#lost gods…. I’m thinking about you…..

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Hiii!! Can I make a request? Its kinda long tho so I totally understand if you don't wanna write it !! :)

so basically what I had in mind is rhys' sister!reader x az, she got kidnapped by hybern on the day rhys's mother died and everyone had thought his sister died too but she didn't she was kidnapped and her memories were erased. After the war with hybern the ic runs into her and shes all bloody and injured because turns out she was fighting hybern soldiers as well because she finally saw an opportunity to be free. As soon as rhys saw her he recognises her but before he could even utter a word, she faints, so they take her to night court and nurses her back to health. When she wakes up she gets really emotional when she sees rhys because she feels like she should know him but she doesn't cuz she doesn't have any memories, later they get helion to fix her memories and there's a very emotional brother sister reunion. Az finds out he's her mate but he doesn't tell her and rhys is very protective of reader cuz he just got her back so he forbids az from dating her or anything, but she doesn't know that so she thinks az doesn't like her back so she's devastated over that. I didn't think of what would happen after that so you can come up with the rest but pleeeeeaaasee give az and reader a happy ending. Also can you include that reader had dreams of az the way rhys had dreams of feyre? 🥹

Thank you and I hope you have a good day!! <33

I switched it ever so slightly, hope you’ll still enjoy it!🤍🫧

Lost and found

It’s your hair he sees first. There’s something in the onyx gleam that screams familiar. That is different from any other shade of black. Rhys’s mother always said that they bore all shades of the night sky in their hair. As a gift from the gods. It wasn’t pitch black, no. There was depth. Stars even. They gleamed. You gleamed. He nearly sank to his knees once you turned your bloodied face towards him. It felt as if looking in the mirror. He had pictured you in his head. Had made Feyre paint you. Paint you how he imagined you would have looked all grown up. If you had that chance if you were still with him. His little northern star. And you were here now. In front of him. Sward in hand as if you weren’t sure if you were supposed to stab him or leave him be. Shaking and so frail. Line Feyre was. Just like Rhys had found his mate. Broken and confused. Unsure of anything. Jumpy and scared. “Yn”, it’s a whisper but from the way your body shivers Rhys knows that the name speaks to you. Does his voice speak to you? Do you even remember? “I just want to be free”, you mutter, “Help me get free”. Rhys watches your body sag and his legs move forward before he can even think. Arms reaching for your body. Desperate to break your fall. To save you from this at least in hopes this would somehow make a difference.

Rhys sits by your side from the moment Madja lets him in. She’s doubtful about you waking up soon. Even more doubtful if it’s good for Rhys to be there. And a part of him knows it too but he can’t help it. It’s as if he’s pulled to you. By the need to see you. To know that he hasn’t just imagined you. Your eyes flutter open after a week of nothing but shallow breathing. Your body feels heavy and achy. The walls surrounding you are unfamiliar. But there are no shackles. No ropes. You’re in a big bed. With silk sheets around you. And then your eyes land on a male sitting in the chair. He’s watching you. But watching you as if observing a wild animal that might flee after a move too sudden.

“How are you feeling?”, he speaks up and his voice alone scratches something deep inside your brain. Something you should know. But you don’t. You can’t reach. “I’m Rhys. You’re in my court. You’re safe”, he continues, leaning in slightly, moving to reach for your hand that you quickly pull closer to your chest. You see the hurt flash in his eyes. But it disappears almost immediately. He bares your features. His eyes are your eyes and that’s enough to make your heart pick up. Is he family? A far down-the-line relative?

“You look at me like you know me…”, you mutter, feeling your eyes burn, “but i don’t know you”. Rhys takes a shaky breath and you could swear his hands are trembling. But he smiles regardless, “That’s okay, we have time”. You watch him for a moment, a stranger in front of you. They said that you had no one. There was no one out there for you. “What if I don’t want to know you?”, that’s a blow that leaves a permanent mark on his face, the frown line between his eyebrows. “That’s okay too. I won’t force you”, Rhys’s voice grows shaky, “All you need to know is that you are safe. I and my people will keep you safe. You told me that you wanted to be free. You’re free now”. He stands up quietly. Pushing the chair to the side. You catch a glimpse of a female standing at the door as he moves to leave the room. The door isn’t fully closed when a sob slips past his lips. She embraces him and it’s all muffled by the closed door.

“She’s wiped clean”, Helion’s words send another blow at Rhys’s chest. “There might be bits of her past there but… this will have to be gradual Rhys, if it all was taken from her, getting all the memories back might fry her brain out”, Helion crosses his arms over his chest watching you in one of his gardens. Hand outstretched to one of his Pegasus. He remembered the little girl. Sat on his knee. Mischievous little thing, he had called you. Now it felt like looking at a ghost. “But is there even a slither of hope?”, Rhys asks, desperately trying to cling to the future where you would recognize him. Helion sighed, “Take this advice from me, someone older than you”, turning to face Rhys, whose troubled face had grown ashy over the past month. “Creat memories with her from now. Build her up from nothing and that alone might make her remember” But how could he? How could anyone just wipe out the grief and terror? The feeling of losing someone and then finding them back once more.

Azriel had sunk to his knees in the room you had laid unconscious for a week. He knew you were mates even then. Both young and careless. He remembered your first kiss. Rushed and messy in one of Rhys’s father’s stables. You had pulled him out. Had been his haven ever since your mother had taken both him and Cass in. Losing you had messed with his head. He had mourned you just the same. Had closed off his heart for anyone. Meaningless fling got easier with time but he still caught himself thinking of you. Calling out your name. Leaving the females snarling at him.

Azriel thought that glimpses of cells. Of you locked up. Scared and crying were nothing but a fickle of imagination. He saw you drawing night skies. He saw you kill. But now he knew that it had been your unconsciousness calling to him. Zaps of bond binding you both connecting momentarily. He hated himself. He hated that he did nothing. That he had let go. Had given up. But they had found the body. Berried someone. Someone who wasn’t you. Azriel only visited once. That one time and then he erased himself out of the equation. Because maybe it was better that way. Because he wasn’t worthy of your love. He couldn’t protect you after all.

Rhys was happy with that choice too. It was petty but he didn’t want to share you with anyone. Not that he had you. Any part of you. Because nothing changed. He talked. Told you stories but you just shook your head. You didn’t know him. You didn’t trust him. And nothing he did made any breakthrough.

It was the night Azriel had accidentally walked into the study where you and Rhys were. Ready to drop off the reports he had written for the week’s work. His black shirt is slightly unbuttoned. Sleeves rolled up. Your eyes had drifted away from the painting towards the man standing in the hallway. Man your eyes always seemed to find. Man who had been avoiding you ever since you got here. It painted you slightly. It was the only person you seemed to want to reach but he was the only one keeping the furthest away.

Your eyes landed on his arms. The dim light dancing on the black ink snaking up his left arm. The book you held slipped past your fingers. Clattering to the floor with a thud. “Y/n, dear, is everything alright?”, Rhys was in front of you in an instant. Worried face searching yours. “Your left shoulder”, you muttered, pointing at Azriel. He halted in his movement. The handful of papers stuck midair. “Show me your left shoulder”, you muttered.

Azriel’s eyes looked up at you, “What for?”, it was colder. He was protecting whatever was there. Holding onto the last part of you he had. You stepped past Rhys. “I know that… pattern”, you muttered. “It’s old Illyrian”, Rhys cut in but Azriel only lifted his hand. “Please, I…”, the fuzziness around you ripped as you reached for your dress, yanking the sleeve off, bearing your shoulders to Azriel. His jaw clenched, as he looked away for a moment. And then he ripped his shirt open. And there it was. The same pattern all across his shoulder as well.

Taking a shaky breath you let your head fall into your hands, “You chose it…” A light sob slipped past Azriel’s lips, “I did”, he nodded watching you. “Because you were a bitch about it”, turning to Rhys you pointed a finger at him. “You matted my baby sister behind my back?”, Rhys hissed, the jumble of emotions was making everyone drown. “Mom knew about it, she approved”, you whispered, “Where’s Mom?” Your eyes looked up at Rhys. He slowly shook his head. Another wave of flashes floats through you. You reached back in a frantic breath, “Where are my wings?” An angry tear slipped down Rhys’s face. “Where are they? Where is she?”, you looked among them. Feeling panic slowly drowning you. “Come here”, Azriel pulled at your head, bringing your face to his chest. “No, don’t smother me”, you pushed against him, but Azriel held on tight, holding your shaking form, feeling the burning gaze of his high lord, “I’ve got you. It will settle. Just breathe with me”.

[thestrongestkikufuku]

a business proposal, p. 5

» series masterlist - ⟡⋆˙

» contents - ⟡⋆˙ fluff, crack, angst, au, satoru gojo x f!reader, ceo!gojo, fake dating, curse word, reader going through some shit, gojo being soft, they're finally warming up to each other??? mmm slowburn, chaotic, unrequited love, reader pining for nanami

» word count - ⟡⋆˙ 5.2k

» notes - ⟡⋆˙ we're back at it again!! welcome, dear readers, to part 5 of the business proposal inspired series! :D it is currently 3 am as i write this. i actually just finished this part so it has been cooking for a whole day now >.< i chose to end this part a little happier instead, seeing how the previous parts end so intense and sad >.< and in case anyone is wondering, i'm aiming to have around 10 parts? probably? the business proposal series has a lot going on and it has proved to be quite challenging to write some of the stuff from the show into the fic, so i hope that y'all understand that there's a lot of things from the show that i haven't touched upon and chose not to write in order to not make this series too long T-T anyhow!! enough with my yapping, enjoy and happy reading! if you want to be added to the taglist please let me know (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

» m.list - ⟡⋆˙

A few days had gone by and the morning dawned with a knot of embarrassment and anxiety tightly wound in your chest. No matter how hard you tried, thoughts of Gojo refused to leave your mind. His presence lingered like a specter, reminding you of the awkward events from that specific night.

As you moved through your morning routine, the memory of Gojo’s intense reaction replayed in your mind. Why did he get so heated about the story involving the rain? What had happened to make him react so strongly?

With a frustrated groan, you tried to push these thoughts aside, hoping the busyness of work would distract you. But even after you arrived at the office and settled into your tasks, the questions continued to nag at you.

And no matter how hard you tried to focus on your work, his words echoed in your mind. “This relationship is nothing but a simple contractual exchange of money.” The sting of his harsh tone lingered, adding to the unease you felt.

As noon approached, you sought refuge in the cafeteria, hoping a quick lunch would clear your head. Lost in your thoughts, you navigated through the bustling crowd, barely aware of your surroundings. In a moment of distraction, you collided with someone, the force knocking your tray to the ground, food scattering everywhere.

“Oh no!” you gasped, a wave of panic sweeping over you as you realized the mess you had made. 

Looking up, your heart sank even further as you saw Satoru Gojo standing before you, his pristine attire now adorned with splatters of food. Panic surged through you as you kept your head low, scared out of your mind that he would notice you.

“I-I’m so sorry, oh god—” you stammered, hands shaking as you scrambled for napkins to clean up the disaster. The cafeteria seemed to hold its breath, all eyes trained on the unfolding scene between you and the CEO.

Gojo, for his part, remained surprisingly calm as he looked down slightly to assess the mess on his clothes. “Don’t worry about it.”

The cafeteria buzzed with quiet whispers as they watched the scene unfold. His eyes lifted to meet yours, and a moment of silence hung heavy between you.

“You…” He started softly, confusion etched on his features as he scrutinized you. “Have we met before?” His voice was calm and curious.

“No!” You blurted out, your heart hammering in your chest. Without thinking, you bowed deeply, a rush of embarrassment flooding your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” You repeated, barely able to meet his gaze as you continued to clean up the spilled food with trembling hands.

Once you were done you hastily gathered the dirty napkins and practically fled from the scene, cheeks burning with humiliation. As you retreated, the image of Gojo’s shocked and amused expression burned into your mind, leaving you to wonder how long the memory of this embarrassing encounter would haunt you.

“Suguru,” Gojo turned to look at his friend with a quizzical look, “who was that?”

“Pretty sure she works in the marketing department based on her employee badge.” Suguru replied calmly.

“Did you catch her name?” Gojo inquired further, his interest piqued.

“Unfortunately, I did not, Satoru.”

Gojo’s gaze drifted back towards the direction you had hurriedly departed. His expression was thoughtful, as if he was trying to recall something. After a moment, he sighed softly and nodded. 

“Hm, alright then.”

—

As evening settled, you decided to clear your mind with a brisk walk around your neighborhood. You replayed the day’s events in your mind, the encounter with Gojo looming over you, making you cringe inwardly. Your phone buzzed, breaking your train of thought. A text from Gojo popped up on the screen.

Archaeopteryx: “My grandfather asked to meet you again. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. 12 p.m.”

The message brought a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. You paused mid-walk, glancing around at the familiar surroundings now tinged with the soft hues of twilight. The invitation to meet Gojo’s grandfather again was unexpected, yet not entirely surprising given the circumstances of your fabricated relationship.

You narrow your eyes slightly, noticing a familiar figure emerging from an apartment complex up ahead. It was Nanami, his presence eliciting a small smile from you. You hadn’t seen him since his last visit at the bakery, and a part of you felt a rush of warmth at the sight of him.

However, your smile faltered as you watched Nanami lean in to kiss a woman standing by the door. Hana. The realization hit you like a sudden gust of wind, chilling you to the core. They are back together. 

Shock and confusion washed over you, blending with a sharp pang of devastation. You stood frozen in place as Nanami and Hana exchanged affectionate gestures and laughter.

Hana’s voice interrupted your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. “[name]! It's been a while!” She greeted you warmly as she and Nanami approached you, her arm linked around his.

“I-It’s good to see you too,” you replied, trying to maintain a natural demeanor despite the unease creeping into your thoughts. “How have you been? I hope your trip to Korea has been pleasant.”

A wide smile spreads across her face, “It’s been amazing, thank you! The food, the sights—everything’s been incredible,” she gushed, her enthusiasm almost infectious. “Oh, and thank you so much for the cake by the way, you always make them so delicious!” She beamed at you appreciatively, her words sincere despite the underlying tension you felt.

“It’s no problem. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” you replied softly, your gaze briefly flickering towards Nanami before returning to Hana. “I-I should get going, I have um.. Work tomorrow.”

As you bid them farewell, their cheerful chatter fading into the air, you resumed your walk home, the encounter leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. The familiar route back to your apartment seemed longer tonight, each step echoing in the quietness of the night. Thoughts raced through your mind, the unexpected sight of Nanami and Hana together reopening wounds you thought had healed. 

Tears welled up in your eyes as your movements came to a stop, a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. Your hand instinctively covered your mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape. The pain of seeing him with someone else was unbearable, a stark reminder of the unspoken feelings you had harbored for him.

The suffocating silence got cut off by the insistent ringing of your phone as Gojo’s contact name flashed on the screen. You hesitated, fingers trembling, debating whether to answer or not. But before you could make a decision, in your haste to cancel the call, you accidentally dropped the phone. The sound of it hitting the pavement was like the final crack in a dam holding back your emotions. Tears started rolling down your cheeks uncontrollably as you sank down to your knees, overwhelmed by a flood of heartache and loneliness.

Each tear that fell felt like a betrayal of your composure, a raw exposure of the love you could never voice. The ache in your chest was unbearable, a physical manifestation of all the suppressed longing and hope.

“I didn’t think it would hurt so much,” you murmured in between your sobs, your voice trembling with anguish, “god, it hurts so much.”

In that moment of profound vulnerability, with your heart and your pain laid bare, you felt utterly alone.

Unbeknownst to you, the call had connected, with Gojo on the other end, hearing every broken sobs and muffled cries. Gojo’s expression softened as he listened, his usual confidence faltering in the face of your raw devastation. He hesitated, uncertain of how to intervene or if he should intervene at all. The vulnerability in your voice tugged at something deep within him, a compassion he hadn’t expected to feel so strongly.

After a long moment of silence, Gojo sighed quietly to himself. And with a heavy heart, he made a difficult decision, hesitantly ending the call.

—

The morning arrived with the soft rays of the sun filtering through your curtains, casting a muted glow across the room. You stirred awake as the events of the previous evening flooded your mind once more. With a sigh, you pushed aside the lingering emotions, focusing instead on the day ahead. Gojo’s text about meeting his grandfather echoed in your thoughts, urging you to prepare despite the weight on your heart. Without hesitation you start your morning routine, moving through the motions of showering and dressing.

Once you were done you plop down in front of your vanity, hesitantly glancing at your reflection in the mirror, noticing the puffiness and redness around your eyes.

“Shit.” You muttered under your breath, “Looks like I’ll need extra makeup today.” 

Without giving it much thought, you rummage through your makeup drawer, hoping to conceal the evidence of your intense crying. As you sift through the array of cosmetics, your fingers brush against something unexpected—a small, unassuming envelope nestled among the lipsticks and eyeliners. Your heart skips a beat as you recognize it instantly: the envelope Nanami had given you days ago, containing tickets to a concert.

You picked up the envelope with a mix of sadness and curiosity, turning it over in your hands. As you did, a rush of realization washed over you—the date of the concert was today. For a second the thought of inviting Gojo crossed your mind, but you dismissed it immediately, knowing he would likely decline.

“Forget it,” you murmured, slipping the envelope into your bag. “I could just ask Rin.”

A while later you stood outside, waiting for Gojo to arrive, dressed in your usual disguise—elegantly dressed with a long, styled wig that framed your face. The morning breeze played with the loose strands as you glanced through your phone absentmindedly. Your body stiffened once your gaze fell upon the recent call log with Gojo from last night. Confusion knitted your brows; you don’t recall making that call.

A flicker of panic surged through you as realization dawned.

“Oh, god. Did he hear that?!”

The thought made your chest tighten with anxiety, and you frantically scrolled through your phone, hoping there were no messages or voicemails left behind.

Just then, you spotted Gojo’s car approaching in the distance. With a deep breath, you composed yourself, tucking away your phone and putting on a polite smile as he drew near.

“Good morning,” he greeted surprisingly warmly, his eyes briefly scanning your appearance with approval. “You look lovely today.”

“T-Thank you.” You bowed quickly before getting inside the car.

As you settled into the passenger seat, silence enveloped you, the rhythm of the road beneath the wheels matched the tempo of your racing thoughts. Finally, unable to contain the question any longer, you turned slightly towards him, your voice tentative yet determined.

“Did... Did you call me yesterday?” You began, your words breaking the tense silence. “I-I had no idea, but I saw that I had a call with you last night.”

Gojo glanced at you briefly, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah, I did,” he replied gently, his eyes briefly meeting yours before returning to the road. “I called to talk about our plans for today. But I hung up because I couldn’t hear anything.”

Relief washed over you momentarily, grateful for his straightforward answer. “Oh, I see,” you murmured, your gaze drifting out the window. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

As you stared out the window, lost in thought, Gojo stole another glance at you, a flicker of concern in his eyes. He had heard more than just silence on the other end of the line last night—he had heard the vulnerability in your voice, the rawness of emotion that you hadn’t meant for him to witness.

Yet, he chose not to mention it. Instead, he focused on driving, his mind racing with unspoken thoughts and emotions.

—

“Ah, Miss Mei,” Gojo’s grandfather greeted warmly as you entered the grand mansion. “I’ve heard from Satoru that you have quite a fondness for steamed buns,” he continued, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he regarded you kindly.

A blush crept up your cheeks at the unexpected mention of such a trivial detail. “Oh, um, yes,” you replied with a small smile, grateful for the lighthearted turn in conversation. “I do enjoy them.”

“Well then, I must take you to a little place in Kamakura,” Gojo’s grandfather said with a genuine smile, “They make the most exquisite steamed buns you’ll ever taste. It’s a family favorite.”

“Grandfather, Kamakura is far away from here—”

“Hush, boy. I was talking to her.” He shot his grandson a sharp glare before turning to you with a warm smile, “now if you’ll excuse me.”

Gojo’s grandfather walked away to prepare himself for the trip, leaving you and Gojo momentarily alone.

“So,” you began tentatively, turning towards Gojo with a curious expression, “you remembered that?”

Gojo paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “Oh, um,” he started, attempting to sound casual, “of course. You kept rambling about them during that one meeting.”

“I only mentioned it once during that meeting.”

Gojo’s usual composed demeanor faltered as you pointed out the discrepancy in his explanation. He paused, his gaze drifting away momentarily as he searched for the right words. But before he could explain himself further, the elderly man came back, interrupting the moment between you.

“Now, shall we go?”

—

As you stood outside the quaint restaurant in Kamakura that sold the renowned steamed buns, Gojo’s grandfather wasted no time in engaging the owner in a cheerful conversation. His enthusiasm was infectious as he exchanged pleasantries and shared anecdotes.

The bustling street around you hummed with activity, locals and tourists alike weaving through the narrow lanes lined with shops and stalls. You turned towards Gojo with a curious expression, breaking the comfortable silence between you.

“We really went all the way to Kamakura for steamed buns?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Gojo chuckled softly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “When my grandfather has a favorite, he’ll go to great lengths for it,” he replied with a small smirk, glancing over at his grandfather fondly. “And it’s not just about the steamed buns, it’s about the memories associated with this place.”

You looked at him, struck by the sincerity in his words. It was clear that this outing meant more to him than simply enjoying a local delicacy. Before you could respond, Gojo’s phone suddenly rang, interrupting the moment. He glanced at the screen briefly before excusing himself with an apologetic smile and stepping aside to take the call. You watched him go, feeling a pang of disappointment at the abrupt disruption.

Meanwhile, Gojo’s grandfather noticed the lull in conversation and turned his attention back to you. “Come, Miss Mei,” he beckoned warmly, gesturing towards the restaurant. “Let’s not keep the steamed buns waiting.”

With a nod, you followed him inside the cozy space, the aroma of freshly steamed buns enveloping you as you entered. The owner greeted you warmly, offering a selection of their finest buns. You thanked him graciously, choosing a few varieties to sample, eager to experience the flavors that had captivated Gojo’s family for generations.

As you savored the delicious steamed buns in the company of Gojo’s grandfather, a comfortable silence settled between you. After a while, he cleared his throat, his expression thoughtful.

“I must apologize, Miss Mei,” he began earnestly, his voice tinged with regret. “For the way I acted during our first meeting. It was... abrupt, and I realize now that I may have come across as imposing.”

You blinked in surprise at his unexpected apology, touched by his sincerity. “Oh, no,” you replied quickly, shaking your head. “It’s quite alright, really. I understand.”

“And I want to thank you.”

Surprised, you looked up from your food, meeting his warm gaze with curiosity. “Thank me?” you echoed, unsure of what he meant.

He nodded slowly, a small smile playing on his lips. “For making Satoru happy,” he explained sincerely. “I can see it, you know. He cares deeply for you. So please take good care of him.”

You felt your cheeks warm at his unexpected words, a warm and fluttery feeling stirring in your stomach. “O-Of course.” You replied softly, nodding in affirmation. 

As you glanced out the window at Gojo, with a gentle smile forming on your lips, you became momentarily distracted. Unbeknownst to you, your hand brushed against your bag, causing it to slip from your lap and tumble to the ground. The sudden crash startled you, and your heart skipped a beat as your belongings spilled out onto the floor.

Embarrassment washed over you as you hastily knelt down to gather your things, fingers trembling slightly as you reached for your scattered items. You managed to grab your phone and a few loose items, but as you hastily gathered them, your wallet that held your ID card slipped from your fingers and slid across the floor.

Before you could react, Gojo’s grandfather was already beside you, his movements swift yet gentle as he helped collect your belongings. His kind eyes met yours briefly, offering reassurance amidst your flustered state. In your haste, you snatched up your wallet, fearing he might catch a glimpse of your true identity. However, as he reached down to retrieve a stray item, his hand brushed against the envelope Nanami had given you earlier. His curiosity piqued, he picked it up and examined it briefly. His eyes widened slightly as he noticed the tickets inside, neatly tucked away.

Gojo came in suddenly with a composed expression, his phone call apparently resolved. “Sorry to interrupt, but we should head back to Tokyo. I have some business to attend to.” He announced, his tone carrying a sense of urgency.

His grandfather, still holding the envelope with the concert tickets, frowned slightly. “Business to attend to?” he chided gently, his voice laced with a hint of disapproval. “You never seem to have time for the simpler things that Miss Mei can’t even ask you about things like this.”

Gojo’s eyes widened in confusion. “What did I—” he paused for a moment, knowing that arguing with the old man would be futile, “what are those?”

“They’re concert tickets.” The elder man responded in a matter-of-fact kind of tone, waving it in front of Gojo’s face, “seeing as how they’re for today, she must’ve bought them to go with you. Right, Miss Mei?”

Caught off guard, you blinked rapidly, trying to keep up with the unexpected turn of events. 

“Um, well, I...” you stammered, searching for words as Gojo's grandfather fixed you with an expectant look.

“What?” Gojo interjected, confusion etching on his features.

“Stupid, boy. We need to get going now!” His grandfather commanded, slapping the tickets into Gojo’s hand with a forceful gesture before he started making his way towards the car. “Come on, let’s go.”

—

You finally arrived at the concert venue, the bustling energy of the crowd filled the air with excitement. The driver pulled the car to a stop at the curb as the elderly man turned to face you both as you and Gojo stepped out of the vehicle.

“Have fun, you two,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Now, go!”

Gojo, ever the dutiful grandson, attempted to protest. “Grandfather, you really didn’t have to drop us off here. We could have—”

“Nonsense!” his grandfather interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “You think I’m stupid, boy? If I hadn’t done this, you’d have found some excuse to sneak off to work.”

Gojo opened his mouth to retort but then closed it, realizing the truth in his grandfather’s words. 

“I want to see the two of you head inside.” His grandfather mused, waving his hand to urge you both along.

Gojo sighed, a hint of resignation spreading across his features. “Alright, alright.” He conceded, turning towards the concert entrance.

You quickly bowed to Gojo’s grandfather, a gesture of gratitude and respect. “Thank you, sir,” you said sincerely, before hurrying to catch up with Gojo. “Let’s just go in and then come back right out when he’s gone.” You whispered to Gojo, turning to take a quick glance back at the car.

To your surprise, the car was still there, parked at the curb. Gojo’s grandfather was watching you both intently, a knowing smile on his face. He waved his hands once more, urging you further inside.

Gojo glanced back as well and let out a small groan. “He’s not going to leave until he’s sure we’re staying,” he said, shaking his head. “Just give up.”

As you and Gojo made your way deeper into the venue, you could still feel the eyes of his grandfather on you, ensuring you followed through with the plan. Finally, you found your seats, settling in as the lights began to dim and the first notes of music filled the air.

Gojo leaned closer to you, his voice barely audible over the excited murmurs of the crowd. “Looks like we’re committed now,” he said, a rare and genuine smile spreading across his face.

You let out a small, nervous chuckle as you nodded to his words. 

As the concert progressed, the artist on the stage suddenly pauses between the songs, a bright smile spreading across their face. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” they began, their voice amplified through the speakers, “tonight we have something very special planned. We’re going to take some song requests along with their special stories.”

The crowd murmured with excitement as the artist pulled out a small stack of papers from a box. “We’ve received so many wonderful stories, and I’m so thrilled to share one with you now,” the artist continued, unfolding a paper and beginning to read.

“I bought tickets for today’s show and gave them to a close friend of mine. We’ve been good friends for seven years now and she’s always been there for me through thick and thin, from consoling me with drinks when my girlfriend broke up with me to celebrating every small victory. She doesn’t have a boyfriend yet, but I’m hoping that she’ll find someone special soon and maybe attend the concert together. Please play her favorite song tonight; it means a lot to her.

And to top it off, she bakes the most incredible bread at her bakery, which I absolutely love getting from her.”

As the artist read aloud the heartfelt story from the paper, your heart sank. The words struck a chord deep within you, resonating with a painful familiarity. Nanami’s thoughtful gesture was unmistakable, and it was about you—his words echoing in your mind, reminding you of the unspoken feelings you harbored for him. 

A whirlwind of emotions swept through you—panic, sadness, and longing. You felt a lump form in your throat as the artist continued, mentioning details that only Nanami would know—your role in comforting him, your bakery, and your shared moments of support and friendship.

The artist suddenly announces the row and seat number associated with the story, the spotlights suddenly shining on you, confirming to everyone that the heartfelt story was about you. You glanced around nervously, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable in the midst of the crowd. Nanami’s face flashed in your mind, imagining his gentle smile as he wrote those words, oblivious to the depth of your feelings for him.

“You came with a gentleman today!” the artist beamed upon seeing you and Gojo together. 

“I-I— no he’s not—” you stammered, trying to protest, but the artist continued.

“I guess your friend’s wish came true! I’m sure he’ll be happy. Congratulations to his friend of seven years.”

As the song began to play, chosen especially for you, the music seemed to surround you with its bittersweet melody. You dared a quick glance at Gojo, who was watching you with concern, unaware of the turmoil within you. You wanted to disappear, to escape this moment of emotional reckoning that Nanami had unwittingly triggered.

Memories flooded your mind like a relentless wave. You couldn’t help but reminisce about all the times you had spent with Nanami—starting from high school when you first began harboring feelings for him. You remembered the moments of laughter, inside jokes that only the two of you understood, the way he listened intently to your rambles about your dreams and fears, the comfort of his presence during challenging times, the late-night conversations that lingered in your heart long after they had ended. Each memory stung with the ache of unrequited love.

The weight of Nanami’s gesture at the concert, his heartfelt words read aloud to the world, intensified the flood of emotions within you. Tears welled up in your eyes, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Gojo glanced at you from the corner of his eye. His expression remained outwardly composed, a mask of nonchalance that could barely conceal the worry that started to etch into his features.

Without a word, he subtly retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and extended it towards you. It was a small act, yet it conveyed his understanding of your emotional turmoil, showing you a depth of concern and compassion that spoke volumes. 

You slowly accepted the handkerchief with a grateful nod, dabbing at your tears as discreetly as you could manage.

Once the concert was done you found yourself walking with Gojo in the quiet streets of Tokyo, the lingering emotions from the evening weighed heavily on you. 

Gojo glanced at you quickly, his expression still composed but with a subtle shift of concern beginning to show. The silence stretched between you until he finally spoke, his voice soft against the backdrop of the city’s murmurs.

“Do you cry easily?” he asked, his tone gentle yet probing. “You bawled yesterday too.” He continued casually.

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, realizing he had indeed heard you cry. Heat rose to your cheeks as the feeling of embarrassment washed through you.

“B-But you said you didn’t hear—”

“It seemed like you didn’t want me to know, so..”

The admission hung in the air between you as you walked on in silence once more, each step carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts and emotions.

“Thank you… For today. For everything.” You began softly, “for pretending that you didn’t notice that I cried yesterday. And for coming to the concert with me, which I could’ve gone to all by myself.”

“Not only that,” Gojo started, taking a quick glance at you, “I almost looked like a really pitiful person when you cried like that at the concert.” 

“W-What?”

Gojo chuckled lightly. “I overheard someone saying that I was just a replacement for your friend.” 

Your heart sank at his words, guilt washing over you. “I-I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, offering you a reassuring smile. “Don’t apologize,” he said firmly, his tone gentle but firm. “I mean, it’s not like I’m your real boyfriend anyway.”

His words caught you off guard, a mix of relief and confusion washing over you. It’s true that he’s not your real boyfriend, but why did his words make you feel… Sad?

“I know.” You replied softly, averting your gaze from his.

“Did you have a crush on him for seven years?” He asked suddenly, his curiosity evident in his tone.

“Was it that obvious?” you replied with a wry smile, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at the thought of how transparent your feelings might have been.

Gojo chuckled softly, a sound that carried both amusement and sympathy. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, glancing at you with a knowing look. “Besides, anyone with eyes would’ve figured that out seeing how much you cried over his words.”

“Yeah, I guess I wasn’t exactly subtle.” You replied with a sheepish smile.

“Well, at least you got some closure, right?” Gojo said with a reassuring nod.

You nodded back, a small, hopeful smile forming on your lips. “Yeah, I’m just going to accept that I just got rejected,” you admitted with a light chuckle. “Besides, the friend of mine ended up getting back together with his ex-girlfriend.”

Gojo watched you silently, a contemplative look on his face as he processed your words.

“But I don’t regret it, though,” you said with a knowing smile, “I was really happy for those seven years.”

His expression softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Someone like you who can’t tolerate wasting time, can’t understand that, right?” you teased lightly, nudging him playfully.

A small frown slowly spread across his face. “It’s not always that way.” 

“Hmm?”

“There are some things where you see results quickly,” He began, his voice taking on a serious note, “and others where you have to risk losses and stay committed for the long run. So, it’s hard to judge the value of something solely based on how much time it takes.”

You let out a small laugh, causing Gojo to turn to you with a surprised look on his face.

“That’s a weird way to comfort someone, you know?” you chuckled, shaking your head in amusement. “It’s funny that you compare things to your job even in situations like this.”

Gojo scratched his head sheepishly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Yeah, I guess I’m not really used to comforting people.” He admitted with a wry smile. “I tend to approach things from a practical angle.”

“Don’t worry, it was comforting enough,” you reassured him sincerely, your laughter fading into a warm smile. “Thank you.”

After a moment of comfortable silence, broken only by the soft sounds of the evening around you, you felt a twinge of guilt nagging at you. Clearing your throat softly, you turned slightly towards Gojo.

“Um, Gojo, I wanted to apologize,” you began hesitantly, “for telling that story to your grandfather during the dinner. I was feeling a bit down so I overdid things a bit so it wouldn’t be obvious… I think that’s why I said some things I shouldn’t have said.”

Gojo looked at you with surprise, his expression softening. “It’s okay,” he responded gently, shaking his head slightly. “I should apologize too. I was being a bit too sensitive about it.”

As the night deepened and the streets grew quieter around you, Gojo slowed his pace until the two of you came to a gentle stop beneath a canopy of trees. A comfortable silence enveloped you, allowing the cold breeze of the evening to soothe the edges of today’s emotions.

You stole a glance at Gojo, noticing the mix of contemplation and calm in his expression as he gazed thoughtfully into the distance. His features, illuminated by the gentle glow of the street lamps and moonlight, appeared serene yet striking. In that quiet moment, you couldn’t help but admire him— how he looked, the way he stood close to you, it all stirred emotions you couldn’t quite explain.

Quickly pulling yourself out of your thoughts, you turned your attention to the surroundings, taking in the serene atmosphere of the neighborhood.

“Where are we right now?” You asked softly, breaking the silence with a gentle inquiry. 

“I don’t know,” Gojo’s eyebrows quirked up at your question, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I was just following you.”

“But I was following you.”

» taglist - ⟡⋆˙ @megumisthirdog, @inluvkai, @ieathairs, @roscpctals99, @laviefantasie, @snwvie, @sanriosatoru,@cc1306, @pinkprincessglitterzombie, @keaugh, @eolivy, @peachesnoranges, @indicatom, @jayhyunglover, @lunasolac

[poppy-metal]

oh my god my pussy’s sobbing and crying now. all this alpha talk has me thinking though! like imagine alpha!artrick sharing you ☹️ they’d definitely argue over you, like all the time. i can hear them like “would you move over?” “you’ve been hogging her all damn day, you can wait.” i definitely think art would be…more cautious though. he would try to be, but he has his moments where he doesn’t care for gentleness— where he has to just take you then and there, reckless and rough. like, he can’t help but pound you, hand clamped around your throat, pulling you back on his cock. i think he’d try and apologize for being so— harsh with you but end up getting lost in the wet n’ warmness of your pussy, so he’d spew out something garbled like “i’m sorry- i’m sorry, it’s just- fuck- god, you’re so tight-“ something along those lines. idk just food for thought 😋

this is such a delightful meal.....

arts carefulness around his baser instincts is what makes you want him to act on them all the more - his ability to make you feel safe is what makes it feel so good when he loses control. you wanna tell him he doesn't have to say sorry, you want in, you're made for this - but its hard to get a word out when he's fucking you like his is - mating press, ankles hooked on his shoulders - you can't do anything else but whine and clench around him and drench him in your slick pussy.

"im sorry -" he tells you as he hooks your legs around him - drags your pussy into place to receive his cock - "im sorry you just - it feels to good - " plunging inside the wet pout of your body and fucks fucks fucks - "god, i needed this -"

and it makes the omega in you sing - to be the one who takes care of his needs, when he hasn't let others do it before you - watching, mesmerized as he loses himself in your pussy, in the pussy designed to take him and wrap around him and hug him and milk him.

when patricks there - its almost enough just to sit and watch art get lost in it, too. his best friend denying who he is has always upset patrick. but he's still an alpha and he still gets possessive. drags you back to him as soon as arts knot goes down - plugs you full of him - patricks more of a knothead but you cant hate that about him - hes wholly himself and he's not shy about it. and the submissive omega in you loves that - loves how he just knows he wants you and goes after you - can tell by the way he cups a hand around the back of your neck and thumbs across your pulse as he drags you on and off his cock that he sees you as his and you dont try to correct that, moaning and arching for him like a good little omega does.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Blood and Sand (1 of 2)

Pairing: Werewolf!Moon Knight x Reader

Summary: You are selected to accompany your mentor on a dig, but what you find in the desert instead makes you wish you had never come at all.

Warnings: Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Murder, Kidnapping, Cults, Implied Torture, AU, Eventual Smut, Monsterfucking, Lycanthropy

A/N: I hope part one is enough to get you all salivating! I’ve had this idea kicking around for a bit, and I’m happy to finally be doing something about it. Please don’t hesitate to let me know what you think with a comment or a reblog! divider by @firefly-graphics

You come to as the truck’s lurching, uneven gait smooths out, the tires quieting as they pass from sand to something more hard packed, like a road. You had grown so used to bumping along over the dunes, bouncing around in the bed of the truck like a sack of grain that now the road feels strange, instead of comforting. Your mouth tastes like dry cotton and sand—and blood, from where your lip had split when the butt of the gun had impacted it, hard. You’re not sure who’d done it—you were already dizzy from the blow to the back of your head. 

Pretty sure I’m concussed. 

You’re not a doctor, but you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to sleep after a concussion, though the reason why escapes you currently. The truck jolts over something you can’t see—a pothole? A body? The thick, hot bag they’d thrown over your head prevents you from seeing anything, it barely lets your breath out, let alone letting light in. Something heavier than the empty canisters of gasoline that had been pushed aside to make room for the two of you lands against you, and you yelp, flinching before you realize—it’s the professor. Your hands are aching and sore where they’ve been bound behind you, so you can’t help him right himself. 

He groans with pain. 

“P-professor Hartwell?” You don’t think they can hear you in the cab, not over the sound of the tires on the road. Still, you try to keep your voice low. “Professor are you alright?” For once, you actually hope to hear his grim, irritated voice—but you hear nothing, only the rattling breaths in his chest as he pants. You wait a moment, and try again. 

“Professor?” 

For another few heartbeats, the only sound is that of the truck beating the road beneath it into submission, before your mentor takes another wet, rasping breath. 

“Y-you must not let them.” The words are nearly lost in his pained wheezing. You know you’re probably imagining it, but you can smell copper through the bag, taste it thickly in the air. “They’ll want you to read from the book,” this time, you know you aren’t imagining it—something hot and wet seeping against your side where the professor is pressed against you. 

“You must not.” 

“What—what book? P-professor sit up, you, you have to sit up a—and stay awake—” The cough that wracks his frame sounds loud and painful. You feel his body spasm as the truck hits another something, and the back of your head bounces hard off of the side of the bed, making you see stars against the inside of the bag. 

“Gods forgive me,” he rasps. “Forgive me. I never knew it would—-” His pained rambling is nonsensical, devolving into strings of words you can barely understand. “Bury it, burn it, make it dust and scatter it to the wind, you hear? Destroy it!” Hands grasp your shoulders, his, you realize, bony and thin, the tips digging into your flesh insistently. He’d been bound, just like you were, hands secured behind your backs with zip ties—so how did he hold you now? Shaking you like a rag doll as he shouts into your covered face, the scent and taste of his blood choking you. 

“Burn it all!” It’s hot, so hot, hotter than you’ve ever been, even here in the desert, and your dry lips crack and bleed as your head snaps back and forth on your shoulders. All you taste is fire and blood. “To ashes!” His voice booms in your ears and in your skull and for a moment you fear he will fling you out of the bed of the truck, but he releases you, collapsing against the hard plastic beneath you with a bang. 

You swallow, running your dry tongue along your aching lips, almost afraid to speak. 

“Professor?”

There is no answer.

—

When the truck finally stops, you ready yourself. 

The door to the cab creaks as it swings open, and the impact of boots in the sand makes you snap to attention. You wince, shrinking back as the tailgate opens, rough hands grabbing at your ankles. You kick, struggling and cursing as you’re dragged from the truck bed, the breath knocked from your body as you land on your back, hard. 

“Fucking bitch.” Someone curses, and you hear boots scuffle against the cracked asphalt beneath you just in time for you to ready yourself for the blow. It comes, a steel toed boot digging hard into the softness of your belly. You wheeze. A rough hand knots in the collar of your shirt, pulling you up. The bag is ripped off, and hot—but fresh—air immediately surges around your cheeks. It’s still night, the moon big and full and nearly sun-bright above you. You blink, your eyes watering in the sudden light. 

The man above you grins, his blue eyes creasing at the corners. “Think we’ve got a live one.” His thickly accented words are mocking. Russian, maybe.

“F-fuck you!” Your voice trembles, but you don’t care, lashing out again with your own legs until he kicks you again. This time, you puke, bile stinging your cut lips as it erupts out of your mouth. You heave onto the road while he stands over you, laughing. With his boot, he rolls you over onto your belly, planting a knee in the center of your back, pressing hard until you cry out. The sound of a knife being flicked open makes your eyes widen, and you struggle beneath his weight. The blond leans down over you, his hot, liquor stained breath coating the side of your face.

“Keep it up, curly,” he presses the knife to the side of your face. “They don’t say nothing about you being in one piece. Only breathing.” You release the breath held in your trembling throat as he pulls the knife away, leaning back to grab at your bound hands. The edge of the blade slides through the plastic like soft butter, and immediately you crawl out from underneath him. 

“Mikhail, enough.” There are two other men watching, a dark haired one and another blond. 

“Fuck off, Rumlow.” 

“You killed the other one. You want to explain to him why you’re coming back down two hostages?” Rumlow crosses the road to squat in front of you, one hand resting comfortably on his knee, the other loosely gripping a pistol. He snaps, like he’s trying to get your attention, even though he already has it. “You see that old fuck?” He points to the body of your professor in the bed of the truck to your left. You don’t need to look to know he’s dead. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken since his tirade earlier, how could he be living? 

And more than that, you don’t want to look. Because you will see him zip-tied, hands bound—the same hands that had gripped you with unearthly fury, blazing hot like an avenging angel. No, you do not want to think of that at all. 

“Unless you’d like that to be you, you’re going to behave.” He cocks the gun. “Understand?” 

You nod. 

“Good.” 

Mikhail glares at Rumlow hatefully, and then at you, and you can tell he doesn’t enjoy being called to heel. 

“Give the bitch her water and put the bag back on, Jensen.” He sneers, before spitting into the dirt at your feet. “Cyka.” You don’t know what the word he says under his breath means, but you get the feeling it doesn’t mean anything good. The other blond, a lanky, tall man with glasses, jogs around to the other side of the truck, tugging open the door. He roots around inside before producing a water bottle. You nearly drop it as he tosses it to you, fumbling to get the cap off before pouring the contents down your aching throat, sparing a few drops to rinse your face. 

It’s done before you realize it, and you find yourself shaking the bottle to get the last drops out. Mikhail laughs. 

“Back in the bed, cyka.” He snaps, kicking at your feet. “Let’s go.” You hesitate, your hand trembling as you pause above the tailgate. The professor’s body is still there, lying in the bed of the truck like a broken doll. Mikhail shoves your shoulder. “Move.” 

“I—the body,” you choke out, licking at your lips to ease the burn of speaking. “Can’t you… do something?” He heaves a put upon sigh. You don’t know what you’re expecting, not really, but you clap your hands over your mouth to stifle your shocked scream as Mikhail grabs Professor Hartwell’s ankle and hauls him out of the bed of the truck. He goes easily of course—he’s dead, you remind yourself, fucking dead—landing on the edge of the old road. His body rolls off the side into the sand filled ditch along the side of it, and you know in just a few hours he will be completely covered. 

This road is old, seldom used, by the looks of it, deep cracks filled with sand, and no signs for miles in any direction. Large portions of it have been taken back by the desert, Sand and tufts of wispy grass eclipsing the road’s broken remains. 

You don’t want to leave the professor here. 

You have little choice, though, as Mikhail, whose patience you have finally worn thin, shoves you into the bed of the truck. The tailgate nearly catches your fingers as he slams it closed, and you let out a dismayed cry as your face presses against the hard plastic of the bed and you find it wet. You scramble up and away from it on your hands and knees, wiping your face with your hand and whimpering as it comes away red. 

The truck starts up again, bumping along the abandoned road as you watch the professor’s hooded body grow smaller and smaller in the distance, and then finally disappear altogether. 

—

It’s nearly dawn when you arrive, the edges of the sky turning pink as finally, you see lights. Artificial ones of course, mounted atop a double-thick chainlink fence. The floodlights atop the guard station illuminate the entire truck for close to ten minutes before finally it slows to a stop beside the checkpoint. You cower against the side of the bed as an armed guard shines a flashlight into your face, ever aware of the intimidating looking machine gun strapped to his back. When he’s satisfied, he mumbles something you don’t catch into a walkie-talkie, and the entrance slides open. 

He makes some sort of sign as the truck rolls away, like the cross almost, but only on the right side, and the gate slides closed again behind you. Jensen helps you out of the bed, but directs you with a firm hand on your shoulder towards a long, narrow building. It sprawls out for uncountable meters, but only two, three stories high. You aren’t really afforded a proper look as you’re shuffled inside, Mikhail grumbling bad naturredly behind you. 

The lights inside buzz artificially, and you wince and stumble as you attempt to adjust to them after outside. There is a large staircase leading up to the other floors to the left of the door, but beyond it the building stretches on in a maze of narrow hallways. 

The line of men before you can be no better described than as priests, long black vestments with red satin trims, white collars at their throats. One of them steps forward, his face twisting in distaste at the mercenaries. 

“He wants to see her.” He looks at you with equal disdain, before glaring at the men behind you. “Where is Professor Hartwell? He was to accompany—”

“The old man didn’t want to come.” Mikhail snaps. “It seem he had little… change of heart since last time.”

Last time?

The priest heaves an irritated sigh. “Fine. He—he’s not going to be happy about this, you know. He would have at least liked to speak with him—”

“Then let him tell us that.” Mikhail is big—which feels like an understatement, looking at him. He’s a tank of a man, broad shouldered, and built like a brick fucking shit-house. He knows it too, squaring his muscular shoulders and fixing the priest with a glare. “Yeah?”

He caves. “Fine.” His irritated gaze finds you once more, and you have a sinking feeling that you will be the recipient of his ire. “Come, then.” He grabs you by the wrist as if touching something unpleasant. “Let’s get this over with.” 

You consider running, just for a moment, before the idea laughs itself out of your head. It would be stupid even to try. Defeated, you follow the priest up the stairs and down the corridor, glad at least to be away from Mikhail. The hallway is nondescript, which feels very much on purpose; so you wouldn’t be able to recall a single descriptive thing about this place—

It could be anywhere. 

The third or fourth door on the right is open, and he ushers you inside before stepping in himself and closing the door. Inside is like an office, neat bookcases lining the walls on either side of the wide desk. On the other side of it, is a man. 

He peers at you, long fingers steepled together beneath his chin. His black hair is slicked back, sharp green eyes taking in the still stinging cut above your left eye, your bloody nose and heat chapped lips. 

“A pity about the Professor.” He says after a moment. “I’d looked forward to seeing him again.” You don’t say anything. The impression rises in you that this is a man who likes to hear himself talk, and you want to hear what he has to say, if only to gain an inkling of understanding about your own predicament. The man leans forward, cocking his head. ”Do you know who I am?” 

“No.” You reply dryly. “Should I?” He doesn’t like that. His expression only changes minutely, a slight narrowing of the eyes, a tightness in the smile—but enough for you to see it. 

“Should? I don’t know about should,” he drawls. “But I’d think you’d at least like to know who’s been signing your paychecks for the last six months, hmm?” Your stomach drops to your feet, and though you try to school your expression into one of forced nonchalance, the man behind the desk’s sly smile turns victorious. “Oh, he didn’t tell you.” 

“I get paid by the university,” you reply through tightly clenched teeth. “I—”

“And who do you think pays them?” He stands from behind the desk, rising to his full height like a snake uncoiling. “There’s a reason your department is so well funded, Love.” You try to take a step back as he approaches, but the solid form of the priest behind you boxes you in. He towers over you, forcing you to look up just to maintain eye contact as he steps closer.

“I expect Horace thought he would have more time.” There is a brassy colored cart next to the desk, and he plucks a glass from the topmost shelf, before rummaging around on the one beneath it. “Ah, here we are.” He produces a crystalline decanter, and your throat constricts thirstily at the sight of the clear liquid inside. You don’t know how many days it’s been since you’ve last had a proper drink of water—the bottle in the car a proverbial drop in a dry ocean—but you suspect it’s been more than three. You watch, ashamed of your own need as he pours it into the glass. 

“More time to explain, to scheme, to scheme with you. But that’s the thing about hubris,” he sighs, filling a second glass and drinking deeply—gratefully from it. You watch him, unable to stop your dry throat from swallowing reflexively as he does, imagining cool water filling your own mouth. 

“Oh, would you like some?” He asks, offering it to you as though he’d thought he already done so. You gulp it down, chasing the stray drops from your lips with the back of your hand. “You’re welcome.” 

“What do you want from me?” You ask, dropping the glass back onto the table gracelessly. He grimaces. “And you still haven’t told me your name.” 

“Loki.” He refills your glass. “I just need you to read something for me.” He says, the words nonchalant. “Just a few passages. I know you can.“ Loki’s hawkish eyes narrow at the corners as he smiles at you. “Horace was an excellent teacher.” 

It’s useless to deny what you both know is true, grueling nights spent poring over texts and tablets older than your entire family line, helping Professor Hartwell translate and document. 

And the man in front of you had paid for all of it. 

You must not. Even the memory of his words feels hot, sweeping through your skull like hot desert wind. Burn it all to ashes.

“What do you want me to read, exactly?” Loki’s smile widens uncomfortably. 

“Just a book.” 

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re not really in a position to negotiate, Love.” Loki says, inspecting his nails. You can’t stop yourself from scowling at him, baring your teeth between your cracked lips as you sneer. 

“Stop pretending I’m forcing your hand, you—”

“Awful, what happened at your dig site.” His brows knit together as his expression turns smugly apologetic. “It’s always nasty business, when someone involves innocent people in what should be private affairs.” 

“Fuck you.”

“My hand was forced.” His grip turns vicious, his thumb digging into your skin hard enough to make you whimper, his eyes hard and cold. 

“Do not force it again.” 

—

The observational cell you’re forced into seems outdated, repurposed for its current use as a jail. The guards stationed at the end of the hallway barely spare you a look as you’re marched by, the muzzle of Mikhail’s gun pressed against your spine. Only one of the lights swinging from the damp ceiling actually works, buzzing to life dimly as Mikhail shoves you inside unceremoniously. 

As the rusty bolts slide shut, the bare bulb above you goes dim, leaving you in near darkness, aside from what little light filters in through the observational window in the wall above your head. The air is stagnant and moist, the sound of dripping water coming from somewhere in the darkness. 

I’m not alone in here.

You don’t know how you know that, because there’s no tell—merely the presence of another living thing pushing against you like holding magnets with like polarities together as hard as you could. Your skin prickles with the knowledge, cold sweat dripping down beneath your dirty collar. You swallow. 

“Hello?”

For a moment—a minute or two at least—there is no response. 

“You’re not the professor.” The voice sounds…tired. 

“I keep disappointing people that way.” 

There is a sound like metal rubbing against metal, and just at the border of the darkness, you see movement. The man that emerges from the darkness is tall, broad shouldered with dark, curly hair. High cheekbones and wide dark eyes. Bare chested, with iron manacles at his wrists, and ankles. There’s a collar at his throat, as well, and as he steps closer you note the chains that travel backward, disappearing into the shadows. His linen pants are dirty at the bottom, his bare chest peppered with old, yellowing bruises. 

“Who are you, then?” His gaze saddens as he looks at you. “No one they like, if you’re in here with me.” You eye his chains, gesturing at them with your hands. You laugh dryly. 

“No,” you agree, thinking back on your conversation with Loki. “No one they like.” 

“I’m Marc.” He offers you his hand. “I’m sorry you’re here.” You tell him your own name. 

“Me too.”

—

They come for him every night, you realize. Dragging Marc out of the cell for hours until dawn, when he returns bruised and bleeding, exhausted. 

It happens on the third night you’re there, Mikhail and Rumlow barging in as the two of you sleep, back to back on the cot. You still ache where he kicked you, and Mikhail knows it, lunging toward you only to watch you flinch back as he laughs. 

“Where are you taking him?”

“Be careful, cyka.” He says, spitting at the ground near Marc’s feet. “You’ll get rabies from this one.” Marc doesn’t react, his dark eyes trained hard on the wall. He’s just as big as them, but he doesn’t fight back as Rumlow shuffles him out. You watch through the window until you can’t see him anymore, your face pressed against the glass. 

The sun is peeking through the narrow window on the opposite wall, high enough to let you know it’s late morning at least when they bring him back. Marc looks changed, somehow more fragile, his face drawn and skin pale. His skin bears fresh wounds, new bruises, and the skin around his mouth is stained dark, dry red. 

Marc stumbles towards the cot, throwing himself down onto it, his shoulders heaving. 

“M-Marc?” Your voice sounds timid and terrified, even to your own ears. “What—what happened?”

He lays there, facing the wall for a long time. 

“I’m Jake.” He says finally, turning to peer at you over his shoulder. You take a step back—this isn’t Marc. “He—what they did… it was too much. I’m driving right now.” His eyes are darker, more serious, face drawn tight with emotion he won’t name—no. This isn’t the same man. Same body—different person. Fleetingly, your brief and unenjoyable psychology class flits back to you—Dissociative Identity Disorder—

“Okay.” 

You hesitate before placing a comforting hand on his bare shoulder. His skin is clammy. Jake glares over his shoulder at you. “I’m not Marc.”

“I get that. You’re bleeding.” There aren’t any bandages, but you’re more than willing to sacrifice your outermost layer of clothing for the cause, helping you tear them to shreds. The pail of water you’re given every morning is meant to suffice , so you try to make it last, cleaning the wounds as thoroughly as you can afford to. After a few passes, Jake relaxes beneath your touch. 

“Thank you.” He seems unused to softness of any kind.

“Don’t mention it.” 

The conversation that day is minimal—Jake’s not a talker. But he makes his presence known in other ways, watching you with quiet eyes from across the room as you investigate every corner. Occasionally, he offers commentary when you prompt him. 

No, the windows never open. 

Mierda! Keep climbing up there and you’ll break your damn neck. 

Keep that up and the guards will be down here to check on us in no time.

When sleep is unavoidable, Jake doesn’t stop you from laying down next to him on the thin cot. 

“Goodnight, Jake.” There’s an answering grunt from beside you, though he says nothing. 

When you wake in the middle of the night, he is gone again. 

—

 When you do finally dream, you wish for the abyss again, the dreamless dark that you’d feared as you dozed in the truck. That would have been better than seeing it again. The sand is burning hot on your hands as you scramble over the dunes, gunfire pockmarking the sand only inches behind you as you trip over the shifting earth toward the jeeps. People are screaming, there’s wetness on your face, you realize it as you move to wipe the sweat from your eyes only to discover it isn’t sweat at all—but blood. 

So many bodies. And you know all their names—Ursula, Ahmed, Ricky, Britney, David—You know all their names, and they bleed out into the thirsty sand and are lost as you watch. 

The sting above your left eye worsens, and as you lick your lips you taste the wound, clinging to your tongue as the professor grabs your arm—

Run, run—

You wake up screaming, flailing in the dark on the threadbare cot. The chains rattle as he scrambles towards you, hands up placatingly as you raise your own, ready to defend yourself from threats both real, and imagined. One of the guards pounds on the window with the butt of his rifle.

“Keep her fucking quiet!”

“Hey,” Steven approaches you like he’s talking to a wounded animal. His voice is soft, kind.“You’re okay. You’re here, right? You’re not there, the place in your dreams isn’t real, right? It’s a dream. It’s the past, it’s not here, okay?” You sob into his chest, clutching at him as he rocks you back and forth as gently as if he were holding a baby bird. 

—

You’re afraid to ask what they make him do, afraid to have him confirm what you already know. The place where it happens can’t be far away from your prison. If you strain hard enough, force yourself to stay up as late as you possibly can until terror and exhaustion put you to sleep again, you can hear the screams. 

And something… else. 

Howling.

Sometimes he comes back naked, clutching his pants in trembling hands, retching up red bile into the far corner where the half-broken toilet is. The word for what he is dances on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t want to say it, give it air and space and reality. 

—

They chain you like Marc when they come for you, marching the two of you through the impersonal concrete maze before forcing both of you into a large room. There’s a stone altar at the center, and you nearly trip over your own feet at the sight of the man bound and gagged upon it. Your questions do the same in their haste to escape your mouth. 

“W-what? Who is that? What—”

Rumlow presses the gun against the back of your head, pulling down the hammer. 

“Walk.” 

You do, swallowing the words back down in a cold, terrified lump. 

Loki waits for you on the other side of the dais, a pleased expression on his face. He steps aside as you approach, positioning you in front of the man. You watch as they loop Marc’s chains through iron pegs only a few feet from the man, whose eyes are wide with terror. Only minimal sound escapes around the gag, though, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth. 

“Here we are. Now.” He taps a long finger against the podium. “Let’s begin.” You stand next to him, squinting down at the book. It’s old—not paper, not really, comprised of pressed thin sheets of fibrous plants, painted over with flaking black ink. But the letters are familiar, and after a moment, you begin to read. The words are halting, clumsy as you sound them out. The more you read, the more you understand. 

This is not just a passage you’re reading, holy text from some archaic book—no, these are commands. Ones that make your tongue burn as the words leap from it.

The dais fills with silvery light, and when you look up, you see the moon, framed perfectly through the skylight. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? The moon had been full the night the professor—

“Are you deaf? I said read.” Loki snarls, grabbing the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. You can’t though, not when Marc’s cry of pain splits the air. He writhes down there on the floor, his body contorting. You watch, horrified as his limbs lengthen and thicken with sickening cracks, the bones and muscle shifting under his skin. He moans, his body shuddering, back bowing unnaturally as his legs shift, bones splitting skin before it crawls closed again like it has a mind of its own. 

Marc mouths something at you that you don’t understand, not right away—you can’t, his jaw is breaking now, and lengthening into something new, something that doesn’t support speech, not the way his human mouth did. 

Forgive me. 

“Read!” You hadn’t heard Loki cock the gun, but it presses into your skull intimidatingly. 

Your head buzzes with the power of the words as you begin to speak them, again, your vision blurring. Understanding comes, even as the syllables fall clumsily from your unfamiliar lips. 

“King of roads. 

King of thieves. 

King of vengeance. 

King of nights and moons and just blades

I weild your fist

I wield it justly—”

Where once there had been a man, now stands a hulking beast, the head of a jackal, and something like the body of a man, but wrong, the limbs long—like they were made for running on two legs and on four. Its yellow eyes roll. 

“Eat now, fill yourself with flesh and spirit on those who have wronged you,

O King of Moons

King of Roads

King of Vengeance—”

You can feel the tears gathering in your eyes as the beast sets itself upon the man, claws and teeth shredding flesh in a flurry of hot, wet, red. You want to close your eyes, to stop reading, but you can’t—the book will not let you go, not until it’s finished. You see the room before you, see the thing that was Marc as it devours piece after piece of the man on the altar—but you can see beyond, too, through the moon’s eyes like mirrors—

You’re trembling now, seizing, blood leaking from your nose and the corners of your eyes as you strain to let go of the pulpit, to look away from the book, to close your eyes—but it has you, now, a holy conduit for unholy ends. You can practically feel your blood boiling in your veins—

And then nothing. 

part two

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[yenonnoff]

t. kageyama — to you, my dear

pairing: kageyama x gn!reader

content/warnings: written fic, timeskip with adlers kageyama, heavy angst, mentions of death and unnamed illness, grieving, y/n likes folding origami (vv cool), voice is described as light and bubbly sry (◞‸◟), ooc, didnt know how to end it i hope u like it still :D

word count: 2.2k

synopsis: you snuck into his heart with one origami crane, and he fell hopelessly in love with you. however, fate was merciless and it had other plans for you.

a/n: kageyama is so fine wow he deserves everything ↳ ♪ masterlist ☆

externally: kageyama tobio was okay. to his teammates, his audience, and regular passersby, he was still the hardworking, perfectionist Adlers setter everyone knew and loved. 

internally: kageyama tobio was torn and ripped apart like useless paper. the setter, who prided himself on his victories and achievements, lost an imperative battle that cost him everything. he’d lost you to your illness, and you had taken his heart with you to your grave. 

kageyama would never blame you for what happened. not in a million years; not even when the world was falling apart, and that was his only ticket to salvation. you didn’t deserve it. deep down, he knew what he was getting himself into when you came to watch the Adlers match that day. 

you were close friends with ushijima. so close that you were invited to his game with the opportunity of meeting his teammates after their match. it was like an ant show: his teammates swarmed you as if you were the biggest cracker they’d ever seen. 

that was the moment kageyama knew to stay away. it wasn’t something the setter usually got himself caught up in. besides, your honeyed smiles and merry acceptance of their weird behavior just further augmented his point. 

he knew that kind of demeanor. the one where they’re happy just because. they fret and fawn over trivial details, and notice things that aren’t worth noticing. more than anything, people like you enjoyed living in the moment.

kageyama was no stranger to that kind of attitude. he’d been surrounded by all sorts of people, most prominently the happy-go-lucky types. so, he automatically flagged you as red in his system. you were trouble—an impending headache in human form. 

but that same captivating and lively attitude was what lured him towards you. 

when you strolled over to where he stood (towel resting around his neck and drinking from the water bottle in his hand), kageyama tobio froze. 

“hi!” you smiled warmly, holding out your hand to shake his. 

the setter tilted his head, lowering the bottle to his side awkwardly. suddenly, the gymnasium felt unbearably cold—freezing. did they turn the aircon up? and out of nowhere, kageyama started feeling self-conscious about everything: himself, his hands, and the sweat rolling down the back of his neck. 

“uh, sorry. my hands are sweaty.” 

a loud “oh” left your lips, and your previously dumbfounded mien cracked into laughter. the setter tilted his head again, watching as you tried calming yourself down. “i’m sorry, you just looked so genuine. thank you for worrying about my hands, kageyama.”

he opened his mouth to reply, but you continued promptly. “i’m y/n l/n by the way, toshi’s friend. i wanted to know a bit about everyone before meeting them, but you know how he is. when i—” 

a talker, was all kageyama could think about while you chatted. you talked a lot and quickly at that, but maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. your voice was light and bubbly. it was bewitching, and kageyama tobio was charmed. the realization made him flush a bright red. 

“—don’t even think he knows anything about his teammates!” you paused to peer up at your supposed interlocutor. “kageyama?” 

“huh?” he replied in a dazed manner. 

oh, god. this was embarrassing. he really wanted to hide in a ditch somewhere. it wasn’t even his first name, but you’d somehow enthralled him into a hot and distracted mess. he’d been tricked—was what he wanted to desperately believe. 

“oh, sorry. i rambled too much,” you apologized with a smile. a guileless one. and immediately, kageyama knew he was doomed. 

he steeled himself in an attempt to regain composure, replying plainly, “it’s okay….so, uh, what do you do?” 

the question was a start. it was the trigger for everything, and somehow, it was also a mistake. for the first time in his life, something unrelated to volleyball made kageyama tobio’s heart flutter. 

it barely lasted a second, but it was there. that’s all that mattered. he’d felt it when you started talking again, this time about your profession. 

“i work as an assistant elementary school teacher. well, used to. i had to leave for medical issues.” 

elementary school teacher, kageyama repeated in his mind. now, everything made sense: your openness and chatty personality. your pleasant voice. the endearing smile you adorn that could charm millions. it was a profession that suited you, and the thought made the setter’s heart soften. 

then, he asked about the latter half of your sentence and you described it as “bad luck.” you were struck with a strange illness that currently had no cure. it was the exhausting kind. the one that would eventually drain all your energy until you could no longer function. “i only started regaining some strength recently. enough to visit toshi’s game! so, now i’m here.” 

your sweet smile was cruel. if you asked kageyama, he would’ve said it was more than just bad luck. but he didn’t say anything, especially not after his other teammates called for you so exuberantly. 

after all, it wasn’t something the setter usually got caught up in, anyway.

but you didn’t attend anymore games after that. the others had wanted you to visit again, but due to health reasons, you weren’t able to come. ushijima relayed your apologies to everyone instead. 

what had shocked the setter was his initial worry. he barely knew you, and yet, you consumed his mind whenever he was on the court. where were you? how were you doing? you would’ve been watching by now, cheering loudly for ushijima’s crazy spikes. these were just some thoughts kageyama had about you. 

even if the two of you were strangers, you had been a kind one. considerate enough to approach him standing on the sidelines. you didn’t deserve any of this, so, he cared more than he should’ve. 

however, what was even more shocking, was the immense relief he’d felt when you returned. glowing, bright, still smiling. 

he didn’t approach you first, waiting until the others were done surrounding you. deja-vu was what he’d felt. 

“hi!” your cheery voice made him freeze in place. deja-vu. this time, you looked more hesitant in a way, and kageyama noticed. he didn’t say anything, though. he only reached his hand out, inviting you into a handshake. 

“oh,” you said, failing to hide your blissful surprise. “your hand isn’t sweaty this time?” it was a joke, but the setter took it seriously with an adamant nod. he was prepared ever since he saw you sit down in the front row. at his ingenuousness, you laughed and wrapped both hands around his. the setter’s cheeks and ears glowed a warm vermillion. 

the physical contact didn’t last very long. perhaps only for a couple seconds until kageyama pulled away. it wasn’t that he didn’t like it. your hands were smooth and full of care—unblemished and soothing. your touch was much more: direct and purposeful. it seemed every time he saw you, kageyama’s heart had something new to jump at. 

but because of that, he didn’t want to touch you. compared to yours, the athlete’s hands were callused and coarse. they were rough and not devoid of bruises or marks; they were like sandpaper. if you touched them, would you get appalled? the setter was afraid his hands would taint your much softer ones. 

your voice brought him back to reality. “oh, here. i made you a little something to commemorate your victory.” 

kageyama stared at the paper crane held in front of him. it was dangling from your hand, tied to a blue string decorated with small, shiny beads. he examined it further when you dropped it onto his palms. the origami, made out of pretty blue patterned paper, matched its string. 

apparently, you had made all of his teammates one. origami folding was kind of your shtick, and you told the setter how you enjoyed making them with your students during pastime. it was also a good hand exercise, beneficial especially for your health and all.  

“the others got to choose whatever color and design they wanted, but i made this one special. it’s one of a kind!” you bounced over to his side, leaning in to adjust the crane still resting on his palms. there was a messy smiley face that you drew on one of its wings. 

messy might’ve been an understatement. the smile was crooked and squiggly and cute. kageyama tobio allowed himself a laugh, turning his head to the side to chuckle. it was truly unique—one of a kind. 

the next day, the setter bought a pack of origami paper and waited to see you again. he’ll have something to talk to you about. something other than volleyball, the weather, or your health. 

and you did come. sometimes back to back; sometimes randomly. you’d dip and show up to a match a couple weeks later. still, kageyama would look forward to seeing you again. it motivated him to play better so that he’d get to see your joyful face afterwards. 

he’d tell you about his origami process, mentioning his struggles and showing you the strange abomination he folded last night. the setter’s rough hands weren’t like yours. they performed serves and sets; they made contact with volleyballs and gymnasium floors on a daily basis. making precise folds with thin paper was an unfamiliar task to them. 

so, you helped out. everytime you came, you’d show him how to fold a new design after his match. you liked to increase the difficulty level to tease him (even suggesting he fold a 5x5 cm design once). but kageyama was a learner, and a fast one. with you by his side, he believed he could do anything. 

you cradled his heart with your tender hands. and under that care, kageyama tobio melted more than he—or anyone—thought he would. 

the first time he asked you out, it was for a leisurely stroll through town, where you stopped by more than a couple stationary stores. 

alone in an aisle with him, he asked you candid questions, displaying his confusion at the variety of textures and patterns. “is there a volleyball one?” he asked once, and you laughed lovingly. the moment was healing. the moment meant everything to kageyama. your genuine happiness was worth every cheeky question. 

at the end of the third date, kageyama hugged you close to him. your warmth swirled and mixed together. with his arms around you, you felt his desperation and, most importantly, his love. 

kageyama was a volleyball player, but he wasn’t unaware. he knew the time you had together was not infinite. if he let go of you now, would he see you ever again? he’d dug too big of a hole for himself, but he was unwilling to let go of his affection for you. he was stubborn and hopeless, but he was stubborn and hopeless with you. 

you knew how he felt about your illness. you knew his undeniable feelings for you. so, you pulled away and kissed him with passion you didn’t know you were saving. haunted with imminent death, you carelessly fell in love with a volleyball player. haunted with the thought of you slipping away forever, kageyama kissed you back deeper—with his whole heart. 

time was cruel. fate, however, was much worse. it despised you, seeking merciless ways to rob you of your merited happiness. it cursed you with an illness you never deserved. so, kageyama tobio—Adlers’ pro setter who learned how to fold silly origami—hated fate too. for both yours and his heart’s sake.

it allowed you two months of silence before sneaking up to your hospital room. then, you were gone forever. 

the next day, kageyama attended your funeral service. people greeted him and expressed their condolences, people like his teammates and ushijima. they all knew what you’d meant to him and vice versa. the setter bore his feelings behind a closed door and thanked them. he was the last to leave, standing in front of your smiling portrait until his legs were numb. 

it was worse when he got home—when the realization tore him apart. overflowing with grief and sorrow, kageyama cried at his front door. he’d barely made a couple steps into his house before devastation swallowed him whole. now, there was an empty place in his chest that he’ll never get back. 

he still played, though. play matches, win them, go home and start over. he’d play and practice, play and practice, then do it all over again until his coarse hands were red and full of blisters. 

but he never stopped thinking about you. before each match, he’d sit down and fold one of the designs you taught him. from flowers to objects to cranes and animals. he practiced them everyday until they started stacking up. he did this because he knew memories were unfair and traitorous. they naturally decay and become worn each time you recall them; they’re cruelly vulnerable to change. sooner or later, the details of your idyllic but simple moments together would chip away and dissolve. there would be nothing left. kageyama tobio only had this to cling onto.

the last thing you showed him how to fold was a blue penguin. he folded those the most because it was the last time he got to see you smile. “it’s simple but cute! look at it, it reminds me of you,” was what you’d said. god knows how many times kageyama replayed those words in his mind. 

even now, he still looks for you in the crowds; in the people he meets; and in pretty origami paper.

if u made it this far have a cookie <3 (@kqbukimono @mylahrins hehehfh hi!!! hello!!!!)

in all seriousness, i know the process of grieving is subjective, but i wanted to make sure i was able to portray it properly. if i or my writing came off as insensitive, please let me know. i want to fix my mistakes and learn from them.

[chris-slut]

hii love i have a request! chris knows you love to read romance but he never knew that u liked reading smut. when he finds out, he gets a little turned on..

𓈒𓏸 𖦹 lost in the fire ⸝⸝ 💌 .ᐟ ׄ ׅ ྀ

pairing; dom!chris x bookslut!reader

summary; you tell your boyfriend, chris, your going to hop in the shower. while in there, he notices your bookshelf in front of him. chris has always thought you read normal romance book’s— so he of course picks one up and slowly skims the pages. his eyes widen as he notices what you’ve been hiding from him.

! chris p.o.v x 3rd person p.o.v !

!warnings!; SMUTTY SMUT, oral (fem!receiving), p in v, protected sex, blindfold, handcuffs, pet names, (baby, slut, whore, ma.), overstimulation.

authors note; i’m sorry if this isn’t as smutty or too smutty— but it just seemed right for the idea you know 🤷🏼‍♀️! also i absolutely HATE this.

imani = pink

chris = blue

book characters = purple

“CHRIS, BABY,” imani calls out to chris, his head turning around to face her. “yeah?” he questions her. “i’m gonna go shower— just stay there okay?” imani mumbles to chris and he nods at the girl. she gets up and grabs her towel, swinging it over her shoulder. imani walks into the bathroom and lock’s the door, chris turning his phone on right after.

after 15 minutes, chris gets bored and turns his phone off. he walks to the closest thing next to him— her bookshelf. his long fingers run across every cover of the book, looking for one that he hasn’t seen before. he picks up a book called “shred of decency” and skips to the page she left off on.

“i want this morgan” , “what do you want?” say me. remind me we’re meant for each other and that we can forget our lousy morning and the rest of our troubles. “to suck you.”

chris’s eyes widen as his cheeks flush a deep red color. has my girlfriend been reading smut this whole time? just right next to me in bed every night? chris’s eyes scan at the tabbed pages, flipping through them.

he sees pages with sentences like “idea for chris,” or “want to do.” why hasn’t she ever asked me about doing any of this? was she to nervous to ask?

* CHRIS’S P.O.V *

‘WHAT THE hell. no way my girlfriend has been reading this shit our whole relationship and said nothing. i mean— do i not give her enough?’ i look to the side and open her drawer, a pink puffy set of handcuffs and a silk black blindfold appearing in-front of my eyes. we’ve had things like this around just incase something came up and we were in the mood. but, obviously if she thinks i’m not giving her enough— tonight will definitely show her i am able to.

the bathroom door unlocks as i quickly shove both of the items into my back pockets, turning around to see her in just a towel. my cheeks go back to the red color they were before as my cock aches for attention in my pants. god she looks so fuckable. “chris, baby, your staring—“ she says as my hands land right to her waist, my nails practically digging into her sides.

“those books, the page— your a slut imani,” i mumble to her, placing a wet kiss on her neck and biting down gently. her breathe hitches when i do so, letting a whimper slide past her lips. my fingers slide down from her waist to the center of her core, her juices immediately coating my fingers. “so fucking wet and i haven’t even done a thing— such a good girl for me,” i mumble against her once more, leaving a bite mark against the soft skin along her collar bone. “and these, these are finally getting used tonight,” i say to her once more, taking the pink fluffy handcuffs and white silk blindfold out my pocket. i quickly put them back in to slide my hands up and down her thighs.

imani sucks her breathe in as her cheeks turn red. “chris.. we’ve never done anything like this before— are you sure about it?” she asks me in a concerned tone. “after those smutty books i saw baby, i’ve never been more sure,” i say to her, grabbing her wrists and pinning them up against her head, trailing the sloppiest kisses down to the spot just below her belly button.

* 3RD PERSON P.O.V ! *

“tell me what you want baby, use your words,” chris mutters against imani’s stomach. a whimper falls from her mouth as she looks at the boy through her eyelashes. “please.. please just make me feel good chris,” she begs as a smirk plasters on the boys. chris grabs her by her waist and places her down on the bed, angling her where her hands are above her head and against the headboard.

chris grabs the pink fluffy handcuffs from his pocket as he puts her wrist together, locking it onto the headboard. he quickly grabs the blindfold from his pocket after and ties it across imani’s eyes, blocking out her vision. a whimper escapes her lips as chris goes down slowly, inching closer and closer to her soaked core.

“fuck chris- don’t be a tease please..” imani tells him but he smacks her thigh. “don’t tell me what to do you whore,” he spits out at the girl as he places a bite against the inside of her thigh. he licks the spot and goes to the other one, repeating the same thing.

imani bucks her hips up. chris quickly holds down her waist as his nails dig into her hips. “don’t fucking move, you got me?” chris demands, imani nods her head and lets chris continue.

he moves his face right above her soaked core, his hot breath beating onto it. chris slowly licks upwards as whimpers begin falling from imani’s mouth.

“f-fuck..” she says as chris dives in, nose rubbing against her as he sucks on her clit. “taste so fuckin’ good ma,” chris tells her as he groans.

he continues sucking on her until he starts feeling imani’s legs shake. “oh shit- gonna cum chris!” she moans out.

before anything could come out, chris pulls away and begins taking his sweatpants and underwear off. he grabs the condom that’s next to him and rips it open with his teeth, sliding it over his length. “chris- what the-“ before imani could complain any longer chris plunged into her.

a loud pornographic moan escapes imani’s mouth as she tries to get out of the handcuffs. “fuck chris— please! to much!” imani cries out as chris goes thrusts in and out of her harshly.

“cmon baby, the tabs you have on those books? the sentences you have written down? you were begging for this. are you really gonna beg to stop?” chris tells her as he slowly pulls out, just incase she was sure.

“no chris.. fuck— don’t stop,” imani accepts her defeat. hearing this scentence, chris wastes no time plunging back into her.

the room is filled with slapping noises and whimpers from the pair.

“chris.. i’m cumming!” imani screams out as chris’s thrusts go faster. “fuck, so am i baby! cum with me alright?” chris says.

imani scream-moans outloud as she feels herself release onto him, chris realessing into the condom not the long after her.

he takes the condom off and ties it, walking to the bathroom and throwing it in the trashcan.

“here you go baby,” chris whispers as he takes both the blindfold and the handcuffs off. “was it to much?” he asks while putting the items away.

“it’s never to much with you, trust me.”

[wingedhallows]

women shouldn't curse; sirius black

pairing: marauders (sirius black; platonic - flirty) x reader | 1k words prompt: "women shouldn't curse" "get fucked" authors note: hi, i hope u like this :)

navigation

The smoke filled your lungs, a satisfied sigh sounded from your lips. James extended his hand and demanded the bottle in your hand without a word.

You gave it to him and leant your back on the railing of the balcony. The night air caressed your cheek, a shiver made its way down your spine.

“Who was the red head you buttered up earlier?” James asked, Sirius had to chuckle. It was no secret that the young Gryffindor was adored by many, men or women.

He didn’t take up on many offers though. Sirius blew some smoke from his own cigarette and gave James a smirk. “Morrigan.” He answered. Remus had to roll his eyes, taking another sip from his drink.

“She’s been at it since last year.” Remus added, leaning back against the wall.

Lily made her way to the four of you, Marlene right behind her. You held your pack of cigarettes for the blonde girl, who took one with a small smile on her lips.

“You got another one?” She asked, her hands fumbling with Sirius’ lighter. You hummed, of course she would take notice of your newest tattoo.

“Sirius made it.” You answered. “I tatted him as well.” Marlene chuckled and took a closer look.

“God, if I had the guts to be like you.” She spoke with a smirk on her lips.

Sirius and you were very much alike, long hair, piercings, tattoos and the nonchalant demeanor. James liked to label the two of you as long lost twins. 

James, Remus and Sirius were immersed in a conversation about their next big prank, Lily and Marlene had a lot to say about their plans for the summer break, occasionally asking you questions about potential places you could visit, places to check out and what else you should be doing while you all were still so young.

You didn’t pay much attention, the day was long and your social battery was slowly but surely running out. 

“Hi there.” A boy who had placed himself next to you with a beer in hand caught your attention.

He was short, about the same height as Peter. His red hair covered his eyebrows and slightly brushed over his eyes, his teeth sat crooked in his mouth and his stained Beatles shirt didn’t do him much justice either.

“Hello.” You answered, desperate to have this conversation end right now. He didn’t think the same apparently, because he kept talking.

“It’s rare to see Slytherins attend Gryffindor parties, let alone a dashing one as you.” The compliment was fine, it wasn’t something to sweep you off your feet but it was okay. You weren’t smitten though, not even in the slightest.

“I’ve seen you around the common room the past few years and thought to myself that I’d like to take my chance with you.” Your eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit as you registered another failed attempt of flirting.

You didn’t look at him, you were turned to your friends, a clear sign for a normal person but apparently not for this guy.

“My name is Barnaby, I’m a year under you.” He said, his hand suddenly on your elbow. You let your arm fall and decided to end this as fast as possible. This was getting ridiculous.

“Listen Barnaby, I’m not really-”Hello there, who’s that?” Sirius was by your side, his hand swiftly taking his lighter out of your hand to light his next cigarette.

“Hi, my name’s Barnaby.” He tried, his eyes glowing with hatred. He didn’t like Sirius butting in on his god awful attempt of flirting with you, you thanked Sirius internally.

“We were actually talking-”Remus wants to know when the deadline for herbology is.” Sirius interrupted the tosspot. You smirked at Sirius who brushed his hand through his dark locks, his piercings glistening in the dim light.

“The fucking project’s not due till friday.” You answered, blowing some smoke for good measure. Barnaby decided to butt in again.

“Women shouldn’t curse.”

He said, loud and clear. You blinked once, twice. Sirius eyebrows raised as he looked the slime ball up and down.

“What?” Sirius asked, as his eyes narrowed and he took another drag from his cigarette.

“Women shouldn’t use such crass language, it’s unbecoming.” He tried with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sirius took a step forward, to which Barnaby took a step back, immediately intimidated.

“What a bullshit statement is that?” The tosspot took a swig from his beer and looked at you once more before he spoke.

“It’s unbecoming, it’s a shame to hear such language from a woman this pretty.” Sirius was furious by now, his jaw tightened and eyebrows raised in a daring manner.

“You know what’s unbecoming? A bloody idiot like you, looking like this, thinking you could even have a chance with a woman like Y/N. Wake up dude, not a single woman on this planet would dare lay a finger on a cunt like you.”

Barnaby was baffled, his mouth slightly open. You sprung into action and put your hand on Sirius’ shoulder. He took a step back and gave you a curt nod.

“Barnaby, dearest, I don’t think that you should ever speak your opinions on what women should or shouldn’t say. It’s unbecoming to be hit on by a boy who looks like he hasn’t showered once in his lifetime. I’m honestly insulted that you think this could’ve worked, like please get out of my face.”

You turned around, ready to leave this idiot behind with Sirius in hand.Before he walked away, you turned around again. Sirius' hand was warm in yours as you once again faced the bloody git.

“Ah, one more thing. Get fucked.”

Barnaby turned around and left you both behind with fast steps. Sirius squeezed your hand with a chuckle.

“Well done, dove. I’m proud.”

You had to chuckle as you threw your long done cigarette off the balcony.

[lawrence-eagleburger]

I can scarcely fathom what it must be like to be in the mind of one Connor McDavid at this exact moment in time.

You know that picture of J.S. Giguere with the Conn Smythe after his Ducks lost in Game 7 of the SCF in 2003? The one where it looks like somebody just killed his family right in front of him? It’s one of the most haunting images in sports history, by my estimation. I don’t think there’s ever been a man more cosmically and religiously relieved to win a Cup in the history of hockey than Mr. Giguere when those Ducks finally climbed that mountain in 2007. He needed to erase that sin from his legacy.

God, what a black hole that has to be. I really hope McDavid can win one. I have no choice but to believe he will, because if he doesn't, it shatters any pretense of any of this being remotely fair, or anything other than a convoluted carnival game.

The best player in the world, in the most macabre way, has the award that all of the greats have.

But his name isn’t on the big silver bowl.

Jesus Howard Christ I’m a Leafs fan and I just wrote a diatribe about the Edmonton Oilers. Somebody take away my beer

[headlinerkwan]

for now - teaser ✧˖*°࿐

pairing - bestfriend!seungcheol x gn!reader

genre - nonidol!au, kinda college au (but no actual uni), f2l, fluff, comfort, knightinshiningarmour!seungcheol, reader and seungcheol are whipped for each other but too dumb to realise.

summary - the lines within yours and seungcheol's friendship become even more blurry when he steps in to help when you need it most.

featuring - svt members (hoshi, seungkwan, the8, dino etc.)

warnings - reader has a panic attack, alcohol, profanity, discussions of mental health

teaser wc: 860

a/n - this is my first fic so uhhh yeah but i hope you like it ^^ inspired by the song 'for now' by leith ross <3

taglist - open!! comment or send an ask to be added ✩

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

You had always loved the days in late spring. The days spent with your friends lounging about, strolling around your university town, feeling the warm sun and a gentle breeze across your face as you talk about nothing and everything. 

When you first arrived at uni you had never felt so overwhelmed, so small, so lonely, and lost. That was until, during your second week, you met Soonyoung and Seungkwan in the library - all three of you searching for the same book on the beat poets - and they managed to rope you into their chaotic world and friendship group. You couldn’t complain though, you loved your friends, and through their antics you had even met your best friend Seungcheol. 

Your best friend.  

That was all. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

It was a Wednesday evening, in the middle of exam season, when your phone began to light up with texts from the group chat.

Soonyoung: THE FAIR’S IN TOWN!!!

Soonyoung: THE FAIR!!! 

Minghao: Okay… and? 

Soonyoung: CAN WE GO PLS CAN WE GO PLS PLS PLS 

Seungkwan: if you stop spamming the gc I’ll think about it 

Soonyoung: ^.^ PPRETTY PLEASE

Seungcheol: WHY ARE YOU YELLING !?

Soonyoung: FAIR!!!

Y/N: Ngl guys some of us are DYING trying to get through exams 

Seungcheol: they’re right some of us are DYING 

Minghao: Seungcheol don’t act like you weren’t getting excited 

Soonyoung: Y/N PLEASE COME IT WONT BE FUN WITHOUT YOU

Seungkwan: woww… i see how it is

Putting your phone down, you turn back to your laptop screen, staring at the blank document that you had been trying to fill for three hours. A deep sigh escapes your mouth, you’re getting nowhere and you know it. Maybe today just isn’t the day. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

That’s how you find yourself standing outside the gates of the fair at 9pm, your friends huddled in a big group just ahead of you. 

Seungcheol, is the first to notice your arrival, because of course he is, as he runs towards you, you can’t help but mirror the grin spread across his face and the light in his eyes. 

“Y/N! God I’m so glad you’re here” 

“Hi Cheol” you reply softly, a sweet smile forming on your lips.  He looks angelic under the light of the sunset, pink and orange hues. His eyes capture yours and you can feel your face begin to heat up as you’re broken out of your trance.

“I-” you begin to explain yourself but your words get trapped in your throat as he grabs ur hand and pulls you through the crowd.

“Come on! They’re gonna go on the ferris wheel without us!” He yells as you run past the food stalls and fair games. 

When you arrive at the ferris wheel, you are immediately surrounded by twelve more of your  friends, all eager to express their excitement.

“Oh my god Y/N!”Chan calls from the front of the queue, “Look! Quick!” he has a small dinosaur toy he’s been waiting to show you all day. Sensing his excitement, you surge forward, letting go of Seungcheol’s hand, to meet your friend. 

If only you had turned around for one second, you would’ve noticed how Seungcheol’s face dropped as your hand left his, how it chased to follow yours but you were too far away, how he turned around to Seungkwan and Seokmin in a failed attempt to forget the feelings that had just washed over him. But you didn’t see any of that. You were too busy appeasing Chan as he flaunted around with his dinosaur toy. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

A few carnival rides later, you started feeling drained and hazy and, with the others complaining about their empty stomachs, you all decided to walk around and see what goods the fair had to offer. 

The sun had set behind the trees and you started to feel the cold a bit more so you decided to set off on your own in search of a hot drink. 

It was only then, once you had split from the group that you became aware of just how crowded the fair had become. There were people surrounding you everywhere that you looked, your head dizzy from the rides and the blaring music and bright lights began to make you feel panicky.

Shoulder’s bumping into you constantly,  joyous screams echoing in your ears, bright lights blinding you as you attempt to navigate the fairground. 

You could feel it now. Your heart pounding, chest tight, your legs began to shake and your head spun.  

You searched around frantically, looking for a familiar face, anyone, to find you. To save you. 

Your eyes locked with his through the crowd. Tears welling as you tried to reach him. Your mouth opened to call out to Seungcheol but you couldn’t quite manage above a whisper.

His eyes locked with yours through the crowd, and immediately he knew. Tears welling in your eyes, he knew. He knew that you needed him. What else could he do but push his way through the mob to reach you, to hold you, to make everything okay? 

It was you after all, there was no one else like you 

[teamdilf]

Oh look, Rook can be wise and call Solas out on his shit.

“I’ll bet she already knows you’re capable of doing shitty things, on account of the fact that she can read the news and was sending people after you for a decade. Maybe consider that she would be willing to accept you as you are and would want to know about your past? Shit, you were - or are, I guess, like the evil god in her people’s religion and she was still down to fuck.”

“How are you capable of being so glib while making legitimately good points?”

“My superpower. I’m not just good at ruining fancy ancient rituals, you know.”

“She’d lost her faith long before learning the truth. My doing. Another thing I stole away from her.”

“Ever consider that she might be happier knowing that the people she once prayed to were shitty people? That maybe there’s a comfort in atheism? You’re blaming yourself for every perceived misfortune of hers, not knowing whether she actually thinks of them as misfortunes and that’s not being very kind to yourself. Just saying.”

[throwmeabonepleaseandthankyou]

I’m curious to Dream’s, Cross’s and Fresh’s personalities and how the would treat/act to someone they’re attracted too?

All three of them are certified goobers

Also, this is LONG, so see more under the cut 😅

Dream :

One of the sweetest people on our list, and good-gods he spoils the hell out of you.

While he would know that you like him, he'd think it'd be because of his aura, and would play off you confessing like a babysitter would a child.

He doesn't take it seriously at all, and would never bring it up again.

Although, he eventually realizes he likes you. Like, a lot.

He finds himself squeamish around you, knowing that he likes you and you like him.

Gold-tinted face around you, and his aura would seem a bit brighter when you sit next to him.

It'd start out small, y'know, him holding your hand, asking you to come hang out with him and Core, and even showing you in favorite spot to sit and read.

But eventually, it becomes all too obvious that he likes you, to the point even the Toriels are giggling about the Guardian of Positivity's little crush on the human.

Word comes around that he likes you, and poor thing is hiding out in his residence.

He's just shy when it comes to romance, give him a break :(

Once he warms up, he's a genuine sweetheart, he really is.

He starts to actually glow when you finally confess/accept his feelings. He's so happy that he starts to happy-cry.

Please take care of him.

Fresh :

Fresh is a uhhhhh interesting subject to say the least.

You'd be confused if he actually likes you or not, because he treats everyone the same.

You have some special permission though, stuff you can only really get away with.

You're still getting censored though LMAO

Unlike Ink, who just finds someone to latch onto, Fresh has to have someone dangle some keys in front of him to even give you a lick of attention.

I like to believe that Fresh knows how people are feeling, like Dream and Nightmare, but he just ignores it.

So if he notices you like him before he does, you'd think he'd try to stay away. Right?

Wrong! He thinks it's cute, and he's intrigued. Although, he'd treat your feelings like a big joke and just tease you constantly.

But, if he finds himself slowly becoming attached, he just kinda... disappears for a bit.

He thinks avoiding you will make them go away, and from personal experience, it doesn't!

Then, when he finally decides to come back around, it's like having a cuddly bodyguard.

He's a parasite, and thinking about how that works... you're more than likely his only possible romantic interest. Ever.

Now don't excited though, he's still not into like... that. Proposing it to him will just confuse him as you try to explain what exactly you want to do, embarrassing you while he keeps staring at you with that puzzled puppy tilt.

Although, he likes kissing. Weird flesh interaction with his human? Sign him up!

He's a weird guy, and weird guy likes weird things.

You'd probably end up sitting in his lap often, as he's a big guy and you probably aren't. (We're looking at 6'4-6'6 here people!)

You'd be one of the only people he'd be comfortable letting take off his glasses. Although, only a peek, he'd take them back with a laugh and give you something else on his person to mess with.

Cross :

A loyal skeleton with the training of a royal guard. It's what he was literally made to do.

So, romance is a bit out of his ball park.

The second he finds himself falling for a human? He is very lost in himself.

He is.. confused. He goes to Ink about his feelings first, realizing that was a bad idea after Ink smiles brightly.

In Ink language, he's saying "I am about to ruin your whole fucking week."

He has to tie him up and toss his ass into the Doodlesphere so he doesn't snitch to you.

He has a traditional way of courting you, with Epic supporting in the background. He offers you flowers, chocolates, and a bunch of other things.

He's so shy while doing it though, his face basically up in flames from it.

Cross is the ultimate gentlemen to the person he's attracted to, as it takes a lot for him to even start to develop such feelings in the first place.

Epic is the ultimate wingman, hinting at you that Cross likes you and telling Cross things he's found out about you.

He would follow you around, acting like a bodyguard and even treating you like a higher class sometimes, which can be flattering but embarrassing.

He's your silent soldier that has only one thought on his mind. Besides his AU.

[jocelynscrazyideas]

Loss | Nico Hischier x Reader

inspired by the song crazy in love- remix by Beyoncé

Warnings: language, argument, cool off, makeup sex, breeding kinks, unprotected smut!!! BE SAFE PLZZ (very small amount of smut at the end, really only a makeup blurb)

Summary: after the devils lost their last game that could’ve gotten them into the playoffs, Nico takes the loss personally.

💭: JACK THEN LUKE 🩷🤞

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The ride home from the game was the loudest silence I’ve heard. Nico was the last one off the ice and the first one to leave the locker room. He was in a rush to get home.

No comments on any conversation I made, no road rage, no hand on my thigh, no post game kisses. If anything, I’m scared he’ll leave.

Nico would never do anything to hurt me, but when it comes to hockey, he’ll most definitely pick the sport over me. I’m okay knowing his career is a bigger deal than me, because of how big of a deal hockey is to everyone else.

I mean he’s captain. He should be working his ass off and not just for the spot as C, but for everyone to respect him.

“Nico. You know if you need to-“ Nico cuts me off.

“I don’t need to talk about it.” He shoots out. I think i see actual steam coming out of his ears. Before we head home, Nico stopped by a grocery store to pick up a snack.

He gets out of the car and didn’t open my door. “Well i guess I’m not going with.” I mutter to myself.

I see Nico walk into the store, he has tears in his eyes, I watch him walk away, hands up to his face. He’s wiping the tears away.

Real men show emotion.

“God.” I scream in frustration. I take my shoes off, i let my socks hand out, leaving my puffer jacket on i slide my purse off.

I take my phone out of my pocket from my jeans, I’m tired of it, seriously, why am I getting blamed.

~text~

i want choco pretz. (You)

send me $$ then. (Nico)

nvm. (You)

Read (Nico)

~

what a bitch.

Nico comes out of the store with four plastic bags on each side of his arms. He stuffs the goods into the backseats.

“So, what did you get?” I ask him. I don’t my pretzels.

“Your chocolate pretzels- and your gummies.” He slides his arm into a bag sitting behind my seat. He takes his hand and throws the bag of pretzels at me. My eye gets hit, I have a red mark lining through my eyebrow to the bottom of my nose- acrooss my eyelid.

~

We made it home. Nico already had dinner, and i ate Mac and cheese before the game. “Dinner in five. Be ready or I’m going to bed.” Nico says. He walks into the house, leaving me to open my own door and take my own bag. He leaves his hockey gear in the trunk and he gathers the grocery bags.

He loads the bags into the kitchen leaving him to unload them. I walk into the bedroom we share and i take my get ready bag, some makeup, and pjs and i wlak into the guest bedroom.

“Where are you going?” He snaps at me. He whips his head around to look at the hallway I’m in, facing our bedroom he sees the empty space of a bed I slept in.

I took my pillow, my personal blanket, and my phone charger. It looks like we broke up and i no longer had a life in this house. The vanity i sat in every morning is dark, and empty.

“Where does it look like?” I responded. I implied i was leaving for the night by gesturing to the pillow and small blanket in my hands that I wasn’t sleeping in the bed tonight.

“Sure as hell you’re but sleeping in the guest, and you’re not sleeping in your car.” He shouts at me. Nico gets angry easily, obviously not always at me but he was already upset about the game, I didn’t wnat to be around him.

I rolled my eyes and snarked at him. I walk into the room and shut the door. I immediately lock it setting my stuff down on the bed.

“Let me fucking in the room y/n. Open the stupid door.” He screams out for me.

“Just fucking cook dinner!” I yell back. I’m not mad at him, I’m mad at the fact he shuts me out and gets mad at me for trying.

~

Eventually I smell the food go cold, I don’t smell the warm hot steam from the food, so I open the door, I poke me head out. The bedroom door is shut. The lights are off. “Maybe he’s sleeping.” I whisper to myself.

Nico is no where in sight, so I leave the room I was hiding in. I grabbed a plate of whatever he made for dinner and popped it in the microwave.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Nico grabs my hips. “I need to talk.” He motions me to the couch.

“Oh, so now you wanna talk?” I roll my eyes and scoff. Ridiculous.

I switch the lights on as I sit my pretty ass kn the couch. “Why talk now? It’s like 1:24 am.” I glance at the clock that sits above our stove.

“I’m sorry I lashed out on you.” He says.

“I love you, and I care about you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” I insisted. The microwave goes off. My food is ready.

We let the food go off. Nico picks me up from the couch. He rubs me over to the bed we share. I had bought this body oil from Victoria’s Secret because it smelt good. Naturally I thought I could put it in my hair, but of course Nico had different plans.

“Turn, clothes. Off.” He sighs as he catches his breath from running around. He slides his sweatpants off, keeps his shirt on.

He spanks my ass. I can feel the stinging pain throughout my whole body.

“Makeup sex to distract me?” I laugh.

“Is it working?” Nico asks as he puts a towel down near my body. He opens the plastic bottle. Pouring the cold oil onto my back he massages into me.

Glitter specks and the rich perfume fragrance fills the room. I feel slippery.

“My turn.” I say. No hesitation I get up and push Nico down. I tear his shirt off of him. Leaving him with his boxers on. I look down motioning to take them off.

He does.

I see a very large cock perked up towards me.

“Gross.” I laugh as turn around to take my bra and tight thing off.

I let Nico lay on his forearms as I run the oil around his abs. He sucks on my hard nippples as I massage the oil into his warm body. I jump onto him. Straddling him, my back facing his face. He pulls me forwards.

I slip, falling face first onto his dick.

I suck o to his cock, Nico lays back, pulling my legs apart, setting them next to his ears.

My pussy opens for him right on his face. He licks every inch of me, I feel a spurt come into my mouth as I suck harder. He jolts yo and down telling me to stop. I can’t.

~

He thrusts harder into me. Pushing his top into my lungs. I feel very heartbeat from his cock into my own pussy.

He pulls out, letting his cum squirt outside of me. I lay flat on my back waiting for him. He pushes three fingers inside and I can feel him wiggle the around looking for something to tease me with.

He lets the oil smother me. The towel wets my hair from all of the oil that pooled into the crevasses of the linen.

Nico takes his fingers out of me and stuffs it I tibuso mouth. Sucking his fingers clean he kisses me. Shoving his tounge down my throat. Massaging every bit of my mouth with his.

I feel his stubble rub against my face. I enjoy knowing he thinks I’ll forget all of the argument within the 19 minute blowjob.

I feel his cock fall onto my lap.

“This should be here, I should be in here.” I pull Nico’s face off of mine. I grab his cock and push it off of my skin, I point to my ribs.

Nico laughs, he thrusts once inside of me, he grips onto my hair falling just to me after he finishes inside me.

Once again he pumps himself into me. This time I do feel him in my ribs.

~

“Goodnight.” I say as I pick up my clean towel and I get in the shower.

“You’re not sleeping in here? Can I shower with you?” Nico runs after me, rubbing my lower stomach.

“I’m tired.” I grunt. And I walk away. “You can shower after me.” I wink as I leave to turn on the hot water.

[moonbeamsandmayhem]

a/n: Eddie x fem!Reader. It’s been a while. Thank you all so much for bearing with me. This is a purely self-indulgent blurb/fic. Not beta read. Inspired after author watched Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire.

warnings: oral, penetration, dom/sub undertones if you squint, edging, reader with a vagina, Eddie being a little shit. I think that’s it! As always, please DM me if I missed anything.

October 31st, 1996 - 10:25pm

The candy had been eaten, scares given, and costumes put away for another year. You had gladly been on candy duty for a majority of the evening at the community centre, giving out treats, facilitating games for the little ones, and telling ghost stories to enraptured ten year olds who hung off your every word.

As for Eddie, he was running a DnD one-shot for the teens down the hallway. Occasionally you could hear raucous laughter and some profanities spew from the din. It brought a smile to your face knowing that he could still command a room like he had not-so-many years ago at Hawkins High.

But now, you’re home. In your shared apartment. Your legs are on his lap, while you balance a bowl of popcorn on yours. Your eyes are glued to the screen, watching as Dana Barrett and Louis Tully embrace, kissing passionately, the Keymaster and the Gatekeeper reunited at long last.

Your periphery catches movement as Eddie’s hand reaches for the popcorn before landing squarely (purposefully) on your thigh. You rip your attention from the TV to lift a curious brow at him, only to be met with a smirk. “Something on your mind, handsome?”

He croons, smirk growing to a full blown smile. “A few things, yeah,” Eddie admits, hand inching a little higher, “just thinkin’ about how killer you’d look in that dress.” He nods back to the screen, referring to the gown Dana’s wearing.

“You think I can pull that off?” You scoff.

“Sweetheart, you can pull off a god damn trash bag.”

“I’m not Sigourney Weaver, Eddie.”

“She’s got nothing on you.” He tugs the bowl from out of your grasp, placing it on the coffee table before giving you his full attention. Leaning over, he cages you in, forcing you full on your back against the couch. Eddie’s lips brush against yours, silently asking for permission, with a small peck against his, he surges against you like a man trying to quench his thirst. His hands are everywhere, as are yours, a whirlwind of disregarded clothes find themselves unceremoniously on the floor, but you’re both too distracted to care.

“You looked so hot in that witch’s outfit, babe. Was hard to keep it together tonight.” He latches on to the space where shoulder meets neck, sucking in a bruise.

“Y-you looked pretty hand - fuck - handsome yourself. The eyeliner, the fake-fangs, like something out of The Lost Boys, Christ, Ed’s.”

“Mhm. You like a bad boy, don’t ya, sweets?” Lathing the spot with the flat of his tongue. You shudder, eyes rolling back a little, losing yourself - did he say something? He nips at your skin and you gasp. “I asked you a question.”

“Could - could you repeat the - ah - shit - you’re distracting me, Munson.” You pout.

“Am I?” He looks at you with those big brown eyes, all faux-innocence and one-hundred percent mischief. “My bad.”

“Asshole.”

Eddie chuckles softly, “Guilty as charged. Now, are you gonna let me continue being a distraction or…?”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“Yes.”

You cum three times. First, on his tongue. And he makes you work for it, pay back for calling him an asshole. He lifts you higher and higher then pulls his affections away, leaving fluttery kisses around your clit before he starts again. He does this four times until you’re nearly sobbing. It’s a rather messy affair when he finally lets you cum, snapping like a taut wire, and gushing all over him.

Still dazed and trembling from the power of your orgasm, he pulls a second with practiced fingers. Playing you like he plays his guitar, making you sing into the howling night. You’re begging for his cock now, begging to cream all over it, but he shushes you as he works in a fourth digit. You arch your back clear off the couch like a woman possessed, you cum harder than you have in your life.

Or so you thought.

When Eddie eases into you, it’s the closest thing to heaven you can imagine. He stretches you and fills you just right, the piercing on the tip of his cock finding that spot only he knows how to he reach. He presses his forehead to yours, muttering to keep your eyes on him. And you do, because how could you possibly look away? Not only does he fuck you like tonight is the last night on Earth, he makes love to you as if you’re the only two people left on the planet. Slow, self-assured, comforting, everything else dissolves around you. You cum so hard you see stars. Your lungs burn, robbed of air, as you clench and cream and gush. He empties into you with such a guttural groan of relief at the exact same moment, sweat beading his beautiful brow. He pumps, once, twice, a third time, then lays on top of you, satiated, dipping his head a little to nuzzle his nose against yours.

“You absolute menace.” You tease, with an exhausted smile, leaning forward to capture his lips.

“What can I say? Bustin’ makes me feel good, baby.”

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 6

Art Donaldson x reader slow burn

I’m sorry for the long wait, I’ve not been feeling very motivated and I’ve been busy with a lot of personal things. Anyway, as always my taglist for this fic is open and I really hope you all enjoy this longer Chapter! ✨🫶🏻

Part 5

———————————————————————

It was the morning of Liam’s party when you woke with a particularly vengeful headache, one not unlike the great Zweig plague of 2017. You didn’t know why he called it a plague, it had only been a hangover coupled with a bad cold but Patrick was nothing if not theatrical.

You rolled over, groaning slightly from the effort, to check the time: 11:43am. Before you could think about food a knock at your door made you jump, sending your free arm thrashing into your phone. It hit the floor with a dreadful smashing sound. ‘Shit!’

‘Everything okay?’

Art.

‘Yeah, just … fucking smashed my phone.’

One of the many things you and Patrick had in common was your ability to break just about anything: laptops, mugs or phone screens it didn’t matter. A week in your so called ‘care’ and they’d be hospitalised. After grabbing the nearest hoodie you owned you let Art into your room to show him the damage. He tutted at the sight.

‘What? I guess you don’t break anything.’

He only smiled at your comment before Patrick chimed in from the hall stating that ‘the prick’ not only never broke ‘shit’ but that he was incapable of ‘messing shit up either’. Shakespeare be damned.

You rubbed your face a little, still half asleep and focused your eyes on the blonde above you. ‘That true?’

Art looked down at you, the sleepiness apparent on your face but somehow just adding to your charm, and thought about his games. He’d once lost to Liam after a - not so surprisingly - rageful argument with his ex and smashed the racket so hard into the grass that it had broken in nine pieces. Then he grinned: ‘Yes.’

——————————————————————

‘What time did Liam say to be there for?’ You yelled from your room, whilst trying not to rip your lashes out with the flimsy curler you’d stolen from a friend years before. They replied that the three of you needed to leave in half an hour. Where the fuck had the day gone?

As the fan in your room whirred incessantly, you lent your face to its subpar coolness for a breather. No matter how many Summers you endured it was still your least favourite season. Hayfever was a bitch.

‘Is this okay?’

You turned you head at the sound of Art’s eager voice. He was stood in your doorway wearing a navy shirt, that brought out his eyes, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Even his soft curls were looking bouncier than usual, just begging to be tousled and pulled on.

‘Yep. Fine.’

It took you forty minutes to finish your makeup. Having Patrick and Art argue over tennis in your ear was distraction enough to cause your eyeliner to be uneven. You redid it. From the corner of his eye, without arousing suspicion, Art watched you in awe. He found the concentration on your face and the detail and care you took with your makeup - no your art - fascinating. It reminded him of himself, his perfectionism with all things tennis.

‘Y/N, let’s gooo!’ Patrick launched at you, playfully shaking your shoulders from side to side while you went limp like a rag doll.

‘You done?’

His eyes widened at your sass.

‘Are YOU done??’

Art chuckled to himself, before the inevitable ‘you’re the third wheel’ self doubt came simmering in.

——————————————————————

‘We’re Ubering back right?’ You asked, as Patrick parked at the end of Liam’s street. The only way you were going to survive a house party of people you barely knew was through drinking enough cocktails to fill a pool. ‘I refuse to be the designated driver.’ And no amount of ‘it’s not a tennis thing’ reminders were going to change that.

Liams house was undoubtedly the largest on the estate, with its imposing double door entrance, obnoxious lawn ornaments and light up pool. God a light up pool? ‘Jesus Christ…’ you mumbled to yourself, catching Art’s attention.

‘He’s fond of it. Don’t say anything.’

Liam was still dressed for tennis, no surprises there, and holding a keg when he greeted the three of you. His smile was as welcoming as ever but his friends floated around him without giving you so much as a glance. They belonged in a house this grand, as did Art and Patrick. You, however, felt like the unwanted pest no spray could rid the house of.

‘You never told me you were The Great Gatsby.’

Liam scoffed at your dryness, stating that Art’s house was ‘much much bigger.’ Since your attraction and care for Art had grown it hadn’t escaped your notice, despite all the daydreaming, that there was a class difference between the two of you. You were no stranger to this of course it was the same with Patrick, which had caused issues in the past, but the sting was as strong. In fact it was strengthened by the fact that Art wasn’t just a friend to you and any future you imagined with him was tainted with the knowledge of that divide.

With Patrick’s Grandma’s line: ‘Don’t stare or they’ll smell poverty’ in your head, you walked past every expensive item with forced indifference. The smell of sandalwood, Chanel and Chardonnay filled the air with the twenty foot ceilings never halting their potency. Patrick had found the kegs too inviting to ignore so as you lost him to the party you glanced, not so subtlety, at Liam’s ‘not tennis friends’ guests. You clocked several sporting Louis Vuitton and felt the overwhelming urge to leave.

‘Drinks are in the dining room, if you were wondering.’

Liam’s younger brother, you presumed it was he had the same nose, had a much higher voice than you’d expected. The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen, so what on earth was he doing talking to you?

‘You’re-‘

‘Danny, Liam’s brother.’

‘Oh! Yeah, Art just mentioned you.’

At the mention of Art, Danny flinched involuntarily. His eyes, much less sure than his brothers, darted around the room. ‘Liam invited Art?’ Without letting you answer, he widened his eyes and rubbed his face in genuine confusion. You were suddenly intrigued. ‘Yeah, they hang out almost as much as me and Pat. Why the surprise?’ Danny shrugged, refusing to make eye contact with you for several moments. What was his issue?

‘I shouldn’t say.’

The two of you watched Liam and Art for a moment, drinking alarmingly quickly in the centre of the room enjoying the blaring speakers. As Art looked down and wiped his mouth, grinning, you noticed Liam’s smile drop. His eyes suddenly narrowed and bore into the side of his friend’s head. It was brief but unsettling.

‘You know how Liam’s girlfriend dumped him last week?’

You shook your head.

‘Well, she said he was holding her career back or something and she kicked him out. He’s not just here to throw this party, he lives here again with us Mum is furious but anyway - he’s …’ Danny bit his bottom lip, struggling to find the right phrasing. ‘Liam’s still in love with you.’ For a moment you just stared, glass eyed, not taking anything in. What? Liam had just dated a tennis star, a national hero, a Gucci model and not once had you thought he was hard done by. That he needed you instead, that he needed to go back to his little crush on his even richer friend’s roommate. What was wrong with him?

‘Just, don’t say anything.’ Danny suddenly looked horrified at his confession and before you could ask him why he’d said anything at all, he’d scurried to some wing of the house you’d never find.

——————————————————————

After Danny’s strange departure you had found Patrick and Art and caught up to their drunkness. Quickly. It hadn’t taken you and Art long to clean out Liam’s fridge and varnish Art’s pretty braincells with a layer of stupid you’d yet to see. Before long you’d switched to Pepsi but the same couldn’t be said for Donaldson.

‘Y/N….’

The party wasn’t close to dying down but luckily in a house so obnoxiously grand there were plenty of empty rooms. You and Art had taken refuge in one of many spare bedrooms to listen to his drunken ramblings without interruption.

‘I could have smust loved here.’ Art huffed, suddenly looking like a petulant toddler sat on the floor with his ninth beer. He was the lightest light weight you’d ever met, in fact… ‘Do you normally drink?’

‘Huh? … OH DRINK?!’ He looked confused, as if he’d just lost something but couldn’t remember what. You had to admit to yourself it was hilarious to see such a put together man so incompetent. ‘No…never I never drink ever ever Y/N.’ His starry gaze hardened and suddenly, whilst looking comically serious, Art pulled you close with force. ‘Want to hear a secret?’ You blinked slowly. ‘I’m not drummkk at all!’ Bless.

Both of you erupted into giggles at his mistake, although you weren’t sure if Art knew what he was laughing at. His face lit up, like a child on Christmas, and you actually felt sad for a moment thinking this was the happiest you’d seen him in a while.

Somehow, Danny’s voice had wormed its way into your head spelling ‘Liam invited Art?’ over and over. You knew it was wrong to pry but you wanted to know more. ‘Art?’ He was drinking his tenth beer with conviction. ‘How’s Liam?’ Art suddenly sighed, quite loudly, and set his beer on the ground. He almost knocked it over but you caught it with ease, only to catch him smiling at you dreamily. Drunk, he’s drunk shhhh brain.

‘He’s fine just really smi,’ he coughed suddenly before correcting himself. ‘FINE!’ You giggled, almost feeling sad for Patrick that he wasn’t there to witness Art’s childishness. It might have been the first time since meeting the future tennis star that you’d felt like the together one, although you weren’t exactly sober either.

‘You two okay then? No issues?’ You heard your own voice but it wasn’t yours it was high school you. The girl who craved gossip and details, the girl who could barely keep a secret for a lesson let alone forever. Art was peeling the sticker off his bottle when he answered you, eyes still glazed over and confused like a newborn. ‘He’s been a bit dick since she,’ you noticed him rock slightly on ‘she’. ‘Broke up with h- him. Broke up broke up broke up. He likes youuuu though.’ His confused face suddenly hardened and he frowned only for a moment but you caught it.

Knock knock

‘No one better be fucking in here!’

Liam.

‘Okay? 3,2,1 get your clothes back on sluts I’m coming in!’

Liam’s face fell when he saw it was you and Art alone, you watched his eyes gage the close proximity between you but then the unused bed. He tutted. ‘Donaldson who let you drink this much?’ You raised your hands innocently as if to say ‘not me!’ as Liam helped his friend up. Using his best dad voice, that didn’t mask his impatience, he took the weight of Art’s slack body and walked him to the hall. They’d barely walked four steps before: ‘Y/N? Y/N’s coming right? She … she hast to come!’ If he hadn’t have been completely gone and yelling, you might have found the moment romantic. Instead you just felt concern.

‘We’ll get you some water okay?’ Art nodded eagerly at you, ignoring Liam’s huffiness. It had been a long night already and you weren’t planning on spending the rest of it watching Art get his stomach pumped. God he was a light weight. When the three of you made it downstairs, with great difficulty and lots of swearing from Liam, you were greeted instantly with a lipstick kissed Patrick grinning ear to ear. ‘Someone’s had fun.’

‘More than you.’ He raised an eyebrow at Art, who was quickly melting into the depressive stage of drunkness babbling about tennis losses under his breath. The alarmingly expensive speakers were blasting Nelly whilst you waded Art through the gyrating crowd to water. It was like babysitting without the pay.

It took Patrick threatening to break all of his rackets before Art drunk any water. Liam’s patience had expired much quicker and lead him to depart to party room 26? There were too many rooms to remember. The three of you were alone in the looming kitchen but there was a speaker nearby disturbing the peace.

The kitchen tiles were cool against your warm legs when you sat with Art, his head against the fridge door. Patrick wiped the lipstick aggressively from his cheek before shouting over the music ‘Does anyone have a cig?’ You shook your head and Art - well Art was falling asleep slowly but surely, his head lolling as he fought to stay awake.

‘I know Liam has a thousand rooms but I think we should take him home.’

Patrick sighed in response, his head throbbing from the music and shots already. ‘Art honey?’ You always called drunk people honey or sweetie, it had started when you were sixteen and never quite stopped. ‘Do you want us to take you home?’ He opened his eyes wearily to meet yours. ‘You can get some proper sleep.’ Art simply nodded and held his arms up for you to help him. The poor boy was hopeless when he was hammered and you found it equal parts adorable and concerning.

——————————————————————

In the Uber home Patrick called shotgun, as usual, so you sat with Art in the back. His head had gradually, over the course of the journey, lent more and more on your body until his head was resting in your lap. Every so often you’d look down to check he was still breathing but you needn’t worry. He was fast asleep.

‘Y/N?’ Patrick craned his neck towards you. ‘Thanks for looking after him tonight.’ He smiled a classic Zweig smile but slightly more tired. You ran your fingers through Art’s curls without thinking and mumbled ‘You took care of him too.’ Patrick turned back in his seat and sighed ‘He might need you more.’

Taglist: @gatorgirl007 @imblushingrn @soy-garbage @blahhucantmakeme

[what-gs-watching]

“What good did love do, Doctor? When did it ever help?”

So I spent last week at my parent’s house finally pulling off the surprise birthday party I’d been planning for months for my mother and I was there for farrrrr too long and I ate waaaay too much and I only had six days from when I got home to get my head right and ready to start a new job after nine effing months of doing nothing. 

I’m starting on Monday and I’m super anxious about it, and everyone is posting about what’s going on with Doctor Who so obviously I decided to let Ruby and 15 turn my brain off for a bit, it’s the least they can do. Maybe that was a mistake, because woooooof y’all. I’m devastated that the season is already over. 

And as such, we def need to talk about both of these episodes at the same time. 

The Legend of Ruby Sunday / Empire of Death

Wherein, The Doctor and Ruby show up to UNIT to finally ask about the old woman they keep running into on their adventures, and immediately very purposefully fall into a trap. 

I have to say, as much as I love 15, baby boy has NOT been very observant this season. He’s caught up in having fun and showing his feelings and all of that is fantastic and beautiful but if this had been 10 or 11 they would have been mulling over this situation the entirety of the season and I probably wouldn’t feel so much like I just got whiplash. 

Like, the internet has been telling me to think about this random ass lady, instead of seeing the Doctor trying to puzzle her out in his downtime. And that’s the first time I’ve really thought to myself, ‘this is incredibly unlike the doctor.’ But we’re going to let it slide, because he’s otherwise charmed the pants off of me.

There was a lot I was definitely about in these episodes, in no particular order - 

OBVIOUSLY, the Rose / Ruby bonding. Absolutely adorable. They immediately gravitated to each other and I love that. It’s so sweet. And I’ll take ANY scrap of 14 I can get, but 15 asking ‘how’s your uncle?’ really made me greedy for more. Couldn’t my girl Rose given like, even the smallest cute little anecdote? Like ‘oh, he’s really into gardening right now…’ or something? Gimme like, even the littlest bit. I neeeed it. But fine. 

15’s outfits. I’ve loved all of the stuff they’ve put him in all season but HELLO that leather jacket and the cozy sweater he had on in the mish mash TARDIS? Gorgeous. Beautiful. I want to buy it right now.

Also, the mish mash TARDIS itself, and the little kiss 15 gives it at one point. Love all the random throwbacks inside that little thing even if I don’t know most of them because no, I never went back and watched the original seasons, so sue me. I’m pretty sure I spotted 11’s little scanner tv thing though, and I love that. I miss Matt Smith. 

And the Doctor lashing out and punching the wall and huffing and puffing and screaming and then Mel giving him a kick in the ass. I’m going to keep talking about how I love that 15 is actually okay with showing his feelings, but I do think he got too lost in them. We all been there, boo. But like, you heard that sick TARDIS sound (that’s going to haunt my dreams) and you were just like ‘oh I’ve heard that before’? BOY you are so distracted. 

Anyway, I’m vaguely aware there’s background on Sutekh that I should probably google if I want to fully understand the situation, but I’m not gonna do it. I accept that it’s the god of death and the doctor fought it once and banished it to the time vortex, but I have to say, I find the rest of the storyline a little bit weird. It hitched a ride on the TARDIS and traveled with the Doctor for basically untold amounts of time and no one ever noticed? And it’s appearance is NOT related to 14 casting that salt at the end of the universe, even though it was pretty clear that the rest of the random god appearances were? 

I guess I’m willing to accept all of that, but gang. Here’s the thing. After all of that time traveling around and watching the Doctor do what he does (and admittedly trying to sabotage him by planting harbingers? I guess? Wherever they went?) you’re still not going to kill him right off when you finally hatch your plot? You KNOW he gets out of things. You know he literally gets out of everything. You’ve watched him wiggle his way out of shit because his adversaries have given him an inch but you’re like ‘it’s fine, that won’t be me, because I REALLY need to know who this random human’s mother is?’ 

Nah. Nah nah nah. Like, maybe if you had really tried to kill him and he got out of it, I’d be like, ‘okay fine’ but that death cloud was half-assed and they beat it on like, a moped. 

If we’re going with real scary gods that have literally the power of basically everything, I’m gonna want their actions to make sense. 

I also have to admit that when the Doctor was monologuing about how the whole thing was his fault, when he said about all of the things he’s done “I thought it was fun”, I found myself thinking about how he really has been playing a game of his own devising and maybe he…shouldn’t. And it felt like maybe he thought that, too. Like, when is it gonna be enough for him? 

The point is, It’s super sweet that Ruby got to figure her shit out, they got me I cried at all of that, but the whole thing did feel a little disjointed to me. Which is fine, because now I’m sitting here like, ‘yo I need more’ but there isn’t more, not for forever, and clearly that’s how they get you. The arch wasn’t a cliff hanger really but also it kind of was and I’m unsatisfied. Maybe that’s the point. 

And I do now agree with Tumblr that the most interesting thing in all of this is how 14 and Donna reacted to the death cloud, and their reconstitution, and the realization that Rose was at UNIT during the entire thing - that’s going to occupy my brain for a really long time.

At the end of the day, eight episodes was not enough. But I’m SO  endeared to 15 and I love the direction the show is going, haters can hate all they want but Doctor Who was always weird and it was always for outcasts and it’s beautiful and stupid and silly and wonderful. Wonderful and perfectly imperfect. 

Friends, this season came at a time I really needed it. I'm thankful it helped me through my forced work hiatus, it's part of the tapestry that kept me going. And that's the good that love does. Doctor Who, I love you.

[artdcnaldson]

ok consider something about the concept of four years in between Olympics… like four years after that initial meeting and the magnetism of it and then afterwards the years of tension and secrecy and then going back to that time again when you’re older?? like this could be angsty with them passing and reconnection and all but something about it is also hot lol like a reunion sex vacation

SIGHHHHH and Art is retired by that point too. So you’re, like 26-27 at your prime, top ranked and a dominating force in the tennis world, and he’s there as a commentator, or accompanying Tashi with a player she’s coaching now.

Either way, it’s been a couple years and they’re both there and you’re just all wide-eyed like…. Oh!

But you’re ‘grown up’ now, more mature, focused on your career. You want to retire by 30, you think, settle down, start a foundation of your own. Art misses you, even with how crazy things got. He misses when you would stay with him and Tashi, when you’d warm their bed and hang onto their every word.

But you end up getting dinner with him, celebrating your gold-medal win. And it feels so natural when you both leave for your fancy hotel this time, when you’re fucking in the fancy sheets and rekindling everything that you lost out of your own selfish insistence that you couldn’t share.

“Tashi misses you,” he says, petting your hair, letting you press your sticky body to his as you curl up against his side.

You laugh, roll your eyes. “Huh. Well, I’m sure you’ve found another pretty young ingenue to keep as a plaything.”

But no, they haven’t. There wasn’t anyone who they had wanted to share the ways they’d shared you. But he says nothing, orders room service while you watch the nightly recap of the day’s games.

He thinks he likes you better when you treat him like a human being. You liked him better when you saw him as a god.