs. Gags. Almost dies.

Mapi slaps the locker and cackles. “That explains a lot.”

Pina’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

Patri grips her towel like it’s a seatbelt. “What does that have to do with football?”

You shrug. “Everything.”

Alexia is still spluttering. “No, no, no. Stop.”

You ignore her completely. “When you have sex as often as we do, you develop a kind of… connection.”

Alexia lunges, slamming a hand over your mouth. “Don’t you dare.”

Mapi grins. “Oh, no. She has to.”

Alexia glares at her. “She doesn’t.”

Kika leans forward. “No, I think she should.”

Pina nods, barely suppressing her laughter. “For scientific purposes.”

Patri crosses her arms. “If we’re going to be subjected to your disgusting public displays of on-pitch chemistry, we deserve the full explanation.”

You lick Alexia’s palm.

She yelps and jerks away like she’s been electrocuted.

You wipe your mouth. “As I was saying—”

“No. No,” Alexia pleads.

You continue, unfazed. “I know her body. Every inch of it. The way her muscles shift. The exact moment she tenses before she—”

Alexia actually grabs you. Tries to physically drag you away. “We’re leaving.”

You dodge, side-stepping like you’re evading a stubborn defender. “I just mean, when you’ve had someone clench around your fingers enough times—”

Alexia lunges again.

You bolt, darting around the physio table.

Mapi screams with laughter. “OH MY GOD.”

Kika has tears in her eyes. “Please, keep going. This is the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Alexia is desperate. “Stop talking.”

You dodge her again. “It’s pure instinct at this point. Like how I know exactly when she’s about to—”

Alexia dives. Misses.

Pina has collapsed onto the floor. “I cannot breathe.”

Patri is crying. “Make it stop.”

Irene wipes her face. “No, keep going, I need every detail.”

Mapi is wheezing. “Wait, wait, wait—are you saying that every time you score a goal off her pass—”

You smirk. “It’s basically an extension of our sex life, yes.”

Alexia grabs you, shakes you like she’s trying to reset your brain. “You. Are. Deranged.”

You grin. “Fong pretend you don’t love it.”

She shoves you. “I’m not pretending, I loathe it.”

Mapi is practically convulsing with laughter. “You’re telling me every single assist—”

“—is just an echo of last night’s activities? Oh definitely.”

Kika collapses onto the bench. “I need an exorcism.”

Alexia physically hauls you toward the showers. “We are leaving this conversation.”

You plant your feet. “Wait, wait, just let me finish—”

“No.”

“I’m just saying, it’s good motivation, you know? The more I score, the more assists she gets, the better the reward.”

Mapi screeches.

Pina is on the floor.

Patri is pleading with the universe.

Kika throws her water bottle at you. “LEAVE.”

Alexia shoves you through the doorway. “You’re done.”

Mapi wheezes. “This is the best day of my life.”

Alexia looks at the team like she’s asking for divine intervention. “This is the worst day of mine.”

[nickoftimewebdesign]

Let Me School You Real Quick...

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

flower therapy | f. odair

masterlist

summary: after being rescued from the capitol’s torturous clutches, your boyfriend, finnick odair, assists you with recovering from haunting memories and ptsd.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: finnick being major boyfriend material, soft reader, mentions of torture, ptsd, panic attack, hurt/comfort, fluff

notes: the way i lowkey triggered myself into a panic attack while writing this?? i’m okay now though 😀

word count: 1.3k

Post-traumatic stress mental rehabilitation. That is what the psychiatric doctors of District Thirteen suggested after you were rescued from being captured and tortured in the Capitol. Their methods sounded daunting and all too familiar—sterile white rooms, memory flash cards, persistent strangers who would force you to relive your trauma so you could 'work through it'.

Finnick did not like the sound of that one bit. So, he offered an alternative.

Post-traumatic stress mental rehabilitation. The label was a mouthful. Finnick preferred to call it "flower therapy". Twice a week, you and Finnick were authorised to spend two hours above ground where you would sit in a nearby meadow, make daisy chains, and occasionally open up about what happened in the Capitol.

You liked to call it "the power of flowers". Stupid, but saying it always formed a little smile on your face and there was no harm in simple joy considering the cruelties you had endured. Most of the time, you were silent and would lie in Finnick's arms while making flower crowns. He was always patient; he understood you needed time. Day after day, he proved his unconditional love, and you thanked the universe for blessing you with such an incredible man.

"Oh no," you whispered.

"What is it?"

You dangled your broken daisy chain in front of you and Finnick.

"Oh no," he echoed.

Your back rested against his chest and his arms enveloped your body as he held his own effortlessly crafted yellow chain in your lap. Apparently, years of weaving fishing nets creates a master of making daisy chains.

"Here," he said, positioning his own flower crown on your head. "Beautiful."

Smiling, you turned your head to face him. "I'm going to tell everyone I made it."

The flowers sat like a golden halo atop your head, beaming just as bright as the smile Finnick had bloomed at the sight of you. Beauty was everything that you were; not just outwardly, but within the confines of your mind too. Flowers and sunlight were interwoven with your soul, making up the essence of who you were—loving and warm-hearted. One of the many reasons Finnick had fallen in love with you.

He would forever want to remain in your garden, tending to and protecting every petal that blossomed.

His thumb swiped affectionately across your cheek. "Of course you are, you thief," he murmured, grinning. "You owe me."

Your stomach flooded with butterflies and you leaned in, tenderly kissing him with soft pink lips. Finnick cupped your cheek, stroking the baby hairs of your hairline with his fingers as he smiled against your mouth. Even your lips tasted like sweet nectar to him.

After you pulled away, you settled back into his embrace, sinking into those arms that shielded you from any and all harm.

"Okay, I suppose you're forgiven," Finnick said, the smile present in his voice.

You toyed with his fingers while wearing a glowing smile of your own, his arms lovingly wrapped around your body. Oh, you loved him so endlessly.

As the sun began to lower, a mixture of orange and pink clouds blanketed the sky. The trees surrounding the meadow cast large shadows throughout the area, making it appear much darker than it really was. A subtle shift in the once tranquil atmosphere rippled through the meadow, happiness now becoming a distant and unreachable feeling.

The broken daisy chain crumpled in your hands no longer shined in the sun like a beautiful mess. It instead looked tangled. Chaotic. Darkened by the dimming light and transformed into something sinister that resurfaced haunting memories of the Capitol—twisted IV tubes filled with unknown substances, chains that removed layers of skin, decaying white roses that covered the floor of your cell.

Heaviness clutched at your heart, suffocating you from within.

Finnick sensed the sudden shift, loosening his hold around you as he whispered, "What's wrong?"

"I—I don't know," you stammered, the air thinning around you.

The wilting daisies started to taint your hands with darkness, creeping slowly up your arms and causing them to tremble. Finnick, who noticed your fixation on the daisy chain, gently took the flowers from your grasp and set them aside.

It was too late; the panic had already set in.

He turned your body to the side in his lap, forcing you to face him. Your eyes flickered with worry. No amount of pain could compare to the heartbreak he felt seeing you like this.

"Hey. Hey, look at me," he urged, his tone soothing. "Breathe with me, alright? In..." He inhaled deeply through his nose. "And out."

But it was no use. Air was caged within your lungs, burning like fiery hot whirlwinds inside your chest. It was all you could do to force rapid shallow breaths out of your mouth.

"No, no!" A tear fell from your eye as you fervently shook your head. "Finn, I ca—I can't."

"Yes, you can, baby," he said, pushing aside the hair that obscured your vision. His eyes searched the area, looking for anything that could help distract your frantic mind. That is when he spotted a small flock of birds perched on one of the tree branches, instantly recognising their black feathers and sharp beaks. "Look. See those birds? They're mockingjays."

Finnick pointed up at the tree, gaining your attention which then shifted to the birds that were gawking down at you with curious tilting heads. Mockingjays. Katniss. Rebellion. Hope. You focused all your attention on the little black birds and listened to Finnick's reassuring voice.

"They'll repeat any tune you make," he continued, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Can you do that for me? Try and whistle something for them?"

Attempting to control your ragged breathing, you jerkily nodded. Songs from the world before the war overtook your mind. At first, it was overwhelming as your mind scrambled for a suitable melody, fuelling your panicked state. But then you heard something familiar and focused on the familiar tune, one that was from your childhood.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,

Go to sleep, my little baby,

When you wake you shall have,

All the pretty little horses.

It was a lullaby your mother sang whenever you were upset. Seemed fitting considering the situation. You managed to whistle the first few notes, albeit a little wobbly of course, hardly noticing the air that was starting to flow more freely into your lungs.

"That's it, sweet girl."

Once the mockingjays began echoing the song throughout the forest—far more beautifully than your broken whistles—you continued the melody until the end. When you finished, the birds continued to repeat the tune, singing your mother's lullaby over and over in the trees of District Thirteen.

Whilst sat cradled in Finnick's embrace, you quietly hummed along as he stroked soft patterns on your arm. Darkness and pain were long forgotten now. Your body no longer trembled with fear nor did your breathing. Memories of the Capitol's brutality were locked away and hidden in the back of your mind, diligently guarded by the man whose arms you lay in.

Golden beams filtered through the tree trunks; the sun was now lowered enough to let the warm light in, illuminating both you and Finnick. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, wrapping you up even tighter in his arms now that he was certain the worst had passed.

You clutched onto his arm and blew out a final stabilising breath, finding comfort in the strength and protection he held. The side of your head rested against his chest, the beats of his heart harmonising like a drum with the mockingjays' song.

You wanted to apologise but knew his response would be dismissive. You wanted to tell him how deeply you loved and appreciated him but knew your words would fail you.

So, you remained silent.

"You're safe," Finnick whispered into your hair. "Right here, right now. I promise."

Right here, right now, you repeated in your mind. In Finnick's arms, you were safe. You were loved.

tags: @tayrae515

[heliosunny]

PLEASE need some hsr mermay content IDC WHO PLEASE I TAKE ANY MERMAY CONTENT 🙏🙏🙏

Deadly Gamble

Yandere!Merman!Aventurine x Reader

The sea had been a mirror of tranquility just moments before, its surface glinting under the moonlight like scattered coins. Then, without warning, the waves rose in fury, their dark crests slamming against the ship's hull with enough force to send tremors through the deck. The storm had descended like a predator, but even its wrath paled in comparison to what came with it.

The singing slithered through the chaos first. It wove between the howling wind and the crew's panicked shouts.

"Don't listen to them!" Came the captain's voice, his hands locked onto the wheel as the ship pitched violently.

But the warning came as the first sailor staggered toward the railing. "They're... they're singing for me..."

You reached for him, fingers brushing his sleeve just as he leaned over the edge and the water beneath him erupted, dragging him down before his scream could even leave his throat.

The deck shuddered beneath your feet as another wave struck. A jagged crack split the planks near the mast, seawater surging through the breach. Someone shouted, "We're going down!" before the world tilted, and the ocean swallowed everything.

Cold was the first sensation that pierced the fog in your mind. Your body was leaden, half-buried in wet sand, each breath burning as you coughed up saltwater. The storm had spat you out, though every muscle screamed in protest as you pushed yourself onto your elbows.

The second thing you noticed was the silence. No wind. Just the gentle lap of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

"Now this is a surprise."

Slowly, you turned your head.

Aventurine lounged in the shallows, his tail, gleaming like spilled gold, curled lazily beneath him.

"Most humans don't survive" he mused, tilting his head. His fingers trailed through the water, sending ripples toward you.

He moved suddenly, closing the distance between you in one fluid motion. His hand closed around your wrist. "Let's see how long that luck holds."

The water was rising around your legs, his pull relentless, and panic clawed up your throat.

"Oi! Get away from them!"

A rock struck the water near Aventurine's shoulder, sending up a spray. He recoiled with a hiss, his grip loosening just enough for you to wrench free. A villager stood further up the shore, a fishing spear leveled in warning.

For a heartbeat, Aventurine didn't move. His gaze flicked from you to the interloper. Then, with a low laugh, he leaned back, sinking into the waves.

"Run along, little fish," he murmured, his voice carrying even as the water swallowed him whole. "But remember, the ocean always takes what it's owed."

You were alive.

For now.

The village had been kind to you, feeding you, clothing you, letting you rest in a small but warm inn by the shore. The locals spoke of the mermen with wary resignation, as one might speak of storms or droughts.

"Just don’t wander too close to the water." an old fisherman had told you, his gnarled hands mending a net. 

You had been careful.

Yet here you were, barefoot in the damp sand, the cold tide licking at your ankles.

The sound had woken you, a melody, tugging at your limbs like puppet strings. You hadn’t even realized you were moving until the salt-sting of the sea air snapped you back to awareness.

And there he was.

Aventurine perched on a jagged rock just beyond the shallows, his tail flicking idly against the surf. Moonlight gilded the sharp angles of his face, his eyes gleaming as his song faded into a smirk.

"Sleepwalking, little fish?" he crooned, tilting his head. "Or just eager to see me again?"

Your fingers scrambled for a weapon—a rock, a piece of driftwood, anything—but the beach offered nothing.

"You dragged me here" you spat.

"I merely… invited. You came all on your own." He leaned forward, bracing his chin on one hand. "Admit it. Part of you wanted to."

You took a step back. "What do you want?"

"A conversation." His tail lashed, sending up a spray of seawater. "You’re not like the others. They die. But you…" His gaze raked over you. "You survived."

"That’s just luck."

"Luck?" He grinned. "Oh, sweet thing. Luck is my domain." He slid from the rock, disappearing beneath the waves for a heartbeat before resurfacing closer. "Tell me your name."

The command slithered into your bones, sweet and heavy. Your lips parted—Then you clenched your jaw.

"I’m leaving."

"Fine. Run back to your little hovel. But we’re not done."

You didn’t wait to hear more.

The sand was cold underfoot as you fled, his laughter chasing you all the way back to the inn.

You locked the door.

The news of an incoming ship spread through the village. Finally, a way home. You should have felt relief. Instead, your fingers tightened around the edge of your drink as you sat in the dim-lit tavern of the inn, the weight of unseen eyes prickling the back of your neck.

The innkeeper had hired new help.

You recognized him instantly.

But you played along.

"New here?" you asked, feigning ignorance as he slid into the seat across from you.

"A traveler, just passing through" Aventurine replied. His fingers drummed against the wooden table. "Heard there’s a ship coming soon. You planning to board?"

You took a slow sip of your ale, watching him over the rim. "Maybe. Depends on if the sea’s in a good mood."

He chuckled. "Luck’s a fickle thing, isn’t it? I’ve got a theory—some people are just born under lucky stars. Others…" His gaze flickered to the window, where the ocean churned in the distance. "Others make their own luck."

"And which one are you?"

His grin widened. "Why don’t you find out?"

For days, he wove himself into your routine, bringing you meals, lingering in conversation, his words laced with double meanings. He was testing you, seeing how long it would take for you to break.

Instead, you matched him.

The night before the ship’s arrival, you found him on the inn’s back porch, staring at the moonlit waves.

"No disguise tonight?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"Would it matter if I did?"

You stepped closer. "Why bother with this charade?"

Finally, he looked at you, his eyes gleaming with something almost like respect. "Because you’re interesting."

"You could stay"

You raised a brow. "And what? Become your next meal?"

He laughed. "Oh, little fish. If I wanted to eat you, you’d already be gone."

The ship would come.

The choice, for now, was yours.

And as you walked away, you could’ve sworn you heard him whisper

"Luck favors the bold."

You had spent your last days in the village sharpening knives and weaving nets into makeshift traps. The villagers warned you—no one hunts the mermen and lives to tell the tale. But you were done playing his games.

The night before the ship arrived, you waited by the shore with a harpoon stolen from the docks, the moon hidden behind storm clouds. The sea was eerily calm.

Then, a ripple. A flicker of gold beneath the waves.

You lunged before you could think, driving the harpoon into the water with all your strength.

And missed.

Aventurine surfaced just inches from the blade, his laughter ringing like wind chimes in a hurricane. "Oh, little fish, did you really think it would be that easy?"

You snarled and struck again. This time, a rogue wave knocked you off your feet before the harpoon could find its mark.

He tsked, swimming lazy circles around you as you sputtered in the shallows. "So predictable." Then his grin turned razor-edged. "But don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow."

Before you could reply, he was gone.

The ship arrived at dawn, a sturdy merchant vessel, its crew none the wiser to the predators lurking beneath the waves. You boarded with your jaw set, your fingers brushing the knife hidden in your sleeve. Let him try.

The attack came just as the ship reached open water.

One moment, the deck was bustling with sailors; the next, screams erupted as sinuous forms vaulted over the rails.

You barely had time to draw your blade before he was on you, his grip iron-strong as he dragged you toward the railing.

"This," he purred against your ear, "is where your luck runs out."

The water swallowed you whole, the surface receding as he pulled you deeper, his kin following with other struggling victims in tow. You fought, clawing at his arms, but his smile never wavered.

His teeth sank into your shoulder. You gasped… and instead of choking on seawater, you breathed. Your eyes flew wide.

Aventurine released you, licking a drop of blood from his lips. "A gift" he said, as the other mermen began tearing into their prey. "And a curse." He leaned in. "You have seven days. After that?" His tail coiled around you. "You will die."

Seven days.

Seven days to find a way out.

Or seven days until the ocean claimed you for good.

The other mermen circled you like sharks scenting blood, their eyes gleaming with amusement. You were Aventurine’s discarded toy, a plaything he had bitten and left to drown—but not quickly enough.

One reached out, claws grazing your arm. "The human!" he hissed.

You didn’t wait for them to strike first.

Snatching a jagged piece of driftwood from the seabed, you swung. It connected with the first merman’s temple, sending him reeling back with a snarl. The others hissed in surprise.

You barely dodged, twisting away as teeth snapped where your throat had been. Kicking off the ocean floor, you swam for the surface, lungs burning despite the cursed gift of Aventurine’s bite. But they were faster. A hand closed around your ankle, yanking you back down.

Crack

A ship’s broken mast, torn loose in the storm above, plunged into the water like a spear, impaling the merman holding you. The others scattered as the heavy timber pinned their kin to the seabed.

Aventurine found you washed up on a desolate atoll, gasping and bleeding.

He emerged from the waves with a slow, mocking clap. "Bravo" he drawled. "I almost thought you’d make it." His eyes flicked over your trembling form. "But your luck’s run out, darling."

"Then take it back."

"Take what?"

"Your gift." You staggered to your feet. "You want me dead? Fine. But I won’t drown for your amusement."

He laughed, slithering closer. "And how do you plan to—"

Your hands locked around his wrists, and with every ounce of strength left, you pulled. He stumbled, tail flailing—and then you twisted, dragging him onto the sharp rocks lining the shore.

"You—"

"If I’ve got the worst luck," you spat, pinning him down as his scales scraped against stone, "then so do you."

A wave, monstrous and sudden, crashed over you both, wrenching you back into the sea. Saltwater filled your mouth, your vision darkening as the current tore you apart—

And then his hands were on you, shoving you toward the surface.

You broke through, coughing, just in time to see him vanish into the depths.

You dragged yourself onto the rocks, breathing hard.

---

Six days left.

And now? He was angry.

Aventurine had always played his games alone.

But now, the whispers slithered through the reefs, the human had wounded him. Not just in flesh, but in pride. And the other mermen, sensing blood in the water, were eager to finish what he had started.

One in particular, a brash hunter with emerald scales, had already set off toward the shallows. "I'll bring you their heart"

Aventurine killed him.

"Anyone else..." he looked up at the others, flicking blood from his claws, "want to interfere?"

Silence.

But vengeance required more than intimidation. So he descended—down, down, past the carcasses of sunken ships, past the trenches where light dared not reach, to the abyss where the sea witch lurked.

"Aventurine," she crooned. "Come to beg?"

He tossed the hunter’s severed fin at her feet. "Come to bargain."

She laughed. "Is it about that specific human? Want them to suffer?"

"I want them to understand," he corrected, "What it means to lose everything to luck."

The witch leaned forward, her ink-black hair swirling. "Then take their luck away." She pressed a vial into his palm, inside the vial, liquid gold swirled. "One drop… and Fortune will abandon them forever."

Aventurine’s fingers curled around it. Perfect.

The storm raged above the waves as Aventurine cornered you against the jagged rocks of a coastal cave, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. The vial of cursed luck glinted in his hand. Took quite the effort to bring you here.

"You've been quite the problem, but every game must end."

"You don't have to do this. I will die eventually."

"Oh, but I want to," he hissed, baring sharp teeth. With terrifying speed, his hand gripped your wrist, the other tipping the vial toward your lips.

You thrashed, turning your face away as the golden liquid spilled, only for a rogue wave to slam into the cave, knocking you both sideways. The vial flew from his grasp, spinning through the water—

And shattered against his chest instead.

The effect was instant.

The liquid seeped into his scales like poison. His pupils shrank to slits as realization dawned.

"NO!"

The ocean itself seemed to turn against him. A current wrenched him backward into the cave wall. A jagged rock gashed his tail as he crashed against the reef. He hissed in pain—only for a startled moray eel to dart from the coral and sink its teeth into his arm.

He was unlucky now.

And despite everything, you hate to witness the scene.

You swam forward and seized his wrist.

"Don't touch me!" he snarled, trying to jerk away.

"If I let go, you'll die."

You loosened your grip—just slightly.

A nearby conch shell, dislodged by a flick of his tail, plummeted and cracked against his skull.

You tightened your hold with a sigh. "We need to fix this."

The journey to the sea witch’s lair was a nightmare.

Every movement Aventurine made invited disaster. A school of venomous jellyfish drifted into his path. A dormant volcano rumbled beneath you, spewing boiling vents. Once, a shark—his own ally—mistook his shimmering scales for prey and took a chunk from his fin.

By the time the abyss opened before you, he was bleeding, seething, and utterly humiliated.

The sea witch’s laughter echoed through her cathedral of bones.

"Ohhh," she cooed, circling you both. "This is marvellous!"

"Undo it" Aventurine demanded.

"Or what?" She flicked his nose. "You’ll trip me to death?"

You stepped between them. "There has to be a way to lift the curse. For both of us."

The witch paused. "Why would you help him?"

You didn’t answer.

She smirked. "A trade, then. His luck returns… if you give me your remaining days."

"No."

"Deal." You ignored him.

The witch’s grin split her face. "Then hold still—"

Aventurine moved.

His free hand snatched a rusted dagger from the witch’s belt—and plunged it into her throat.

Her shriek shook the ocean. Black blood clouded the water as her magic unraveled in a whirlpool of curses. The vial’s effects shattered.

And your borrowed time?

Still ticking.

Panting, Aventurine glared at you. "Never do that again. You suck at bargaining."

"Let’s just go back."

The sea witch’s blood still clouded the water around you, her dying curse echoing in the silence. Aventurine’s grip on your hand was iron-tight—not out of affection, but necessity. Without you, his own luck was a liability.

You studied his sharp profile, the way his jaw clenched as he scanned the dark waters ahead. Why did he stop you? He could have let the witch take your remaining days.

As if sensing your thoughts, he scoffed. "Don’t look at me like that. I just hate owing debts."

You almost laughed. "So stabbing her was… what? A favor?"

"A solution," he snapped, tail flicking irritably—only to dislodge a rock that nearly brained him. He scowled. "We need to find another way. Before your time runs out."

The words hung between you. Five days. Maybe less.

The ocean had never felt so vast.

With your free hand, you sifted through the wreckage of sunken ships while Aventurine begrudgingly directed you toward hidden merfolk archives—places where old magic might still linger.

"Here, try to find something useful."

You reached for one, but he yanked you back just as a dagger—rusty and loose from its display—clattered down where your hand had been.

"This is exhausting."

You sighed. "Then let’s hurry."

The first two days passed in a blur of near-misses and dead ends.

Aventurine, despite his pride, refused to let go. Not when a collapsing tunnel nearly crushed him. Not when a rogue current almost swept you both.

By the third day, frustration simmered beneath his skin.

"There’s nothing," he snarled, flipping over a table in the ruins of an undersea shrine.

"Wait." Your fingers brushed a mosaic on the wall—a merfolk legend depicting a mortal and a sea spirit bound together. "What’s this?"

"...Two lives becoming one." His voice was oddly quiet.

You turned to him. "Would it work?"

"It would mean sharing your curse." A pause. "And your luck."

The weight of it settled between you.

You had nothing left to lose.

He had everything to gain.

"Do it." you said.

Aventurine’s grip tightened. "You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to."

"I know my time is up." You held his gaze. "And I know you hate losing."

For once, he had no clever retort.

The ritual was simple.

A cut on his palm. A cut on yours. Blood mingling in the water as ancient words spilled from his lips.

Pain lanced through you, sharp and bright, as something shifted. Your vision blurred; your lungs burned. Then—

"...It’s done."

You looked down. The mark from his bite was gone.

And when you finally, finally let go of his hand?

Nothing bad happens to him.

"Come on, little fish" he muttered, tugging you toward the surface. "Want some fresh air?"

The ritual had changed something fundamental between you—and Aventurine wasn't acting like himself.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. The way his fingers lingered when passing you seaweed-wrapped fish. How his eyes tracked your movements like a compass finding north. When you climbed onto the shore of a deserted island to gather driftwood, he transformed his tail into human legs (a glamour, he'd grumbled, not his favorite form) and followed.

"You don't have to come" you said, watching him scowl at the way the grains stuck to his skin.

"I know" he snapped, but made no move to return to the waves.

The realization hit when a stray fishing hook snagged your sleeve, nearly dragging you into the water. Aventurine, halfway across the beach, flinched as if he'd felt the tug too.

You froze. "Did you just—"

"No" he lied, too quickly.

You pressed your palm to his chest. His heartbeat thundered against your fingertips—matching yours.

"You didn't tell me it would be like this." 

He looked away. "Would you have agreed if I did?"

The answer hung between you.

The mermen noticed.

Of course they did.

Aventurine had always been untouchable—a creature of chaos and cunning, feared even by his own kind. Now? He was vulnerable. 

They came at dusk, their silvered knives glinting beneath the waves.

"Traitor," one hissed, circling you both. "You've bound yourself to a human."

Aventurine's grip on your waist tightened. "Say that again," he purred, "and I'll turn your spine into a necklace."

But the threat rang hollow. They knew.

Hurt you, and he'd bleed.

Kill you, and he'd die.

They lunged forward. Only for Aventurine to move, faster than you'd ever seen, his borrowed human strength fueled by something raw and desperate. The attacker's body hit the sand with a wet thud, throat slit.

Aventurine turned to you. His glamour was slipping, gills flaring at his neck.

"We can't stay here" 

You stared at the corpse, then at him. "Where can we go?"

"Wherever the tide takes us."

That night, as you drifted on a stolen fishing boat beneath a sky full of stars, Aventurine finally admitted the truth.

"The ritual wasn't just about sharing time," he said, fingers tracing the new mark on your wrist. "It was about sharing fate."

You swallowed. "So if I die..."

"I die. And vice versa." He said it casually. "Annoying, isn't it?"

You laughed, despite everything. "You hate this."

"I loathe it." he agreed, but when you shifted closer, he didn't pull away.

Somewhere in the dark water below, his kin were hunting.

But for now?

You had time.

----

It felt like a beginning.

He had never done anything like this before.

Aventurine crouched in the moonlit shallows, his claws dripping with seawater and something darker. The bodies of his former kin floated just beneath the surface, their lifeless eyes staring up at the stars they would never see again. Their blood swirled around him like ink in the tide, their stolen life force threading through the water—his to claim.

Pathetic, he thought, watching the last of the ritual’s glow fade from his fingertips. Sacrificing fools for a human’s sake.

But it wasn’t just your life he was extending.

It was his.

And that, at least, made sense.

You found him at dawn.

He was sprawled on a half-sunken rock, his tail streaked with fresh wounds, his breathing deliberately slow. When you called his name, he didn’t startle. Just turned his head lazily, as if he’d been waiting.

"There you are, little fish." he drawled. "Sleep well?"

You ignored the taunt, wading into the surf to inspect the gashes along his side. "What happened?"

"Hunting accident." He flicked a claw toward the horizon, where the first pale bodies were just beginning to wash ashore. 

You frowned. "They’re… dead?"

"Mm. Unfortunate." He watched your face, searching for disgust, for horror—but all you did was press a hand to the worst of his injuries.

"You’re bleeding." 

He almost laughed. Oh, darling. If only you knew.

But he wouldn’t tell you. Not just because you might recoil.

Because this was his secret to keep.

That night, when you slept, he pressed two fingers to the mark on your wrist, the one that bound you together, and felt the steady, strong pulse of it.

Ridiculous, he thought.

And yet.

When you shifted in your sleep, your fingers brushing his, he didn’t pull away.

The next morning, you caught him staring at the horizon.

"What are you thinking about?" 

He smirked. "How much I hate owing favors."

You rolled your eyes. "You don’t owe me anything."

"Exactly," he said, too lightly. "So don’t expect this to become a habit."

But when you turned away, his gaze dropped to the mark on his own wrist, the one that matched yours, and for the briefest moment, his smirk softened.

Worth it.

[woso-dreamzzz]

If You Were My Little Girl II

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Things are looking up

Alexia watches from the stands.

They're mostly empty, like almost all Barcelona B matches.

Women's football has only really started picking up steam recently but only at the top flight. The lower level leagues are still having a bit of a popularity issue.

But Alexia, for once, finds that she doesn't mind.

Because it means she can sit practically alone in the stands as she watches the home match.

A notepad sits on her lap, a pen tapping against the pages thoughtfully as she watches.

Barcelona B are good and Alexia has never expected anything different. She's seen the system at work many times as La Masia churns out players like Aitana and Pina and Jana, and more recently Vicky and Martina.

There's a reason so many clubs wants La Masia products.

They're all good players but even now, Alexia can tell a great player when she sees one.

You rise up among the crowd in the box and slam the ball into the goal, the net rippling with the force of the shot.

The best part, Alexia thinks, is that you didn't even need a moment to control the ball, hitting it in on the volley and grinning as your teammates practically dogpile you.

A hattrick in ten minutes is impressive in any league and Alexia makes another note in her notebook, humming softly to herself.

She rises out of her seat at the end of the match, disappearing into the building and out the doors.

It takes another half an hour for you to appear again, hair damp and an old crew neck sweater that Alexia's pretty sure is Alba's being tugged over your head.

You slip into the passenger seat, throwing your bag into the backseat and Alexia pulls your head down to press a kiss against the side of it.

You smile shyly at her as she offers up the fries she'd bought for a job well done.

"You did good, kid," She says," Very impressive."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. But I think we're going to work on evading slide tackles next," Alexia says as she drives off," We're trying to keep those ankles of yours intact, alright? I'm going to need them this season."

You roll your eyes and Alexia clicks her tongue.

"Don't roll your eyes at me," She says," I've got a good feeling about that meeting later in the week. A great feeling, actually. You should have one too."

"I'm managing expectations."

Alexia looks at you fondly. "Well, we'll see which one of us is right in a few days."

She lets you choose the music in the car, like she always does when you've scored a goal and you pull up to the apartment a lot quicker than you want to seeing as you're in the middle of singing along to your favourite song but, still, you drag yourself out of the car and up the stairs.

"How was the match?" Olga asks as she greets Alexia with a kiss on the lips.

"She did very well," Alexia brags," A hattrick within the first ten minutes and another goal in injury time."

"Exciting," Olga says indulgently as Alexia grins, already giving her running commentary of everything that happened during the match.

You escape though, hurrying to raid the cupboards before Alexia finally comes to her senses and tries to stop you 'spoiling' your dinner.

You don't know if there's any way to thank Alexia for what she's done for you.

Just three months ago, you were convinced that you were going to quit. You had no passion for the game, no hope of what your future was going to be but now all of that had changed.

You had direction. You had a manager. You had new boots and a place to live that wasn't a group home and support and love and everything seemed to be coming together for you.

A toe pokes you in the leg.

"Move."

"Alexia says that if you're trying to nap on her sofa again then I don't have to move," You tell Alba, who huffs and pokes you with her toe again," She also says that you have your own apartment and should stop mooching of us."

"But Olga's a better cook than me," Alba complains and you roll your eyes.

"Aren't you an adult? Even I can cook."

"Yeah but it's not like you could mooch off your sist-"

Alba falls silent quickly and you pretend to not notice what she was going to say for both hers and your own sakes.

The topic of your sister is kind of off limits when you're in the room. It's not completely banned because Alexia's still Jenni's national teammate but she's not really spoken about if you're in the room.

Alba's face flashes with terror for a moment so you pretend you don't notice her slip up ever though it sends a bolt of lightning into your stomach, a deep pit forming there.

It works for the most part, everyone in the house pretending Jenni isn't who she is to you, pretending that she's just Alexia's teammate and not her friend and ex, pretending that Alexia fostering you isn't her walking on a tight rope because Jenni doesn't know.

All Jenni knows is that you didn't quit when she told you to.

Jenni doesn't know that you live with Alexia. Jenni doesn't know anything. You doubt she even thinks about you when she's got a life far away in Mexico.

She lives there, far away from you and your life here in Barcelona.

She lives there and her presence is hardly ever mentioned around you.

Life is good at Alexia and Olga's house. Life is even good at training, though you could do without the smug little smirk Alexia has on her face when she picks you up.

"You already knew!" You accuse her, waving a finger in her face.

"Knew?" She asks, lips curl up in what can only be described as pure smugness," Knew what?"

"Right, who told you? Go on. Who was it?"

Alexia grins. "You do realise I am the captain? Any time they're looking to bring someone in, they ask me my opinion."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah and I'm sure you gave it."

"You're a good player. A great player," Alexia says," All I did was tell them what they already know."

You look down at your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. You want to be mad at her, to yell at her for keeping this from you. Maybe even yell at her for promising to the staff something you're not but you know she hasn't done that.

If she thought you weren't ready, she would have told them that.

But Alexia didn't. She didn't tell them to let you have a bit more time with the B team. She didn't tell them that you don't quite have what it takes.

"Thanks."

Alexia smiles at you as she drives home, a comfortable silence enveloping you both until your hand is on the door handle.

You stop.

"When I open this door, there's going to be a party, isn't there?"

"I may have told Olga...who told Mami...who told Alba...who told the rest of the family..."

"Is that a yes?"

"Possibly..."

"And there's no getting out of this?"

Alexia ruffles your hair, a soft kiss being pressed to the side of your head. "They're here to celebrate you."

You suck in a breath, just ready to turn the handle when the sound of the lift doors opening chimes down the corridor.

Both you and Alexia turn your heads towards.

It's just a fleeting second.

Just a moment.

But your good mood plummets as the door opens.

Alexia's hand tightens on your shoulder, pushing you slightly behind her and putting herself between you and the elevator.

Between you and Jenni.

[rafecameronssl4t]

I need to see reader calming Rafe down during a meltdown in a match and maybe she’s being firm and like telling him to stop and listen to her and to calm down and he shuts up because reader can get scary when mad lol 😂

Fault lines || Tennis player!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: wag!reader stands on business 😙

Warnings: none

Word count: 1,441

MASTERLIST (tennis player!rafe au masterlist)

The sun hung heavy over Sydney’s Ken Rosewall Arena, and the crowd’s energy buzzed like static electricity. Team USA’s match in the United Cup had been one of the most anticipated games of the tournament, but all eyes were on Rafe Cameron. Not just because he was one of the best players on the circuit, but because his temper had become almost as famous as his forehand.

Today, the storm brewing inside Rafe was palpable. He was down a set and struggling to keep up in the second. The opponent, an unseeded underdog from Russia, was playing like a man possessed, returning every shot with precision that only fueled Rafe’s growing frustration. The boiling point came during a controversial call.

“Are you serious? That was in!” Rafe shouted, his voice echoing across the court. The crowd’s murmurs turned to gasps. His face was red with anger as his hands rest on his hips, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The chair umpire remained stoic, unmoved by the outburst. “Out. No let, Mr. Cameron,” the umpire announced, his calm voice doing nothing to quell the fire in Rafe’s eyes.

Rafe strode to the net, pointing furiously at the spot where he was convinced the ball had landed. “Are you blind? It literally hit the fucking line!” The umpire’s expression didn’t falter. “Warning for Mr. Cameron, please return to your position.” Rafe’s jaw clenched, his grip on the racquet so tight his knuckles turned white. “This is bullshit!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the tense silence as he stormed toward the baseline.

With unrestrained fury, he slammed the racquet against the ground—once, twice, three times—until a deafening fourth strike splintered it into shards of graphite. The crowd gasped collectively, shock rippling through the stands as fragments scattered across the court. “Unbelievable!” Rafe yelled, tossing the mangled remains aside before stalking toward the Team USA bench, his frame vibrating with unspent anger.

His teammates and coach looked uneasy, unsure whether to intervene or let him vent. In the vip seats behind Team USA’s area, you sat with your arms crossed, your sharp gaze fixed on Rafe’s theatrics. Rafe threw himself onto the bench, oblivious to the camera following him as he mutters curses under his breath, ripping open a new racquet from his bag, his jaw clenched so tightly.

From your vantage point, you leaned forward, resting your arms on the barrier in front of you. You could feel the heat of his frustration from where you sat, and you knew he needed someone to pull him out of his spiral before he self-destructed.“Rafe!” you called down, your voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd and the chaos on court. He looked up, his brow furrowed, still fuming. “What?”

You didn’t flinch, meeting his glare with the same intensity. “You need to calm down. Right now.” His lips curled into a frustrated sneer. “Are you serious right now? Did you see that call? It was bullshit!” “I don’t care about the call,” you snapped, your tone sharper than the sun’s glare. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Stop acting like a child.”

Rafe blinked, letting out an exhale. The crowd had gone quiet, all eyes were on the exchange. Even the cameras were trained on the two of you, capturing every moment of the heated conversation. “I’m not—” he started, but you cut him off. “Be the bigger person,” you demanded, your voice low but commanding.

“Do you think smashing your racquet and yelling at the umpire is going to change the call? Get your head in the game.” Rafe leaned closer, his voice lowered but still defiant. “You don’t get it. That point—” “I do get it,” you interrupted, narrowing your eyes. “What I don’t get is why you’re wasting energy on this instead of focusing on winning.”

“And now you’re handing the momentum to him on a silver platter,” you shot back, your voice firm but quiet. “Do you think your opponent cares about the call? He’s focusing on the next point while you’re sitting here sulking like a brat.” His jaw worked as he struggled to find a retort, but before he could, you leaned in even closer.

“Screw your head back in, Rafe,” you hissed, your words like ice water on a fire. “And get back out there. Now.” The way you said it left no room for argument. He stared at you, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly as your words sank in. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re really not letting me off the hook, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you replied, leaning back slightly but keeping your gaze locked on his. “Now shut up, get your head in the game, and play like the champion I know you are.” A flicker of something—respect, maybe even a little fear—crossed his face. He nodded, more to himself than to you, before standing and grabbing his racquet.

As he walked back onto the court, he glanced back at you over his shoulder. You raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to argue again. He didn’t. The crowd began murmuring again, their attention shifting back to the match. But you stayed still, arms crossed, shaking your head in exasperation. The cameras, however, lingered on you for a few more seconds, capturing your unimpressed expression as Rafe got into position to serve.

The commentators couldn’t resist. “Well, that was quite the reaction from Y/n,” one said, chuckling. “I don’t think Rafe’s girlfriend approved of that outburst,” the other added. “And who could blame her? That’s another fine coming his way.” The match resumed, and while Rafe’s temper was still simmering beneath the surface, your words seemed to have had the desired effect.

He channeled his frustration into his game, hitting with renewed focus and precision. Each shot landed with a ferocity that made the crowd gasp, and slowly but surely, he clawed his way back into the set. When he finally won the second set in a tiebreak, the crowd erupted into cheers. Rafe allowed himself a small smile, glancing toward your seat in the stands.

The third set was a masterclass. Rafe played like a man possessed, leaving no room for error. By the time he won the match with a blistering ace, the crowd was on its feet, applauding his comeback. As the players shook hands at the net, the commentators couldn’t help but bring up the earlier exchange.

“Well, it looks like Rafe Cameron had some help keeping his cool today,” one of them quipped. “I’d say his girlfriend’s pep talk worked wonders.” Back on the sidelines, Rafe grabbed his bag and towel, his eyes landing on you. When he reached you, he leaned against the barrier, his expression a mix of sheepishness and irritation. “Happy now?” he asked, his tone teasing but softer than before.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “I’ll be happy when you stop smashing racquets.” “Fair,” he admitted, glancing down at the broken one still lying near the bench. “I guess I owe you for that.” “You owe me a lot more than that,” you replied, your smirk turning into a genuine smile.

As the crowd began to disperse, you sat back in your seat, finally allowing yourself a small smile. Rafe might be a handful, but if anyone could handle him, it was you. And judging by the camera footage that was already going viral, the world was quickly realising the same thing.

[agneslovestheinternet-blog]

stilinski's reputation

lacrosse star!stiles x fem!cheerleader!reader "whatever you do, avoid number twenty-four at all costs" 6.5K Words, 50% plot, 50% smut, reg high school au (no supernatural), scott's your friend not stiles', protected p-in-v, blowjob, slight mutual masturbation, nicknames "princess" and "daddy" but not the actual ddlg dynamic

~~~~~~~~(<-*->)~~~~~~~~

“alright, huddle up ladies!” leslie, the cheer captain exclaims. the group of girls in ponytails and athletic shorts break from their formation on the mat to form a tight-knit group around her.

“first off; great practice. we just need to make sure we’re remembering our facials, ok, not getting too lost in the routine to actually perform and we will be fucking golden tomorrow night!” she praises, and a round of whoops and applause ripples through the cheer squad.

“now since tomorrow is the first game of the season, we need to go over some ground rules,” her tone becomes more serious but most of the girls around her roll their eyes. 

“number one: if you choose to drink at any of the parties this season, do not post about it. i don’t want to have to ban y’all from games but coach does so please, just keep it off socials,” she pleads and the girls nod reluctantly.

“basically just don’t get sloshed around anyone that might film you. especially not the team,” the brunette co-captain to leslie’s right pipes up in a dry tone.

“yeah, exactly, thank you, megan,” leslie concurs and continues her list.

“number two: do not neglect your schoolwork,” the group lets out a groan, “i’m serious! we study as a team in the library every tuesday night for a reason. you don’t get to be a cheerleader if you’re not at least a decent student,” she scolds.

“and lastly and most importantly, number three: do not sleep with any of the players,” leslie states and an awkward silence falls over the team.

“seriously it’s not worth it. don’t believe the stereotype of the athlete/cheerleader golden couple. all high school guys are douchebags, even if they can shoot a ball into a net good,” megan continues, backing leslie up to a soundtrack of giggles from the squad.

“yes, yes. but there is one player in particular that’s been a…” she pauses, exchanging a knowing look with her co-captain, “problem in previous years. whatever you do, avoid number twenty-four at all costs,”

“who’s twenty-four?” an olive-skinned girl with matching jet-black pigtails inquires with a raise of her perfectly manicured hand.

megan smiles mischievously but leslie keeps a steely look on her poreless face.

“stiles stilinski,” leslie spits out, accenting the syllables of his name with sharp staccato pauses.

“he’s relentless,” megan remarks in an almost awestruck tone.

“yes, he is, and cheerleaders are like pokemon to him; he tries to collect them all,” the captain continues, bristling at the laughter her comment elicits from the girls.

“what’s so bad about him sleeping with cheerleaders?” a blonde girl with pink lips smothered in gloss asks rather mockingly.

“he just drives girls crazy. once he sleeps with him, they like, totally lose all focus and become obsessed with him,” you respond with contempt, having heard this warning many times. several girls around you nod in agreement, having witnessed this phenomenon firsthand.

“yes and i need my team focused, ok. so don’t go anywhere near him. if he offers you a ride in his jeep, call one of us to drive you instead. if he invites you to a party, bring a buddy and don’t let her out of your sight. and if he asks for your number, so help me god; give him a fake one,” she lists, her tone getting more desperate as she goes on.

“and remember; stilinski’s a whore, but he’s an ethical whore,” megan chimes in, matter-of-factly, wagging a finger, “he always has a condom, he’s very open about getting tested every couple of months, and he is surprisingly respectful. none of those are reasons to sleep with him,” she reiterates, letting her blue-eyed gaze pierce through each and every one of her teammates.

“yes, just because he’s not a teen dad and he’s not rapey doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. don’t let him pull you in with the bare fucking minimum. higher standards ladies, please!” leslie finishes and she takes in the expressions on the faces of her team. 

some are shocked, some annoyed, and some are confused, which worries her the most. confusion leads to curiosity which leads to learning this lesson the hard way, something she’s expressly trying to avoid.

“alright, practice dismissed, cyclones on three,” leslie pivots, putting her hand in the center of the circle, the rest of the team’s soon following, “one, two, three,”

“cyclones!” the team shouts and disperses into lively conversing groups in a matter of seconds. megan hangs back, grabbing her water bottle from the ground and putting an arm over leslie’s shoulders as they walk back to the locker room to change.

“so how many victims do you think stilinski will claim this year?” she asks with a grin. megan takes a sick pleasure in the star player’s slutty antics and almost bet money on who he’d end up taking down last year, which leslie had scolded her severely for.

“optimistically, none. realistically, a few,” she sighs, and then remembers, “but he’s a senior. one more season of this madness and then beacon hills cheerleaders will be free of him,”

“we’re lucky he’s an only child. i bet he’d train his little brother if he had one,” megan jokes.

“no shit,” leslie agrees, horrified at the concept of another stilinski terrorizing the female population of beacon hills high school. the one they have is plenty chaotic already.

~~~~~~~~(<-*->)~~~~~~~~

your locker opens with a metallic clang and you deposit your heavy history textbook inside of it, since you won’t need it until the last period. your best friend scott slides into the peripheral vision on your left side, a cheery expression on his face.

“morning. got you a matcha,” he greets, handing you the warm paper cup with tendrils of steam escaping the plastic lid from his right hand, keeping his left clutching his own drink.

“oh my god, thank you so much,” you respond gratefully, turning to face him as you take a generous sip.

“game day makeup already?” he asks, his dark-brown eyes scanning your overlined maroon lips, heavily blushed cheeks and sparkly eyelids.

“yeah, we’ve got the assembly after fifth period,” you remind him, taking off in the direction of your shared homeroom.

“oh right. is this one gonna go better than last years?” scott asks, sidestepping a group of guys that rudely decided to walk directly down the middle of the hallway.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, accusatory. 

“didn’t you give paige body dysmorphia or whatever last year?” your friend asks with an overexaggerated smile.

“oh my god, my hand slipped! i didn’t even know she’d gained weight, jesus,” you shoot back, referencing an unfortunate fall that paige the flier had experienced at last year’s assembly that may, (or may not), have been your fault. leave it to scott to always remember your worst moments better than you do.

“it was a whole three pounds, y/n,” he responds in a tone dripping with sarcasm, “everyone was saying you gave an eating disorder,”

“yeah, well, if i did she should thank me. i’m pretty sure eating disorders are a requirement to become a flier,” you respond, knowing scott won’t take your dark humor seriously. the hallway narrows into a smaller corridor and your friend squeezes closer to you as you walk.

“did leslie mention that in her big speech at practice yesterday?” he asks, taking a hearty swig from his coffee cup.

“ok you know way too much about how the cheer team operates,” you retort.

“you’re my friend, i know about your stuff,” he counters warmly.

“that’s not why you know so much. you’re hoping that all these years of friendship will lead to me hooking you up with one of my teammates,” you bite back. as if on cue, a gaggle of cheerleaders wearing the same gaudy makeup as you round the corner and walk past both of you. you smile and wave and scott’s eyes follow them eagerly.

“no i gave up on that being a possibility like, two years ago. but a guy can dream,” he sighs, shaking his head slightly to break his gaze from the girls.

“gross, don’t,” you say, being unfortunately reminded of your friend’s sexuality every time your squad comes around, “and for the record, all leslie really did was give the ol’ “stay away from stilinski” speech,”

“you better have listened,” scott retorts, holding the door to the classroom open for you, “if you text him again i will have zero sympathy left,”

“listen, issac dumped me right in the middle of last season so i tried to hop on some community dick. it happens, we all make mistakes and-

“pretty fucking massive mistake, y/n” scott responds, setting his backpack down next to his desk.

“-now i know better and it won’t happen this year, ok. you live and learn,” you list calmly, removing a notebook and pencil from your bag as you sit down.

“at least he didn’t fuck you,” scott responds, dryly finding the positive of your lapse in judgement.

“thank fucking god for that,” you respond through gritted teeth as the bell rings.

~~~~~~~~(<-*->)~~~~~~~~

the harsh led lights illuminate the lacrosse field for the crowd packed in the metal risers surrounding it. the material creaks and groans under the weight of their stamping and cheering.

you stand in formation, shivering slightly with the chilly breeze. the game has been going well, but the opposing team took a late lead in the third quarter, leaving the cyclones down by one. there’s a minute and ten seconds left in the game and all eyes are glued on the infamous number twenty-four. they wait with baited breath for stiles stilinski to keep the cyclone’s near perfect record intact.

you watch his movements from the sidelines, relying on muscle memory to guide you through the routines you’ve spent three years performing.

he seems like more than an athlete when he’s playing. there’s a certain grace about him that’s more comparable to a dancer than a lacrosse player. he shoots the ball with laser precision into the net, tying the game. thirty-five seconds left.

“ending on a tie isn’t bad for the first game,” a dark-skinned girl with a high ponytail of tight braids mutters to your left as she shakes her poms furiously.

“stilinski never ties. they’ll get one more goal,” a girl behind you responds, her voice raspy from cheering.

when play resumes, it is as if someone lit a fire beneath stiles’ feet. he races with vigor towards the opposing net, bodying several players on his way. the impact barely seems to phase him as he hauls the ball into the net for the upteenth time tonight to uproarious applause. the cyclones win, 8-9.

you watch him get smothered by the testosterone-fueled mob of his teammates. you can almost see the flash of his cocky grin from all the way across the field.

great, he’ll be in rare form tonight, you think, reminding yourself once again to avoid him at tonight’s party.

~~~~~~~~(<-*->)~~~~~~~~

stiles crosses the crowded living room, getting several pats on his back and encouraging cheers as he goes. red solo cups litter whoever’s house this is and the music seems to shake the very foundation. a nice buzz courses through his body, not enough to make him stumble but enough to bring a flush to his mole-littered cheeks.

“hey,” he says almost innocently as he reaches the couch you’re lounging on.

“nope,” you say abruptly, rising from your spot and walking away. stiles stands with his lips slightly parted and his eyebrows furrowed for several uninterrupted seconds.

“um, excuse me?” he calls after you, following somewhat clumsily behind.

“i’m not doing this tonight, stilinski. the season just started for god’s sake,” you respond firmly, weaving through the crowd to get to the kitchen.

“i’m not doing anything!” stiles defends.

“you’re talking to me and that means you’ve marked me and that’s a fucking problem,” you rant, pouring yourself a heavy-handed vodka redbull. it’s more the former than the latter.

“‘marked’ you? what am i, a fucking hunter?” he snorts, grabbing a bottle of smirnoff and refilling his own cup.

“yes, and i will not be your prey tonight. find some other girl, stilinski,” you smirk, intentionally bumping his shoulder on your way back out of the kitchen. stiles continues his pursuit, taking a swig of liquid courage as he does.

“hey, i just wanted to talk. i thought you liked talking to me,” he smirks, referencing last season’s indiscretion. he jogs slightly beside you as you make your way to the pool outside.

“i did,” you correct forcefully, “i had a severe and continuous lapse in judgement. it won’t happen again,” you reassure sarcastically, flopping down on an open pool chair. he stands over you, his toned form all-too-apparent under his tight white t-shirt.

“i don’t bite, y/n” he coos suggestively, “unless you want me too,” he adds, eliciting an eye roll from you that’s so forceful it threatens to detach your retinas.

“go take a bite out of lydia, i hear she’s your squeeze of the week,” you retort, recalling the image of him kissing the red-head on the cheek as he entered the party. stiles nudges your legs to the side, taking a seat on the edge of your pool chair. he deliberately ignores the deep sigh you exhale.

“nah she’s back with jackson,” he replies easily. you furrow your brow in confusion.

“dude you made out with her in your car in the school parking lot like, four days ago,” you reply bluntly, remembering your teammates scoffs of disgust when you’d discovered them after practice one night.

“yeah. she wasn’t with him then,” he responds cooly, not at all phased by your confusion.

“so what, she just flip flops between you two?” you ask sarcastically.

“yeah,” stiles responds earnestly, “we have a system. she breaks up with him on the last day of winter break, gets with me,” he smirks and your eye roll plagues you once more, “then if the first game goes well, she gets back together with him,” 

“i-” you falter, mind reeling at that information, “-have so many questions,”

“ask away,” stiles invites, the smile not leaving his face even as he takes another swig from his cup.

“why the fuck would jackson be ok with you fucking lydia while they’re broken up?” you blurt out and stiles chuckles.

“it’s uh, like a motivation thing. he plays better when he’s jealous, i guess,” he shrugs his shoulders and places a hand on your shin. you shake your leg as if you’re trying to get a bug off and he quickly removes it.

“that’s psychotic,” you scold.

“maybe. but he has four d1 offers so it definitely works for him,” stiles responds. he’s eerily ok with this objectively insane arrangement. 

“what if this first game doesn’t go well? would she just stay with you?” you continue your questioning, morbid curiosity replacing disgust with each answer stiles gives.

“i don’t know,” he responds with a far off gaze, “it’s never happened so i’ve never had to find out,”

“so what does lydia get out of this?” you ask, trying to resist the urge to call him a cocky asshole for the “it’s never happened” comment. as egotistical as stilinski is, he’s not unrealistic; the cyclones have only lost one game since he joined the varsity team his sophomore year.

“well, a girl’s got needs,” he smiles mischievously and your disgust returns ten-fold, “that and uh, she likes to be earned,” he finishes, looking down at the ground.

“earned?” you clarify.

“yeah, she wants jackson to put in effort to keep her. she also wants him to know that she’s got options,” he motions to himself with his free hand.

“does no one know how to maintain a normal fucking relationship around here?” you ask, your eyes searching wildly as if the answer will appear before you.

“guess not,” stiles laughs, maintaining eye contact for a little too long. his eyes are pitch-black in the low light of the porchlights and carry an oddly sincere gaze. 

“so what do you get out of this arrangement?” you ask dryly and the boy hesitates, despite leaning in closer.

“i feel like if i tell you, you’re gonna hit me,” he whispers, his eyes glinting and his lips curling into yet another punchable smirk. you swing your legs out to the other side of the pool chair that he’s not blocking and slug him in the shoulder as you stand up, fulfilling his prophecy. 

“where are you going?” he asks, a twinge of disappointment coloring his tone.

“away from here. i’ve had enough stilinski charm for one night, thank you,” you respond smartly, not turning to face him as you walk back towards the sliding glass doors. in a matter of seconds, stiles is standing in front of you, a strong hand gripping your left wrist. not hard enough to be threatening but just hard enough to keep you in place.

“hey, you can lie to your friends and your squad, but i saw you looking at me tonight,” he mutters gruffly and you blush crimson. he leans down to whisper in your ear, “when you’re ready to act on that, meet me upstairs,” he lets go of your wrist, turning his body to let you pass.

“you’re a fucking asshole, stilinski,” you snap, trying to clear the dry lump that’s formed in your throat as you walk past.

“i know, sweetheart,” he purrs, gratuitously observing the way your hips sway from side to side as you saunter back through the sliding glass doors.

~~~~~~~~(<-*->)~~~~~~~~

“so…” stiles whispers, letting both of his calloused hands slide up your torso to grip your tits, “does this count as the same lapse in judgement as last year…” he lets both hands travel to your nipples, where he pinches them gently, “...or is this a new one?”

“i don’t know…” your voice flutters back, your mind too preoccupied with the feeling of your core dampening in response to his gentle touch to be properly sarcastic, “...you should ask my friend scott, right after he-” you stop your sentence to moan slightly as stiles rolls both nipples between his nimble fingers. “-kills me for sleeping with you,”

“oh please…” stiles scoffs, smirking as you writhe beneath him. both sets of clothes have been lost to the floor of whoever’s bedroom this is and the door has been carefully locked behind you two. you lie on your back on the bed, your legs spread all-too-willing as stiles kneels between them, his knees low to the bed and his hard cock resting gently on your groan, agonizingly far from your pulsating opening.

“...scott probably wants to fuck you just as bad as i do,” stiles smirks, reveling in your pleasure as you buck your hips upwards. the blood throbs in his cock, as if begging him to insert himself into you, but this is the part he really gets off on; getting you wet with just his fingers on your hardened nipples.

“gross,” you moan, partly with pleasure, partly with disgust at the sudden image of your friend’s face while you’re in such a compromising position.

“i’m just saying…” he reaches his right hand down to stroke his cock gently, keeping himself as hard as possible for you, “...i don’t think any guy could be friends with someone as hot as you and not want to fuck you,” he states, almost matter-of-factly as he pulls a nipple upwards with his left hand and then releases his grip suddenly, eliciting an undignified whine from you. 

“you like that, baby?” he coos and your stomach twists.

“don’t call me that,” you mutter tersely, not acknowledging the question. you don’t have to anyways; stiles can see by the way you puff your chest forwards into his hands that you need his touch more than you’d care to admit right now.

“sorry, what would you prefer? sweetheart?” he asks, pushing your tits together with both hands and using just his thumbs to swipe at them, “angel? princess?” he asks and watches intently as you snake your right hand down to your core, inserting several fingers and begin to pump them desperately. you are in dire need of some friction down there as stiles still refuses to put his dick to good use yet.

“oh, i think we have a winner,” he coos suggestively, sitting back slightly to watch your fingers slide in and out of your core with a hungry look in his eyes. “are you getting yourself ready for me, princess?” he asks in a sugary-sweet tone, placing his left hand on your hip and his right back on his member, where he begins to pleasure himself to the sounds of your moans.

“mhm,” you groan, adding another finger to stretch your walls further. stiles quickens the pace of his strokes, the soft slapping sound of skin on skin filling the warm room. after losing himself in the friction for a moment, he remembers his task, forcing himself to let go of his leaking cock. several drops of precum drip onto the grey duvet cover as he grabs your rapidly moving right hand.

“may i?” he asks in a husky voice. you nod vigorously, unsheathing your hand. he flips his palm upwards and inserts his two middle fingers to the hilt, using his free thumb to rub uniform circles over your clit. a jolt of pleasure seizes your stomach and you push your hips forwards. he keeps his fingers still, letting you fuck yourself on them in a steady rythm and admiring the desperation on your face, as its clear you need more stimulation.

he shifts slightly and lowers his mouth to one of your nipples, taking it in his mouth and swirling his tongue around it slowly. your whimpers are completely undignified now and you don’t have enough cognitive function to care.

“fuck that feels good,” you mewl, your eyes shut tight now.

“really?” stiles questions mockingly, removing his lips from your nipple. “what happened to “you’re a fucking asshole, stilinski”?”

“you are…” you whisper breathlessly, “...but you’re good for certain things,”. stiles insert a third finger as you continue thrusting yourself upon them.

“y/n, you’re so desperate for me that you’re fucking yourself on my fingers…” he teases darkly, straightening up and once again bringing his left hand to his cock, “...i think we can move past insults,”

“yeah, cause you’re not enjoying this at all, stiles,” you moan sarcastically, lifting your head to see him once again stroke himself with a needy look in his eyes.

“i’m just waiting,” he groans, trying and failing to keep the pleasure from warping his tone.

“for what?” you ask, dropping your head to the pillow again.

“for you to beg,” he whispers ominously and you let out a barking laugh.

“in your wet fucking dreams, stilinski,” you spit back, aware that the euphoric sensation you feel from his fingers stretching you out deliciously directly contradicts your mocking tone. he removes his hand abruptly and your breath hitches in your throat. 

stiles disappears to the bedroom floor, rustling the belt of his jeans slightly as he searches for something and reappears between your thighs, ripping a small foil packet between his teeth. he removes the thin latex ring and slides it easily over his shaft without missing a beat.

“you are way too quick at that,” you remark, almost in awe at his swift contraception skills. the other guys you’ve slept with, (and to be fair, there’s only been two), had struggled greatly with condoms, clumsily opening the packages and never rolling it over themselves on the first try.

“lots of practice,” stiles mutters and you find yourself rolling your eyes but keeping the sarcastic comment to yourself. he grabs his cock and begins rubbing it exceptionally slowly up and down your folds.

“now, what was it you were saying about not begging?” he asks gently, watching your face contort with annoyance at his teasing. your inner walls are practically pulsing his name in morse code but you choose to keep up your aloof cover.

“i don’t fucking beg,” you spit out, mustering a great deal of mental power to be able to get that sentence out. 

“come on, y/n,” stiles coos, rubbing your clit with his free hand, sending a fresh wave of pleasure through your body, “you know you want this….i know you want this…” he pushes his tip forwards, expanding your opening for just a moment before pulling it back out to your disgruntled whimper, “...why lie to me?”

“you don’t…” you pause to bite your bottom lip, not wanting your moan to escape, “...deserve the…satisfaction,”

“but you do, princess,” he retorts back, once again inserting himself a few centimeters and then promptly pulling his cock back out and rubbing your glistening pleats.

“ugh,” you huff, every inch of your body craving his. you cannot stand another second of stiles taunting you with his agonizingly brief friction so you finally cave. you make a mental note to threaten him with bodily harm should he ever attempt to divulge the following words that fall from your lips.

“just fuck me, stiles; please?”

“deal,” he mutters under his breath, lining himself up eagerly, and thrusting his throbbing tip into your willing hole. he slides himself slowly inside, reveling at how tightly you remain wrapped around him. he lets out a moan of his own as he bottoms out, his pelvic bone meeting yours with a soft bump.

he stops moving for a moment, remaining fully sheathed inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust to his large size. white spots burst in the corners of your vision but dissipate as you get used to the feeling of him filling your cavity so nicely.

“wow,” he marvels, his voice hushed as if he didn’t actually mean to say that out loud, “you took me really well,”

you focus your blown pupils on his, taking in the thin layer of sweat on his brow and his quivering pink lips.

“are you surprised?” you ask in a daze.

“kinda,” he admits sheepishly, “i’ve been told i’m kind of big,”

he is. you thought you were being spoiled in your last relationship by your boyfriend’s five-incher but stiles has to be over seven, with girth to boot. a distant part of your mind finally connects the dots that this may be why girls go a little nuts after sleeping with him. you hope you won’t go too insane after tonight but the way he so easily spreads your walls further apart with practically no effort at all has you internally screaming for more.

as if stiles could hear your thoughts, he begins to deliver you some pleasant friction, rolling his hips forwards and backwards slowly, watching your face contort in ecstasy. his own pleasure swells in his groin as your pussy grips his cock with a great deal of suction.

“fuck, you’re really tight,” he murmurs, again more to himself than you. he’s enjoying the pressure of your enclosure wrapped around him, but he’s almost finding it hard to move. it’s as if your body refuses to release him. 

he tentatively pulls most of his length out of you and rams it back harder, hitting your cervix with a soft thump that causes your hips to buck in response. almost immediately your pussy ensnares him once more, constricting around his manhood tighter than before. it’s stiles’ turn to see spots in his vision that briefly distract him from his mission.

“jesus, y/n, where have you been all my life?” he mewls in a low tone full of lust. 

“i feel good, stiles?” you ask in a breathy tone that somehow increases his arousal even further. you’ve given up on fighting him. however cocky he is about his sexual prowess, he deserves it. you find every fiber of your resolve loosening with each jab of his shaft.

“good?” he asks, quickening his thrusts and gripping the plush of your thighs with his large hands, “you fucking…ungh,” he groans, only half aware that his jaw has gone slack and he looks completely entranced, “...fit me like a glove. i…” he stares down at where his cock disappears inside you, marveling at your wetness, “...could get used to this,”

“me too,” you mutter against your better judgement, reaching your hands out to grab his hips as his thrusts become sloppier, “stiles you’re huuuuuuge,” you moan out, extending the word into a high pitch squeal that falters with each thrust.

“you take me so well…most girls can’t handle all of me right away…but you…fuck…y/n,” his voice becomes needier with each passing syllable. stiles is slowly unraveling inside you. his body count is in the dozens and he’s done it in just about every imaginable position and location but missionary with you is topping nearly every sexual encounter he’s ever had.

“stiles, i wanna switch,” you breathlessly request, remembering your favorite position through your dick-induced brain fog. stiles forces himself to slow his hips, almost whimpering in pain at the loss of his beautiful momentum.

“what do you mean?” he asks, taking the moment of pause to caress your thighs. you pull yourself off of him and sit up.

“i want you from behind,” you order, pushing his sweaty chest out of the way and positioning yourself on your hands and knees. stiles nearly drools at the sight of your pretty cunt from this new angle and can’t help himself from kneeling down and running his tongue across your clit for a moment. your knees buckle slightly at the touch of his mouth, but he straightens up quickly, pumping his cock as he brings himself to your opening.

“you can have me wherever you want me, princess,” he coos, shoving his tip inside you and groaning at the renewed contact. “you’re fucking dripping for me, ugh you feel so good,”

this new position was exactly what you needed. stiles’ massive cock slamming you from behind slowly works your body into a writhing mess. you grip the sheets on either side of you, letting every moan that forms in your throat to fall, no longer feeling embarrassed at showing him that you’re enjoying yourself. stiles’ hands grab your hips, stopping the movement of his own in favor of slamming yours back and forth.

“stiles just like that,” you moan, feeling your pleasure build in your core. you force your knees even farther apart, desperate to get all of him as deep as he can possibly go. your arms buckle beneath you, sending you face down, ass up as you take all seven and a half inches of stiles’ throbbing cock.

“aw princess, are you gonna cum?” he asks, trying for an almost mocking tone but failing as a whimper escapes him.

“mhm daddy,” you whine and stiles’ thrust pause for a millisecond.

“did you-did you just call me “daddy”?” he clarifies in a stunned tone, resuming his rhythm.

“too much?” you ask through your pleasure-filled vocalizations.

“fuck no,” he exhales, gripping your hips harder, a deep flush coloring his sweaty face that he’s grateful you can’t see.

“then fuck me harder, daddy,” you whine. the pet name sends stiles into a frenzy all over again and his load threatens to spill itself into the condom buried in your heat. he musters every bit of stamina he possesses and rails you even harder, his soft tip sending shockwaves of pleasure through you every time it slams into your cervix.

the euphoria builds until your knees are shaking and you’ve gone lightheaded. you feel the brink of your orgasm teeter in your core, fresh white sparks exploding in your spotty vision.

“come on y/n, cum for daddy. cum on my cock, princess, i wanna feel it,” he grunts out, his short fingernails digging into your hips as his rhythm continues.

“stiles…i-” is all you can choke out before it finally comes. your orgasm wracks your body with spasms that threatens to collapse your position entirely. stiles holds your body in place as your walls constrict even further, leaking your white liquids all over his rock-hard dick.

“oh, good girl, y/n,” stiles praises, rubbing a hand over your stomach gently. “did you have fun?” he asks in a tone bordering between condescending and sincere.

“yes,” you whisper, utterly dick-matized.

“good, good, you felt fucking amazing, princess,” he pulls himself out of your pussy, watching your cum slowly leak out of your swollen hole as he removes the soiled condom, “fuck, you came hard,” he marvels, reaching his fingers forward to feel your wetness as you lay yourself flat on the bed. you twitch slightly at the contact of his fingers on your too-sensitive cunt.

“i-i kinda needed that,” you confess sheepishly, your cheek still flat on the mattress.

“oh, trust me; i know,” stiles reassures in a knowing tone, sitting at the head of the bed next to your prone form. he places a warm hand on your back, drawing small circles on your flesh with his thumb. many minutes of silence only punctuated by the background music of the party on the floor below you pass until you realize something.

“wait, did you cum?” you ask, lifting your head. stiles laughs gingerly.

“uh, no,” he admits quietly.

“wait, what??” you ask, more incredulous this time. you push yourself upwards and turn to face him, “how the fuck did you not cum?” you demand.

“what the fuck do you mean?” he responds, his tone slightly bewildered.

“you’re a teenage boy and you just railed me for like,” you check the alarm clock on the bedside table and realize you have no idea how long you’ve been laying face down so the time doesn’t help you. you decide to make a rough guesstimate of, “twenty minutes and you’re telling me you didn’t cum?”

“i have incredible stamina,” he smirks, amused at your shock.

“what are you, god? i mean i used to think i was lucky if i could get my ex to fuck me for five minutes without busting. i mean, your dopamine receptors must be fucking fried or something,” you mutter intensely, getting off the bed and kneeling beside it, using your hands to pull stiles knees towards you. he chuckles with a far-off look in his eyes and then realizes what you’re doing.

“wait, what’s happening?” he questions, his tone suddenly uneasy.

“i’m gonna suck your dick, lucky you,” you mutter sarcastically, moving your hand to grab stiles’ manhood.

“uhhh,” he mutters, his facial expression slightly panicked.

“you good? sorry i thought you’d want this,” you ask concerned, removing your hand swiftly.

“no i do! trust me, y/n, i really,” he leans forward, maintaining his burning eye contact, “really do. i just-um,” he falters again, his unflappable confidence failing him.

“stiles it’s fine, i’ll leave, i get it,” you respond, going to stand up.

“no no, wait, please, uh, please don’t leave,” he pleads, guilt coloring his tone as he scrunches up his face in discomfort, “i really want that, i just don’t think it’ll work,” you lower yourself back to your knees.

“‘don’t think it’ll work’? it’s not rocket science, stilinski,” you mutter incredulously and stiles rolls his eyes. 

you keep yours fixed on his face as your hands find his shaft once more. you watch his face go from concerned to at ease as you stroke him slowly, feeling the blood rush back in as he once again becomes stiff from arousal. stiles slides his knees slightly further apart and when you lower your head you look up into his eyes. he meets yours with a lustful gaze and gives a small nod, which you take as your cue to take him in your mouth.

stiles’ breath hitches in his throat and his right hand easily threads its slightly shaking fingers through your hair. you meticulously swirl your tongue over his shaft, feeling the subtle twitches of his body as he reacts to you hitting the sweet spot of nerves right under the tip. you look up at his face to see he’s once again gone red in the face, his pink lips parted slightly.

once you feel he’s nice and warmed up, you begin slowly sucking on his shaft, taking him deeper and deeper down your throat. 

“fucking hell, y/n,” stiles can’t help but mutter and you wink up at him with watery eyes. the knot in stiles stomach begins to unravel and arousal overtakes him. whimpers fall from his lips as you take his entire length, your lips brushing slightly against his well-groomed pubic hair. he feels his orgasm teetering precariously, growing closer with every slight jab to the back of your throat.

“jesus, princess, your mouth feels so fucking good,” he moans, bucking his hips forward slightly. but as soon as the wave of pleasure washes over him, it soon subsides, and stiles finds himself feeling slightly empty as you continue your task so earnestly it almost makes him feel guilty. he positions both his hands on your cheeks and gingerly pulls your mouth off his cock.

“what happened?” you ask, wiping your mouth quickly, disappointed at the sudden disconnect.

“nothing, y/n, nothing. i’m just kinda drunk and also exhausted and i just don’t think it’s gonna happen,” stiles explains carefully, almost as if he’s rehearsed this exact speech before. the words sound hollow as they leave his throat. he grabs his boxers from the ground and pulls them up himself hastily. “i’m sorry,” he mutters in a tone that’s much more genuine.

“you’re fine,” you say reflexively, kneeling on the ground to locate your own clothes. you then realize you should probably be more reassuring. “but like, i mean it. like it’s all good, that’s understandable,” you continue, your voice warmer as you pull your own underwear back on. “i’d say call me, but we both know you won’t,” you add and stiles smiles knowingly as he pulls his t-shirt on.

“i will,” he nods slightly as his head reappears.

“come the fuck on, stilinski. i’m cheerleader number-what number are you on now? like, thirty-five?” you ask incredulously and stiles remains completely unbothered by your comment.

“something like that,” he confesses easily, reaching down to pull his jeans up as you hook your bra behind your back.

“so i am not at all special and you don’t need to pretend you’re going to call,” you finish with bravado and stiles grin deepens.

“i will call you…” he starts earnestly. he buckles his belt easily, the muscles in his hands flexing rather devilishly as he takes several steps towards you. you straighten out the dress you just pulled over your head and meet his eyeline, “...the question is whether you’re going to pick up,” he finishes, pointing a finger lazily in your face.

“you take care of the first part and i’ll see what i can do about the second,” you retort quickly, your tone completely aloof now. stiles sticks out his right hand and you reluctantly give him yours, shaking it in one quick motion.

“deal, princess,” he coos and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as he unlocks and opens the bedroom door for you, once again watching your hips sway as you exit.

~~~~~~~~(<-*->)~~~~~~~~