#just keep in mind that the players don't know everything

[wannabehockeygf]

Good Graces | Conor Garland

"With your favorite athlete, Shoot his shot every night, Want you every second, Don't need other guys."

request: "I was thinking of a fluffy fic between him and a fem!team medic who he is good friends with because of how often he ends up getting hurt, putting himself in the middle of scrums and everything. I know that's kind of just a general premise, but I wanted to leave it up to you where you want to take it from there :)" summary: two times conor wanted to kiss you, and one time you kissed him.

word count: 5.3k

pairing: conor garland x fem!reader

warnings: blood & injury

notes:

hiiii welcome & thanks for requesting. hope I fulfilled your wishes!

i don't know much about garland but I love making players divas so I inserted that here lmao :3

keep requesting new & different players guys!! i love doing it.

You signed your contract for your job with one goal in mind–don’t fall for a hockey player.

Pretty easy, right? Especially since, as a team medic, you largely dealt with them all sweaty, bloody, and generally in a state of chaos. Not attractive at all. Definitely not. Yet here you are, hovering over him again.

Conor Garland, number 8 on the ice and, in your opinion, number one in "most likely to get into a fight over nothing." You fold your arms as he limps into the med room, wearing a ridiculous grin despite the cut above his eyebrow. “That bad, huh?” he teases, his voice holding that familiar playful edge. He’s pretending to wince as he climbs onto the exam table, like it’s a whole ordeal for him.

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for the gauze, your hands moving on autopilot. “You know, if you stopped fighting for five seconds, you might actually get through a game without needing stitches.”

He chuckles softly, but the sound is laced with something else. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a little too relaxed, too content, considering he just came off the ice. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You look up at him, raising an eyebrow, but the sight of him smiling, like he’s enjoying himself a little too much for someone who’s supposed to be injured, throws you off. He’s been doing this a lot lately, showing up with bruises and cuts that could’ve been avoided. You’d never say it out loud, but part of you suspects he’s getting into these scrums on purpose.

His eyes flicker to yours, just for a moment, before he quickly looks away, feigning a deep interest in the ceiling. “What?” you ask, crossing your arms again.

“Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

Right. Sure.

You press the gauze to his eyebrow a little harder than necessary, and he winces, though you can’t tell if it’s real pain or exaggerated for your benefit. You narrow your eyes. “Stop squirming.”

He gives a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. There’s always this easy back-and-forth with him, like the two of you have fallen into some unspoken routine. You patch him up, and he finds new ways to annoy you, all with that same boyish grin on his face.

You finish dabbing at the cut, the soft pressure of the gauze soaking up the blood that’s already drying around the edges. As you work, the steady rhythm of your movements almost feels too comfortable, like this is the hundredth time you’ve patched him up—because, well, it probably is.

"Conor," you murmur, half to yourself, half in warning, as you reach for the antiseptic. His skin smells of sweat and ice, a mix that’s become weirdly familiar, like the scent of the rink itself but so uniquely him.

He tilts his head a little, trying to catch your eye, but you focus on the task at hand, avoiding the gaze you know is waiting for you. Your fingers brush against his temple, and for a split second, you swear you feel him tense up under your touch. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual casual grin.

“You gotta stop doing this,” you sigh, and it comes out softer than you intend. The antiseptic stings as you swipe it across the cut, and he flinches again, though not as much as he should.

“Doing what?” he asks, his voice low, almost playful. He’s watching you again, those brown eyes darkened by the fluorescent lights of the med room.

“This.” You gesture vaguely at his face, at the various bruises and cuts that seem to accumulate each time he steps onto the ice. “Getting into pointless fights. You think I don’t notice? You’re not even supposed to be a fighter, Conor. Half the time, you’re chirping at guys twice your size. Why?”

The silence between you stretches just long enough to make you uneasy. You feel the weight of his stare, the slight twitch of his mouth like he’s holding back from saying something.

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something else behind the movement, something unspoken. “Part of the game, right?” he offers, too nonchalant, like he’s testing the waters.

You don’t buy it, not for a second. But what are you supposed to say? Call him out directly? Admit you’ve noticed the way he lingers around the med room a little longer than necessary, how his smile stretches wider every time he manages to make you roll your eyes? It feels too much, too real, to acknowledge the way your heart stutters just a little when you hear his name over the PA system.

You sigh again, grabbing the butterfly stitches and nudging his chin up with more force than necessary. His skin is warm, too warm for someone who just came off the ice, and you have to focus hard not to notice the way his jaw clenches under your fingers.

“You’re gonna end up with a permanent scar if you keep this up,” you say, and there’s a softness in your voice now, one you can’t quite hide. The words come out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and the quiet stretches on again, filled only by the sound of your breath and the subtle scratch of fabric as he shifts on the exam table. Then, his voice cuts through the stillness, quiet but sure.

“I don’t mind it,” he says, and it takes you a second to register what he’s talking about.

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. He’s still smiling, but there’s something different in his expression now, something that catches you off guard. “What?”

“The scars,” he says, shrugging again, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t mind them. Means I get to see you.”

Your heart does a ridiculous little flip at his words, and you curse it for betraying you so easily. You try to play it off with an eye roll, but you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. “You could just... I don’t know, say hi like a normal person instead of getting into fights?”

He chuckles, but the sound is softer now, almost fond. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You press the final stitch into place, leaning back to assess your work. His face is still bruised, still battered, but somehow, he looks completely unbothered by it all. And the worst part? You can’t help but think he looks good like this, even with the mess of bruises and dried blood.

As you’re cleaning up, you feel his eyes on you again, watching with that same stupid grin, like this is all just some kind of game to him. But there’s something else in the way he’s sitting, the way he’s still lingering on the table long after you’ve finished patching him up.

“Are you just going to sit there?” you ask, pretending to be annoyed, though you know the act isn’t fooling anyone.

“Maybe.” He leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, looking far too comfortable for someone who was limping in here five minutes ago. “Depends. You gonna kick me out?”

You roll your eyes, but your chest tightens at the implication, your heart doing that traitorous little skip again. You turn around, crossing your arms, meeting his eyes this time. He’s sitting there, propped up on his elbows, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. And maybe that’s what’s been throwing you off lately—the way he looks at you. Like these moments mean something more to him than just routine check-ups and bandages.

“Conor,” you say, and this time, your voice has more weight to it, though you can’t bring yourself to say what you’re really thinking. Instead, you gesture toward the door, trying to salvage the situation with a teasing edge. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Not really,” he shrugs, still not moving. “Besides, where else would I go? The ice isn’t as fun as this.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, though it’s a losing battle. He’s always had this way of disarming you with a few words, like he knows exactly how to find that crack in your armor.

“Well, you can’t stay here,” you say, but there’s no real bite to your words, and you both know it.

He swings his legs off the table, wincing slightly—more from habit than pain, you suspect—and stands up, but he doesn’t head for the door. Instead, he lingers, too close now, and you find yourself staring at the small cut above his eyebrow, the one you just stitched up. Your fingers itch to brush it gently, to make sure you did it right, but you keep your hands firmly crossed in front of you.

“I think I’m fine now,” he says, his voice quieter than before. “Thanks, doc.”

The nickname always makes you smile, even when you don’t want it to. “You’re welcome,” you reply, but there’s a softness to your tone that wasn’t there a moment ago.

He takes a step closer, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. For a second, neither of you says anything. His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, something you’re not even sure you understand yourself. But whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it—at least, not yet.

“I’ll try not to get into too much trouble next game,” he says with a smirk, though there’s a warmth behind it, something genuine. “But, you know, no promises.”

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Of course not.”

He starts toward the door but pauses just before stepping out, his hand resting lightly on the frame. He turns back to you, his eyes softening in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s no teasing in his voice this time, just something real. “Thanks for always looking out for me.”

You nod, swallowing the lump that suddenly forms in your throat. “Just… try to keep yourself in one piece, okay?”

He grins again, that easy, boyish grin that somehow makes you forget for a second that he’s a professional athlete, bruised and battered from a game most people would never survive. “I’ll do my best,” he promises, but there’s something in his tone that makes you think he’ll be back sooner rather than later.

Another game, another set of bruises.

You’re halfway through patching up another player when you feel it—his presence, the familiar, teasing energy he brings with him. Conor walks into the med room, limping just a little too dramatically to be real. He’s cradling his arm like it’s hanging by a thread, his expression an exaggerated picture of pain.

“Doc, I think this might be the one that does me in,” he says, his voice a mockery of seriousness. The guy you’re helping, one of the newer players, snorts in response, shaking his head as he slides off the table.

You shoot Conor a glance over your shoulder. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Garland.”

The younger player leaves, chuckling under his breath, and suddenly it’s just you and Conor again. You can feel the shift in the air, like it always does when it’s just the two of you. The playful banter, the teasing looks, that undercurrent of something unspoken hanging between you like a thin thread.

You turn around, and there he is, still putting on that ridiculous act. He’s cradling his arm as if it’s broken, but the glint in his eye gives him away. “Oh, I’m sure you’re in agony,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Conor leans against the table with a dramatic sigh, giving you a pained look, as if he’s the one who should be annoyed by all this. “It’s bad, doc. Might need surgery.”

“Surgery, huh?” you quip, folding your arms as you walk over to him. Your eyes roam over his jersey, scanning for any real signs of injury, but all you see is his usual scruffy, disheveled mid-game self. “I can’t really check if you’ve got something serious going on with all that gear.”

He raises an eyebrow, still in character. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, keeping your tone casual, but there’s a hint of something else in your voice now. You tap his arm gently, feigning impatience. “Take off your jersey if you’re so hurt.”

For a split second, the playful energy between you shifts. His teasing smirk falters, his eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place, and suddenly, Conor’s posture straightens. The banter evaporates, leaving only the echo of your words hanging in the air. His hands hover near the hem of his jersey, clearly caught off guard by your request.

He stares at you like you’ve just asked him to do something much more intimate than you intended, and it takes a moment before he recovers his composure. “Uh… right. Yeah. Okay.”

You watch as he hesitates, tugging at the fabric, trying to hide the way his fingers fumble with it. And for once, he’s flustered—really flustered. It’s not the usual Conor Garland confidence or playful bravado. His face is flushed, the pink creeping up from his neck to his cheeks, and you can’t help but find the sight... oddly endearing.

You shouldn’t be enjoying this, but you are.

He finally manages to pull the jersey over his head, tossing it aside without meeting your eyes, and you catch the briefest glimpse of the toned muscles under his shoulder and chest pads, the faint sheen of sweat from the game still clinging to his skin. You swallow hard, trying not to let your mind wander too far as you force yourself to stay professional.

You step closer, eyes focused on the faint bruise blooming across his ribs, though it’s clear he’s milking the situation. “This?” you ask, pressing your fingers gently against his side. “You came in here for this?”

You stare at the bruise, your fingers resting lightly against his skin. It’s small, nothing serious—a faint discoloration, more from the impact than anything worth worrying about. But you both know this isn’t about the bruise. It never is with Conor.

You don’t pull away, and neither does he. There’s a moment of quiet, the banter fading into the background, leaving just the two of you in this strange, charged silence. You can feel the warmth of his body under your fingertips, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The tension in the room shifts, thickening like a storm cloud.

“You really thought this was worth all that drama?” you murmur, your voice soft now, not teasing, just… there. You trace the edge of the bruise absently, the pads of your fingers barely brushing against his skin.

Conor swallows, and you catch the movement of his throat, the way his eyes flicker down to where your hand rests on him before darting back to your face. His voice is quieter when he responds, less of that exaggerated confidence he usually carries with him. “Well, I figured… might as well get some attention while I’m at it, right?”

You don’t miss the way he says attention, how it lingers between the two of you, a little too close to the truth. Your heart skips, your pulse quickening in a way you hope he doesn’t notice.

But he’s staring at you now, the teasing smile faded, his brown eyes more serious than you’ve ever seen them. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, but in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. Like something is about to happen, something you’ve both been tiptoeing around for too long.

Your hand is still on his side, your fingers barely moving, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body, the way he’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Maybe you are too. The room feels impossibly small, the space between you shrinking with each breath.

“I… probably shouldn’t have made you take off your jersey,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, a weak attempt to break the tension, to say something, anything, that might diffuse whatever’s building between you. But even as you say it, you don’t pull away.

He doesn’t either.

“Nah,” he replies softly, his voice lower now, the usual playfulness gone. “It’s fine.”

You’re not sure if he means the jersey or the way your fingers are still pressed against his ribs, or maybe both. Either way, the tension doesn’t break. It only tightens, drawing you both closer without either of you moving an inch.

You can feel your pulse in your throat, your breathing shallow, and for a split second, you let your gaze drop to his lips. It’s a brief, unconscious movement, but it’s enough. He notices.

Conor shifts, barely perceptibly, but you feel it—the subtle lean, the way his eyes flicker to your mouth. Your heart pounds, the room spinning around the two of you like everything else has fallen away. You’re not even sure how you ended up here, this close, this vulnerable, but the pull is undeniable.

Your hand slides down slightly, resting at his waist now, and his breath hitches. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body seems to react to your touch, and for a second, you think maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment you’ve both been avoiding for so long, the moment where everything changes.

His lips part, and your breath catches. You’re so close now, close enough to feel the heat of him, to see the soft curve of his mouth, to—

The door creaks open behind you, and the spell shatters.

You both freeze, the tension shattering as one of the assistant coaches pokes his head in. "Hey, Garland, you still in here?" The coach looks between the two of you, oblivious to what he just interrupted.

Conor jerks back so quickly it’s like he’s been caught doing something illegal, while your hand falls from him. His face flushes, but not from the game—this time, it’s from almost being caught in a moment he’s not ready to explain.

"Uh, yeah," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flustered. "Just, uh... icing my bruise."

You bite back a laugh, feeling the heat rise to your own cheeks. The moment is gone, but the weight of it lingers in the air.

"Well, hurry it up. Coach wants to talk to you before you head out," the assistant says, already halfway out the door.

You both stand there for a second after the door shuts, the silence deafening. Conor looks at you, the tension still simmering under the surface, but neither of you speaks. It’s like the almost-kiss is still hanging between you, unfinished and waiting.

Finally, Conor clears his throat. "Guess I should... go."

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Guess so."

He hesitates, lingering in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, his eyes catching yours one last time. And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the weight of what almost happened.

You’ve been replaying what happened in your head, the way his eyes lingered, the warmth of his skin under your touch, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. It’s like a loop that you can’t quite break free from.

But now, that moment feels distant, swept away by the frenetic energy of another game night. Only this time, it’s different.

The door slams open.

You jump, turning on instinct, and what you see makes your heart plummet. Conor’s standing there, but he’s not limping theatrically this time. Blood runs down the side of his face, stark against his pale skin, dripping onto his jersey, which is streaked with snow and sweat. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving, and for the first time, there’s no playful glint, no teasing smirk. Just anger.

"Garland," you breathe, stepping toward him, already reaching for the gauze, but he doesn’t even seem to hear you. He’s pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscles working beneath his skin.

"Stupid," he mutters under his breath, swiping a hand over his face, smearing the blood. "Stupid, stupid hit."

"Conor," you say softly, trying to get him to focus on you, to stop moving. He doesn’t. His eyes are unfocused, his movements erratic, as though he’s still stuck in the heat of the game, reliving whatever hit sent him flying into the boards.

You step closer, cautiously. "Hey, come on. You need to sit down. Let me look at that cut."

He finally stops pacing, but when his eyes meet yours, they’re blazing. "I don’t care about the damn cut," he snaps, though the anger in his voice isn’t directed at you. It’s frustration, bubbling just beneath the surface.

You swallow, trying to maintain your calm. "I know you don’t, but I do."

He blinks, his brows furrowing, like your words hit something in him, pulling him out of his angry haze. But then he shakes his head, as if he’s trying to brush it off. "They’re out to get me," he mutters, more to himself than to you, but you hear it.

Your chest tightens. You’ve seen him frustrated before, of course. Hockey’s a brutal game; it comes with the territory. But this… this feels different. Conor Garland is many things—annoying, playful, sometimes overly dramatic—but angry? Not like this. Not pacing the room with his hands curled into fists like he’s ready to punch the wall. You have to do something—anything—to bring him back to himself before he loses it completely.

"Conor, sit down," you say again, firmer this time. "Please."

Something in your voice must reach him because he stops, his shoulders slumping as if all the fight has gone out of him in an instant. He sits on the edge of the exam table, and you move quickly, grabbing the gauze and antiseptic. His eyes follow you, but they’re distant, like he’s not fully present.

You stand between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, and gently tilt his head back to get a better look at the cut. It’s deep, angrier than you expected, but not the worst you’ve seen. Still, the blood has matted his hair, trailing down his temple, and his breathing is shallow, labored.

"This might sting," you murmur, pressing the gauze to his forehead, dabbing at the blood. You try to stay focused, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, his body coiled tight like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.

"That guy…" he starts, voice low and bitter. "He didn’t have to hit me like that. It wasn’t even about the puck."

"I know," you say quietly, your fingers moving methodically as you clean the wound. "It’s not fair."

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You focus on your work, but every so often, your gaze flickers to his face, to the way his jaw is still clenched, to the way his chest still rises and falls with that uneven breath. You can feel the anger radiating off him, but there’s something else too—something vulnerable, hidden beneath all that frustration.

"Why are you letting this get to you?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Conor doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is fixed on some distant point over your shoulder, like he’s trying to hold it together, trying not to snap. But then his shoulders sag, and he drops his head into his hands. "I don’t know," he admits, voice muffled. "I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much."

You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling your heart ache for him. You’ve never seen him this rattled, this shaken. It’s unsettling, seeing him like this, and you don’t know what to do other than be here, right here, in this moment with him.

Gently, you reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder. His skin is warm, muscles tense beneath your fingers, but the contact seems to ground him. He lifts his head slowly, meeting your eyes for the first time since he walked in.

"It’s just… one hit," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper now. "But I can’t shake it."

"It’s not just the hit, is it?" you ask, watching him carefully.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "No. It’s not."

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You finish bandaging his cut, your hands moving slowly, deliberately, trying to draw out the process because you’re not ready for this moment to end. You don’t want him to walk away like this, all pent-up frustration and unresolved tension.

He’s quiet now, his chest no longer heaving with anger, but his eyes—his eyes are still filled with something heavy, something you can’t quite place. He’s staring at you, and you can feel his gaze, warm and intent, as though he’s trying to find the right words but can’t. You’re not sure if you’re ready to hear them anyway. Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud and persistent, and for the first time, you realize how close you’re standing.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how his legs are framing your hips, how his knees brush your thighs every time either of you moves. His hands rest loosely on his lap now, no longer clenched into fists, but the tension hasn’t entirely dissipated. It’s just shifted into something else, something quieter but no less intense. You can feel it humming in the air between you.

"Conor," you begin, your voice coming out softer than you intended, barely more than a whisper. "You’re… it’s going to be okay." You know how inadequate the words sound, but you don’t know what else to say. You just want to fill the silence, to soothe whatever storm is still brewing inside him.

His eyes flicker, and his jaw works as though he’s chewing on something he can’t quite get out. "I’m not—" He stops himself, eyes dropping to the floor, and you watch as his shoulders slump again. "I don’t usually… I’m not like this."

You don’t respond immediately, just watch him, the way he avoids looking at you, the way his hands flex on his lap like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. It’s strange seeing him so out of sorts, the guy who’s always cracking jokes, always looking for a way to make you laugh, now sitting here, raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

You take a breath and move closer, letting your fingers brush against his shoulder again. "You don’t have to explain anything to me. Everyone has bad days." Your voice is soft, reassuring, but your heart is pounding harder now, louder, as if it’s trying to force its way through your ribcage.

Conor looks up then, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His gaze isn’t wild anymore, but there’s something else in it, something that makes your breath catch. His lips part, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to say something, something that will change everything.

But he hesitates, his throat working like the words are caught there, and suddenly you’re all too aware of the closeness, of the heat between you, of how your bodies are aligned. You don’t move, don’t dare to, because if you do, you might shatter whatever fragile balance you’ve found.

"I don’t know how to say this," he finally mutters, his voice rough and low, almost pained. His eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second, and your breath stutters.

Your heart is racing now, louder than before, and you can feel the room tilting, your pulse in your throat as the tension pulls taut. He’s so close, his face inches from yours, the scent of sweat and blood mingling in the air between you, and you realize with a jolt that this is it. This is the moment where everything shifts, where the teasing, the faked injuries, the lingering touches, all of it finally snaps into focus.

Conor shifts again, his knee pressing slightly against your thigh, and his voice drops even lower. "I’ve been trying to tell you, but I—" He stops, his eyes dark and searching, like he’s looking for something in your face. "You’re more than just… I mean, I’m always…"

You don’t let him finish. Because before you know it, you’re moving, and you’re pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if you’re both unsure. His lips are warm, and you can taste the faint tang of his blood on them, but you don’t care. For a moment, everything stills—no tension, no frustration, just him, here, with you. His hands, which had still been clenched on his lap, slide up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. The anger, the frustration that had been radiating off him moments before, melts away, replaced by something softer, something unspoken but understood.

When you finally pull back, your breath comes in short, uneven bursts. You meet his eyes, half-expecting him to pull away, to say something to ruin the moment, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, his fingers still gripping your waist, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“That’s one way to shut me up,” he mutters, his voice low, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth you haven’t heard from him before.

You can’t help but laugh softly, your heart still racing. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his eyes darker now, softer. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly against your hip, sending a shiver down your spine. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and for a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of you, like nothing else exists outside this room.

For the first time all night, he smiles—really smiles—and it’s like the tension finally breaks. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you even closer, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. The frustration, the anger, the game—it all fades away, leaving just the two of you, wrapped in a moment that feels fragile but perfect, like you’ve found something you didn’t even know you were looking for.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, and his eyes soften, the vulnerability still there, but less jagged now, smoothed by your words. “But you need to go out there and win that fuckin’ game.”

“Okay,” He says, but leans in again, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, this one slower, gentler, as though he’s savoring it. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, and his smile lingers, the tension from earlier now a distant memory. “But, we’re doing a lot more of this–” he gestures between the two of you, “Later.”

[life-series-losers-blog]

idk im not good at this stuff i collect magic items i don't study them

(im not good at riddles)

3rdL!Cleo: Oh no I completely understand that. I have no idea anything about magic. I might try and find Scar

[luvwestwood]

❝ DON'T WORRY 'BOUT IT DARLING! ❞ - Toji Fushiguro

— (18+) YOUR CAR BREAKS DOWN DURING A SOLO TRIP, AND A KIND MR. FUSHIGURO OFFERS TO HELP.

₊˚༊*· warnings. nsfw (18+), slow burn, rough sex, hair pulling, p in v, rough sex, slight age gap (r is 22, t is 37), pet names, raw sex, backshots, pulling out/cumming on face/mouth, pussy eating, fingering, light faceslapping, toji lives in a cabin..

₊˚༊*· notes. I missed writing sm... also, this was one of those stories where i just got carried away writing.. also if your car breaks down in the middle of no where, please don't follow a random man back to his cabin. toji is not real.

7,035 words (25m read)

header art used - credits to @/yunonoai on twt!

A holiday. The perfect thing you needed to ease your mind— work had been fucking you up lately, so you specifically had requested a few days off.

Realising you never spend time with yourself, and yourself only, had brought you to the idea of going on a solo trip. Although with budget cut short, you could only opt for a solo-road-trip; still well away from the city, and everyone.

So far, you thought it was perfect. Just you and your trusty volks beetle, cruising off for a few days to be surrounded by the county’s evergreen trees, and going down a spiral of constantly smelling wet bark here and there.

Crashing at the nearest motel just a few miles south, and digging into a typical, pancake breakfast at the closest diner the next morning. Quite basic, but you thought that it was unironically the calmest idea for a 'holiday' yet.

Pressing on the playback button, the car radio immediately sounded out the currently inserted tape that was halfway played through, your eyes rolling at the song choice.

“..I wake up in the morning I got murder on my min-“

The sound of the tape bypassing the opening filled with the car, along with silence and the engine running. “Oh for fucks sake, Yuji definitely put that in there.”

Balancing between keeping your eyes on the road, and your surroundings, you toss the DVD away to the passengers side; rummaging around the glove compartment for another disk.

But you found the peace as of now quite calming, resulting in you rolling your windows down by the slightest— taking in the natural noise of the environment.

Your cheeks turned cold to the touch as the breeze wafted throughout your entire car, your back pressing against the fabric seats, eyes only closing for a millisecond to take everything in.

Dressed in a tank top and shorts, my, it seemed like you were ready for.. who knows what. Hopefully no one takes you, accidentally, for a side-street hooker.

Bit silent, you suppose— seeing that there was no other car on this specific road too. It was eerie, but enjoyable at the same time. I mean, the road was in the middle of the woods so I doubt people would be passing in and out of here often.

Hand reaching back into the glove compartment, you grab a hold of a random disk, analyzing it as soon as you withdrew your hand back into your lap.

..The Cranberries, not too bad. Something to lighten up the mood a bit. Biting down on your bottom lip, you divert your attention away from the road for a millisecond— pushing the disk into the radio player with a swift movement.

The familiar intro of Linger began to play. Your two hands clutched onto the wheel tighter, letting out a squeal as a result of hearing one of your favorite songs.

What seemed like forever, you wondered if the road was going to look different anytime soon. It felt as if you haven't seen some sort of sign telling you there would be a bed and breakfast ten minutes up, but you simply brushed it off.

"..And I'm in so deeep, you know I'm such a fool for youuu.." Taking advantage of the empty roads, you notched the volume a bit higher, belting out your shower-learnt vocals with all your heart.

Concerning LEDs flashing on your dashboard suddenly caught your eye, your singing stopping right in the middle of the chorus.

Frantically looking down at the light, and at the road in front of you, the sensible decision to pull over came across your mind— your car quickly swerving to the side of the road, Linger still, playing as everything started to go downhill.

"W-what the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" Your hands fall onto your lap, brows furrowed at one warning appearing after the other, a whimper slipping past your lips as worry grew.

Looking out the rear window, then to the front, you've realised you're all alone. No help nearby, not for another while. Groaning, you darted your eyes back to your dashboard, seeing about three more warnings show up.

"Fuck- not now, oh come on!" ...Can't even get peace on my day off, can I?

Pulling on the latch underneath, you popped the hood open. Killing the ignition, you grab your zip-up from the backseat, throwing it on before stepping out of the car; sizzling, and smoke coming from under the hood.

"I swear.. if this is a trap for a murder film, just take me already. My survival instincts are through the roof.."

Sighing, you lift the hood up, a big cloud of grey smoke slapping you in the face, like you could suffocate any moment now.

"The hell?!" Coughing, you fanned your face, taking a few, cautious steps back from the vehicle. As soon as the smoke had went away, you leaned back in; analysing each part of your engine.

A scoff escapes your mouth, silently laughing at yourself. "Literally what the fuck am I meant to be looking at." Knuckles resting atop your hips, you stood up straight, chipping away at your fingernails with your teeth.

"..Okay, maybe I'll try and start it... and if all goes wrong- call the insurance company."

Blowing out a relieving breath, you sit back into the driver's seat, twisting the key, trying to get your car to start.

Nothing but the sweet sound of failure. Two more tries, and still the same outcome.

"..Insurance company.. right."

Unable to locate your phone, you let out a confused noise- looking sideways and upside down your car for it. "..Where could it.. be..?"

Though.. something seemed, off. Your head slowly rose up from below the passengers seat, peeping just above the car door.

A man, walking- closer, and closer.. It seems. Your heart began to thump against your chest- begging to jump out. Breathing labored, your eyes widen, body freezing at the most inconvenient of times. Wait, is he holding an axe?

"M-my.. my phone?!" With haste in your movements, you rummage through everything like a mad man, making a total mess of your car- the same mysterious guy getting closer and closer, tauntingly walking out from the deep woods.

Sitting back against your seat, your mouth gapes open; eyes glued straight ahead. This is it, I manifested it. Now why on earth did I say that?! It's over for me, I'm cooked.

You let out a mewl, attempting to sob, solely squeezing your eyes shut. Too scared to look one last time to your side, you took a few deep breaths, chanting mini prayers to save the last bit of you.

A tap on the window came from your side, your one eye opening itself. Hesitant, you slowly turn your head; seeing a muscular torso at the window tapping the glass with the handle of his axe, before the man leans down to show his face.

Dressed in jeans and a flannel, with jagged, raven colored hair— and a face to perfectly compliment his jacked up body. I see. But now's not the time to play a dating game.

"..Ma'am?" His voice deep, and rusty, your face grew more concerned, mouth still gawking like a freak in fear.

"..God, p-please don't kill me.." A quiet peep comes from you, the man resting a hand on your roof, still bent down, and chuckling.

"Lady, I could see your car smokin' all the way from my cabin. I couldn't help but see what's the matter. You want me to check it out for you, or not?" His voice happened to be quite faint from behind the glass, though you could make out what he seemed to be saying.

"..Oh... I don't mind, I just have no clue what to do, I.." Words coming out in a blabber, you stumbled over what you wanted to say, confusion written all over the mans face.

"Slow down, will ya? Can't even comprehend half the words you're saying."

Shaking your head, you brushed it off. "You know what.. forget it.. just.. check what's happening under that hood, please?"

He nods, disappearing from your window to walk around to the front of the car. Deciding to step out too, you came to the conclusion that he seemed like an okay man to trust with your car. But you just had to make sure he wasn't gonna fit some sort of tracker underneath your engine..

Crossing your arms, you walked closer to the man, who seemed to know what he was doing. Observing from a few steps away, you watched him twist and turn at a few things, no fear in getting his hands dirty. He seemed bigger at this angle, a bit bigger than you, so if he were to murder you right now... it's over.

"..Do you always carry around that axe?" Referring to the same tool that was now on the ground, you noticed his lips curl into a smile, taking note of the fading scar on the side of his mouth also.

Letting out an amused chuckle, his eyes remained focused on the problem in front of him, but his voice was able to answer something else at the same time. "Living in the middle of the woods, I think you'd do the same."

You nod, accepting the answer with no further questions. Although a few more silly ones came out of you..

"Have you ever been chased by a bear.. while living out here?" Swaying back and forth on your tippy toes, your arms stay crossed, teeth chewing at your bottom lip as you anticipated a genuine answer.

He stops, torso still bent down but head looking up at you, facial expressions unimpressed. "Do pretty girls like you always ask all these stupid questions..?"

Blinking, you freeze, at the blunt compliment and sharp stab of his words. "..I was just curious. Also, I don't even know your name. You know, if you try to kidnap me, and I happen to escape, and-"

"Toji." Short and direct, he answers that question. "Now that you've told me your game plan, I could've easily lied about my name.

Your throat running dry, you clear it out with a grunt, Toji standing back up with an unhopeful look on his face. "..Yeah, your car is busted." He picks his axe back up, turning his body to you.

"..What? But- there's no reception here and.. I have no where to go..." Great. You've told him that you're helpless, and a young, vulnerable girl who's all alone on a solo trip.

"Wait- so you're telling me you're all alone, in the middle of these woods. Lady, do you not know that there's literally nothing here but dirt and trees?" His face scrunched up in disbelief, he genuinely wondered what a girl like you would be doing here.

"..I just wanted a holiday... on my own and.. I thought.. I could crash at some motel like in the movies and.. and.. pancakes.. oh the pancakes.." A sob chokes out of you, warm tears beginning to stain your cheeks at the thought of your vacation going downhill.

Toji, on the other hand looks more confused at this rate, his voice stammering, unsure of how to console you. A random girl, crying in front of him.. Great.

"Uh, don't cry- I didn't mean to.." Scratching at his nape, he waits until you stop crying your guts out, and successfully, you do. "Look, how about I'll fix your car for you, but first we get you a place to stay."

Sniffling, you look up at him, an ounce of hope springing back into you. "..R-really?"

Relieved, Toji was able to relax by the slightest after finally getting you to stop sobbing in front of him. Comforting wasn't his forte. "Yeah, don't worry 'bout it darling. But my cabin is the only thing I could offer right now. I told you, there's nothing in this place. No.. 'motel'..."

Looking back at your busted car, then returning to Toji, he shrugs his shoulders; mouthing, 'the choice is yours.' He wasn't pressuring you at all, but it was true that there was no other option. Outside the city wasn't all that, and you learnt the hard way.

"...Fine, just don't.. don't murder me.. I don't wanna die." Toying with the zip of your hoodie, you divert your gaze away from Toji, deciding to look at the ground instead.

He grunts, grabbing his head in frustration. "Would you quit with that murder bull-crap?! How many times do I have to say it. Should be me who's scared of a Michael Myers venturing 'round these woods." Toji shakes his head in disapproval. "Just grab your things and get movin' will you? Sun's about to set soon."

Unamused yourself, you shoot him a glare, walking over to the backseat door to grab your backpack full of everything. Slamming the door shut, you sensibly grab your keys, properly locking everything before Toji shuts the hood, resting his axe on his shoulder.

The man gestures you to follow him, hopefully not towards your death. Trailing behind his large figure, Toji occasionally glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were still there and didn't happen to run off; more than certain that you were shitting your pants right now.

Readjusting the heavy backpack on your shoulder, you struggled, mentally complaining, but too afraid to ask if you were there yet. Guess you'll take the blame for this one. Should've packed light I suppose..

"We're here, incase you were wondering." Toji stops in his tracks, turning his body back around to face you before making his way to the onto the porch.

Surprisingly, it was nice and big, and seemed homely. "Not gonna lie, I thought you lived in a run down shack in the middle of no where. With like, bugs and stuff?"

"Who do you take me for?" He scoffs, "Come in when you're ready. Also mind your step." Toji points out the mini stairs just below the porch, before disappearing off inside. He really made sure that you didn't feel pressured to do anything whatsoever. So he let you enter at your own will.

Taking note of your surroundings outside one last time, you let out a deep breath before stepping inside.

Warm air engulfed you, heat coming from a well built fire place. It actually was nice inside, and everything everywhere made sense. The architecture of the cabin really had Toji written all over it.

Nothing was run down. It felt like a home, just with a rustic style to it. The sofa actually had a throw draped over it, a flat screen tv mounted just above the fireplace. There was also a nice view of a body of water outside some large windows.

Toji paced around the sofas just after resting his axe safely in a corner, stretching his arms out; toned muscles flexing from the warm, yellowish light in the cabin.

"Make yourself at home, you take my room tonight. I'll crash on the sofa." He makes his way to the other side of the cabin, supposedly the entrance to his bedroom. Toji leaning against the door frame, he watched as you stood still in one spot, still observing your surroundings.

"Also has its own bathroom, so no need to worry about me walking in on you. There's locks too from the inside. And I don't care about you going through anything. I've got nothing to hide." Toji continues, he sure knows the questions you're about to ask. This man is always thinking ahead.

"..Thanks, Toji. That's really nice of you." Walking closer to the entrance of his room, you slide the backpack off your shoulder, holding onto the heavy load with two hands at this point. The backpack swings between your legs as you walk past him, Toji grunting before leaving you be.

He fucks off somewhere into the kitchen, meanwhile you lock the doors behind you immediately. You already smelled of bark and leaves, and not to mention, the stinky smoke from your car earlier.

Tossing your backpack onto an armchair nearby, eye glancing over a few frames with Toji in them. Some of him alone, with a fish in his hand, the other.. Possibly some old friends.

Curious, you looked around the dresser for some more things that could tell you a bit more about himself.

In the corner was a birthday card, which didn't evidently tell you his age, but you found out as soon as you opened it up to see what was written.

"Happy Birthday big guy, can't beleeve your old ass is 37! - Your pal, Gojo🖕"

Who the hell is Gojo? And, that's not old.. right? You scoffed more so at the fact that the word 'believe' was spelt wrong other than the badly drawn middle finger. Just a little habit of yours you can't control. Considering you were 22, Toji was kind of old enough to be your guardian, somehow.. but let's not get into that.

Attempting to place the card exactly where it had belonged, you were happy enough with your first try; still curious to find any hidden gems, but you were unsuccessful.

Letting out a hum, you took another look around your surroundings, nodding gently in approval at the view that he also had just outside of his bedroom. Seems like he knew how to build this place the way he wanted to.

Halfway pacing around his room, you realised that he probably thinks you've been silent for too long. Deciding to step into his bathroom, notice a shaver and some cream on the sink. Allowing the shower to run, you hoped the noise would calm his nerves to let him know you're still here, and alive.

Oh, being a curious cat you open his mirror cabinet just to take a tiny peek before your shower. Says he's got nothing to hide, so..

After-shave, lotion, pain-killers and a box.. An unopened box of extra large condoms.

You gulp before blinking rapidly, closing the mirror cabinet without a second to waste. You weren't sure if you should be mortified or impressed and relieved that they were unopened. Wait, as if it matters?

Locking the bathroom door just to be cautious, you quickly did so before stripping your clothes completely to the ground, kicking off your converse and socks before hopping into the warm shower.

The droplets trickled down your body, feeling more calm now that you've had a shower. Allowing the water to run over your hair, you scrubbed your scalp with your fingertips, completely soaking your body. You looked over to the shower caddy hanging on the wall before grabbing a familiar brand of shampoo.

Massaging that into your hair, you hurried on with your shower, making sure that you didn't hog all the hot water. You assumed that he had to start up a big ass generator minutes away just to get a drop of it, forgetting the fact that it was '24, and there was some such thing as a boiler.

The shower ended up being just fine, and Toji didn't bother you at all. He didn't force the door open, don't worry; and everything was just the way it was left in the room.

You didn't have anything else left to wear than the matching tank and shorts set you bought at TJ-Maxx solely for this solo trip. You didn't have to worry about your feet being cold, as the hardwood floors were surprisingly heated.

Quickly drying your hair with one of his towels, you figured that he didn't have a hairdryer, so you had no choice but to leave it to air dry.

Finally unlocking the bedroom door, you opened it to see Toji busy behind the kitchen island. Assuming he was cooking, you made your way closer, sitting on a bar stool nearby.

Toji had a tea towel draped over his shoulder, and the smell of cooked meat entered your nostrils.

"If you're a vegan, it's your unlucky day." He says, clearly knowing you were seated behind him.

You laugh, resting your elbows on the counter, watching him like a hawk . "I eat everything, don't worry."

"Good." He says before turning back towards you with a plate of steak, potatoes and asparagus. Unlike earlier, this time a pleasant cloud of steam hit you in the face, the smell making your tummy grumble.

Toji has a plate of his own, leaning against the counter behind him as he watches your every move, waiting for you to take a bite. He pokes at a potato, tossing it into his mouth before saying something.

"Wake up early tomorrow, I'll teach you what to do in case something like this happens again. I don't expect you to follow a man again back to his cabin in the middle of no where.." Prodding at a few more pieces of steak, he notices you were busy digging into your own plate.

You just let out a hum of approval, Toji slowly sliding a glass of water towards you before you could choke anytime soon.

Setting your cutlery down, you look up at Toji standing, busy eating his own dinner. Here comes the wave of questions.. "Hmm, do you ever get lonely out here?"

Unphased by the question, Toji continues eating, but answers your curiosity. "Nah, I like being alone. I'm used to it anyways. Friends do come visit, but not always." He shrugs, unable to make eye contact with you.

"..I see.." Nodding, your mind jumps back to the unopened box of condoms back in Toji's bathroom, your inner voice mentally cursing at yourself for being too curious.

Letting famish get the best of you, you devoured everything on the plate in record breaking time, politely pairing the cutlery together on the dish. "Uhm, Toji? I can clean up. It's the least I could do."

The man just finishing his own plate, he sets it on the counter beside him, looking at you, impressed. "Seriously? 'right then."

Hopping off the stool, you make your way past him, feeling Toji's gaze burn into the back of your head, before you reached around him for his plate, and your own on the island. Bringing the two to the sink, you began to wash them with the sponge, occasionally looking out the kitchen window.

It had gone dark quickly. Who knows if Toji never had come across you.

"You got a boyfriend or what?" A first time question from the man, and it was one you didn't expect. He remained leaning against the counter, watching your every move from behind you.

Suppressing a panicked turn of your head, you kept your vision down at the dishes, gliding your hand over the dishes and under the water, you gulped before answering.

"No, not anymore. I broke up with him cause I found out he was cheating on me with some girl on the majorette team in college." Your insides burned at the memory of you walking in on them at a party bathroom, but you didn't let it get to you, not now.

Toji didn't let out a hum of approval, and instead stayed quiet. All he did was place your empty glass beside the sink that you seemed to have forgotten all about. Taking that too, you scrubbed it with the sponge before rinsing it off and placing it on the drying rack.

"All done," you dried your hands on the fabric of your shorts behind you, turning back around to Toji who was in the same position, but this time, his hands held onto the counter's edge on either side of him.

Peering at the drying rack around you, he pouted in approval, "Done a fairly good job I suppose,"

You scoff, "It was just washing dishes. Nothing hard."

"I'll be right back. No tomfoolery, and don't open that door." Toji glances to the front door, before disappearing off into his bedroom, the door closing. You thought nothing of it, walking over to the L-shaped sofa to see what was on TV. Some stupid deer documentary was on, typical, but you changed it to something more entertaining like a soap.

You assumed that he had no Netflix on it, and you were right. You can't really imagine Toji watching an episode of The Office.

Propping the side of your head onto your knuckles, your eyes bored at the screen, barely paying attention to what was on the TV. Glancing over to the clock on the wall, you read the time to be almost 9 o'clock, which shocked you.

Letting out your fifth sigh of the day, you flickered back and forth through the channels before hearing a door open behind you, Toji stepping out of his room, and this time, dressed in grey sweats and a t-shirt. His hair was slightly damp, as you noticed him sitting just after your feet, ensuring a distance between you two.

"What's this crap you're watching?" Toji rests his elbows on his knees before relaxing back onto the sofa, legs spreading as he made himself comfortable.

Tossing the remote over to his side, you roll your eyes. "Knew you would say that."

The man attempted to focus on the shit show in front of him, brows furrowing, but eventually he seemed interested.

Sitting up, you cross your legs, groaning. "There's nothing good on TV. I'm going to bed."

Toji looked to his side, watching as you stood up and left, and he had to admit— he did get a look at your behind. But no one could beat that out of him. "Alright, suit yourself. Sweet dreams. Remember, up early tomorrow."

You glanced behind your shoulder before stepping into his room, not shutting the door fully but leaving a slight gap between the frame and the door itself.

After scavenging through the side pocket of your backpack, you returned back into Toji's bathroom with your toothbrush this time. Stealing a pea of his own toothpaste, you stared at yourself in his mirror as you brushed away.

You could still hear his TV coming from outside, and it sounded like the channel didn't change. He was probably fixated on the show by now. After spitting out, you rinsed off your toothbrush, before heading back out to place it back into your backpack.

Before hopping into bed, you neatly folded your things away, ensuring you cleaned up after yourself as you hated leaving a mess behind, especially if you weren't in a space of your own.

Letting out a sigh, you crawled into his bed, surprisingly filled with two fluffy pillows, and not just one flat ass cushion. Toji's bed strongly smelled like aftershave, supposedly the one in his bathroom mirror. It was comforting though, and wasn't an unpleasant scent.

Covering your upper half with the duvet, you laid flat on your back, eyes staring up at the ceiling before your lids slowly grew heavy and soon enough, closing shut.

You managed to sleep halfway through the night, until, it had began to thunder, and rain heavily. The drops pattered against the glass window, waking you from your slumber inconveniently.

Sitting up in bed, you look around, noticing everything was still the same. The door remained slightly open, and you could see that the TV has still been on until now, but sounded different.

Looking out the window, you couldn't see much from the heavy rain blinding the environment. It was lashing outside, and unfortunately, you were unable to fall back into sleep.

Pursing your lips together, you climbed out of bed, making your way to the door before opening it by a bit.

You treaded lightly, seeing Toji's head behind the sofa. Unable to tell if he was asleep or not, noticing that the TV was on, you approached him closer. Your head peeked over the sofa slightly, voice calling out his name.

"..Toji? ....Toji." You let out a loud whisper, the man grunting and turning his head around. It seems that he was fast asleep, but... sitting up. How scary.

"I can't sleep.. the weather, it's really awful outside." Nipping at the fabric of your shorts, you sucked in a labored breath of air through your nostrils before initiating a question. "..Can you- sleep beside me?"

Toji seemed less asleep, and now, he was wide awake. He looked over to the clock before reaching for the remote to switch off the TV. It was halfway through one in the morning. "What are you, nine?" He laughs before getting up from the sofa, trailing behind the sofa to follow you back into the room.

He questioned no more, and agreed. He'd do anything to be back in his room anyways, in the comfort of his bed, but of course knowing Toji— he'd never admit that.

The two of you hurried back into the bedroom, Toji automatically walking over to his side, while you, crawl back into bed. Making yourself comfortable again, you drape the cover over yourself, feeling the weight of the bed shift beside you, Toji making himself comfortable also.

You turn to your side, back facing Toji, unable to have him stare at your face all night. The room grew silent, and only the sound of the rain tapping against the window could be heard. Though you could still feel his gaze burning into your back, which happened to go away soon enough.

"No stupid stuff." He suddenly blurts out, which you were unable to decipher. Was he talking about what you thought he meant?

You decided not to respond, and instead, shifted around. You could feel Toji's natural body warmth all over your back, and with one more shift, you realised that he was close to you, actually, way too close to you.

But it was too late to move back, as you were too scared of irritating him by shuffling around so much that he'd kick you out.

A large hand snakes onto the side of your waist, gently gripping at your stomach. "Quit movin' around so much, will you?" It was Toji's hand, and he firmly kept you in place. Preventing any further movement. The continuous friction of your shorts against him had aroused him of some sort, and it was uncontrollable.

Another hard bump rested on the behind of your shorts, your eyes flying wide open, unable to shut now. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't know.. I'll stop."

"Sure, you didn't know what you were doing?" You couldn't see the expression on his face, and could only judge by the tone of his voice. Too bad you were facing away from him right now.

Giving in, your body aggressively shifts to face him, the natural moonlight peering through the windows leaving a bright enough glow on his face.

You gulp, Toji hesitantly using his finger to move away the fly-aways covering your face to get a better look at you. "..Don't know why that jerk cheated on you."

"..You don't know me, so.." You let out, Toji's brows furrowing as he studied your features harder.

Alternating between your eyes and lips, he let out a mixture of a grunt and a laugh. "Should go for a real man."

Your breath hitches at his remark, your mind trailing off to other translations of his sentence. He talking about the fucking, or dating aspect?

Silence grew between you, his thumb carefully swiping over your soft bottom lip. The air grew thicker and thicker, a sort of tension lingering throughout the room. You couldn't tell what initiated it, but the air felt suffocating, like it had its own hold of you.

Leaning in closer to his face, your warm breath fanned against his lips before he cupped your cheek with his hand, holding you close as your mouths latched onto each other. The tension between you two diminishing as your tongues intertwined.

Toji laid flat on his back as you straddled him under the sheets, the kiss turning sloppier, with a blend of spit coating your chins, the two of you moaning into each other.

You whimper, pulling away as you felt his teeth tug onto your bottom lip, a long, string of saliva creating a bridge between the two of you, both panting, chests heaving heavily.

Swiftly stripping your tank above your head, the sudden air had bit your skin, nipples growing hard to the touch, all perky and erect. Unable to see in the midst of the fabric covering your sights, you could feel both of Toji's large hands cupping your breasts, massaging them— thumbs toying teasingly at your nipples.

Palms pressing onto the flat of your back, Toji guides your hips with no rush in his movements, back and forth, groaning at the grinding sensation over his sweats, head heavily leaning against the pillow. Your top slides down onto the bedroom floor, breath irregular as you felt the thick tent in his pants dig into you.

You both swap positions, Toji flipping the two of you around with ease and no struggle in his demeanor, the man anchoring himself between your thighs.

Toji's lips latch onto your breasts, warm mouth wrapped around one, sucking away hungrily as he fondled with the other. A pop leaves his mouth as he lets go, using a finger to flicker your nipple gently, your warm, spit-covered nipples growing hard once again as soon as it meets the cold air.

You watch as Toji goes down on you, breath shaking as he peppered kisses down your stomach, disappearing underneath the sheets; leaving a few pecks dangerously close, and somewhere on your inner thigh.

Feeling his pointer and middle finger tug at the waistband of your shorts, you could tell that he was waiting; and so you raised your hips up slightly, allowing him to drag them down your legs.

His hands clasp around your two thighs, bringing you closer to his face, though you just couldn't see; Toji's tongue leaving behind a wet stripe against your clothed pussy, your body shuddering at the feeling.

Your mouth could only gape open, your eyes peering up at the same ceiling as you let out breathless moans here and there.

Toji's middle finger tugged your panties to the side, allowing your bare pussy to be on show to him completely, finally landing yet another stripe with his warm tongue. He eagerly sucks, sticking his same middle finger in, fucking your hole gently as he alternates between licking and fingering.

Letting out quiet moans, you fondle with your breasts, legs squirming as he inserted another digit, Toji using both hands to rip your underwear completely as he sucked on your clit

Your hand reaches for the pillow behind you, fingers clawing at the fabric.

Toji raised his own hips, practically on his knees to be able to palm at his own cock as played with you for your own pleasure, getting off to your moans as he continued to have you undone with his touch.

You could hear him grunt lowly, from time to time, but grunting in disapproval whenever you'd stamp your thighs on either side of his head, trapping him between your legs.

Your head leaning back, you gasped, eyes rolling as Toji curled his fingers up into you, eventually allowing his movements to come to a complete halt, your throat mewling in dissatisfaction.

"Not so fast, wanna feel you cum 'round something else," Toji appears in front of you, arising from under the sheets; stripping his own shirt off his body before tossing it somewhere across the room.

His body shifted around, and you assumed it was to get the condoms, where you already knew was located. Though you quickly took a hold of the strings on his waistband, pulling him back.

"No- I wanna feel you raw, Toji," Looking up at him as you said so, still laid on your back; the man could've sworn that his cock twitched at what you had just said.

Surprisingly, he nods, moving about to get his pants fully off him, struggling a bit, but managing in the end.

Toji uses a hand to jerk his thick length repeatedly, the other free playing with the flesh on your waist. "You sure about this?"

"I am." You replied, busy wondering how he was gonna fit inside of you. The condoms weren't lying.

Slightly and slowly pushing his tip into you, followed by the rest, the two of you groaned at the feeling, Toji grabbing onto both sides of your waist eventually; grip growing tighter as he stuffed you full. Your fingers clawed at his wrists, a moan escaping your mouth as you felt his girth stretching you out, Toji using his thumbs to caress your sides gently.

"All good?" He made sure, and you nod, letting him know that he could move, and you were perfectly fine.

Toji's hips began to rock back and forth, occasional groans coming from him, mentally thanking you for the fact that you let him do it raw.

"..F-faster," you let out, Toji now placing both of his hands on either side of your head, his hips bucking into you faster and deeper; the bed slightly creaking from his movements.

He continues to groan endlessly, head jerking back as he felt your gummy walls take him completely, cursing over and over again. Toji smashes his lips onto yours again, you moaning as a result, the man taking your head into his hands as he held you close; forehead leaning on yours as his cock bullied your insides relentlessly.

Pulling away, Toji grabs both of your legs, resting your ankle on each of his shoulders— allowing him to fuck into you deeper, and be impossibly closer, the man fucking you into a nasty mating press as the creaking intensifies; the headboard beginning to hit against the walls, the legs of the bed scratching all over the floorboards.

"S-shit, To-oji," Voice breaking up your words, you dig your fingertips deep into the muscle on his shoulder, Toji moaning closely against the shell of your ear.

He growls, resting his forehead on yours once again, maintaining eye contact with you, so intimately; "That's it doll, moan my name, come on," he coos, watching as your eyes squeeze shut; the man reaching his hand up to gently slap it against your cheek— telling you to keep your eyes on him.

You do so, and endlessly chant his name like a prayer; Toji grinning and leaving a peck on your lips before letting your legs go, allowing them to flop on either sides of his waist, effortlessly flipping you back around.

Pulling out rapidly, the flat of his palm presses against your spine. Hands kneading at your ass cheeks as he spreads them apart, leaving a long wet lick from your pussy past your asshole, he slides his cock back into your dripping hole— maintaining his previous pace as he holds onto the headboard, drilling into you with no mercy.

Beads of sweat glistened his body like that pane of glass, strands of his recently washed hair now sticking to his forehead.

"Atta girl," he moans, slapping your ass and leaving a red hand-print. "Fuck, take this cock," Your ass rippling against his pelvis, Toji grabs a handful of the soft of your cheeks, fucking you back onto his cock; a symphony of ass slapping, and balls hitting against your clit sounding throughout the room.

Your forehead falls heavy onto the pillow, voice muffled as you moaned helplessly into it; Toji fucking you in all the right spots, he meant it when he said you should find yourself a real man. He was showing you, what a real man was.

"C'mon baby, I wanna feel you cum all over me, p-please?" Toji pleads, his thrusts slowing in pace, but still rutting in deep as he fucks you passionately, guiding you by your waist back and forth on his cock to get those last few strokes.

Toji leans forward, pressing a tender kiss on your shoulder blade, feeling down your back as he left a few more, shivers going down your spine as he roamed his hands all over you,

A creamy ring forms at his shaft, thickening over time as he continued to fuck in and out of you; playfully pulling his thick cock out to heavily rest it against your ass, gliding it between your cheeks before sliding it back in. His tip red, and glossy, your eyes rolled as he slipped himself inside.

Toji picks up the pace once more, urging you to your orgasm; your fingers clawing behind you, trying to stop him from moving any more, your two legs shaking as they attempted to stay up, and support you in your arch.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you back towards him; fucking your mind as he finishes you off from behind. "I'm gonna c-cum, oh fuck," you squeal, eventually making a mess all over his cock, squirting— Toji still fucking into you as your orgasm had washed over your body.

A dark puddle forms on the bedsheets underneath you, and your slick soaks on the flat of his thighs, a squelching noise emitting from underneath as you lazily rubbed circles on your clit; eyes rolling from the several sensations hitting you all at once— Toji’s cock continuing to piston into you.

Toji grunts, feeling you clench and unclench round his cock; a firm slap stinging against your left cheek as he instantly pulls out. "Turn around," he commands, breathing heavily and you obey; a firm grip still in your hair— the man guiding his cock with his index and thumb towards your lips.

Slapping his heavy girth against your mouth, warm ropes of white decorate your face; Toji grunting as he watches your face be painted with white, smearing his artwork all over your face, pushing his tip gently into your mouth as you sucked, sticking your tongue out for visual confirmation of the white orb of cum resting on it.

"Fuck.." he whispers, "Swallow it baby," Toji smacks his tip against your cheek, soon enough letting go of your scalp as he jerked his cock with a last few strokes.

Upon letting go, he immediately cupped your face into his palms once again, rewarding you with a tender kiss on the lips, sneaking a quick fondle at your breast.

Toji glances out the window, returning his gaze back to you glowing under the moon's light. The loud storm had stopped long ago. "..Don't you think those backshots were louder than that thunder clapping out there?"

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⤳ © luvwestwood ‘24. all works are owned by me, and originally come from my own head. please do not re-post on a third party platform without my permission!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⤳ as always, thank you for the love on each and every one of my posts! it means the world to me. ily all soo soo much!

[luvwestwood masterlist]

[merrinla]

Portrait spamming

Recent discovery. If you click on the portraits of the characters like crazy, they will react to it. And the developers had a lot of fun coding these reactions xD

Tav / Dark Urge

normal - I'm awake! Mostly. - I'm starting to get a headache. - Must be the tadpole. - Quit knocking around in there! - A thousand needlepricks in my rotten skull.

combat -Ahhhhhhhh! Okay, I feel better. - I have an itch in the worst place. - Is being a mind flayer so bad? - Just waiting to venture forth here. - I'm maiming as fast as I can!

stealth - What's that ticking? - Is it me? Am I ticking? - Bomb in my head about to go off. Great. - Ah, well. I had a good run.

Astarion

normal - Why do beautiful people taste better? It hardly seems fair on the ugly - they have such wonderful personalities. - Ugh. Strahd wouldn't put up with this shit. - More like Drizzt Don't'Urden - no. No that's not funny. - Villains! Dissemble no more, I admit the deed! Tear up the floor - here, here! It is the beating of his hideous hea- oh, no, that's his brain. Where did I leave that heart?

combat: - I'm trying to focus on murder. - *Humming.* - I shot a svirfneblin in Menzoberranzan just to watch him die. - I should've been a drow. They have such stylish armour.

stealth - Shhh. Just think sneaky thoughts. - Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP. - Be very, very quiet - I'm hunting idiots. - I've got a brand new torture chamber, so come and play with me.

Karlach

normal - NOTE TO ACTOR/DIRECTOR: Blow a raspberry at the player. - Don't. Poke. The Karlach. - Who am I? - My eye!

combat - Eyes on the prize - we need to win this! - Not every soldier should've made it out of training. - Eyes on victory, tummy on dinner. - I ought to just burn this whole thing down.

stealth - My back can't take much more of this. - Not now, I'm being a sneak! - I'm getting too old for this nonsense. - I'm not built to crouch.

Gale

normal - I hope Halaster takes good care of Tara while I'm away. - Sembian wine; Cormyrian boar; Waterdhavian conversation. It's the little things you miss while on the road. - Oh, what a tangled Weave we web! - All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it.

combat - Just go for the Magic Missile and fire away. Never fails. - Don't make me go all Edwin Odesseiron on you. - Get. Out. Of. My. Head. - I really wish I could cast a Hold spell on you.

stealth - You made me hide, don't make me come seek you. - Gods, it's like trying to sleep with a mosquito in the room. - A little privacy please. - Stop it - that tickles.

Wyll

normal - Could do for a brew. - Where there's a 'Wyll', there's a 'y'. - Ever get the sense that someone's watching? - So two halflings walk under a bar...

combat - Can't hear myself think! - Wear your scars proudly. - As my father once told me: 'Can we get on with it?' - I find moderation is key.

stealth - Bad time for an itch. - Could do for a brew. - So two halflings walk under a bar... - Shush. No, really. Shush.

Lae'zel

normal - Must everyone be so exhausting? - Weapons high. Standards higher. - Is perfection too much to ask? - Pride is a virtue.

combat - I will know my queen! - There is no right or wrong, only truth. - What is the point, if not victory? - You are right to fear me.

stealth - Hush already. - There is no wisdom in madness. - Is perfection too much to ask? - There is but one way. Vlaakith.

Shadowheart

all modes - I wonder how I'll feel when I remember everything. - Strange. I've had more freedom this past while than my whole life... - Have to keep focused. Can't afford to get attached - to anyone. - If I succeed, maybe I'll be allowed a pet... ugh, stop being silly.

Halsin / his voice is currently bugged :(

normal - What I would not give for a chunk of fresh honeycomb... - Such attention... I never realised I was so popular. - Are you feeling lonely, perhaps? - Unwise, perhaps, to poke a bear this much...

сombat - Battle is afoot - you can poke me once we are safe. - Perhaps try attacking the enemy? - Admirable stamina, yet terrible priorities. - You are insistent, are you not?

stealth - Most consider it unwise to poke a bear. - My, you are eager, are you not? - Please. I am trying to be stealthy. - Calm yourself. There is plenty of me to go around.

Jaheira

normal - Oh, calm down. I'm happy to see you too. - I would poke you back, but I fear that's what you want. - My, such strong wrists. - Well you certainly have the 'omnipresent' part down, don't you? - Please go poke the ranger instead.

combat - You have my attention - now do something with it. - What? What do you want!? - Do you know, I begin to wish they had never brought me back. - Yes, yes, have your fun. It isn't you they're trying to kill.

stealth - Dry those sweaty palms and let us try this again, shall we? - Argh, my knees! Oh. It was a twig. - Would that I could hide from you, too. - Careful, or I will take your toy away from you.

Minsc

normal - ARGH! My EYE, Boo! They went for my EYE! - Know that if you poke Boo, no higher dimension will keep you safe! - Heehee. Heeheeheehee. - Well, Boo? How do you want to do this?

сombat - Are you perchance a squeaky wheel in need of a kick? - I am armed! Armoured! And entirely sick of your foolishness. - I begin to grow annoyed. It is well for you that Boo does not let me learn the bad words! - Ignore them, Boo. Let them gaze deep into their own abyss, and wonder just what it is they are trying to achieve.

stealth - A little to the left? But not so hard you make me giggle. - Boo...? Are you dancing down there, or...? - Hush! I am surprising Boo for his birthday! He is... uh... eh... how old do hamsters get...? - I am the night. A pity, then, that it is so bright out.

Minthara

all modes - You had my attention, now you have my fury. - Phlar Lolth ssinssrickla. - Your suffering will be spectacular. - Stop, or die.

[sweetbans29]

Mic'd - CC

Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader

Summary: You forget that your are mic'd up during practice (based on THIS request)

Warnings: ADHD reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Sweetbans Masterlist

AN: Please don't scold me if I didn't get everything right. I tried my best, I promise.

Your mind never stops going a mile a minute. You were diagnosed with ADHD when you were a kid, it was something that your parents had to adapt to when it came to raising you. It was when you were in 4th grade when they decided to put you into sports. You started as a swimmer but your parents soon realized you were much better on land. That is when they put you in basketball and it just clicked for you. When you picked up a ball and began shooting, everything else began to make sense. It did a really good job of keeping your mind and hands busy on a singular objective.

You were put on a club and travel team when you went into middle school and continued playing through high school. It opened many doors for you including playing basketball in college. You toured a handful of schools and finally settled on Iowa.

Your freshman year was a huge adjustment as it was the first time living away from home. It took some major adjustments but you ultimately got there. The change to college classes was one of the hardest changes you faced. You were always struggling to keep your mind focused on one assignment when you had like 20 others to do at all times. It often resulted in you starting one, picking up another, and then trying to start a third before either of the first two were completed.

One of the girls on your team became your saving grace and one of your best friends. Kate had become someone who helped keep you grounded when the world was spinning and you could not be more grateful. Your friendship with her has helped you navigate the transition into college classes and playing college ball. She was always one to help keep you on task. The two of you have come up with a system to keep your mind focused when it feels like you aren't moving fast enough or don't feel like you have the control your mind needs.

Kate is also the one who was secretly working on getting you and Caitlin together. She noticed how both you and Caitlin would act around each other and took it upon herself to see two of her best friends and teammates come together in what she believed to be a perfect match. One thing led to another and you and Caitlin had begun dating towards the end of freshman year.

When the two of you got together - you decided it to keep it between the team. It wasn't that either of you was necessarily hiding your relationship, you were just both content with the world not knowing. You told the people that mattered in your lives and that was enough for the two of you. Also, nobody questioned it considering how much time the team spent together and how much time the two of you spent with Kate. To anyone looking in, the three of you were like three peas in a pod.

That leads us to today. The media team was doing a series where they were joining different sports practices and putting mics on some of the players. You had watched the series and thought seeing some of the school's all-star players behind the scenes was so fun. You were honored when they came up to you and asked if you would be the mic'd up player of the week.

They get you all set up and you are ready to go.

"Testing, testing," you say holding the mic that was pinned in your shirt up to your mouth. You then look at the camera. "We are here live from Carver-Hawkeye arena with yours truly."

You point to your number on your practice jersey and head into a huddle with the team to kick off practice.

While you are in the huddle you nudge Kate.

"Yo Kate, guess who is mic'd up for today's practice," you ask her and give the camera a knowing look. She laughs.

"Bro, I helped you put the mic on." She says and you let out an 'oh ya'.

"Do you have anything to say to the Hawkeye fans who are watching this?" You ask, pulling your shirt to catch what she is saying.

"You are too much," she begins and you hit her arm. "I would say sorry you have to listen to this one for the whole practice." She says and runs away to begin a drill.

You feign hurt and hold your hand over your heart as if what Kate just said broke you. Not two seconds later you are bouncing over to Caitlin and putting your arm around her waist.

"You ready to crush this practice babe?" You ask as she is finishing up stretching. Before she can answer you continue, "Your legs are looking extra nice today. I likey." She just laughs.

"If I just lift this a little," you say lifting the bottom part of her shorts to reveal her thigh a little more. "The team would see those little love bites you like so much." Caitlin slaps your hand and yells your name. You laugh and let her go, going to start a drill.

During the drill, you keep making comments about how fast you are and how no one can catch you.

"Speed." You say with laser focus as you are the next one to jump in the rotation. "I am speed."

Every time Caitlin does a good job you are caught yelling something along the lines of 'that a way babe' or 'that's my girl'.

During practice, Kate kept giving you weird looks but you think nothing of it.

During one of the water breaks, you walk up to Caitlin who is sipping her water. You lean against the wall.

"So, you come here often?" You ask in a flirtatious tone.

She pushes your chest and rolls her eyes. You come up behind her, wrapping your arms around her, and spin her around.

"You love me," you say as you put her down.

"You know I do," she says, kissing your forehead.

The rest of the practice is filled with little comments to your girl on how good she looks and how great of a job she is doing.

"Have you seen those edits that people are making of pigeons?” You ask one of your other teammates.

"What are you talking about?" they say back with a laugh.

"You know the ones where they draw like stick figure arms on them while they are walking around," you say. "Imagine being a bird and not having arms or hands."

You then stick your hands in your practice jersey and walk around. Someone throws a ball at you and you just let it hit you. It bounces away from you.

"Caitlin! Caity! CC!" You say running up to her with your arms still in your jersey. "Would you still love me if I was a pigeon?" You ask her.

"Of course, babe. You would be my pigeon," she says laughing her ass off.

"Good," you say. "Because you would be mine regardless of the animal you were.”

Not ten minutes later you are back in a drill.

"Oh ya, I got this," you say to yourself as you are going up for a layup. You flip it with your left hand and it banks in. "Money!" You yell and run to the back of the line.

As practice comes to a close, the team is scrimmaging. You go up to Kate and she reminds you of a very key detail you forgot about during practice.

"So, how was being mic'd up?" She asks and your eyes go wide, finding the camera that has been following you around the entirety of practice.

"Shit-fuck!" You whisper as you remember all the things you said during practice. "SHOOT - FUDGE" you yell remembering this was going to be on the media team's Youtube page.

You facepalm yourself pretty hard causing a nice slap sound to echo in the gym.

Caitlin runs up to you removing your hand from your face and kissing the place you just slapped.

"Don't slap yourself that hard babe," she says examining the slightly pink mark developing on your right eye and forehead.

"I fuc-messed up," you say and you point at the cameras.

Caitlin turns and Kate just stands there laughing.

Caitlin joins in on the laughing and brings you into her side, squeezing you and kissing your temple.

"Ehh, it was bound to happen sooner or later," she says.

After practice, you thank the media team for choosing you and you head back to your apartment with Kate and Caitlin.

"I can't believe I forgot about being mic'd up. I am so dumb,” you say as you crash on the couch. Your girlfriend comes and sits next to you, pulling your legs onto her lap.

"Don't worry about it babe - no one is going to care." She says rubbing your legs.

"Well, I don't know about that..." Kate says as she passes her phone to you.

You and Caitlin look at it and both of your jaws drop. The media team posted it and it already had 7,000 views. You scroll down to the comments and see people have attached links to their edits. You click on one and it takes you down a rabbit hole of edits that were already created shipping you and Caitlin.

"This is crazy," you say and hide your face.

Caitlin just laughs and continues to rub your legs.

"I think it's cute," she says with a smile.

"I royally messed up." You say.

"Hey," your girlfriend pulls you out of your thoughts, which she knows are going faster than you can comprehend. "If I would love you as a pigeon, I will love you through this, okay?" She says and lifts your face to meet hers.

"Okay," you say and lean in to give her a kiss.

AN: I would lowkey be the best mic'd up person out there. The thoughts that go through my brain sometimes are epic. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! And as always, thank you for your live and support 🤍

[sytoran]

ARSONIST'S LULLABYE

kinktober day 011 | cheerleader!natasha x player!reader

"don't you ever tame your demons but always keep them on a leash" — arsonist’s lullabye, hozier

summary. natasha gets more attached than expected after a one-night-stand with the college's infamous player, both on the field and with the ladies. however, she's always been good at getting what she wants.

rating 18+ | word count 7438 (shittt)

note. natasha is 18 and y/n is 19, y/n is described to be masc-representing (eg. cropped hair, compression tee + grey sweats, tattoos, piercings)

note ii. please please please please take your time to read it, you don't understand how long i've spent pondering over every intricacy in this fic.

note iii. drinking game: take a shot every time i say 'don't fall for the player'

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

Don’t fall for the player.

This was a warning, circulating within the hallways of Avengers Institution, whispered under hushed breaths and divine lips.

Students in this renowned college came from all walks of life — from children of billionaires to self-made achievers, from prodigal minds to brilliant brains. One thing stood for certain, though, and that was the infamous Y/N L/N.

It was a rumour, tried and true, that every single girl — regardless of their sexuality, physical appearance, or social status — would all eventually fall under the spell of the school’s “player”. Try as they might, victim after victim fell helplessly for an effortless charisma and unstoppable magnetism.

The chase never lasted long, a one-sided apex predator hunt. Once you had your eyes set on someone, there was simply no escaping the undeniable fact that the following morning, that girl would wake up in bed next to you.

Problem was, you had this rule, written in stone: Never sleep with a girl more than once.

Alas came the cruel and vicious cycle of girls falling under your spell within milliseconds, only to have their heart shattered within the next twenty-four hours. Sometimes even less.

Boys looked on in jealousy, girls looked on in intrigue. (Or maybe jealousy, too.) The wiser ones kept a distance, but either way, one fact stood true, the moment one stepped into Avengers Institution.

Don’t fall for the player.

Little did you know, soon would arrive a thorn in your plans, an unwanted distraction, your ultimate downfall.

All due to an equally irresistible girl by the name of Natasha Romanoff.

***

“You’re fuckin’ impressive for a freshman, Natasha,” Pepper whistles, clapping her on the back. “Consider yourself a member of the Avengers Institution’s cheerleading squad.”

Natasha nods breathlessly, dropping the pom-poms onto the ground. She had just completed a complicated routine for the cheerleading tryouts, a rigorous one with flips and twirls that required pristine balance.

“I guess that’s expected from a girl who was with the Red Room,” Sharon adds, somewhat snidely. She was another freshman trying out for the cheerleading squad, with a snake-like smile that was coated with too much venom to convey any sort of genuineness.

Natasha returns the smile blankly, false emotions overtaking her face like second nature — propriety, expectations, rectitude. She knew what those words meant, when they put emphasis on the Red Room.

The Red Room, in question, was one of the highest-class organisations internationally that trained talented young female cheerleaders. With a near overly-daunting curriculum, payment fees so impossibly high, and only the most renowned instructors, the Red Room was essentially associated with filthy rich wealth and spoiled privileged kids.

And such comes the tragedy of warped views on capitalism and the unfairness of the world. Sharon leans next to Natasha’s ear in the false pretence of picking something up, but her lips move dangerously swiftly and whisper, “Daddy’s money lets you get everything you want, hm?”

It only takes a second, and then the faux-innocent perpetrator briskly moves away as if nothing had occurred. Natasha stands still, the gripe washing over her back like a cold shower. She steels her shoulders, refusing to be provoked. It wasn’t her fault she’d been born with a silver-studded spoon in her mouth.

Shrugging off the strange looks some of the other girls give her, Natasha hides her annoyance by fiddling with her short skirt. Alongside college came the novelty of less-strict clothing etiquette, and that resulted in the most miniscule cheerleading skirts Natasha had ever worn in her life.

“Ready on the count of three,” Carol announces, tapping her clipboard with a ballpoint pen, surveying the expanse of the wide field.

It wasn’t Natasha’s fault she simply got everything she wanted.

“One.”

An invisible force of magnetism pulls Natasha’s gaze to the bleachers above the field, unyielding and unstoppable. There stands a tall and dark figure in a relaxed position, looking directly at her with piercing eyes. A shiver of anticipation sweeps through the air, and Natasha feels goosebumps rise on her skin.

“Two.”

Aloof charisma exudes from the person’s very presence, so compelling and captivating that it takes Natasha a moment to realise that there’s another girl standing next to the enigmatic soul. She’s chatting animatedly, under a false belief that she’s got your attention, but Natasha knows better.

Her eyes travel over the person’s sculpted figure clad in a leather jacket, tacit confidence written in your lazy smirk and composed posture. Electricity erupts in Natasha’s bloodstream, sending shockwaves coursing through her mindwires, forcing her to look back up to your alluring, forsaken eyes.

“Three.”

Natasha’s body moves mechanically, practised and poised. The rhythm thrumming from the portable speaker seeps into her practised muscles without her brain actually registering it, still reeling from the sheer impact of you.

If there was a fracture in her composure, if her routine was ever-so-slightly off, if her legs trembled more than it normally would’ve, Natasha would blame you.

Natasha would blame you and your stupid smirk, your silly leather jacket, your sickeningly magnetic allure. How you made her feel unstoppable with that come-hither gaze, then left her so low when your eyes inevitably left her.

And suddenly, like a golden key slotting into place, the words Natasha had heard whispered in the hallways finally made sense. The coveted prayer that could only be spoken under hushed tones and divine lips.

Don’t fall for the player.

When Natasha finishes the series of tumbles that ignites impressed cheers from the senior cheerleaders, she lifts her lowered eyes back to the bleachers.

Only to find your lips locked with the blonde girl from before, your hands creeping dangerously low on her back. You move like a predator python, the silver piercings in your ears glinting in the light with every of your calculated moves.

A burning feeling courses through Natasha’s veins, like an ugly green monster unfurling gradually, indescribable anger making her jaw tick.

Don’t fall for the player? Well, now that just sounded like a challenge.

***

Natasha makes her way through the crowd of students filing out from the lecture hall. The chatter fades to a background buzz in her ears as she beelines towards a group of more bearable folks.

“No, they’re a sophomore,” Wanda explained, leaning against the locker door.

“Who’re we talking about?” Natasha intercepts with a curious gaze, slinging an arm around Clint lackadaisically. Professor Banner’s lectures were highly educational, but he tended to drone on a little, and she could feel the rising boredom making its slow crescendo into the back of her mind.

Clint raises his eyebrows amusedly, then lowers his voice in humorous dramatisation. “The player.”

Natasha’s face flashes in recognition at your title. Several things flit across her mind in rapid succession — a fetching character, a lofty smirk, and a pretty girl hanging off a forearm.

“So, this uh… What’s her name?” Natasha tries to ask subtly, faking an expression of indifference. Clint, as always, side-eyes her with a playfully accusatory glance. Natasha shrugs with an odd feeling of guilt.

“Well, I’m a sophomore too, so I do have the guilty pleasure of knowing Y/N L/N,” Wanda said with a bit of a grin.

“Knows her in more ways than one!” Sam cackles, ducking as Wanda swipes at him.

Natasha feels that burning feeling rising in her chest again, and perhaps it was due to the knowledge that someone else had experienced being in bed with you — which was arguably silly, because of course you slept with plenty of women, but that didn’t quell her growing unease.

“Was the sex really that good?” Clint asks bluntly, folding his arms as he leans against the locker next to Darcy. Natasha chokes on air.

Wanda only raises an eyebrow, as if to question the poor boy of his doubts of your sexual prowess. Her knowing smirk told a thousand tales, of your sentient being seemingly reincarnated from a Goddess of Sex, of your mighty skillset of lust, the ultimate sapphic enigma.

“You tryna pull a lesbian, birdboy?” Natasha asks dryly, nudging Clint in the rib. The jibe doesn’t even give her that satisfaction. Thinking about you again had unnerved her very skin, causing clammy hands and a dry mouth.

“She leaves all the girls the morning after, though, so don’t get your hopes up,” Wanda sighs wistfully, waving her hand in the air as if she prophesied of a legend. “It’s a one-night-wonder. Kind of like an eclipse. Only happens once, but when it does, it’s really astronomical.”

Natasha flexes her fingers to get her blood flowing. All this talk about your specialised skillset in bed was making her heart flutter, in the best way possible, but maybe that per se was the worst thing possible.

Because she might acknowledge that you were attractive, but that didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to sleep with you, right?

“And that’s why it's a common tongue around here,” Wanda concludes. “Don’t fall for the player. Simple as that.”

On cue, the noise in the hallway comically fades to silence. The gathered crowds of students make way for a quickly striding figure, clad in the same dark clothing Natasha thought about day and night.

Crossing the hallway with an easy purpose and confident composure, you walk past girls who could be seen swooning. Your gaze slides over them casually, sending small smiles here and there but never really quite focusing.

Until your eyes meet Natasha’s, of course. Like a love scene straight out of a drama, your composure cracks fractionally, and your loose confidence is subverted. It only takes a second before your persona snaps back into place.

“Hey, Natasha,” A smooth voice spills out from your angel-crafted lips. Your voice runs over her weak-willed skin, suddenly so vulnerable in your presence, and then you’re gone.

Natasha stills in place, staring after your disappearing figure. Your two words had left such a searing imprint into the front of her mind that it was honestly concerning. The chatter rises again, as if you were never there.

“Looks like you’re Y/N’s next conquest,” Wanda comments, mildly impressed. “Good luck, my friend. Just remember, don’t fall for the player.”

***

Why on earth there was a dorm party on the second day of school was a question that would forever remain unanswered.

Perhaps the adolescent spirit was the root cause of it, free and tameless and reckless, or maybe it was the temptation of alcohol and attractive folks, intoxicating and thrilling.

Either way, Natasha was here for a good time, not a long time.

Her short midnight dress flounces as she makes her way over to the partially occupied couch, the rather risky slit making its way up her thigh to reveal awfully beddable skin.

“Hey, babe!” Wanda calls enthusiastically, waving her over. There’s a Matrix movie playing on the screen, Natasha isn’t clear of which one, and there are students sprawled over the couch, the floor, and on each other.

She ends up playing a game of truth or dare with strangers, driven by warm bodies and the repetitive encouragement to indulge in a little bit of ‘fun’.

“Truth!” Darcy yells drunkenly, almost crushing her red solo cup of cheap alcohol.

“Jeez, woman,” Carol mutters, sighing at the tipsy girl’s antics. “So, truth— ever had a threesome?”

A bunch of ‘ooh’s wave like a ripple through the huddle of students, but Darcy answers with surprisingly quick coherence for a woman on her sixth cup of beer. “Hell yeah,” she drawls. “Y/N and Jane. Best night of my fuckin’ life.”

Natasha feels that wildly uncomfortable feeling of butterflies fluttering — no, thrashing, around in her stomach. It’s absolutely ridiculous that she’s so easily unsettled by you.

Said Jane Foster flushes in her seat, clearly embarrassed at having her sex life exposed. She waves a hand, trying to quiet down the growing hoots and whistles. “I mean, is it really that surprising, guys? I’m definitely not the only one! Okay, jerks, who else has laid with the famed Y/N L/N?”

Immediately, all eleven women in the dorm room have their hands raised. Well, all except Natasha, that is.

“Oh, she’s a free woman!” Valkyrie yells out, pumping her fist, and the crowd of women let out victorious cheers. “Our last standing soldier!”

Natasha smiles awkwardly in the limelight of all these older students, the strangling sensation in her gut growing stronger.

Seriously? ‘The Player’ has already slept with all these pretty girls in her second year? I would never sleep with someone who treats sex so meaninglessly…

Natasha refocuses on the game, dispelling all her thoughts that seemed to constantly circulate around you. In the bleachers, in the hallway, and now in a dorm party…

So why is Y/N L/N a muse in my mind? Why is she so inescapable?

After about six rounds of revealing shameful truths and accepting rather pointless dares, Natasha’s ready to ditch the scene altogether.

She’s barely touched any alcohol, but it was honestly a shame that her imagination was still so lucid. Getting some of that cheap beer into her system would probably help her to relax quicker, and to stop thinking about you.

“Hey, uh,” she whispers to Wanda. The older girl pulls her gaze away from the current life of the party to regard Natasha with a drunken smile.

“What’s up, Nat?” Wanda drawls, sprawling forward a little too close for comfort. Natasha cringes at her beer-tinted breath. Wanda murmurs softly, “Hey, you got a lil somethin’ in your eye. Looks like a little cloud… Oh, that’s just the light. Silly me, silly–”

“Wanda, I’m gonna head back now. Don’t worry about me,” Natasha says, slightly impatiently but affectionate nonetheless, patting Wanda’s head.

“Awh, okay,” Wanda responds drunkenly, breaking off into a little giggle as Natasha gets up. “Hey, Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fall for the player, yeah?” Wanda asks with an innocent smile, but her eyes are reminiscent of a ghost doing its last haunting. Then Wanda’s gone, gone with the wind, her attention lost to the exhilarating game of truth and dare.

There’s a moment of quiet in Natasha’s mind, save for the explicit Nicki Minaj song playing in the background with lyrics that would make a stripper blush.

She had heard that simple statement all too many times. Almost like she was meant to hear it. Like it was a premonition, a foreshadowing.

With the odd feeling of being defenceless, Natasha makes a beeline for the door. She’s had enough of silly conservations and awful thoughts; conversations that encircled around the subject of The Player, and awful thoughts of hers that always ended up being about you.

However, a shining bottle of cheap alcohol catches Natasha’s attention from the makeshift bartending station, essentially a kitchen counter. “Wouldn’t hurt, I guess,” she mutters under her breath, reaching out to grab a bottle for herself.

“Ah, that beer’s shite. The good one’s in the cupboard.”

Embarrassingly startled by the familiar smooth voice that greets her, Natasha jumps in her own skin. You again, she thinks with such indignation. What kind of sheer audacity did you have to approach her, after you were making out with another girl just the other day–

All coherent thoughts left Natasha’s mind when her eyes rake over your short-sleeve compression shirt that clung to your abdomen and arms like a vacuum-sealed package. Paired with grey sweats, it was such a beguiling mixture of taut muscles and casual wear that had Natasha growing hotter under her skin.

“I guess it’s alright for me to assume I’ve chosen the right attire for today,” you say, folding your arms in a little bit of satisfaction. That has Natasha staring at the black tattoos that decorate your thick forearms, and she’s half-crazed by the alluring sight.

Perhaps you’re showing off a little more than you normally would, but the girl standing before you was one that had invaded your mind for days on end, which was entirely uncharacteristic of your constantly horny brain.

“Can I ask you a question?” Natasha asks snarkily, returning your confidence with her very own crossed arms. Your eyes don’t miss the way her awfully kissable lips form the words on her tongue, and you certainly don’t miss the way her crossed arms push up her cleavage.

You lick your lips imperceptibly, and you notice the way Natasha’s eyes follow the movement with a hawk-like gaze. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” you respond easily, taking a single step closer to the object of your desires.

Natasha scoffs at the pet name, but you can see your close proximity subverts her composure in the slightest. Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you reach out to place your hands on her altar-like hips. She bristles under your touch, but she doesn’t move.

“Why’re you so fucking arrogant?” Natasha finally asks, hating how breathless she sounds, struggling to keep cool as your ring-adorned hands thumb the material of her short dress. You’ve got her entrapped between the kitchen counter and your sinfully sculpted body, with no way of escape. (Not like Natasha was looking for one.)

“Brat.” The dry laugh that sounds from your throat has Natasha’s heart pounding, a choked sound of pleasure caught in the back of her throat. Your big hands have moved to her sides, cradling her waist tenderly but withholding power, as if you’re ready to dig your fingertips into her soft skin at any given moment.

She thinks it’s unfair, the way your eyes are damn near psychedelic. They’re screens of mercury, smouldering and smoking with the way it trails over her body. If you’re a spark of fire, Natasha is a pool of gasoline that feeds your will.

Hot lips slant against Natasha’s ear lobe, taking it between your teeth as she shudders. Natasha’s breathy release of air as she fights to keep silent has you tugging on her earlobe with pure want.

“Can I ask you a question?” you ask, your voice a touch lower than it had been before, your hands tightening its grip on her deadly hips, the metal of your rings cool against her hot skin.

The overwhelming sensation of your big hands, hot lips and sharp teeth is enough to have Natasha’s eyes fluttering shut. She almost loses control of herself, almost lets herself fall victim to your hypnotic touch — But then you pull away, and a desperate little whine nearly falls from Natasha’s lips.

The cheerleader swallows as she stares at your crafted face, your eyes darkened with something far deeper than want, your lips tugged upwards into a devilish smirk.

“My room or yours?”

Natasha would like to say that the rest was a blur, and her alcohol-tainted memories got lost in translation — but it was a shameful and unequivocal statement that she had been entirely sober, and yet recalled every single detail of that night to vivid precision.

***

Natasha remembers you pressing her up against your door, a fervent urgency of lust unlocked within the confines of your dorm.

“So fucking desperate,” you grunt, hips knocking into Natasha’s front as you pin her against the door, lithe legs wrapped around your muscled torso.

“Shut the fuck up,” she spits, throwing her head back as your sharp teeth sink into the softness of her porcelain neck. The edge of your canines are hard and unforgiving, just how Natasha likes it, just how you scatter dark hickeys across her pale skin.

You smirk at her brattiness, finding it an exceptionally arousing trait of hers. “Pretty girl, you’re not the one in charge,” you tease, with your words and with your hands, dragging your fingertips up and under her short dress.

Natasha remembers her fingers twisting into your hair as you play her like a fiddle, teasing and edging and so blatantly talented like a prodigal concertmaster.

She whines as the cool metal of your rings nudges her nipples, her sensitivity skyrocketing with the shock. “More,” she tries to demand, but it ends up sounding like a helpless whimper and your hands move with such purpose.

You don’t help her cause by taking a hardened bud between two fingers and tugging, cries and whimpers following your fingers. Heaven is the way her breasts look all marked up by your mouth, hardened nipples and raw skin dancing in your vision.

Natasha’s nails dig into your hardened abdomen, scraping at your every muscle for all it was worth. It was something about you, something about the look in your eye, something about the way you commandeered her body with such precision and control like it was meant to be.

Natasha remembers her complete relinquishment of power, giving herself up for you, with a sick urge to be fucked within an inch of her life and then some.

Your right hand slides across her damp inner thigh to brush at her demesnes, and the sheer wetness that awaits your fingers makes you growl against her skin. “So fucking wet,” you grunt, peeling apart the thin material of her panties that cling to her sodden pussy with strings of slick.

Natasha wails, face completely flushed and so utterly gorgeous, and you can’t help but meet her lips with clashing tongue and teeth. She moans as your pierced tongue explores her mouth, and you drink up her cries of pleasure.

“Wanna fuck you silly,” you pant against her ear, fingers tracing the outline of her pretty pussy, dragging arousal along with it. Your knee keeps her legs spread nicely apart for the taking, and the vulnerability you bring out of Natasha is perhaps also the hottest thing.

Humiliation is the way Natasha agrees so quickly, nodding dumbly in acquiescence, thinking it would be nice to feel her brain melt to mush with your thick fingers and prodding tongue.

Natasha remembers the earth-shattering pleasure that wracks her body, as you divulge in providing, by leaps and bounds, the best sex she’s ever had.

Three fingers slide in and out of her dripping cunt at a phenomenal pace, and Natasha’s panting like a dog, tight velvet walls clenching around the thickness of your fingers for all it’s worth.

Finger-fucking her against the door like a heaven-descent, you bask in Natasha’s cries of pleasure. It’s never been like this, never been this heated. With Natasha, you felt like you were ascending.

“You’re gonna make a mess on the fucking floor,” you bite, a low gasp caught in the back of your throat. Natasha’s head lolls to the side, high-pitched whimpers making themselves known as she drips down your wrist and her thighs.

Natasha remembers the unravelling, the way her body seizes up out of its own accord, electricity erupting behind her half-lidded eyes.

Your hands dig into the plush of her thighs as you bring Natasha to a stupendous climax. Your fingers curl harshly, hitting her sweet spot and drawing out obscene noises from her.

“Fuck–” Natasha chokes out, high-pitched and breathy and absolutely delightful. Her hips jerk in your hands as your fingers move inside her.

“Another,” you grunt, not a request, and before Natasha can get ahold of her senses your fingers are thrusting again. She wails as your wrist jackhammers into her wet cunt, slick sounds echoing around the four walls of your room.

The second orgasm arrives even more harshly than the first, and Natasha clings onto the broad muscles of your back as you pin her against the door, toes curling and eyes squeezing shut.

She thinks she could find solace in the way your arms entrap her in a certain type of warmth, almost as if you don’t want to let her go.

But that would just be a hopeless fantasy, wouldn’t it?

Natasha remembers waking up the next morning to an empty bed.

The morning air is too cold on her bare skin. Your side of the bed isn’t even warm anymore. You must’ve left ages ago, in the dark of the night, and that thought in itself has Natasha choking on emotions she’d rather not feel.

Her clothes are still strewn on the floor and the furniture is a mess, a mockery of how far she’d let you go last night, driven by an inescapable high.

This is the game you play. Toying with girls' hearts like it was child’s play, making them feel like they were one in a million for one night only. All that alluring charisma was ugly and falsified, viewed through rose-tinted glasses.

This is the game you play, and Natasha Romanoff had fallen victim to it.

Don’t fall for the player.

Now, it was just another warning sign that she’d overlooked, and she was just like those other girls, stumbling into your open arms and cocky smirk.

Vehement fury slugs inside the cheerleader, as she forcefully picks up her strewn clothes.

Then she looks around the dorm room, your room, and time stills for a moment.

She’d expected it to be somewhat furnished, like all other dorm rooms were, maybe a cactus in the corner or a poster of a rockstar. Instead, your walls are blank and there isn’t a trophy or an award in sight.

You’re the captain of the football team, above average in academics, yet there isn’t a trace of the mark you’ve left as a student at Avengers Institution. There isn’t a trace that you’re a living, breathing human, with emotions that craft your very humanity.

Scarily enough, she feels like she’s laid in the bed of a complete stranger.

And suddenly, Natasha understands.

Don’t fall for the player.

Suddenly, everything feels a little too real, and Natasha comprehends that the statement holds far more depth than what your reputation suggested.

You were just fucking scared.

Scared of commitment, scared of growing attached, scared of being abandoned. You feared getting your heart broken, and thus you feared the longevity of relationships that involved love and romance.

As Natasha picks up her strewn clothes from the floor, with aching limbs and dishevelled hair, only one statement rings in her mind.

Don’t fall for the player.

“Maybe I will,” Natasha whispers to the ghost of your handsome, misunderstood self in the room. “But haven’t you heard I always get what I want?”

***

You couldn’t fall asleep.

You watch the empty sky as you sit on the empty rooftop of the school at four in the morning, a cigarette hanging limp between your lips. There’s an underlying anger bubbling beneath your skin, an itch that you can’t find, simply stewing there to your frustration.

Romance was bullshit.

It was plainly obvious from the way girls approached you. Flirty eyes and feather-light touches meant only one thing. And they were all so pretty, so who were you to complain, right?

All those girls always ended up in your dorm bed, sweaty and short of breath. Your heart would pound, and your mind would go wild with endless possibilities of what could happen if they just stayed.

“You can stay if you want,” you muttered off-handedly to one of your first few hookups in college. The look that the girl returned was so unimpressed that you never asked that question again.

But it was okay, because sex was something that you were good at, and those girls had their fun. It was okay, even if there was something missing. It was okay that your reputation preceded your identity. Even if those expectations spiralled far beyond your control.

With every passing girl you brought to bed, the gnawing hole in your chest only grew bigger. You craved something that you couldn’t obtain. Even if your heart was crawling out of its ribcage every time a girl breathed your name, every time she laid a hand on your chest.

Last night, Natasha Romanoff took that gaping hole in your chest and ripped it right open.

“Please, Y/N,” Natasha had whined, and there was reverent devotion in the way you held her hips, in the way you pulled her close.

“Stay,” you had wanted to whisper, so badly, so many times, but her hands were streaking red marks down your back and her body was shuddering under yours.

So you kept your forbidden mouth shut and continued to do what you did best. All the ‘what-ifs’ were just hopeless dreams. You couldn’t stay, you couldn’t commit. You weren’t allowed to, not after the expectations that had been set for you.

Romance was bullshit, after all.

“You seem troubled,” a female voice announces from behind you, but you don’t bother to turn back. Taking your silence as consent, the girl sits next to you.

“Give me a light,” the girl says, leaning closer to you, and only then do you turn to look her over. Blonde girl, 5’8, blue eyes. Freshman.

“Sharon Carter, right?” you ask indifferently, and the girl lets out a bemused huff as she makes her comfortable next to you.

“Wow, so you do know every girl in this school,” Sharon comments, and there’s a teasing lilt in her voice that hints at how this is going to end up.

You pull out a cigarette, passing it over to the blonde girl, noting how her fingertips brush over yours for a second too long. “Maybe I do,” you respond with false cockiness, the smirk overtaking your face almost unconsciously.

This is the right thing to do, you convince yourself, as Sharon’s hand creeps to your thigh. One girl after the other. You couldn’t get attached.

“Impressive. Put away your light. It’s healthier to destress in another way,” Sharon whispers, tossing her cigarette to the rough concrete.

What a waste, you think, but then the same could be said about a lot of other things in your life.

For a fraction of a second, you contemplate your existence. You wonder why you’ve ended up this way. What you’ve done to deserve girls throwing themselves at you when you began to despise all of them.

When Sharon brings her lips closer to yours, and you find yourself meeting her halfway, because you’ve done it so many times.

There’s this tugging of your heart that almost feels like guilt, but you shove it down and drag your tongue between a set of lips. All too easily, your hands draw patterns across her chest and her thighs, a mastered craft that came mechanically.

Even if it is the right thing to do, it doesn’t feel right.

Your head is swimming with unbearable thoughts of Natasha Romanoff, and you try to erase her on the tongue of another girl who could never compare.

It doesn’t feel right, but it’s the easy way out, and it’s what’s expected of you.

Always has been.

***

“Fuck, Y/N—” is the first thing Natasha hears when she meanders into the bathroom the morning after.

She had wanted to get an early start on the new morning, but alas, fate had it out for her.

For a while, Natasha is surprised that she isn’t surprised. You’ve got a pretty blonde girl on the bathroom counter, one hand up her skirt and the other twisted in her hair.

The girl throws her head back in a bout of pleasure, and Natasha’s thinking that maybe she looks a little familiar. It’s her cheekbones, strung high like a haughty prick. “Daddy’s money always gets what you want, hm?” rings in her head.

A spark of fire burns any ounce of indifference Natasha has to ashes. Sharon Fucking Carter.

Sharon’s painted nails were digging into the expanse of your shoulder blades, and it looked downright painful. Your dexterous fingers were plunging into her sodden cunt, rendering her barely coherent.

It all looks so wrong, and Natasha wants to crawl out of her skin before the jealousy eats her alive.

“Fucking hypocrite, aren’t you?” Natasha spits venomously, hands clenched into fists of fury, making her presence known.

When Sharon jumps away from you like she’s been burned, Natasha can’t help but let evil glee surge through her stomach. Serves you right, she thinks, staring at your dishevelled hair that somehow only made you look more handsome.

It’s different, this time, with your eyes darting as if you were unsure of yourself. (Astonishing, considering your mean streak of being cold as ice.) There’s resentment in the way your face sets, and a type of hurt that causes Natasha to falter.

“Daddy’s little bitch,” Sharon scoffs, fixing her skirt with no attempt to hide her disdain. “Why don’t you fuck off, huh?”

Natasha scoffs, eyes widening in fractional aggression. “I-”

“You should go, Carter,” you say monotonously, almost defeated but wavering on the edge of frustration.

The blonde girl whips her head around to stare at you with incredulousness written in her wide eyes. She lets out a dry laugh of betrayal. “Fuck, look at the two of you. Match made in hell.”

The bathroom door slams shut with a piercing thud. Both you and Natasha don’t flinch.

“You didn’t have to call Sharon a hypocrite,” you mumble, flicking your head back to look in the mirror.

There’s something off about you that no one else has ever had the privilege of seeing. It makes Natasha’s heart soar and her blood boil simultaneously.

“She wasn’t the one I was calling a hypocrite.”

A moment passes between the two of you where you flick an invisible switch.

“I’m the hypocrite, Romanoff?” you ask, evidently provoked. A crazed look in your eyes draws Natasha’s attention, because you’re putting on a false facade all over again.

“Am I the hypocrite for fucking another girl? It’s all I do, isn’t it? That’s what I’m known for. You don’t get to be so butthurt because you were just a one-night.”

A sickly sourness lines your mouth as you spew words that aren’t true, because your heart was fighting every battle to get to Natasha Romanoff.

“What you’re failing to realise,” Natasha begins stately. “Is that this isn’t about me. Fuck it if I’m just another girl on your ever-growing fuck list. Because maybe I am. But you’re lying to yourself if you think you’re happy.”

“Oh, so now you’re determining my emotions for me,” you retort with as much snark as you can muster. “You weren’t acting this high and mighty last night in my bed.”

“Quit the act,” Natasha scoffs, then letting a bittersweet smile cross her face. “You’re hiding behind weak retorts because you’re scared. Scared of being alone. But you don’t have to be anymore.”

Lost, your hands twitch, and you allow yourself to believe that maybe Natasha is your salvation. Defense mechanisms kick in, but you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Sorry to disappoint, Romanoff, but don’t try to play therapist. I’m not some kind of victim you’re going to diagnose,” you sneer. “I’m free to do whatever the fuck I want without your judgment.”

“Free?” Natasha asks, an incredulous look in her eyes. She laughs in mockery with an unwavering gaze. “You’re not free. You can’t go a day without fucking a girl. You’re a prisoner, and you’re shackled by your own desires and wants. Except this time, that luxury has become an addictive coping mechanism.”

Dark eyes flash with a glimmer of danger, and you’re so much like a trapped animal gone hostile that Natasha’s heart breaks a little.

“You’re wrong,” you answer, but your hands are shaking so violently that you hardly seem like the person she once thought you were.

Where complete equilibrium once was, a desperate frenzy of unease is what exudes from you now. Natasha feels a twinge in her heart when you whisper “You’re wrong,” again, this time substantially more quiet and resigned.

“Prove it, then,” Natasha challenges, bringing a hand up to cup the side of your face. Her eyes search yours so desperately, and you’ve stripped naked in front of a hundred girls, but you’ve never felt more vulnerable. “Prove that you’re more than whatever they say about you.”

With the strange urge of tears pricking at your eyes, you stare at Natasha with all the hopelessness any broken heart could muster, and for a moment you can see the doubt in her eyes. Like you’ve disappointed her, just like all the girls who’s hearts you’ve broken.

But when you first kissed Natasha Romanoff, it was never going to be just another one-night, was it?

With the final semblance of humanity in your burden-stricken mortality, you drag a shaky thumb along Natasha’s cheekbones like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, and the deeply-rooted self-loathing inside you fades away, just a little bit.

Your parted lips meet Natasha’s in a prologue to an unfinished symphony. You delve in like she’s your last lifeline, and maybe Natasha is, from the way she rests her fingers on your hips with a gentleness you’ve never experienced.

A carnal urge washes over you, because this time you’re not afraid to admit that you want Natasha Romanoff. You spread your hands, feeling up as much of her as you can, running it down her back then squeezing at her rounded ass—

And then Natasha’s pulling away, and only then do you hear the cluster of footsteps approaching the washroom.

“Tonight,” she whispers with a hint of smirk. Natasha goes on her tippy-toes to press a kiss on the tip of your nose, and then she’s gone.

You stand there with wide eyes, in the washroom where students filter in, lingering with the ghost of Natasha Romanoff’s lips and a piece of your heart melted onto the floor.

***

You were positive you were going to start ripping off your skin if you didn’t start fucking Natasha Romanoff in this exact moment.

But that would be a bad idea, because you were in the middle of a psychology lecture, and Professor Harkness probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

After a torturous hour of you shifting in your seat, you sprint out the lecture hall. Thanking the heavens that it was your last lesson of the day, you dodge and weave through the crowd of students in the hallway.

“Hey, Y/N,” A small group of sophomore girls call out, checking you out like a piece of meat. Normally, their flirtatious winks and little skirts would have you folded in an instant, but you couldn’t wait a moment longer.

You send them a polite smile and continue on your hasteful journey, missing the comical way their faces fall.

Upon your dutiful research, you knew where Natasha’s dorm was located, but you planned to stop by your own dorm to pick up a little something. (Okay, maybe the something wasn’t that little.) You yank open your door with purpose—

Only to find Natasha already sprawled out on your dorm bed, dressed in one of your shirts and nothing else. You almost pass out. Almost.

“Nat,” you groan, locking the door behind you. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not before I come, I’m afraid,” Natasha sighs with a pleased smile. She beckons you over with a come-hither motion, spreading her legs in invitation.

You bite back an affected noise in the back of your throat, pushing Natasha back down on to the bed with fervour. With a crushing sense of urgency, you slide your hand between her pretty thighs, not waiting a single moment.

“Slow down,” Natasha instructs, tilting your head up to stare at her blown pupils. “Take your time. Don’t just fuck me. Do it like you mean it.”

Upon hearing those words, a rush of pride washes over you and then you’re so eager to please, desperate to somehow prove yourself.

Your fingers find the hem of her shirt and tug it over her head, revealing the bare mounds that are Natasha’s tits. A shaky exhale leaves your lips as your fingertips experimentally brush over her hardened buds.

“God, you’re built,” Natasha moans, running her hands over the edges and curves of your muscle. It’s tight and taut under her touch, so defined and carved.

You shudder under her explorative touch, returning your attention back to the beautiful girl in front of you.

You were so used to hot, fast, explosive sex that turning back time was such a jarring awakening of everything that you were missing out on.

It put things into perspective, that you had never actually made love. And since this was your first time, you were determined to do it right, especially for Natasha.

You trail open-mouthed kisses down her sternum and stomach, savouring the taste of her skin. Your hands grasp at her tits, enjoying the feel of it in your hands.

You’re experiencing things you never got to experience, like the rise and fall of Natasha’s pale chest, the way her eyelids flutter gently.

Temporarily avoiding where she needed you most, you hear Natasha let out a whine. You tease her hole with your tongue, smearing her slick messily.

“Fuck,” Natasha curses, winding her fingers into your hair. “Please, I need it,” she whines, as you lick at her clit.

“M’kay, baby,” you mumble against her wet folds, because you could never deny Natasha of anything, could you?

You slide your tongue in her twitching pussy, and begin one of the most passionate love-making sessions

You listen out for when Natasha hitches her breath, when her hips stutter, when she mewls out. You learn the instrument of her body, understand and test out the different reactions you can draw out.

After minutes of what seem like pure bliss with erratic breaths and pleading keening, you speed up and the reaction is immaculate.

“Y/N,” Natasha cries, as your tongue goes in and out of her dripping cunt. Her slick goes down her thighs and your chin, making the most obscene noises.

It’s wet and squelching, and you proceed to devour Natasha’s pussy for everything it’s worth.

For a millisecond, Natasha wonders if anyone has ever died from being eaten out too passionately. Erotic Oral Overdrive, maybe.

Her first orgasm comes in a gradual crescendo, her hips rocking in waves as you dutifully match her unwinding.

Natasha lets her eyes flutter shut as the moment overwhelms her senses. Until the silence is finally broken by you.

“Got a little something for you,” you say with a quirked brow, sliding your hand into the bedside cabinet to retrieve that little something.

“Oh, fuck,” Natasha whines, upon seeing the biggest strap-on toy she’s ever had her eyes upon in her life.

You ease in the cock with no amount of trouble, through Natasha’s already slick cunt. You start with a gentle pace, because you’re trying to be slow.

Apparently, Natasha has different plans this time around.

“Harder,” Natasha growls, digging her nails into your muscled back. You let out a low gasp, because you’re already so deep inside her divine pussy, and you didn’t think you could go any deeper.

Gripping her thighs and spreading it as far apart as you can, you thrust impossibly deeper and your hips slap against Natasha’s.

Her eyes roll back, and she arches off the bed as you continue to thrust and make a nest for yourself inside her.

“Y/N, ungh– please, fuck—” Curled toes wrap around your back as she writhes against the bed.

With the way your cock bulges against her skin, you’re quite sure you could actually split Natasha in half. She’s clawing at your back, calling out your name to the ceiling.

When you pull out, Natasha whines, velvet walls clenching tighter around to keep you deep inside. But then you thrust all the way in again and a scream rings around your dorm room.

You don’t give a flying fuck about the noise level as you pound into Natasha, splitting open her pretty little pussy. “So fucking tight and wet,” you moan into her ear. “All for me, baby?”

It’s fucking possesive, the way you manhandle her to look at her rolled-back eyes and slack jaw.

“Mhm– yes! Oh God, yes, please, Y/N!” Natasha shrieks, clenching so tight you swear you can feel her wet pulse through the huge strap-on.

But it isn’t just any strap-on, and Natasha realises this with a breathy gasp, because it’s a squirting strap-on, and then you’re unloading into her ruined cunt with a deep growl.

Natasha wails, legs in the air, as you pump your seed into her pussy. It’s thick and flows out in pumps, and she milks your cock dry.

“Good girl, Nat,” you breathe, rocking in slow motions so she can recover from her high.

Finally, you collapse on top of Natasha as she lets out a breathy laugh. “What happened to not fucking the same girl twice?”

“You’re infuriating,” you grunt, rolling your hips once in retaliation. You delight the small victory of Natasha whimpering under you.

Natasha rolls her eyes at your impertinence, leaning up to press a small kiss on your forehead. “Infuriating? More like irresistible.”

It’s your turn to laugh, grasping her hips and pulling her impossibly closer. “You’re right,” you whisper truthfully. You think you could stay like this forever.

“Stay if you dare,” Natasha whispers, letting her hand trace over the curvature of your angled face. As you lay above her, you turn your head so that your lips brush against her palm.

Your warm lips are so delicate that Natasha could almost weep, and that’s all the response she needs before breathing a gentle sigh, hence letting sleep drift her consciousness away.

For the first night amongst many, a quiet calm settles in your dorm room ‘til the sun rises again.

***

Don’t fall for the player.

Once upon a time, that used to be a warning, circulating within the hallways of Avengers Institution, whispered under hushed breaths and divine lips.

Tried and true, was the rumour that every single girl in this school would eventually fall victim to The Player’s effortless charisma and unstoppable magnetism.

And this might be true, because whenever you strolled the hallways or scored a touchdown, you were bound to have admirers cheering your name or flirty winks thrown in your way — However, there was a catalyst. A change, if you would.

Boys looked on in jealousy, girls looked on in intrigue. (Or maybe jealousy, too.) What used to be a smooth mouth and wandering hands became a delicate kind of control, saved for only one particular student.

Gone was your blatant charisma and swagger in treating other girls, because now there was only one on your mind — Natasha Romanoff. Be it in on the bleachers, in the hallways, or during dorm parties, never were you seen without the girl who always got what she wanted.

And that included the very subject of the mantra that defined Avengers Institution:

Don’t fall for the player.

so... this was one full month of work. i've never been this dedicated to a singular project. wow. uh, please reblog. it's the only true way of supporting your little creators on this app, so help me out here. thanks for reading. out of curiosity, which part did you like the most?

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

[woso-dreamzzz]

Leaving III

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: You've made a mistake

Poland was meant to be perfect and, for the most part, it was.

You got to learn a new language, get a girlfriend and train with some of the best in your sport.

But, you had always been like your sister.

You were Alexia's mirror in some of the worst ways.

She had a temper when she was younger. She was stubborn and frustrated and hated losing. You'd seen her yell at teammates when she was younger about missed tap-ins and shitty crosses.

Tennis is not a team sport but you can feel the same frustration bubble up within you as you're once again outclassed by your training partner.

She's ranked first in the world, of course she's better than you but you're still a wonderkid (Spain's prodigy, you can hear echoing in the back of your mind) and usually, you can hold your own better than this.

You're not running fast enough. You're not swinging hard enough. You're missing easy volleys and your serve is abysmal.

You want to go home.

You want to go back to Spain, back to Mollet de Vallès where you're leagues ahead of the competition.

You sniffle a little, curling up on your bed with your phone stuck to your ear.

There isn't a time difference from Spain to Poland so you know she won't be sleeping. You also know she won't ignore your call.

Alexia loves you too much for that.

"Are you okay?"

You don't call regularly. You're not much of a texter either. That was okay when you were still at home, where Alexia could drop in unannounced whenever and find you either on the courts or curled up in your bed with a movie playing.

You both have gotten used to the long stretches of time you spend away from each other.

But Alexia asks the exact same thing every time you're on a call.

It's only this time though that you feel a sob force its way up your throat.

"No," You choke out," No. I want to come home."

From across the world, curled up in her own bed, in her own home, next to her own girlfriend, Alexia's heart breaks.

She wants you home too.

When you were little, Alexia could pick you up out of your bed and just put you in hers. She could do it whenever she felt like it, for any reason she wanted.

If she wanted little sister cuddles or if she missed you or for something as simple as freaking out Alba in the morning when she was sent to get you up.

As you got older and Alexia moved away for football, she no longer dragged you out of bed but rather just slid into yours. You used to pretend that you hated it.

You would groan and complain and say she was stealing your blankets but you never kicked her out, even when she did annoying things like poke you in the cheek or dig her fingers into your side.

"I want you to come home too," Alexia says back to you and you sag in relief onto your bed.

"This was a mistake," You continue," Ale, I've made a huge mistake. I...I'm not cut out for this. I can't do this."

Alexia wants you at home. She wants you at home in your room in Eli's house where she knows your routine and your patterns and could probably track you down in half an hour.

In Spain, Alexia knows everything about you.

She knows your favourite restaurants and which tennis courts you prefer on sunny versus rainy days. She knows your friends and their families and that old couple just down the way whose dog you sometimes walk when you want a break from homework.

Alexia likes you in Spain, where she can drop everything to give you a hug and look after you and pull the sides of her jacket around you even as you try to wiggle out of whatever hug she's trapped you in.

But you've not made a mistake going to Poland, no matter what you think.

Nothing you've done in Poland is something you should regret.

You're getting the challenge you need to be a better player.

Sports are expensive and it has always been hard on Eli to keep up with everything you need even though Alexia has always been willing to pay for it all.

You were the best in Mollet del Vallès because the talent pool was so low.

It's good for you to learn from others, from other international stars that are legendary in your sport.

Alexia can admit that there's probably a few things you regret in life. But this shouldn't be one of them.

"You can," She says to you," Because you're a Putellas and we're not quitters."

"I am," You reply," I don't mind being a quitter."

Alexia sighs. You've always been stubborn.

"You're not a quitter," She insists," Because you love tennis and you're talented at it. You've got to stumble a little bit to get better."

"I don't want to stumble," You say," Ale, I don't. I'm not cut out for this."

"You are," Alexia says," I promise you are. You are going to be the greatest tennis player in the world someday, I know it. You're going to win the Ballon D'or of tennis one day."

That shocks a laugh out of you. "Alexia," You say," There's no Ballon D'or for tennis."

"Well if there were, you'd win it," She says decisively," But you've got to keep trying, alright? Keep going. Hold out for this month, okay? Get through this month and if you still hate it and if you still think it was one big mistake then I'll talk to Mama and we'll bring you home. But you have to try, alright? You have to really put in effort. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Alexia."

"Good."

Like usual, there's radio silence from you for a good few weeks but Alexia expected that.

She's on camp near the end of the month and doesn't really think about the deadline she's set for you. It's not like there was any actual risk that you were going to quit tennis.

You needed it like Alexia needed football.

"Uh oh," Jenni laughs under her breath as the team walk back into the hotel lobby," Here comes trouble."

You're sitting at reception, scrolling on your phone with a bag at your feet and Alexia's heart sink.

No.

There's no way you've quit tennis.

You love it.

"Well, well, well." Jenni's unaware of the crisis Alexia's currently facing, ruffling your hair before you even know she's there. "Look at you. Still tiny."

"I was never tiny!" You say, cheeks puffed out in outrage," You're just freakishly tall!"

Jenni laughs, reaching to ruffle your hair again. You duck out of the way and scamper behind Alexia, offering her up as Jenni's next victim.

Alexia frowns though. "Why are you here?"

Worry courses through her veins.

There's no way you could have quit tennis. There's no way that you've managed to do that without telling her first.

"Mama is on that cruise with Tia and Tio. Alba is out of the country." You huff. "Mama says that I must be with a responsible adult during my break. She sent me to you. Are you not happy to see me, Ale?"

"I'm happy to see you, Menor!" Jenni calls out.

"Stop calling me that!"

Finally, Alexia's brain catches up with your words. "During your break?"

You nod. "Uh-huh. I've got two weeks off for rest and recuperation and then we're on warm-ups for the next tournament."

"Warm-ups in Poland?" Alexia checks and your brow furrows in confusion.

"Of course in Poland. Where else would I be?"

Alexia takes your hand. "Nowhere."

She drags you up into her room. As one of the captains, she's entitled to having it all to herself. She doesn't even stop to think how she's going to explain this to the staff, just happy to have you all to herself again like she did when she was younger.

You fit into her bed like you did when you were younger too, namely by dragging almost all of her pillows to your side and hogging the blankets.

It's easy to curl around each other now, even though you've grown up and can't fit in Alexia's arms anymore.

It's easy to talk too, as you explain all the new things you've been learning and how excited you are for your next tournament.

It's even easier to fall asleep together, your head pillowed on Alexia's chest (even though you made such a point over stealing all of her actual pillows) and Alexia's hand frozen in the act of getting the knots out of your hair.

It's even worth Jenni and Irene's teasing in the morning when they both burst in to find you both still in the same position.

[barcaatthemoon]

harmless || alexia putellas x reader ||

you do a little harmless flirting with alexia when your teams play against each other's.

playing against barcelona felt like a dream come true. so much about this year's champion's league tournament was like that. this was the first one that you were getting to play in with your team, the one that you had been signed to since you could sign a senior contract. you were loyal, having absolutely no intentions of going elsewhere in the world to play. although, barcelona had made some very convincing offers to you.

your teammates and coaches were grateful that you had declined, despite your agent's urgency towards you signing elsewhere. you were crazy to give up barcelona, especially since there was so much for you to learn from them. the way that they played soccer had always fascinated you to no end, it felt far more efficient than anything you could think to do.

"hola," you greeted alexia in the tunnel. she glanced over at you, a small smile on her face. "i'm (y/n)."

"i know, i've seen you play before. you're very good," alexia complimented. you blushed at her compliment, turning your head away in a feeble attempt to hide it.

"thank you. you're also very good, like the best in the world," you told her. alexia had a little smirk on her face, but you could see the way her ears got pink. for a moment, you thought that she looked a little unfocused, and you got an idea. "i didn't think it was possible to see such beauty and talent in one person."

alexia forced herself to keep her eyes off of you. you felt a little smug as you walked out of the tunnel. whenever you had to shake alexia's hand before the game, you shot her a wink, one that didn't go unnoticed by a couple of her teammates. immediately, alexia got extremely flustered, only boostering your confidence for the game.

you were no stranger to playing some mind games. flirting with alexia whenever the two of you met up in the midfield was easy. it was even easier whenever the two of you ended up marking each other for a corner. alexia was bigger than you, so she should have won the challenge, but all you had to do was let out a gasp when she grabbed at your hips for her to back away.

you felt like you were getting away with everything when frido cornered you at halftime. she walked right up to you and pushed at your shoulder to get your attention. "what the fuck is all that with alexia?"

"there's nothing going on with alexia." there was no point in you even trying to deny it. frido knew you well enough to know exactly what was going on. she gave you a stern look, one that had you almost shrinking back into yourself. "fine, i might be flirting with your captain a little, but a little flirting never hurt anybody."

"do not start something that you don't intend to see through, okay? she's going through a hard time right now, and you playing with her feelings today isn't going to help. she's already beating herself up for having a 'bad game' because of your bullshit, kid," frido warned. you agreed to back off, and followed her over to apologize to alexia.

"hey," you greeted alexia cautiously.

"hola, shouldn't you be with your team?" alexia questioned. you shrugged. there was going to be a pep talk, one that would hopefully help you to kick some ass, but the pep talks were not your duty anymore.

"they'll be fine, i don't give the pep talks," you told her. alexia nodded as she pointed over towards her bench. you noticed that a group of the younger players were working to hype up everybody else. "i'm not making you uncomfortable, am i?"

"not so much uncomfortable as you are a distraction," alexia confessed. you smirked a little, genuinely surprised that alexia would get distracted by you of all people. "it'd really help if you maybe saved it for somewhere else. i mean, i am trying to work here."

"well, i'm just repaying the favor. you're pretty distracting too," you teased. alexia huffed as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"i'm not trying to, you are. you have got to stop trying to distract me while i'm at work," alexia countered. your face fell for a moment as you realized that she had a point. "maybe if you behave, i'll buy you dinner tonight."

"alright, but i want to see the best that barcelona's got to offer," you said. alexia agreed to those terms, unaware that you were literally just talking about her.

…

"are you sure that this is where we have to end this?" you asked alexia with a small pout on your face. while her team went out to celebrate their win, alexia had opted to take you to dinner instead. you didn't have a lot of hope for a long distance relationship, but you were still a little optimistic. there was something about alexia that made you want to make things work.

"you have an early flight tomorrow, and i do not like sex on the first date," alexia told you. she cradled your face in her hands and ran her thumb across your bottom lip. "i will see you again, yes?"

"definitely," you promised her. alexia smiled and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. you eagerly shot forward a little, but alexia kept you from pushing her backwards. "are you sure that you can't come up for a little while?"

"frido warned me you were relentless," alexia laughed. your face quickly fell as you tried to think of all the things that frido might have told alexia. the woman had known you since you could practically kick a soccer ball, and you had no doubt that if you stepped out of line, she wouldn't hesitate to embarrass you with alexia. "be good while you're away for me."

"i guess i can try to stay out of trouble," you huffed. alexia pressed a kiss to your forehead before she walked away from you. your hotel was pretty close to her apartment, something that you had learned when alexia came to pick you up for dinner. you knew that it'd be a few dates, but you couldn't wait for her to take you back to her place.

[yoichiris]

love me now | itoshi rin x reader

✩ we were born in a box ✩ pro-player!rin, hurt with comfort, secret dating au

when rin first asks you to keep quiet about your relationship, you're too in love to care.

after all, many things weren't public: not the little smile he gives you when he walks into your apartment, not the way his lashes flutter in the morning sunlight, and definitely not his grunts when he pushes into you. these were sides of rin that were only reserved for you.

but the frustration builds, with every goal that rin scores, the more attention he gets, and the more faded into the background you are.

you stand in the audience, the crowd booming as the ball strains against the net where rin has just kicked it, your eyes trained on him. usually you would've cheered, but recently you've been feeling alone. and you know it's unfair, but he doesn't even look for you, completely focused on the field.

"did you see that?" you hear some guy talking to his partner next to you, voice laced with disbelief.

"fucking awesome," someone else says.

these are the moments rin lives for, you think. outplaying the opponent. making the goal in a way that doesn't allow any doubt about his skill. the set expression on his face tells you everything, that he's planned for this moment and this moment only, and it makes you sad that you've never once crossed his mind.

sometimes you watch rin's teammates run to their partners after winning a game. you try to imagine what rin would be like, if he were like that with you. would he be like bachira, who practically swings his partner over the railings? or isagi, who cups his partner's face between his hands and presses a sensual kiss to their lips?

you think harder, and the answer is probably neither.

which is how you end up standing at the gates of his apartment a few hours after his game ends, feeling apprehensive, when you know he'll return after doing his decompression, doing press, debriefing with his team.

rin's eyes change when he sees you.

"what are you doing here?" he asks, barely glancing at you, "i thought i told you always to wait for me inside."

in case someone sees us, is the unspoken part.

it made you feel special when he had given you the code to his apartment, bypassing all manners of security, having your name discreetly given to the concierge at the lobby. but all of that had been for his career, and his career only.

for rin, everything revolved around being the best at what he did. and you understood. but did you really hinder his career that much?

i don't want them to focus on something so trivial, he had told you once. you know he's talking about gossip, paparazzi, sensational headlines, not you, but you can't help but take it the wrong way. were you trivial to him?

"what are you so scared of, rin?" you ask him softly, your stance firm when he tries to redirect you past the unlocked gates.

he scowls, "what's gotten into you?"

"i don't know," you admit, not really knowing what you want to say, driven only by the feeling of loneliness in your chest, "what do you get out of this?"

the confusion flickers over his face for only a moment. always smart, he is.

"out of what? our relationship?" he retaliates, the way he says relationship making you flinch, even if his tone has barely changed.

you're scared to look at him, because you know what you're asking him to admit. i like you, he had said at the beginning of it all. his expression had been blank, but his eyes had an intensity that made you believe him. and you do.

but being head over heels in love with him as you are, thinking it'd be enough for everything... you hadn't been prepared. not for this kind of life with him.

"yeah," you mumble, quiet, "...i'm just tired of being your secret, rin."

he looks frustrated.

"you're not," he tells you, and once again you believe him, but it's just not enough. "what do you want me to do?"

you don't know. is there anything you could ask him to do? did you have the right to ask him to do everything he had already refused once to do?

you've had this conversation. once, twice. but rin's always been immovable, stubborn. and it's not like you didn't know that his career would always be his priority. so you had dropped it, thinking that you could move past it.

"nothing," you reply, voice shaking. you look down. you don't have the energy to do this a third time.

you sniffle, not yet crying. "i'm gonna go, okay?" you tell him, "it was a good game today."

he reaches out to you instinctively, long fingers circling your hand. he holds onto you for a moment, and you think for a second he'll say something. but he breaks eye contact first and lets you go.

"thanks," he says instead, "be careful on your way home."

you think that's your answer and tell him goodbye.

when you wake up the next morning, you feel completely disoriented. you think the noise you hear is your alarm clock, but you quickly realize that it's just your phone buzzing incessantly.

you sit up in bed, wondering if your eyes are deceiving you.

scrolling through the hundreds of messages in your inbox, scanning through most of the keyboard smashes, and seeing rin's name over and over again, brings you to rin's instagram.

your heart pounds as your eyes take in the picture. you've never seen it before, but you recognize the sprawl of your hair, the familiar crumple of rin's sheets around you.

he's in the frame too, his lips slightly parted at the top right, his exposed collarbone leaving nobody wondering what you two were doing. your face isn't shown, but a tap on the picture shows you that he's tagged your private instagram.

of course rin would post the raunchiest picture allowed to be posted to announce your relationship. of course he had to outdo all other relationship announcements. and of course he would do it at 2am, hours after you'd had your fight.

you can barely breathe when you scroll down to the caption.

Liked by sae_it and others

itoshi_rin love you.

your fingers shake as you swipe back to your home screen, to the rin's name on your favorites page, to call him. he answers on the third ring, his voice raspy.

"hey," he grunts, sounding like all those times you've woken up next to him, with his arm slung over your waist, his chin tucked over your form.

you snuggle into your blankets at the sound of his voice. "you have something to say to me, rin?" you tease.

"no," he says, always mean, and you imagine the slight slant of his frown. "i got practice soon. talk to you later, yeah?"

you're about to protest, but he cuts you off— "i love you."

you think he's about to hang up, but there's a moment of silence as he waits, vulnerable, for you to respond. you smile, thinking about rin holding his breath on the other end of the phone.

"i love you, too."

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sae_it 3h ? 3892 likes Reply

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bachira.megu 2h congrats!!!! FINALLY 957 likes Reply

namu_09035 1h OH MY GODHJAJHD MY HEART YOU GUYS ARE SO CUTE 567 likes Reply

__iluvu__ 1h YOURE SO HOT HOLY FUCK 372 likes Reply

[emmylksblog]

THE WEDDING RING // H. FORT

summary: reader lost her wedding ring and tries to hide it from her husband

contents: angst, comfort

warnings: my first time ever writing so be patient with grammar errors

a/n: idk if this is good but if you want part 2 tell me in the comments and if you like my writing feel free to request, i only write about hector fort and some barcelona players

You were sitting on the couch, looking through a pile of cushions and under the couch cushions, clearly stressed and worried. You quickly put everything back in place as you hear the front door open and your dear husband who you didn´t want to see now walks in, home from training.

"Love, I'm home!"

Trying to act casual you get up and greet him with a kiss on his cheek "Oh, hey! I didn't expect you home so early." You stand up quickly and try to hide the fact that you were just frantically looking for your wedding ring something.

Clearly, something was bothering her for her to be acting this way, he'd never seen her like this before and they had been living together for 2 years, he considered it a long time to know her well enough and to notice so easily her changes in mood.

Hector left his training bag on the couch and approached you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close against his chest. He nuzzled his face into your hair, inhaling deeply. "I know you've been worried about something," he murmured, his voice low and soft. "You don't have to say anything yet, I'll wait till you're ready to talk about it."

You turned in his embrace and playfully mock-scrunches your nose at him. "Ugh, you smell terrible!" you exclaimed jokingly. "Did you roll around in mud after training or something?" Hector chuckled and feigned offense. "Hey, I'll have you know, this is the smell of a real man." He joked back. You smiled and pushed him playfully. "Well, this real man needs to go take a shower. I'll start making dinner."

As he left to shower, you went to the kitchen to start preparing the meal. You tried to keep your mind occupied, but the thought of the lost ring kept nagging at you. You knew you had to tell Hector, but you were worried about how he would react.

----------

Your husband walks back into the room, towel around his neck and hair still damp. He sits down at the table and watches as you quickly finish setting everything up.

As you turn around to join him, you immediately notice his damp hair and can't help but nag. "You should really dry your hair properly. You'll catch a cold like this." Hector grins, clearly amused by your concern. "But I only like it when you dry it for me," he teases, reaching out to pinch your cheek.

You swat his hand away, giggling at his playful banter. "You're such a baby," you tease, "training must have gone well for you to be this cheeky."

Hector chuckled at your comment, knowing that you knew him too well. "It went pretty good," he said, "We did some endurance drills today and I managed to run a few miles faster than usual. The guys were in awe of my speed, as always." He said jokingly, flexing his muscles in a mocking display of pride.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his antics. "You're insufferable, you know that?" you said, trying to bite back a smile. "Always bragging about how fast and strong you are."

They continued eating and the conversation slowly died down to a comfortable silence. Hector was oblivious to her inner turmoil, relishing the peace that came with the meal. She, on the other hand, was eating silently, lost in her own thoughts.

Occasionally, she would glance at her left hand, silently panicking over the missing ring on her finger. She wondered how Hector hadn't noticed yet, but his focus seemed to be on his food.

Hector casually asks her to pass him a napkin, and she does so without thinking, using her left hand since it's closer. As he takes the napkin, he subconsciously takes hold of her hand, his eyes darting to her ring finger. His smile fades as he realizes – her wedding ring is missing.

"Where's your ring?" he asks, his voice calm, yet tinged with confusion.

You quickly withdraw your hand from his, feeling the weight of guilt and nervousness. Trying to come up with an excuse, you mumble something about how you must have forgotten to put it on this morning. However, the excuse is flimsy and Hector immediately sees through it. "You never forget to put it on," he says, his expression serious now. "What's really going on?"

Hector's gaze is unwavering, the silence in the room nearly palpable. As you try to muster up the words to explain, tears well up in your eyes. The weight of the truth and the stress of the day finally catch up to you. You try to speak, but all that comes out is a choked sob. You can't bring yourself to tell him you lost the ring, even though his gaze demands the truth.

Hector's tough exterior softens instantly as he sees you struggling to speak through your tears. He gently pulls you into his arms, holding you against him.

"Shhh..." he murmured, his voice gentle. "It's okay, I'm not mad, just tell me what happened."

You bury your face into his shoulder, your words coming out in a teary mumble. "I... I was searching for it before you came," you said, "I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find it. I'm so sorry... I'm such a horrible wife. You shouldn't have married someone like me..."

He holds you tighter, his embrace comforting and protective. "No, no," he whispered, "Don't say that. You're not a bad wife because you lost something, accidents happen."

He pulled back slightly, gently lifting your chin to meet his gaze. "I married you because I love you, for everything that you are. And a ring doesn´t define our love"

Hector softly kisses your forehead, holding you close against him. You remain like that for a while, cuddled up on the couch, taking comfort in each other's presence. Gradually, your exhaustion catches up to you, and drift off to sleep in the embrace of your husband, your head resting on his chest.

----------

[jonnywaistcoat]

Hi Jonny, if you don't mind I have a question about the TMA TTRPG! So I noticed that on the player's guide there's this guy, who my friends and I assumed is probably Jon. If it is him, is this a canon design, or more like some of the non-canon stuff that's in the merch?

So, I hope you don't mind if i use this ask to go a bit off on one. I'm not specifically dragging you (I'm actualy glad you asked, as I've thinking about posting on the topic), but all the discussion around the RPG art and how "official" or "canon" it might be is, to my mind, slightly silly.

First up, is it "official" art? I mean, yeah, its art for the officially licenced Magnus Archives RPG. This means Monte Cook Games have commissioned someone to do a beatiful illustration broadly based on some aspect, episode or character from the podcast and it goes in the book. But that's kinda all it means. "Official" is a legal distinction, not an artistic one. The fact that it's in an official product doesn't make it any less one artist's cool interpretation of a character that has only been vaguely described in audio.

Second, is it Jonathan Sims the Archivist? I mean, it's probably based on the idea of him, but it's certainly not set in stone. When we were first discussing art with MCG, we advised that character pictures be more vibes-based and not explicitly tied to specific people (ie. a portrait inspired by Tim wouldn't be captioned "This is Tim" and wouldn't be placed opposite a profile for Tim Stoker, archival assistant.) This was mainly because we wanted the artists to have plenty of freedom to interpret and not feel too tied down by the need to know everything about the podcast. But, to be frank, it was also because we know that there are a few fans out there that are kinda Not Chill about what they've personally decided these characters look like and can get a bit defensive over depictions that differ.

It strikes me as particularly strange to be having this discussion about art that's for a roleplying game book. Something that's explicitly and solely designed to give you the ability to play in your version of the Magnus universe. The idea that this is the thing where we'd for some reason try to immutably establish unchangable appearances for these characters would be pretty funny if some folks weren't taking it so seriously. Similarly ridiculous is the idea we could reasonably have said to MCG "We'd love for you to make a huge beautiful RPG book of our setting... Just make sure you don't depict any of the iconic characters or events from it!"

But... is it "canon"? Now, to my mind, this highlights a real weakness in a lot of fandom thinking around "canon", which is that it generally has no idea what to do with adaptations. All adaptation is interpretation, and relies on taking a work and letting new creatives (and sometimes the same ones) have a different take on it. Are the appearances of the Fellowship of the Ring in the LOTR movies "canon"? How much, if at all, does that matter? Neil Gaiman's book Neverwhere was originaly a 90s BBC series made with a budget of 50 pence; is anyone who makes fanart of Mr Croup that doesn't look like the actor Hywel Bennet breaking canon? What about the novel that describes the character differently? Or the officially licenced Neverwhere comic where he looks like neither of them? Which is his "canon appearance"?

Canon is an inherently messy concept, and while it is useful for a creative team trying to keep continuity and consistency within a creative work, for thinking about anything beyond that it tends to be more hinderance than help.

Anyway, all this is to say that the above picture and all the others in the RPG are exactly as canon as every other picture you've ever seen of the Archivist.

[hollowdeath]

I LOVEEEEE YOUR HARRY FICSSSS 😭😭🙏🙏 I literally cannot get enough, your harry fics are amazing ❤️

I was wondering if you'd be willing to do an enemies to lovers type thing with dark!harry, similar to the one you did with "the dark side" fic, but maybe they're rivals due to quittich, yet they both just have tension they don't know gow to handle, so one day they just kind of get so worked up in an argument they start making out. (P.S. I loved the thing you did where harry came from y/n saying he hated him 😫😫 also the part where harry gets turned on from y/n scolding him. If possible, could you incorporate that in there? Thank you smm ❤️❤️) I hope it's not too much trouble ❤️❤️❤️

thank you so much for requesting this, i hope you enjoy!!!

pairing: slytherin!harry james potter x gryffindor!fem!reader (18+)

summary: you and harry have been quidditch rivals ever since you've become captain of the gryffindor team. the tension between you two rises until one of you needs bandaged up by the other, leading to you making a discovery about the school's bad boy that leaves you baffled and insanely curious.

cw: smut!!! angst, mentions of blood, degradation kink, sub!harry x dom!reader, dry humping

word count: 7k

it was your final year at hogwarts and, more importantly to you, it was your last year as the gryffindor quidditch captain. you took major pride in your status as captain, and dedicated a majority of your time outside of class to leading practice, coming up with new plays, and making sure that annoyingly good slytherin captain kept his distance from you and your team.

harry potter was well known at hogwarts years before he even came through. the boy who lived, or whatever. you had never paid him much mind to begin with because you knew he reveled in his own notoriety.

see, potter wasn't just the slytherin quidditch captain. he was the most vile, egotistical, disrespectful wizard you'd ever had the misfortune of interacting with. on top of thinking he was some kind of miracle that blessed everyone's presence wherever he went, he specifically treated you worse than the mud on his shoes. not just because of your status as gryffindor captain, but because you were the only student who wasn't afraid to stand your ground with him. had it not been for quidditch practice 4 times a week and games every friday, you would've done everything you could to keep your distance. however, things didn't work out that way, and you ended up forming a sort of rivalry with the boy that the student body found all too exciting.

it started last year when potter and his friends made a dumb poster and hung it up in every boys bathroom: a drawing of someone falling off their broom with your face printed out and glued to it, along with harry's whose drawing had just knocked you off victoriously. they had put "[y/l/n] vs potter: this friday at 6" at the top like it was some kind of promotional advert. and, as much as you hated it, it actually somewhat worked.

from that game on, the other kids began picking sides every week to see who would win. the crowd turnout became the largest it had been in your entire time at hogwarts. some came in support of potter or were otherwise afraid of what would happen if they didn't, while a good amount of students started to become your biggest supporters the more you showed your skills in the game.

see, you didn't just become captain by having a recognizable last name unlike some other people; you had been playing quidditch since you could fly from a young age, and made the team every single year before finally being nominated for the position by your own teammates. you made a promise to them that day that slytherin would no longer be known as the winning house, and that they finally had some competition to sweat over.

and sweat they did. your first game as captain was an easy win, and so were the next 3. it wasn't until the slytherin players learned they actually had to try in order to win now that they began winning every other game as well. that's where harry stepped in.

harry was someone you always tried to avoid during your years at hogwarts. you didn't socialize with many slytherins to begin with as you found some of them to be rather grating and obnoxious, but especially not with slytherins like potter. it was students like him that gave the entire house a bad name. everyone thought he was so charming besides his cocky attitude, but you saw through his act right away. you think that's partially why he singled you out of anyone as his target.

once he set his sights on you, it was impossible to avoid him. it's like he had some sort of tracker on you the way he always managed to pop up in the most random of places simply to upset you. not that you'd be surprised, as along with harry's sickening bravado came his disregard for moral ethics. if there was a way to cheat, lie, or steal your way into getting what you wanted, potter was already on it. he knew no bounds when it came to his little schemes either. from stealing your game plays and sharing them with his teammates to spreading rumors about your players to playing clearly illegal moves during the game only for nobody to notice but you, potter seemed to revel in the rivalry everyone pushed onto you.

you hated giving him the satisfaction of breaking your cold demeanor, but sometimes his antics pushed you too far. he knows how protective you've become over your teammates, so he'll target them when he can't get to you, especially the younger ones. this is where you've blown your cover quite a few times as you can't stand seeing your first years cower in fear anytime they see potter. yelling, spitting, nearly getting physical with him on several occasions when he ignores your threats to leave the kids alone or else. it's as if he rather enjoys getting such a rise out of you, and not just to fuel the public rivalry.

today was your last day of practice before the last, biggest game of the semester. your team knew to meet at the field at 5 pm ready to go as you had plenty of plays you wanted to perfect before playing against the slytherins tomorrow night. practice had only just started with a few flyers in the air before you heard a commotion of voices coming from behind you.

you turned and saw harry leading his team onto the field, laughing obnoxiously and pointing at your teammates in mockery. you swear you felt steam coming from your ears when you told your team to wait and let you handle this.

you stormed up to potter with an accusatory pointed finger. "you. get the hell off my field now before i call mcgonagall out here, potter." you spit at him before pushing his chest. harry takes the push and just laughs, shaking his head at you.

"[y/l/n], i'm not sure how many professors have to tell you that this field isn't yours before you let us use it for practice as well," he said with a smirk, changing his grip on his broomstick and letting it rest on his shoulder. you narrow your eyes at him and cross your arms over your chest. "you know damn well we practice here every week at this time, and yet you're never able to find a time outside of that to spend with your own team. curious, isn't it?" you ask him sarcastically, your tone biting.

harry's smirk drops slightly. "are you suggesting that i'm trying to sabotage your chance at winning the season tomorrow? because i'd never do such a thing, [y/l/n], and it hurts that you think of me in that way." he responds just as sarcastically. a few of his players snicker and laugh just behind him, earning a nasty glare from you that has them shut up quickly.

you look back at harry who's waiting for a clever comeback from you, nearly on the edge of his seat to see what you have to say this time. you hate how much he thrives off getting you upset.

"fine. practice, then. you'll need it." you tell harry with a cold tone, giving him a disgusted look up and down. you take a step forward and point your finger back into harry's chest, your faces less than a foot away from each other. "but if you mess with any of my players, even as a joke, i will gut you like a fucking fish." you tell him in a hushed tone. you think you see his pupils dilate slightly, but you were probably mistaken. "got it?"

harry's smirk only grows as he starts backing away slowly. "got it, princess." he laughs, turning to his little group of followers for approval before they run off to the other goal post opposite from your team. the nickname is new, and for some reason it made your stomach drop and heart race like crazy. that potter kid just knew exactly how to get under your skin.

you tried to focus on your own team's plays for the rest of practice, but you could clearly hear harry and his friends saying your name and laughing too often for your comfort. anytime you happened to make eye contact with harry, you made sure to scowl at him and promptly turn your attention away. just his sheer presence made your blood boil and skin crawl.

for the most part there were no issues in the sky, the slytherins mostly kept to their side besides the few times harry's friends were messing around and ended up coming close to a few of your teammates. you scolded them each time, but they would only laugh at you and fly off to tell harry about your outbursts. other than that, you ended up getting a lot accomplished in order to be prepared for the game the next day.

however, towards the end of practice, your teammates were having some difficulty with a new technique you taught them, so you took the time to demonstrate it with another player in the sky. you were just about to start instructing when your teammates started calling out to you frantically. you didn't have enough time to process what they were warning you about before you felt someone fly into you from behind, nearly causing you to fall off your broomstick.

you could feel yourself falling to the ground, but your grip on your broomstick remained tight enough to quickly get it under you just in time to somewhat break your landing. you tumbled to the ground with a pained groan, and heard someone else fall just to your left. you could feel the wind get knocked out of you in the air, so it took a moment for you to properly breathe as you tried to sit up.

your teammates got to you in seconds, asking if you were okay and trying to help you up. that's when the pain set in. standing up-right you could feel your rib cage aching and your shoulder throbbing. "i'm fine, i'm fine," you told everyone, brushing off the grass stains on your clothes. you turned to see who had fallen next to you, and who else would be lying there but harry potter as his slytherin teammates rushed to his aid as well.

they're helping him stand up and you can feel the rage building inside you. you break away from your teammates' grasps and march up to harry as he's wiping the grass stains off his own clothes as well.

"you did that on purpose, you pest." you snap at him. harry looks at you incredulously as he fixes his practice jersey. "are you mad? it was an accident, i wasn't looking where i was going, drama queen." he snaps back, giving you a dirty look up and down. you can feel your jaw clenching and fists balling at your sides. "oh yeah, sure, you just so happened to run into me of all people in the sky. you know, you're such a…"

you pause in your anger noticing a gash on the side of harry's face with blood starting to drip down his cheekbone. harry notices your concern and gives you a confused look. you sigh and instinctively pull down the sleeve of your sweatshirt to hold it against his wound. "now you have a giant cut on your face, for fuck's sake," you tell him, your voice a mix of panic and exasperation. harry winces at your hand making contact with his face, but his eyes grow with concern hearing your panic.

you turn to your team and start guiding harry towards the school. "practice is over, do not be late tomorrow." you announce to them hurriedly, trying to keep your sleeve against harry's injury as you rush him off the field.

harry actually manages to stay quiet on the way to the infirmary despite your anticipation to shush him the entire way for making crude jokes. instead he remains silent and lets you urgently guide him through the empty halls.

once you arrive at the infirmary wing, you notice the entire room is full of people. every bed is taken, ans every nurse is running around frantically from patient to patient. you and harry share a confused look before you roll your eyes and find a nurse between beds. "excuse me, ma'am, i'm sorry to bother but um, potter here was being an idiot and got a cut on his face that just needs to be bandaged quickly." you motion towards harry and feel him give you a nasty look out of your peripheral for calling him an idiot.

the nurse, completely exhausted, sighs and motions towards a room to the side of the check-in station. "look, we are swamped with a potion experiment gone wrong here. if it's just a cut that doesn't need stitches there's a first aid kit in the little room over that way." she tells you quickly before being called away to another patient. you try to intervene but she's already jogging away, leaving you with a bloody harry in your hands. literally.

you sigh, clearly annoyed, and turn to examine harry's cut again. pulling your blood-soaked sleeve away, you see the blood flow still hasn't slowed and decide to just bite your tongue and help harry despite your hatred for him only growing in this situation.

you drag harry towards the little room, opening the door and turning on the lights to reveal the smallest examination room you'd ever seen. you had no idea this was even here, but it only contained a sink, a cot, a locked medicine cabinet, and a first aid kit. you closed the door behind harry and locked it. you grab a few paper towels from next to the sink and walk harry over to the cot. "sit," you command him, practically pushing him with your other hand to sit down.

harry looks up at you softly, way softer than he's ever looked at you. it makes your heart skip a beat but you ignore the feeling quickly. "here," you tell him coldly, handing over the paper towels. "just apply pressure on it while i get the first aid kit."

harry does as he's told and you slowly pull away your sleeve, making a disgusted face at the stains left on the cuff. you sigh and pull your arm back through the sleeve, starting to take off the hoodie altogether. "well, that's ruined," you complain, throwing it to the floor, leaving you in a tiny tank top and workout shorts.

harry's watching you intently, adjusting his glasses and shifting his weight in his seat. you walk to the sink and thoroughly wash your hands in case any blood happened to get on you as well.

opening the first aid kit up you find a tiny bottle of isopropyl alcohol, cotton rounds, and bandages. pouring alcohol on the cotton, you turn to harry and still find him watching you.

you give him a look. "what?" you ask with pinched brows. harry, for once, looks flustered as he turns his eyes away from you, instead staring at the floor below his feet. you just roll your eyes and set down the alcohol, walking towards harry and pulling away his hand from his cheek.

"here," you say, moving his jaw to look up towards you. "this is gonna hurt a little," you tell him before gently cleaning the cut with the cotton round. harry winces, but his eyes never leave your face. you try to ignore his gaze but it becomes even more intense the longer you take to stop the bleeding. you can practically feel his stare burning holes into your skin, and you start to feel that familiar annoyance rise in your stomach.

"i know i'm pretty, potter, but can't you look anywhere else?" you complain, giving him a cold look before returning your attention to his cheek. harry's eyes drop again, but end up falling on your chest this time. you back away and scoff, throwing the cotton pad into the trash next to the cot. "perv," you mutter under your breath.

just as you're preparing the bandage on the counter next to the sink, you hear harry say something from behind you. "you're gonna have to speak up, kid," you chuckle, throwing away some wrapping in the trash. "your, um, your back," you hear him stutter.

you turn to give him a confused look. "what?" you ask. harry motions towards your back, and you turn to look at yourself in the mirror above the sink. you look at your back and pull up your tank top slightly to see a massive bruise forming on your ribcage. you gasp at the size and color, immediately turning your anger towards harry.

he already looks prepared for your rage before you can even start to say anything. "you bloody prick, i know you did this on purpose. do you seriously want to win so badly you'd nearly break a rib to get there?" you snap at him, pulling your shirt back down and angrily marching towards him still sitting on the cot.

"i told you, [y/n], it was an accident." he says. you pause. he's never called you by your first name, at least not to your face. you were actually surprised he knew what it was in the first place.

harry looks up at you innocently, his eyes soft and brows raised. this just angers you again. you take another step towards him, your legs practically between his as harry tilts his head up to keep looking at you.

his glasses are crooked, his hair is a mess, and the cut on his cheek is still raw. and still, for some reason, your heart skips a beat looking down at him. you've never been so close to his face. you've never noticed his freckles before.

"you should just be glad i haven't targeted you the way you've targeted me all these years, potter. you're lucky i'm a nice person and don't believe in revenge, or else you'd be the one with nearly broken bones and a bruise the size of your lungs." you spit in his face, your tone razor sharp.

harry's expression hardly changes at your words. if anything his eyes only soften more watching you become filled with anger.

"and wipe that innocent look off your face before i do it for you. you should be thanking me for patching up this cut and not making it worse." you continue to vent at him as you step away to grab the bandage from the counter.

you're just starting to press down on the adhesive of the bandage around harry's injury when his eyes meet yours again. "thank you." he says, his voice broken and whiny. something about the way he says it makes your stomach drop to the floor. harry's usual annoying temperament was completely gone, no longer making mocking jokes or insults towards you, instead only speaking softly and looking into your eyes even softer.

confused and feeling a strange mix of emotions, you finish applying the bandage on harry's face without a word.

you start to put away the first aid kit, taking one last look at your bruise in the mirror with a sigh.

"i'm sorry." you hear harry say quietly. you look at him, his expression empathetic and almost concerned for you. it was then you started to believe the incident really was an accident. why would harry ever be apologetic for something he'd usually take loads of pride in, like knocking you off your broomstick?

you swallow nervously and look away from him, fixing your shirt. "you should be," you try to remain cold, but your voice is breaking. "i'm just glad you also hurt yourself in the process. you deserve to feel some of the pain too." you say in a deadpan voice.

you pick up your sweatshirt off the floor and start soaking the sleeve in some hot water to at least try and get some of the stains out.

"you're right." harry says behind you, his voice somber. you roll your eyes at his pathetic attempt to seem remorseful, turning to him curtly. "i know i'm right. and you know what else? you're just a loser who picks on people to feel better about yourself because you're insecure." you insult him.

you expect at least some kind of reaction from harry, but he just continues to watch the ground with a sullen expression. "i know." he says quietly.

you groan and turn to shut the sink faucet off, walking towards harry with the same accusatory pointing finger from before. "and you can stop with this whole act you're putting on 'cause it's pissing me right off," you nearly yell at harry, getting in his face. he just looks up at you with those big blue eyes again, biting his lip harshly.

you went to scold him again when you noticed a rather large bulge in his pants from where you were standing above him. you thought you were just assuming, but once you took a step back, you knew exactly what was happening with a smirk growing on your face.

harry nervously looked down at his crotch before quickly attempting to hide his obvious erection. he adjusted his pants and tried to use his shirt to cover it, but you were already laughing at him. "this cannot be real, this has got to be a setup. there's no way you just got turned on by me insulting you for 10 minutes straight." you could hardly get the words out from laughing so hard.

clearly embarrassed, harry looks between you and his erection with fear in his eyes. it only makes the situation that much better for you as you continue to humiliate your own bully.

"u-uh, this isn't, um–" "don't try and tell me this isn't what it looks like, potter. i know exactly what's going on here." you interrupt him and cross your arms. "you're such a loser that the only way you can get off is by having girls hate you. y'know, most guys get erections from making out with a girl, not getting threatened by them." you mock him, still a hint of anger laced in your voice.

harry's looking at you with that same innocent expression, but there's something else in his eyes that makes you pause. he's not just embarrassed, he's actually enjoying what you're saying to him. you can see his pupils dilate just looking at you, his bulge only becoming more obvious the longer you mock him.

you want to be disgusted at this situation. you want to hate the way harry's looking at you and leave the room with a huff to tell everyone about his little kink. you want to call him a disgusting creep and slap him across the face for ever thinking of you in such a way. but, you don't. because you can't.

you should be disgusted. you should be creeped out. but, for some reason, you're just not. you should be filled with rage ready to tell him off again, but, instead, you find yourself full of curiosity and…flattery?

of course it's never flattering for a guy to get an erection thinking about you being upset with him, if anything it's quite morbid. however, with you and harry, everything finally started to make sense. this is why he was always pushing your buttons just to get a rise out of you, or why he seemed to thrive off of your heated interactions. because he did. he found pleasure in your anger.

again, you should be fuming, but you're just not. your heart is racing and so is your mind. you're completely flustered at this point, possibly even more than harry is. you can feel the blush on your neck and cheeks and can't tell if the embarrassment you're feeling is secondhand or not.

still looking up at you, harry attempts to cover his erection up again with his pants. you just laugh at him again as there's no real point, you're more than well aware of his predicament at the moment. his blush is so severe he's nearly completely red, and you can see his hair start to stick to his forehead from the sweat. while you'd usually feel nothing but contempt looking down at harry's innocent expression, this time you feel a bit different. he almost looks younger now, his eyes soft and lips slightly hung open.

you notice the bandage around his scar starts to lift a bit around his eye, so you sigh and place a hand on his bandage to help reattach it. again, harry almost winces at your movement, and you can see his erection twitch under his pants. god, he really does get off on this.

while fixing it, harry's still watching you intently. "i'm sorry," his voice is soft but deep, making your blood run cold. you pause to look him in the eyes. "and what are you sorry for?" you lead him on.

harry's brows furrow together slightly. "for…well, y'know," he trails off, offering a fake, awkward chuckle. you smirk as you look back at his bandage. "no, i don't know. so why don't you tell me, potter?" you ask teasingly.

without fail, harry shifts in his seat uncomfortably and tries to subtly hide his erection again. your smirk only grows at his predictability.

"u-uh, well, i-i'm sorry for…for, um, getting turned on by you…" his stuttering is only making you enjoy the moment more. maybe part of you likes seeing him squirm like this under your hand. "by me…?" you lead him on again, taking a step away to examine his bandage. harry swallowed nervously watching you. "by you…being mean to me." he says meekly, his voice small and embarrassed.

you smirk at him again and decide to test the waters. "good boy."

harry's face absolutely drains of color. you can practically see his heart thumping out of his chest. and, if you weren't wrong, his hands actually started shaking in his lap.

you start laughing again at his reaction, hardly able to hold back from how funny this situation was to you. harry potter, the school's bad boy, the top slytherin student, the quidditch captain, your biggest rival, has a literal kink for being degraded. and he had the nerve to ever try and call you a loser.

"sorry, it's just so funny to me," you tell him between laughs, wiping tears from your eyes. "actually, no, i'm not sorry. i think you deserve to be laughed at for this. what guy actually gets horny from girls being mean to him?" you ask rhetorically, crossing your arms again and examining harry in front of you.

he's completely disheveled and getting sweatier by the minute. he breaks eye contact after your question, nervously scratching the back of his neck to waste time. "uh…" he starts off, clearly not knowing what to say to that. you just continue smirking, watching him struggle. "i mean, is it every time a girl is mean to you this happens? i'd imagine with your attitude that would be pretty often." you joke, partially curious but mostly just trying to make him squirm more.

harry shakes his head, both of his hands rubbing at his face and wiping the sweat from his hairline. "n-no, it's, uh…" he starts again, eventually trailing off with a sigh. you start tapping your foot impatiently. "i'm waiting." you say in a mocking tone.

harry tenses again, still not looking back up at you just yet. his body language is clearly uncomfortable and defensive. "it's not…all girls, okay? it's just…you." he finally spits out, clearly struggling to put his thoughts into words. "this only happens with you, i swear. a-and it's only started this year, and i don't know why." he rambles, speaking with his hands, his eyes still fixated on the floor.

for once, you're speechless. you weren't expecting that confession from him, and you certainly didn't know how to react to it in the moment. i mean, this potter kid has had it out for you since day one, he's practically made you two enemies on the field and off, and now he wants to tell you all this? it's a bit confusing, to say the least.

harry sighs, resting his face in his hands once again. "look, i'm sorry about all of this, okay? all of it, not just today, but everything. i shouldn't have been so rude to you all this time, especially not for the reasons i have…" you can practically hear harry wincing at his own words. he uncovers his face but continues to look down. "just…please, please, don't tell anyone. i know that's asking for a lot considering all i've done to you, but…please, [y/n]." he's nearly begging.

you just watch him carefully, trying to figure out how to respond to all of this. on one hand you're inclined to feel insulted, disrespected, and downright disgusted at this information, but in reality…you're just obscenely curious. i mean, how often does a guy get turned on by you being mean to him? and not just you, but specifically, only you. does that mean he actually likes you? or is it only a sexual thing? and how would that even work?

as your mind continues to raise more and more questions, you feel yourself speaking before you even decide what to say.

"fine, i won't tell anyone. if," you take a slow step towards harry. he looks up at you with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. your heart leaps at the sight of him so vulnerable beneath you. it's as if you can see him thinking anything, anything for you.

you're not sure what's possessing you in this moment, but you can't stop yourself from pushing the limits further between you and harry. again, your mouth starts speaking for you.

"if…you let me help." you say with a smirk, closing the gap between you and harry and standing between his legs once again. he's looking up at you in complete shock, his eyes examining every inch of you in front of him. he's trying to speak but his mouth just keeps opening and closing, gasping for air and nervously chuckling.

arms still crossed, you wait for harry to say something and enjoy seeing him be the speechless one this time.

he eventually looks back up at you, biting his lip again and leaning back slightly. "help…me?" he asks, confused. you laugh at him, shaking your head. "yes, potter. help you. can't have you leaving here with that," you motion down to his pants with your head. "can we?" you ask seductively.

again, you're not sure what's making you act like this right now, but you honestly didn't mind it. you already got a kick out of insulting harry anyway, why not watch him struggle a bit harder under your thumb in this tiny exam room?

harry's completely frozen. you smile at him this time, the most genuine one you could muster in the moment. "if you want to, of course," you say quietly, softening your gaze at him and fixing his messy hair. harry makes a soft sound and leans into your touch, his eyes closing. you giggle to yourself, he just looks so innocent resting in your hand.

the moment didn't last long as you tighten your grip on the hair on the back of harry's head, pulling it so he's looking right at you. his eyes open and a soft whine escapes his lips. "i'll take that as a yes?" you ask smugly, leaning down until your faces were nearly touching. harry does his best to nod his head, swallowing nervously and glancing at your lips.

you smile at him again. something just felt so right when you were in control, seeing harry's front disappear as he became a mess in your hands. you felt powerful, confident, and, to your dismay, insanely turned on from the entire situation. your feelings of hate and desire for harry drove you mad, yet he seemed more than willing to be the recipient of both.

so, you lean forward, and you kiss him.

it's soft at first, slow, shy, you feel like harry's barely breathing. eventually he catches up, nearly moaning into your mouth as you feel your stomach fluttering. you put your other hand on his cheek and sit on harry's lap, your knees resting on the cot around harry's hips. you feel his hands tread carefully up your thighs and under your shorts, his fingers digging into your skin roughly.

this time you can't hold back your moans, causing harry to melt even more into you. his lips were soft, careful, but so eager. it's like he was starving and yet still took his time with you.

you pull away slightly, your breath heavy and forehead resting on harry's. "lay down," you command him, climbing off his lap. harry quickly lies back on the cot, kicking off his shoes in the process. you do the same before crawling back on top of him, carefully resting your ass directly on his erection.

harry openly groans, his hands reaching for your hips and squeezing the skin roughly. you bite your lip to hold back another moan. you slightly adjust your position and cause harry's head to roll back against the cot. "[y/n]..." is all he manages to say in his broken voice.

he's already such a mess and all you've done is sit in his lap. who would've known all this time his teasing you was just a cover up for this?

"this'll be easy. you're already practically falling apart on me, potter." you tease him, your cold fingers finding their way under his jersey. harry's body shivers, his hands moving from your hips to your waist. his fingers crawl under your shirt as well and cause your skin to break out in goosebumps.

he slightly smirks at this reaction, but you don't let him have his moment for long. "and don't get cocky," you warn him before you start grinding on his erection. his head rolls back in pleasure again, his mouth hanging open and fingers digging into your skin. you smirk to yourself. "don't forget you're the loser who likes to be insulted here." you remind him harshly, your hands running along his chest under his jersey.

harry's noises are completely pathetic, his hips bucking into yours for even the slightest bit more friction. you stop grinding into him and he lets out a shaky breath, looking at you with needy eyes. he looks so worked up already and you've barely done a thing.

"shirt off," you tell him, pulling at the material. harry, again, doesn't hesitate to follow instructions. he removes his hands from your waist and quickly takes off his jersey, throwing it to the floor.

your breath hitches in your throat looking at harry's soft, sweaty skin in the dim fluorescent lighting of the exam room. you never realized just how toned his shoulders and chest were, or how many scars and bruises he seemed to have, both new and fading.

you look back up at harry, his eyes nervously watching your every move. you lean in to kiss him again, messier, needier. his hands return to your hips and practically force you to start grinding on him again. you would've intervened if you weren't just as desperate to continue rolling your hips into harry's hard erection.

a soft moan comes from your lips as you grind into him harder, your hands resting on his chest for support. harry groans, his brows furrowing. "shit," he mutters, only encouraging you to go faster.

you could feel how wet you were through your panties. your stomach was tightening already, making you feel a bit embarrassed of your own desperation. seeing harry be so willing to please you only had you wanting him more.

just as you start to feel yourself blush at your lack of self control, you notice harry's panicked expression, his grip on your skin guaranteed to leave bruises. "what's wrong?" you ask, somewhat sarcastically and also concerned.

he struggles to get a sound out. "hmph, gonna, fuck, please, don't," he's stumbling through his words, barely able to keep his eyes focused on you. his hands try to stop your hips, but his grip his weak.

"stop what?" you ask curiously, slowing your hips slightly but rolling into him harder. harry moans, his hand covering his mouth hearing how loud it echoed through the tiny room. you just laugh at him and pull his hand away, guiding it to your chest. harry's eyes widen, trying to pull his hand away.

"stop, gonna…cum, if you don't," harry whimpers, squirming under your weight as his legs try to escape. you take your opportunity and pick up your pace, giving harry an evil smile.

"aw, already?" you ask, forcing his hand back to your chest. you guide his fingers along the curves of your breasts through your thin tank top, causing him to breathe even heavier. "you haven't even gotten to see these, and you're already about to cum? i was right, you're such a fucking loser, potter." you tell him, guiding his hand back under your shirt.

you can feel him struggling under you even more, his torso only getting sweatier. you just grab for his other hand and guide it under your shirt as well. he watches as intently as he can, his eyes still rolling back in pleasure at the pressure in his lap.

you help him lift his hands higher and higher until he's cupping your tits under your shirt, your breathing becoming hitched at the feeling of his rough fingers running across your sensitive nipples.

"fuck," you say under your breath, loud enough for harry to moan and grope you rougher, lifting your shirt above your tits. you gasp at the feeling and look back down at him, a sweaty mess with eyes barely open.

"please, please," harry starts begging, his hips still trying to squirm away from you. you place your hands on his sides and push him down, continuing to chase your high. "just stay still, harry," you nearly whimper. you realize you've never called him by his first name either.

that's when he comes completely unraveled beneath you. he's practically crying out in pleasure and desperation, his hands roughly squeezing the soft skin of your tits as his head is thrown back against the cot. just watching him fall apart like this has you shaking on top of him, feeling the warm wetness of your panties leaving a mark on harry's jeans.

it takes a few moments for both of you to come back to earth. harry's hands eventually loosen their grip on you before quickly pulling away, his eyes wide and panicked again. "sorry," he says quickly, his cheeks completely flushed.

you just shake your head and laugh, climbing off of harry's lap and adjusting your shirt. harry sits up and runs his hands through his hair, trying to catch his breath still.

the room is a bit awkward, but you eventually start to chuckle and push harry's shoulder lightly. "so…" you lead him on. harry chuckles as well, hanging his head low. "so…" he repeats, his voice still soft.

"so…is it wrong of me to assume you might actually like me?" you ask, picking up harry's jersey and handing it to him. he offers you a shy smile and puts it back on, shaking his head. "y'know, i'm not sure there's a way i could've made it more obvious." he admits half heartedly.

you laugh again, feeling a blush crawl up your cheeks. you turn away from him and grab your sweatshirt from the sink, the sleeve still completely stained.

"i really am sorry about that, i have a few you could borrow if you'd like." he says with a smirk, pointing towards your sweatshirt. you roll your eyes. "well, good to know your cockiness hasn't gone anywhere." you respond, suppressing a smile.

he chuckles. "never will." he says confidently. you give him a look and take a step towards him, causing him to swallow nervously.

you laugh at him again. "yeah, okay, pretty boy." you tease him, stepping away and towards the door. he follows behind you, still blushing like crazy.

leaving the exam room you notice all the nurses are still running around like lunatics, having no idea what's just happened only a few feet away from them. you and harry share a knowing look before running off together, laughing as you reach the halls.

"y'know," harry says between laughs, looking over at you with nothing but love in his eyes as you continue walking the empty halls. "don't think i'll go easy on you tomorrow just because of…that." he says, motioning behind him with a shy smile. you smile back at him and offer your hand. harry looks a bit hesitant, but shakes it anyway. "wouldn't want it any other way, potter."

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[strawberry-cowmilk]

the brothers when they realise mc will die one day

-> brothers x mc

a/n: it's been a good minute since I wrote actual ultimate painful angst so here you go while I wait for my hot makeup sponge soap soup to help me clean the things

mc's gender is not mentioned, not proof read

content warnings: angst, death, crying, sports injury

-----

Lucifer

he was peacefully listening to a new record he got with you next to him

lucifer was a great fan of this certain composer so he started to talk a little about the music and the meaning behind it

'the composer wrote this piece for their deceased partner-' he suddenly went quiet once he realised he will be like the composer one day

you had already fallen asleep to hear what he said, lucifer carefully pressed you close, afraid of waking you up and afraid of the day you'll leave him

Mammon

mammon was very bored since lucifer took away his card as a punishment, so he decided to watch tv

he was just browsing the channels and ended up watching the news

mammon was already upset about not having his card, and all the depressing stuff on the news made him more sad, and one certain report hit him with the reality that humans die way before demons

tears stung at his eyes as he instantly called you, asking where you are and if you're willing to cuddle him

Leviathan

he got a new game off of akuzon and you're playing it together

it just happens that you're absolutely terrible at this game so you keep dying every two minutes

it was funny at first, you and levi were laughing about it until he suddenly went quiet and started crying

before you could ask him what happened he hugged you and started begging you to not die for real

it took some while for him to calm down a little, you're his (only) friend, how will he live without you?

Satan

he was working on a group rad project with solomon, eventually he started talking about how he accidentally made himself immortal

eventually satan demanded to know how he did it, and he was pretty angrily asking too, during the conversation he realised you are not immortal (unlike solomon)

the prof literally had to separate them because satan was getting too angry

satan wasted no time, he went to look for you so he can spend time with you and forget his awful thoughts

Asmodeus

there was some fashion week event in the devildom and some high fashion brand asked asmo to model for them (he accepted)

but on the day of the event, it got cancelled

asmo was not pleased with this, but you told him it's ok and you can watch him on the catwalk next time he gets invited, but the thing is that probably won't be until another 500 years-

he realised there's a very good chance you won't be alive for the next time, he cried and clung to you, denying reality

Beelzebub

beel was playing the finals of his fangol game and things were getting very serious, there were players getting tackled left and right pretty badly

his mind started to drift away from the game for a while, and remembered that time you asked him to play with you

but if you, a human, were on this field, you'd probably get badly injured, or worse

the coach had to get a time out because the team's got beel literally crying his eyes out on the bench

the team won, but beel is not in the mood for celebrating

Belphegor

it just randomly hit him

he was looking at the stars next to you in the planetarium and something about the stars today made him think about everything, and eventually the fact that humans don't live long compared to demons

he turned to you, said something along the lines of 'don't go' and curled up against you, falling asleep

belphie needed to give himself a good dream right now otherwise he feels like he won't be able to handle it now

[telanadasvhenan]

thinking more about the psychological aspect of solavellan, and before I start, I'd like to stress that this is NOT CRITICAL of it, I actually think it's what makes part of the dynamic interesting. My word isn't the be all and end all, however, this is just my musings on the topic :] Also, REALLY long post! so, more under the read more lol

From Lavellan's point of view, I would personally struggle to see her trusting another lover or close one again for a long time, if ever again. I don't really think people ever talk about the real impact of the things she goes through, or what solas put her through, and the hurt as a result of it. The relationship is never defined between the two of them, it's always spoken about in vague undetermined words from their companions and poetic elvish between the two of them. Are they lovers? companions? partners? it's really up to the player. Leliana says that "you were close", Sera says Lavellan is "in it." Vhenan means home, heart, it's not a word said lightly imo and he tells you he loves her by their second kiss. It's never an official thing, so how secure can Lavellan truly feel?

This could go both ways when it comes to the break up. Crestwood, as a scene, is so interesting to me because the first portion seems like a man brought to his knees by weakness for the woman he loves. The two of them never cease to touch, fingers entwined, shoulders brushing, skin to skin. It's so reminiscent of how Lavellan matches his Hallelujah cadence. They're two parts of a song singing together. It's a gorgeous scene and it's understandable how so many are angry at how it ends because the whiplash between how it starts and what it leaves you with is severe. Imagine this from lavellan's shoes.

You're desperately in love with someone at odds with your people, who is wonderful and enticing and smart. Loving solas feels like loving the whole world, like being free and connected with the stars. But you don't know what this is. And, if you thought you did, how far can you presume? Is Lavellan always on edge, scared to love him deeper and richer than he loves her? or is she in a false sense of security, assuming his affection is forever hers. So when he not only breaks away your faith and trust in your history, plus potentially the vallaslin, she is clearly deeply upset. This isn't a minor fact that simply can be swept aside. The vallaslin is important. And Solas, even with the best intentions, has hurt her. He knows it and there's a reason why he apologises (bc he wimped out on the real truth). How much more does he know about her people that he has refused to tell her or kept from her by omission? Can you imagine the embarrassment, the utter humiliation of that secret? how many memories of them together where she replays his distaste for her people in her mind, knowing that he has access to knowledge that could change her perception of her past? Its ALOT. and thats even before the breakup.

Solas is not kind about the break up. It's rushed (impulsive to me) and doesn't do their connection justice. His composure cracks in places and it's very unlike him. It absolutely blindsides the player, so imagine being in Lavellan's place, AFTER THE VALLASLIN? personally, I wouldn't have been able to function. I half suspect that a sad, calm Lavellan is also in shock or disassociation. Because how else do you cope? The lack of communication between them alone is enough to raise my eyebrows. He promises answers. He confides that she saw through his mask and doesn't tell her what was real, and what was fake. He has given her a kernel truth whilst keeping her in the dark. Everything he told her could be a false, imaginary polite mask or it could be the truth. Where does it end? Where does he begin? Where does she stand?

I don't know if everyone has experienced what it's like to be ghosted or for a friend to simply disappear one day, but it changes you. I say this as someone who has both been avoidant as well as anxious, but you never recover. Someone disappearing like that makes you doubt any reassurance that people won't just evaporate from your life. So when Solas just disappears, the game's single conversation with Leliana feels a little lacking to me. I understand that they can't really dedicate a lot to it, I get that, so I'd like to fill it in. At first, it's search parties. Solas wouldn't just leave her like that. He promised her answers. He started another mural just before they left for corypheus. He didn't intend to just leave, surely.

Days, weeks and months pass. The question is worse than the truth. Is he dead? Did he use them? Was he being truthful when he spoke to her in those ruins, or another polite mask he could hide behind? Is it better if he's dead or better than he didn't deem her worthy enough to even say goodbye? We, as the players, obviously know this isn't true, but she doesn't know that. Does your lavellan assume the worst and be overcome with grief that her one love, her heart, her home, was nothing more than a lie of omission? or is there anger there at his betrayal of her trust once more? I seriously doubt it was easy to forget or dismiss. That kind of disappearance ruins your trust with people. Something. Anything would have been enough.

Again, this is all my opinion on how these emotions would play out and DEFINITELY NOT canon nor do they have to be! But I seriously struggle to see how Lavellan could even come to heal from these wounds within even a two year time skip. By the time of trespasser, almost everyone has left her side. She's almost entirely alone again, save Cullen and Josie (and leliana if she's not divine). And thats okay: they all have rich lives to return to. But that must just reaffirm to her that no one will stay. She is alone. How does she trust again?

And then there is Fen'harel. Lavellan's reaction to fen'harel has always lacked the fear I kind of hoped would be there? I mean this isn't just a minor deity, this IS THE antagonist of her entire faith. I'm assuming that she's lost hope in the gods, even though it's confirmed to her that they're real, but that message has been a part of her since childhood. So learning that he is the dreadwolf, again not from him, but from the fragments of his past must cut her deeply.

Her love was never who he said he was, she knows this, but who is the real man? She's never known him in a context where he can truly show her. Her love is fragmented between each identity he holds. Her trust that he is who he said he is fragments with it. The knowledge that not only has he been watching the inquisition, her, for years without a single hint that he lives or is okay must destroy her. Could you imagine how insignificant you must feel to him? And he essentially affirms to her that yes, in the greater scheme of things, his love and hers are inconsequential. They cannot matter to him because he cannot strive from his path. His indulgence was a mistake. And it's undeniably cruel. I love solas and I cannot argue that he was kind to Lavellan because he wasn't. To me, there is no way to see his actions as kind. Understandable, absolutely and definitely without malicious intent.

Lavellan learns that he loved her just as deeply, if not more. He loved her with all his heart and it did not matter. She changed him and it has only brought him more pain. He loves her too much to even allow her near him, to even give himself that weakness. They are apart from each other in an endless distance, only the two of them in the world. No one else.

Obviously, each Lavellan is different, and I've made a lot of assumptions, but I think it's worth considering. How do you love someone again after all of that? How much can you rebuild your faith after what you have learnt. Lavellan has loved a "god" (I know he's not a god, but for all intents and purposes, he has the power of a god and wears an evanuris crown.) and in turn, a god has loved her. And he left her with one last embrace that will leave its mark on her forever, then he leaves once more. Lavellan is alone.

Each love after is met with suspicion, distrust and comparison. Lavellan is entirely changed. How many pieces of her can be taken away until she is no longer herself? Each person wears a new mask she cannot determine. Where do they begin? Where can she find herself?

How lonely it must be to love someone like Solas and be at the other side of an endless distance.

[strwbmei]

summary: what could've happened if angell chose to be selfish for once

contains: desperate/emotional sex, transfem!angell, fem!reader, angell tops, marking, creampie, cunnilingus, fingering, angst no comfort, whatever the opposite of reunion sex is, parting sex???, mentions of crying but not in a sexy way, mentions of blood (also not in a sexy way), tw kidnapping, but you kind of learn to live with it, whatever the hell is going on in angell's event, everything is consensual and soft despite the alarming tags, mentions of drugs but it's unrelated to the smut, unresolved feelings on both sides, tw murder unrelated to smut, devirginifying sex i forgot what it was called, set in between Ditty Nightsong and Angell's interrogation

pairing(s): angell x chief!reader

a/n: I HAD to write this after finishing her event. Seeing Angell and the chief slowly get along despite their circumstances was such a treat. Also, first PTN fic!

You're tidying Angell's room up, careful to not make any noise since you don't want to wake her. Seeing the piles of pillows and clothes on the floor, you can't help but sigh. How has she lived like this for so long?

A faint song plays in the background. It's obvious the record player has seen better days—it's one of the more used appliances in this house. The song playing is the one Angell listens to while on the job. Huh.

Days are passing by, living this lie,

Not knowing what we're looking for,

As you dust off the furniture, you can't help but smile faintly. A change of pace like this is nice once in a while. Your only worries are preparing meals and doing maintenance around the house, which Angell doesn't even require you to do. Just something to keep you busy, you suppose.

It helps that she isn't a picky eater. Despite your lackluster culinary skills, Angell finishes each meal without complaint. She's even made a few positive comments lately. Maybe you should try making a meal for the sinners once you return to the MBCC.

Oh. Right. You're returning to the MBCC.

Gray, these walls are gray and there's no sky.

There is no hope, there is no soar.

I know somewhere there must be more.

It feels... weird to admit, but you've grown fond of this lifestyle. A domestic life with Angell like this is comforting, as long as you don't consider the fact that she'll definitely hand you over to her client as soon as she gets in contact with them.

Maybe you're just like the goldfish in her apartment, swimming blissfully in their tank as they stay oblivious to the outside world. You doubt Angell would be able to take care of them if she moves houses again.

You gather the clothes from the floor, catching a whiff of dried blood and sweat. Yikes. You wouldn't be surprised if the tank top you were holding had a whole ecosystem inside of it. It wouldn't hurt to wash these later, you think to yourself.

Just as you're about to finish putting the clothes away, you feel someone suddenly pull you into a tight hug, as if you'd escape from their grasp otherwise. It's Angell. You can hear how shaky her breathing is. It seems she had a bad dream.

"Don't go,"

The words Angell had been holding herself back so desperately not to say inevitably leave her, like a clock knowingly marching towards the hour of its death. She's glad that you can't see her right now with how her lips are quivering. You can still feel her hands trembling around you, though.

It's all so stupid. Angell is so stupid. She let herself get used to you, your warmth, and your kindness akin to sunlight so bright it hurt her eyes. And where has that gotten her? Naive; borderline delusional. Possibly dead, too. What have you done to this assassin, Chief of the MBCC?

"Please."

You feel as if you're meeting Angell for the first time when she says this. She has never acted like a dangerous hitman at home, but she has never acted so... desperate, either. You don't mind seeing another side of her, but the sudden change in demeanor is perplexing.

"Angell?" You call out. The woman's grip on you gets ever so slightly tighter in response. "Everything's okay. I'm here." You're not going anywhere—or so you'd like to say. Your relationship with her, if you could even call it that, is already far too filled with lies for you to add one more.

You can feel Angell's muscles tense around you. She holds her strength back, protecting you as if you were but a candle flickering in the wind. You feel safe. "Sorry. Did I wake you up?" Although most of Angell's actions are obscured from your vision, you can feel her shake her head.

"Don't leave me."

The two of you are captive and captor. Not roommates, and most certainly not lovers for Angell to say such things. She could end your life at this very moment if she so wished. So why is it that Angell is the one who finds herself powerless in your grasp?

You stay silent. If you were being honest, you don't want to leave her either. But the world doesn't work that way. You have responsibilities; the both of you. There are more pressing matters for you to handle than adjusting the hands of a clock and feeding goldfish.

Angell knows this. She values professionalism and credibility far more than her personal preferences. That's the only reason why she kept you here in the first place. Which is why you don't understand what exactly has gotten into Angell; what has pushed her to give up her creed like this.

Sensing the mutual hesitation in the air, Angell pushes you down onto the bed. Her eyes are slightly swollen and red, as if she had just been crying. You wonder what she had been dreaming about. You want to comfort her.

In this state, she'll listen to whatever you say, whatever falsehoods you feed her. Tell Angell everything will be alright and that your time together won't end. She'll believe you this once, even if it leads to her death.

You're pinned under Angell's weight, but you aren't afraid. There's something about her that ironically makes you feel safe, despite how aloof she can be. Angell doesn't shy away from your touch, either, even if she knows that you could use your shackles on her. "Angell..." Your hand reaches up to cup her cheek. She instinctively leans into it. "You're not alone anymore."

Angell's eyes widen uncharacteristically from your words. She tries to act unaffected, but you feel her breath hitch. Is it true? The walls she had built around herself to shield herself from others had eventually turned into a prison isolating her from the rest of the world. Could Angell... really break them down?

She does what feels most natural and leans in to seal your lips in a passionate kiss. It's desperate like a symphony of sorrow, yet as gentle as if she were handling a delicate flower. Angell's inexperience is clear.

How unfair. A kiss is something that you should only share with someone that you love.

And still, you return it just the same. You mirror her fervor as you chase after her lips, your elbows propped on the mattress to hold you up. Its softness and warmth is a pleasant surprise. Most likely because Angell only used to sleep on the couch before you came into her life.

She detaches herself from your lips after what felt like forever and a day. Angell's brows are furrowed, and her eyes are hesitant. She gazes at you as if to ask, is this really okay?

Whether she's asking if this is okay with you or if it's okay for her to indulge in her desires for once, you have no idea. It doesn't matter. The answer to both questions remains the same.

This time, you're the one to pull her into a passionate make-out. Angell groans, eagerly savoring each kiss as if it'll be her last. You brush her hair away from her face.

"Everything will be alright." You promise, both to yourself and the to woman in front of you. But you're wrong. How could Angell ever be fine without you?

She can abandon this house, her pride, or even her life if need be. But you? Oh, god, not you. How could you get Angell used to your warmth and kindness, just to rip it all away from her?

It'd be less cruel to treat her with mockery and disdain. It's what Angell is used to and it's what she believes she deserves.

"No," she says firmly. She buries her face into your chest, her arms wrapped around your waist. "Don't go." For some unknown reason, Angell is convinced that you're going to leave.

There are still a few days until the "gig" she took expires, and even then, she can choose what she wants to do with you afterward. Angell could keep you locked up here for as long as she wants, and you wouldn't be able to do a thing.

But she isn't that kind of person.

Angell doesn't belong with those scum on the dark web. Her heart is unadulterated by the filth surrounding her, and despite how she acts, you know Angell loves helping people deep down.

"I'm here." You comfort her. Once again, you have to stop yourself from telling her that you'll stay. It seems you accidentally said that out loud, though. "...Liar." Angell mumbles, lips now trailing along your jaw and neck.

Sighing in bliss, you remove your coat to give her more space to work with. You toss it to a corner of the room. You'll clean it up again later. Her hands roam around your torso, exploring to find the buttons of your shirt.

Frantically, Angell works to remove them. She rushes as if she's going to lose you any moment now, not even bothering to remove her own clothes yet. "Don't go..." Angell pleads again before her mouth bites softly from your collarbone to your breasts. She unclasps and removes your bra as she goes.

"Angell..." You sigh her name as she fondles one of your breasts. She touches you with a gentleness she's never shown anyone else. When Angell looks up at you, her eyes reflect an emotion that you can't identify.

Longing? Regret? Lust? You can't tell. Honestly, you don't know how you feel about her either. You thought that Angell was weird at first, but you always believed that she had a good heart. You've grown fond of her as time passed—too fond. Angell isn't the only one wearing her heart on her sleeve, apparently.

For the first time, she calls your name. Not "Chief," but your name. God, it's stupid how such a simple thing has your heart racing when you're literally about to fuck. Since when has your kidnapper gotten you so smitten?

Angell's hands, strong albeit a bit slim, map out every plane on your body. She savors the feeling of each curve and dip and takes her time etching it into her memory. Lips work to kiss every inch of your now exposed skin, occasionally leaving small bite marks.

Not once has Angell treated you like the Chief of the MBCC. She knows of your identity and the good deeds you've done, yet she treats you like any other person. It's one of the many qualities you've grown to love about Angell.

The atmosphere in the room gets warmer, and you use it as an excuse to take off her leather jacket. The other woman is left in her tank top and pants. The prominence of her collarbones sadden you, although it's gotten better since the first day you were brought to this safehouse. You wish she'd take care of herself more.

Angell's hands stop at your belt. You enjoy the few seconds of her struggling with herself before she speaks up. "Can I...?" You smile at her consideration for you, making sure that you're fine with what she's doing. "Yeah. Go ahead."

Office wear is such a hassle to take off, you think to yourself as you help Angell take off your pants. Are all those layers really necessary? Again, the piece of clothing is tossed away to god-knows-where.

Immediately, the woman pounces back on you, now leaving kisses along your stomach as she holds onto your hips. You trace her scars softly with your fingers. You can't imagine the hardships that Angell has been through. You're happy to provide any sort of respite to her.

In the moment Angell stops to look up at you, there is an undeniable air of sadness and guilt. In an attempt to cheer the woman up, you tuck her hair behind her ears and attempt to tease her. "Don't miss me too much."

As you expected, Angell stays silent. You can feel her relax a bit, though—that's a win in your book. She finds comfort in how you never change. Angell slowly dips the pad of one of her fingers into your folds, careful not to hurt you. "Mm... Angell..." You bite back a moan.

"You can go faster. I can take it." You reassure the woman through heavy breaths. It's honestly embarrassing how wet you are, but Angell takes it as a sign that she's doing good. She's become more confident; now thrusting her finger inside of you all the way, albeit still at a gentle pace.

Angell is observant. She looks for what motions earn the most positive reaction from you with an almost deadpan look on her face as if she's not literally fingerfucking you into the mattress. It shows how focused she is on making you feel good.

"Is this your first time?" Angell asks suddenly. She doesn't look at you. "Yeah... Why?" You respond. Angell stays quiet, continuing the movement of her fingers. The question caught you a bit off guard. She didn't seem like the type to refuse to mess with virgins or care about the status of anyone's virginity in general.

Just when you let out a moan from her grazing your g-spot, a realization hits you. This is Angell's first time, too. You doubt she's ever had any real romantic experience before, much less sexual. It's no wonder she seems so nervous. You make a mental note to reassure and praise her.

Angell takes notice of how you let out a sound whenever she grinds against a specific place and abuses the same location with each thrust of her fingers. When she sees you trying to grind against her hand, (because of how good it feels, but she doesn't know that) she takes it as a sign that you need more.

"I'm going to add another finger," Angell says more like a statement than a question, but she waits for your approval before doing so anyway. You've never felt so full. Her years of experience using a sword have calloused her hands ever so slightly, and although you feel bad for what led her to a life of crime, damn did it feel good rubbing against your walls.

Angell loves the way you moan her name. She can't get enough of it; she wants to hear it roll off your tongue like a starving wolf longing for prey in the dead of winter. She listens to the sound of each letter eagerly, as if engraving it into the very essence of her soul. She wants you to say her name over and over again, and only hers. As is in the present and as will be in the future.

Angell's own selfishness surprises her. Maybe she's just like the greedy criminals she has both killed and worked for. Angell has never denied the possibility—she's not the saint that you think she is. There is blood on her hands, and not even the purest of oceans can wash it away. She has long since come to terms with her fate of isolation.

You arch your back into her touch, your arms wrapped around her back. If not for the tank top she was wearing, you're sure you would've left some claw marks along it's broadness already. You have to stop your legs from closing on their own, the overwhelming pleasure proving to be too much. Soft moans and the scent of sex fill the room. "Feels so good, Angell..."

She takes a deep breath, the only things filling her senses being your sweet voice and the feeling of your warm pussy stretching to accommodate her fingers. You have no idea how long Angell has wanted to touch you like this. You do things to her that she can't explain.

Your moans increase in frequency, getting higher pitched as you feel yourself nearing release. It seems Angell is a natural at using her fingers, seeing how she's about to make you cum quicker than you could ever get yourself to. "Angell... I'm-"

Before you can warn her, your legs tremble and you cream all over her hand. After continuing her movements to help you come down from your high, Angell pulls her digits out, fascinated by the string of cum connecting them. Much to your surprise, she puts both fingers into her mouth.

"...I've never tasted anything like this before." Angell remarks. Her sense of taste is dull—she isn't exaggerating when she says she can't tell apart food that's edible from food that's spoiled, or raw from burnt. But you? Your taste is as distinct as it can be to her tongue. You've ignited a dangerous fire in the woman.

"More." Angell demands, positioning her head between your legs. Just as you're about to protest that you're still sensitive, she speaks up again. "Can I?" Angell tilts her head as she asks for permission. Fuck it. You know you wouldn't be able to refuse her and her annoyingly adorable personality anyway.

You sigh at your lack of self discipline when it comes to Angell. "Yes, you can." Those words are all it takes for her to dive headfirst into your dripping sex. Angell's tongue explores your warmth with a newfound confidence, using what she's learned from fingering you to eat you out as skillfully as possible.

God, she's absolutely addicted to your taste—to you. Angell can't get enough of how you squirm under her touch; how you moan her name so wantonly. She'd stay in between your legs for forever if she could, but forever is not a luxury that the two of you have.

Angell wishes that life would be as easy as adjusting the hands of the clock. She wishes she could turn everything back to how it used to be. Angell would hold on to every passing moment with you like a painter desperately trying to capture the perfect sunset before it fades.

Each wet lick up your slit is greedier and hungrier than the last. She's gentle with you, yes, but you can feel the weight of the underlying desire that's been building up in the pit of her stomach for god knows how long. What Angell feels for you is akin to a devouring darkness: once you get entwined, there's no going back. Whether that applies to you, her, or both of you remains unknown. Maybe you know the answer but choose to ignore it.

Body still awash in the aftermath of your previous orgasm, it doesn't take long for you to feel that familiar coil in your belly building up once again. It takes all of your strength to resist pushing Angell's head down between your legs. Well, not that she could go any further. Too busy moaning Angell's name to warn her with words, you hope that she'll get the message with how your legs are trembling.

Sure enough, you cum with a breathless gasp soon after. She eats you out through your high, careful to lap up all of your fluids without overstimulating you. Angell is a quick learner, after all. You're left panting for breath after two consecutive earth-shattering orgasms, yet Angell hasn't even gotten undressed. That won't do. Aside from the damage your pride would take, you want to return the favor.

"Angell, lay down for me, will you?" You ask of her through your heavy breathing. Although Angell has her doubts, she immediately follows your command. "I'm not tired yet." You chuckle at her words but shudder to think about its implications. The stability of your legs would not survive after getting eaten out by Angell again. Though, the same might be said for what you're going to do next. "I want to make you feel good too."

You sit with your thighs on either side of Angell's legs, already working on removing her clothes. Once they're off, you're quick to capture her lips in a chain of soft, yet lustful kisses. She gives in to you more easily than you expected. You had the impression that Angell would be the type to want to be in control of everything at any time, but she lets you lead this dance.

Although the woman is probably unaware, the size of her boner is huge. Seven inches at the very least. You bite your lip at its sheer girth. You'd be lying if you said that you never had any doubts about it fitting inside of you, but it's nothing you can't handle... probably. As if reading your thoughts, Angell speaks. "...I don't have any lube."

Your eyes wander to the bottle of lotion you put on her bedside table, (which was the only surface available for it at the time,) but you eventually decide against using it since it's most likely expired. "It's fine. We'll start out slow."

Angell likes the insinuation that you'll go faster once you're more comfortable. She helps you align yourself with her cock, gently holding you by your hips. Although Angell has her hands on you, she lets you control the pace and only tries to assist when necessary.

With bated breath, you sink onto the tip. Her length feels endless, filling you up completely inch after inch. Angell relishes in how your eyes almost roll into the back of your head and the moan you let out when you finally take her inside entirely. Still, she places your comfort and pleasure above everything else. "Are you sure about this?"

Your chest heaves as you get used to the sensation of feeling so... full. It takes you a few seconds to reply. "This is nothing that the Chief of the MBCC can't handle," Angell smiles at your reply. Your act of false bravado isn't fooling anyone. It gives the woman a sense of pride to have such an important figure of society in her hands like this.

Just being inside of you has Angell biting her lip. She'd never imagine in her life that she'd be able to sleep with anyone, much less someone as kind and beautiful as you are. The intimacy of it all makes everything that much more pleasurable, and Angell hopes you feel the same way.

The two of you stay like this. Both of you are aware that you don't have much time left, but you're not in a rush. Rather, you take the opportunity to enjoy this moment thoroughly. It takes a while for you to get used to Angell's sheer size, and it also takes her a while to get used to these unfamiliar sensations.

Angell is barely able to conceal the pure ecstasy she feels when you start moving. Your pussy is just so tight. She's not one to masturbate often, but she can say with confidence that being inside of you feels miles better and much more personal than rutting into her hand just to get rid of her morning wood.

You take Angell down to the base, albeit with much difficulty at first, and start off by grinding. You roll your hips back and forth, the tip of her cock almost kissing the entrance of your cervix. Angell grips your waist harder, but still lets you control the pace of your lovemaking. Her trust in you makes your heart flutter.

With Angell's hair splayed like flowing rivers on the sheets, her eyes fluttered shut, and soft moans escaping her mouth now and then, you aren't able to resist the desire to kiss her. It starts with a small smooch on her neck, then two. And then these kisses turn into hickeys one after another.

The feeling is weird and alien to Angell, but she surrenders herself to you all the same, even tilting her head to make it easier for you. You feel bad about leaving them in such obvious places, but knowing her, she wouldn't bother to hide them. And you'd be right, because if anything, Angell would wear them as a badge of honor. Who cares what other people think of her sex life?

Up, and down. Up, and down. You move your hips at a steady pace once you get the hang of it. You relish in the way the sides of her cockhead rub against your walls so deliciously. As you're straddling Angell and leaving more hickeys wherever you can access, she gets an idea to play with your clit while you ride her. You seemed to like having it stimulated earlier.

Soon after, the both of you are a moaning mess. This small gesture makes everything feel a hundred times better for you, and in turn, you move faster. You lift yourself enough so her tip is barely inside of you, and immediately bring yourself down again.

Angell curses under her breath. She holds onto you as if you'll disappear otherwise, chanting your name like a mantra; like a sinner begging for forgiveness. The sight of you bouncing up and down on her cock while looking down at her so lovingly is enough to make the inexperienced woman swoon.

"I'm close..." Angell warns. You don't care. In fact, you seem to be riding her harder; trying to milk her for all she's worth. "Want you inside." You lean forward to kiss her. Angell chases after your lips fervently, her hands holding you close as you continue to move your hips while her thumb presses down on your clitoris.

You swallow each other's muffled moans. The only thing that matters to the both of you in this moment is one another. You'd freeze time and stay like this with Angell for eternity if you could. She cums with a strained groan, and you feel her seed filling you up. It's oddly comforting to know that Angell has left a mark inside of you.

You continue your ministrations slowly, and yoi have an orgasm of your own soon after. The mixture of you and Angell's fluids form a white ring on the base of her cock. It doesn't take long until the two of you collapse next to each other, breathing heavily as sweat runs down both of your bodies.

Although you feel refreshed, you have no idea how to handle this. Your relationship with Angell, your return to the MBCC, everything. The confusion is understandable considering you literally just slept with your kidnapper who's been holding you captive. You'll cross that bridge when you get there, you suppose.

Seeing Angell stare at you, most likely with no idea how to proceed either, you feel like you should say something. "That was great, Angell. Thank you." She smiles at your words before pulling you into a cuddle. Angell really is just like a cat, you think to yourself.

With these thoughts in mind, your impulse to scratch her behind the ears just like you would to a stray cat on the side of the road win. Before you can retract your hand to apologize, Angell leans into your touch, sighing contently. You swear you hear her purr, even.

"You really... don't want to stay at the Bureau?" You ask. You regret letting those words leave your mouth, but you can't bring yourself to care now that you're running out of time. You're more than willing to fight for her. "You'll be safe. You can have my red bean soup any time you want."

Angell knows that you mean each word that you say. You won't let anyone from the dark web bother her, and even though you have responsibilities, she knows that you'll fulfill your promise. That's why it hurts.

"Tomorrow. I'll give you my answer tomorrow." Angell speaks up, just as you start to fear that you might've ruined this intimate moment. Her words give you hope. It's faint, but it's there. You'd like to say that you wouldn't, but you'd cling to any chance to spend more time with Angell; have her by your side even if only for a second more.

However, the woman has already made an irreversible decision: one that she fears has consequences that she'll be carrying for the rest of her life. For now, both of you are content with your current state.

"Stay with me," Angell mumbles, trying to enjoy your scent and affection the best her tired body can manage. A thought passes both of your minds as you're entangled in each other's embrace: it'd be nice if we could stay like this forever. It saddens Angell to know that that thought would only be left as an 'if.' "Just for a bit longer."

"Tomorrow" never comes. Tomorrow will never come without you by her side.

Angell wakes up. The bag containing her trusted blade is held near her body. She finds that she hasn't been able to let go of it ever since you've left her—or rather, ever since she left you. It's the only thing left of the time you spent together. It's the only thing that assures Angell that you were real, not just an illusion.

A lot of things have changed. She finds herself sleeping more. Angell clings to her memories with you through dreams, even trying to "make" new ones whenever the chance presents itself. She's also taken less assassination jobs lately, instead picking odd jobs that you'd be likely to choose for her.

Angell remembers the last one she took. The man was a leader of a drug cartel, infamous for getting young sinners addicted and using them to transport goods. The world would be better off without him, and Angell was no different. He had a wife and a toddler son. He called for his wife's name before he drew his final breath. Perhaps he too was but another victim of the cruelty of this side of the world—perhaps he too wanted to escape the void of the dark oceans and live under the sun's warmth.

Angell is too far gone. A shark cannot start living on land, no matter how much it wishes. She belongs in a bottomless abyss where the sun must not pierce through, while you belong on the other side of this fucked up world, risking your life to save everyone that can be saved. Angell is not a part of that group. She feels your sunlight faintly, but as much as she wants to bask in it, it cannot pierce through the deep waters of her heart. It must not.

Maybe things could've turned out differently if she met you earlier.

Angell stands up from the dusty couch. She is the only one in this desolate home. You're not there to scold her for sleeping on the sofa when she has a clean bed. Not even her goldfish keeps her company on these cold nights—but she trusts that you've taken good care of them. You've always taken care of everyone around you, but who's going to do the same for you?

Particles of dust float in her apartment. She finds that there's no reason to clean it up. Once again, her fridge is full of nearly expired, barely edible "food." As Angell gets ready to head out, she sees her reflection in the shards of broken glass on the floor. It was from a vase that came with the safehouse that she knocked over and forgot to clean. Huh. It looks like she's been crying.

You wake up in a cold sweat. The coolness of your desk against your cheek is unpleasant. The arm you've been using as a pillow is numb. You scramble to sit up straight and look at the time: 2:48AM. Most of the Bureau is asleep. A blanket that you didn't even realize was resting on your shoulders falls off of you, most likely Adjutant Nightingale trying to make sure you don't catch a cold.

On a tray set apart from the paperwork you had been working on, there is a note, a sandwich, and a cup of iced coffee. You assume the perpetrator is the same as the person who wrapped a blanket around you, and as it seems from reading the note, you were right. The contents are a mix of Nightingale's concern for you and scolding you for not taking care of your well-being.

You feel bad for worrying her all the time. Honestly, you're surprised she hasn't resigned yet with how often you get kidnapped. It's not just Nightingale either, even some sinners have noticed the bags under your eyes and how distant you've been acting ever since you came back. You should really pull yourself together. If not for yourself, then for the sinners who rely on you, the Chief of the MBCC.

Why do you keep dreaming about Angell? You've been betrayed many times before, and although you'll never get used to it, you've always gotten back up each time quicker than the last. What is it about her that's so different? Why does she affect you so much?

You open your laptop with a newfound sense of determination, but this time, it's not for work. If you want to stop a problem, you should tackle the source of it, right? Or maybe that's just an excuse. You're going to find her, and along with her, answers. After you press the 'enter' key, the simple yet eerie screen you've grown familiar with welcomes you back:

"Welcome to DisMyth"

[perfinn]

translate your vibration

rugby player!soap mactavish x reader

wc: 3.1k

summary: you're a fieldside medic for a rugby league team and you care a bit too deeply for one of the players. he cares right back

cw: NSFW, f!reader, medical inaccuracies, oral (m receiving), oral (f receiving), johnny's face is covered in blood, medical malpractice too probably, semi-public sex, johnny is lowkey concussed so dubcon just to be sure (but he wants this trust)

special thanks to @kitkatscabinet for helping this come to be!

read on ao3, divider by saradika

“Ye come here often?”

It takes everything in you not to laugh at Johnny’s obvious attempt at flirting. Not because he’s misguided or the advances are unwanted– truly, you wouldn't mind at all in any other circumstance. Only right now, you’re trying to assess him for a concussion. That, and he’s still got his mouthguard in so paired with the blood dribbling from his nose, his words are a garbled slur. 

“Stop moving, Johnny,” you tell him, handing him another cloth to press to his bleeding nose– broken again, you’d wager. You’ll get to that in a moment. 

“‘Am no,” he mumbles, lifting his head when you tilt up his chin and giving you a charming grin. Even with the mouthguard and a twisted nose, he’s still the most handsome man on the team. Which, given your own penchant for beefy rugby-type men, is saying something. “Just askin’.”

“It's not helping your case, then,” you say, gripping his jaw tighter when he tries to move again. “Because you know good and well I come here often. I’m your medic.”

“ Mine ?” Johnny echoes with a somewhat-delirious chuckle. “Och, I’m lucky then, have ye all to maself.” 

You want to correct him, to tell him that you're technically the whole team’s medic, but you don't. You let him be, and instead reach to grab a light to check his pupils. He does manage to hold still as you shine it into his eyes, though he’s helped along by your firm grip on his jaw. His pupils react normally, but you’re still concerned. 

“How are you feeling?” You ask, taking a seat across from him as he finally spits out his mouthguard and presses the cloth to his nose. “Head pounding?”

“Aye,” he says, and you frown as you watch the cloth steadily soak with blood. “But it has just been knocked off my shoulders. ‘Am not seeing  two of you, if that's what you mean. Wouldn't be complainin’ if I were, mind you.”

You hum in response, seeming dubious. You suppose that's good, all things considered. Flirting aside, if he is concussed, it's not deeply serious. Still, you’re concerned. But you know Johnny. He loves to play, loves the game. And he’s one of the best players in the club. You glance behind you at the screen that's playing footage of the game, biting your lip. You can see how desperately Johnny wants to get back out there, he’s practically buzzing in his seat. So somehow, you’re going to have to break it to him that you’re keeping him off the pitch for at least the remainder of this half. Naturally, he’ll be a nuisance about it. Whine, complain, probably beg you to reconsider. Part of you doesn't want to deal with the guilty feeling those puppy dog eyes envokes. 

So, you stall. 

“And the nose?”

“Fuckin’ kills,” he confirms, lowering the rag and grunting in satisfaction when no more blood drips free. “Broken.”

“Again,” you sigh, moving to stand up again. The fact his nose has stopped actively bleeding does loosen the vice-like grip of worry that’s wrapped around your ribcage. He’s breathing okay too, which loosens it again. Still, though, it’s suffocating. 

(You shouldn't worry so much about Johnny. He’s been knocked around far more than you could ever handle and played through much worse. But you’re a bit selfish when it comes to Johnny… you care about him more than you ought to as a professional.)

“Cannae complain when it means I get to see ye,” Johnny says with a cheeky grin as you put your fingers to his nose. “I like it when ye dote on me.”

“You won't like me in a second,” you say. He laughs shortly, and you suppose that he assumes you’re talking about setting his nose. In a way, you are. But that's not why he’ll actually be miffed with you. He’d probably never be miffed about setting his nose anyway, he knows it's a necessary pain. 

You give him a smile, gently prodding at his twisted nose to get your hands in the right position, and you don't bother giving him a countdown. Instead, you break the news to him as quickly as you can manage as you snap the bone back into place, “I’m keeping you off.”

“ Fuck ! Yer what?!” Johnny rears back in his seat with the combined impact of the pain and the sudden information. You step back, wringing your hands together as he blinks harshly. You’re sure there’s dots in his vision from the pain, and once his head clears enough he’ll process what you’ve said. 

“Bonnie,” he says slowly after a moment. The sweet name makes your stomach twist in a strange anxious delight. “Tell me yer joking.”

You give him a sheepish smile, unmoving– and he knows you won't budge. He also knows how much his coach trusts you, and if you say he’s out, he’s out. His coach won’t put him back in if you say not to. But you know he’ll argue anyway. “Until the next half, at least. I need to keep an eye on you.”

Johnny groans deeply, sinking down in the chair. He growls your name, and you’re a tad ashamed to say it goes right to your core. 

“We’re only 20 minutes in, I’ll miss half the game! You cannae-”

“You’re staying off, Johnny,” you say firmly. When you’d started on as the Eels’ medic, you’d been a bit shier. But you’d learned quickly that these men were hardheaded in more ways than one, and being shy and timid would get you nowhere in enforcing their safety. So you took note from their coach and got tough with them. It earned you the respect you needed, and also the trust from their coach in knowing that you could handle them. “And you know I won’t be changing my mind. Now if you want to go back on at all, you’ll behave.”

This earns you another groan, but the growly tone of it says something entirely different than the last one. You feel your cheeks warm, and hope to god he doesn't notice. 

“Talkin’ dirty won’t make me forgive you, you ken,” Johnny says, knuckles pressed against his closed eyes. “Ye really won’t budge?”

“You know me better than that.”

“Aye, I do,” he sighs, dropping his hands and lowering his lidded gaze to you. “Lucky yer sweet talking me, lass. Wouldn't be so forgiving otherwise.”

It's not a threat meant to be taken seriously, you know. It's a threat that does something else entirely, but you hurriedly stand and clear your throat. Professionalism, you tell yourself. It's the backbone of your career. To be surrounded by hot, burly, virile men all day and not do anything about it is a god damn superpower. 

“Price will be as disappointed as you are, but he’ll let you watch from the bench-”

“‘Am no going out there,” he says, standing up with less hurry and far more care. Despite his protests, he is heeding your warnings and taking care with his head. “Can watch the game from in here. Got another way for us to pass the time.”

You stop as you’re turning toward the door, glancing back at him while he inches closer to you. “Johnny…”

You know exactly where he’s hoping to go with this. And as much as you want to – god, you want to – you truly can’t. You’d lose your job. Probably lose your licence if the powers that be were feeling extra annoyed by it, and absolutely shatter your reputation in the process. 

But then… that’s only if you get caught. There’s no security cameras in the locker rooms– there isn’t allowed to be. There’s 20 minutes left of the half, no one’s going to come in here until then. You could. You could do it, and be done with it before anyone notices.

(You’re obviously being intentionally naive in thinking you’d ever be satisfied with just one taste of Johnny, but for now it’s the only way you can rationalise it.)

“C’mon, bonnie.”

You turn back round to face him, bouncing a bit on your toes. “We’ll need to be quick.”

Johnny’s bloody and bruised face lights up with a toothy grin and he nods dutifully as he closes the distance between you both. He lifts his hand to place it on your cheek, his palm warm and rough against your skin. “Cannae tell ye how much I’ve thought about this.”

You laugh a bit, staring up at him. You don’t mind so much that he’s still a bit covered in his own blood. “This is so unprofessional.”

“Aye, it is.”

He doesn’t waste another second before he’s putting his mouth on yours, teeth clacking against yours with the desperation and intensity of his kiss. You hear yourself make a soft noise of surprise, or something akin to that. It’s hard to say, hard to organise your emotions when your brain only wants to focus on Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.  

He’s intoxicating. If being around him and simply being flirted with by him was as addictive as it was, actually kissing him, touching him beyond just treating his injuries, is heroin. He’s backing you up toward the lockers before you realise it, moving his hands from your cheeks down to your body. His hands explore you with no inhibitions, his rough hands squeezing at your tits. He groans into your mouth, pulling his lips away from yours to look down.

His forehead presses to yours as he takes in the sight of your body. Of course, you’re fully clothed and it’s nothing he’s never seen before, but it’s the fact that for this moment it’s his.

(Johnny is well aware that half his team wants you. Maybe more than half, but half of them had openly expressed it. While you’re gone, while they’re winding down in the locker room. But none of them could pull it off. None of them had seeped through the cracks in your professionalism and found their way into your pants. But Johnny had. He had barely even started with you, and he's already thinking about how he might gloat about it.)

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, bonnie,” he mumbles, pressing a short kiss to your lips. “Would love to take my time with ye.”

“Me too,” you breathe, arching into his touch as he gropes at your tits. “But we can’t.”

“Aye,” he says, a scowl creasing his bloodied face. “Bloody tragic. S’alright, lass, next time.”

Part of you wants to say there probably shouldn’t be a next time, which is true, but your brain is already surpassing its ability to form sentences– and the idea of denying yourself of more Johnny sounds like a nightmare right now. You can’t even entertain the thought, not while Johnny is pressing his bulge to your leg, groaning as he shamelessly ruts against your clothed thigh. 

“What d’you want, bonnie?” He asks, voice breathy, almost growling in your ear. “Tell me. I’ll give it to ye.”

You have to bite your tongue to prevent yourself from asking him to fuck you outright. You’re not entirely sure why you don’t say that, actually. Maybe it’s the time constraints, or maybe it’s his cock pressing against your thigh, but fuck, you want to taste it.

“Let me suck you off,” you demand unceremoniously. Johnny chuckles, likely at your commanding tone, but nods as he presses a kiss, then another, to your neck.

“Christ,” he says between heated kisses. He seems almost disappointed to let you sink to your knees, leaving his mouth unoccupied. He almost starts panting as he sees you stare up at him from your knees, reaching for the waistband of his shorts. “Yer fuckin’ perfect. Goan then, lass, then I’ll give that pretty pussy of yours the treatment it deserves after, yeah?”

Nodding along to his ramblings, you tug his shorts down and find yourself disappointed as you come face to face not with his cock, but with his compression shorts. The both of you groan, and Johnny almost tears them off in his desperation to remove them, cursing the shorts under his breath– you bite back the urge to remind him of the medical benefits of wearing them; besides, any thought you have is cut off by the sight of his cock, hard and leaky, springing free. 

It's beautiful, which is a strange thing to say about a cock, you know, but there's little else to describe such a pretty thing. You wrap your hand around the base, licking an appreciative stripe along the underside of it. 

“ Fuuuuck ,” Johnny groans, hand falling gently on the back of your head. Not pushing, but just resting there. “Good fucking girl.”

You take the head of him into your mouth, gazing up at him as you begin to take him deeper, bobbing your head along the length of him. Johnny’s head hits the wall as he moans freely, seemingly unashamed of the idea of being caught. He’s lost in the warmth of your mouth, and you can't much blame him, because you’re lost in the weight of his heavy cock on your tongue. 

Johnny’s eyes are lidded as he turns his gaze down to watch you, and you feel his thumb rub gently over the back of your head as you take him deeper, stopping about halfway down his length, and just stroking what you haven't fit. 

“S’alright, bonnie girl,” Johnny mumbles, voice low. “Dinnae have to take me all today, we’ll work at it, aye?”

His muttered promises make you moan, and that makes him moan. You go back to bobbing your head, the locker room filled with the lewd noises of your mouth. 

It doesn't take Johnny an exceptionally long time to start reaching his end, his hips twitching as he holds back on the urge to fuck right into your mouth. He has the self control to care for your comfort at least. 

“Gonna- fuck , lass, can I come in your mouth?”

Were it anyone else, or any other situation, you’d probably say no. But it's Johnny ; and right now the two of you can't exactly afford to deal with a mess. You hum your affirmative, and apparently the slight vibration of it is enough to have him coming. You see the muscles of his lower abdomen tense before you feel his hot release spill onto your tongue. You take every drop, even when it begins to feel a bit much. When his body relaxes and he leans back against the wall, you pull away and swallow, making Johnny groan lowly. 

“Perfect,” he praises, gently guiding you to stand before kissing you again. He licks into your mouth, tongue laving over your teeth like he’s trying to taste himself. Only as you lean to return the favour, he’s flipping the both of you around so your back is against the wall and he’s kneeling before you. 

“Promise is a promise,” he mumbles, tugging eagerly at your leggings. You can tell he’d love nothing more than to rip them from your body, but he exercises enough self control to just drag them down to your calves, your panties going along with them. 

The position isn't ideal, but Johnny’s enthusiasm isn't hindered. He spreads your legs as far as the leggings will allow, one thumb tugging your lips aside. He groans, leaning forward and inhaling deeply. His nose brushes against your clit and you whine, cheeks warming at the lewd gesture. 

“Johnny,” you urge, threading your fingers through his mohawk and tugging gently. Johnny moans. Then, he shuffles forward on his knees and presses his face between your thighs, dragging his tongue over your dripping pussy. 

One of his hands grabs at your thigh as he licks you, slurping desperately at your slickened cunt. Another tug at his mohawk draws his focus to your clit, which he sucks into his mouth with an appreciative groan. Even when he can't talk, Johnny is incredibly loud; there would be no hiding this from anyone listening outside the door. 

He sucks at your clit, hand moving from your thigh to slip a finger into your cunt, making you moan before you slap a hand over your mouth. Johnny’s eyes open, and his eyebrows furrow. 

He pulls away, despite your whined protest, and takes a short breath. “Lemme hear ye, lass,” he encourages. “Don't hide from me.”

“Johnny,” you begin to protest, cutting yourself off with a gasp when he eases another finger into you and curls them right against a spot that has a loud moan falling from your parted lips. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises, ducking right down to graze his teeth over your clit.

His mouth combined with his rough fingers is driving you mad, making you squirm in place as pleasure begins to sear the ends of your nerves. 

“ Johnny !” You cry, head banging against the wall as your orgasm hits you without warning or much buildup at all. It feels as though it's been punched out of you, making your body tense and tremble for a few good seconds, mind floating miles above your body. 

When you return to earth, Johnny has pulled his fingers from your pussy and has them in your mouth, his nose pressed against your clit as he ruts his hips against his hand. You're entranced watching him rub himself through the overstimulation, fingers in his mouth and bruising nose in your pussy. It's only a few more moments before Johnny spills into his fist, a guttural groan muffled by your cunt. 

He sighs, pressing a loving kiss to your pussy. Then, he pulls back, face shiny with your slick, and looks up at you, grinning lopsidedly. “Alright, bonnie?” He asks, like he hasn't just jerked himself to a second orgasm on his own. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, words like laughter. “Are you?”

He nods, shuffling awkwardly to his feet and looking at the mess on his hands. Pants still around his knees, he shuffles over to your medical supplies and gets himself a tissue, wiping his hand off before tugging up his shorts. 

He returns to you, who’s struggling to stand, and gently tugs your pants up for you. He kisses you, softer and sweeter than before, and smiles against your lips. “Ye were perfect, bonnie.”

You hum, shifting your legs so that your underwear doesn't press wrong against your oversensitive cunt. 

The door opens before you can respond, and the first person inside is Johnny’s coach, John Price. The two of you must have somehow missed the siren in the heat of your joint pleasure. The bearded man takes in the scene of the two of you standing so close, and the slick on Johnny’s flushed face, and a heavy sigh leaves his lungs. 

“Fucking hell, MacTavish.”