#SCAMPER Technique

[ismailfazil1-blog]

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[dailykugisaki]

Day ninety-one

Everyday I am low-key thinking about Nobara in the official light novel.

Doodled sumn from it.

[bbyseok]

More teen satosugu x reader please!

thinking about clingy teen satosugu who only get even clingier when they suddenly get hit with a curse that turns them into… dogs?

a pair of wolves, to be exact. it’s so blatantly obvious on who’s who—there’s one wolf with fur as white as the first winter’s snow and uncanny blue eyes. the other is the color as dark as night with a pair of warm purple hues that strike into your soul.

they sit at yaga’s side like loyal lapdogs—only to perk up immediately to run and tackle you to the floor as soon as you set foot in the classroom.

“what the—?!” you splutter in surprise, unable to escape their wrath of licks descending upon your face as you look to yaga for help.

the teacher simply crosses his arms and shakes his head. “satoru and suguru got hit with a curse.” and that’s it to his entire explanation, as it’s very obvious what happened to them.

when you finally manage to shove their muzzles away from your face, you groan in disbelief. “how long are they going to be stuck like this?”

“no clue.”

so just like that, you’re suddenly a caretaker for two oversized puppies who can’t seem to leave you alone—because apparently they absolutely refuse to hang out with anyone else.

they follow you literally everywhere on campus like a pair of lost puppies— you find it funny and even almost endearing out of all things.

coincidentally, this is after the night you had discovered them sharing your bed after you returned early from a solo mission. they had merely scampered out of your room after that—leaving you unable to ask them why they were in your bed in the first place.

and you certainly can’t ask them now.

“i thought you started smoking again?”

shoko shakes her head at your question, the faintest of smirks ghosting over her lips. “i did. but i think this is a better way to spend my time.” and then she nods to the two wolves sitting in front of you both.

you’re out on one of the training fields with shoko and your classmates-turned-dogs to test their… abilities. they lack any cursed energy, so it’s safe to assume that they can’t use their techniques.

“bet if you threw a stick, they’d fetch it for you,” a rare snicker comes from shoko along with her suggestion.

to which you simply roll your eyes at, but you find yourself grabbing a lengthy stick anyways. you’re unaware of how satoru’s and suguru’s eyes follow the item in your hand like moths to a flame as you hand it to shoko.

your short-haired friend flings the stick, but the boys don’t even dare to flinch. it’s quiet, save for the occasional thumping of their tails on the floor.

“see?” you shoot shoko a pointed look. she merely shrugs. when you walk over to pick the stick back up, you throw your friend a question over your shoulder, “did you know satoru and suguru were sneaking in my room at night while i’ve been gone?”

it’s news to her, but she doesn’t appear to be surprised in the slightest. “nope. sounds like something they’d do though.”

you grab the stick off the grass, turning to look at her and your classmates-turned-dogs. your gaze lingers on the canines for a moment. they’re obviously smarter than normal dogs, but you’re not sure about the extent of how well they can understand you in these forms.

“well.. i think they were kinda cute actually,” you confess, dragging your gaze back to shoko with a laugh, “you should’ve seen them, being all cuddly.”

a grim line settles on shoko’s lips at the image. “pass.”

you laugh again before turning and throwing the stick as hard as you can across the field. you watch it land several feet away, and then—

gojo and geto race past you, nothing but blurs of fur as they race each other to reach the piece of wood you had tossed. it’s hard to see who gets there first, because they start wrestling for the damn thing.

shoko simply snorts. “told ya.”

later on, with nighttime making its approach, the boys follow you into your dorm, seemingly determined to still accompany you. you hadn’t been sure on what to feed them since dog food seemed rather crude, settling to share your dinner with them.

and here you are, slipping into bed. just the night before, you had seen them all cozy under your blanket. in all actuality, you wouldn’t have minded sharing the bed with them. (depsite how cramped it would’ve been.) it’s just that now… they’re wolves.

suguru is beside you, circling in place in an effort to get comfortable on the blanket, whilst satoru opts for plopping his fluffy self riiiiight on your stomach. you emit an ‘oof!’ at his ministrations, but the white canine merely fixes you with a puppy-dog stare and you don’t go to protest.

“comfy, you two?” you hum out an inquiry, to which they snuggle into you further.

geto tucks himself closely by your side, burying himself under your arm as his silky fur tickles your skin. and gojo wiggles his chin on your abdomen, sky blue eyes already starting to flutter sleepily.

when you doze off, you dream of wolves and sticks.

and when you wake, it’s not the morning light trickling into the space of your room that stirs you from your slumber. rather, it’s the sound of gentle breathing and— heavy weight atop you.

it’s satoru and suguru, still in their spots from when they had fallen asleep, except— they’re humans again.

gojo’s body is draped over yours, one of his lanky legs dangling off the small mattress hilariously, his head lying just below your chest with his arms laxly wrapped around your abdomen. and geto is hugging your side, the air of his steady breaths hot on the skin of your neck. his long hair is messy, brushing against the underside of your chin.

oh.

oh shit.

what the hell are you supposed to do now? you obviously can’t move, not with all three of your bodies so intimately entangled with each other. you decide to risk it, trying to calm your racing heart and gingerly attempting to sit up.

you’re halfway there, when geto suddenly grumbles and yanks you back down to the pillows again. “s’too early to move,” he says in a hazy mumble.

aaaaand there goes your heart again. before you can reply, you hear gojo groan sleepily, and he then manages to get out a groggy “good morning.”

“…good morning,” you follow up, now hyperaware of their touch, “i see that you’re not dogs anymore…”

satoru blinks owlishly, seeming to finally notice your… predicament. but he also seems more irked by where geto is, so crawls up to be on your other side, planting his face right into your neck too.

“a wonderful observation,” suguru murmurs in a small snicker.

it’s quiet for a few moments, and it’s obvious that they aren’t planning to move from their spots any time soon. (you think you can get used to it.)

you decide it’s the perfect time to ask: “care to tell me why you were in my bed the other night?”

gojo mumbles something, but you can see the tips of his ears flush a pretty pink. suguru is the one who speaks up again after a moment. “…we missed you.”

“..oh.” your face feels warm at the simple confession, and an airy laugh breezes out of you at how— adorable their reasoning is. “well.. i missed you guys too.”

satoru hums an acknowledgment at that. there’s silence again for a while, before he breaks it. “you think we’re cute?”

oh— so they were able to understand you as dogs. you groan, moving an arm to cover your eyes out of slight embarrassment. “shut up. you two were the ones who sneaking into my room.”

“that was suguru’s idea-”

“you snuck in on your own, satoru.”

“you used their shampoo!”

“you stole their shirts first!”

“i can still kick you off this bed.”

“i’d like to see you try.”

you groan once more—albeit a fond sound—still trapped between them, “i wish you two were dogs again.”

[hearts4pbaz]

The Eras of a Dream

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Words: 5k

Warnings: None

Synopsis: Before the roar of the crowd, there were pivotal moments of self-discovery, defining relationships, and relentless dedication that paved the way into an extraordinary future for Paige Bueckers.

Notes: this is unlike anything ive ever written before so idk if it's any good or if i'll write anything like it again but hope you enjoy

Era 1: The Hopkins Spark 

The Minnesota air, crisp even in summer, carried the rhythmic thud of a basketball long before Paige Bueckers truly understood its siren call. In Hopkins, a suburb that hummed with the quiet energy of family life, five-year-old Paige was a blur of motion. Raised by her single father, Bob, their small world was built on routine, laughter, and an unspoken understanding that they were a team. Bob, a man whose own athletic days were fond memories, juggled work and fatherhood with a steady, loving hand. He was the fixed point in Paige’s universe, the one who made a scraped knee feel like a minor inconvenience and a good day at kindergarten feel like a triumph.

It wasn't any single moment that marked Paige as different, but a collection of small observations. On the playground, while other children her age were still mastering the art of not tripping over their own feet, Paige moved with an uncanny grace. She could outrun, out-jump, and out-maneuver most, her small frame surprisingly agile. Bob noticed it first, a quiet pride swelling in his chest as he watched her scamper up climbing frames or effortlessly catch a wayward ball. He saw the flicker of something special, a raw, untamed athleticism.

The true awakening, however, began with a bright orange sphere. Perhaps it was a hand-me-down, or a birthday gift, but once a basketball found its way into Paige’s small hands, it rarely left. Their driveway, modest and unassuming, became her first court. Bob, often weary from a long day, would find a second wind watching her. Initially, it was pure, unstructured play. Paige would chase the ball, hurl it towards the rusty hoop he’d installed, her tongue poking out in concentration. There was no technique, just an intuitive connection. The ball, almost too big for her, seemed to listen to her.

"Like this, Paigey?" Bob would demonstrate a clumsy (by his own admission) dribble or a simple chest pass. He wasn't a coach, not then, but he was an encourager, a rebounder, a steady presence. He’d praise her efforts, the wild shots that sometimes, surprisingly, swished through the net, and the determined way she’d retrieve the ball after a miss, her brow furrowed.

Her knack for basketball became undeniable. 

By six, she wasn't just throwing the ball; she was aiming it. She started to mimic players she might have glimpsed on TV at a neighbor's house or in snippets from games Bob watched. A little crossover dribble, a hesitant jump shot – her body seemed to instinctively understand the movements. The joy she found in these moments was palpable. It wasn’t a chore; it was an extension of her being.

Life in their single-parent household had its unique rhythms. Dinners were often simple, conversations flowing easily between father and daughter. Bob helped with homework, read bedtime stories, and always made sure Paige felt secure and loved. There were challenges, of course – the occasional pang of wishing for a mom at a school event, or Bob’s tired sighs after a particularly demanding week. But their bond was a fortress. And basketball was becoming a cornerstone of that bond. The driveway sessions weren't just about sport; they were about connection, shared laughter, and the quiet pride of a father watching his daughter discover something she loved.

As she neared eight, the playful interactions began to take on a more focused edge. She’d pester Bob to play "one more game" of H-O-R-S-E, her competitive spirit already fierce. She’d practice dribbling around imaginary defenders on the cracked pavement, her movements becoming smoother, more confident. Sometimes, other neighborhood kids would join, and Paige, though still small, would often surprise them with her skill and tenacity.

Her early dreams weren't yet of WNBA stardom or championship trophies. They were simpler, more immediate. She dreamed of the satisfying swish of the net, of making a shot Bob thought was impossible, of the feel of the worn leather in her hands. She dreamed of the sun setting over their Hopkins driveway, the orange glow matching the ball she cradled, her father's encouraging voice the soundtrack to her burgeoning passion. Basketball wasn't just a game; it was becoming a language she understood, a place where her natural talents could sing, nurtured by the unwavering support of the most important person in her world. The spark had been ignited.

Era 2: The Blueprint of a Dream 

The transition from playful driveway games to the more structured, demanding world of competitive youth basketball was almost seamless for Paige Bueckers. By nine, the raw talent that had blossomed in Hopkins was being sculpted, refined. Her movements on the court, once instinctive, were now imbued with a burgeoning understanding of the game's geometry, its rhythm, its subtle deceits. She wasn't just a kid who could shoot; she was a player who could think.

In Hopkins, as Paige moved through late childhood, her name began to circulate beyond the local playgrounds. Bob, ever her steadfast supporter, navigated the burgeoning world of youth sports, seeking out opportunities that would challenge and nurture her growing abilities. This often meant joining travel teams, facing tougher competition from across Minnesota and eventually, the Midwest. The squeak of sneakers on polished gymnasium floors became a familiar soundtrack to their weekends.

It was in these more competitive arenas that Paige truly began to distinguish herself. While other players her age were still mastering fundamentals, Paige was executing no-look passes that threaded needles, her court vision almost preternatural. She developed a lethal crossover, a quick release on her jump shot, and a defensive tenacity that belied her still-slight frame. She wasn’t just scoring; she was making everyone around her better. One savvy travel team coach, a grizzled veteran named Coach Henderson who’d seen hundreds of hopefuls pass through his program, pulled Bob aside after a particularly dominant tournament performance. "That girl," he’d said, pointing a calloused finger towards Paige, who was already back on the court shooting free throws, "she’s got it, Bob. The kind of it you see once in a decade, if you’re lucky."

This external validation only fueled the fire within Paige. Around the age of ten, a new, specific dream began to take root, nurtured by grainy TV broadcasts and stories of legendary players: the University of Connecticut. UConn wasn't just a college basketball team; it was an institution, a dynasty. She’d watch their games with her father, mesmerized by their precision, their teamwork, their relentless pursuit of excellence. The idea of wearing that Huskies jersey, of playing for Geno Auriemma, became a powerful magnet, pulling her aspirations into sharp focus.

And beyond UConn, a grander ambition shimmered: the WNBA. It was the pinnacle, the ultimate stage. The thought of playing professionally, of making basketball her life, was no longer a vague childhood fantasy but a driving force. This ambition shaped her days.

Her training regimen intensified, though Bob was careful to ensure it didn't consume her entirely. Early mornings before school often meant ball-handling drills in the driveway, cones set up under the pale dawn light. After school, it was team practice, followed by more shooting, more drills, sometimes just her and her dad rebounding for each other until dusk. He taught her the importance of fundamentals, of repetition, of outworking everyone else. He wasn't just her father; he was her first coach, her chief motivator, and her unwavering believer.

Balancing this burgeoning athletic career with schoolwork and the typical activities of a pre-teen was a constant juggle. There were missed birthday parties for out-of-state tournaments, homework completed in the backseat of the car on long drives to games. The pressure to excel wasn't just internal anymore; coaches expected her to lead, opponents targeted her, and the whispers of her prodigious talent created a subtle weight. Yet, through it all, Bob ensured she had space to just be a kid. He made sure there were movie nights, trips for ice cream, and time for friendships that weren't centered around basketball. He understood the pressures, having been an athlete himself, and his calm, steady guidance was her anchor. He’d remind her, "Play hard, have fun, be a good teammate. Be you. Be great."

By twelve, Paige Bueckers was no longer just a promising local talent. She was a young athlete with a clear vision, a blueprint for her future meticulously drawn in her mind. The courts of Hopkins had nurtured her, her father’s unwavering support had fortified her, and the twin dreams of UConn and the WNBA were now the stars she navigated by. The journey was just beginning, but the trajectory was undeniably upward.

Era 3: The Crucible of Adolescence 

The leap from late childhood to the precipice of teenage years was, for Paige Bueckers, like launching from a well-worn local court into a roaring arena. At twelve, her basketball trajectory was near-vertical. Hopkins remained home base, but her name was echoing far beyond Minnesota’s borders. Tournament MVPs, highlight reels that buzzed through youth basketball circuits, and the growing whispers of "future star" became commonplace. The dreams of UConn and the WNBA were no longer quiet internal hums; they were bold declarations, sometimes voiced by coaches, sometimes by Paige herself with a newfound, albeit still youthful, confidence. Local sports reporters occasionally sought out Bob for a quote about his prodigy daughter. The spotlight, once a distant flicker, was now undeniably brightening.

But beneath the polished veneer of the rising basketball phenom, a more complicated, internal drama was unfolding. Puberty arrived, unceremonious and awkward, bringing with it a cascade of changes that felt both alien and intensely personal. For any young girl, this is a period of upheaval, but for Paige, navigating it without an older female figure in the household added layers of bewilderment. There was no mother or older sister to confide in about the strange new landscape of her own body, no one to ask the embarrassing questions that burned in her mind.

Her dad, bless his heart, tried his best. He was a rock, as always, but this was uncharted territory for him too. There were clumsy conversations, initiated with a well-meaning but flustered, "So, uh, Paigey, things might be... changing a bit for you soon?" He bought books he thought might help, fumbled through explanations gleaned from pamphlets, and made awkward, solitary trips to the pharmacy for "girl things." Paige, though she appreciated his efforts, often felt a profound sense of isolation. She’d retreat to her room, feeling a mix of confusion, embarrassment, and a longing for a kind of understanding Bob, for all his love, couldn't quite provide. The locker room, once just a place for pre-game chats, now sometimes felt like a minefield of whispered conversations and shared experiences she wasn’t part of.

Adding to this internal maelstrom, new, unsettling questions began to surface regarding her own identity. As her peers started to navigate the tentative world of crushes and early adolescent romance, Paige found herself on the periphery, an observer rather than a participant. The typical boy-girl dynamics didn't resonate with her in the same way. A quiet, persistent voice in the back of her mind began to wonder why. This wasn't a clear understanding, just a nebulous sense of difference, a subtle disharmony with the narratives unfolding around her. It was another secret to hold, another layer of introspection in a mind already crowded with basketball strategy and adolescent angst. The word "sexuality" wasn't one she would have used then, but the nascent stirrings of questioning her orientation created a quiet undercurrent of anxiety.

The mounting pressure of her basketball success intersected sharply with these personal turbulences. Expectations were sky-high. Every game felt like an audition, every practice a test. Coaches, while supportive, also pushed hard, recognizing the once-in-a-generation talent they had. Peers sometimes viewed her with a mixture of awe and envy. And Paige, her own harshest critic, felt the weight of her own ambitions keenly. The court, often her sanctuary, could also feel like a pressure cooker. There were days when the joy of the game was overshadowed by the fear of not living up to the hype, of disappointing Bob, her coaches, or herself.

The balancing act was immense. Schoolwork demanded attention, intense training sessions ate up hours, and travel for tournaments consumed weekends. Her social life, already impacted by her dedication to basketball, became even more constrained. Friendships were often forged on the court, but the deeper, more vulnerable connections that adolescent girls often build were harder to come by when so much of her energy was focused outward, on performance, and inward, on navigating profound personal shifts.

Her dad remained her constant. He saw the shadows under her eyes, the moments of frustration, the flashes of vulnerability. He couldn't fix everything, couldn't magically make puberty easier or untangle the knots of her internal questioning, but he could listen. He could offer a hug, a reminder of how proud he was, not just of Paige the basketball player, but of Paige the person. He’d encourage breaks, try to inject normalcy with pizza nights or a silly movie, moments where she could just be a kid, not a phenom.

These pre-teen years in Hopkins were a crucible. Paige was being forged in the fires of intense competition, adolescent change, and nascent self-discovery. She was learning not just how to execute a perfect pick-and-roll, but how to navigate a world that was becoming increasingly complex, both on and off the court. The girl with the dazzling smile and effortless game was also a young soul grappling with the profound, often confusing, journey of growing up, all while the world began to watch.

Era 4: The Meeting

By the time Paige Bueckers stepped onto the polished hardwood of the Under-16 USA Basketball tryouts, she had already begun to understand that talent wasn’t enough. The gym at the U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center in Colorado Springs buzzed with intensity – every girl here had been the best player in her city, maybe even her state. Now they were all vying for the same red, white, and blue jersey.

At 15, Paige had just started to feel the burden of potential, of expectations. She carried herself with a quiet fire, not the loudest or most physically imposing, but undeniably magnetic on the court — her court vision, her creativity, her sheer command of the game. Still, this was different. The stakes were higher. She needed to prove herself all over again.

That’s when she noticed the girl from Virginia.

Azzi Fudd, just 14, had the kind of shot that made coaches stop talking mid-sentence. Everything about her form was immaculate – smooth, effortless, almost surgical. Rumors had preceded her: daughter of Tim and Katie Fudd, a basketball family through and through. But Azzi didn’t walk around like a prodigy. She was focused, head down, eyes fixed on her own goals. Still, there was something quietly intimidating about her – precise, controlled, and deadly consistent.

Paige found herself watching Azzi more than she meant to. She noticed the way Azzi never reacted to pressure, how she laughed only when she meant it. And Azzi, for her part, had certainly noticed Paige – the intensity in her passes, the fire behind her competitive streak, how her personality seemed to stretch wide enough to fill a room but shrink down in quieter moments, like when no one was watching.

They both made the team. That wasn’t surprising.

What was surprising – at least to Paige – was being assigned the same room for the duration of the training camp. The U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center didn't offer much in the way of privacy, but the two girls found a rhythm. At first, it was basic courtesy: rotations for the bathroom, playlists on low volume, mutual respect. But high-stakes proximity has a way of collapsing distance. And the space between them began to vanish.

Late nights after grueling practices turned into quiet conversations about more than basketball – about families, injuries, what it meant to be seen only for what you could do, not who you were. Paige, always a little louder, found herself grounding in Azzi’s calm presence. Azzi, guarded and meticulous, felt safe letting down her walls with Paige’s warmth.

They started finishing each other’s thoughts on the court. Off the court, the walls between their beds became less symbolic and more real – Paige’s socks on Azzi’s side, Azzi’s phone charger always missing, the smell of eucalyptus from Azzi’s lotion becoming part of Paige’s memory of the room. There was no clean break between teammates and friends. And before long, there was no line at all between friends and something more.

It happened slowly and all at once. A hand held too long. A shoulder leaned on after a hard day. Laughter that dissolved into silence that neither of them wanted to break. The first kiss was quiet – nervous, charged, and unforgettable. They didn’t talk about it right away. But they didn’t need to. Something had shifted.

For Paige, who had spent months, maybe years, trying to name feelings she didn’t yet understand, this changed everything. It didn’t solve all the questions about who she was, but it gave her a new one: What did it mean to be in love – real, heart-thudding, can't-look-away love – with the girl sleeping four feet away?

They had games to win, drills to survive, reputations to uphold. But in that small Colorado room, under fluorescent lights and beside scuffed luggage, they found something unexpectedly fierce and tender.

Paige would never forget the feeling.

And neither would Azzi.

Era 5: Navigating New Realities 

By the time Paige Bueckers turned sixteen, she and Azzi Fudd were no longer just teammates or summer-camp sweethearts – they were something deeper. Something steadier. Something tested. Even from opposite ends of the country, they were still very much “attached at the hip,” as Bob liked to half-joke, though now their bond lived mostly in texts, FaceTime calls, and carefully coordinated visits squeezed between brutal practice schedules and school obligations.

The long-distance wasn’t easy.

Paige was in Hopkins, juggling her rising stardom, schoolwork, and a growing awareness that the eyes of the entire women’s basketball world were firmly trained on her. Azzi was back in Virginia, going through the same thing – though with her own quiet intensity. Their phone calls were often the only calm in the chaos: stolen hours late at night, earbuds in under blankets, voices low. They talked about everything – bad games, awkward interviews, coach drama, algebra tests, the unshakable pressure to be perfect.

There were fights. Of course there were fights.

Missed calls. Misread texts. Misplaced jealousy. At times, the distance carved valleys between them. But the reunions – God, the reunions – those made it worth it. Whether in hotel rooms during Team USA events, or during carefully orchestrated weekend visits, when Paige would hop a flight to D.C. or Azzi would show up in the bleachers at one of Paige’s home games, the gravity of their connection always snapped them back together like magnets.

They talked – often, and seriously – about college.

The dream, once whispered at fifteen, took on new weight now that recruiters were knocking down doors. UConn loomed large in Paige’s heart, a goal she’d carried since before she could drive. Geno Auriemma called. He made it clear: she was the future of the program.

Azzi had her own courtship, with her own list of elite programs. Coaches wanted her, not just for her insane shot, but for the way she moved – disciplined, unshakeable. It wasn’t just her game that drew attention anymore. She and Paige had become a kind of phenomenon. Fan accounts popped up overnight. Grainy game clips went viral. Articles speculated about their next steps. Rumors swirled about their relationship, sometimes lovingly, sometimes cruelly. The internet, with all its power, saw them. And it didn’t always look away kindly.

They tried to shut it out. Mostly, they succeeded. But they were still teenagers.

Some nights, Paige would scroll too long, lingering on comment threads she knew better than to read. "Overrated." "Too emotional." And other more negative words that caused that slimy type of anger to fester deep in Paige’s soamach. Not because people were saying those things about her per se but because they had the gall to throw those names towards Azzi. Her Azzi. 

The doubts, of course, found cracks, even in her titanium self-belief. Azzi had her own demons, her own critics who questioned her composure, her durability, her leadership. But they leaned on each other, as they always had. They reminded each other who they were when the world tried to write new definitions.

When Paige finally committed to UConn, the moment was a mix of joy and ache. It was everything she had worked toward – everything she had dreamed. Azzi was the first person she called.

"I'm proud of you," Azzi said. And she meant it. But the pause after hung heavy.

They had talked about it – about being a package deal, about chasing greatness side-by-side. But in the end, they each had to make their own choices. Azzi wasn’t sure yet. She needed more time. More clarity. Paige understood. She had to.

The distance between them, once just measured in miles, began to feel like a countdown clock.

And yet, through it all, the bond held.

Senior year brought more chaos. Media days. Honors. McDonald’s All-American announcements. Zoom interviews. Public personas had to be shaped, honed, protected. But in private, they were still Paige and Azzi. Goofy. Tender. Ridiculously competitive in ways that made their friends roll their eyes. They found each other in group chats, in shared playlists, in Polaroids taped to bedroom walls.

They were figuring out how to be young women in the spotlight – and in love.

It wasn’t always graceful. But it was real.

And when Paige finally zipped up her suitcase for Storrs, Connecticut, there were tears, of course. Not just from Bob at the airport, but from Azzi, who pressed a note into her hand before she left. Paige read it on the plane. It said:

“No matter where we go, I’ll find you. You know that, right?”

Paige did.

Era 6: Becoming 

The moment Paige Bueckers stepped onto the Storrs campus, it felt like stepping into a dream – one shaped by a decade of driveway drills, highlight reels, and whispered ambitions. UConn wasn’t just a college. It was the pinnacle. It was Geno. It was legacy. It was everything she’d worked for.

But dreams, she quickly learned, could be heavy.

College life hit fast. There was barely time to settle into her dorm before the reality of Division I basketball set in – 6 a.m. lifts, double practices, film sessions that dissected every missed rotation, every lazy closeout. Coach Auriemma expected excellence – not potential, not flashes – consistency. Paige, always the competitor, rose to the challenge. But the pressure was unrelenting. She was no longer just the girl with handles from Minnesota. She was The Next One.

Classes were another gauntlet. Managing deadlines between national TV games and recovery sessions felt like a second sport. Her days were a blur of movement, her nights a quiet race against exhaustion.

And then there was Azzi.

They’d made it – together.

After all the uncertainty, the dream of playing side-by-side in college had somehow materialized. Azzi chose UConn, too. Maybe for Paige, maybe not solely – but whatever the reason, the result was the same: they were finally sharing the same court, the same jersey, the same grind.

But being together didn’t make things easier. In some ways, it made them harder.

There were new eyes on them now – more invasive, more entitled. Whispers about their chemistry, their “closeness,” spilled into online debates, message boards, even press questions. They never made a public statement. They didn’t need to. But the scrutiny added pressure to something already so precious.

They learned, quickly, to protect it.

Some nights, they’d crash onto one of their beds, not talking – just letting the silence between them do the healing. Other nights, they’d sneak out for late walks near campus, hoodies up, fingers brushing. They knew they couldn’t outrun the spotlight. But they could at least claim pieces of privacy, moments that belonged only to them.

On the court, they were electric.

Paige’s game matured – her vision sharper, her leadership undeniable. She became the heartbeat of the team, balancing flare with discipline, swagger with sacrifice. Every pass had intention. Every game was a building block toward something bigger.

Azzi, as always, was the cool counterbalance. Her shot as pristine as ever, her movements honed like a dancer’s. Together, they played with a rhythm that was almost telepathic – years of trust distilled into basketball instincts.

Still, even greatness wasn’t a shield.

There were injuries. Slumps. Articles that praised one while questioning the other. Days when neither felt good enough, despite what the stat sheet said. Paige, especially, wrestled with the growing disconnect between who she was and who people believed her to be. To the world, she was the golden girl, the flawless star. Inside, she was just trying to stay afloat.

Azzi reminded her who she was.

Not with big speeches, but in the little things. A hand on her knee during a tough film review. A dumb meme texted at 3 a.m. The quiet knowing that came from being loved completely, even on her worst days.

Together, they kept dreaming.

The WNBA loomed ahead like a distant shore – tantalizing, inevitable. Paige felt its pull, especially after big games, when scouts would linger and fans would chant her name. But she also knew: this chapter mattered. UConn was more than a stepping stone. It was shaping her – teaching her how to lead, how to lose, how to rebuild.

And beyond all that, she was growing into herself.

As a student. As a partner. As a woman figuring out how to live boldly in a world that kept trying to define her.

By the time Paige reached the tail end of her sophomore year, she was no longer just chasing greatness. She was becoming it – in her own way, on her own terms. And whether the road led to championships, draft nights, or something entirely unexpected, one thing remained true:

Azzi was always there, in the crowd or on the court, still steady. Still home.

They had made it through adolescence, distance, doubt, and the roar of rising fame.

Now, in the glow of early adulthood, they were building something real.

Something that could last.

 Epilogue: Draft Night

The lights were brighter than they’d ever been. The kind of brightness that seemed to blur the edges of everything, making even the sharpest memories feel like dreams. Paige sat near the front of the room, dressed in a crisp black suit that made her look every inch the professional athlete she’d fought to become. Her name was everywhere – on mock drafts, on banners, on the lips of analysts filling airtime with praise and predictions.

Next to her sat Azzi, also in black to match – classic, understated, radiant. She looked calm. She always did.

But Paige knew better. She could see the slight tension in Azzi’s jaw, the way her hands were folded too tightly in her lap. They were both waiting. Both holding their breath.

A flashbulb popped. Cameras swept across their row. Somewhere on a nearby stage, the commissioner took her place behind the podium. The room hushed.

It was finally happening.

The journey that had started in Colorado Springs – two teenagers with duffel bags and nerves – had led to this moment. All the 6 a.m. workouts, the torn ligaments, the championship runs, the nights spent cramming for exams after practice, the long talks whispered under dorm blankets… it all pulsed beneath the surface now, a silent electricity in the air.

Azzi reached over without looking and found Paige’s hand. Their fingers locked like they always had, like they always would.

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…”

The name rang out and the room erupted. Cheers, applause, camera shutters. Paige barely heard anything. Her heart was pounding too loudly.

She stood slowly. Smiling, stunned, trying to breathe.

She glanced at Azzi, who mouthed, “I love you.”

And those three words hit Paige harder than they ever had.

She walked onto the stage, hugged the commissioner, held up the jersey for the cameras. Her face beamed out on the big screen, and for the first time, she wasn’t chasing anything anymore. She was here. She had arrived.

Back in her seat, Azzi wiped away a tear.

But it wasn’t sadness. It was pride. Pure, fierce, aching pride.

Later that night, after the interviews and the handshake gauntlet, after Paige had posed with her draft cap and answered questions about leadership and expectations and the “legacy she hoped to build,” they found each other again in the quiet backstage hallways.

No lights. No cameras.

Just them.

"You did it," Azzi whispered.

"So did you," Paige said. "You're next."

They stood in the soft hum of the arena's back corridor, arms wrapped around each other, two futures unfolding side by side. And for a moment, time slowed. The noise faded. It was just like it had been in that room in Colorado Springs – two girls trying to figure it all out.

But now, they weren’t trying anymore.

They knew.

Whatever came next – different teams, new cities, more pressure – they would navigate it the same way they always had.

Together.

[arachnidseyes]

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

YOU AND ME

Damian Wayne x Constantine! Reader

A/N: Previous. Next. Damian and reader go on a date!!! That's all that happens, I swear! w.c: 1.8k

You bow with the rest of the performers on stage as the crowd gives one last show of appreciation. When the curtains fall, you very stealthily scamper towards the dressing rooms, not before catching the sly wink Zatanna throws your way.

Maybe you weren’t being that stealthy.

The door to your dressing room clicks shut and you eye yourself in the vanity mirror, only then realising how nervous the girl in the mirror looks. There’s a lot that can go wrong today and a lot you really want to go right. You fix yourself with a look of determination.

With a little twirl and a poof of smoke, your magicians outfit is swapped with the outfit you spent a rather embarrassing amount of time picking out. Before you can fuss anymore over your reflection, there’s a knock on the door.

That was fast, at least you’re not the only eager one. You take a quick, deep breath before opening the door.

Damian Wayne stands in the doorway, he takes you in while you take him in. He’s dressed much less fancy than the last time you saw him, bomber jacket with a simple but probably unnecessarily expensive t-shirt and loose jeans.

“Are you ready?” You ask, unable to fully hide your excitement. You see just the smidgen of a smile on his face as he answers rather seriously,

“I’m always ready for anything.”

“Ooh, Don’t challenge me, Wayne.”

You pull him into the room and shut the door. After knocking three times on said door, you give him a grin.

“You let me plan this whole thing, remember.”

You open the door and step through into an entirely different place. Damian’s sneakers touch cobblestone road and he squints in the sudden sunlight. He thinks he knows already, given the wide bustling streets and the architecture of the buildings around him, but he asks anyway,

“Where are we?”

You’re all too happy to tell him, winding an arm around his and leading him in a seemingly random direction.

“Turin, Italy. I did a mission here a while ago. That’s what we’re going to see first by the way, some good old spooky occult shit, this city has tons of it.”

He lets you drag him to several such occult sights. He listens while you yap about the differences between demonic and non-demonic cathedrals, how to know if a crypt is cursed and which ghost sightings are obviously real and which are fake. He does it all with an attentive mind, almost like he’s reading a book he really likes and he's trying to burn it into his mind.

Once you're done showing him all the "cool shit", you proudly announce that you also planned some things he'd actually enjoy. He keeps the fact that he was enjoying himself the entire time to himself.

You take him to an art gallery, an archaeological museum and a natural history museum. You listen to him yap all about unconventional painting techniques, which period had the best samurai swords and which fun facts about prehistoric animals are actually true and which are completely wrong. You listen with the ear of someone who’s hearing their new favourite song for the first time.

─⋅⋆⁺.

“I get that, but when a magician asks you for your favourite animal and you say "Anaconda." You should at least be a little ready for her to pull out an anaconda! He almost soiled himself on stage!”

Damian huffs a laugh, easing back against the bench you two found that completely coincidentally (as far as he knows) has a perfect view of the sunset. You sit in easy silence, sharing a cup of caramel ice-cream. He looks more at ease than you’ve ever seen him before and an embarrassing amount of pride blooms in your chest at how well your date turned out to be.

You stare ahead at the horizon and wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are, the thought sparks a bit of unease. Realising you haven’t said something stupid or irritating in a while, you decide now would be a good time to break the fast.

“Do you think the sunset will be this pretty on our wedding day?”

His lips nudge downwards, not quite a grimace but he eyes your smug grin with much annoyance. He sighs and takes another scoop of ice-cream with his little wooden spoon before saying,

“I hope so.”

The teasing grin disappears from your face, and all you can do is gaze ahead blankly. That’s not what he was supposed to say.

You clear your throat and take a bigger than necessary bite of ice-cream, racking your brain for what the hell to say next. After a few minutes you try again, teasing tone more forced than before.

“Do you think Alfred would walk me down the aisle?”

He doesn’t look at you this time, he just stares ahead at the pinkish-orange sky.

“I'm sure he would if you asked. So would my father. He would be glad that at least one of his sons can commit.”

You look ahead too, wishing you could see the view through his eyes instead.

“I'm sure he'd be proud.”

Damian doesn’t have to ask who you’re thinking about when you say that, so he doesn't.

“Would you invite…her?”

He tilts his head up, genuinely thinking through how that would play out despite how ridiculous this complete hypothetical is.

“I don’t know. I’d want to.”

You nod in understanding. Some things are just too complicated to work out in the end. A twinge of sadness settles before you feel the impulsive urge to turn to a lighter topic.

“Titus would make the perfect flower boy.”

He lets a smile slip onto his face, finally looking back at you. The sun leaves little specs of gold in his eyes and you find yourself openly staring (unbeknownst that he’s making the exact same observation). He takes the cup from your hands and places it beside you on the bench. Taking your hand in his, he leans closer and kisses you gently.

His other hand gently holds your cheek. When you part, he stays close. It feels just like those stupid cheesy movies, like a pretentious romance novel, like a sappy love song. But it feels good, good enough that you hold off on the snarky comment for just a few seconds more.

“You know you’d have to make Jon the best man, right?”

Damian groans, pulling back and closing his eyes, acting as if that's actually something he'll have to do. You laugh and lay your head on his shoulder.

“C’mon, He’d be devastated if you didn’t.”

Damian puts his arm around you, keeping you close.

“Maybe I’ll just lie and tell him Arab weddings don’t have a best man.”

You let out a snort,

“Good luck with that.”

You stay like that until the sun sinks behind the distant mountains, replaced by the orange glow of street lamps. Eventually, you stand from the bench, clearing your throat a bit.

“I know I’ve kept you all day, but do you want to grab dinner?”

He stands from the bench as well, throwing away the little ice-cream cup before casually lacing your hands together.

“Anything for my future wife.”

Your heart almost stops. Your brain stammers and so do your words.

“Don’t- Don’t say that.”

“Say what, beloved?”

He asks, looking down at you with a smirk. You very much do not like being on the other side of this dynamic at all. And you know he knows that, he might just be able to feel the heat from your face!

“Stop that-”

Before you can finish, the world stops, literally. Everything slows to a halt. Crickets stop chirping, the breeze stops blowing, all commotion on the street is silenced. Even Damian is suspended in animation just like everything else. Everything except you and-

You’re looking around already, knowing exactly what this is. He used to do this when you were being belligerent on missions. He'd just stop the entire world to yell at you for being a dumb kid, even if he could only do it for a few precious seconds. Nothing for months and he picks now?

You slide your hand out of Damian’s and step closer to where you can see the yellow portal forming.

“You really have bad fucking timing.”

“Language.”

John Constantine steps out of the portal, hands in the pockets of his coat, cigarette in his mouth.

“I need yer help.”

You couldn’t stop the eyeroll if you tried.

“Obviously.”

Why the hell else would he be here. He sighs and takes in his surroundings, looking anywhere but you.

“What are ya even doing here, sight seeing?”

You step back towards Damian and grab his hand, bringing him out of the time freeze. He looks around, taking in the situation with shocking calmness, his expression turns to understanding when he sees John.

“I'm on a date.”

John looks to you, then at Damian, then back to you. It takes him a minute to understand who Damian is and what that means. The cigarette falls out of his mouth as he sputters like an idiot.

“Yer fucking with me.”

“Language.”

He regains some composure when he notices the way you’re looking at him. As if he just remembered how you two left things. That you might actually not want to see him.

“Look, Love, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an end of the world kind of thing.”

You feel Damian squeeze your hand a little, a reassuring act, an act of trust. There’s a deep understanding between you but with that comes a lot left unsaid. Left in the grey space of "We both understand this so there’s no need to discuss it really.” or is it that you want to talk about it but don’t know how. Being exceptionally gifted kids with exceptional, world-saving parents and bucket loads of trauma isn't something you just bring up casually.

But Damian understands obligation and responsibility. The need to do what’s necessary.

“Fine.”

John sighs, like he actually thought you wouldn’t say yes for a second. The thought brings you more spiteful pride than you’d like to admit.

“Come along then.”

He simply states, before disappearing into his little portal leaving it open for you to follow. Everything slowly returns to normal pace again, the bustle of the street returns as pedestrians keep on like nothing happened. Lucky bastards.

“I’ll call you…when I’m done.”

He nods his head. He’s taking this very well and you’re not sure how to feel about it. He's trying to be understanding, probably because he knows you'd do the exact same thing for him. You barely have to talk about why you have to go, what you have to do… but that doesn't mean you don't want to.

"Don't make me stitch you up again."

He brings you into a hug. You think briefly on how awkward a hug from Damian would have been just a month ago. The thought makes you smile as you burrow your face in his warm neck, breathing in his distinct scent. You open a magic door for him,

“This’ll take you home. To the manor.”

With that you give him one last long look before following your dad into his portal, going who knows where to face who knows what.

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

[inkytoru]

gojo satoru stood in the middle of the arts and crafts aisle of the store, deep in thought, much like a child agonizing over what color to use in their masterpiece.

he held up two crayon boxes from different brands. but neither seemed to have the particular shade of blue he was seeking.

“may i help you, sir?” comes a polite and genial voice somewhere to his left. satoru looks down at the employee approaching him as he suppresses the tears that begin to sting at the back of his eyes.

the day gojo satoru met you was in kindergarten. you were quiet. shy. always trying to make yourself smaller.

and your big eyes would water with cries of “satoru stop!” every time he’d tug on one of your pigtails. all the other kids like him that came from higher-income families would laugh, poking fun at you for the hand-me-downs you’d wear, and for the way you were such a sensitive soul, crying over damn near every little thing.

“crybaby, crybaby, crybaby!” they would tease, satoru amongst them. but when another boy—who satoru can’t be assed to remember the name of anymore—tried to become your bully and take you away from him? he’d felt something he had never felt before: possession in its early, immature stages.

he didn’t like the way this snot-nosed kid would poke and prod at what was his; he’d clench his small fists and glare as hard as a kidnergartner could at who he was convinced was his first true enemy in life.

satoru learns how to vindictively use his jujutsu at the age of six. little would anyone know that the way the bully would have a basketball conveniently hurling at his head was not by chance, or the way his shoelaces would mysteriously be untied was of satoru’s doing. no one would believe this ghost of his that he swears followed him around and haunted him.

one day, at the end of recess while all the other children had filed inside, you were crossing the elementary school’s playground with your battered but beloved toy plush in hand. unbeknown to you, your bully lied in wait around the corner, only darting out to trip you before taking your most prized possession. from afar, satoru seethed to himself— the nerve this dummy had!

with his narrowed six eyes, he forced the kid to take a stumble to the asphalt himself, an even harder fall than the one he gave you. he’d burst into wails and fat tears that would attract the teacher, but while the fuss was on him, satoru discreetly flings your toy back to you with his technique. afterwards, he was going to head in himself until he freezes in place, feeling your curious eyes on him.

“you did that, didn’t you?” you half-whisper in awe.

satoru shrugs, feigning innocence.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

for the first time ever, you give him a toothy smile that he swears makes his heartbeat skip.

you give him a smile before running back inside. he stands there, staring after you.

the next day, you bashfully come up to him, and he could tell it was no easy feat. you averted his cerulean gaze as you handed him a crumpled piece of paper, mumbled something about the color of his eyes, and then scampered away. satoru looks down at it.

drawn on the paper were what looked like the both of you holding hands with wide drawn smiles on your faces. he took notice of how it was entirely and crudely drawn in striking blue crayon— a hue much similar to that of satoru’s eyes.

he could feel his heart swell at the crooked letters he could just about make out on the back that read:

“thank you toru!”

you’d warm up more and more, little by little to him in the coming days; but every time you brought up his good deed, he’d shake his head and continued denying any involvement. but you knew better.

by high school, you had both become the best of friends. satoru never really grew out of the crush had on you, and if you had any feelings for him back, you never showed it. but that was okay with satoru, because you two had come from different worlds— and he never wanted to drag you into his.

summer of your last year together in high school comes, and you finally reveal to him that you’ve been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

satoru could feel his heart shatter and his world begin to crumble when you tell him.

he could never forgive the way you had hid this secret from him for years, nor the way your hospital trips and doctor visits would become more frequent in the following year, the last year he’d spend with you.

“thank you ‘toru… for all these years,” were your last words to him.

humanity’s strongest trembles as he holds that same crinkled, now time-worn paper in his hands. he quickly wipes the tears that spring forth from his eyes before they could splatter onto the scribbled lines and memory you had left him with.

he wishes he could’ve treated you better. he wished he could’ve been strong enough to confess. he wishes that being the honored one meant he could’ve saved you from something even he couldn’t have prevented.

satoru picks out the closest blue shade he had found to the one you used to draw you both. with shaky hands, he draws a halo and a pair of angel wings around your figure. a sob lodges itself in the back of his throat, somewhere between the what-if’s and should’ve’s.

it was a little far in color, and that reminded him of how far you were now, in a distant world where curses didn’t exist.

where gojo satoru didn’t exist.

[thewritetofreespeech]

Could I request Gerhard and Henrique wanting to get their hair done by their lover after seeing them do the children's hair?

“Angelico, you need to hold still.” [Y/N] repeated as they run the brush over his hair. Calmly, thoughtfully, and gently getting the knots out.

They soon declared that he was done and Angelico ran off to go play. “Why do you insist on doing that?” They turn to look at Gerhard who was standing in the doorway of the room, clearly having been watching but not wanting to join. “We have maids and nannies to do that for him.”

“I know.” They told him. “But, I like doing it, and he likes me doing it. I have a special technique.”

Gerhard scoffed but continued to linger around for a moment as [Y/N] picked up their things. “….could I see it….”

[Y/N] perked up at their question, but clearly didn’t hear him due to his muttering, so Gerhard cleared his throat and repeated. “Could I see it?”

“See what?”

“This…special technique.” He told them.

[Y/N] smiled and offered Gerhard a chair for him to sit down. Coming behind him and pulling his long locks over as they began to comb them. “Your hair is a lot longer than Angelico’s” They commented. “This may take a while.”

“That’s fine.” Gerhard told him. Focusing on the rhythmic pattern of the comb through his hair and the quiet. Nearly falling asleep a few times as his partner brushed his hair.

“Annnnnd…done! There. You’re all set.”

The girls giggle as they scamper off with their new braids. Elena’s obviously longer, but Lucia still with a pair of sporty braids by her sides.

“Wow. You’re really good at that.” Henrique told them as he watched the girls run off to wherever.

“Thank you. It’s a lot of practice.” They reply. “You know, you could do it for them. If you just took the time to learn.”

“Naah.” Henrique bemoaned as he came over to [Y/N]. “I don’t want to, and you’re already so good at it.” He then flopped down in front of [Y/N], right where the girls had been sitting. “Do me next.”

“You?” They asked with a laugh at his antics.

“Yeah. Me next.” Henrique confirmed as he leaned his head back into their lap. “I want a cute little braid from [Y/N] too.” He grinned big & wide at them, and [Y/N] sighed, but smiled, as they pulled what hair they could manage to the side and put one in his hair.

After that, Henrique didn’t see [Y/N] for a while. He wasn’t sure why. His work. Their work. Some secret political matter that he could never get his head around that was keeping them apart. He didn’t know. Thinking about it made his stomach hurt and run his fingers over his braid, refusing to take it out.

[heartfullofleeches]

Going back to a pool boy darling idea I had - Selene [Housewife Yan] and the friendly neighbor who offers to take care of their pool in exchange for using it as they had with the last residents that lived there. They're on a swim team and could really use the practice at home. Her husband is hesitant to use their services, but Selene insists and he's often not even in the house to complain anyway. The two hit it off quite fast with Reader stopping by to use their pool every other day and even trim their hedges as thanks for the fresh goods she sends them home with whenever they stop by.

Selene loves watching them swim. They're such a natural in the water almost like it's better suited for them than land. She feels so dirty whenever her eyes wonder elsewhere, yet she steels her guilty consciousness by telling herself she's just getting a indepth look at their technique. Those confirmations don't help much when her thoughts start to wonder to fantasies of them stepping out of the pool - strolling right through the open back door and up behind her in the kitchen. They mention something about forgetting to dry off, lips pressed to her neck and Selene playfully teases they're getting her dress all wet. Might be better to just take it off then-

Selene immediately scampers off to clean something she's already scrubbed spotless ten times by now and take care of another wetness Reader has plagued her with. Selene also can't swim, and is rather bashful about it considering her age - She nearly combusts when Reader offers to give her swimming lessons. They'll surely be the death of her if she doesn't cause the demise of her husband first and finally get them into her bed

[baddiewiththebook]

Over the Years | e.m x reader [18+] | EXTRA

-> The origin story of Eddie Munson, and how he fell in love with the worst person he possibly could - his best friend.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language, suggestive themes, smut [18+]

a/n EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT. This my dear readers is a bonus chapter that does not have to be read to understand the story. But, I do hope you take a look to feel more connected to our favorite characters. xo

-> <-

January 1984*

It’s cute, really. Whenever one of you slip and you feel a clatter of your two front teeth hit his, Gareth muffles out ‘sorry,’ but you couldn’t care less. You slot your lips against his over and over again, while melting deeper into his touch.

The taste of his breath. The tenderness of his hands gracing your thighs. Teasing and testing the waters of too far or just far enough. Your heart beats bounce against one another.

Somewhere in the background, film credits bounce across a black screen. You’ve lost the plot a while ago, and you don’t really care to find out what you’ve missed.

Gareth has snuck you into his home, while his mom is at work. It’s a perfectly snowy afternoon that should have kept her longer than it usually does to drive back home. Since the weather was worsening, Sarah worried for her son. She’s come home early.

Footsteps nearing separate you in a flash. Too little too late. She stands with a hand on her hip, and a folded lip that tells him exactly how much trouble he’s gotten himself into.

“It’s late,” you purposefully skip kissing Gareth ‘goodbye’ due to sheer embarrassment. Waving a short hand at Miss Jones, you scamper out of there faster than a rabbit being chased by a hunter.

Gareth wants to shrink into the couch, but offers an ice breaking smile.

“Dining room,” his mom instructs.

This is where all serious conversations happen. Whenever Gareth is flunking out of a class, he gets a lecture in the dining room. Or, when he scratched paint off of his mom’s car because he rode his bike too close. Dining room lecture.

Now, what?

As most of the lectures go, Gareth is sat across from his mom. She lays her hands on the table flat, as though she’s counting the knuckles in each hand. This is a common technique to calm her from her frustrations, or too think properly over what she’s about to say.

“Gareth,” she begins. “I’m very happy you’re in a relationship with someone you really like. It’s not appropriate to have her here when I’m not here. Especially, like that.”

“Mom,” Gareth squirms.

“Don’t slouch.”

He rolls his shoulders back.

“Are you-,” she wants to be there less than he does. But, the least she can do is make sure that he’s respecting you. “Are you safe?”

Completely red in the face, Gareth digs his nails into the wood of the chair he sits in. You’re not even there yet in your relationship. How could she ruin something good, before it even happens?

“Because you know- you can buy condoms at the store. I- I could pick you up a box.”

Gareth puts his head down.

“Sit up,” she taps the table. “This is important.”

“Mom,” he groans, “you cannot buy me condoms.”

“I could- just this once. It’s not just for you, you know.”

“I’m going to bed,” Gareth pushes out his chair.

“There are diseases!” She warns all but too late. Her son has scampered away to his room upstairs. The door shuts quietly.

-> <-

It’s later in the evening when Gareth rises from his nap. At the time, he’s forgotten the earlier conversation with his mom. He assumes it’s safe to come downstairs.

While he rummaged through the fridge for a snack, he overhears his mom on the phone. Judging by her pitch, the call is important.

“Gareth,” she urges from the dining room.

With few words, she hands the telephone over to Gareth. Trading him the phone for his snack, she dives out of view into the living room. There’s only one person that could be on the other line that she so willingly gave up the phone for.

“Dad?” Gareth speaks into the telephone.

“Hey, kiddo,” he bellows, “your mom wants me to talk to you about some things.”

“Oh my god,” Gareth covers the phone with his left hand. Shouting to his mother, he says, “You called, dad?!”

-> <-

[February 1984]

tags -> @leelei1980 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @jesuisbuginette @starrywhitenight @meetmeatyourworst @munsonburn3r @5tud10-54r4h @pvdulmol @loveryanax @am0iur

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[peachsayshi]

actually going crazy over your last post like i wish i could use better words but it’s actually reduced me to soup for brains rn.

OK BUT imagine all that and include….. forced proximity.

like i have this hc ab having him asigned to you during his transition into the jj world, maybe bc ur technique counters his well somehow? (irrelevant to my horny brain, but i also like to imagine a technique similar to the avatar from atla very ambitious ik, which would include blood bending) and the elders want to be really sure he’s not a threat. so here you are the first few months (im ignoring everything bad going on in the manga lmao) with Choso following you around everywhere bc you’re not allowed to have him out of your sight. can you imagine the first few times he caught on to your “heat” and didn’t know what to do with himself? he can barely get away from you long enough to clear his head and it drives him crazy.

anyways, i could go on forever ESPECIALLY ab Choso, but yeah love your writing and i wanted to share what it made me think of <3

(cw: voyeurism; primal/prey (ish?) )

nonnie, please, let's talk about this some more. choso isn't leaving my head today and I feel like I'm about to go insane.

(ps. the details of your technique countering/balancing choso's is such an amazing idea!! I love that!!)

oh, our poor baby boy. he would be positively frazzled in the beginning - he'd struggle to cope, and look visibly distraught. at first you just think it's an inherent strangeness that he has because he's half cursed spirit. but then you start realizing that this reaction doesn't always happen because there are times when he's completely normal and not like he's been plagued with visceral discomfort.

you like choso. you think he's sweet, a little innocent and naive, but kind overall. he never gave you any reason to doubt that but even you can't deny the dark glimmer in his eye when he looks at you. it's a gaze that he shares with no one else. and the expression on his face, cheeks red with a friendly smile, simply counter the danger that swirls in his irises.

it's a look that makes you want to hide like a bunny scampering away from a lone predator.

of course, you have to tell yourself that you're being foolish. shrugging off your ridiculous nerves when you remind yourself that this is choso you're worrying about.

the man can barely hold it together when yuji shows him one of those adorable cat videos that he finds online. there's no reason for you to be so unnerved by him.

and yet, you're you're hyper aware of how small the space is whenever you're forced to share a room together while away on a mission. you notice that choso, is in fact, quite large and takes up plenty of the space. he's all broad shoulders and ripped muscle; obsidian details contrasting against his smooth, pale canvas. you can't turn without him being in your line of sight.

trapped in a cage of four walls.

it's when you're alone with him that you pay attention to how those eyes deepen, sinking further into the depths of peculiar mystery, revealing a puzzle that you can't seem to decipher. it's when you're alone with them where you realize that sometimes his attention will drop to your lips, or to your breasts. it's when you're alone with him when you feel the pulse of adrenaline reverberate across your skin, goosebumps rising with your heart beating wildly as you ponder whether or not to let your guard down.

he slips up once when you're both away. you swear you felt him breathe in the scent of your perfume against your neck, but choso reacted like nothing was out of the ordinary as you spun on your heel to confront him. his discipline strikes with a twitch of his jaw and a clench of his fist, and he simply fibs that he was looking over your shoulder to observe the mission documents on the table.

his cheeks are blushing furiously now, and it twists your stomach into knots.

he can't possibly...

you shake your head, refusing to reduce his behavior to something so simple as a silly crush.

yes, you both spend a lot of time together, but choso is a death painting womb. he isn't even human. there is no way that he could be feeling those kind of feelings. and especially not with you.

but the thought sits in your head until later that evening, when you're standing in the hotel bathroom. there's an ache in your chest that's spreading down between your legs. you've never actually thought about choso in this capacity, and you don't understand why it's making every nerve tingle.

it's bold of you to make the decision and open the shared bathroom door until it was ajar. to then step into the steamy shower, the silhouette of your enticing, captivating curves a print for the wolf to track. and you can't help but wonder as warm droplets trickle over your soft, delicate skin...if he's standing there right now, and observing you patiently from the shadows.

[wickedadaar]

Operation Matchmaking: Magic in the Air Tonight

Featuring: Tira from @tiravi Lailani from @sleepingtodream Grey from @apothe-cary Quinn from @seizethemage-main 

Takes place after Loss of Words and Racing Hearts here: https://www.tumblr.com/wickedadaar/783848119033069568/loss-of-words-and-racing-hearts?source=share 

Inspired by @apothe-cary’s Grey Tea Time and a Princess and the Frog joke made here: https://www.tumblr.com/communities/datv-rooks-roost/post/783903829887483904/every-body-clap-your-hands-greys-tea-time?source=share

Word count: 1,143

After the pep talk Beck and Tira gave him, Grey was feeling better about the incident above the courtyard with Lanti, but he was still stuck in his own head. Thankfully, Beck had devised a plan, one involving magic and Lanti’s love of animals. Beck led Tira, Lailani, and Grey into the Grey Warden’s common room, seeking assistance. As they entered, they saw the senior Warden, Jin, lounging on one of the couches, reading another book about the blight and darkspawn. Without looking up, Jin asked the group, “Yes?” “Hey Jin, we’re looking for one of your younger Wardens, the shapeshifter,” Beck explained, looking around the room, hoping to see who they sought. Jin chuckled to herself; she didn’t realize word had spread of her squadron’s abilities and talents, but it did make her proud. She pointed over her shoulder towards the young Warden’s room, “It’s that one, just make sure to knock. She and Visara have been spending a lot of time together.” Once more, her eyes did not divert from the book in her hands.

Beck knocked on the door and was greeted by the young Warden. “Are you the shapeshifter?” Beck asked, studying the woman before her. “I am! Quinn, nice to meet you! What can I help you with?” Beck and the others were instantly struck by her level of energy. Beck gently placed both hands on her shoulders to stop her bouncing. “Can you use your shapeshifter magic to make things appear as animals?” Beck asked quizzically. Puzzled by the question, Quinn paused for a moment, “I don’t see why not. What did you have in mind?” “Grey, here,” Beck pauses as she wraps her arm around the man’s neck, “Has a lady to impress and she loves animals. I was thinking maybe a couple pillows turned into cats to surprise her with?” Quinn was immediately on board, “Easy! I just need a little tim to prepare the spell. Maybe an hour or two?” “Perfect! We’ll meet you in the Lords’ common room whenever you’re ready!” Tira blurted out in excitement. She was all but shaking with joy. As Beck and her friends returned to the Lords’ common room, they began to game plan how this would play out. Tira, as wingwoman, would convince Lanti to meet her in the common room, where Grey and the cats would be waiting while Beck and Lailani ensured no one else tried to interrupt their date. 

As the time drew near, Tira scampered off to speak with Lanti while Lailani, Beck, and Grey waited for Quinn. Always prompt, Quinn came as soon as she had the spell prepared, ready to transform the inanimate objects to realistic cats. Quinn called her magic forth, focusing on the image of the calico she normally transformed into, but projecting it outside of herself, a technique she had never used, but thought would be successful. It was not. She closed her eyes to focus her magic but opened them when Beck and Lailani both gasped. “Did it work?” she asked optimistically. Beck was able to hold her laugher back, but Lailani was not. Grey had disappeared and in his place was a chonky calico cat. Lailani nearly doubled over at her friend’s misfortune. Quinn had accidentally transformed Grey instead of the inanimate objects they had agreed on. “Oh no,” Quinn began to panic as she realized what happened. “Can you change him back?” Beck asked as she too began to panic, worried this might be a permanent change for the man. 

“I don’t know,” Quinn stammed out as tried her best not to freak out. “I need to consult my books about this. I’ve never seen this sort of thing happen.” “I thought you said, it should be no problem?” Beck asked incredulously. “I did, but I’ve never done this spell on something, much less someone, else!” Quinn said, trying desperately to defend her actions. Beck closed her eyes as she rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Grey’s going to kill me.” “If Lanti doesn’t beat you to it,” Lailani was able to utter between laughs. “Okay, we got check your texts and see if they say anything about how to fix this,” Beck suggested. She turned to Lailani, “You stay here, and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.” Lailani nodded in agreement as the Qunari and the Warden headed back towards the Warden commons. Lailani left Grey unattended for just a few minutes while she fetched her notebook from her room. She wanted to document this in case it ever happened again, so they would know how to fix it. Magic goes ary a lot, and it’s best to know how to fix things like this before it does.

In the few minutes Lailani was gone, Lanti wandered in, expecting to find the other Lords, but only found the cat. “Well, aren’t you the cutest thing?” she asked it as she bent down to pet it. The cat purred and rubbed against her hand, making her awe. She picked the animal up and began to give it chin and head scratches before kissing it gently on the forehead. Almost as if the kiss nullified Quinn’s spell, Grey suddenly transformed back into his human form, knocking them both to ground. Lanti was strong, but she wasn’t hold a 5’11” man made of pure muscle bridal-style strong. Lanti couldn’t help but laugh at the situation as Grey tried to gather himself and get up off of her. He was on his hands and knees as he looked down at Lanti with an expression of mixed confusion and concern, which only made Lanti laugh harder. She reached up and held his face in her hand, tracing her thumb across his cheek. “You know, you make a very cute cat?” she teased, making him laugh. Grey sat back on his heels and helped Lanti sit up as well. “I am so sorry about that. Beck had this plan and it went completely wrong, and…” he paused, meeting her gaze. 

As the light glimmered in Lanti’s eyes, Grey found himself suddenly speechless for a moment. Lanti pieced together why Beck had been trying to help Grey and why there was magic involved: he liked her too. In one swift, seamless movement, Lanti was on her knees as she grabbed Grey’s collar and kissed him. Stunned by her action, Grey took a moment to process what was happening. Once he did, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her closely. Once the kiss was over, Lanti still held his collar as she looked up at him. He could see the blush across her cheeks as she chuckled at them. “Sorry, I’ve been dying to do that,” she admitted as she bashfully looked away. He turned her face back to him as he made his own admission, “I have, too.”

Bonus: Beck, looking at her idea wall while contemplating her matchmaking ideas

[sonardisc]

𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄!!!

this took entirely too long to make and i'm still not done with building this au but here is the origin story of how they came to be and i'll have separate post explaining the railway/hcs about it/hcs about it

═══════════ ೋღ 🌺 ღೋ ═══════════

Around 33 million years ago way before humans prowled the earth the first engines were forged out of metal but didn't yet look like the engines we know today

small weak and flexible their bodies were more like the tardigrade they were about 3ft in height and 5 ft in length with tiny round teeth, small bitty little eyes and only 12 stubby little legs to scamper across the forest floor feeding on the minerals of the earth

but as time progressed with climate change happening and new predators appearing and they began to developing evolutionary adaptations like canine teeth, enhance vision, a hard metallic shell, claws etc..

by 20 million years later they started to look more like the modern trains but they were much bigger and stronger and was a force to be reckoned with being the apex predators competing other organic species of their time

then 10 millon years later their ancient rival the HOMOSAPIENS would appear fucking up everything taking all resources and using their metal remains to make new stronger weapons that could severely injured them, and using new techniques to find weak points in their armor and plan coordinated hunts which almost eradicated the engines species

but thankful that didn't happen due to migration, and developing new instincts to stay away from humans they're numbers grew back and they started developing even more adaptation traits to blend into their new environments

And finally leading up to the common era humans have strayed away from their primitive ways and started building heritage railways to help engines and undo the damage that was done to their species and hopefully make attempts at Domesticating them as exotic pets

─────────ೋღ 🌺 ღೋ─────────

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Coryphae

CR 6

Neutral Evil Medium Fey

Module: Down the Blighted Path, pg. 52

Among the most elegant and graceful of all Fey, Coryphae (which I will be referring to as "Cories/Cory" from now on) are Fey that seem addicted to the act of dancing, acting as entertainers, messengers, and occasionally warriors for fey nobles. They can't hold still for a single moment, and spend every waking moment of their days perfecting their own acts and movements until they have reached what they consider to be their peak. They rarely stay in service to a single lord for too long, as performing the same dances which earned them the attention of one noble will swiftly become stale, and there's nothing more poisonous to any Fey than stagnation, forcing them to try new moves to earn the favor of a different noble until those dances, too, begin to bore them.

Traditionally noncombatants, Cories spend most of their time as eye-candy, using their spells (namely Dancing Lights and Ghost Sound, both at-will) to augment their performance (as in Perform (Dance) +18), but they have plenty of utility for any Fey noble with one in their employ. Their ability to use Charm Person at will allows them to garner attention from anyone they wish, or pour flattery on someone their boss needs in their pocket. If that doesn't work, Cories have Suggestion at 3/day to make the following aggressive negotiations a little more tolerable.

In terms of aggressive negotiations, there are few fey better at delivering beatdowns which don't look like beatdowns; anyone in a direct fight with a Cory hardly looks like they're having a bad time, least of all the fey itself, which treats combat as another way to train their moves. . Benefiting from their constant motion to confound anyone trying to attack them, any round a Cory moves at least 10ft in triggers their Elegant Maneuvers, bolstering their attack rolls, CMB, and AC by +5, raising each of them (respective) to +12, +15, and 21. Each of those is important to the fey, as all of its techniques require it to get in close, very close.

"Holding hands" close. Cories have a pair of claw attacks they can use to deal 1d4+2 damage, but such brutality is a waste of their talents! They'd much prefer to get someone into their Enchanting Dance, a full-round action which lets them scamper up to 30ft in a given direction and attempt to grapple with one creature it passes by as it moves. If it succeeds, that unfortunate soul is claimed as a dance partner and has no choice but to go along with it until they either break the grapple, or the Cory finds someone more fun to dance with. The Cory can, from that round on out, force its dance partner to move along with it as it gracefully darts across the battlefield, and the victim takes 2d6 points of nonlethal damage from the frantic movements... and 1d3 points of Wisdom damage if they fail a DC 15 Will save, possibly because the fey's presence is wearing them down. The loss of Will is dangerous, as it opens the victim to being charmed, suggested to, or downright Dominated (which the Cory can do 1/day), and the Cory's dance partner cannot AoO the fey as it casts on them, nor can the Cory fail a concentration check to cast while grappling. Anyone hitting them back while grapples not only has to contend with grapple penalties, but the ever-present DR 5/Cold Iron most fey have.

While hanging onto one creature and dancing with them until they're unconscious or insane is a viable tactic, Cories are actually incentivized to move from target to target as they dance, as their Cut in with Care ability causes all attacks made against them to have a 50% chance to hit their dance partner instead, but only on the first round they establish the grapple. Their Enchanting Dance and Cut in with Care not only shuffles the party around in various annoying directions (denying flanking bonuses and Full-Attacks), but causes anyone using a weapon to hesitate swinging lest they hit their ally. Even sociopathic Sorcerers with Fireballs in their hand and no regard for their allies will be annoyed by the fact the fey's Evasion ability isn't affected by their grappled status, so throwing an AoE at them while they have someone in their clutches has a very high chance of only hitting their ally.

Cories aren't huge threats on their own and will quickly fold if they're forced to hold still (Elegant Maneuvers explicitly does not work with 5ft steps), but through either their frantic dancing or their spellwork, they can swiftly make a party into their own worst enemies. They're not meant to be boss fights on their own, but they're extremely annoying encounters if the party has no way to keep them in one place, and as such work as excellent hazards IN a boss fight as their dance pulls people out of position AND traps them in irritating grapples.

You can read more about them here.

[keicordelle]

A return to the romantic in Chapter 21, Richly Enjoyed Mundanity! And no matter how much spell checkers try to convince me that's not a word, it is, godsdammit! Thancred finally gets the chance to give Urianger the teacup he got for him at the Crystarium now that Urianger's not dying anymore! Yay!

Read it on Ao3 at the link above, or check out the first chapter on Tumblr here.

-

How Thancred continued to come up with novel recipes using their limited resources, Urianger could not begin to fathom. Before Thancred had arrived on his doorstep, Urianger had lived off of bread hardly worthy of the name and whatever fruits and vegetables the pixies saw fit to leave on his pillow — after ensuring they were in no part harvested from a leafman, of course.

Yet once again, dinner with Thancred was a delight. Rich cheese melted over succulent onion soup suffused the senses, warming body and heart both. The bread he had baked with it was soft and fluffy beneath fingers and teeth, and hardly deserved to be in the same category as the hard loaves Urianger had once made. And the roast that crowned the meal was tender and savory. Truly, it was a marvel of Thancred's culinary prowess. Or perhaps an indictment of Urianger’s, but it made for no less enjoyable a repast for it.

Thancred's foot brushed his beneath the table, the lack of space coaxing their legs together. His toes grazed against Urianger’s ankle, scuffing lightly along Urianger’s when he bumped his knee against Thancred’s. A small smile rose to his lips, hidden behind his water glass and a cough. Conversation was light, small talk quickly run dry when there was little they did not do together, but that was fine. Thancred listened with what appeared to be genuine interest as Urianger discussed the anatomical augmentation of familiars, and Minfilia at Thancred's side answered readily enough when he inquired about the progress of her training with her new daggers. Her eyes even seemed to sparkle as she spoke, detailing some new technique she'd uncovered the day before and sought to perfect.

Thancred's fingers brushed Urianger’s as they both reached for the water pitcher at the same moment. They lingered perhaps longer than was strictly necessary before drawing back, a polite, "Oh, go ahead," on Thancred's lips. Such a simple touch, and yet Urianger felt it burn through his cheeks, a light flush of heat rising to grace his face. It was nice, Thancred’s touch, even in such simple moments as these. And how odd that still felt, to so richly enjoy such mundanity.

Minfilia's chair scraped as she stood. "Um, I should— get back to my studies," she said, eyes flicking from Thancred to Urianger and then down to her own hands, fiddling with themselves before her. "Thank you for dinner. Please excuse me."

She'd scampered away almost before she'd finished speaking, retreating to the loft with the book she'd been reading earlier. Urianger frowned in her wake. She'd been doing that a lot of late, vanishing quickly after meals and making herself scarce. "Have I done aught to upset her?" Urianger asked, turning back to Thancred.

Thancred shrugged, unconcerned. "Maybe she's restless. There's not a whole lot to do here, and not everyone can content themselves with their nose shoved in a book for moons on end. Maybe now that she's gotten a taste of what she's missing, she wants more excitement." He chuckled, reaching to snatch another slice of bread to stuff in his mouth. "Or maybe it's just the unknowable inner workings of a teenage girl at play."

Urianger doubted they were that unknowable, but he let the issue lie. Maybe he could ask her later. If he had done something to make her uncomfortable, he wanted to apologize — just as soon as he could determine what that something might be.

But he couldn't deny the time alone with Thancred was nice. Thancred’s hand grazed his, more purposefully this time. His wrist twisted, fingers tangling with Urianger’s across the table. Urianger smiled at him, at the light flush that stained his cheeks, and at the answering heat that seared through his own.

When their plates had been cleaned of the last crumb of Thancred's scrumptious feast, they took to cleaning up together, as they so often did: shoulder to shoulder, pressed closer than strictly necessary as they labored together over the sink basin. Thancred hummed a familiar tune, his hip nudging in against Urianger’s as he took hold of the bowl in Urianger’s hand. The smile that graced Urianger’s lips seemed to be a permanent feature, contentment simmering beneath his breast. It was nice, to have him there. To touch him in so casual a manner. To lean over and capture his lips when the desire struck, though heat still burned through Urianger’s ears as he reached with water-drenched hands to tip Thancred’s face towards his. Thancred’s own smile spread his lips tight beneath his, a pleased chuckle rumbling through him to ghost against Urianger’s cheek.

And when the dishes had been washed and dried and tucked away, it was nice to have Thancred’s hand in his, fingers tangled together as Thancred drew him closer and kissed him properly, the flavor of the evening meal on his tongue and the clean scent of his skin in Urianger’s nose. His free hand skated up Urianger’s back, calloused fingers digging in lightly against his bare skin. They sank into the weary muscles along his spine, kneading gently at them.

Urianger couldn't help the luxuriant hum that drew from him. Face aflame, he pulled back, apology on his tongue, but Thancred laughed before he could give it voice. "Feel good, does it?"

It was good that Thancred was shorter than he; it made it less noticeable when Urianger dropped his chin, fingers fiddling bashfully with the chains at his hip as he nodded.

Thancred smiled at him, warm and wonderful. "Come here." Urianger let him draw him forward and coax him down into a chair. Thancred took up a position behind him, near enough that the heat from his body seeped into Urianger’s skin.

The first brush of Thancred’s hands up his back was gentle, tentative. Mapping out the muscles that lay beneath his skin. As if he hadn't grown familiar enough in their moons together.

And perhaps he hadn't. For all that they had grown intimately acquainted each other's lips and tongues, his hands had remained remarkably circumspect. A light touch against Urianger’s side, a clasp of his shoulder, but Urianger had never really felt Thancred’s hands on him properly before. Nothing quite like this, that was for certain.

The dig of Thancred’s thumbs into his shoulders nearly drew another embarrassing sound from him. It escaped in an exhale instead, tension Urianger hadn't been aware he’d been carrying slipping from him. Knots worked loose beneath Thancred’s expert touch, pleasure creeping into Urianger’s muscles wherever his hands traveled.

He melted into Thancred’s touch, yielding his body to him — or his back, at least. And his neck, head tipped forward as Thancred carefully unclasped the collar adorning Urianger’s throat to knead his thumbs into the skin below. Urianger hummed his appreciation as Thancred’s hands wandered lower again, dipping beneath the fall of Urianger’s robe to dig into his shoulders, his upper back.

Urianger’s pulse fluttered in his throat as Thancred’s hands worked at his muscles. Could he feel it? He was so close, and his hands seemed to be everywhere on him. Never before had someone touched him like this, so freely. So intimately. The dig of Thancred’s fingers into sore muscles was a marvel, easing strain from his body — while at the same time the press of his warmth at Urianger’s back and the wandering hands on his skin made butterflies dance in his stomach. It was... a pleasant feeling, to have Thancred so near. Not overly different from laying next to him on the sofa or in bed, perfectly sweet and chaste. And really, there was nothing odd at all about Thancred touching him like this; entire professions were made of such relaxing techniques.

(Professions were made of a lot of more intimate touches as well. Urianger steered his mind away from that unhelpful thought.)

And Thancred was exceedingly good at this. Even without a frame of reference, Urianger could be sure of that. His fingers sought the tension in Urianger’s shoulders with a delicate precision, easing them back down any time nerves threatened to tighten them. His fingertips hesitated briefly over Urianger’s collarbones before slipping back up, gliding once more over his neck and along the curve of his spine. It would be easy to get lost in the feeling of Thancred’s hands on him, caressing, embracing.

The press of his lips against his hair brought Urianger back to himself, Thancred’s low chuckle resonating through his ears. He blinked as Thancred’s hands slipped from him, unsure quite how long they had lingered like that. "That was... very nice," Urianger said. His voice came out thicker than he'd intended, and he cleared his throat. "I know not what I have done to deserve this." To deserve any of this. To deserve him.

"You don't have to do anything to deserve it, Urianger. If I'd known how badly you needed it, I would have done it sooner," Thancred said easily, fingers ruffling through Urianger’s hair. He scratched lightly at his scalp, tucking the loose locks behind his ear. "Your shoulders were so tense."

The heat settled in the tips of Urianger’s ears deepened, and he covered his awkwardness with a laugh. "Thy ministrations have worked wonders on that, rest assured."

Another kiss, this time to his lips as Thancred leaned around the chair to capture them. His mouth worked at Urianger’s, lips soft and gentle where they curved against his own.

When Thancred pulled back, his gaze was as warm as his kiss had been, the corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. "I have something for you."

Curiosity slipped through Urianger as he stepped away, a touch of bashful pink staining Thancred’s cheeks. Was he nervous? That was unusual for him. He was always so confident and self-assured; it was almost intimidating. But to see him like this, a blush dusting his skin and his fingers pushing awkwardly through his hair... It was cute. He was cute. It made Urianger want to get up and hug him.

Thancred was back before he had the chance. He pressed a newspaper-wrapped bundle into Urianger’s hands. It crinkled beneath his fingers, its shape fairly unrecognizable beneath the layers of paper. "When didst thou..."

"When we were at the Crystarium. I would have given it to you earlier, but it didn't seem very important while you were recovering."

He'd carried it all the way here from the Crystarium and kept it safe all this time. Urianger’s fingers found the seam along the underside of the bundle, dragging his nail through the tape so he could unwrap it.

Thancred's lip twitched as he watched him carefully unfold the paper to reveal delicate porcelain below, painstakingly painted with elegant flowers and twisting vines. Gold shone along the teacup's lip, its graceful rise shaped like blooming petals to make for a truly unique appearance. "It's exquisite."

"I wanted to replace the cup I broke on you before," Thancred explained, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I know that one was your favorite. This one's not the same, but hopefully—"

"I love it, Thancred," Urianger cut in. Thancred jumped, wide eyes lifting to his, and Urianger smiled at him, pouring every onze of the appreciation that thrummed through his heart into the expression. "I shall treasure it dearly."

Redness spilled over Thancred's face, the pink dusting that had persisted over his cheeks deepening to a true flush. "I'm— glad," he said. There was an innocence to the smile Thancred offered him in return, sweet enough to make Urianger’s chest ache.

Urianger leaned in, careful to keep the teacup from being crushed as he curled a hand around Thancred’s neck and drew him down for a kiss. For all his fluster, Thancred melted into the kiss well enough, lips melding to Urianger’s in the most tender of embraces.

When Urianger pulled back, Thancred seemed calmer, more settled. He almost lamented the loss of a flustered Thancred — but he liked him better like this anyway. Confident, amiable. Comfortable. His usual self. Urianger let his eyes fall from him back down to his new teacup, admiring its graceful architecture. "Wouldst thou care to join me for a pot of tea?"

Thancred laughed, taking the hand Urianger extended him and lacing their fingers together. "It would be my pleasure."

[Chapter 22] | [Masterlist]

[Kofi/commissions]

[bl4z33467]

Uuuuuu Vulpes altilis is just a guy, just little guy, just a little fat silly dumb dumb poopy uuuu NO. VULPES ALTILIS IS FUCKING MEANCe. I just like happy things so i only draw the happy parts and the mushy emotional parts and blah blah blah. If you offended him the ittiest bit and you aren't ranked above you he will fuck you up, either verbally or physically. Hes definitely killed a few people and caused many many injuries from his rampant anger. His fragile ego makes him easily offended (by the love of God if you call this bitch fat/an sort of comment on the fact hes fat he will personally see to your blood splattered across the floor). I know a big part of his story is that he isnt a good fighter. He definitely isnt, but that doesn't make him weak either. He can throw a punch and it will hurt, but if you have any sort of good defensive techniques you can probably scamper away before he wears himself out.

In the yin and yang motif of Altilis and Novos, novos is much more level headed and in control of his emotions. Also, Novos' strength is much milder than Altilis. But novos is much more agile and has much better endurance

Also teehee may have gone heavy with the blood