#hopefully this guide is understandable.....

[fandomfan315]

So, I learned how to cro-tat* the other day and decided to see how it looks with normal crochet!! Here's a guide on how to do so, based on what I've cobbled together. The first part (1-7) is how cro-tat usually works, the second part (8) is just your usual crochet routine.

*Cro-tat is a combination between crochet and "tatting," which is a type of lacing!! It's super cool, usually done with teensy tiny thread & special hooks. But I've only got normal yarn and normal crochet hooks so I made do 🤷 Have fun!!

Please keep in mind I have no idea how to cro-tat beyond this and a few other moves. And I also have no clue how to add a second row on top of it because I haven't gotten there yet LOL. It's just for fun, and I made the guide for myself to remember but I just thought I'd share it with y'all 🥰

[cyraen-ae]

AQ Story guide

AdventureQuest's story is known for being hard to follow due to its age and lack of a story guide, which LoreKeeper (AQ's main story writer) admitted is in the plans but hard to do due to the sheer scale of it So in the meantime, since I recently played through the game for the first time, I thought I'd offer a quick story guide for anyone who would like to play it for themselves, using a mixture of the story guide I used and notes from my own experiences

The story is a bit complicated and hard to follow at times, but it's genuinely worth the playthrough regardless

First main story : The Network and Seth Cay Dhows

1 : Devourer's Saga (Yulgar's Inn)

2 : Bizarre Flecks (World Map, bottom left of first screen)

2: Hall Of Memories (World Map > Darkovia > Dracopyre Legacy > 6.the hall of memories. Only play the first wing for now)

NOTE : Bizarre Flecks and Hall Of Memories happen at about the same time and are intertwined, referencing one another frequently, so you can play them in whichever order you wish or alternating the quests. It'll probably be a bit hard to follow regardless

3 : No Man's Land (World Map > Granemor (left of the first screen) > General's Tower) Not technically part of the main storyline, but sets up the aftereffects of the previous questlines

Important Side Story & interlude

Dragon King Saga (World Map > Dragonspine (middle top of the first screen > The Dragon King Part 1 and Part 2)

The Destroyer Saga (World Map > Dragonspine > The Destroyer Part 1, 2 and 3)

Current Arc : the Remnants of the West (LoreKeeper's tenure, very fun for Dragonfable players)

1 : Burning Solstice (Yulgar's Inn > Second Screen > Sage Uldor)

2 : Frostgale Set Mastercraft (Warlic's Shop > Mastercraft Sets > Frostgale Set)

3 : Dragonlorn Keep (Warlic's Shop > Quests > Dragonlorn Keep & Warlic's Shop > Mastercraft set > Haunted Dragonlord's Set for the second half of the questline)

4 : Entropy (Darkovia's hall of memories's later wings)

4 : Chessmaster Saga (World Map > right to the left of Battleon)

NOTE : Like Bizarre Flecks and Hall of Memories, these two quests happen simultaneously and reference one another. It's recommended to not start the Finale, Season Of Consequence, until you have reached it on BOTH of these questlines as it ties both of the plots together

5 : War Between Shadows (Warlic > Quests > War Between Shadows)

6 : Lost Talon Mastercraft Set (Warlic > Mastercraft Sets > Lost Talon set)

7 : Storm Of The Century (Twilly in Battleon > Anniversary Events > Storm Of The Century)

8 : The Last Ride (Warlic's Shop > Quests > The Last Ride) CURRENT ONGOING SAGA

Unfortunately for some reason, AQ had in its early days a tendency to get rid of questlines, so as a result stuff like the Fire War with Akriloth and the Carnax saga are mostly gone (you have access to two of Carnax's quests from World Map > Sail East > Stonerule) and even with my story guide, you will still get references to plots and characters that you may not understand immediately, so I can't help but apologize for this still.

However, the 10th anniversary quest offers a recap of early AQ stories to help get up to date as well (Twilly > Anniversary Events > The Dragon Of Time)

Under the cut is LoreKeeper's own story guide that I used to guide myself, which gives a bit more context for everything

[miserye]

i rage quit moho once today. this is how you know it's getting serious

[fr0stbearer]

starting to get to a point where i just do dailies in this game which is like 5 mins i guess...there's a small hint of boredom already but i can't uninstall this app man xavier is helping me study 💀💀💀

[ibyul]

bleh im so annoyed and its 11:30 I have no way to get it out but I have to sleep soon ughhhhh

[kathaynesart]

RECOMMENDED MUSIC: Boom Goes the Donnie-mite (Mikey/Donnie/Raph vs the Sweeper) - "The Red Zone" by Mitsuoto Suzuk

Finally! This big ol' update is out! Thank you everyone for your patience. Hopefully the next one will be much sooner since I already have parts of it drawn out. We're nearing the end of... uh, lets just call it the "Holiday Special."

BEGINNING || PREVIOUS || NEXT MASTER POST

Also couldn't get this out of my head as I was drawing this update:

Mikey's Ninpo:

Donnie's Ninpo:

Anyways, have some long winded deep dive into Donnie and Mikey's powers below the cut:

Mikey and Donnie are interesting because I feel these two are the ones who truly reach the full potential of their gifts. Mikey isn't there as of yet in the story but he will be by the end of Replica. Where as Leo and Raph had a lot of other things to focus on (leading, planning, and dealing with colony drama), Donnie and Mikey took the time to really focus on themselves and their abilities, choosing to distance themselves from a lot of the drama that the leaders of the family have to deal with.

Mikey's Ninpo

I always found it interesting how Mikey's weapon (the kusari-fundō) seemed to be the only one that had an actual entity within it. While they never address it, it's obviously some sort of flame demon/spirt. It could also help explain Mikey's dramatic increase in strength knowing that the spirit of his weapon is literally able to help him lift boats and buildings. I like to think that Michelangelo formed a connection with the spirit, especially since he looked so crushed when the Shredder destroyed his weapon in a way that none of the other brothers had.

Shortly after the victory against the Shredder I imagine he comes across his destroyed weapon in their old lair (probably while they're gathering thing to move to their new home) and he can still feel the sad little remnants of the spirit clinging to life in the broken object. I feel this would be the turning point that would lead to Mikey's first dip into the mystic arts. He would bring the weapon back to Barry for guidance and Barry would explain that the spirit has been bound to the object for so long that it can no longer survive on its own. Normally it could be bound to a new object but in it's dying state it would not be able to attach properly.

It is Mikey who suggests that maybe if it was bound to a person rather than a inanimate object then maybe the person could help the spirit survive. Barry admits the reasoning is sound and after much coercing finally helps guide Mikey through the steps, allowing the fire spirt to bind itself to Mikey's being (think something similar to Howl and Calcifer in Howl's Moving Castle, sans the heart losing). At first, not much seems to comes of the union. The spirit is still too weak to be able to do much of anything, but over time it regains its strength in tandem with Mikey and is able to gift him with similar abilities, becoming an integral part of Mikey's arsenal as well as a new spiritual connection to the Hamato family line. That is what we get a peek of here in this chapter.

Donnie's Ninpo

Just as Mikey canonically will go through a sort of mystic and spiritual enlightenment, Donnie too will have a similar scientific revelation. It always bothered me in the movie that his "firepower" (guns, missiles, etc) never seemed to be very effective, or at least not as effective as his ninpo designed physical constructs (such as the jet packs and the giant drill he uses on both the Krang and the Shredder). I believe this is because with physical constructs like a drill he has a sense of the weight and velocity needed to understand how hard it should hit. This properly visualized weight and damage is then made into reality.

But it's different with firearms and bombs. Up until the movie he really doesn't have a lot of real world experience around artillery and projectiles outside of what he sees on the internet and film. He does not know how a megaton bomb should feel or even the damage a bullet can create. And don't get me started on the the imaginary ray guns he uses on the Krang that don't seem to even leave a scratch. Without proper knowledge it's all just a light show. Very flashy, but not very effective.

When he realizes this it comes as a heavy hit to Donnie early on in the war. ...However, if there's one thing he is going to be exposed to in this bad timeline it's weapons of all kinds, even mass destruction. He will know exactly how it feels to get hit with a bullet, the blast of a projectile, and even an atomic bomb. He will then take this real world knowledge and recreate it in the same realistic way he can recreate his battle shell or drill staff. It takes a lot of work, sweat, and literal blood but this exposure to the worst of mankind's creations will help make him a walking encyclopedia of destruction. Over time, he will no longer need to make actual constructs of "bombs" or "bullets." He'll be able to simply create the pure raw power desired, no radiation or nuclear fusion needed. That's exactly what we see here.

We also see his use of shields, which is just as important as his ninpo arsenal. Specifically his ability to create shields to contain his own blasts, dramatically reducing the collateral damage from his own weapons of mass destruction. This makes him highly effective at taking down large enemies, but the shields sap his strength even more than the weapons (for it is easy to destroy, but hard to protect and preserve). This makes him often times a liability. He's often a sitting duck after pushing himself too hard and it can take him a decent amount of time to build these heavy hitting bombs. It's a double edged sword to be sure.

NOTE: these are stories I do plan to address further in my Patreon, with proper illustrations, but I wanted to give a little taste of what to expect! Haha. Very soon....

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Sea Monster x Reader

In the spirit of Mermay, I come to you with a slightly different approach: an octopus hybrid, dwelling in the dark depths of ancient waters. :) Hopefully close enough to the sea monster you imagined, @wally0117

Content: gender neutral reader, male yandere, monster romance, reader likes sharks (a lot); inspired by The Shape of Water and My Octopus Teacher; photo from Whalebone Magazine

He’s always been aware of humans, naturally. Observed them from the beginnings of time, from the very first rudimentary attempt of a boat that crossed his waters. Though he can only guess how these creatures exist, how they breathe, how they move. What arrives in his depths is always a corpse of some sort. Bloated, decaying carcasses, rarely intact, whether chipped by fish or by time. Everything else is left to his imagination.

Until today. The fish are restless, the currents are stronger. Something must be happening above, stringing him along curiously. His many legs sway in tandem, opening and closing, as he investigates the source of interest. His pale white eyes narrow to a mere squint, unused to the light of the surface levels. At last, he finds it: a human.

Yet this one is unusual. Intact - save for the bleeding wound - and unlike the washed-out, cadaveric blue tint he’s normally accustomed to. He notices a twitch of the limb and it dawns on him: this one is still alive.

You wake up with a violent cough, thrusting out the leftover liquid that had invaded your lungs earlier. You clearly remember drowning, so how did you end up on shore again? The answer reveals itself rather quickly: a monstrous creature, albeit humanoid for the most part. The upper half resembles a man, but the torso ends in thick, enormous tentacles, now flopped onto the sand, surrounding your body. You search for the creature’s face, framed by translucent tendrils that seem to replace what you’d expect as hair.

“Thank you”. He scans your features and remains silent. Does he even understand human speech? After a moment of consideration, he looks ahead, surveying the water, then returns to you, giving you a nudge. He most likely wants to know how you ended up in that situation to begin with. “That’s, well…”

Conveniently enough, the monster has brought you back to your little camp, so you reach for your backpack and pull out a book. Of course, no words can ever replace the image itself. With renewed enthusiasm, you open your encyclopedia and turn it towards the man, showing him a photo of a sand tiger shark, tapping on it excitedly. “I was looking for sharks!”

Ever since the bizarre, life-saving encounter, you’ve been returning to the same spot most days. And without exception, the monster will be waiting for you in one of the neighboring caves. Judging by the pellucid, pale skin and his reluctance to be in the light, you guessed early on that he might be a creature of the depths.

One that has been around for a long time, it seems. Once he understood your interest in sharks and other aquatic animals, he developed a liking to play guide for you, silently touring you through forests of kelp, hidden caves, labyrinths of reefs and hills. He knows where the animals linger, and they don't scurry away when you approach. You've never dreamed of being so close to them, staring into their eyes and tracing their fins as they swim past you, unbothered and relaxed. The monster will gaze at you from a distance, amused by your passion.

On ground, you’ve begun your own little experiment: can the octopus creature learn sign language? You didn’t need long to discover how intelligent he is, mimicking your gestures with flawless ease, instantly memorizing the meanings, the connections, the implications. He seems to be terribly delighted by this newfound tool of communication, often asking you questions with earnest curiosity.

Ah, yes, the questions. It makes sense that he’d want to know more about humans, though his interrogations are rather…particular. Specific. It’s less about humans as a whole, and more about you. How long have you been swimming here? How deep can you actually swim, with or without aid? Might you have a family waiting for you back home? A mate, perchance? No? Interesting.

"My vacation will end soon", you sign with pursed lips. He tilts his head. "Leaving?" his webbed hands gesture, somewhat uneasy. You nod. You can discern a glint of melancholy in his eyes. Eventually, he resumes: "Would you like to see my home?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise. His home? Down there? Was such a thing even achievable for a human like you?

The plump suckers attach themselves to your skin, one resting over your mouth. "Do you trust me?" You cast one final glance over the underwater abyss, a black hole trapping all light and matter. You shake your head in approval. Without hesitation, he plunges over the cliff, pulling you after him and into the yawning void of darkness. His form glows eerily, and his movement is swift and elegant. You can tell this is his land, his territory. You would've been dead a long time ago.

He releases you on the wet stone, inside the air pocket of a cave. You need a few moments to overcome the wave of claustrophobia pressing against your lungs. As you catch your breath, you recall your long path from the surface. It would be impossible to make it back out again without your friend. A cold shiver runs across your spine. "Have a break, and I'll show you everything else afterwards", he gestures with a smile. "How long will it take? I don't want to walk back at night", you explain.

Silence. You stare into his empty orbs, awaiting a reaction. There's not a sound, not a gust of wind, not a shred of light. "You're not going back", he finally answers.

You see, he's done a fair amount of research himself. He doesn't need an encyclopedia to figure you out: how you breathe, how you move, how you exist. In fact, he is rather confident in his ways of helping you adapt to a life spent together. He would've never brought you down here if he wasn't certain of your survival. His grin widens in anticipation, a strange warmth enveloping his innards at the mere thought of it: a future with you in it, right here. However, one question remains, a cheeky, perverted detail that has been on his mind from the moment he met you, yet he could never investigate it properly.

How do humans mate?

[mommyslittlebird]

Oral fixation

A cut segment from my stepmom!Wanda x reader fic (hopefully coming soon)

Cw: stepmom!Wanda, oral fixation, MOMMY ISSUES, Wanda defends the oral stage and is high key jealous of R’s actual mom. This one’s a little Freudian.

Stepmommy Wanda, seeing the way you lick your lips when you catch a glimpse of her bare chest. She watches you struggle with the sudden urge to have something in your mouth. She chuckles a little as your fingers “subtly” find their way into your mouth. It was silly. 22 was way too old to be having these urges. But it was sticking in your brain like an itch nonetheless.

You whine when she grabs your wrist and gently pulls your fingers away. Your face burns with a deep red blush as you realize she caught you. You furiously try to hide your face away, but instead you’re gently guided back to her chest.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy understands,” she soothes. “See, sometimes when mommies don’t feed their babies their milk like they’re supposed to, their babies still need to be nursed even when they grow up.”

Your face grows hot and you hide against her chest. She couldn’t seriously be okay with this, could she?

“It’s okay sweetheart. You don’t have to be embarrassed,” she assures, lifting your head and looking into your hazy eyes. “You’re too little to understand, honey. Just leave all the big girl thoughts to mommy, okay?”

You hesitantly make your way towards an exposed nipple, taking it between your lips. The relief was immediate. You thought you’d never suck on your fingers again if this was the alternative. You couldn’t help but melt into her arms.

Wanda hums in satisfaction, combing her fingers through your hair. She reaches her other hand down to caress the swell of your stomach, pretending it was filling itself with her milk. Her chest was empty, of course, but she enjoyed the fantasy regardless. What a magical thing it would be if she could provide her precious little angel with sustenance.

She was both furious and envious of your actual mother, who had every opportunity to care for you like this, and didn’t. She would’ve been so better, she thought. She would’ve cared for you like the miracle you were. But now was not a time for fury or envy. She had everything she ever wanted right here.

“Mmm that’s a good girl. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You’re doing such a good job letting mommy take care of you. I’m sorry you didn’t have a good mommy when you were little. But it’s okay. I’m here now, honey. I’m gonna take much better care of you.”

[celuere]

hopefully we don‘t have no babies.

pt.2 of kiss it, bit it, can i fit it?

pairing: arlecchino x fem!reader

context: she is navigating you with slow and gentle steps (at first) through new found territory (aka sesbian lex)

cw: modern au, experienced dilf!arle, implied age gap (reader is in mid/late twenties), she yaps you an ear off about her spiders, pet names, praising, arle teaches you how to properly finger yourself ngh, mirrors, voyeurism, strap-on, rough sex, dumbification, arle is called peruere

word count: 3.8k

art credits: saditstic beauty: side story a

birthday special for you guys now WHERE are my presents. also thank you to angel and @angelic--kitty who more or less inspired me for this continuation ngh. i have to be honest, i outdid myself with this one. have with over 3k words of sesbian lex.

„are you certain you don‘t want to feed her? she is quite tame for her species.“

you watched the eight-legged creature crawl over her tatted skin in sheer horror.

how did she come up with the name „bambi“ for this monster of a spider?

„i-i‘m pretty certain. i‘d rather just… watch you feed her from a safe distance…!“, taking a step back from the woman and her…. pet. well, one of her various pets. 

you almost died of heart failure the moment you stepped foot into the entomologist‘s basement. terrariums lined up against the walls, everywhere. there had to be at least twenty of the damned creatures here. and today happened to be feeding day so you got to watch your date hand-feed them one by one. and of course, she didn’t leave out any introductions nor did she spare you the details of the individual species.

„this beauty is called a cyriopagopus lividus or rather a cobalt blue tarantula. they‘re known for their extraordinary blue coat and got often mixed up with the omothymus violaceopes even though they differentiate quite a lot from each other in my opinion. from size, color up to their natural habitat and attitude, they could not be more different. this one is actually a bit lively for her species-“ as if the damned thing seemed to understand her word for word, it took off from her palm and rushed up her arm where it abruptly stopped right on her shoulder, „my, the name freminet gave you really does suit you, speedy…“

yet your heart was threatening to beat out of your chest, not because of the sudden scare. rather because she just seemed so… different to you… how skilled she was handling the spiders to her barely lacking knowledge about each and every species she collected over the years. she seemed like a totally different person in that moment. and quite frankly- nothing turned you on more than watching those inked hands putting the haired monster back into its enclosure.

„how come you are so fond of them…?“

you almost regretted your question immediately at the way she mustered you all of a sudden. hesitant. as if she was weighing her options for the unknown. 

„i… i‘m sorry if that was too personal… you don‘t have to tell me if you don‘t feel comfortable with sharing that information with me…!“, you stammered as you tried lifting up the blanket of unease covering your heart. yet, peruere merely shook her head before guiding you out of her basement, a hand resting on your lower back when you walked up the stairs.

„i am not uncomfortable… not with you. it‘s just… it is not exactly the happiest story. it wouldn‘t be in my best interest to ruin tonight’s mood.“, she flashed you one of her rare smiles, but something sad clung to the way her eyes stared into yours.

you‘ve only been seeing each other for a good two months now, none of you dared to breach the topic of your past yet, her children had still to make your acquaintance, too. however, peruere showed great effort. daily phone calls, occasional dinner dates, randomly picking you up from your workplace whenever her schedule allowed it. she was truly, truly interested in you. and that fact caused your stomach to hit one cartwheel after the other.

who expected the 38-year old woman to still be so full of love? love she wants to share with you. 

„fine… another time then.“, you mirrored her soft expression, not wanting to pressure her any further about this topic. 

peruere could feel something in her ribcage tighten at the sight of you. goodness, you brought out a side in her that she didn‘t even know still existed in the first place. you made her feel young again. and she loved you for it.

she hadn‘t loved in a long time. 

„it is way past midnight already… do you still want to stay the night or do you want me to drive you back home?“, a tattooed hand came up to gently tuck a few lost hair strands back behind your ear.

with her children staying at certain ginger uncle‘s house tonight, the night belonged to you. and only you.

„well… what would you prefer? please, be honest… i wouldn‘t mind either options.“, instinctively you leaned into her warm palm, letting her thumb caress your soft skin as if it were the last time.

she looked like the moon on a lonely night yet her touch equaled the feeling of being kissed by the sun itself. warm. trusted. gentle. 

„i‘d love for you to stay the night…“, and so you did.

when you walked into her bedroom for the first time after going through your evening routine in her bathroom beforehand, you didn’t know what to expect. however, you weren‘t surprised, nor disappointed. 

the theme of the room was kept in a gentle dim light, a king-sized bed with simple white-black bedding was resting in the middle of the room. other than that the only things you could spot was a closet, a mirror and two nightstands. if compared to her kids rooms you‘d realize her own little abode is significantly smaller, probably because she doesn’t see a good point in taking up a lot of space which she only frequents for precisely one thing: sleeping. and something else.

otherwise it looked spotless. not a single corn of dust in sight. the sheets were laying neatly folded on top of the mattress and you could make out the soft scent of a room freshener clinging to the air.

„i apologize if my bedroom seems to not meet your expectations… i like to keep things simple.“, with her back turned to you, peruere opened her closet to fish some new sleepwear out for herself. 

but you were too focused. too focused on the fact that she was standing half-naked before you. her back muscles evidence of a strict diet and years of exercise. and you could spot three names imprinted underneath her right shoulder.

Lyney & Lynette 02.02

Freminet 09.24.

something in your chest tightened at the sight of her kid‘s names tattooed onto her skin. she really loved those rascals with her entire being even if they weren’t hers by blood, they will always be a part of her.

„do you have sleepwear to change into?“

„oh, yes i do, but thank you…“, you watch her put on a plain black shirt and a pair of red-black checked pants and now you are convinced. she looks handsome in literally anything.

the older woman didn’t expect a lot when she turned around but who would’ve thought seeing her sweet date in a tight tanktop and some shorts would blow her fucking mind. you weren’t even wearing anything sexual, yet her thoughts ran rampage inside her head while she tried to make an effort to avoid looking at anything else other than your face.

„so… ready for bed?“

„mhm… gosh, look at that pretty pussy…“

it took the two of you not even five minutes until the first layers of clothes came off.

which happened to be your shorts and panties. you were laying underneath her with spread legs and your own fingers working up and down your cunt, you wanted to give her a show.

but the longer you tried pleasuring yourself, the bigger the frown on peruere‘s face got.

the woman had precisely one question on her mind: did someone ever teach you how to properly finger yourself? you might as well be trying your luck at a lottery ticket the way your fingers… fumbled your folds. you weren‘t even wet enough when you tried to insert your index- and middle-finger.

„stop right there.“

„but-“

„stop. you will only end up hurting yourself.“, crimson eyes watched you remove your hand from your cunt as you tried masking the utter humiliation she just exposed you to.

„don‘t look away.“, with her hand grabbing your chin, she moved your head back to face her directly, „did someone ever teach you how to properly pleasure yourself?“

„h-huh? what do you mean?“

„all the men you have been with before, did they ever bother to finger you correctly or at least show you how to do it yourself?“, your ribcage is suddenly too small for your lungs at the vulgar words she‘s using.

„i… no… n-not that i remember… why are you asking?“

she looked at you for a few seconds before sighing and scooting back, tugging you up by your hand, „how am i supposed to sleep knowing such a pretty girl can‘t even get off all by herself… come here.“, she patted the space between her legs.

just what did she want to do?

when obliged to her request it almost immediately clicked when you were met with the reflection in front of you.

you were sat before a mirror. in her lap. butt-naked.

„y-you want to show me…“

„dear me, so smart… that is exactly what i want to do.“, peruere grabbed you by the plush of your right thigh before pulling your leg over her own and spreading you open in the process.

„so, here‘s how things will operate from here.“, she wasted no time and used her two fingers to spread your cunt open, „i will first give you a little… demonstration… and then it is your turn. how does that sound, hm?“

„th-that sounds humiliating, if i am being honest…“

„it isn‘t. at all. i am not offering this to make fun of you. please don‘t get me wrong, doll. i just want you to know how to take care of yourself the next time we‘re on a phone call.“, she let her lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, your pussy now significantly more slick and your clit aching.

oh, that phone call. just thinking about it caused you to slightly whimper.

„i… o-okay fine… show me…“

„first of all you need to look. not at your face or mine, i need you to observe your pussy when i‘m demonstrating. understood?“, her voice had something stern in it. something that shouldn‘t be allowed to be so incredibly hot.

„understood…“

„good girl. now, first of all, you want to take your middle- and ring finger, that way it is easier for you to get as deep as possible when you are using them on yourself. got it so far?“, she waited for your nod before continuing.

„the main reason why i stopped you earlier was because you were way, way too dry. you need to be slick enough to easily wet your fingers in order for them to slide in with little to no problems. sex or masturbation is never supposed to hurt. if it does you are doing something wrong.“, her expression changed into something softer the more nervous you became by watching her fingertips circle over your sensitive clit, „shhhhh… just follow my fingers, look at how wet you are getting by just a few rubs to your clit…“, using those same fingers to spread you open by your folds. the whimper found its way over your lips all on itself.

„a-ah… th-this is embarrassing, peruere…“, you mumbled before turning your head away once again. 

but the entomologist wasn‘t having it.

„if you can send me whole videos of you bouncing your pussy on a vibrator, you can also watch me fingering you in a mirror.“, she whispered almost dangerously low into your ear, her tone laced with something sinister that caused your body to grow hot… and your cunt to painfully clench around nothing.

„let me propose an offer.“, just then, her fingertips slowly sneaked their way into your slit, „if you sit through this lesson without any more complaining and manage to properly get off on your own fingers… there‘s a little reward waiting for you… alright?“, her voice came out silky, reduced to a soft pur as she hummed, pleased to find your eyes fixed back onto the wet mess between your legs.

„a-alright…“, your breathing became heavier the deeper her fingers pushed in until she was knuckles-deep inside your warmth.

„good girl. feel that?“, slowly she began to feel up your walls that were gripping onto her so tightly. peruere only chuckled, „missed me, hm?“

„hah… hngh… o-of course i did…“, you said, as you pressed yourself more into her chest. she felt so warm. so comfortable. the faint note of her usual cologne still clung to her but it lit up a flame of desire inside of you that you only ever experienced with her.

„adorable… we have several options now. you could start to move your hand back and forth…“, she demonstrated by pumping her fingers slowly in and out of you, drawing a moan from you in the process, „or curl up your fingers and search for your g-spot. it usually sits two to three inches behind your vaginal opening, right…“, electricity suddenly shoots down your spine as her two fingertips delicately press and rub into your spot, „…here.“

„o-oh archons-! h-how-?!“, you clenched the fabric of her pants in your hand as she continued to massage the sensitive spot inside of you with ease.

„after knowledge comes experience, darling. you could also combine both methods and just…“, she had you squirming around in her lap by the first pump of her fingers, curling them up each time she slid them back into your hole, „…fingerfuck yourself however you please. you can vary the pace, the motions, just whatever feels better to you.“

something, something with motions… speed… how did she expect you to pay attention with her fingers showing you what heaven truly looked like?

you were so focused on these experienced fingers working their way inside your pussy that you didn‘t even process her next words.

„and now it is your turn, sweetheart.“, the whine you let out when she retreated almost brought the older woman to her knees. 

you were just too cute in her lap. cute and unfucked. too unfucked for her liking.

„m-my turn…?“

„how am i supposed to know that my little lesson bore any fruits without a test? come on. make good use of those fingers now and pleasure yourself.“, her voice was dripping with professionalism, as if she were talking to a student.

despite the humiliation being still very much present, you obliged to her demand without as much as a simple nod. moving your fingers down, carefully sliding them through your wetness, „a-and what about my r-reward…?“

crimson eyes were fixated on the way you circled your clit in the reflection of the mirror before she leaned back, supporting herself on the mattress with her arms, „so impatient… i will only properly reward you once you manage to get off. on your own. after all, i don‘t reward slackers.“

archons, she was strict.

but did her tone only add further to the heat resting between your thighs?

fuck, it did.

and you needed that strap-on badly.

so you watched her expression falter for the slightest moment when you shoved your fingers back inside your warmth and they went in so easily. you gasped at how smoothly they went inside you, how welcoming you were compared to a few minutes ago, that you leaned your head back onto her shoulder when you started to search for your spot.

easier said than done.

„i… i-i can‘t i find it, peruere…“

„you can, angel. it should sit right above your fingertips now. come on, we don‘t give up so easily here. think about your reward…“

she didn‘t tell you that she will still pound your cute pussy senseless, even if you fail. 

she just won‘t be as gentle with you.

„i-i don‘t have as much experience a-as you do…“, your voice trembled with your growing frustration when you missed it yet again. 

„darling, i‘m a whole decade older than you. i assure you we are getting-“, peruere watched your legs jolt as a moan rung through the bedroom, „…there. my, was that so hard now?“, a knowing smirk played around her lips as she watched you fall apart in her lap. all on your own.

this was different. so much different from someone else doing the work, it was even slightly better than that. you knew what motion felt the best already, the pace you wanted to set and quite honestly- you regretted not looking into your own pleasure like this way sooner. but having a 38 year old overworked woman lead you to the right path… oh, what a wonderful world you were living in.

your orgasm felt like warm hug embracing you, washing gently over you but leaving you nonetheless breathless, aching for more.

„my, look at that… aren‘t you just the sweetest little thing…?“, she didn‘t wait for a reply when she moved over to her nightstand and fished out… her very own strap-on.

„h-huh…?“

„what? don‘t tell me you changed your mind about the reward, doll…“, and truth was that she just couldn‘t wait any longer to fuck you into the mattress. with how needy your eyes were still looking at her, the way you rubbed your slightly trembling thighs together, your fingers already pulled out but the hand was still resting between them.

like a little lamb waiting for its sacrifice.

and she needed you. bad. she wanted to make up for the years you wasted with the wrong partners, showing you what you‘ve been missing out on your entire life.

her.

„n-no no! i-i didn‘t change my mind at all-!“, you crawled towards her side of the bed where she was currently standing when she started buckling up her fake dick.

the sight of you kneeling before her on the bed, tits pressed together in that skimpy top of yours forced her to wet her lips. 

you will be the end of her.

„lay back. legs spread. mhm, just like that.“, she had to suppress a groan when you exposed your soaked pussy to her eyes once again. the way she could make out your nervous breathing by how fast your chest rose and fell back down. you were excited.

„good girl. now show off that pretty cunt to me.“, her throat visibly moved when you spread your folds open for her once more. one moment she was standing, the next she dropped to her knees, hungry lips roaming over your warmth, a tongue greedily lapping up your juices as muffled groans filled the tense bedroom air.

it was almost a reflex when your hand found home between her hair strands, pushing her further into you when you couldn’t stop the sounds of pure ecstasy any longer.

yet, peruere didn‘t devote her mouth to your pussy much longer, already leaving a hot trail of messy kisses up to your tummy, tattooed hands working the fabric of your top over your tits, giving them both a treatment consisting of biting your nipple and making sure to cover those beautiful girls in lovebites beyond recognition.

„o-oh god- fuuuuck… p-please…!“, you whined, whimpered, whatever. hands tracing the outlines of her trained biceps when she fucking finally towered over you, lips swollen from treating your body like a temple, crimson eyes dark with nothing else other than carnal desire.

„you want me? you want my cock inside that tight pussy of yours, hm?“, she purred as she grabbed your right leg and placing it over her shoulder when you felt her rubbing the shaft through your slickness.

the way you shook your head up and down like a total maniac was all she needed. 

„then you shall have me.“

often peruere didn‘t look like she was approaching the 40 years mark.

but those hips made sure to remind you of it yet again. slamming so perfectly into you, her cock settling each and every time against your cervix when she bottoms out, like a puzzle piece falling into place.

she swore she could feel you gripping onto the silicone, how you sucked her in as if you were about to starve and despite not even being penetrated sexually herself- she was groaning from the deepest pits of her throat. not caring about your juices staining the sheets underneath you or her sleeping pants.

„p-peruere…!! p-peru-!!“, you mewled in the sweetest tone as you grabbed into the sheets until your knuckles turned white, tears forming in the corner of your eyes from how deep she was penetrating you from the inside.

„all those before me, did they ever fuck you as good as me? did they ever have you screaming over their cock like this, hm?“, the both of you overheard the sound of the bed creaking underneath her almost animalistic pace if it weren‘t for your skin slapping together. you could almost mistake it for a round of applause.

however, your answer was clear.

„n-no-! th-they didn‘t- Hngh!!“, your spine melted into a beautiful arch when she angled her hips to go after that one certain spot, stars already dangling around your vision from how well she was fucking you.

not even your climax stopped her. it only further motivated her to press your legs up until your knees were almost touching your ears so she could rut as deeply as possibly into you.

she hated how she couldn‘t get pregnant more than anything else right now. nobody ever made her feel this wanted as you in that moment. how you begged for her, pleading for salvation in form of her cock and what not. you wanted her fuck you into this mattress for eternity, to turn you into her own personal doll to play with.

„mine… mine, all mine…“, giving into the urge to kiss you stupid almost made her cum herself. the moans that were swallowed by her own lips, your arms snaking around her neck to keep her pressed against your body as she held your face in her hands as if you were but a precious diamond she needed to be careful with. a strong contradict to how she was plowing into you and how strongly the room smelled of sex.

and if your place was underneath her with seven inches filling you up, then so be it.

your world almost shattered after yet another exhilarating high when she pulled out, not even the slightest hint of her being out of breath yet.

„don‘t look at me like that, sweetheart. i‘m not even remotely done with you yet.“, her biceps strained as she picked you up as if you were nothing but lightweight to her before flipping you over on your stomach, „hips up.“, a hand patted the fat of your hips and you obliged more than happily.

a pillow was placed underneath you and you also dragged another one over to rest your head on. you knew she was about to rock your whole world.

„comfortable?“

„m-mhm…“

„then hold on tight.“

[nerdygirlramblings]

the pups come home!

an: it's another long one. sorry?

cw: poorly executed accents, omegaverse biology, m/m anal sex (including knotting)

previous

Quiet but not quite. Still but reatless. Nervous energy crackles in the air. Excited tension. The house holds its breath, waiting. Your parents and the new pups are on their way home.

Every passing car causes a cascade of glances before the eventual, "Not them," from Ben, positioned at the front window until the gentle rumble of the engine in the drive sets everyone in motion.

Surprisingly, it's Davy who beats everyone to the door, opening it, revealing Mum mid-reach. From the sofa, you watch first as surprise then love chase away her momentary shock. Shaky arms come up as she enfolds Davy in a hug, murmuring softly to him. He returns the embrace, the muscles in his arms tensing as he squeezes her back. Michael and Helen drop quick kisses on her cheeks before slipping past her into the front garden. The three of you decided last night how you'd help when everyone came home from the birth centre. Their job is to help the moms bring Dad and the new pups in. You job is to get everyone fed and settled. There's soup for Dad, full plates for Mama and Mum, and two bottles ready.

While the elder twins bring in the younger twins, you let the triplets greet Mum and then Mama and Dad as they come through the door. All three adults give all three teens the same treatment: whispered words and tender hugs and kisses. It's a much more joyous return from the birthing centre than the triplets have seen your parents have before. All they've known is the litters Dad lost. You want them to be able to celebrate this miracle.

Though the elder twins bring the new ones in, it's the triplets who are officially introduced to them first, lifting each baby into the crook of their neck for just a moment to let the baby smell them, imprint their scent, and know this is family. Watching the ritual your parents established when the first twins were born, telling the triplets, "They aren't our babies, they're your babies too. You'll be here to love them and guide them. To look out for them. And one day, when we're gone, you'll be there for each other. Family."

Hearing it again, you realize your parents always stressed family, but they never said pack. You know many people see them as synonymous terms, but Mama was a literature major at uni, and you were raised with the importance of using the right words. You know there is a reason they use family instead of pack. You wish you understood what it was.

When you finally have a chance to be introduced, you take each baby from Michael, Grant first then Amelia, holding their little heads close, whispering the same thing you've only said five times, "You are more than my sibling. You are part of me, and that will never change. I will love you and support you and care for you always." Each reverent phrase accompanied by a kiss to the baby's temple before passing the child off to one of your parents.

Michael and Helen swing through the kitchen and pick up the bottles to feed the babies. You all remember how tired Dad is after a delivery, so you wrap an arm around his waist in the guise of holding him close after the successful delivery, Mum and Mama slowly trailing after you. You settle them all at the table, then join them to catch them up on how the household has fared in their absence.

You hadn't had a chance to talk with them when you first arrived, and now they ask why you're home. "Clearly you couldn't have expected this," Mum huffs a laugh.

"No," you smile indulgently at first her then Dad, "this was a pleasant surprise."

The question of why you're here, now, is tied up in feelings about your team you don't quite understand and aren't sure how to process, so you don't answer it. Hopefully your parents are too fatigued to notice, but it feels like Dad is watching you pick at your fingers even though his eyes are on his food and the doorway through which you can hear Michael and Helen teaching the triplets how to hold and feed the pups. Mum and Mama must catch on something too - your avoidance, your nervous tic - and blatantly watch you over their plates. "Did something happen with your team?" Mum whispers, keeping this conversation to the kitchen.

A shoulder rises and falls. Your lips twist for a moment. Small movements there and gone belie the mess of emotions you don't know how to name.

Mama's hand on yours, a warm weight tethering you. "I think we need to talk when the rest are in the nest and the pups are sleeping." You can only nod.

"Dunno if ye heard, but the lass's Da had his pups," Soap whispers into the quiet evening. All he receives is a grunt in response. He's wrapped in Ghost's arms, Ghost's knot slowly deflating in his ass. A cock in the ass is one thing. Heat and stretch. The burn pleasant, a successful workout. An alpha's knot is an altogether different experience. Heat hot enough to scorch if you're unlucky. A stretch too far to be comfortable for either party, despite biology at play. Micro tears and burst capillaries. But he and Gaz do this for Ghost and will do it for Price in a few months if you aren't pack by then. It's one way they help the pack with balance.

Soap keeps up his running commentary in these stolen moments when Ghost is lucid, unconsumed by his instincts. "Price said 'e thinks she may be open ta courtin' when we get back." The arm around his waist grips tighter, and Ghost's scent goes briney with his arousal, a perfect compliment to Soap's own marine notes. "Ye like tha', huh, havin' Ren as oor own 'mega?" He knows the other man wants you. They all want you. And Ghost has been vocal this rut, calling out your name. Soap overhead Price's side of yesterday's call with you. Could hear a tinny version of you voice through the phone. The sadness there unmistakable. He knows Price is playing the long game. He only wished he knew how it will all play out.

Things are dark, closed, safe by the time your parents pull you from the nest. The pups and triplets are fast asleep, but Helen startles from half-slumber and Michael turns from his screen. "Just need to chat with your sister before she heads back to base," Dad tells them. "Can ya watch the pups? We'll be in the kitchen, yeah?" Michael nods, back to scrolling through his phone in the dim room. Helen scoots into the space Mama left next to the new pups, her body a gentle barrier to the nest's edge.

In the kitchen, the quiet feels oppressive. The lights don't make the room warm and inviting, instead you're on the wrong side of an interrogation, like when your parents caught you sneaking in from a party when you were in Lower Sixth. A butterfly under glass. Pinned by the weight of their knowing gazes.

The air takes on weight. There's some silent conversation between the moms and Dad. You remember the looks they shared when you told them about being on the boards on base. Finally, you crack. "What?" you ask, nervous and unsure of your footing.

"Baby," Dad starts, "why are you here?"

You avoided the question earlier but know they won't let you deflect now. "Well, the team had leave, so I came home." The omission is deafening.

"Ya didn't want to take leave with yer team?" Mum asks. "Get ta know them without all the trainin' ya do?"

Somehow they've mastered the art of seeing past your artifice, and if you don't start telling them now, Mama will cut through your bullshit faster than a dog can lick a dish. You shift uncomfortably. This is somehow worse than the conversations you had in your teens about sex and consent and your heats and an alpha's ruts. Your jaw clenches briefly before you force yourself to relax. "Well, I'm here cause it isn't really leave fer the others. One of the pack alphas has his rut, and the whole pack takes a week to handle it together." You don't rush because if you go too fast and have to repeat yourself, you will self-immolate.

Mama blinks while Mum stares at Dad. Clear whatever planned conversation they had, this is not the information they expected you to share. "Er," Mama says, "that's very... progressive of them, yeah?" She recovers quickly because she asks, "Aren't they on suppressants?"

You shake your head. "Captain Price said they only use 'em during missions. Keeps 'em from throwin' anyone off balance for too long." Dad nods, and you hope he's remembering your bad reactions.

He's the one who breaks the silence next. "How do ya feel about them doin' that? Takin' off together, without you, to handle their alpha's rut?"

You think he's asking about you, but he could be asking about your omega, and you hate that you don't know which one answers when you say, honestly, "I miss them."

Mum hums and Mama nods along, but it's still Dad who speaks. "Have ya given any more thought to the other half of yer Captain's offer?"

There's no denying now this is about you being 141's omega, being more than teammates. Your hands fiddle in your lap. The longer you wait, the more obvious your answer seems to be, to them and to yourself. "I don't want things to change," you finally whisper, sounding so much younger. Vulnerable in a way you haven't let yourself be in too many years to count.

"Hey, pretty girl," Dad croons. You can't help but look at him. "Captain Price seems like a good alpha. We know he's a good Captain and a good man. From what you've told us, the whole team supports you and wants you to be a successful soldier. They're already looking out for you in their way."

Your parents let you sit with that truth for a few quiet minutes before Mama tells you, "Seems like they've shown interest. And it looks like your omega is interested. You deserve a pack of your own, honey. You've already put so much faith in these men. Maybe it's time to take that last leap, yeah?"

Mum chimes in with, "You'll always be our sweet girl, but you deserve a pack who will love you in a way we can't." There are tears lining her eyes, but she blinks them away before they fall. "We want you happy."

When they head back to the nest, you don't immediately follow. You sit in the stillness and listen, really listen, to your omega. How the team makes her feel safe, desired, cared for. How she wants what your parents have: the love and support and eventual family.

You know the 141 wouldn't make you retire. They'll support your career, and in that way, they're already better than most packs you could find. If rumors spread about you sleeping your way into the team because you're their omega, you know the pack would have your back. Isn't that what you've always wanted? To be seen as who you are, not what you are?

Isn't it worth it to try?

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden @mordacioust @bina-passion-fruit @kittygonap

[lanadelspray02]

HOLD ME ANYWAY: CHAPTER 15

paige x azzi

warning: sexual content

Hi guys, you all wanted the chapter so badly, so here it is. Hopefully, it makes sense, as I haven't had a chance to edit it yet. Thanks for showing love :) as always let me know your thoughts

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 9473

--------------------

The early afternoon sun hung bright and stubbornly cheerful, glinting off the sleek silver paint of the team bus parked just beyond the gym doors. Paige squinted against the glare, one hand gripping the handle of her travel bag, the other fiddling with the zipper of Azzi’s hoodie she’d adopted sometime in the last twenty-four hours. The fabric was worn-in, soft, and smelled unmistakably like Azzi, warm, clean, comforting.

She glanced to her side and felt that familiar flutter, the quiet rush of realising Azzi was right there. Azzi stood next to her, bag slung easily over one shoulder, curls pulled loosely back. Her eyes followed the line of teammates filing onto the bus, their laughter and teasing drifting back on the breeze. Paige watched her discreetly, a smile tugging at her lips. She still didn’t understand how she’d gotten lucky enough to be let into this part of Azzi, unguarded, real.

Azzi, sensing the weight of Paige’s stare, turned slightly. Her eyes softened. “You okay?” she asked, voice low enough to slip beneath the surrounding chatter.

Paige nodded, a flush rising to her cheeks. “Yeah. Just realised it’s the first time we’re going away together since… everything.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched, amused. “Everything, huh?”

“You know,” Paige said, ducking her head with a shy smile. “Us.”

Azzi’s heart tightened at the word. Us. So casual now, so inevitable. “It feels different,” she admitted. “But good.”

“Yeah,” Paige echoed quickly. “Really good.”

A familiar voice broke the moment, loud, teasing, and just pointed enough. “You two coming, or are we interrupting something?” KK called from the bus steps, one brow arched dramatically.

Azzi rolled her eyes as a flush crept into her cheeks. Paige just laughed, then reached down and intwined their fingers without hesitation. “Mind your business,” she called, mock-indignant.

Azzi squeezed her hand gently, warmth blooming in her chest at Paige’s quiet boldness.

They boarded the bus together. The familiar scent of leather seats and stale air freshener clung to the aisle as they passed by their teammates. Paige led them toward the back, only letting go of Azzi’s hand to slide into the window seat and guide her down beside her.

Paige leaned back with a quiet sigh, adjusting their hands so they rested over her thigh. She felt Azzi settle in next to her, and a slow warmth traveled up her arm and into her chest.

Around them, the team’s chatter ebbed and flowed. Caroline was loudly arguing about true crime podcasts with Ines. Nika had already slipped in headphones, head tilted back. KK was animatedly explaining something to Ice and Amari using far too many hand gestures. Paige watched them all fondly before turning back to Azzi.

Azzi was staring down at their joined hands, her thumb brushing light circles over Paige’s knuckles. There was something wondering in her expression.

Paige leaned a little closer. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Azzi looked up, lips parting slightly before she spoke. “It’s strange. Just sitting here. With you. Out in the open like this.”

Paige’s heart tugged. “Does it bother you?”

Azzi shook her head, grip tightening. “No. Just different.”

“Good different?” Paige asked softly.

“Definitely good,” Azzi said, eyes brightening as she met Paige’s gaze. “It just still feels like... I’m waiting for someone to tell us we can’t.”

Paige nudged their shoulders together. “No one’s telling us anything,” she said. “Not anymore.”

Azzi smiled and turned, resting her forehead against Paige’s shoulder. She closed her eyes for just a second. Paige didn’t say anything else. She just let her stay there.

The bus lurched forward, merging onto the highway. The hum of the road blended with the soft murmur of conversation, creating a quiet lull around them.

Several minutes passed before KK twisted around from the row ahead, her face lit with mischief. “Are we sure we trust you two rooming together?” she asked loudly. “I mean, we might never see either of you again.”

Azzi groaned into Paige’s shoulder, hiding her face. Paige didn’t miss a beat, she leaned forward, deadpan. “You’ll survive two days without me. Barely, but you’ll manage.”

KK cackled. “We’ll see about that.”

Azzi lifted her head again, cheeks flushed but smiling. “They’re going to give us hell all trip, aren’t they?”

Paige squeezed her hand, smile turning softer. “Probably. But it’s worth it.”

Azzi looked at her for a beat, searching her expression. “You mean that?”

“Every word,” Paige said, no hesitation. She leaned over and pressed a featherlight kiss to Azzi’s temple. Azzi’s stomach flipped, the warmth in her chest rushing outward.

They fell quiet again. The rhythm of the road settled into something peaceful. Paige’s thumb brushed idly across the back of Azzi’s hand. Her eyes drifted closed—not asleep, just settled.

Azzi watched her a moment longer, then allowed herself to lean in, her own eyes fluttering shut.

Her thoughts briefly flicked to Ruby, wondering how she was doing without her but she knew her parents had it handled. Ruby would be okay. And for now, so would she.

The bus rumbled beneath them, the world blurring gently outside the window. Paige’s fingers tightened slightly, as if grounding herself to Azzi’s presence.

For the first time since they started this journey, Paige didn’t just feel hopeful, she felt certain. Certain of where she belonged. Certain of who she belonged to.

And Azzi, curled into Paige’s side, surrounded by teammates who teased but never judged, felt it too.

Safe. Real. The road stretched ahead, quiet and full of promise. 

--------------------

The hotel lobby was comfortably busy, murmuring with the quiet bustle of travelers and the distant hum of conversation from the adjoining restaurant. Paige shifted her bag onto her shoulder, eyeing the neatly arranged rows of keys Coach had laid out on a polished table near reception. Teammates gathered around, grabbing their room assignments with subdued chatter, laughter and inside jokes floating lightly through the air.

Azzi stood just behind her, fingers brushing lightly against Paige’s back. The contact was casual, maybe even unconscious, but Paige felt it everywhere. That small, steady touch, protective, present, it warmed her more than she expected.

“You two are in room 312,” Coach said as he passed, tone casual, but his look at Paige carried more than a little amusement. “Don’t be late for shootaround.”

“Yes, Coach,” Paige replied quickly, voice neutral, but eyes shining. Azzi’s hand dropped to her side as Paige grabbed the keys, flipping them once in her palm as they started toward the elevators.

“Don’t forget we have practice later, lovebirds,” KK called after them. “Pace yourselves.”

Azzi laughed, covering her mouth as a light flush crept up her cheeks. Paige glanced back over her shoulder with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Maybe you should worry about your own roommate.”

KK grinned wickedly, yanking Amari into a playful headlock. “She knows how to handle me.”

“They’re ridiculous,” Azzi muttered as the elevator doors closed behind them, her tone fond but exasperated.

Paige pressed the button for their floor, stepping closer without thinking. “We might deserve a little teasing,” she said, eyes dancing. “We weren’t exactly subtle on the bus.”

Azzi tilted her head, mouth curving. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

Paige chuckled and stepped in until they were nearly chest to chest. She tugged at the hem of the hoodie Azzi had once owned and she’d now fully claimed. “Complaining? Nah. I’m just wondering how we’ve been roommates for all of two minutes and you’ve already surrendered all the good hoodies.”

Azzi arched an eyebrow. “That one is mine.”

“Exactly,” Paige whispered, lips brushing her ear. “You really think you’re getting this back?”

The elevator dinged before Azzi could reply, doors sliding open. Paige grinned and stepped out first, tossing a cheeky look over her shoulder. “Coming, roomie?”

Azzi exhaled a small laugh and followed. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

Azzi’s eyes softened immediately. “Yeah. I do.”

Their footsteps padded quietly down the carpeted hallway. Paige unlocked their door, then stepped back with an exaggerated bow. “After you, my lady.”

Azzi nudged her with a smirk as she walked past. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you,” Paige said, quieter now, the sincerity underneath catching gently in her voice.

The room was small but cozy, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains in soft gold stripes. Two neatly made beds sat side by side, with a nightstand between them. Paige dropped her bag at the foot of the bed closest to the window without hesitation. Azzi followed, placing hers beside it.

For a moment, the silence settled, not awkward, but full of unspoken thoughts.

Azzi glanced over. “You okay with... this arrangement? I mean, if you’d rather—”

Paige cut her off with a small shake of her head. “There’s nowhere else I’d want to be,” she said, reaching for Azzi’s hand, her thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles. “But only if you feel the same.”

Azzi’s hand closed around hers. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Paige’s smile softened. That simple answer settled something deep in her chest.

They unpacked in a comfortable rhythm, occasionally bumping into each other, laughing quietly when they did. Paige lined up her toiletries beside Azzi’s on the bathroom counter, heart fluttering at how natural it felt. Azzi, still sitting on the edge of the bed, watched her with quiet affection.

“You seem comfortable,” she said softly, leaning back on her elbows.

Paige leaned in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, casual but curious. “Should I not be?”

Azzi shrugged, smiling faintly. “No, it’s just… I’ve never shared a room on a trip with someone I was dating. It’s... new.”

Crossing the room, Paige sat beside her, close but unhurried. Her fingers brushed Azzi’s knee. “It’s new for me too,” she said. “And it feels important. Like we’re building something.”

Azzi felt warmth unfurl in her chest. She nodded. “It does.”

Paige hesitated, then added, quieter now, “I’m glad it’s you. I don’t think I could do this with anyone else.”

Azzi’s breath caught. “Me either.”

Paige pressed her palm lightly to Azzi’s thigh, then leaned in and kissed her temple, slow and reassuring.

When she pulled back, Azzi opened her eyes, visibly moved. “We should probably unpack before practice.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, though she didn’t move right away. Instead, she rested her head lightly on Azzi’s shoulder. Azzi responded instinctively, her fingers brushing through Paige’s hair.

Eventually, they stood again, returning to their suitcases in a quiet rhythm. Paige caught herself glancing at Azzi every few moments, smiling without meaning to. Azzi looked back just as often, savoring how openly Paige admired her, something that had felt impossible not long ago.

When they were finished, Paige stretched out and flopped dramatically across the bed. “We did good.”

Azzi laughed, sitting beside her. “We unpacked a suitcase.”

“Teamwork,” Paige said, eyes sparkling.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” Paige said, serious this time.

Azzi’s heart swelled. “Yeah. Mine.”

Paige beamed, satisfied. “And now we’re official roommates.”

“Just until Tuesday,” Azzi said, rolling her eyes.

Paige shrugged. Her voice softened. “But maybe someday for real.”

Azzi stilled, breath catching. She looked at Paige, and something warm and steady unfurled beneath her ribs. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe someday for real.”

They sat in silence then, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound. No rush. No pressure.

Just the quiet weight of a promise, simple, steady, and real.

And for both of them, that promise didn’t feel scary anymore.

It felt like home.

--------------------

The arena was cool, fluorescent lights reflecting sharply off the polished hardwood. Paige took a deep breath, savoring the familiar scent of waxed floors and leather basketballs. It grounded her, a steady pulse of pregame adrenaline humming beneath her skin.

Azzi jogged beside her, focused and calm, energy simmering just beneath the surface. She rolled a basketball between her fingertips, fluid and effortless, each movement honed by years of repetition. Paige watched her discreetly, admiring the way Azzi moved, all quiet strength and natural grace.

She wasn’t subtle about it. The warmth in her gaze bordered on awe, and for once, she didn’t bother hiding it. It felt freeing to look openly, to let Azzi catch her staring and not turn away.

Azzi noticed immediately, her heart fluttering under Paige’s attention. The intensity wasn’t new, but the ease of it was. This unguarded affection, this rightness, felt thrilling in a way she hadn’t expected. She smiled, shaking her head faintly.

“You gonna stare at me all afternoon or actually warm up?” she teased, bouncing the ball lightly in Paige’s direction.

Paige caught it with ease, grinning. “Can’t help it. You look good when you’re focused.”

Azzi arched an eyebrow and stepped closer, voice low and teasing. “Just focused?”

Paige’s eyes danced. “Well, there might be other adjectives I’d use. But we are technically working.”

Azzi laughed, a warm flush blooming in her chest. “You’re something else, Paige Bueckers.”

“Glad you finally noticed.” Paige nudged her gently with an elbow as she passed.

Around them, the rest of the team moved into warm-up drills. Paige hit a series of smooth jumpers, rhythm sharp and confident. Azzi’s shots were clean, precise. Between reps, they exchanged small glances, wordless check-ins, quiet smiles, that said more than conversation could.

Across the court, KK watched with a smirk. “Hey, lovebirds,” she called, loud enough to carry. “Save the heart eyes for after practice. You’re distracting the freshmen.”

Paige chuckled, cheeks warming. Azzi rolled her eyes. “You’re just jealous.”

KK clutched her chest dramatically. “Devastated, truly.”

Paige tossed the ball back toward her. “Focus on your own shots, Arnold.”

“Rude.” KK turned away, mock-offended, and Paige turned back to Azzi with a grin. “Sorry. I’m not great at subtlety.”

Azzi smiled, soft and sure. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“But it’s okay?” Paige asked, teasing, but genuinely wanting to know.

Azzi nodded. “It’s more than okay. I kind of like it.”

Paige’s chest warmed at that. “Good. Because subtlety has never been my thing.”

They headed to the bench for water, Paige reaching for Azzi’s bottle like it was second nature. She sipped without thinking. Azzi watched, amused.

“Is everything of mine just yours now?”

Paige handed it back, smirking. “Pretty much.”

Azzi shook her head, entirely charmed. “If you keep acting like this, the team’s going to think you actually like me or something.”

Paige leaned in, voice low. “God forbid.”

Azzi laughed softly, her expression filled with quiet affection. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Paige said. “But at least I’m your ridiculous.”

Azzi’s heart fluttered at the simplicity of it. “Yeah,” she murmured. “You definitely are.”

A whistle from Coach pulled them back to the moment. Paige brushed a hand across Azzi’s lower back as they moved, the touch light but grounding. Azzi felt the warmth linger.

Coach’s huddle was short — firm, focused, encouraging. Paige listened with intent, but her eyes flicked toward Azzi often, small nods passing between them, subtle smiles exchanged, just enough to say I'm here.

“Alright,” Coach finished, clapping once. “Stay sharp. See you at tip-off.”

The team dispersed. Paige lingered by the sideline, watching as Azzi packed up her gear with calm precision. She didn’t rush. She didn’t need to. Being near Azzi like this, openly, comfortably, it felt right.

Azzi glanced up and caught her looking. “Ready?”

Paige nodded. “Yeah.”

They walked slowly toward the locker room, teammates drifting ahead and behind. Paige’s heart swelled with a quiet sense of belonging. She hadn’t known how natural it could feel to be with someone like this, in public, without fear.

Azzi noticed the small smile on her face. “What’s that look for?”

Paige shrugged, eyes soft. “Just... happy. It’s nice. Being like this. With you.”

Azzi’s chest tightened. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “It really is.”

Just inside the empty hallway leading to the locker rooms, Paige stopped. She stepped closer, voice lowering to something private. “Promise me something?”

Azzi tilted her head. “What?”

Paige’s gaze was steady. “Promise me that tonight, we won’t overthink anything. No pressure. No second-guessing. Just us.”

Azzi’s breath caught. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I promise.”

Paige leaned in and kissed her cheek, warm and certain. “Good. Because you mean too much to me for us to keep doubting it.”

Azzi smiled, breathless. “For someone who hates cliches, you really know how to use them.”

Paige laughed. “Only for you.”

Azzi’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Then it’s okay.”

They stood there a moment longer, the promise settling between them like something sacred. Paige reached out, brushing her fingers down Azzi’s arm in a slow, comforting sweep.

Words felt unnecessary now. Paige just smiled, taking the lead toward the locker room door. Azzi followed, steadied by her presence.

Whatever tension she’d still been carrying slipped away. What remained was something quiet and sure.

Tonight wasn’t just about the game. It was about what came after, about everything they’d both been working toward without quite naming it.

And when Paige reached for her hand just before they stepped through the door, Azzi squeezed it back — not just a promise, but a beginning.

--------------------

The locker room buzzed with quiet energy, the familiar hum of pre-game rituals settling comfortably among teammates. Bags rustled, zippers echoed against metal lockers, and shoes squeaked faintly against polished floors. Paige leaned forward on the bench, tightening her laces with practiced ease, her heartbeat steady but quick.

Azzi sat nearby, adjusting the waistband of her shorts, her expression calm, but thoughtful. Her mind lingered on that quiet moment in the hallway, the sincerity in Paige’s voice still warm in her chest. She glanced sideways, catching the peaceful set of Paige’s jaw, the glint of confidence in her eyes. Her stomach fluttered.

Paige caught her gaze, expression softening into a quiet smile. She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the empty hallway near the showers. Azzi understood instantly, heart skipping as she stood and followed her discreetly into the dim, quiet corridor.

Once around the corner, out of sight, Paige reached gently for Azzi’s waist, tugging her into a small alcove. Their bodies were close, inches apart, Paige’s hands settling naturally on Azzi’s hips, thumbs brushing lightly against her warm-up shorts.

Azzi’s breath caught, shallow and soft. “Paige—”

“Just for a second,” Paige murmured, voice low. “I needed a moment alone with you before the game.”

Azzi’s face softened, affection blooming in her chest. “You’re really not great at subtlety.”

Paige smiled faintly, leaning in to brush her lips against Azzi’s cheekbone — warm, careful, steady. “Not when it comes to you.”

Azzi closed her eyes briefly, breathing deep. She rested her hands on Paige’s shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of her jersey. “You really meant what you said out there?” she asked, voice small but hopeful.

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Every word. No second-guessing. Just us.”

Azzi’s heart swelled, trust anchoring gently in her chest. She nodded. “Good.”

Paige smiled, brushing Azzi’s hair behind her ear, her voice dropping teasingly. “So... do I get that good-luck kiss now, or should I wait until I hit twenty points?”

Azzi laughed softly, eyes gleaming. “You’ll have to hit thirty if you want that.”

Paige’s grin turned mischievous. “Challenge accepted.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, stepping closer. “But I guess twenty gets you something.”

Paige barely had time to smile before Azzi kissed her, soft, lingering, and unmistakably charged. Paige melted into the contact, fingers curling gently at Azzi’s waist, her chest fluttering.

When Azzi pulled back, Paige let out a slow breath, eyes still closed, a quiet smile spreading across her lips. “Wow. What do I get if I hit thirty?”

Azzi leaned in, whispering against her ear. “We’ll talk about that after the game.”

A visible shiver rippled through Paige as Azzi stepped back toward the corridor.

“Now who’s distracting who?” Paige asked, voice a little breathless.

“You started it,” Azzi shot back, her smirk playful.

Paige followed her slowly, heart full. “I’ll gladly take the blame for this one.”

As they reentered the main locker area, a few curious eyes followed them. KK looked up from adjusting her wristband, one brow raised, voice playful. “Strategising, huh?”

Paige grinned easily, shrugging. “You know me. Always planning ahead.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, nudging her lightly with her shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

Paige just laughed, warmth still radiating through her chest. “Again… your ridiculous.”

Azzi smiled to herself, a faint nod the only acknowledgment she gave. She returned to the bench, slipping back into game mode with ease, comforted by Paige’s steady presence beside her.

As the team began to head toward the tunnel, Paige reached for Azzi’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Azzi returned it, warmth spreading through her chest and settling beneath her ribs.

Tonight wasn’t just another game, it felt quietly monumental. Not because they had something to prove, but because something real was waiting after. Something strong. Something entirely theirs.

As the lights of the arena flared ahead, Paige leaned in and whispered, just loud enough for Azzi to hear, “Thirty points. Watch me.”

Azzi smiled, heart fluttering. “I’ll be counting.”

Side by side, they stepped onto the court — ready.

--------------------

The arena lights blazed overhead, the rhythmic drumming of basketballs echoing sharply off polished hardwood. Paige’s heartbeat quickened pleasantly as she took her place at mid-court, eyes skimming the packed stands before settling into focus. Beside her, Azzi stood poised, body tense with anticipation, gaze sharp.

As the whistle blew and the ball tipped into the air, Paige surged forward, energy crackling beneath her skin. She secured possession quickly, eyes immediately finding Azzi sprinting alongside her down the wing. Their chemistry was effortless, automatic, forged through hours of practice and instinct.

Paige hesitated, drawing defenders closer before flicking the ball sideways. Azzi caught it cleanly, feet already set behind the arc. Her release was smooth, and the ball whispered through the net.

The crowd erupted. Paige’s chest filled with a fierce, fast warmth.

“Nice pass,” Azzi called as she jogged by, voice light, eyes dancing.

Paige grinned, adrenaline buzzing. “Nice shot.”

They slipped into rhythm. Paige weaving through defenders with sharp precision, finishing each play with cool efficiency. Azzi moved quietly, strategically, always exactly where she needed to be.

During one fast break, Paige sprinted ahead, feeling Azzi beside her. A glance was all it took. She threaded a pass through traffic. Azzi caught it, hesitated just long enough to draw her defender, then sent it back. Paige drove hard and finished with a layup that kissed the backboard before dropping cleanly through the net.

Cheers erupted again. Paige turned to Azzi, grinning wide, their eyes meeting with quiet triumph.

Azzi smiled back, heart fluttering. Paige always played with her heart wide open, and Azzi felt lucky to see it.

The team fed off their energy. KK played assertively, inspired by Paige’s fire. Nika and Caroline found rhythm beside Azzi’s calm steadiness.

At the end of the third quarter, Coach called a timeout. The team huddled tight. Paige stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Azzi, breathing hard, but bright-eyed.

“We’re in good shape,” Coach said. “Keep pushing. Paige, keep attacking, they can’t stop you. Azzi, keep leading. You’re making everyone better.”

Paige felt Azzi tense slightly beside her. Subtly, she reached down and squeezed Azzi’s wrist. Azzi looked up, meeting Paige’s eyes with silent gratitude.

When the game resumed, Paige was relentless. Every shot seemed to fall. Azzi was always there, shifting defenders, facilitating plays, grounding the tempo.

Late in the fourth, Azzi drove toward the basket, slipped around two defenders, and sent the ball behind her with barely a look. Paige caught it in stride, stepped back, and launched a clean, arcing three.

It swished through the net.

“Thirty!” KK shouted from the bench, laughing. “That’s thirty, Paige!”

Paige blinked, then grinned — remembering. Her eyes snapped to Azzi, whose cheeks had flushed. She looked away, smiling faintly.

“Keep focused, Bueckers,” Azzi called, stepping past her with a smirk.

“You can’t ignore this forever, Azzi.”

“Just finish the game.”

And they did, closing strong, pulling away to a clear win.

As the buzzer echoed, the team surged into celebration. Paige found Azzi quickly, reaching for her elbow, leaning in close.

“You owe me,” she said, voice warm and teasing.

Azzi laughed, leaning closer. “You played like you had something to prove.”

Paige’s grin softened. “Maybe I did.”

Azzi tilted her head, eyes steady. “Point made.”

Warmth bloomed in Paige’s chest. “Because I meant every shot.”

“I know,” Azzi said, voice low.

They lingered in that moment, joy humming around them, but something quieter passing between them.

Paige brushed her fingers across Azzi’s forearm. “Thank you for believing in me.”

Azzi’s smile was soft. “Always.”

Paige nodded, heart full, before the team swept them back into celebration.

Tonight was more than a win. It was a confirmation — of growth, of trust, of something quietly unfolding between them.

For Paige, it meant the world that Azzi had stood beside her, steady, unshakable. For Azzi, it meant everything that Paige had embraced their connection so openly.

The scoreboard declared a victory.

But the real win was shared — soft, silent, and profoundly theirs.

They walked off the court side-by-side, knowing the most meaningful part of the night was still waiting.

--------------------

The hotel restaurant buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of silverware, a warm comfortable soundtrack following their decisive victory. Paige slid into a booth in the corner, Azzi settling beside her, their shoulders brushing. The soft contact sent a familiar warmth through Paige’s chest, grounding, reassuring in a way she hadn’t known she needed.

Across the table, KK flopped into her seat with a dramatic sigh. “Paige, thirty-four points. That was just disrespectful.”

Paige laughed softly, cheeks faintly flushed. “You guys made it easy. I just got open shots.”

Nika raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh, really? And that look you gave Azzi after every basket — just gratitude?”

Paige shrugged, unbothered. “Motivation.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and nudged her under the table. “You’re lucky it worked.”

Paige’s hand brushed Azzi’s knee, quiet and confident. “I knew it would.”

Azzi’s stomach fluttered at the casual intimacy, settling deeper into the booth, comforted by Paige’s nearness.

The server arrived, taking orders quickly as the team settled into relaxed chatter. KK leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “So, roomies. Any exciting plans tonight?”

Paige raised a brow, deadpan. “Sleep. Hydrate. Like responsible athletes.”

KK snorted. “Sure you are.”

Azzi shook her head, amused. “You worry about your own plans, KK.”

The table laughed. The conversation drifted to lighter topics, Netflix, the long trip home, and leftover adrenaline from the game. Paige stayed quiet, Azzi’s presence at her side grounding her more than anything else. It felt good being open, being known.

Paige’s thumb brushed gently against Azzi’s thigh. Azzi glanced sideways, eyes softening. She smiled faintly and leaned into Paige’s shoulder.

From across the table, Caroline smiled. “You two are adorable, you know that?”

Azzi flushed, hiding behind her hand. Paige smiled easily. “We’re aware.”

Caroline grinned. “I never thought I’d see Azzi affectionate in public. Honestly, it’s kind of nice.”

Azzi groaned. “Can we not talk about me like I’m not sitting right here?”

Paige chuckled, squeezing her knee. “She’s just happy for you. Let her have it.”

Azzi sighed, smiling anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“You keep saying that,” Paige murmured, amused.

Azzi met her gaze. “Because it’s true.”

Desserts arrived, chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream passed back and forth. Laughter softened, conversation grew more reflective. Eventually, people started drifting toward their rooms.

“You tired?” Paige asked, voice low.

Azzi shook her head, still leaning against her. “Not yet. You?”

Paige smiled, brushing her fingers over Azzi’s. “No. I like this.”

They sat for a while longer in companionable silence, until Azzi glanced up, voice soft. “You wanna head up?”

Paige nodded, squeezing her hand. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

They said goodnight to the few teammates left at the table. KK gave them a knowing smile as they left. Paige just smiled back.

The elevator ride was quiet and close. Paige leaned gently against the wall, watching Azzi’s profile.

“You know,” she murmured, “this is the first away game where I’ve been excited to get back to the room.”

Azzi smiled, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah?”

Paige nodded. “Yeah.”

The elevator doors opened. Azzi stepped out first, then looked back over her shoulder. “Well, we did promise no overthinking.”

Paige smiled. “Just us.”

Azzi’s heart fluttered. “Exactly.”

At the door, Paige unlocked it and opened it with a playful flourish. Azzi shook her head, fond and warm as she stepped inside.

The room felt different now — intimate, significant. Paige shut the door softly behind them, her gaze lingering on Azzi.

“You okay?” she asked.

Azzi nodded, stepping closer. “I’m more than okay.”

Paige’s chest tightened. She reached up, brushing Azzi’s hair back. “Me too.”

They stood still for a moment, breathing each other in. Paige felt something settle deep inside her, a sense of peace she hadn’t known she was missing.

Azzi leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. “Tonight was special.”

Paige cupped her face gently. “Every night with you is.”

Azzi smiled, eyes shining. “You’re good at this.”

“Only for you,” Paige whispered.

Azzi kissed her — soft, warm, sure. Paige melted into it, hand tightening slightly at Azzi’s waist.

When they parted, Azzi rested her forehead against Paige’s. “Thank you for tonight.”

Paige whispered, “Always.”

They stood like that, quiet, close, breathing in sync.

And when Paige took her hand and led her gently toward the bed, neither of them hesitated.

Because this moment, this felt exactly right.

--------------------

The room had grown quiet, soft shadows stretching across the walls from the single bedside lamp Azzi had switched on, casting everything in a muted, cozy warmth. Paige lay stretched beside her on the bed, nestled into the pillows, a contented warmth spreading beneath her ribs. Azzi leaned against the headboard, legs tucked beneath her, quietly scrolling through her phone.

“You think Ruby’s still up?” Paige asked, her voice soft, tinged with gentle eagerness.

Azzi smiled faintly, glancing at the clock. “If she’s not, she will be when she sees you.”

Paige chuckled, nudging her shoulder. “You make it sound like she’s only excited for me.”

“Trust me,” Azzi murmured, dialing quickly. “You’re definitely the highlight.”

Paige settled closer, her chin resting lightly on Azzi’s shoulder as the screen connected. Her heart fluttered as Ruby’s sleepy, smiling face filled the screen — curls wild, Sparklehorn tucked snug under her chin.

“Hi, Mama! Hi, Paigey!” Ruby chirped brightly, eyes lighting up. “You won!”

“We did,” Paige said, grinning. “Did you watch?”

Ruby nodded excitedly, bouncing in place. “Mama shoot really good. You too!”

Azzi smiled, heart swelling. “Did Grandma and Grandpa watch with you?”

Ruby nodded again, curls bouncing. “Grandpa yell at TV! He say Paigey shoot too many points!”

Paige laughed. “Tell Grandpa I’m very sorry. Next time I’ll let Mama shoot more.”

Ruby shook her head solemnly. “No! You win! Always win.”

Azzi reached out and gently brushed her fingers over Paige’s hand. “Ruby says you’re allowed to keep scoring.”

Paige smiled, giving Azzi’s fingers a soft squeeze. “Glad Ruby approves.”

Ruby shifted, pulling Sparklehorn closer. “Paigey, you tell Sparklehorn bedtime story? She say she no sleep ‘til you tell.”

Paige felt her heart expand. “Of course. Is she tucked in?”

Ruby nodded, tucking Sparklehorn beneath the blanket with great care. “She ready now.”

Paige leaned a little closer to the phone, her voice falling into a soothing rhythm. “Okay. Once upon a time, Sparklehorn traveled far away to the secret Cookie Mountain…”

Ruby’s eyes widened, rapt. Azzi’s heart fluttered as she watched them — Paige’s voice gentle and patient, Ruby’s whole body slowly relaxing. Paige guided them through cookie forests and marshmallow rivers, her tone soft and musical.

By the time she finished “…and Sparklehorn and Ruby lived happily ever after” Ruby’s eyes were barely open.

“Love you, Paigey. Love you, Mama,” she murmured sleepily.

Paige’s breath caught. “Love you too, Roo.”

Azzi smiled softly. “We love you, baby. Goodnight.”

Katie’s face replaced Ruby’s on screen, adjusting the camera gently. “She was waiting all night for that story. Thank you both.”

Paige nodded, cheeks slightly pink. “It’s our pleasure.”

“Congratulations on the win,” Katie said warmly. “You both played beautifully.”

Azzi leaned in. “Thanks, Mum. Everything okay there?”

Katie nodded. “Perfect. You two rest. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

They said their goodnights. As the screen went dark, the room fell back into a quiet, steady calm.

Paige shifted closer, resting her head against Azzi’s shoulder. Her chest felt full, not loud or urgent, but deeply tender.

“She makes everything feel so simple,” she whispered.

Azzi’s fingers threaded gently through Paige’s hair. “That’s what I love most about her. How simple she makes everything.”

Paige’s eyes drifted closed under the softness of Azzi’s touch. “I don’t think I ever understood what family meant until you two.”

Azzi’s heart caught. “You’re our family now, Paige. Completely.”

Paige opened her eyes, looking at her. “I want to be. More than anything.”

Azzi smiled, eyes glowing. “You already are.”

They sat like that, still and quiet. Paige felt a gentle awe settle in her chest, at being let in, at being loved in this way.

Azzi marveled at how easily Paige fit into their lives, how natural her care for Ruby was, how sincere her heart felt. It was all so quiet, but so real.

Paige shifted again, wrapping her arms around Azzi’s waist and resting her head against her shoulder. “I really love you, you know,” she whispered.

Azzi smiled. “I really love you, too.”

They stayed like that — quiet, peaceful, wrapped in something softly profound.

Tonight wasn’t just about love. It was about the life they were beginning to build together.

And in the soft lamplight, with the weight of the day finally settling, both Paige and Azzi knew:

This was it.

Exactly what they’d been looking for.

--------------------

The room had grown still, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Outside, the distant hum of traffic and a faint burst of laughter drifted up from the street below, muffled but familiar. Paige shifted slightly against the pillows, her head nestled against Azzi’s shoulder, the rhythm of Azzi’s breathing slow and steady beneath her cheek.

Azzi sat quietly, her fingers idly brushing through Paige’s hair. There was a calmness in her chest, a warmth she didn’t need to name. Just Paige’s presence, close, quiet, real — was enough.

“You’re quiet,” Paige murmured, lifting her head just enough to meet Azzi’s gaze. “You tired?”

Azzi gave a small smile and shook her head. “No. Just thinking.”

Paige propped herself on one elbow, studying her face. “About?”

Azzi hesitated, her expression thoughtful as her eyes traced Paige’s. “How different everything feels tonight.”

Paige nodded, her gaze warm. “Good different?”

Azzi’s smile deepened. “Very.”

Paige reached out, letting her fingertips drift along Azzi’s jaw. “I feel it too. Like tonight’s important. Bigger than just… a game or a hotel room. It feels like—”

“Like something’s shifting,” Azzi said, finishing the thought softly.

“Yeah,” Paige breathed. “Exactly that.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other, quiet understanding suspended between them like something sacred.

Paige’s voice dropped. “Are you nervous?”

Azzi thought for a beat, then nodded gently. “A little. But not in a bad way. It’s the kind of nervous that means it matters. Because you matter.”

Paige’s heart tightened. She reached for Azzi’s hand and wove their fingers together. “You matter more than anything to me. You and Ruby. Everything that comes with you.”

Azzi’s chest filled with warmth. “That’s why tonight feels important. Because it’s not just… you know. It’s us.”

Paige nodded. “It’s always going to be us. No matter what we do tonight, or tomorrow, that doesn’t change.”

Azzi leaned in, her forehead resting lightly against Paige’s. “I trust you, Paige. With everything.”

The words sank into Paige like light into skin, quiet, warm, lasting. She stroked her thumb across Azzi’s knuckles. “I’ll never take that for granted. You and Ruby… you’re everything. I’ll protect that with everything I’ve got.”

Azzi’s eyes closed, the weight of the moment grounding her. “You already do.”

They stayed like that for a while, leaning into the stillness. Paige’s heart felt full, not overwhelming, not chaotic — just full. Like something had finally settled.

Eventually, she pressed a kiss to Azzi’s temple. “I just want you to feel safe. And loved.”

Azzi opened her eyes, gaze steady. “I do. Always, with you.”

Paige cupped her face gently, eyes searching hers. “Then… one more promise?”

Azzi leaned into the touch, nodding. “What’s that?”

“No pressure. No expectations. Tonight, we just love each other. That’s it.”

Azzi’s breath caught. She nodded, voice quiet but firm. “No pressure. Just us.”

Relief flickered through Paige’s chest. She pulled Azzi into a soft embrace, arms wrapping around her waist as Azzi melted into her, resting her head on Paige’s shoulder.

They held each other there, warm, steady, hearts aligned in quiet rhythm.

After a while, Paige shifted, brushing Azzi’s hair back. “Ready for bed?”

Azzi smiled, eyes kind. “With you? Yeah.”

Paige’s heart fluttered. She stood first, offering her hand wordlessly. Azzi took it.

They changed slowly, quietly, the air between them still. When Paige dimmed the lamp to a softer setting, the room glowed in gentle amber. Everything felt a little more intimate, a little more real.

Paige slid beneath the covers and looked up at Azzi, a silent invitation in her eyes. Azzi climbed in beside her, curling naturally into her warmth.

Paige pulled her close, arms circling her waist. Their bodies met easily, like puzzle pieces, the quiet heat of closeness radiating beneath the blankets. Azzi exhaled, relaxing completely.

“You good?” Paige whispered.

Azzi nodded, eyes closed. “Perfect.”

Paige let her hand trace slow lines along Azzi’s spine, light and grounding. Her chest swelled — not with nerves, but with reverence. For this moment. For Azzi. For the soft, steady love she felt building between them.

Azzi breathed in the rhythm of Paige’s touch, the quiet certainty of her presence. She felt adored. Protected. Chosen.

This wasn’t just another night. It was the quiet turning of a page, the beginning of something gently permanent.

When Paige leaned in and kissed her forehead, Azzi knew: this was the love they had waited for. And here, in this room, in this stillness, they had found it.

--------------------

The room felt gentle, quiet, and carefully hushed now, wrapped softly in shadows and warm, muted lamplight. Paige lay quietly, her fingers still tracing soothing circles along Azzi’s spine, their bodies pressed warmly together beneath the covers. Her heart was beating slowly but strongly, each quiet beat resonating softly in her chest, a tender rhythm echoing gently between them.

Azzi shifted slowly, gently tilting her head upward, eyes quietly finding Paige’s in the dim light. Something soft flickered behind her gaze, tender vulnerability, quiet trust, gentle anticipation. Paige felt her chest tighten, moved by the quiet emotion lingering in Azzi’s expression.

“You okay?” Paige whispered, voice warm, deeply sincere.

Azzi nodded, smiling faintly, voice low and breathless. “More than okay.”

Paige brushed a strand of Azzi’s hair behind her ear, studying her face, heart swelling with quiet tenderness. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re not sure,” she said softly, her thumb brushing Azzi’s cheek. “I just want you to feel safe.”

Azzi’s heart fluttered. She reached out, fingertips brushing Paige’s collarbone, voice steady. “I feel safe. I want this, Paige. With you. Tonight.”

Paige’s breath hitched, warmth spreading through her. She cupped Azzi’s face, holding her gaze. “I want it too. More than anything. I want you.”

Azzi’s chest tightened, overwhelmed by Paige’s quiet intensity. She smiled and leaned in, pressing her lips to Paige’s.

Paige sighed into the kiss, fingers sliding into Azzi’s hair as she deepened it. Her touch was reverent, careful, exploring the warmth of Azzi’s lips, the rhythm of her breath.

Azzi shifted closer, aligning their bodies beneath the blankets, warmth spreading through her chest. Her hands settled at Paige’s waist, fingers tightening in the fabric of her shirt, her heartbeat picking up.

Paige shifted, gently guiding Azzi onto her back, her movements attentive. She broke the kiss and held Azzi’s gaze, searching for hesitation.

Azzi smiled faintly. “I trust you, Paige.”

Paige felt warmth bloom in her chest. She kissed Azzi’s forehead. “I promise I’ll take care of you.”

Azzi nodded, voice low and sincere. “I know you will.”

Slowly, Paige brushed her fingers under the hem of Azzi’s hoodie and lifted it. Azzi’s breath caught, but she raised her arms to let Paige remove it.

Their eyes met, Azzi’s vulnerable and nervous, Paige’s full of awe. “You’re beautiful,” she said, voice tender.

Azzi’s cheeks flushed. Paige traced her bare shoulders, her touch soft and reverent.

Paige leaned forward, pressing kisses along Azzi’s collarbone, her lips exploring, warmth building. Azzi sighed, her body arching toward her.

Paige continued down her neck, fingertips brushing circles along Azzi’s ribs. Azzi’s breathing grew uneven beneath her attentions.

Azzi tugged at Paige’s shirt, the need rising between them. Paige sat up just enough to take it off, then leaned back in.

The feeling of skin-on-skin was electric. Paige kissed along Azzi’s jaw, her movements slow, deliberate, deeply focused.

Azzi wrapped her arms around Paige’s neck, heart fluttering beneath her ribs.

She kissed her way down Azzi’s neck, trailing lower until her mouth reached the soft swell of her chest. Azzi’s breath caught as Paige pressed her lips there, reverent and steady. Her hands slid down Azzi’s sides, grounding her, asking permission without words. Azzi’s answer came in a quiet arch of her back, a whispered “yes,” her fingers tightening in Paige’s hair.

Paige took her time, unhooking Azzi’s bra with care, then kissing every bit of newly revealed skin. Azzi gasped when Paige’s mouth closed around her nipple, pleasure hitting her like a wave. She felt bare in the most cherished way, seen, adored, loved.

“Paige,” she whispered, voice cracking.

“I’ve got you,” Paige murmured, moving lower, kissing over her ribs, her stomach, slow and sure, like she was charting a sacred path. Her hand slid to the waistband of Azzi’s shorts, and she paused, eyes flicking up.

Azzi nodded, parting her legs, her pulse quickening.

Paige eased the fabric down, revealing her inch by inch. The way she looked at Azzi like she was the most precious thing in the world made Azzi’s throat ache. There were no tears, though. Only heat. Only want.

Paige settled between her legs, parting her with care, and kissed the inside of her thigh. Azzi squirmed, breath catching, one arm flung over her eyes like she couldn’t bear being seen so fully. But Paige didn’t rush. She pressed her mouth to her, and Azzi cried out, her back arching, one hand diving into Paige’s hair, not to stop her, but to hold on.

Paige moaned softly at the taste, her tongue slow and deliberate, circling, teasing, learning. She listened to every breath, every shiver, and adjusted with precision.

“You taste so good,” Paige whispered into her, voice low and awed. “I could stay here forever.”

Azzi whimpered, hips rising, fingers tangling tighter in Paige’s hair.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” Paige said, her voice like a balm. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

Azzi was already trembling, heat building fast. “Paige—fuck—Paige—” she gasped, her voice unraveling.

Paige didn’t let up. She wrapped her arm beneath Azzi’s thigh and brought her other hand down between them. Two fingers found Azzi’s entrance, teasing until Azzi’s whole body tensed, waiting. Then Paige slid inside, slow and sure, her fingers curling just right.

Azzi let out a broken sound, her whole body lifting.

“That’s it,” Paige whispered. “Let me make you feel good.”

She worked her fingers in time with her mouth, every movement deliberate. Her free hand cradled Azzi’s hip, keeping her grounded.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” she breathed. “Falling apart for me.”

Azzi sobbed, trembling with intensity.

“I’m right here,” Paige whispered. “Come for me, Azzi.”

And Azzi did.

She arched, every muscle drawing tight before releasing all at once. Her cry cracked through the air, her body trembling as her orgasm washed over her in blinding waves. Paige stayed with her, riding it out, her mouth softening, her fingers slowing until Azzi was boneless and gasping beneath her.

Paige kissed her way back up her body, stopping to murmur praise against her skin.

Azzi lay stunned, breathless, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes, not from pain, but from being held like this. Loved like this.

Paige hovered above her, brushing hair from her forehead. “You okay?” she whispered, voice hoarse with restraint.

Azzi reached up, hand cradling her cheek. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

Paige kissed her, slow and soft, resting their foreheads together. “Do you want—?”

Azzi nodded before she could finish. “I want to touch you. I want to make you feel like that.”

Paige exhaled shakily, letting Azzi roll them over. The shift was slow and intentional, Azzi’s hand steady on her hip. For a moment, they just breathed together, entirely bare.

Azzi kissed her with a hunger that surprised them both. Her nerves were gone, melted in the heat of being wanted. Now she wanted to give it back.

She moved down Paige’s body, kissing across her chest, her stomach, whispering against her skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured. “So fucking good.”

When her mouth replaced her hand between Paige’s legs, Paige gasped, one leg over Azzi’s shoulder, fingers digging into the sheets.

Azzi licked her slowly, rhythmically, learning as she went. Paige’s voice rose in pitch, breath hitching with every stroke of Azzi’s tongue.

“Please—don’t stop, Azzi, please—”

Azzi didn’t. She slid two fingers inside, curling them the way Paige had, building a rhythm. Paige arched off the bed, a sharp cry ripping free as her orgasm hit—fast, raw, overwhelming.

Azzi stayed with her until Paige’s hand found her hair, tugging gently.

They collapsed together, bare skin against bare skin, breath evening out.

Silence stretched around them.

Eventually, Paige reached up and brushed her thumb across Azzi’s bottom lip. “I don’t think I’ll ever recover from that.”

Azzi laughed softly, burying her face in Paige’s neck. “I hope not.”

They held each other long after their breathing slowed, the world settling around them like something sacred had just been unlocked.

--------------------

The room had fallen into a deep, comforting quiet, the gentle glow of lamplight casting soft shadows along the walls. Paige lay still, breathing slow and steady, her fingertips trailing idle circles over Azzi’s shoulder. Azzi rested against her chest, eyes closed, her own breathing calm, content.

Paige’s heart felt full, tender and aching in the best way. She was overwhelmed by the quiet intimacy they had shared, the trust, the closeness, the way every moment had felt like a soft answer to something she hadn’t known she’d been asking. She wrapped her arms around Azzi a little tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, marveling at how this—this warmth, this stillness—felt like everything she’d ever hoped for.

Azzi shifted slightly, her eyes blinking open. She met Paige’s gaze with a soft smile, warmth lingering in the quiet expression on her face. Paige’s chest fluttered. Azzi looked peaceful, like she’d been carved out of moonlight and trust, and Paige didn’t want to look away.

“Hey,” Paige whispered, brushing her thumb across Azzi’s cheek, her voice low and full of something tender and protective. “You okay?”

Azzi nodded, her smile deepening, voice quiet but sure. “Perfect.”

The word hit Paige straight in the chest. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and leaned in to kiss Azzi’s forehead.

“I was nervous,” she admitted softly. “That maybe I wouldn’t… do right by you.”

Azzi’s eyes softened. “Paige, you were… perfect. Better than perfect. I felt safe. And seen. Like it mattered.”

Paige exhaled again, this time steadier, her whole body relaxing into the words. “It mattered to me,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure you felt loved.”

“You always make me feel that way.” Azzi pressed her hand lightly to Paige’s chest, just over her heart, her fingers resting where it beat steady and strong.

Paige’s throat tightened. She pulled Azzi closer, letting their bodies fit together again in the silence.

“Tonight felt… bigger than I expected,” she said. “Like I didn’t realise how much I needed it. How much I needed you.”

Azzi’s breath caught. The rawness in Paige’s voice wrapped around her like a blanket. “I felt it too,” she whispered. “Like it wasn’t just physical. Like it was something deeper. Like… coming home.”

The words broke something open in Paige. Her fingers resumed tracing down Azzi’s spine, this time slower, more deliberate.

“That’s exactly what it felt like,” Paige said. “Home.”

Azzi tilted her head up and looked at her, eyes full of something close to wonder. “It’s strange,” she said softly. “I always thought home was just Ruby. My family. But now… it’s you, too. All of it. Completely.”

Paige’s throat closed up for a moment, overwhelmed. “I’ve never had a home like this,” she said. “Not one that felt like this. Not with someone who sees me. Not with a little girl who runs to me in pajamas. Not like tonight.”

Azzi touched her cheek gently, thumb brushing along her jaw. “I think you were always meant to find us.”

Paige’s breath caught, her voice breaking into a smile. “I think so too.”

Azzi leaned in then and kissed her. Not hungrily, not urgently, just slow, careful, and full of everything she didn’t have the words for. Paige returned it with equal care, letting it deepen for a moment, letting it say all the things they hadn’t spoken yet.

When they parted, they stayed close, foreheads touching, breaths shared. Azzi traced Paige’s collarbone with the tips of her fingers, her voice playful and warm.

“You know you’re stuck with us now, right?”

Paige let out a breath of laughter, eyes shining. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be stuck.”

Azzi grinned and nestled back down, her head resting on Paige’s chest. “Good.”

Paige combed her fingers gently through Azzi’s hair, slow and rhythmic, until the tension in their bodies had faded into something softer. They lay like that for a while, tangled in each other, suspended in the quiet.

It wasn’t just peace. It was something deeper. Something settled.

The intimacy of the night felt like a promise of more than just passion. It was a promise of presence. Of choosing each other again and again. Of building something from tenderness, from trust, from the way they both had arrived at this night carrying so much and still choosing to stay.

Paige knew then, with a clarity that sat warm and solid in her chest, that this wasn’t just love. It was belonging.

And Azzi, curled against her, knew the same. That something had shifted between them, quiet but irreversible. That what they’d made tonight wasn’t just about now.

It was about everything after.

So they held each other, silent and steady, heartbeats aligned like a quiet rhythm only they could hear.

--------------------

The morning they packed up to leave came quicker than either Paige or Azzi expected. Two days and nights had melted into one another, hours spent wrapped in shared intimacy and laughter, whispers exchanged under the dim glow of lamplight. As they stood in their hotel room zipping up their bags, Paige felt an ache settle low in her chest, reluctant in every quiet movement.

Azzi looked up, catching Paige’s gaze across the room. “You okay?”

Paige gave a faint smile, nodding. “Yeah. Just don’t really wanna leave.”

Azzi’s lips curved, warmth flickering in her expression. “Me either. But Ruby’s waiting.”

At the reminder, Paige’s heart lifted, her smile growing. “Right. That definitely helps.”

Azzi chuckled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “She’s probably been waiting by the door since breakfast.”

Paige laughed as she stepped beside her. “Think she’s been bugging your parents all morning?”

“Without a doubt.”

Downstairs, the team had already gathered, voices tangled in playful chatter as they waited to board the bus. KK caught sight of them and raised her brows.

“Surprised you two remembered to come down at all,” she said, grinning.

Paige rolled her eyes, bumping KK’s shoulder. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

KK bumped her right back. “Just admit you missed me.”

“Shockingly, I did.”

KK gasped, clutching at her chest. “I knew it.”

Azzi watched the exchange, a smile tugging at her lips. The past few days had softened something in Paige, her edges eased, her guard lowered. That quiet warmth she usually tucked away now sat comfortably on the surface.

The ride home felt shorter than the one there. The bus buzzed with inside jokes and laughter, the kind of energy only a win and shared exhaustion could bring. Paige leaned against Azzi’s shoulder, listening to her tell stories about Ruby’s latest toddler chaos, socks in the fridge, soap in the toilet, paint on the dog. Each story made Paige’s heart flutter, her mind already picturing the reunion.

When the bus pulled to a stop outside the practice gym, Paige pressed her hand to the window, peering out. Azzi’s parents were parked just beyond the curb, and Ruby was bouncing in place between them, Sparklehorn flapping wildly in her hand.

Azzi smiled and grabbed her bag. Paige was close behind, nerves giving way to anticipation.

“Mama!” Ruby shrieked the moment the doors opened, tearing across the pavement and launching herself into Azzi’s arms.

Azzi laughed, scooping her up and kissing her cheeks. “I missed you, baby.”

“Missed you more!” Ruby said, arms wrapped tight around her neck.

Paige watched from a few feet away, chest full. Then Ruby’s eyes landed on her, lighting up instantly. “Paigey!”

She wriggled out of Azzi’s arms and took off again, barreling straight into Paige. Paige crouched just in time, arms wide as Ruby collided with her.

“Hey, little monster,” Paige whispered, hugging her tight and kissing her curls. “Did you behave for Grandma and Grandpa?”

Ruby nodded seriously. “Yes. Sparklehorn too.”

Katie and Tim approached, smiles bright.

“You girls played beautifully,” Katie said, hugging Azzi, then Paige. “Ruby watched every minute.”

Tim chuckled and clapped Paige on the shoulder. “And narrated it.”

Paige laughed. “Did she critique my shot selection?”

Ruby nodded with great conviction. “Grandpa say too many points!”

Tim cleared his throat, eyes twinkling. “Constructive feedback only.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Sure, Dad.”

Around them, teammates began filtering off toward dorms and waiting rides. KK lingered a bit longer, waving at Ruby. “Hey, superstar. Did you keep Sparklehorn in check while Mama was busy scoring buckets?”

Ruby nodded gravely and held up Sparklehorn. “She watch game too.”

KK solemnly shook Sparklehorn’s hoof. “Outstanding work. Couldn’t have done it without her.”

Ruby giggled and wrapped her arms tighter around Paige’s neck. Paige adjusted her grip, holding her a little closer.

Azzi came up beside them, brushing her fingers along the small of Paige’s back. “We should get this monster home.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, heart tugging. She followed Azzi to the car, settling Ruby into her booster seat and clicking the straps into place. Ruby looked up at her with wide eyes.

“You come home too, Paigey?”

Paige’s breath hitched. She brushed Ruby’s cheek with her thumb. “Not tonight, Rubes. But really soon, okay? I promise.”

Ruby blinked, small but serious. “Promise?”

“Always.”

Paige shut the door gently, then turned to Katie and Tim. “Thanks again. For everything. And for letting me steal your granddaughter.”

Katie smiled. “You’re always welcome, Paige.”

Tim nodded. “You’re family now. Get used to us.”

Paige’s throat tightened. “I already have.”

Azzi lingered near the passenger side, watching her. Paige walked over, hesitant to say goodbye.

“You’ll call later?” she asked, voice soft.

Azzi nodded. “Of course.”

Paige stepped closer, leaned in, and kissed her. Not rushed. Not for show. Just a quiet press of meaning against her mouth. Azzi returned it with care, then gave Paige’s hand one final squeeze.

“See you soon?”

“Definitely.”

Azzi slipped into the car, giving one last look over her shoulder before shutting the door.

Paige stood and watched as they pulled away, her heart both heavy and full. Behind her, KK slung an arm around her shoulders.

“Come on, Romeo,” she said. “Sparklehorn’s got your heart, but I need dinner.”

Paige laughed and let herself be guided toward the dorms. As she glanced back once more, a warmth settled in her chest.

This wasn’t an ending.

It was a quiet promise that everything that mattered—Azzi, Ruby, home—wasn’t behind her.

It was waiting just ahead.

[sanjisleggy]

welcome to cupid island (black leg sanji x reader) [pt1]

a/n: omg so i did not expect the post i made about this idea to pop off so hard ;0; thank you to everyone who commented their interest in this fic! hopefully i managed to tag everyone who asked to be tagged 

contents: jealous sanji, some fluff, a tiny bit of angst (a mere taste of what’s to come)

wc. 2.5k

PART 2

i. 

“doesn’t it bother you at all?” Nami asked, tilting her head in the direction of a familiar blond head of hair. “that he’s like that?” Sanji remains unaware of his crewmates’ attention being directed his way, too engaged in conversation with a group of ladies, soaking up all their kind words and light touches. Robin chuckles behind her hand whilst Zoro rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his fifth drink for the night. 

“no, not really,” you reply with a soft laugh yourself as you continue to watch your boyfriend wiggle in joy at all the attention he was receiving. “it’s pretty harmless and i know he knows not to take it too far.” Zoro rolls his eyes again.

“you have a lot of faith in the cook, don’t you?” Robin interjects with a warm smile. she’s always been intrigued by the dynamic between the Straw Hats’ chef and botanist. “most people would count what he’s doing as ‘taking it too far’, don’t you think?” she asks and to an onlooker it might sound like a challenge of some sort but you know Robin’s just curious.

“you’re right,” you reply, “both you and Nami.” you reach out to give the navigator sitting beside you a side hug. “i just think we have a special kind of understanding, if that makes sense.”

“whatever floats your boat.” Zoro speaks for the first time since you guys entered the bar. “knowing the shitty cook, i just have a feeling he won’t be so patient if the tables were turned.”

“i’d have to agree.” Nami hums thoughtfully before cracking a smile. “but you’re such a catch, it won’t be long until someone threatens to take his place, huh?” though you feel your face heat up at the compliment, you simply shake your head and laugh, glancing over once more at your beloved.

this time, his eyes catch yours and a wide, goofy grin spreads across his face. Sanji waves, body swaying slightly from the alcohol.

“HI MY SWEET (Y/N)!” he yells with a certain lack of restraint that only comes with being inebriated. before you can react, he wobbles over to your table, ignoring the curious glances and calls from the women he was chatting to before. walking up behind your chair, Sanji slumps over and wraps his arms around your chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. “‘m tired now. let’s go to bed?” he mumbles, continuing to rub his stubbly face against your skin.

after a whole thirty minutes of slowly guiding him back to the Merry and into your shared quarters, you finally manage to make it to bed. you tuck Sanji in before crawling to his side. still barely awake, he hums and pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin and tangling his long legs with yours under the blanket. his hands find their way under the back of your shirt, fingers lightly brushing gentle circles into your skin.

“did you have a fun night?” you ask as you press a soft kiss to his collarbone.

“mmhmm,” he hums. “all the pretty ladies asked me so many questions about our adventures,” Sanji’s words got more muffled by the syllable as he spoke while burying his face in your hair, “but all i could really tell them was about how awesome and sexy you are when you beat up assholes and whatever.”

“oh, really?” you can’t help but continue the conversation even though you can tell how close to falling asleep he is.

“mmhmm…” Sanji takes a comically big whiff of your hair. “time for sleep. goodnight, my love.”

“goodnight, sweet boy.” 

ii.

the next morning you dock at a new island that seems fairly peaceful enough for everyone to go about and explore on their own. Luffy, Usopp and Chopper run off to god knows where so the rest of you opt to stick together.

still slightly hungover, Sanji hugs your arm as you stroll down the bustling streets, trailing behind Robin, Nami and Zoro. before you can ask if he’d like to go rest in bed, he suddenly perks up and breaks off from the group to go greet a group of well-dressed women.

actually, now that you think of it–

“doesn’t it seem like everyone is super dressed up here?” you point out, eyes scanning the crowd. all the men and women look well-groomed and don very clean, stylish outfits.

“it’s not just the people,” Nami responds, “the whole town looks decorated for some kind of festival don’t you think?”

“whatever’s going on, there’s far too much pink,” Zoro scoffs halfheartedly.

“it’s Valentine’s Week!” an eavesdropping passerby shares. “we celebrate it here on Cupid’s Island every year. it’s when everyone’s encouraged to woo their romantic interests or propose to their significant others. this year’s special, though.”

“and why’s that?” Robin asks.

“on the last day is when our crown prince Aphr is going to ascend the throne and choose his queen. it’ll be the final thing we celebrate as a town before Valentine’s Week ends! you guys are tourists, right? you should stay until then.”

“when’s that?”

“three days from now!”

“thats roughly how long we have until the log pose sets so i don’t see why not.” Nami shrugs.

after thanking the stranger for their help, the four of you decide to settle lodging for the whole crew until it’s time to leave. as the others discuss further details, you opt to look for Sanji to reel him back to the group. you spot his back a few metres away but before you can call out for him, an old lady grabs your arm.

“hey!” you cry out instinctively, instantly capturing the attention of your crewmates as well as your lover whose eyes dart around frantically looking for you. meanwhile, Nami, Robin and Zoro ready themselves for a possible fight.

“it’s time for a love reading!” the old lady announces and everyone around you cheers. “come, take a seat.” she ushers you to a stool just beside her.

“what’s going on?” you ask, still apprehensive but less on-edge than you were a second ago.

“it’s a Valentine’s Week tradition, my dear, nothing to worry about.” she straightens your clothes and tidies  your hair as you take a seat, glancing over at your crewmates for reassurance. Zoro nods, hands at the ready. “i heard you were tourists so i’ll do this reading for free, dearie.”

before you can ask what the hell she’s talking about, she closes her eyes and waves her hands around in an odd manner. the surrounding crowd goes quiet, seemingly entranced by the display, looking almost eager for what’s to come. the only movement comes from Sanji who’s now pushing through the locals to get to you.

then, out of the blue, the old lady gasps as her eyes shoot open. she stares at you incredulously for a second before turning to the audience.

“her score is a hundred out of a hundred!”

just as Sanji reaches you to pull you into a protective embrace, the entire street roars with excitement at the elderly woman’s news.

“what the hell does that mean?” Sanji murmurs. you wonder to yourself the same thing, finding comfort in the chaos from the warmth of his body pressed against yours as well as the knowledge that, without fail, he came right to you when he thought you were in danger.

iii.

much to the entire crew’s relief, your perfect score was apparently nothing but good news. for the next two days, you and your companions are treated like VIPs, much to Nami’s pleasure because it resulted in free lodging at the swankiest hotel.

“all already fully paid for and it’s right beside the royal palace!” the random stranger who sponsored your rooms proudly proclaimed, his eyes scanned over your crewmates before landing and staying on you. “nothing but the best for this year’s prime candidate, of course.” 

“and who are we to say no to free things, right guys?” Nami instantly took him up on the offer before the man guided you to the elevators. as you streamed in, the last of the crew to enter the lift, the man took your hand and lifted it to his lips.

“and i hope you will consider me as your choice after this generous gift, milady,” he said after pressing a kiss to your skin. so shocked by the sudden turn of events, you could only stare at him in confusion as the rest of your companions’ jaws dropped.

“she’s taken,” Sanji growled as he grabbed your arm and tugged you to his chest. “thanks for the free rooms but kindly fuck off. now. or i’ll kick your ass so hard the whole hotel is gonna collapse.”

though it was the first, it was certainly not the last time people approached you to shower you with compliments and gifts. while their methods of wooing you vary widely from handmade snacks to reciting poems, one thing they all have in common was how unabashed their attempts are.

“i think our chef’s about to lose it,” Robin observes as the few of you stroll down the street booths to soak in all the festivities. “he’s flirting with the local women as usual but it’s like his eyes are glued onto you,” she laughs, gesturing in his direction.

turning around to see what she means, you bite back a laugh of your own when you spot your beloved partner a few booths away. although surrounded by women who are clearly interested in reciprocating his advances, Sanji’s eyes are blown wide open and staring right at you. his face turns red when you wave and shoot him a smile.

“excuse me, i have a gift for you–” the nth unfamiliar voice of the day tears your attention away from your boyfriend as you turn around to respond to your new pursuer. before you can reject their present, though, you feel a sudden overwhelming presence behind you as the stranger’s face turns pale.

looking up, you’re greeted by the scowling face of your favourite chef, cigarette between his teeth nearly cut in half from how hard he’s biting it. his sharp gaze pierces the man in front of you. if looks could kill, it would’ve been a massacre.

“hey sweet boy,” you greet, reaching out to cup his face in your hand, head still looking straight up at him as he towers behind you. the moment your skin makes contact with his, Sanji’s body relaxes and he turns his gaze to you, his eyes now round and shining. he holds your hand to his face, the size of his hand engulfing the entirety of yours.

“ya finally done flirting with women, shitty cook?” Zoro yells from a short distance away. Sanji shouts back his own retort as usual, all the while still pressing your hand to his cheek. when he’s done verbally abusing his friend, he returns his attention to the stranger still standing in front of you, now seemingly frozen in place, wrapped present still held in his shaking hands.

“and you.” Sanji mutters. “beat it.” 

iv. 

for the rest of the day, as the sun made its slow descent from the sky, the blond haired cook stayed glued to your side.

“it’s like he’s your stupid guard dog or something,” Zoro snorted; and though he’d meant it in a derogatory sense, you could kind of see where he was coming from. Sanji had never looked so threatening in the time you’ve known him, his gaze was sharp with his fist clenched at his side (his other hand was holding yours) and it looked like he was ready to pounce on whichever poor soul tried to steal you away from him next.

“oh my god, he’s actually like a dog,” Nami concurred with an amused look on her face when she observed how the chef only lost his tough guy act whenever you paid him any attention. the second you talked to him or looked his way, he would instantly snap back to his normal sweet self.

“it’s quite endearing in a weird way,” Robin added. neither Nami or Zoro agreed out loud but shared the same sentiment. 

after sunset, you find yourself reunited with the rest of your crew for dinner. with your free rooms came access to the hotel’s fanciest restaurant (much to Luffy’s delight) and (to Sanji’s horror) even richer men and women trying to make you fall in love with them.

“i wonder how much this is gonna cost,” Luffy says at one point, words muffled from how much food he’s stuffing into his mouth.

“it’s all free,” Robin answers, “everything here was sent by and paid for by the other patrons.” She turns to look at you, propping up her arm by her elbow to rest her chin on her hand. “our dear (Y/N) sure is popular here.” she says, smiling endearingly when she notices how Sanji shuffles his chair closer to yours in response.

without saying a word, he reaches out under the table to hold your hand. the relief he feels when you give him a light squeeze in return makes his heart sink the lowest it ever has the entire time your crew set foot on Cupid Island and he can’t really put his finger on the reason. 

shouldn’t i feel happy she’s still willing to hold my hand?

Sanji pulls your hand over to rest atop his lap before choosing to forgo the rest of his dinner to simply play with your fingers. for a good while, you’re content with watching him quietly caress and rub your digits as though they’re the most precious things in the world, heart fluttering at the gesture. you can tell he’s thinking about something but decide that it’ll be better to ask him about it later in the privacy of your hotel room.

“excuse me, miss (Y/N)?” a deep voice says as the young man who owns it walks through the restaurant and towards your crew’s table. gasps erupt from every other table as all eyes fall on him and subsequently your group as well. seeing as its nothing new, most of your companions simply ignore him to continue eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. the man stops by your side, standing in between your chair and Sanji’s, seemingly undeterred by the sight of your hand resting on your beloved’s thigh.

“yes?” you respond simply, looking up at him. you’d be a liar if you said he wasn’t an attractive person, with his shiny soft hair, defined cheekbones and the brightest eyes you’ve ever seen; but his looks alone do nothing to your heart.

the man drops to one knee before you and just a split second after, you feel Sanji tighten his grip on your hand. his palms turning cold and clammy as he glares at the intruder forcing himself in between you and him. the rest of your crew freeze in place, mouths agape at the sight playing out before them.

“my name is Prince Aphr of Cupid Island and i would like to officially court you for your eventual hand in marriage.”

to be continued

–

tags: @amei-draws-stuff @carmen-skullz @cobainlover @lara-christensen-me @shondlenoodle @teewon @makingmammonmoves @carmendanny2

[luveline]

May I pretty please request an emergency medicine doctor!reader x Hotch blurb? I’d love to see both of them in careers that are difficult, yet despite that they still manage to be together because they understand each other so much. Maybe something with the rest of the team as well if it’s possible 🫶🏼🥹

Emily used to think Hotch would never be happy again. She’d drive him home after work, pick him up in the mornings, and she’d think about how miserable he was, the kind of misery that hooks you in its grip, has you turning to wine or whiskey just to keep breathing. 

She thought for sure he’d buckle. When Hayley died, he’d have to. How could you not? But he kept going and proved she should’ve had more faith in him, becoming the father Jack deserves, and, surprisingly, your partner. 

“You’re squeezing me too tight,” you mumble, just loud enough for Emily and the others to hear you where Hotch hugs you a few feet from the dinner table. “Why are you trying to break my back?” 

“I haven’t seen you in three weeks.” 

“Eighteen days is not three weeks.” 

“It might as well be.” Hotch peels away from you to give you a once over. Emily’s half jealousy and half fondness, seeing him love someone so obviously. “Are you hungry? I ordered for you.” 

“Super hungry. Do I smell like antiseptic?” 

“No, just soap.” 

“Well, that’s not much better.” 

Hotch puts his arm behind your back and guides you to the table. The team squeeze out hellos between mouthfuls and you take your place at Hotch’s side behind a steaming plate. You’re as ravenous as the rest of them after your long shift; Morgan can hardly get a word out of you for the first ten minutes, though he tries, and you attempt to be polite. Emily nudges him until he gets the hint to stop. 

“Here,” Hotch says, putting a heaping of his food onto your plate with a large spoon. 

“Stop.” You attack his spoon with a fork. 

“It’s fine, you like it more than I do.” 

“Don’t care. You need your energy. I’m going to make you carry me up the stairs home.” 

He’s unintimidated. “Ah.” 

“Ah,” you echo. “You sound so doubtful.” 

Hotch looks like he might try to keep flirting with you, but he gives in quickly, betraying how much he’s missed you with a hand slipping under the table. Emily sees his fingers curl over your knee, averting her gaze with a feigned sip of coke. 

She can deduce the silent question you ask one another about anyways. 

“We’ll have dessert,” you say. We won’t skip out early. “What are you having, Dr. Reid?” 

Hotch orders you three different things, which you eat fast. 

“They’re not feeding you at the hospital?” Rossi asks. 

“Three emergency transfers in twelve hours,” you explain, slouching now into Hotch’s side, one slow inch at a time. “I didn’t have time for much.” 

“That’s not healthy,” Hotch murmurs in concern. 

“I’m sure I can ask any of your friends about your eating habits and find a similar schedule,” you brush him off, raising your gaze to Emily, then Morgan, then Rossi and Reid. Everyone smiles the same way. Hotch is caught, and his laugh jostles your shoulder. 

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘do as I say, and not as I do?’” he asks. 

God, Emily thinks with a huff of a laugh she can’t contain, get a room. 

“He likes that one,” Spencer says. 

“I don’t doubt it.” You lift your lips to his jaw and press a peck to the line of it. One, then two. “Maybe that’s why we've lasted as long as we have. Mutual disregard for our wellbeing.” 

“And a great deal of care for each other,” Rossi says, nodding sagely. “This is why my marriages never last.” 

“Is that why?” Spencer asks. 

“You’ve gotten to be quite the lark.”

“Lark,” Hotch whispers to you. Emily, sitting at his other side, might be the only one who hears, the others distracted by Spencer and Rossi’s ensuing squabble.

“Scoundrel,” you agree. 

“How’s your head now?” 

“It’s gonna be a hundred percent better if you give me that,” you say, pointing hopefully at his full drink. 

He doesn’t hesitate to press it into your hand. Emily would never suspect you hadn’t seen one another for weeks; you move and he follows. You rub your cheek against his shoulder. He touches his nose to your hair, his eyes shuttering closed for one stolen, blissful second. “Missed you,” he says under his breath. 

Emily looks away with a smile. Hotch isn’t hopelessly miserable anymore. 

[unholyhelbig]

Can we please please PLEASE have part two of Brackish?

Title: Brackish [Part Two] | Read Part One Here

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanov/Romanoff

Word Count: 3454

Warnings: Mentions of torture, mentions of mind control, mentions of ice baths, cannon typical violence, nightmares, physical testing, murder, KGB conditioning, Horrible grammar I don't proofread!

Summary: Agent Romanoff is sent into an interrogation room to break the only prisoner they pull from a Hydra compound, but things don't go exactly as planned.

[A/n: Totally wasn't expecting the response the first part got, thank you so much! Truthfully this ask and the draft was sitting in my inbox for months. This is just a bunch of fluff. I don't know where to take it from here. Hopefully you enjoy!]

You’d woken up screaming, something that never bothered Daniel Whitehall. There were stretching corridors that were damp from broken pipes and water buildup. It smelled thickly of metal and never offered any kind of warmth. It carried your agony like a music box, or a greeting card. It had amused him- his men. So, you did your best to swallow your distress. But sometimes it was impossible to tamp things down in the bridge between sleep and alertness.

It had been three days and you still expected to be jerked back into the reality. A frigid tub of ice and metal under Whitehall’s hand. You must have lost your grip on reality and the Avengers Tower, Agent Romanoff and her rigid kindness, was all a mental tactic, to account for the trauma. You’d finally been broken.

But no: Right now, as you woke up screaming as the hours rolled into the fourth day, she was there. The bed was too soft. You’d learned, and sleep did not come easy. But you drifted off in spurts and woke with air caught in your throat. Never yelling. Never in such a panic.

You didn’t remember what had startled you, but there was a cool hand against your cheek and another one splayed against your chest and worried green eyes peering into yours. You moved to fight back, wanted to push the limbs away until you realized who they belonged to. Until you breathed in that polished scent.

“Sorry, I’m sorry” You whispered, your fingers ghosting over her wrists.

She was a busy woman. You’d realized that over the past 72 hours. Agent Romanoff was in high demand, her signature was required on countless documents and many with downturned eyes stalked up to her with a nervousness that you didn’t quite understand but, you were beginning to.

After some persistent pushing from Natasha on the second day, you’d agreed to blood tests, to EKG’s and other medical trials to make sure you were relatively healthy after years of captivity. She’d promised to stay, and she did. While a certain heat and embarrassment colored your cheeks at the unspoken request, she saved your dignity that morning by not brining it up.

Natasha frowned, didn’t say anything but applied a short pressure to your jaw with her thumb before guiding a glass of water to your hand as she lowered herself to the bed. “Sip this, all of it until it’s gone. Don’t gulp, it’ll hurt your stomach.”

You nodded, doing as you were told. She watched you carefully until you finished the glass. You wanted to cower under her scrutiny, but your heartrate had slowed by the time you’d drained the water and she’d taken it the moment it was empty, her hand on your knee as a grounding source. She was like that, you’d learned, attentive and able to read what you needed though you’d not found your voice to ask.

There wasn’t a clock in the guest room. You didn’t know what time it was, but no morning light seeped through the crack in the door and sleep still clung to you like a heavy blanket. You let out a deep breath and pressed your head against the wall behind you, tempted to let your eyes droop shut, but stopped from the fear of another scream ripping through you.

“The nightmares won’t go away. They’ll come less and less, but they’ll always be there.” She swallowed audibly, ran her fingers over a raised pink scar from a blade, or a bullet, or some type of metal that could easily tear skin against her exposed muscle. “What you went through isn’t easily forgotten. You can manage the symptoms, push it to the back of your mind during your waking hours but it’s hard to fight that kind of thing when you’re asleep. You’re guard can’t always be up.”

You nodded, working your hand through your damp hair. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“You didn’t” Natasha assured “Would you like me to stay?”

More than anything. It felt like crossing a line. There wasn’t a chair in the guest room. It was fairly sparce. A bed and a nightstand and lamp that had bathed you both in a soft golden glow. It would be easier to tell her no, to ask her to leave. But your chest wouldn’t forgive you for that.

So, you scooted over, looked at her expectantly, going as far to peel back the duvet. Natasha huffed out something akin to a laugh and laid in the spot that you had just vacated. You could feel the heat of her skin, the closeness of her as you lowered yourself down next to her. She paid you a mercy by turning the lamp off.

The two of you lay, shoulder to shoulder, breath synchronized. You couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t. Your entire body was wound up. While Agent Romanoff’s presence was a balm, it also wound you up like a spring. You were conscious of every movement. Every twitch of your finger and tense of a muscle.   

“It scares me that I can’t remember things.”

You could hear Natasha turn her head in the dark, the shift against the pillow. Her breath was warm against the side of your face. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, a stone on the center of your chest. You couldn’t remember feeling this comfortable- this at ease- in a long time.

“Do things come back when you sleep?”

It was her job, you knew, to pull things from you. In exchange for a bed and warm meal, you’d give her anything. She had quiet eyes and a quietness to her that gave away the fact that she was examining you methodically. But there was something else there that you couldn’t pinpoint. Something caring.

You turned onto your side, facing her, curling up more for your own comfort. “More of a feeling than a memory. Being there, I recall everything. Whitehall, his brainwashing, his tests and his tortures. His why’s and his motives are foggy. It was like he just wanted to inflict pain. But at his core. At Hydra’s core, I know that’s not true.”

Natasha adjusted on the bed, turned to face you. Inches apart. Her nose was close enough in the dark to bump against your own. Neither of you spoke for a moment, hands brushing closely like a bridge uncrossed.

“I worry that they changed me in way’s that can’t be unchanged, but can’t recall who I was before they’ve changed me. That they kept me alive because they were… succeeding in something that they hadn’t before.” You let out a heavy breath, it splayed hotly against Natasha’s chest, warmed her. “That deep down inside, something uncontrollable is there.”

Natasha made a small noise in the back of her throat that could only be described as a whimper. Tentatively, she’d shifted in the quiet, had found the edge of your jaw in the darkness and traced the sharpness of it with her touch. You let your eyes flutter shut, leaned into it.

Soon, her palm was against your cheek, warm from the prospect of sleep. Her hold soft as she pulled you forward, the initial shock of the swift movement replaced by that detergent scent and the instant comfort. An undignified grunt escaped you when you slotted so perfectly against Natasha’s front.

You’d learned rather quickly that she liked to show her protection.

When your blood had been drawn, the tech on the medical floor insisted of her credentials but quickly blanched with a glare from the Black Widow herself and the assured hand at the base of your spine. You’d shown your strength during the physical trials as they monitored your heartrate during a mile run, and Natasha had watched with a warning stare as another tech adjusted the censors.

And now, she wrapped her arms around your center and hooked her leg over your own. She was tense until she felt the coolness of your nose against her pulse point, the way you nuzzled against her, sighed into her comfort instead of tensed, as if she feared of rejection.

“We’ll figure it out.” Her voice was a rumble, your ear this close to her chest. “Get some sleep. I’ve got you.”  

There was a sensor under your collarbone, one on either side of your chest, and another directly under your ribs. Two more that had been stuck to your abdomen. The adhesive was unbearably itchy, and you had half the mind to tear them away. A huff pulled uncomfortably at you. Another huff earned you a sharp glare from the woman wrapping your hands.

Natasha was on her knees for you. Not for you, but certainly in front of you. Either way it made you blush profusely. She worked with intention, making sure that the next trial they were putting you through was safe enough for you to participate in. A tech had offered to do this for her. For you. But she’d refused.

“Stop pouting, sweetheart. This is the last one and then they’ll leave you alone for at least the weekend.”

“Promise?”

Natasha sighed and her exhale was hot against the skin on your chest, forming a valley of goosebumps. You swallowed back a shiver. “No. Now sit back.”

You did as you were told, all the while, another SHIELD tech kept a keen eye on the both of you. Nameless, faceless, dressed in black. You almost preferred them this way. Whitehall was a constant for you, a villain that always signified a form of hurt and anguish. The constant revolving door of men and women made it impossible to link a test with a face.

Natasha was almost the opposite. You were starting to associate that piney, vanilla bergamot scent of hers with safety. It scared you. Her hands were assured and so were her movements. You were very aware that she had been with you nearly all hours of the day since you’d been pulled from the wreckage of all you’d known for possible years. Stockholm syndrome, some would call it.

You approached it with reckless abandon. You didn’t care. She was warmth. She was opposite of ice baths and frigid water that you choked on until you blacked out. She was lean muscle and healed scars and tender green eyes. She made it easier to think. She gave orders that were easy to follow: To sit back. To Stop Pouting. To Get some Sleep. You could do those things. Those things were easy.

“We’ll start at a weight of fifty and steadily increase until you cannot support the bar any further.” The nameless, dark-eyed man said, not looking up from his tablet. “If at any point, you feel uncomfortable during the test, please alert me or Agent Romanoff. Do you have any questions?”

You shook your head, laid back on the cool bench and adjusted yourself until you stared up at the metal ceiling. It looked taller from this angle, impossible to reach. Black weights were saddled on either side. Agent Romanoff’s presence was at your six the entire time. Lingering, watching with careful and apt attention.

“Alright. You may begin. Make sure not to lock your arms.”

The bar was nothing in your hands, a slight nuisance, if anything. Ever-so-slowly the weight was increased: Fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty. All the way to 700 before another huff left your lungs, chin tipping towards Natasha as you stared up at her. Pouting. You were absolutely pouting.

They were being methodical about this, and that also meant it was taking ages. One of Natasha’s brows was quirked and she worried the nail of her thumb between her teeth as they upped the weight to a solid 1,000. You adjusted your hold on the bar. Nothing more, nothing less. There was no strain, no sweat. No spike in heartrate.  

“Okay. I think we know enough.” Natasha finally barked. “Right?”

“But I-“

“Right?”

Sure, it had only been a few days, but you knew that tone and it was enough for the SHIELD agent to snap his jaw shut and for you to replace the bar before sitting back up. The test, you were sure, was far from over. But there was such a finality in the demand.

You knew you had some strength to you, sure. Daniel Whitehall wouldn’t keep you locked up the way he did, in a steel-enforced cell, if that weren’t the case. The binds you’d sometimes recall were much too thick for anyone that had the normal stamina, someone who could survive his trials. You don’t remember being tested like this before, your limits pushed.

The SHIELD agent tapped at his screen, letting out a non-committal noise “Well, your strength is remarkable. You say you don’t remember a thing? I think you could benefit from some memory recovery sensory therapy.”

Natasha rumbled in the back of her throat, snatching the tablet from the man before shoving him roughly from the room. You watched the display with raised brows, the protective edge to her that you knew was there, but hadn’t been privy to at this degree. He protested, but didn’t’ overtly stop her. Not even when she slammed and locked the door with the waggle of her fingers and the lowering of the blinds.

“The know at all’s from logistics get on my nerves.”

She wouldn’t look at you, instead clicking off the screen and throwing the tablet onto the counter. There was a light blush to her cheeks. You peeled off your shirt, almost in habit now, leaving you in nothing but one of the agencies issued sports bras. The adhesive was getting too irritating.

Your eyes lingered on her. “Uh-huh, is that all?”  

“Yes, that’s all.”

But when those deep green eyes snapped up to yours, the way her breath hitched betrayed her. You’d effectively flustered the Black Widow herself and it brought a sort of heady confidence to you that you quite enjoyed. You ripped the sensor from below your ribcage away, the stickiness making an odd noise as it pulled away.

“I don’t know what you’re smirking about, what he was suggesting is out of the question. They’ve run enough tests on you to determine that Hydra didn’t place any type of chip in your brain. They didn’t change your bone density or alter your blood chemistry. With your added strength, your speed.” She closed the distance between you, ripping another sensor off with little abandon, her hands cold against your skin. “We’re looking at an infinity stone.”

You grunted under her touch, fingers soothing over the spot she’d just torn, a silent apology. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Wanda Maximoff, do you know her?”

You shook your head, remaining still as she moved to the next sensor. Agent Romanoff pulled with the same quickness as before, but was softer with her hands, instantly using the coolness of her palm to quiet the sting that soon followed. You’d given up peeling them away yourself. Instead, you peered up with her with watery eyes, blinking and doe-like. They’d melt her if you weren’t careful, and it seemed like you never were.

“Hydra conducted experiments on Wanda and her twin brother Pietro using something called the Mind Stone. A very powerful mineral that ultimately should have killed them, but it didn’t. It changed their DNA and gave them abilities. Pietro super-speed and Wanda the ability to manipulate the world around her.” Natasha’s voice was smooth as she spoke, the final sensor ripped away, you watched her do it, frowning at the red mark it left behind.

After a few moments of labored silence, she dragged her touch feather-light against your jaw and guided your attention back to her own. “They think Whitehall got ahold of the power stone, and they think it was used to torture you for years to replicate the success achieved with the Maximoff’s.”

“I don’t think he was very successful,”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your chin, not enough to wound, never enough, but a soft warning. “Nonsense. You’re more capable than you think.” Her thumb ran over the blush that was suddenly running across the bridge of your nose and your cheek. “Let’s take a break from all these boring trials. I want to show you something.”

There was a basement that resided below the cacophony of spruced up cells in the Avengers tower. You’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Agent Romanoff and watched as the numbers descended. Her scent had soothed you, even as the cold infiltrated the elevator and reminded you too much of a metal tub, safe for the water.

It jolted to a stop before the anxiety swirling in your lower belly could solidify. Natasha led you into another corridor that looked like all the other corridor’s in the tower. She walked with no urgency and you followed with the same pace. Finally, you reached another non-descript door, only accessed by the card on Agent Romanoff’s belt.

You were hit by the sharp scent of decaying paper, quiet leather and dust. There was a coolness here. A dull light that Natasha flicked on. A heaviness that reminded you of a library. There was a history here that told you it hadn’t been accessed in a long time.

Copy boxes lined bookshelves bracketed to the walls, a single table with a few chairs sat pushed in the corner. Natasha seemed to know exactly where she was going, exactly the files she was looking for. “We’re a multi-trillion-dollar organization, yet, all of the incriminating evidence about the Avengers exists in this singular room.”

You flinched, eyes meeting Natasha after she hauled the off-white box to the center of the table. You watched her carefully, not moving from your rooted spot at the edge of the doorway. You blinked at her, mouth slightly agape. She was trusting you with this. She was trusting you with this?

“Natasha you can’t… you don’t have to…”

“I want to. Come, sit.”

The chair was frigid against your skin, the whole room kept tepid to preserve the documents. Natasha sat adjacent to you, your knees brushing in a surge of warmth. Neither of you moved to pull away. She pushed the box to the far end and pulled out the first file, edging her fingers against the manila.

Before she could pry the cover back, you gripped her hand, squeezed it with fervor. “Wait, you can’t do this. Agent Romanoff, if you… if you tell me this, and I’m- if Whitehall did something that fundamentally changed me and I turn around and betray you, then I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

“Mm” She hummed, frowning down at the file. “There’s more to you than that.”

“And if there’s not? I don’t even have a name, and you’re about to trust me with everything from your past, everything you’ve worked so hard to scrub. I can’t let you do that.”

“You’re not letting me do anything, darling. I didn’t scrub anything, I embraced it.”

Her other hand engulfed the one that had covered the one that had grasped her own. You hadn’t realized that you were squeezing so hard for purchase. Goosebumps covered your entire body, and you were trying not to tremble. It felt as if your bones were trying to claw their way from your skin. You ground your teeth together to keep them from clacking.

Natasha’s hand left yours for only a moment, peeling the cover of the file back, moving it in between the both of you. “I was born in Stalingrad Russia, indoctrinated into the Red Room by a man named General Dreykov. The Red Room was a program designed to create sleeper agents utilized by the KGB. Young girls were taken against their wills and molded into perfect killing machines.”

Your thumb moved over her knuckles, scarred from years of strain. She grasped back, grounding herself.  

“For years, I was just that. Ruthless. Cruel. I spilled an impossible amount of blood because that’s what I was trained to do. It was a cycle. Wake up, kill, sleep. Wake up, kill, sleep. Sometimes they’d throw a little torture in there just to spice things up.”

You knit your eyebrows together, a small whimper escaping you.

 “Tough room.” Natasha gave you a sad smile “milaya devochka, eventually, someone saw through the dripping ledger and what Dreykov had done. They saw me. That made a world of difference when the programming I had was all I’d ever known.”

You swallowed thickly, fingers tracing a raised pink scar at the edge of her palm. You let out a shaky breath. “And you… can be that person for me?”

“I’d like to be.”

[Dt: @ima-gi--na-tion, @l0nelyish, @taliiiaasteria, @ahintofchaos, @redhoodte]

[sunvylovebug]

Whispers of the heart

↬Warnings: No warnings …⁠ᘛ⁠⁐̤⁠ᕐ⁠ᐷ

↬ Gender Neutral!Reader, they/them pronouns and third person narration (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

↬Author Note: I'm in love with this man. I need to keep playing so I can know more about the other characters (and hopefully I could write about them) but man, I love Mr. Crawling so much, I just want to write more and more about him, even though I'm a bit rusty lol

↬Summary: Y/N left that mysterious world full of curious entities... But they weren't alone. What was life like living with one of these entities?

↬ Word Count: 1,200 Words

Masterlist

Y/N had once been a wanderer in a world that wasn't their own; a strange ghostly dimension. Time had little meaning there. It was a place of shadows, whispers, and spectral beings who spoke in a language as foreign as the world itself. Y/N couldn't understand them, and they never seemed to understand Y/N either.

Lost, adrift in a sea of incomprehensible murmurs, at least until Y/N met him. Mr. Crawling had appeared from the dark, like a sliver of the abyss, a scary crawling being but one extremely sweet and caring. He had long hair that cascaded like a waterfall of ink, and, when he wasn't crawling, a tall, lean form that loomed over them like a silent guardian. His voice was strange, in a good way, almost gentle, But there was something about her that they couldn't quite distinguish: it was different. He didn’t speak in words they understood, but his actions were clear, he was there to protect them.

In the beginning, Y/N had been frightened. They didn’t know who or what Mr. Crawling was, only that he moved with an unsettling grace, always following them like a puppy, never leaving their side. But soon, they realized that he wasn’t a threat. He had a need, an overwhelming desire to be close, to offer comfort in a place that was foreign and frightening to Y/N. He was clingy, too clingy at times, always hovering near them, offering small gestures of affection they didn’t understand at first. A headpat here, a gentle nuzzle there, an embrace that felt strangely warm despite his ethereal nature and cold body.

The more time they spent together, the more Y/N realized that Mr. Crawling was different from the other entities in the ghostly world. Where others were distant and cold, he was compassionate and strangely affectionate. He didn’t speak the language of this world, but neither did Y/N. Yet, somehow, they communicated. Through some little words. Through silence. Through touch. Through the small, tender moments they shared in their strange, shared isolation.

It was Mr. Crawling who helped them escape the ghostly world. They had been lost, and he had guided them with soft whispers and a metaphorical hand that never let go, pulling them out of the abyss and back to their world.

Now, the two of them lived in a modest house at the edge of a sleepy town, far from the shadows of the world he'd once known. The house was small but cozy, tucked away beneath the embrace of towering trees and the endless sky. The walls were lined with books, books that Y/N had bought, books that Mr. Crawling didn't quite understand yet, but was fascinated by nonetheless (he especially liked the ones with cute pictures). The furniture was simple, the windows large, letting in sunlight that warmed their new home.

Y/N had found a quiet life for them. They were still adjusting, still processing everything that had happened, but there was peace now. There was a routine. And with that routine, Mr. Crawling adapted too.

At first, Y/N wasn’t sure how to teach him the human language. He didn’t speak it, after all he never needed to, but his curiosity had grown. Sometimes he'd watch them speak, listened intently, and began to mimic the sounds they made. His voice was soft at first, a murmur that seemed foreign, but with every passing day, it grew more confident. Slowly, Y/N began to understand his language too, a delicate, melodic series of his words, his clicks and hums, like a song that had been lost to time.

They both had so much to teach each other.

There were nights when Y/N would sit with him, books open between them, and they would practice together. Y/N would point to objects around the room, saying their names, and Mr. Crawling would repeat them in his hauntingly beautiful tone, he was adorable when he was focused, lips curling slightly as if savoring each new word. His progress was slow, but his dedication was unwavering. And in return, Y/N learned to understand his quiet language, his words of affection, his quiet murmurs of concern when he thought they were upset, his soft sounds that resonated like the wind brushing through the trees.

But it wasn’t just the language they shared, it was the quiet companionship. Mr. Crawling, despite his ghostly form, was very much alive in the ways that mattered. He was there in the mornings, wrapping them in soft, clingy hugs that kept them grounded, pulling them close as if afraid they might slip away. His physical affection was constant, sometimes in a bit of a suffocating way, but in a way that made Y/N feel safe, loved, and never alone. His headpats were his way of saying "I'm here and I love you", his nuzzles a wordless declaration of devotion.

There were moments when Y/N would catch him staring at them, just watching, inspecting their features, his face full of something unreadable, almost sorrowful. But then he would smile and nudge them gently as if to remind himself that they were here, together.

Life with Mr. Crawling wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. They made it work. On quiet afternoons, they would sit by the window, Y/N with a book in their lap, and Mr. Crawling curled up beside them, his head resting on their shoulder. He would often fall asleep that way, his dark hair cascading over their arm like a curtain of dark silk. Y/N had come to treasure these small moments, the way the light filtered through the trees, the way his presence felt like a constant comfort, the way his hands would sometimes gently clasp theirs as if he feared letting go, as if he feared losing them.

And when the days grew long, and the silence of night enveloped them, Y/N would speak in their language he was still learning, telling him little things he loved to hear and understood a little, praising him, loving him, just telling him stories about their life, little experiences and moments, memories. And he would listen, his expression softening, his touch a gentle reminder that he was there, always, beside them forever.

Mr. Crawling would share his own stories, stories of his world, of the ghostly land from which he came. He spoke in his own language, a soft hum that filled the space between them, and though Y/N couldn’t understand all of it, they could feel the weight of his memories, the depth of his existence. He had been a part of that world, a lingering echo in a place they could never return to. But now, he was with them. And he was happy.

They had created their own little world, away from the shadows, away from the haunting whispers. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, full of quiet mornings, warm nights, and a love that transcended the space between words. Together, they had learned to speak a language of their own, one not of words, but of presence, of touch and of the quiet understanding that sometimes, the most important thing isn’t to speak, but to simply be together.

And with that, more was conveyed than all the words in the world could.

[meownotgood]

as above, so below. / death sworn!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, reader uses gender neutral pronouns (but is referred to as 'farmgirl' once), mild violence / death, occult themes, blasphemy, power imbalance, size difference, fingering, riding, consensual mind control, mild painplay (viktor brands a sigil onto reader), praise kink, too much plot and feelings, death sworn viktor is hot and this is my explanation. happy halloween! word count: 16.5k

read on ao3

════════════════════

I felt it again. Weight at my shoulder, honed talons digging in. The same pitch black feathers fluttered at the fickle edge of my vision. A hand tightened onto my neck, onto my soul, measuring each foolishly clumsy beat of my heart. As the invocation lost strength, so too did the raven evanesce. 

I am getting closer. Death is taunting me, stringing me along with His cold palm outstretched — because He knows, to any end, I will follow. 

The candle wax from the sigil burned my palm quite deeply. I'll search for some cloth bandages to wrap it in, lest the villagers see the marks and begin their endless chatter. Hopefully the farmgirl will not be too concerned. I must continue to exercise caution; I cannot afford any crucial mistakes, not when I am so close to unveiling the truth. 

They will all understand, in time. Death, under no circumstance should you doubt my steadfast faith. My fealty will guide me, and if it does not, I will gladly become acquainted with the cold jaws of the underworld. 

— V. October 29, 1618. 

— 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

The simple persistence of your pounding heart is not-so-simple when the air is thick with smoke, when the sky is dark and knotted with storm clouds, and when each heavy, quickened step slams your boots into the earth firmer than before. Running. You have to keep running, faster and further than those who might still be chasing you. 

Sticks and fallen autumn leaves crunch under your feet like the breaking of bones. Your legs ache. Your necklace sways with your steps: thin twine with a small skull fastened on the end, tied deftly between the eye sockets. It thuds against your chest, rivaling every pound of your heart. Thunder booms overhead, the weight of it shuddering through you, promising a bleaker fate. The air runs crisp with coming rainwater. 

You nearly trip over a large fallen log, stopping, gasping, as you hurriedly lift your cape to jump over. Shouts ring out from behind you; This way, in the forest! 

Your jaw tightens. You take the opportunity to discard your lantern, tossing it as hard and as far as you can into the bushes. You stumble into a run again, leaving the light behind. The light of the dull, contained flame, the distant lights of the town, and the threatening flickers of the fading lit torches. 

You are going to die. 

It's contradictory for you, really. For ages, amidst your journaling and your research and your rituals, Death never once scared you. No, it enamored you. 

Where others saw a cruel end, a violent finality, you saw a chance, a hope. A moth emerging from a delicate cocoon; a new form of beginning. Your town would never accept anything they deemed as heresy, but you knew Death was meant to be revered. The Gods of the living quake at the sound of His name, merely because they know they cannot fight. They'll never be strong enough to stop the fate that will one day befall each and every one of them. 

Those Gods no longer watch over you. Their favor was lost the moment Death opened His arms to usher you in. 

You want to curse yourself for acting so foolishly. You shouldn't be afraid. This was the fate you wanted, the fate you accepted. It just wasn't supposed to happen now. Not now, not to you, not to him. 

And there is a very, very strong difference between admiring, between watching the maw of a flytrap open to sever the heads of whoever steps close, and finding yourself waltzing into the snare. 

The thick forest thins into a clearing, adorned with large, ominous structures encased in shadow — and your vision blurs, your ankle catching on a twisted bundle of roots. Thorns scrape your skin. You're just barely able to catch yourself with your hands as you fall, but damp dirt still cakes onto your palms and your knees. You brush some on your cheek, when you clumsily wipe your tears with your knuckle. 

Wind whistles in your ears playfully, mockingly. It led you here, despite knowing you hadn't intended to come back. Of course, this wouldn't be your first visit to the gallows today. The soldiers following at your heels must've been hoping they'd drag you here themselves.

You push yourself back up onto unsteady feet. Reaching up, you pull your hood back over your head, and desperately try to regain your lost breath. Puffs of frigid, wispy air spill from your mouth with each heavy exhale. Your cheeks and your fingertips are freezing. The forest shakes, trees rustling all around you. The gallows are quiet, aside from the creak of old wood, and the sway and subsequent thump of hanging rope. For the first time in ages, you are alone. Really, truly alone. Perhaps the guards have finally lost you. 

This moment of respite does nothing but remind you of everything you've been running from. As the trees rustle and the stormy sky bellows, your feverish mind can't help but repaint the picture you saw here at sundown, just a few hours prior. 

Deep shadows cut into the spaces between the crowds of people. The gallows were frantic. Your clasped hands shook in front of you, your face obscured by the shape of your hood. Rays of dying light framed the display: shades of blood red, vivid orange. Your heart shook your ribs, your vision spun. Your ears rang sharply as the people yelled and chanted. Yet, you refused to look away, as frightened as you were, even as they brought him to the stage. 

You won't turn away, not from this. Not when your throat ached from the sharpness of blood and bile, the executioners cutting through his shackles and shoving him forwards. Even though it was foolish, even though it went against what he told you, your feet stayed rooted to the ground, unable to move if they wanted to. 

You prayed for the first time in years — to the Gods, to Death, to anyone. It didn't matter who, because none of them listened. So you watched, useless and wide-eyed as the guards secured the noose to the structure. As a priest chanted some speech about witchcraft and the Gods and the occult. As his breath caught, his gaze dulled, sparks left him like doused flames and then- and you… 

And you were powerless, as you were from the start, as you always have been. 

Your heart twists: a weak, wilted rose, pathetically curling in on itself. Gently, you reach into the pocket on your cape. Your fingertips feel the crisp, folded edges of the note Viktor left you. It's still there, thankfully. You'd hoped you wouldn't lose it in the chase.

You've no need to read it for another countless time. You can recall what it said by memory. 

It's done. I have tried, but I cannot fight this. 

Swirly, cursive letters filled the small scrap of torn parchment, forming hauntingly familiar handwriting, etched in blood red ink. They blended into scattered, barely-readable puddles, where your tears had already fallen to fill the page. Don't follow… they will search… find you again… I promise. 

I promise. You would never doubt his words, you never have. But it's difficult, it's painful. How are you supposed to believe him, when you already watched him die? 

With a shudder and another meager breath, your legs buckle. You fall to the ground, landing on your knees in a weak, futile heap. Your heart pounds, splintering from within your chest — like clusters of quartz and sharp shards of stained glass. 

None of this feels real. You touch your fingertips to your pinched temple, your mind whirling and pounding with nightmarish intensity. Viktor should be here. He still has so much to accomplish, this wasn't supposed to happen when you aren't ready to lose him. Gods. You miss him so, so much. 

Viktor is — was — your closest friend, your partner and your backbone. You wouldn't doubt if his name was etched into each notch of your spine. Honestly, you would've followed him anywhere, with bloodied hands, or with a bleeding heart. 

You were a farmer. A peasant, tilling the fields in your uncle's farm with pennies as payment. Your parents left nothing for you after they died, no bequests or last wishes, so you accepted the offer your relatives had left you — a free place of residence, in exchange for helping on their farm. 

It was a good deal. Your only deal. But it was plain. It was monotonous. You hated how each day felt the same, blending together until all of it was useless, unimportant, and easily forgotten. You wanted to do more, be more. Constantly, you longed for a day when your uncle would quit scolding you, when your illusory chains weren't so tight, when everyone in your town would stop spouting the same useless drivel, and finally open their eyes to the truth right in front of them. 

Viktor put a blissful end to your cycle of tedium. 

He came to your village from a country you hadn't yet heard of. You learned from the townspeople's gossip that he was an inventor, and a renowned alchemist in his youth. Although his studies are mostly kept private, as of late. A councilman had died not too long ago, falling ill out of nowhere, just for his body to mysteriously go missing. Viktor had come to your little town to go through with his own investigations. 

Once he was finished, it was onto the next village, to follow the thread of unexplained deaths that continued to lead him from region to region. You were the one who convinced him to stay. 

Viktor was intelligent. Far too clever for his own good, really. He was handsome. Captivating. Tousled strands of dark hair framed sharp features, tired eyes, and pretty, perfectly-placed moles. Pale skin accentuated crisp blue veins, rivers of cobalt that ran through his thin arms and delicate hands. Intricate rings with various symbols carved into their shape adorned each of his fingers. 

The first time you met, your gaze darted everywhere, unsure of which detail to focus on. You noticed the cane he kept at his side, the wooden handle carved into the elaborate shape of a raven's skull. His palm ran cold when he shook your hand. And when he spoke, introducing himself in a polite tone, his words fluttered through you like butterfly wings — carrying the lilt of an unfamiliar, smooth, intoxicating accent. 

To say you were smitten was an understatement. 

It was a bit foolish, in hindsight. Your farm work grew neglected, as you spent less time at home, and more days with Viktor. 

Far before you met him, to ease the monotony that riddled your day to day life, you spent a lot of time reading. You studied anything and everything you could find. You searched for solace in the journals about Death that you'd steal from the library, because neither the librarians nor your family approved of you reading them. 

Viktor was studying the same thing, examining Death's grand designs on his own time. Missing bodies, the phenomenon of fallen soldiers rising from the dead, tales of people who'd almost died and claimed they'd caught a glimpse of the underworld — all of it had to mean something. Occurrences like this are far from mere coincidences. 

You thought so too. From then on, you just… clicked. Each fragile moment felt important, every conversation with Viktor felt effortless, it felt freeing. Finally, you had someone who understood you, after ages of detachment, years of speaking to yourself in a journal because no-one cared to listen. 

Viktor read through each and every page of your notes, praising your findings. He excitedly murmured that yes, you've made so much progress, you should be proud. And this is precisely what he needs to take the next step in his research. If your notes were combined with his, surely the both of you could reach a breakthrough. 

And so, you were friends. Partners, even. You admired him, respected him. The both of you were close in age, and it was easy to bond over your shared ideals. Especially when the two of you trusted no-one more than each other. 

You worked together, furthering your research in secret, working on inventions as a front, while performing seances to try to speak with Death yourselves. 

Viktor drowned himself in his work, far more than you could. To a dangerous degree, sometimes. He believed in multiple planes of existence, that the end was merely a beginning. Now, it would seem like Death held more untamed power than he initially thought. Death is planning something, perhaps hoping to gather more followers, or to overthrow the Gods of the living. 

Those who did not worship Him would soon learn to kneel. This was the future Viktor truly sought. 

An end that planned to devour. A glorious future that flipped life on its head, blessing His followers with touches of soft rot and violent warmth. None of it scared him, so it didn't scare you. You trusted Viktor, and wherever he led you, you were prepared to follow. 

He knew his research was forbidden. Those in the village could never know the truth of what he was studying, and he intended to keep it concealed until the time was right. The strange happenings that had been occurring throughout the town already had people on edge. Any death-worshippers or cultists or witches, whatever the council wants to call them, will be dealt with as soon as they're discovered. 

Mercy wouldn't be afforded. Still, it was a risk he was willing to take. 

You both thought you covered your tracks well. Viktor never told anyone what he was studying — not a soul besides you. 

Perhaps it was because the inventions he made would've changed the lives of the less fortunate. The council are as selfish as they are precautious. Perhaps they were suspicious of him from the moment he came here, and if you hadn't convinced him to stay all those years ago, he'd still be alive now. 

Your heart aches, killing you from the inside before anyone else could do it for you. Blades of grass tickle your knees, sharp wind brushes your skin with all the gentleness of a cut from a knife. The trees whisper to the darkened sky, which answers with murmurs of loud, rolling thunder. Faint droplets of rain begin to patter onto your shoulders. Your bones run cold with a deep, freezing chill. 

By the time you arrived at his study, there was nothing that could be done. The door was busted open, his belongings scattered and toppled. There was no trace of him, nothing but the note he left for you, tucked into a stack of journals on the desk you once shared. 

Shakily, you breathe a slow, uncertain sigh, and you reach up to absently clutch your necklace. It does little to calm your budding nerves. You run your thumb over the notches in the bone, the surface damp with small raindrops: a raven's skull. The necklace was a gift, mimicking the motif that once adorned his cane. A present from Viktor to thank you for all you achieved together. 

So we match, he mentioned, placing the necklace into your palms, just barely brushing your skin with his fingertips. 

Where will you go now? You can't return home, your relatives surely know the guards are after you, and they won't hesitate to turn you in. Viktor hid your involvement as much as he could, but even if the guards only planned to question you, one look through his notes and journals and you would be finished. You can't take that risk. 

You heard that when he was captured, he never denied any of the claims they tossed at him. They were the fools, and they will burn for it, they will die for their single-minded beliefs. Death holds no mercy for those who dare to defy Him. 

But would Death allow a merciful end for his most devoted followers? A small part of you, battered and bruised, foolishly hopes so. 

Wind whips around you, and raindrops pelt your back and your skin. The sky splits with a fervent crash of lightning; your shoulders tense, as you fight the sharp, rabbit-quick beating of your heart. It thumps in your own ears, just as loud as the rock of the trees and the hammering of the rain. You can't stay like this. You have to keep moving, have to keep breathing. 

Once again, it isn't easy. You attempt to rise to your feet, but your legs tremor, unsure if they can carry you any further. 

Your mind wraps around to the same thoughts over and over again. To the gallows, to the pain in your chest, to Viktor. A sinking sensation fills your stomach, a mantra that repeats with the whisper of the wind: you aren't meant to be here. It digs underneath your skin, pleading a command to run, to get out as quickly as you can and not stop until you are far, far, far gone. 

You almost manage to move. You stare down at your knees, blinking, fighting against your misty vision. Your grip tightens on your necklace until your knuckles are aching. The storm echoes around you, tugging at the trees, howling through the gallows. Rain drips down your face to blend with your tears, mercilessly hitting your back to throb against your spine. 

If you were to get up, it would hardly matter. This is it. You have nothing left to return to. No-one left to fight for. You failed him, just as you failed all you believed in. Darkness seeps in, and the moon shimmers, as its crescent dips into the highest point in the sky. 

Perhaps all you can do is wait for the night to take you. 

Though, the darkness does not. Instead, it sparks. 

With your head tilted down, your gaze focused on the ground, you watch the rustle of the earth underneath you. Faint flickers of blue fire start as patient wisps. Curling at your fingertips, hardly allowing themselves to be noticed. Then, all at once, they begin to feed on the thin blades of grass, surging into flames that seek to swallow everything in their path. 

You hurriedly stumble back. You support your weight on your palms, before the fire can reach your knees. The gallows are scorching before you, all of their glory engulfed in a sea of deep blue flame. It defies reason, the sight has your heart lodging into your throat until it's practically choking you; the flames refuse to falter under the rain, causing the wood to creak and decay. 

Ash crumbles down and coats the dirt. A wooden beam at the top of the structure comes crashing down, hitting the ground with a deafeningly loud crack that rivals the resounding boom of thunder. 

Fire, there's so much fire, it's all you can see, all you can breathe in. The wind tosses your fluttering hood from your head. Blue flames ripple at the edges of your vision, reminding you of burning parchment. 

You can't move. There's nothing you can do but watch, listening to the pound of your own heartbeat as the flames continue to surge. Oh, you were wrong, so wrong. Your end was never meant to come at the hands of some insignificant soldiers. Right here, right now is where you'll finally crumble. 

Death has come to take you for himself. Fitting, for the two of you to die here together. 

As the gallows crumble, at the center of the clearing, a sigil inscribes itself into the dirt. It burns in the same shade of deep blue, scrawling a few feet in front of you to a careful, intricate pace. 

It starts at the outer edge, forming a circle encased by runes. They bear resemblance to runes you've studied, but none of them are decipherable. The mark shines brighter when it completes, forming a triangle at its center: the symbol for life at its apex, the symbol for death at its side, and a final, skull-shaped symbol carving into the last point. 

An inferno manifests from the symbol. Thunder splits the sky, the tempest tugs at your clothes and toys with your necklace — but the fire changes, the flames form a shape. A staff rises from the ground, lit by a radiant, glowing crystal, grasped by a large, armored hand. 

Blue smoke wisps ominously from the newly-summoned figure — A man? Is it even a person, could it be Death itself? The occult books you've studied told you that if one were ever to look upon Death, their heart would instantly cease to beat. But yours is still pounding, still knocking at your ribs and making your blood race. 

The sigil calms, giving off a dull glow underneath his boots. His figure is framed with a crimson hooded cape, much like yours. Bulky pillars of armor rest on his shoulders. An eye with a sharp, slit pupil curves from a line of smoke impaled into his back. It flickers over you, regarding you with something all-knowing. 

Surely he stands several feet taller than you, and from this position — you're cowering on the ground, your knees folded like a skittish baby deer's, your eyes wide and your breath catching — he practically towers over you. His staff hums from the weight of what must be unfathomably powerful magic. Panic laces through you, your lungs aching, your throat dry. But your head also spins with intrigue, with eagerness. 

Your research was founded upon hoping an event like this would happen to you. And here it is, a true being of Death, formed right before your eyes. Watching you, sparing you. 

So why, why are you still alive? 

The figure's head tilts. Raindrops, fewer in number, patter onto his head and tap against his armored shoulders. He's clearly gazing down at you. You aren't met with a face, nor with anything human. Instead, you're forced to stare into the intimidating outline of a glowing, skull-shaped mask. 

"I believe," His fingers drum against the length of his staff, and his voice echoes through your mind, drowning out the raging storm, converging with your own racing thoughts, "I urged you not to follow me." 

You freeze. Everything stops, until the skip of your heart in your chest is all you can hear. Your veins run as cold as an icy, frozen river. 

Oh. That's Viktor's voice. 

— 

Time seems to ebb away much faster when you know it has afforded you boundless infinity. 

For six months, I have been Death's herald, and with each passing day, I have felt the veiled web of power within me fester. I do not regret my decision. Flesh was nothing more than a weakness to be shed. But it is gradually growing impossible to tell where Death ends, and I begin. 

Vitality. Depravity. Desire. Every sensation burns within the fire that replaced my heart, forceful and inescapable. 

A part of me does fear the way Death has begun to evolve my mind and my vessel, but I believe my partner understands what I have become. Foolish as they are. 

My previous theories will need to be amended. The mind, the soul, and the body are separate, as well as equal. It is in the palms of another where the pieces that remain of you can truly coalesce. 

— V. Unknown Date, 1619. 

—

The solemn throne room, which once brimmed with beauty and life, now settles under the thick weight of darkness and demise, falling silent in the wake of your destruction. 

Large quartz archways crumble slightly, chunks blown off from powerful, laser-focused blasts of dark magic. Tall, warm columns of stained glass shine in every muted color, reflecting the bright light of the full moon. Grandiose statues and tattered flags line a pathway to a curving staircase, which leads to a noble, black-marble throne. 

Empty suits of armor litter almost every inch of the floor, to the point where you have to delicately step over them to reach the very center of the room. Steel swords and bows remain close by. And on the outer edge of the throne room, cowering in a corner, lies the charred remains of the king's robes, and his chipped, glittering crown. Death has claimed their bodies, along with their souls. The fate they befell here is hardly the worst in store for them. 

You gaze up, examining the intricate paintings laid onto the ceiling. They depict multiple figures. You recognize angels, with muted colors, harps, and fluttery dove wings. At the outer edge, there is the moon and stars, with a metaphorical illustration of Death — a satyr with six arms and four horns, shielding himself from the light. 

Amusing, to think that a handful of angels and a meager army of soldiers could stop what Death planned for them. For you and Viktor, the task was trivial. 

The knights will make strong servants. Lord Death will use them well, to build His steadily growing army. The king, on the other hand, will likely be punished — for ever believing he could escape his own grim fate. 

"Magnificent." A familiar voice lilts into your ears, thick with a smooth accent, echoing through your mind like the ripple of a rock thrown into water. "But of course, our purpose is not yet complete." 

You glance back towards him as Viktor admires the sea of destruction, a low wisp of flame idly twisting around his fingertips, before he casts it away with a flick of his index. The edge of his cape is slightly torn, singed from the aftermath of powerful flames. His staff glows gently, likely regaining the power it expended. 

This new form of his is… imposing. If you were someone who stood in his way, and if you weren't already used to this, the sight of him alone would make you fear for your life. He is tall — large enough that the top of your head barely reaches his chest, and your neck must crane to look up at him properly. And he is strong; his body is constructed from blue smoke and figments of dark magic itself, rendering him immortal, and near impossible to touch. 

Nearly. 

Viktor hums, and the threatening, armored eye that floats above his shoulder flickers, surveying the scene with quiet intensity. Death's Eye, the token that provides him with a great portion of power, and watches over while the both of you carry out Death's bidding. 

"I trust you are pleased with this outcome," Viktor murmurs, his tone cold and practical. "We will travel north next, as you demanded, and continue with further vanquishment. You will be informed when we reach our next target. Until then, Glory to the Underworld."

You nod, slightly nervous, bowing your head and neatly placing your arms behind your back as the eye flickers over you, next. "Yes- Glory to the Underworld." 

Seemingly satisfied, the eye shifts. Smoke dissipates from the line connecting it between Viktor's shoulders. Then, Viktor snaps his fingers, and the eye disappears without a trace. 

"There." Viktor turns towards you, and your gaze is met by his skull-shaped mask: fit with intricate engravings and two small divots, not-quite-eyes lit by twin flames. "We are alone." 

Fear does not course through you, even if it should. Instead, a small smile forms on your lips, pleased and eager, almost smug. As soft as it was on the day you met him. 

Once again, as if you had never once lost each other, Viktor is your ally, your partner. Your closest confidant — and yet, everything has changed. There are some things Death can take, but regardless of His strength and omnipresence, can never return. 

Viktor's form no longer resembles who he once was. The details you'd memorized have been cast aside in favor of a stronger, more formidable chassis. A means to an end, Viktor explained. The body matters less than the mind, and so it only made sense to destroy and rebuild it. This is only fitting, for one of Death's chosen Sworn. 

His voice is the same as you remember, when it lilts smoothly through your system. He still has the same sharp intelligence you once might've found yourself falling for. His memories, thoughts, and ideals are intact. Viktor was quick to reassure you of this, reminding you of the secrets only he would know. Your research would've told you to be wary, your notes reminding you that Death is greedy, and does not give up a soul once He has caged it. 

At some point, you stopped listening to those notions. It matters little to you. Viktor is yours again, until the earth crumbles, until the sky and sun burn out — and really, your meager, loving heart couldn't ask for anything else. 

Death is not an unjust sovereign. And so, in Viktor's own words, when he first reached the underworld, he was offered a choice. 

He was promised a chance at resurrection: a reward for his undying loyalty. But in exchange for power, your research partner would need to swear much, much more. 

He would be given power beyond anything he could dream of, a new body, a chance at revenge. All he must do is agree to complete His bidding, working as Death's right hand. Death would instruct Viktor with building an army, with reaping souls to fuel the underworld's lifeblood. Anyone who stood in the way of His vision must fall. Or, he could refuse, and instead embody what remained of his lost soul, as it gradually withered away into dust. 

It was a simple choice, really. Now, those who opposed Viktor's vision will not just bow to Death. They will also bow to him. 

From there, it would've ended rather simply. Viktor would have taken up Death's mantle, and you- You would be left to time, most likely. Another forgotten soul, drowning amongst the endless sea. 

But Viktor made you a promise, and it was one he did not intend to forget. 

The deal he proposed with Death came with one stipulation. His partner — you — would be spared, and if Death willed it, put to use. You are mortal, sure, but you were as dedicated and talented as he once was. With the assistance of a small fraction of power, you could become a worthy disciple. 

You would have nothing to fear, not ever again, Viktor promised. As long as you knelt close to his heel. 

And so, on that fateful, stormy night, you took Viktor's hand when it was offered to you, and became a fellow servant of the end. You left your town behind — all of them, everyone who had once forsaken you. Your village and the townspeople and your farm, deeply drowned in a sea of blue, fierce flame. 

There was nothing left for you, nothing but this. Besides, you had no doubts. For Death, for Viktor, you would do anything. If Viktor asked you to burn the world to the ground, you would swear to leave it in nothing but ashes. 

Your gaze flickers up from your feet, your thoughts roused as Viktor motions for you to follow with a subtle crook of his finger. And as though you would follow him anywhere, you trail behind with quick, eager steps. 

He leads you over the discarded bodies of the soldiers, guiding you to climb the room's centerpiece: its winding staircase. The long, laced edges of your dress brush your ankles when you carefully grasp and lift it, trying your best not to trip. Viktor leans his weight on his staff, uses it to walk, which is hardly needed, but it's still second nature. 

Your hands clasp in front of you, your dress gently swaying. You watch him set the staff aside, before he takes his rightful seat at the throne. 

He looks like he belongs in a throne, to you. 

For a moment, you fiddle with your thumbs. You glance away, looking at the discarded remnants of the old throne room. 

"That almost seemed too simple," You muse, brows furrowed together slightly. "Will all of humanity be this weak?" 

Viktor leans back. He rests his elbows on the arms of the marble throne, his large legs spread while he clasps his hands together: one armored, almost mechanical. The other delicate, with thin fingers and wispy edges. Soft plumes of mist spill from the gaps between his mask and his tattered hood. 

"Mortals are weak by nature," He explains, assured as ever. His voice echoes, syllables resounding against one another, and his fingers gently tap his own knuckles. "They blind themselves, and then ramble about the truth, without realizing they are still pulling wool over their own eyes. You know this." 

"I do," You murmur, breath catching at the sight of him. Your spine still tingles from the thrill of your victory. "We've seen it countless times." 

"Those men were especially amusing to destroy." Viktor huffs, something between a chuckle and a sigh, and large puffs of cerulean smoke billow from the gaps between his mask. "Men like that impudent king are not even worth the mana. He believed himself to be some form of prophet, only to begin begging to his worthless God once he knew he'd been surpassed." 

Then, Viktor laughs, low and maniacal, as his thighs part more to let him lean back even further. "Pathetic, was it not?" 

With his entire army felled, the king pleaded for someone to save him. Sweat beaded at his forehead, and his panicked eyes shimmered with a spectral glow, reflected in the light of Viktor's staff, pointed right towards him. The Gods did not intervene, like the king swore they would. Death did not lose, like his legion of false mages once prophesied. 

Rather, Viktor merely chuckled, and said nothing, before a single focused thread of magic reduced the man at his feet to dust and bone. 

Your spine shudders sharply. Anticipation settles onto your back, pooling within your core, hot as cinders. 

Thinking to yourself, you allow your gaze to travel across the throne. Old banners, lined with gold thread and embroidered with royal symbols drape beside the tall walls of stained glass. Intricate shapes are carved into the throne's smooth marble. A sun and moon, a cross of swords, and an ouroboros-like depiction of a wolf, and a lamb. 

"He was the same as every king and sovereign we have faced." You take a step forwards, your shoes clicking against the smooth stone floor. "Weak. Witless. Disappointing." 

Viktor watches silently as you approach; your fingertips trace the arm of the throne for a moment, studying the detailed runic engravings. Your gaze glimmers, jeweled and lovely, glittering across him — like prey, teasing the jaws of a predator. A smile crosses your features, one that radiates control. 

"They pretend they are capable of holding the world in their hands-" 

Your voice is kept low; with a palm on his shoulder giving you leverage, you slide into his lap, settling onto his firm thighs — spread as wide as the square throne will allow. 

You're barely whispering, now: "Even though they're toppled as easily as the rest." 

Your body is much, much smaller than his, but sitting in his lap nearly puts you at equal height. Your palms gently brush over the cold pillars of armor on his shoulders. You let your hand press to his chest, tangible and icy. Smoke wisps around your hand — hungry, possessive — as though it seeks to swallow you in. His head tilts, invisible gaze seemingly following your movements, regarding you with a lack of emotion you can't place. 

It would be impossible to tell what he's thinking by sight alone. The Viktor you remember would glance away, or perhaps let his brows furrow. He might coax you with nervous touches, or persuade you to move with careful, logical arguments. 

But this Viktor, frigid and magic-bound, a vessel for ruination — he stays silent, and leans back to offer you more room, his steel-clad hand grasping your side. His touch is as natural as it is unnatural. The clawed fingers of his gauntlet briefly press into your skin through your dress' fabric. His hand settles just above your waist, as though it were meant to be there, with all the familiar gentleness of an angel's winged embrace. 

Your heart stirs, pounding quickly as your body acts before you can think, pliantly leaning into his touch. Your throat feels tense, your skin warm, a newfound taste on your tongue fierce like sweet ichor. For you, it isn't enough. 

So, you press closer. Your long dress drapes over his thighs, smooth black satin against armor and miasma. Your fingertips find the rough edge of his mask, and they trace it with delicate intensity. Viktor's only reaction is to let his large hand travel down, his palm encompassing and squeezing your waist. This time, with a practiced, careful, knowing touch. 

Viktor is the most intelligent, perceptive man you have ever known. And he knows you, enough to make you certain he realizes precisely what you're playing at. 

Your dances always begin like this. You can't help but let a smirk pull at your parted lips. 

"Tell me," You're murmuring, slowly leaning in. Deep blue smoke begins to wisp around your figure, brushing against everything it can touch, but you hardly seem to mind. "Is there anyone who could possibly stand against us? Anyone worthy enough to threaten you- to defy Death's most loyal harbinger?" 

Viktor pauses for a moment, before speaking. 

"Humanity adapts when threatened. There are people to the north, who have begun to use tomes to teach themselves how to wield magic." 

You scoff, "Powerful magic?" 

"No. Not when compared to what we possess." Viktor's masked gaze regards you emptily, as you draw shapes with your fingertips onto the intricate curvature of his shoulders. "They may be difficult, but they will not be impossible. In the end, they'll be slaughtered like the rest. No soul is capable of succeeding against our absolution." 

"Viktor," You coo his name like a nightingale, "Won't Death be proud of us?" 

Of us. The both of you have come so far, from the foolish, loathed scholars you once were. Wouldn't the younger versions of yourselves be proud of how far you've come, of the power the two of you have gained? Or would they despise this, would they cling onto humanity the way you and Viktor have failed to? 

"He will be satisfied," A drag of his hand, gripping and guiding your waist, rocks you much closer to him. "Once the task he sent me to complete is fully accomplished." 

You sigh; his voice blends through you. Burning like light, syllables thick and reverberant. Gods, you can barely focus on his words anymore. 

Leaning forward, unable to stop yourself, your lips press teasing, idle kisses to the firm side of his mask, to fill the empty space left when he quiets once more. With another kiss, brutally warm, you're curling your fingertips into the ice-cold smoke that would be his face, you're gripping the underside of his mask tight. 

Frigidness bites at your fingers. His mask feels rough against your lips. You place playful imprints of promises you wanted to keep, of touches you wanted to inflict before there was this. 

When your lips could have pressed to soft pale skin and star-placed moles. When tender kisses could have led to firm touches, and hands toying where they shouldn't belong. Warm bodies pressing together with the warmth of liquid gold, like they are each other's vice. A time where the vision you had for the future and your studies and the frailty of life mattered less than each other, and — 

Viktor stirs. His free hand glides over the small of your back, making you arch and curve into him, but his armored palm grasps your face, roughly dragging it back. The smirk that beams across your face is wild. 

"Viktor-"

"Stay still." 

His echoing voice is firm — Your breath catches, but you oblige. 

"Dove." He tsks when you're silent, half-amused, faux-annoyed. The familiar pet name makes your heart twist and flutter. "Are you sure you want to do this here? You cannot wait?" 

You breathe a light laugh, your cheeks slightly sore from his stiff, squeezing touch. Gaze flickering, eyes slightly rolling, you hum, "Don't we deserve a reward? To- I don't know, to celebrate our victory?" 

"We?" Viktor chuckles darkly. His hand shifts, armor cold on your skin as he grips the back of your neck like you're a scruffed kitten. "You wish to be rewarded." 

Your head spins. Your whole body shudders, rich with a clear lack of restraint. The difference in power between you is staggering. 

Beneath his fingertips, you can feel the thrum of magic, necromantic and heady, pulsing at your throat. It courses through your mind with strength that aims to conquer. This sort of magic puts the fear of Death way deep in your stomach. Threads of soft smoke flush over your skin. Your veins tingle. The power you were gifted is not like this, not this forceful, not so carnivorous. 

And yet, even as everything within you shudders, instinctually flinching at the violent weight of rot against your skin, all you can believe is that he deserves to own this power. Viktor should satisfy himself with more, with as much as he desires. The two of you have fought for it, and now, you should get to enjoy it. 

For a moment, you think he has you pinned. But your beloved partner blesses you with mercy. 

"We won," He purrs; and there's such delicious contrast, between the mercilessness Death's closest apostle — Viktor, your Viktor — shows your adversaries, and the patience, the earnestness he extends towards you. 

"Those who dared to oppose us are dead. You did excellently, you are growing stronger. You were very, very good. Is this what you wanted to hear?" 

Viktor speaks close to you, allowing you to feel a frigid brush of smoke fanning out over your skin. His voice resounds through your mind and your eardrums. Your hands threaten to shake, each of his words carved especially for you. Only for you. 

"Yes- Vik," Your breath stutters, flowers in your throat budding with hunger, "Please." 

If he was capable, Viktor would certainly be smirking. A confident, assured grin, like the kind he'd flash after his intricate notes resulted in a successful hypothesis. Your heart pounds loud in your ears, his fingers idly curving over your neck, igniting a famine in your chest. Perhaps he knows more than he's letting on. Perhaps he's realized how terribly you've needed this. 

"Coy, aren't you? Asking so nicely." Viktor guides his opposite, magic-worn palm down your back, tracing where the ridges of your spine would sit. 

Your eyelids flutter, and you're sure it doesn't go unnoticed. You force yourself to breathe deeply, your lungs filled with the warm scent of him: of flame, and ash. 

"When we were Death's mere students, you were often receptive to positive feedback." He continues; his hand maneuvers, pressing his index finger underneath your chin to direct it. "But you were never this insatiable." 

The encompassing lilt to his tone tells you it isn't an insult. No, it sounds like raw, fierce fascination. 

"There wasn't time, we came so close to our goals and- and it just wasn't-" You cut yourself off with a quiet, barely-there gasp when Viktor's hand begins to carefully trail over your neck. Gentle at first, until you're reaching up, placing your much smaller palm over his own, guiding him to squeeze. 

"I just missed you." 

"I never left your side," Viktor counters, matching your gluttony when his thumb swipes over your pulse, the sharp, clawed digit grazing your skin. "I suppose this is what you missed." 

His touch? His voice? The threads of magic that form his figure brushing against your flesh, the divine press of your weak, mortal shape to his? 

Either way, he's right. 

Your blood pumps pleasantly, every facet of your willing gaze focused on him; on the magic swirling through his body, on his death-shaped mask as Viktor's vessel silently examines you. Vision blurring, you relax, allowing your veins to tingle and your head to go hazy. Your arms fall limp, and into his lap. 

The feeling of his hand around your neck makes you shudder with risk. It reminds you of the warmth that courses through your body in the heat of battle, of the delight when you're in the eye of an ongoing conquest. Of the dumb thrills that came when you were young and stupid, when you pushed the boundaries of your research, performing messy seances, unafraid to put your lives on the line. 

Now, all of your life belongs solely to him. 

Yes, you missed this. You missed Vik so badly when you thought you lost him — and oh, having him now makes you feel like you could do anything. You could rule together, if that's what he wanted. Viktor could destroy everything, and you would still follow at his side. An endless, fervent part of you wants to be powerless, because Viktor's hands wouldn't falter if they held your life. They wouldn't hesitate to press against you, with all of the pressure and heat of the sun. Or, they would bend you into submission, until you'd no longer have the need to think. 

Trust and desire make two halves of one whole — your desire speaks in echoes of his name, in every shape. And your trust burns like a suffocating flame in your chest, begging to be made his. 

"You're quivering," Viktor notes, although his touch doesn't waver, doesn't loosen. "Tell me what you are wanting. Your lips can still form words, use them." 

"Need you," You're sputtering, the lightest smile pulling at your cheeks, a playful contrast to the sternness in his tone. Finally, you take a nice deep breath, as his grip moves down the column of your throat to rest over the apex of your chest. "I want you, Vik- right here. Or would you prefer me to beg?" 

Your palms shift up to grip his shoulders again — your gaze on his, pleading, heavy. Your body presses closer, ever-so slightly. It's enough to force Viktor to take a low, deep breath. One that forms smoke, defies reason, choking him with desperation and destruction. With a potency that aims to devour. 

Viktor isn't the man you remember, you knew this when you first swore to join his cause. You would never forsake him, even if Death took him to heights you could not reach. Even if Death sought to become him, in a sickeningly beautiful way, in a way that warrants forbidden deals and dark magic and shallow graves. 

Gods, you would have done it all over again. 

You would've made the same mistakes, walked the same doomed path if it meant he would still return to you, just like this. Stronger. With ambition. Without the need for the pain or the hesitation that came with his previous body and past life. 

You've always found Death to be beautiful. Gentle like the slow wilt of deep petals, resolute like the soft cradling of a final embrace. When your village left you forsaken, the demise you glorified rose to save you. Viktor saved you. Death should be taken with palms outstretched. With an obedient body, ready to be reshaped. With a willing soul, with reverence, with worship — and this is exactly what you need, what you've sought to do. 

Death has always been a knife at your back, Viktor just knows how to guide the blade and twist it deeper. 

"Groveling is unbecoming. Exceptionally so, for the partner of Death's herald." Viktor's voice briefly wavers as he expends something of a sigh. "And it would hardly be necessary. I am already aching to take you." 

You grin, clearly pleased. Your fingertips trace up, gliding over the jagged curves of the armor on his chest. "Eager? Thought I was the insatiable one." 

Viktor, unshaken and controlled, avoids your question entirely. He holds your chin with his unarmored hand. His fingers are delicate, their edges foggy with faint smoke. 

His voice is a low rumble, resounding through every edge of your mind. 

"Do you trust me?" 

Yes, of course I trust you. You've spoken and penned and drowned in those words, countless times before. The relationship you once shared, whatever it meant, was built on trust. The two of you need nothing but your faith and one another. You trust Viktor's ideals. His judgment. His touch. You've never trusted anyone more. 

For Death, you would offer your life, you would embrace every sin, if it meant you'd be offered a knife to save you from the dark. For Viktor, you would become the knife, fighting for his heartbeat over your own, condemning the world and every soul on its surface if he told you it needed to be done. 

And for both, tied together, dangerously one, you'd gladly plunge the dagger of trust into your own chest. 

"I do," You nod shallowly, your gaze unwavering. "Don't hold back. Want you to be rough." 

Thin, glowing flames meet your eyes from beneath Viktor's mask. Carefully, he presses the thick, ice-cold end of his thumb to your pouty bottom lip, foreign sensations sending sparks through you like dying stars. 

Viktor taps your lip gently. "Open your mouth." 

If this was a dance, a carefully performed pirouette at the center of the dimly lit throne room, like countless royals have likely done before you, this would be the moment where you would have been held, and dipped down. Spun in front of everyone, with nothing to be done but brace onto his shoulder, hold on tightly, and follow. The rhythm would heighten, and you'd be left entirely at his mercy. 

Following his instruction, your lips part gently, slowly. Your eyes flicker across his face, never leaving where you're imagining his own gaze to be. His thumb eases in, and just barely presses against the end of your tongue. 

The first thing you taste is smoke. Ashen and ghostly, rich and familiar. It's like breathing air for the very first time. Magic thrums from the fuzzy edges that form his shape; tasteless, but strong, thudding through you like the weight of a panging heartbeat, melting into your veins like dark, lush blood. You swear your senses are washed out in crimson, as he waits for you to lick a thick, hot stripe onto the end of his thumb. Your gaze goes soft and eager then, silently pleading for more. 

To your brief disappointment, he drags his thumb from your mouth, unaffected when you whine. Then, to your delight, Viktor offers you his index, his middle, and his ring. He presses all three fingers to your lips, where you gladly accept, allowing him to shove them into your throat. 

"There," He murmurs, the slightest hint of satisfaction heavy on his tone. Cold, his fingers are cold against your teeth and your tongue when you struggle to suck on them. "You have such a precious, pliant mouth." 

Your only response is a muffled, pathetic hum. One hand finds his wrist, the other settles weakly onto his shoulder. He knows there's no way for you to reply, no option for a rebuttal to form when your pretty mouth is stuffed full. And with more strings of carefully constructed praises, he takes full advantage. 

"You are terribly obedient. Every command, stage by stage, piece by piece, you follow without strife." 

Viktor's fingers press in a bit deeper, making you grip his wrist much tighter. Tears bud at your lashes, your breath sharpens as you fail to stifle a whimper. 

"When Death instructs you to kill, you rend the flesh of whomever He chooses. When I compel you to heel, you settle at my feet." 

At his feet, near his side, in his lap, wherever Viktor wants you — because you are so, remarkably good. 

When you moan softly, threatening to choke, your thighs shifting in a pitiful attempt to rub them together, he drags his fingers back to give you a chance to breathe; a small act of kindness. Your breath catches, heavy and forceful. Your lips glisten with shiny drool. Slowly, once you're ready, he pushes them back in, and settles into a deep, steady pace, languidly fucking your mouth with his fingers. 

You're sure you'll never reach heaven. Not after everything you've done and sworn to do. But as your eyelids flutter, and your legs grow weak, your mouth sufficiently used, you swear this is the closest you'll get. 

"Death does not regret His choice to select you," Viktor assures, cold and composed. "He knows you are His perfect, loyal little disciple. He will be pleased with what you have done here, as am I." 

His fingers are pulled from your mouth slowly, offering you time to gasp and adjust. He holds your chin, taps his fingers against your cheek to make your skin slick with your own spit. A damp, desperate mess still wets your face, and he quickly brushes away the tears that still cling to your lashes with his thumb. Your heart tremors, the gesture all too tender. 

"Vik," You sputter, "Touch me." 

Now, it's his turn to listen. 

Viktor leans back against the throne, getting comfortable. Your grip steadies on his broad shoulders to keep yourself still, your fingers digging into the strong, bone-like frame of his armor. 

A hand finds your waist, trailing down. He pushes up the end of your dress, allowing his touch to carefully brush your thigh. Mere fingertips trace your soft skin; cold as ice, thrumming with magic that ricochets through you like lightning. He finds the blade you routinely keep strapped to your leg. His palm grazes the leather sleeve, and examines the labyrinth of engravings carved into the hilt. 

It's slow, teasing. Effortlessly calculated. Your dress bunches around your hips. Then, once you're drawn to panting breaths and shuddering sighs, he reaches up. With delicate motions, so gentle they contradict his very existence, he pulls at the strings of your corset, helping to untie them until it is loose. 

Your heart shakes your chest. Each light, purposeful touch of his hand against your spine has you reeling. Removing your dress is a swift process, from there. 

It unties as simply as the corset. You rush to pull the smooth satin from your limbs, and adjust to let it fall to the stone floor in a heap. 

Almost fully bare, you settle back into his lap, the cool air of the empty room brushing your skin. Pitch black armor frames his thighs, rough against your own graceful legs. The crow-skull necklace you keep close to your heart sways, tapping against your chest when you shift to get comfortable. Viktor presses a palm to the small of your back to ease you into position — spectral and hazy, settling against smooth, perfect skin. 

Low light envelops you, filtered through stained glass. It frames every curve, each of your blemishes and marks. Your whole figure shakes, forced on instinct to arch into his body, then his touch. Viktor's palm trails from your side to your waist, gentle, tenderly analytical. 

"Look at you," He murmurs, "You are a pleasure to admire." 

Everything within you melts, your body hazy and warm. His hand slowly trails your back, and your clenched jaw finally relaxes. 

"Viktor…" Your gaze is sparkly, you're clearly high on his words. "I asked you to be rough, remember?" 

Gentle fingers tap your skin, the way they would tap against his cane or his desk when he's lost in thought, but he continues with a non-response: "Come here." 

A palm squeezes your waist, guiding you forwards. Your arms wrap around him as you prop yourself up on his lap, knees splayed out over his large thighs. Your lungs practically ache with the weight of the heavy breaths you take in. 

His fingertips trace fiery touches onto your inner thigh. Knowing touches, because he expects the way you whine. He holds you tightly to keep you still once your legs struggle to hold your weight. You swallow, your veins set alight with a violent sense of need. 

"Patience. We can work our way up," He decides; his voice ripples within you deeply, rich with his accent, rumbling with an unearthly echo. Like a hand at your ankle, dragging you down into dark, murky, endless water. 

And you let him take you. 

You stay still as his hand moves, like a tamed pet, until his palm is brushing your stomach, making the knot in your core wind itself even tighter. Until practiced fingertips are gliding beneath the hem of your lace underwear, pressing between your weak legs, finding your waiting, needy entrance — 

Viktor scoffs. He lets go of a dark, deliberate chuckle, one that makes vapor billow from his figure. "But it would seem you do not need it. You are filthy." 

Your forehead falls, leaning against his own — against his mask — and you grip onto his shoulders, tight enough to make your knuckles ache. Wisps of magic brush your face, swirling around you, delighting in your exhilaration. And you are, you're a mess, your arousal wet and dripping as it gets his fingers slick; his middle and ring, this time. 

Despite his instruction, Viktor makes it so difficult to be patient. It takes everything in you not to press against him. Not to feed into your gnawing desperation, bucking your hips into his fingers and grinding on them until they're truly soaked. 

"I- Please-" You choke, barely able to breathe, "Want more…" 

"Is that so? You're in need of more?" Viktor parrots, only slightly mocking with his tone. "Selfish indulgence is rather effective at making mortals forget their place." 

Before your lips can even stumble out a yes, please, his fingers are altering their approach. Slick and determined, they find your swollen clit, flicking over it precisely; he's so close, it's so much. Your body aches, filled so thickly with desire it nearly hurts. Ecstasy licks at your bones, ravenous and all-consuming. 

When you jolt, stuttering through a moan, Viktor's free palm holds your shoulder to steady you. Your hands find the hood of his cloak and grip it tight. They ball up the crimson fabric, long nails digging in. 

Slow, easy circles onto your sensitive clit are all you're given. His palm begins to trace down once you're steady, exploring your collarbones. Brushing further still, to briefly fiddle with the necklace he gave you. 

The twine sits around your neck loosely, partially frayed. The skull has grown worn, faint notches now present on its surface. It's a soft, persistent reminder. You feel it tap against you when he lets it go, only for his large palm to splay itself over your chest, armor cool against your skin. 

You gasp, sounding overly shaky. "Vik-"

"Your poor heart is pounding," He interrupts, hand measuring each tender beat. Quickened and needy, as your heart thuds in your eardrums. "Letting go would prove so simple. So gratifying. You want your mind to be blank, so you might let yourself act on nothing but dumb desire. As all pathetic humans do." 

It would be easy — grinding against his cold, magic-woven fingers. Giving in to the throbbing, enthralling sensations while you pleaded for him to offer you more, to show you mercy. Clearly, Viktor has you exactly where he wants you. 

"If you must be reminded," Viktor continues; his newfound rhythm is practically merciless, his touch teasing your clit until you whine, just to drift to your entrance — warm and wet and waiting, but he doesn't press in. You aren't given what you want. Instead, he observes you silently, perhaps content to watch you struggle. He allows you to shudder, to whimper, your back arching as sparks weigh heavy in the curves of your spine. 

"You are in no position to make demands." 

"I'm not demanding," You gasp out, heavy sighs following the syllables. A faint and eager smile pulls at your cheeks. You know it's a game you'll lose, but it's exciting to play, all the same. "I'm begging." 

Viktor hesitates, savoring those words. The laugh that lilts into your ears is downright maniacal. 

"Tch, greedy thing," He scoffs. His fingertips press into your sweet, sensitive clit firmly, with all of the practiced precision you've been craving. "And here I thought you might finally be taught some restraint. You won't be satisfied until I fill you." 

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait. 

Viktor shifts, dragging you a bit closer on his lap, running his middle digit over your entrance until you're a shivering, fragile mess. Like porcelain, you could break at any moment — but the press of his finger inside you, filling you, finally giving you a hint of blissful reprieve, feels as though you're being placed back together. 

Pleasure rolls over your body like a wave, crashing, drowning. His touch is cool, laced with dark matter. Pulsing with a strong thrum of energy that you can feel so intensely when he's inside you. Strands upon surges of Death's magic, within you, becoming part of you. Eating away at what remains of your soul until you are pierced, much like a rabbit struck with an arrow — delightedly, brutally his. Your vision goes fuzzy once his finger starts to pump. In and then out, to a slow pace, enveloping you in crests of white foam. 

"Viktor…" You murmur his name, broken and weak, and he drinks it in like fine wine; swallows it whole, reduces it to cinders. "Oh- Feels s-so fucking good-" 

You're quivering, from just one finger. Two would likely force you to break. 

"Foolish little lamb." Viktor delights in your subsequent shudder. Always so responsive to his voice, as if he'd given you a command. "Toying with Death, giving themselves, their body, their life. Their unshakable devotion." 

Still, Viktor drags the digit from you; your body falls into him, limp and small. You lean your head against his form, struggling to catch your breath. And at last, he gives you two — his middle, his ring, pressing inside you, filling you deliciously. 

"Death is- oh, fuck…" Your voice tremors, desperate, lovely-toned. Your cheek presses into his chest, wisps of magic pouring over your skin. "Death is my great savior, worthy of- hah- violent worship…" 

His fingers curl. They nudge your velvet walls, pressing a perfect tender spot within you, divine enough to make you wish this moment would last an eternity. "But I'm yours, Vik," You stammer, "Only yours." 

Flames flicker in your core, devouring you in their wildfire — and Viktor sighs, exhaling some soft, dreamy sound. He doesn't relent. He fucks you on his fingers until you're dripping onto him, to the echo of sloppy, wet squelches, your whines and each sinful noise reverberating through the large throne room. 

Your eyes flutter closed. You try to focus on the searing pleasure, getting lost in his touch, in the familiarity of him. Fleetingly, you imagine his face, whatever you still remember of it. His thick brows would be pinched, lips twitched up into a confident smirk. Honeyed eyes washed over with lust, while strands of his hair form a mess in his face, soft when your fingers run through. 

"Vik-" You tense, whining weakly. "I'm close…" 

The hand that reaches for you is ice cold. Gentle, at first, when smoke-filled fingers thread through your hair. Then, deliciously rough when they grab, dragging you back to make you face him. Viktor's expression can no longer waver. There are no eyes for you to stare into — and nothing to sate you, but the fire-filled depths of Death's herald, the end's abyss. 

And oh, how that excites you. 

"Do not let go," Viktor commands, although he punctuates it with a practiced caress of his fingers against your sweet spot. "I know you are capable." 

"No, no…" You're sobbing; you try to shake your head, but he keeps your face in a tight hold. "I can't- no, please, please…" 

You know Viktor, and even though you can't see the glint in his gaze, you can feel each determined press, pumping to a pace that has you throbbing. Gods, his stupidly delicate hands, his long fingers, somehow feeling even longer when they're filling you down to his knuckles. Your heart pounds, forcing your ribs to ache. You grind your teeth together, your jaw relaxing slightly when his thumb traces your shaky bottom lip. 

Viktor has you on the edge of shattering — but you will break when he demands it, or you will not break at all. 

"Missed you, f-fuck, oh, Vik-" Melting, you're going to melt as you stammer on, searching for some sort of foothold, anything to grasp onto. You shut your eyes tight enough to paint spots in the darkness of your vision. "Wanted this for so long, and when you were gone, when I tho-thought I lost you…" 

Another press, another persuasion; his fingers sheathe inside you until you're stretched around their thickness, a shuddery moan punched from your lungs. They crook and spread experimentally; he isn't even trying to make you cum, and yet it still feels so, so good. His free palm drifts down, and he lightly holds your neck, grounding you. 

"You will not lose me. We are destined to bring humanity to its knees, you and I." Viktor taps your neck, feeling your pulse — blissful, mortal, a sensation he's long since lost. "Fools will attempt to stand in our way, but they will be smothered in the ashes of their forebears. We will have what remains of mankind at our feet." 

"Yes, yes-" You can barely discern what it is you're begging for. His touch, his voice, perhaps for your release. Anything coherent dissolves in your mouth, until you're spitting up scattered petals of moans and whines — "V-Viktor, please…"

"Shh. We will not become severed, dove. Not ever again," Viktor hums, his tone rumbling through you, fiercely euphoric. "As I was dying, left to crumble in the underworld, I only thought of crawling my way back to you." 

Viktor made you a promise. For you, any will would be done. 

For you, the weight of Death and the wrath of the Gods would be worth it. All of this would mean something, something more than power. More than the gnawing ache to forget himself. 

When you were human, every moment meant so much. You had the nerve to put your lives on the line, but neither of you had the guts to admit this temporary life was much sweeter spent beside one another. The accidental touches, the brushes of hands, the glances that lingered. Days spent talking to each other through research notes, colliding with the nights you spent alone, counting and categorizing stars — it must've been important enough to hold onto. Soft words led to softer touches, and the need to just be close. At one point, you would have done anything to feel this, to feel him. 

And you're there, you're right there. 

Pleasure buds within you — a sea of stars, on the edge of imploding. But Viktor is always several steps ahead. 

The precipice you've been craving doesn't reach you, because instead, his fingers are carefully easing from your aching cunt, leaving you to throb around nothing. Your head instantly spins in endless circles. Everything is hazy, to the point where you can't decide where your ecstasy begins or ends, or heightens or fades; all you know is it wasn't enough. You almost cum, empty and teased, just from the fading stimulation mixed with the lack of it. 

But almost isn't what you need. 

You're given several moments to breathe. When you finally raise your head from his chest, his palm slipping from your neck to leave it bare, you're met with the same blank, Death-shaped visage. The only sign of a crack in Viktor's composure is the soft smoke that pours from the gaps in his mask, curling around your figure in spirals. 

"Breathe," Viktor instructs. His palm searches for your back, caressing gently, cooling your heated skin. "How do you feel?"

"Good." Your lungs are aching. Your voice is weak, shaking more than intended when it leaves your lungs. But even more palpable in your veins than the desire, is your warm, steadfast trust. "I can keep going." 

"Is this how you want me? Resting in my lap? Or perhaps on your knees?" 

"Like this," You murmur, certain of yourself. "I need you, all of you." 

All of him, and all of Death. Every fragment of his present and future, and the pact he forged to bind them. Whatever Viktor has become, you will embrace it. You'll let it haunt you, let it own you. 

Your partner cups your face in a frigid, ghostly palm, his touch light, barely tangible. Cold like frozen water and stagnant skin. You give in, allowing your expression to soften. 

Countless souls have been felled this way, by his hands, every adversary made to tremble at his feet. This is what he was made for. What he fought and studied and died for. To destroy. And you still lean into his touch, as though it aims to save you. 

From then on, you're hurrying, desperate, lifting your weakened legs to shrug off your underwear and toss it aside. Viktor brushes his thumb over your cheek once more before he lets go. He rolls his shoulders back lazily, while your hands move — a palm pressed to his chest, to his side, anywhere you can still touch. Another hand eagerly removing his loosely-fastened armor, before tugging at his loincloth to reveal his lap. 

You swallow so hard your eardrums crackle. You should be used to the sight of him — fat, dripping, incandescent. His cock radiates in shades of azure, definite and physical when you drag the pad of your finger from base to tip, despite the wisps of phantom flame that ripple over your hand like clouds. It has your heart lodging in your throat, pounding hard. 

You place both hands on his shoulders and lift, to which he grazes your waist with his palm, carefully helping you find your position. Not grabbing, not pulling. You can dictate the pace, he silently offers. So, you take your time, breathing first, waiting for your gaze to refocus and steady. The difference in size in between you is already making your head fucking whirl. 

Viktor was always tall, but his current form is formidable, bulky. In his lap like this, with his large hand dwarfing your waist, you must look small. You could easily be broken, pressed into any position. Could be held, or lifted, or shoved down while you're fucked. So weak and mortal and useless, when compared to his massive frame. So desperate, tossing your morality aside, so you can melt at the hands of a revenant, one of Death's all-powerful Sworn. 

And yet, it's his gentleness that truly kills you. 

Shifting, you lean into him on shuddery legs, trusting him to hold your weight. You move, until the tip of his cock can brush your entrance, soft like a kiss. You're already throbbing, already needy. The breath you suck in through half-gritted teeth is sharp enough to slice your lungs. 

"Pretty little dove. I have you," Viktor coos, his voice echoing through your mind like a shout into a wishing well. "There is no obligation to push your limits. We have infinite time." 

You nod. But you want to push them. 

You reach for his palm, pulling it from your waist to guide it up, up. It glides over your stomach, feels the space between your ribs, and settles against the very center of your chest when you press it there. His fingers are cool, still slick with your arousal. 

"Viktor…" You take a nice, deep breath. One he can feel, from the movement of your lungs to the skip of your heartbeat. 

Deathly familiar, you know exactly what you want, exactly what you're asking for. Perfectly in sync, indulging in the same sin, biting into the same piercing sweetness of the apple — this is where your dance completes. 

Your breath hitches as you finally sink down onto him; the thick head of his cock stretches you first, getting you used to the ache. It grants you a thick sense of pleasure, after you were deprived of what you truly needed. And you need to feel more. 

You hold onto him tighter, nails digging into his armor, while you ease down enough to take half of him. And oh, you're so full. Sufficiently stretched, throbbing around his thickness so eagerly, perfect for him and his shape. Magic thrums from Viktor's palm. The slightest tremor is present in his fingers as he leans back into the throne, breathing something of a pleasured sigh. Onto your chest, onto your skin like a brand, with your necklace pushed aside, he wills a symbol to inscribe. 

It burns into your skin with waves of rich, delightful pain. A circular shape is formed first, branching into the middle: a triangle, a skull over your heart, a seven-pointed star. 

Your mind goes woozy. You glance down, unsure if you want to watch the mark as it comes into shape, beneath Viktor's practiced fingertips, or if your gaze should stay stuck on the weak blue glow bulging your stomach, Viktor's length nestled half-way inside you. 

The mark completes, and you're no longer given a choice. 

Energy surges through you instantly, claiming every inch of your mind that it can. Intense, alive, and effervescent, the sigil starts strong, before the magic tapers out into a weak lull, like a storm fading into faint drops of rain. You drown, before you're able to breathe. Death magic carries sensations you're acquainted with, but it's entirely different to have it used on you. The force of its manipulation is directly controlled by the wielder, and Viktor has specifically chosen to apply little pressure. 

It feels like him. Thrums with pulses of him, flooding your chest with repetitions of his name, enveloping you just as intensely as the feeling of him inside you. Dark energy laces through your system. You are one, on this plane and the next, for a moment. The symbol scorches deep into your skin, proving you are his. Your head is woozy, your sensations heightened. 

You could break away, could fight the weak threads of baleful power that threaten to wrap around your neck. But with a deep, dizzy breath, you decide to let yourself succumb. 

Holding onto him weakly, your eyes roll back before they flutter closed. Pleasure runs rampant in your blood; you can only act on instinct. Every sensation blurs and melds, cold against warm, his body joined with yours — but your warmth is winning. Heat wraps around you, tightens on your limbs and spills into your organs. When your body becomes flush with his, filling you with all of him, you feel full, feel him throb inside you, like a heartbeat's substitute. 

Viktor trails his fingertips over the intricate angles of the scar, perfectly placed on your pretty skin, all-consuming. 

"You are-" He shudders, "Exquisite." 

He fills you so, so good. 

You can feel so much of him, pressed within you deeply. Fuck, he's so deep you feel like you can taste him, so big it has your lungs barely functioning. 

His name is in your heart, surrounding you like an embrace — in your veins like a sickness. The tender, bright, tangible version of him works into your every breath, some form of lingering energy, reminding you of the soft touches you always wanted. Soft skin, firm bone, a warm soul. But the power he's been given, the power he has over you lacks gentleness. It prods into your edges, blood-soaked and destructive. 

The swollen head of him nudges your sweet spot with every slight shift. To the point where you wouldn't have to move, you could just grind oh-so gently, and still find a smooth, soft release. Your mind is reeling, far too dizzy. 

"Eyes open." 

Viktor grasps your face, and you feel your veins surge. The mark on your chest glows, resonating with strength, with the instruction you've been given. It coaxes you. Persuades you in his voice to listen — your eyes will open for him. And they do. 

"Perfect," He praises. Your limbs tremor slightly, your lips parted as you gasp, eyelids drooping. He admires the lust in your gaze, pupils blown like new moons. "Very, very good." 

And the weight of his control forces itself into your mind without doubt, has you believing and telling yourself you are perfect, you are pliant, you are good. 

With the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, you can barely find your focus. Everything in you is strung tight, entranced and desperate. You're so weak, and it's so intense; you'd do anything to feel him thrust into you once, to hear the way he'd purr and scoff when you would fall apart just from that. 

Your eyes flutter, but your gaze doesn't move. It can't, not when you're allowing yourself to be swallowed by the sigil. Giving permission to have your throat caught in Death's — in Viktor's — sharpened jaws. You feel his palm move before you see it, his fingertips roaming every inch of you like it's something he owns, leaving trails of breathy smoke in his wake. 

Clearly, Viktor's composure is just fine. Even when you're tight around him like the world's sweetest vice, even when pleasure has returned within him to an unfathomable intensity, he has no need to waver. But you? 

As strong and as towering as a herald of Death could possibly be, and as weak and human as you are, you weren't built to take this much. 

Viktor believes differently. 

"Gods, you're fucking warm," He murmurs. There's an edge to his tone, from the echo of his words to the thickness of his accent that makes his voice sound terribly, brokenly human. "You were made for this. For me." 

His palm brushes over you softly, down your chest and to your waist, gripping there to steady your figure. You breathe in deeply, and Viktor caresses your skin with his thumb, in an attempt to ease your obvious tension. The sigil thrums, weakens. Loosens its hold to offer you a chance to escape. A chance you refuse to take. 

"Are you overwhelmed?" Viktor reasons; softness spills into you, so lovesick you'd almost forgotten what it could feel like. It is your softness, it has your name on it. "Or have we not yet found the limit of your resolve?" 

You shudder. "Not- ah-" It's hard to form words, when you're weak and cock-drunk and stuffed full of him, "I can- I can take it, want more, Vik…" 

"Excellent." Viktor leans back, settling comfortably into the throne. Flames flicker from beneath his mask, and you imagine how his gaze might drink you in. Admiring your small form as your chest gently heaves, like prey, when compared to him. Like a delicate little rabbit. "Take it, then. Take what you need from me." 

You've no need to hesitate. 

You start with slow grinds, your hands steadying on his broad shoulders, your weight braced against him. Your movements are faint. You keep him buried inside you down to the hilt, your arousal a glossy, wet mess on the base of his cock — but even so, every rock and pulse and spark of pleasure is relentless. 

The strength of the rune in your chest swallows you and you let it, allowing its influence to make you selfish; Viktor's heart tells you to take what is yours, to not stop. You listen. You circle your hips, and breathe a pathetic whine as his length learns every inch of you, while he watches you grind on him — like the pathetic thing you are. 

It's addictive, to watch you use him. Viktor grips your waist hard, tight enough to leave indentations of his touch, to hide the shudder in his fingertips. You're fluttering around him, and he doesn't even have to touch you. 

But when he does, trailing his hand up to your side and over your stomach, with all of the softness of someone who knows you, who has already long since memorized your shape — you sob, your bottom lip quivering. You are Death's perfect servant, Viktor's muse, delicate for him, only for him. 

"Viktor…" You're cooing, your voice breaking with another soft roll of your hips; are you the only one left who still remembers that name? "Want to- wanna kiss you…" 

He isn't sure if it's an empty plea, but still, Viktor presses his thumb to your mouth. Your lips are deathly soft, your breath foggy against him as you pant and breathe him in.

You litter the pad of his thumb with kiss after kiss. Your gaze is heavy, your tongue is wet and warm. His thumb smears your own saliva over your kiss-swollen lips. This tenderness is a form of devotion he isn't meant to feel, but you make it oh-so effortless. 

His palm drifts down to hold your chin. Your breath fans over the expanse of his mask, your bodies close. The mark hums, asking for entry. 

As you grind against him, slow and steady to tease the edge of your release, you wait for it to unfold you. Like a flower, like hands gently brushing your pages. Easily molded, your mind opens to him, desperation and all. He feels the same pleasure as you, a mosaic of sparks and perfect warmth bridging from your body to his. He drowns in your thoughts, as vividly as if he were dreaming them. 

He syncs with the pound of your heart, sees thin limbs entangled, touches pressed to pallid skin and pretty moles. His own reflection was almost something he'd forgotten. Your spine curls, and a soft whine is pulled from your mouth to vibrate against his thumb. You shift, taking half of him inside you, before you sink back down to fuck yourself on him. Pure, raw bliss drips through you like honey. 

And your thoughts reconvene. You imagine his touch, on your cheek, on your neck, on your thighs. The power that answers to him shudders within you in turn, as strong as the rot you can feel when you touch him; the end's form of devotion. 

You picture the throne room. The soldiers, easily felled. The king, humiliated. A soft touch, as you wiped the blood that still clung to his hands: crimson like roses. A firm, desperate jolt as you recall the way Viktor's adversaries would fight, would plead, would demonstrate how weak and pathetic they are, before Viktor effortlessly disposed of them all. 

Oh. You are sweet. 

Viktor laughs. He grasps your face, tilts it towards him. 

"I see nothing has changed since the day we met," He coos, sounding almost adoring, "You are still reckless. Ambitious. Obsessive." 

You gasp; tugging at your chest, you can feel every pull of the sigil, every press and caress of his phantom shape to your thoughts. You steady your palms on his chest as you lift, then grind, bouncing yourself on his lap, your soft skin rhythmically colliding with his firm armor. 

"Yes- hah, Vik-" Your throat is tight, your hands shake and grip him as hard as you can manage. "Love watching you win." 

The thought of it all, the thrill of the triumph, the devotion that comes with Death's praises and sacrificing souls — 

"Did it excite you?" Viktor trails his palm down your neck, fingertips searching for your quickened pulse. "Witnessing an army of fools perish, as Death claimed their pitiful souls? Watching me crush them?" 

It enamored you. 

From the moment you met him, you knew Viktor was right. All of this power finally at his fingertips, Death noticing his vision and granting him a rightful place at his side — it was only a matter of time. This is what you have always wanted, for Viktor to win. 

Perhaps you are his only remaining tie to humanity. Perhaps you, as a mortal, are no better than the rest. You'd submit if he asked you to, you'd give yourself to him, worship him. Just as the countless souls he's reaped have done before you. 

"Death will- He will be fed-" You're stuttering; your breath is sharp, beads of sweat forming to drip down your skin. "I'd never forsake Him, for- for as long as I live…" 

You grind against Viktor hard, desperate, collapsing, growing soft like a rose unfurling in sunlight. Leaning against his chest, you can only rely on clumsy bucks of your hips as you splinter, as you threaten to break, every tight thread within you inches away from being untied. 

"They'll all p-pay… they'll all fall at your feet… kiss the ground you walk on, fucking- beg for mercy…" Your voice is weak, and you're close, so close. "Please please please…" 

Viktor presses his cold palm to your chest, to the mark, forcing it to thrum with more strength than ever. Controlling, instructing, gripping your heart in two hands. His voice resounds through your mind with the weight of a knife to your chest. 

Fall apart for me. 

And you fall — fast, hard, instantly. 

The carnal force of the command, the surging fire of the spell that binds you, all of it pales in comparison to your blistering, syrup-rich high. 

Every edge to your precipice is forceful. You sigh through broken moans, grinding against him desperately to ride out each wave, gushing and fluttering around him. Your muscles tense in turn, before they fall limp. Strings of half-moans and bitten swears leave your lips, so slurred they could be mistaken for incantations. 

Your breathing becomes slow, hazy. You lean your arms on his shoulders, your head on his chest; his body, your anchor. Even in the wake of your high, you're still fluttering around his length, warm and twitching and needy. 

"Look at you." Viktor's voice takes several moments to register, and it takes you even longer to finally lift your head. You grow lost in the smoke that surrounds you, the coolness of his figure brushing over your skin, as soft as a breath. 

"You are stunning," He decides. His head tilts slightly to examine you, his index finding its place underneath your delicate chin. "Dangerously so." 

You whine weakly. Your thoughts are becoming dangerous. Despite still attempting to catch your breath, your gaze stays locked on where his would be, and you circle your hips on his still-hard cock — a silent plea for more. Aftershocks of pleasure ripple through your system. Your thighs are weak, shaking. They're barely able to hold your weight, and Viktor thankfully braces his armored hand on your side, clawed fingers digging in sharply. 

"Though, I believe we have reached a misunderstanding." Viktor caresses the mark on your chest, examining each individual scar, carved in his image. "Your fealty is exceptionally admirable. But you do not belong to Death. Every inch of you is mine." 

Those words sink into your stomach like a stone thrown into water. Your mind, your body, your end would be at his hand, you're sure of it. You could never ask for any other fate. 

He tightens his hand on your waist, and he takes back control. 

If it's more you want, more is what he's going to give. 

Viktor has every right to call you ambitious, but the word is certainly more suited for him. He was always driven, drowning himself in his studies, no matter the risk. Researching life's great departure was a talent for him, but he didn't achieve it overnight. He does not let obstacles stand in his way. There is nothing he can't surpass, no-one who could best him, no soul that could sway him from his conviction. Death admired that about him, as do you. 

There is something to Viktor that needs to improve, that longs to put adversaries in their place, that is always searching for a way to be better, to do better. To push limits, wherever they might stand. 

And the way Viktor fucks you drips with nothing short of ambition. 

There's nothing for you to do but hold onto him tight, as he drags you up and down on his cock with relative ease. Your voice splinters, your breathing rough and forceful. Every thrust bullies your sweet, oversensitive cunt, to the point where you are limp and weightless, entirely at his mercy. If you weren't used to your partner's tenacity, if you didn't know Viktor, you might've whimpered, might've pleaded through the overstimulated sparks in your core that you can't cum again. 

If only. 

Countless sensations envelop you; the frigid chill of his body, the warmth of your skin, the fluttering of your walls around him, used and still-desperate. You cover your mouth with your palm, although it does little to stifle your noise. Nor does it quiet the echoing in your ears, reverberated each time he eases deep inside you — slick, wet, filthy. 

It hardly matters to you how wrong it is to fuck him here. This throne room was once sacred, torn paintings and burnt flags and stained glass pictures surrounding you, depicting holy symbols. Meant to imply the Gods of the living are watching over. 

Part of you hopes they'd turn their divine gazes away from this, so they wouldn't see you falling apart. So they couldn't judge the way you envelop every inch of one another, your breath hot and your thighs spread as you give yourself to Death's all-powerful herald, taking all of him in turn. 

Viktor chuckles, a laugh that still shakes him for several moments afterwards. Twin flames watch as you bounce for him, your chest expanding and contracting, hair a mess in your face, eyes glossy like a doll's. 

"Ha… That stupid, useless, insignificant king," Viktor's tone sharpens, as though his teeth are gritting. A firm thrust into you makes you whine and arch further into him. "Do you think he's watching, gazing at us from his dark prison in the depths of the underworld, as we make a mockery of his throne? As we fuck each other like animals, after easily felling his entire squadron, with hardly even a lifted finger?" 

You can't help but sob. 

"Don't st-stop," You're hardly able to reply, hardly able to form words, let alone coherent thoughts. Not when Viktor is fucking up into you to his own brutal, steady pace, complying with your words before he's even heard them — not stopping, leaving you barely any room to breathe. 

"Please," You plead, "Viktor…" 

"Yes, tell them who you belong to." His voice pounds into your mind, with the force of a hammer and a nail, rich and commanding, terribly familiar. "Tell Lord Death and the Gods of the living exactly who is destined to rule over them all." 

Sparks surge up your spine with a vengeance nearly as strong as his own. 

"You, Viktor," You're begging, sobbing. Your words are thick with devotion, like they're words of worship, as if they could be prayers. "I'm yours… yours, yours, yours…" 

You hardly expect the full-body shiver that courses through him, putting his frame off-kilter, briefly bringing clumsiness to his pace. Your forehead leans against his chest, your spine arches. Your hands shakily glide over the tangible parts of his figure. His palm finds the curve of your waist that just begs to be held, gripping you tight. With composure. 

"If I could kiss you," Fuck, his voice is soft, reminiscent of a past life; his hips roll into you and you can no longer breathe, can't even think. "I would let my mouth memorize yours." Viktor presses his cold, smoke-ridden fingertips into your side — "I would want us to devour one another, until we are part of the same flame. I-" A sigh, a resounding whine from your own lips, "I could long for centuries to feel you beneath my ribs, like a second soul." 

Your heart pounds, shaking your chest, getting stuck in your throat. 

He's never considered returning to a human vessel, it'd have too many limitations, but when he looks at you, he wants nothing more than to touch you. To feel you without layers of finality in between, to dig his fingertips into your ribs and feel your heart beating, to burn himself on you like you're a pyre. Such desires are useless, distracting, human. And yet, and yet — 

"Vik-" You manage, "Harder." 

You want him harder, rougher, more. Your thighs ache, but you try to rock your body against his in feverish unison, meeting each press inside you with your own grind into him. 

With a broken moan, your eyes flutter shut. You are perfect, so otherworldly, so beautiful when you're at his mercy. Each soft stretch of what remains of him echoes with your name, consumes him and begs to take you, to claim you, to ruin you. Viktor groans, puffs of smoke expelling from beneath his cloak to settle on your skin, thick and humid. 

You take all of him, until you're full, until your bodies are one; the tremor to your thighs and the break of your voice tells him you're almost there. 

"Close," You pant, "Gonna cum for you-" 

"Beg for it." Viktor's words slur slightly, but they're tender, they're assured. They're desperate. "Tell me how much you need me." 

Oh, and you don't even need to be commanded. 

"Need you, Vik, need you so much-" You meet where his gaze would be with wide, doe-eyes, with fluttery lashes and faint tear drops. "Need you more than Death, need you more than breathing-" 

The room teeters around you, everything dizzy, your limbs weak. You only need a little more, one more spark, one last wave. Another grind of your hips to his, another press of his cock right where you need him, more friction and pressure lacing together until they're left to build, and build. 

"Viktor… Viktor, I'm-" 

You beg his name, chanting it like it's precious. Breathing it like a prayer, pleading to him like he is divine. Broken sighs and gasps hammer at your lungs. The world could burn out, could turn to ash in his wake, and this, and he would be all that matters. 

Flickering, his flame heart stirs; possessiveness takes over, as strong as teeth at his neck. For once, his soul — or the lack thereof — shines. He finds your cheek, holds it carefully, brushes his thumb over your skin with enough tenderness to make you ache. You are his, only his. 

Neither Viktor nor yourself can ever truly die, bound to servitude by the pact made to save you. So this, tender and hungry, is how you will reach the end. 

You blend into one another with fuzzy edges and tender grinds and soft gasps — becoming two halves of one whole. Heaven and the underworld, darkness and light, perfect reflections. Entwined divinely, with beautiful finality. 

Your body shudders, heat lacing through your every crevice. In the moment where you cum together, you can't feel anything but the pulse of him within you, can't see anything but hazy lines and smoke. Blue wisps surrounding you, within you. The azure glow in your stomach burns bright, before it gradually lessens. 

Breathing hard, you lean against him. Small against his shape, blissfully weak. Viktor doesn't attempt to move you, but he carefully works his hand in between you. His palm glides over your chest, presses to the center. The magic dampens, leaving your veins, and loosening its grip on your heart. Only the mark is left behind, his cool touch helping to alleviate the pain. 

"Little lamb…That's enough." Viktor's voice sounds sore, almost, not exactly human but reminiscent of the rough sharpness of wind. He trails his fingertips over the scar on your skin as he comes back to himself, before drifting down to hold your waist. "You've done so well." 

It takes you a few minutes longer to fully catch your breath, and even so, your heart pounds quickly and softly. You lift, and he helps you pull yourself off of him, adjusts so you can find a more comfortable position on his lap. Your arms find his shoulders, embracing him in something of a hug. Leaning into his much larger body, you let his touch and the mist envelop you like a grave. 

"You should rest," Viktor reasons, "Today was extensive. If you stay awake any longer, I'll be carrying you tomorrow." 

The throne room is empty and quiet. You grumble, but you don't protest when he grasps your face and lifts it to look at you. 

Your cheek leans into his touch, your eyelids heavy. "We're going north, right? Gods, it's gonna be cold." 

"Oh, you'll be fine. I'm sure you still remember how to conjure a flame." 

His hand slips from your cheek, and you grasp it carefully, placing a faint kiss onto his knuckle; still shaped like you remember. 

"Will you rest with me?" 

This form does not require rest, or sleep. Really, it wasn't meant to indulge in anything mortal. Perhaps it would be against Death's wishes to do so. Viktor's research once determined that a form like this would be detached from reality. Conjurations of Death do not have souls; they trade them, in exchange for a better body. They lack empathy, emotion, understanding. The basis of Death's strength sacrifices everything in exchange for irreversibility. Nothing else should matter. But — 

"Yes," Viktor answers, "Of course." 

— 

Death's opposition dwindles. 

It is uninteresting, truly. The earth is becoming barren, as more and more souls convene with his army in the underworld. Death has shown me visions. He is planning to soon take full control of this plane, to come with soldiers and deathriders to claim the last of the mortals. 

I believe our approach should be grander. This abundance of souls could be used as more than mere meat puppets. Death might disagree. But power, not the strength you gained on a whim, but the leverage you have grasped for yourself is a fierce, funny thing. 

My partner is one step ahead, because they already understand this concept. I have watched the darkness in their gaze grow, day by day. Yet, their light never falters, when they are looking at me. I am grateful to have them at my side. 

Our last adversary was difficult, but they felled them all on their own. They were the one to plunge their dagger into the fool's heart, returning his soul to the ground.

More will follow. Perhaps mortals. Perhaps Death's army. It matters not. Not to us. 

For dust they are, and to dust, they all shall return. 

— V. Unknown Date, 1619.