#may your daggers be sharp | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

etheries1015 · 1 year ago

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Imagining Malleus is going through his heat cycle, and finds himself needing to be guided through the motions by none other than Lilia, of course. His subject? You.

(18+ minors DNI. Afab reader, fem pronouns.) this ones for you, bestie @masquerade-of-misery <3 live laugh love "threesomnia" LMAOOO

How you came into this predicament will be far beyond you. How you were now stripped bare by a hungry Draconic Fae, with your bare back pressed up against Lilias's chest, holding you in his grasp with his hands coming around to play with your sensitive mounds. His hands gently groped your tender breasts, flicking a finger over your hard nipples and pinching them at just the right pressure. Your back arched against his touch and a small and yearning moan elicited from your lips, Malleus looking down at you with a flushed face with his tongue licking his dry and hungry lips. Lilia chuckled at Malleus's eager display.

"It depends on the person," Lilia pointed out as if giving some sort of classroom lecture to the black-haired male, "Sensitivity of the breasts isn't uncommon. However, it seems our prefect here may need a little more than simple foreplay of the bosom to feel satisfied..." He rolled your nipples in his fingers and used the bulk of his palm to give a little squish to your breast, your breath becoming ragged as you melted into his touch, holding back a moan from the back of your throat. Lilia smiled at your rather simple reaction, before eyeing the shirtless fae that loomed over you. Malleus gave him a confused look before Lilia grabbed his hand and placed it on your chest.

Encouraging him to move in the way Lilia had, Malleus placed his much larger and dexterous fingers against your soft skin. His movements were much more uncertain, slow, and passionate versus the older fae whose touch left you thinking about the surprising amount of skill he had and the ability to understand your body the moment his fingers touched your skin. As Malleus gently kneaded your breasts with caution, you were shocked when suddenly you felt sharp teeth dig into the crook of your neck. You let out a yelp of surprise mixed with a moan that sounded rather confused and high-pitched- even your body at odds with the pleasure of your chest and the now throbbing of your neck. Malleus looked up in concern at this, almost glaring daggers at the other fae as if to ask; 'what did you do?'

"The neck," Lilia purred into your ear nibbling the lobe, "Is a rather sensitive spot for humans...biting it is also seen as a form of possessiveness, in both Fae and Human mating. Interesting, no?" Lilia smiled mischievously as he playfully licked the wound he had left, your body shivering at the wet muscle that scaled from the base of your neck before teasing its way to your jawline. Malleus eyed the cheeky fae that held you in his arms, before heading his mentor's words and leaning over to take his place between the other side of your neck. Lilia moved your hair to the side to allow Malleus easier access to mark your neck, his hands continuing his relentless motions on your chest. It seemed he had gotten rather carried away, for you winced in pain and exclaimed "Ow!" when Malleus's nail ended up scratching your nipple. He pulled away, looking at you in worry and quickly removing his hands from your body. Lilia chuckled at this, a seemingly common pastime for him at this point.

"Humans are delicate," Lilia said to Malleus almost to chastise him for his mistake, "Make sure she is alright, and then continue forward. You need to think what each of your body parts are doing, and adapt accordingly." Malleus's eyes caught yours.

"Are you alright, child of man?" He cooed gently, his honey-deep voice immediately setting aside any uneasiness you may have felt. You gave him a nod and the okay to continue, Lilia whispering "Good girl," In your ear before his hands snaked down to the bottom half of your body, also bare for the two men to be witness to. Your legs were closed the time they were experimenting with your breast and higher extremities, Lilia used a skilled hand to open your knee and allow your legs to spread in front of the draconic fae. Malleus stared down at your dripping cunt, taking notice of the slick that glistened around your hole. The growing bulge of his pants became much more apparent as it grew in size, practically begging to be freed from the confines of the fabric he so frustratingly wanted to be released from.

Lilias hand snaked down from your inner thigh to place two fingers over your folds and spread them apart, making the wetness between your legs much more apparent for Malleus to see. You instinctively felt a jolt of pleasure at such a simple touch, your legs almost snapping shut if it wasn't for Malleus quickly using his hands to force your legs apart. Lilias eyes cocked in surprise at this action, his lips curling in a coy smile before resuming his "lecture."

"Human women have their own lubricating system. When they are aroused, they produce this-" He used two of his fingers to rub a few lines from the pearl of your cunt and entrance, holding them up to show off the glistening clear substance that now covered his fingers. "This is how they prepare to take the male in." Malleus watched earnestly with rosy cheeks, almost drooling at the simple idea that you were ready to take him in. Taking this point as the next step, Malleus began to unbuckle his belt to release him of his constricting confines. Your eyes widened at this, and Lilia 'tsked' at this, shaking his head. Malleus looked up in mild annoyance at the red eyed fae.

"Although she produced her own lubricant," Lilia pointed out, "We still must make sure it's safe for her to take you. You must prepare her, first." Malleus furrowed his eyebrows at this, sitting back slightly holding back a growl of impatience.

"Does her body not automatically prepare her for such actions? Is that not the purpose of the lubricant?" Malleus inquired. Lilia shook his head and gently rubbed your thigh, as if thanking you for your patience.

"I understand your impatience, Malleus. But you must understand, despite the lubricant, we want to avoid any injury that may occur for being ill-prepared for the size in which she is to take. To prevent tearing or pain, it's best to prepare her first in order to stretch her out to better take you in. Especially in your case, since most human males only have one." You started at this sudden statement, looking back between the two men bewildered.

"O-one? What do you mean by that?" Lilia looked at you with eyes wide with confusion.

"Hm? I thought you were aware? Draconic fae actually has two phalluses. One is for keeping the entrance of their mate open, while the other is to push their seed in for breeding. Although...it would be in your benefit to start with one at first, to ease you into it." Your face fell at this information, looking back at Malleus with your eyes wavering in concern. Malleus leaned over you, using a hand to place upon your cheek and stroke it gently, his emerald green eyes glowing with lust and affection for you.

"Do not worry," Malleus cooed with his words of honey, "I will be sure to prepare you as Lilia instructs." Biting your bottom lip, you nodded and tilted your head back. Malleus planted a gentle kiss against your forehead before returning back to his original position, awaiting patiently for Lilias's next set of instructions. Lilia continued to hold you against his chest, looking at Malleus from behind your slightly trembling body. The trembling was out of slight fear of the possibility of two fitting inside of you, yet it seemed all the more tantalizing and exciting at the same time...

"Now Malleus," Lilia continued his instruction, his hands trailing back down to your folds using two fingers to caress your pearl in a mix of circular and vertical movements, teasing the inside of your hole with only the tip of his fingertips, not quite indulging into it. you whined and found yourself moving your hips in the hope of more friction, for the bat's touch was light and you felt yourself become impatient. Lilia ignored your feeble movements and continued to explain as if you weren't so needlingly begging for more. "Start with one finger, and when you feel it enough, you can continue to add more. You will be able to tell she's ready by how much she can take of your fingers without feeling too tight." Lilia suddenly pushed two fingers at once inside of you, urging Malleus forward. He watched eagerly as a satisfied hum escaped your lips, your body arching ever so slightly as Lilia massaged the inside of your hole skillfully with his fingers. All at once and far too soon for your liking, Lilia removed his fingers, your slick completely covering them. "Now, you try. Move them like this-" The red eyed fae gave a demonstration to the horned male, malleus nodding before following instruction.

Malleus was much more clumsy when it came to such acts, you could feel it in the way his fingers stiffly entered you with very little fluid movement.

"curl your fingers gently and move upward. Feel how she tightens around your fingers when you do it correctly?" you had to admit, hearing Lilia talk about you in such a blunt manner about the ways in which your body reacted was enough to make your entire face red. Yet, the wetness down below was far more prominent with every word he spoke. Once he was able to add another two fingers, Malleus pulled out leaving you empty once more. He admired his fingers that were covered in your substance, before staring you directly in the eyes and using his tongue to lap up your wetness from his fingers. You weren't sure you could possibly become any more flustered than you already were, yet it seemed possible with every new action both of the men took. Deciding you had been stretched out enough, Lilia had given Malleus the okay to the next step.

The tall male stood up and unbuckled his belt, allowing his pants to fall to the ground and removing his boxers allowing his cocks to be seen by your mesmerized eyes. You watched in anticipation as he shuffled back in front of you on his knees, your eyes never leaving the sheer length and girth that he had been hiding all this time.

"remember what I said earlier," Lilia said, using his hand to pull your legs apart further, "Humans are incredibly delicate. If you are not careful when breeding, you could harm your mate. Enter her slowly..." Lilias fingers snaked back down to your folds and once again used his skilled hand to pull them apart, Malleus pumping the top of the two cocks a couple times before aligning it with your entrance. Lilias fingers remained spreading you apart as he talked Malleus through every inch, yet the second the head of his cock penetrated you, you couldn't help but suck in air and almost pull back.

"t-too.. too big..!" You whined, Lilia hushing you gently and planting a kiss upon your cheek. Malleus leaned forward and groaned, his cock throbbing in desire to bury deep inside you. As you were taking inches of Malleus, you couldn't help but notice something hard poke at your bare back, like cloth that was rubbing against your skin. Lilia was hard. You hadn't the chance to speak up about it before the older fae ignored his obvious 'issue' and continued to coach Malleus through the motions.

"Let her adjust," Lilia said to the black-haired male, "(y/n), Tell him when you're ready to take more. And if it is too much to bear, speak your mind." Lilias's words were kind and gentle, his lips pressing against the lobe of your ear before biting down. After a few moments of adjusting to Malleus's size, you gave him the okay as Lilia guided him deeper inside of you.

"So tight and wet," Malleus let out a deep primal growl from the back of his throat as he was able to finally fully engulf himself in your warmth, "So warm...ah.." groaning while leaning forward and biting the crook of your neck, Malleus found himself trying to push deeper and deeper inside of you. Tears pricked the side of your eyes at the number of stimuli you were receiving, Lilia took notice and moved your head to face him kissing the tears away from your cheeks. "There...Good girl. You're taking him so well, aren't you?" He purred, trailing kisses from your cheeks to your jawline, and from your jawline moving his teeth to graze against the other side of your neck. Once fully adjusted, Malleus began to go at a steady pace with moans of pleasure escaping his lips.

It wasn't long before he was fucking you relentlessly out of pure primal instinct, the room full of wet sounds of skin slapping against each other and moaning. Sweet moans that left your lips with one man penetrating you and the other sneaky hands roaming your body. Lilia used one hand to grope your breast and play with your hardened nipples while the other moved down to your clit and rubbed circles around it leading you closer and closer to your release. You could feel the bubbling pit of your stomach as your walls clenched around Malleus's cock and your back arched, a loud desperate moan slipping from your lips and your body trembling with ecstasy. At the same time, you felt Malleus twitch inside of you, with ropes of cum painting your swollen insides white. Your body went limp against Lillia's chest, panting roughly as the Draconic fae removed himself from the warmth of your cunt. Lilia used his thumb to pull open your swollen hole, watching as Malleus's thick seed pooled out of your twitching entrance. As Lilia sang your praises, Malleus leaned forward and kissed your forehead gently, you taking notice that he was still as hard as he had started.

"Seeing how well both of you did," Lilia smiled, "shall we try using the second one, next?"

You surely weren't going to be pulled away yet, not until Briar Valley had another heir on the way <3

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acourtofchaos · 24 days ago

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JUST GIVE ME THE NIGHT | Prince!Mattheo Riddle x Princess!Reader

summary: rival heirs from neighbouring kingdoms, a broken affair that should stay that way for you own good considering you're engaged to someone else, but you're unable to let Mattheo go despite the fact he ended things so harshly and one night you're determined to confront him about all of it when his actions prove he isn't as unaffected after breaking things off as he pretends to be.

C/W: 18+. piv. fingering. small amount of angst, mattheo being a little bloody and beaten, self-loathing behaviour from mattheo, kind of cheating since reader is engaged but its an arranged marriage and the guy is a dick.

song inspo: the night does not belong to god by sleep token

There was a stillness to the world as your hand lifted slowly towards his door.

It felt almost as if the entirety of the land had fallen into a hushed, watchful silence - a deep breath taken before your actions caused an undeniable shift of the tides with the startlingly loud rap of your knuckles against aged wood.

The way it echoed through the stone walls made you freeze, panic at the possibility of being caught rolling through your chest, your galloping heart, as you held your breath and waited what felt like an eternity for that voice you loved so well to call to enter. For the rustle of movement or the soft thud of his footsteps approaching the door.

None of them came.

And the absence of them forced you to swallow the lump in your throat that was attempting to suffocate you, to nudge the door open and pop your head around the edge to look for him. Hesitantly stepping into the room with a soft frown when he was nowhere to be found.

He had been there recently, at least, you were sure. The fire was still blazing strongly, the logs that had been thrown inside to feed it not yet swallowed whole, and when you looked to the bed, the sheets were wrinkled. Strewn and tossed aside like someone had been fighting for sleep and lost their temper when it continued to evade them.

You only hoped that he hadn't left in search of another fight. Especially not when you had heard from your own knight, Lorenzo, that he was already bloody and bruised, that he hadn't seemed to care what happened to him the first time let alone a second, but then just as you were about to turn on your heel and go looking for him something caught your eye.

His dagger. The one always hung at his hip, steel gleaming cold and sharp, as deadly as the boy that wielded it, sat innocently on top of the table beside the bed.

Now Mattheo may have been hot-headed, a thrill-seeker who was impossibly quick to anger, but he was not foolish.

Typically.

And unless he had suddenly developed a death wish after the two of you had violently parted at his own insistence, then there was no way that he'd leave without that dagger.

But then, as if on que, a faint splash alerted you then to a presence in the adjoining room.

You released a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding at the sound and maybe if you had been a little less concerned, a little less skittish when you had first entered the chambers, you would have noticed the rather obvious clue to his whereabouts in the way the room smelt like sweet soap and expensive oils.

The tendrils of steam that were seeping through the half-open door, soft and coiling, beckoning you to follow them and find him.

So you did, with your stomach tumbling and footsteps light and fast, almost soundless as you slipped through the gap and into the room.

At first you could hardly make anything out but then you blinked away the damp warmth, allowing yourself a moment for your eyes to adjust to the heavy fog of steam that lingered like a blanket, and with it the room steadily came into a less hazy view.

Much like the one in your own chambers, there was a sprawling bath that took up half the room, carved into the stone floor and adorned with jewels that glimmered and shone like starlight beneath the water. Housing at the farthest end of it, your prince, with his back to you, unguarded and completely unaware.

His body glowed, candlelight reflecting off the droplets of water that clung to his flushed skin, his dark hair damp and curling at the nape of his neck whilst his head hung low against the brace of his folded arms.

You let your eyes trace over every inch of him like it was the very first time, the last, because for all you knew it very well could have been.

Even with his back to you he was beautiful, and it broke those parts of your heart that had never been able to fully commit to hating him as you were supposed to, to see for yourself the way he had been marred by fresh bruises.

They were everywhere. Vicious blooms of lavender and navy, smudges of violence that ranged in size from being as small as a fingerprint, or maybe it was the stark outline of a knuckle, to something much, much larger.

They painted him with such an air of defeat, especially when paired with the slump of his usually proud shoulders, that the very sight of it felt fundamentally wrong. Like you were witnessing the death of a small, flickering flame that had once been a wildfire.

It made you vengeful, made you protective. It made your chest ache so unbearably that it felt as if you had bore wounds to match his own upon your lungs and your fragile ribs, and it had all left you incapable of breathing quite right.

There was the slightest movement from your own body as you tried, a twitch of your arm whether to reach out for him or to reach for a weapon you didn't possess to avenge him, and a soft noise that bubbled past your lips before you could choke it down.

Wholly unnoticeable to perhaps anyone else, but enough to alert Mattheo that he was no longer alone.

Mesmerised, you watched the lazy lift of his head, the way it tilted almost imperceptibly to one side before the low drawl you've yearned to hear so desperately since you last fought finally found you again.

"I told you I do not need your constant supervision Theo, I am not a child."

You snorted softly at that, unable to help it at the faint bite of petulance lingering in his tone.

"I believe Theodore was in need of some well deserved rest after the lengths he had to go to today to keep you from getting killed, you have me instead." You called out softly, and the effect of your voice was instantaneous.

He didn’t turn.

Instead, it was as if all at once every part of him drew tight, like a knife had been plunged into the low dip of his back, deep past muscle until the tip grazed his spine, and then slowly ripped upwards.

You could sense the way it rippled through him, the violent shudder that wracked down to the depths of his bones when he croaked your name before he could bite it back. Before he could repackage it in grit and fire, and spit it like a reprimand rather than a telltale sign of his own weakness.

"What are you doing here?” He demanded, voice rough, brooding, once he was able to shove down the rush of longing inflicted by your presence that had caught him so horrendously off guard. “Come to seek justice for the wounded pride of your betrothed's men?"

Despite his defensiveness, you allowed yourself to draw a little closer, feeling the fine wisps at your hairline begin sticking to your skin as the heat in the room seemed to swell. Steam thickening until it was a physical press against your skin.

"Why would I care about them?" You shot back quietly. "But perhaps, you could help me make sense of all this and tell me what they did to draw your ire. Or are we simply feeling a bit nostalgic and deciding to revisit the old Mattheo who liked to pick fights for no reason?"

He didn't expect your calmness, you could tell. The levelled, coaxing tone apparently had a way of making him wary, fingers twitching restlessly against stone, trying to bury themselves into it like he needed grounding whilst his face slanted to the side just so.

It was movement enough to gift you a sliver of his face, the half-hearted sardonic curl of his mouth as he smirked. "Maybe I've grown sick of seeing Flint's ridiculous crest everywhere I turn."

You took another step closer, a thoughtful laugh humming at the back of your throat as you did so, before reminding him. "Then I believe you've come to the wrong part of the realm if you want less of it, dear prince." You mused. “Also that excuse is a blatant lie, I don't believe you, I think it was something else."

Mattheo turned to you then, slowly, deliberately, disbelief evident in his expression that you would provoke him so blatantly. Though, really, it shouldn't come as a surprise. Not with you, not when it had been one of the many reasons he had fallen in love with you despite himself.

Gentle currents broke out around each movement of his body whilst he leaned back, appraising you with raised brows.

"What else could there be?" He shrugged mildly, but where his tone was meant to be unaffected, dismissive even, there was the faintest tremble. A miniscule fracture beneath his indifference as his throat bobbed.

You planned on cracking it wide open.

With shaky hands, you unclipped your cloak, allowing the heavy weight of velvet to slide down from the curves of your shoulders and rush to the floor.

There was a sharp exhale as he drank you in, lips parting as your beauty punched the breath from his lungs, his heart stuttering at the vulnerability that you were entrusting him with despite everything he had done to try and make you turn your back on him.

It felt more intimate than either of you were used to or truly prepared for, nothing but a simple nightgown shielding you from the burning catch of his eyes whilst he was fully bare beneath the water. A far cry from the desperate rucking up of dress skirts and trousers that were torn loose rather than unlaced, drawn down just barely far enough for him to be able to bury himself within you.

"Everything." You whispered, shattering his trance and swallowing thickly when his dark eyes snapped to yours. "There's so much else. It's who the men wearing that sigil defend, the archaic laws they’re willing to reinforce for his benefit. What upholding them does to me, to us."

Warmth flooded your toes with the next careful step that you took. The hem of your nightgown swirling wet and weighted around your ankles whilst you studied him. The way his eyes softened before he could shield his feelings, the war between yearning and rejection that carved itself out across his pretty face as he battled himself internally.

After a moment he shook his head, resolute, or maybe he would have seemed so if not for the fact that he refused to meet your gaze. "There is no us, I've already told you." He muttered, hollow.

"Isn't there? Look me in the eye and tell me again, show me you truly believe it and then I'll be convinced."

Your words were an infuriating challenge, one that made something hot and unforgiving curl within his chest, that made his eyes flash and his jaw clench until it was sore, teeth threatening to shatter with the pressure.

Because he knew that you had him.

With that stubborn tilt of your chin and the unshakeable set of your shoulders, your fearless expression whilst you crept closer looking like his dream come true, he knew that nothing he told you was going to make you run this time. That you were done with letting him run also.

Still, he blew out a frustrated sigh, damp arms shimmering beneath the light as he folded them across his chest. Stubborn, even if he was fighting a losing game.

"There can't be an us, it's a foolish dream, princess."

You frowned. "Why?"

He regarded you with a pained gaze at that, the kind that you didn't just witness but felt, that seemed to beg of you ‘why are you torturing me like this’.

You were only inches away now, waist deep in the glittering water and his scarred, aching hands trembled with a desire so fierce to reach out and touch you, to make sure that you were real and he wasn't dreaming, that every nerve he owned was screaming it's discontent as he struggled to choke it back.

"Your family, for one reason." He said like it was obvious, gritting his teeth until you could easily spot the irritable twitch of his cheek when you scoffed.

"That never stopped you before, Mattheo." You countered, defiant, fingers drifting to touch the chain that adorned your throat. "Remember the tournament? You gave me your token before anyone else could even think about it, your necklace with your family crest that you then insisted upon me keeping? Hardly the actions of someone fearing repercussions from my family."

For a breathless moment you thought you'd unravelled him so much sooner than expected, his gaze blowing out, burning black as it followed the trail of your fingertips down to where he knew the very same pendant was nestled beneath your neckline.

The thought of you wearing his crest, his mark, and little else, only a thin nightgown that he absolutely wasn't watching slowly turn transparent as the water line rose with each step you took, had his hands clenching to white knuckled fists. His tongue dragging over the full plush of his lip like he wished more than anything it was your skin.

It had your head spinning.

Hunger had become a blaze within his blood and in a last ditch effort to look elsewhere his stare dipped only to then catch on the sodden material of your dress melding to your stomach and your hips, the curves of your thighs that he had been desperately forcing himself to ignore.

Mattheo growled a curse like the gods were against him and just when you thought he might snap, he dragged a hand viciously through his wet curls, yanking at them like he needed the sharp shock of pain to stop him making a mistake, before he then glowered at you.

"How about the fact that you're engaged?” He hissed. “I know you have no small amount of distaste for these laws but just because you don't want to marry that piece of shit doesn't make it any less of a major fucking issue."

"Says the Prince who years ago killed the man who challenged him to a duel for sleeping with his wife." You rolled your eyes, undeterred and voice deadpan. "Don't pretend the sanctity of other people's marriages mean shit you."

"Fine." He seethed, surging forward to ensnare your arms in an unyielding grip, the ferocity of his movement churning the water and causing your body to sway into his. "You want a better reason as to why I shouldn't touch you, shouldn't even look at you?”

“Do your worst.” You whispered as your hands found their way to his stomach, palms flush against his warm skin.

He swallowed hard, the dark fan of his lashes fluttering at the touch before he huffed a ragged laugh, a hollow sounding thing that was as forced as it was humourless. “If you insist, princess. How about all the years I spent being cruel to you before I ever truly knew you, how about that when I started to care for you I swore I would never say or do anything to hurt you again and then I broke that promise at the first sign of hardship.”

You opened your mouth to argue and Mattheo shook his head, guilty, and distressed by your willingness to defend the harm he had caused.

“I could have been brave and held hope like you did, or been kinder in my approach at ending things for your safety. But instead I immediately reverted back to cruelty that made you cry and almost broke your heart.”

Mattheo's voice broke and then he was releasing you just as suddenly as he'd caught you, pulling away and into himself as shame flooded his face. “You deserve so much more than this, and I have never been nor will ever be worthy of you.”

Silence followed, a gathering of seconds where your breath remained caught in your throat and your eyes stung with the burn of oncoming tears.

And then you were reaching for him tentatively, allowing time for him to retreat if he wished when his heartbroken gaze darted nervously to yours.

He didn’t though.

He gave in like it was suddenly all too much to refuse you, deflating with an agonised sigh and allowing his head to fall into the cup of your hands as your thumbs brushed gently over his cheekbones.

"Don't you think that should be my decision?" You murmured , the first sweeping tendrils of hope beginning to curl around your heart when he glanced at you with soft eyes and a hesitant smile.

“Gods no, you're a terrible judge of character.”

“I'm a fantastic judge of character.”

“You aren't, angel,” He insisted gently. “Do you know how many dodgy characters I've had to pay Lorenzo to scare off just whilst we've been here for this wedding because you're too tender-hearted for your own good.”

“There is nothing wrong with being k– wait–you bribed my knight?”

“Multiple times.” Mattheo confessed, a mischievous little smirk tugging at his lips. “He was more than happy to be able to get a little mean about it, knowing I'd cover for him. He agrees that you're too trusting, by the way.”

You blinked at him, bewildered, before feigning a betrayed look as you muttered. “Traitors, the both of you.” And shook your head in disbelief. "Anyway, my point was that neither of us have been saints and you were certainly not the only one capable of cruelty, Mattheo. I forgave you for it once before, and I forgive you for it now."

His eyes shuttered closed for a moment and he made a soft noise in the back of his throat, hands hesitantly skimming up your sides and over the soaked cotton stuck to your arms whilst he pressed his forehead gently to yours.

"You shouldn't." He murmured, tracing his fingers over the curve of your cheek and dipping to press them softly against your mouth when he sensed your impending protest. "If you forgive me and say you still want to be mine, I will be relentless. I'll tear cities to the ground and kill anyone that tries to take you from me.”

He nudged his nose against yours, something sparking in his chest when he felt the way your breath stuttered, the way you slipped a hand from his face and buried it within his curls at the back of his head to hold him close. “I'll want to steal you away back to my home and wrap you up in the colours of my family and the silk sheets of my bed so everyone knows you're mine.”

The air between you was crackling, suffocatingly hot and bloated with tension as his mouth hovered over your own, lips just barely catching whilst he spoke. “And when it inevitably sparks a war with the Flint's and maybe even between our families too, I will watch as the kingdoms burn and still be unable to let you go."

The heavy-lidded look he gave you as your eyes held his was searing, all unashamed, ruthless honesty, and so much that love that you felt dizzy with it. Weak kneed and breathless in the face of Mattheo’s passion and possessive need stripped back to their rawest forms.

"Then don't." You rasped, before your other hand left his face to cradle the fingers that had dropped from your mouth to linger at your chin, raising them back up so you could kiss the pad of each one. "You have me Mattheo, no matter what trials men or gods may bring, you'll have me. I am yours."

The groan that tore from his throat was pure sin. “Gods– fuck it, m’yours too–I always have been–”

And then Mattheo kissed you like he'd rather die than do anything else.

Desperate hands cupping your face and his mouth crushed to your own, any thought about the consequences, the inevitable chaos he'd be welcoming if he claimed you and gave you himself burning away as something golden and warm burst through him.

It was a demanding thing, raw and inelegant because your arms were tangling around his neck in an instant, fingers sliding rough through the wet silk of his curls, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips before he parted them for you.

And then oh, you were fucking whimpering his name around the prettiest moan he'd ever heard in his damned life.

He didn't want it to be like this though, he didn't want a feral blur of greedy hands and even greedier lips.

You had both fucked quick and frantic plenty of times but this felt like it needed to be different, like he needed to take his time and unravel you bit by bit as if he had all the time in the world to kneel before you and offer his worship.

So he forced himself to quell the desperate roughness in his movements. Kissing you honey-slow and soft as a dream, tilting your jaw carefully so he could deepen it whilst a hand swept down your back to sink you into him.

"Angel." He murmured against your mouth, with a need that was almost overwhelming. "My pretty girl."

The lovely sigh you made at his words did something to him that he couldn't explain, it had him drawing back just an inch, forehead dropping to yours so dark eyes could watch your face, half dazed and lovesick.

Mattheo knew you would have let him take control and fuck you there, in the bath, against the steam-damp stone, you would have let him crowd you against them and wrap your legs around his waist, let him push inside you and set a pace that had your back arching, limbs trembling, moans tumbling from your throat that echoed around the walls like a damn symphony.

But he wanted to hear you ask for it, craved the reassurance of your words rather than just the cues of your body and the urgent press of your mouth telling him that you wanted this, wanted him, whilst his fingers brushed over the laces of your soaked nightgown.

Your eyes found his the moment they fluttered open, hazy and warm with desire, making him groan when you nodded breathlessly.

"Don't stop, Mattheo.” You pleaded, sounding as wrecked as he felt. “I need you."

He caught your mouth with his again, kissed you deep and aching, burning just wild enough that it felt like your knees would buckle whilst his hands worked open each silken ribbon that ran from your chest to your stomach until the nightgown parted wide.

It was with a shaky breath that he let his fingers hook beneath the material at your shoulders. That he drew it down, slow and gentle, until it bared your chest and then your belly, your arms slipping free of the damp sleeves as the top half of the gown fell and bunched at your hips.

There was no time for you to be insecure about it, not when Mattheo was looking at you like you were something sacred. Not when his hands stopped pushing down your gown and instead ghosted up your arms and over the dips of your collarbones with a reverence that had you shivering.

His exploration resuming only once he'd mesmerised every constellation like freckle adorning your skin to then trace the swell of your breasts and the path from your sternum to your navel.

His palms slid to your hips then, kneading gently as he buried his face in your neck to hide the lovestruck, flustered expression on his face. Murmuring, “You are the most beautiful thing I've seen, the closest thing to heaven that I'll ever touch.”

You were smiling, he could feel it. A soft laugh bubbling up past your lips and pouring, pretty and golden, over him as your hand dragged gently down his spine whilst the other tangled itself in his hair. “I didn't know you were capable of being so poetic.”

He let out an amused huff. “It only happens with the right inspiration.” He hummed, lips trailing the curve of your throat as he spoke, nose nudging at your jaw before he pressed a warm, lingering kiss there. “Like being in the presence of divinity.”

You snorted. “You're ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you.”

Your breath hitched, a small gasp fleeing from your throat that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You wanted to melt, wanted to cry, wanted to say it back to him over and over as the pressure from the bloom of your own feelings cracked open your ribs one by one for your heart to pour itself out.

You settled for kissing him instead.

For tasting the words on his lips as Mattheo said them again, hushed and lovely, like he knew you needed them more than you needed air in your lungs. A total goner for the way you lit up each time he did so until you were glowing brighter than the numerous candles flickering around the edges of the bath.

He moaned when you snuck a hand down between to find him hard and aching, gentle fingers circling around his cock, stroking him so maddeningly fucking perfect that he had to grip your wrist and get you to you stop before he embarrassed himself.

"I won't last if you keep touching me like that" He breathed, lips slipping over the curve of your cheek before he dipped his forehead against yours. "Besides, I want you in my bed, like you deserve, the bath can wait for another time."

With that, you let him push the rest of your gown from your body, his hands back on you before the drowned material could even sink to the floor once you stepped out of it.

Swallowing hard as he took a moment to digest that you were fully bare before him, that he was bare before you, and that there was no going back from this now.

There would be denying, no pretending, that he did not love you with every miniscule spec of existence that made up his soul. That he was not yours, as you were his.

His eyes met yours then, gazing over the raw vulnerability of your own expression before he pulled you into a kiss that burned.

That felt like a brand, a promise and a declaration, as he hauled you up into his arms, hands clamped tight beneath your thighs and a low groan rumbling through his chest when you wove your legs around him.

He carried you from the bath like you were infinitely precious, like you were the most important thing in the world to him as he snatched the thickest towels he could and moved out of the room, past the still-roaring fire, and towards the bed.

His mouth brushing softly once, twice, against yours when he set you back on your feet and wrapped you in a towel, drying you with a reverence that had your heart flipping in your chest and your cheeks flushing warm.

He melted when you took the other towel and did the same for him.

Little butterfly kisses pressed to his arms and chest whilst you went before the fizzing in his chest got the better of him and you laughed, startled and bright, as Mattheo tackled you softly down upon the sheets, pushing you back into his pillows with his body encasing yours.

And the sight that awaited him when he looked down was the sweetest, most breathcatching thing he had ever witnessed.

You with firelight slanting over your skin and dancing in your eyes, your mussed hair strewn over the pillowcases and your lips swollen from his affections, staring right back at him like Mattheo had not only hung the moon and the stars, but as if he was more beautiful, more beloved, than all of them combined.

Your hands found his face as his lungs drew tight, fingers sweeping the dip of his brow and the lovely arcs of his cheekbones before you pulled him close and whispered against his mouth. “I love you, Mattheo.”

The noise he made in response was a soft, cracked thing that sounded like you had ruined him.

Like you had slipped a searing hand between his rips and wrapped it around his racing heart until anything else it contained that wasn't you burned away.

Like he craved nothing else for the rest of his life but that white-hot feeling of being utterly in love with you.

“Tell me what you want,” Mattheo choked, voice wholly wrecked, nose nudging against yours. “You can have it, whatever it is, I don't give a damn, I'll give you anything. Everything.”

You gasped as he dragged a scorching touch from your shoulder down past your ribs, your stomach, hovering over your hip bone until it met your outer thigh and let the heat of it sink deep. Sparking a need so fierce you were almost sure you would have cried out for him if it wasn't for his mouth covering yours.

“I want you to touch me,” You told him breathlessly once he had finished kissing you dizzy. “I want you to make love to me, show me that you're mine and I'm yours, Mattheo.”

He had never followed a command so willingly, nor so quickly, in his life.

But the words had hardly parted from your lips before he was readily obliging, fingers slipping further over your skin until his hand dipped between your parted thighs and found you warm and wet for him.

He pressed his fingers to your clit in gentle circles but still you jolted, back arching like a bow and his name a startling moan on your tongue whilst he shushed you with soft sounds and even softer kisses mouthed against your flushed temple.

“Relax for me, princess, I've got you, let me make you feel good.”

You did your best to listen, to settle beneath his electric touch, chest heaving as you nodded and he rewarded you with another kiss for doing so well for him. A lazy, indulgent thing that stole what little of your breath his ministrations had allowed to remain in your lungs.

He was making your head swim with the smallest effort, just his weight hovering over you and his barely there touches that only grew bolder when it seemed like the light pressure was threatening to drive you insane.

The moan you made when he slowly pushed two thick fingers deep inside you, unhinged.

"Does that feel good?" He rasped, biting back a groan when the moment his thumb brushed over your clit you clenched tight around him. Hips canting and your hands grasping at his biceps, nails scoring pretty little crescent moons into his skin.

“Mattheo–” You panted, “oh gods, please.”

You were a shuddering mess. Crying out for him as he pressed himself close and moved a little faster, fingers curling relentlessly against that part of you that made you keen and your thighs shake, trembling and clamping down around his hand like you were desperate to keep him there.

There was the nudge of his forehead falling against yours then, a tender moment that made your heart swell as he watched you in awe. “I know.” He husked.” “You're doing so well, angel. Looking so fucking pretty for me.”

You let out a breathless, little moan at his praise, a delirious sound that once you would have rather died than made in front of him, but now you couldn't care less.

Were delighted by it even, with the way it seemed to hit Mattheo like a rock to the head, his dark eyes blowing wide and dazed.

He looked like he was fighting a war with his restraint.

Torn between his greed for your sounds, his hunger for the way you felt beneath him, around him, when you unravelled by his hand, and simultaneously never wanting it to end so he could have you writhing and whimpering for him for much, much, longer.

But your chest was beginning to rise and fall in shallow jerks, voice thinning as your insides burned and your blood sparked, pressure coiling tight in what felt like every possible nerve ending as Mattheo thrust and crooked his fingers just right until your back was lifting from the bed more often than it was resting against it.

"Are you close?" He murmured, low and rough, heat licking down his spine when you rolled your hips harder against his hand, tears of pleasure sparkling in your eyes as you quickly nodded. "That's it, be a good girl and come for me."

You did. A strangled cry catching at the back of your throat as golden light rushed through you. Blinding. Warm.

Your body quivering beneath his as he coaxed out more pleasure than you knew how to comprehend, head thrown back and hips stuttering until a soft kind of exhaustion settled over you like a blanket and pressed you limp into the sheets.

Mattheo was stroking at your cheek as you dazedly found your way back to him, fingers tracing nonsensical patterns as his gaze turned adoring, his expression lovesick when you blinked before tilting your head up for a sweet, gentle kiss that had him smiling against your mouth.

“You with me, princess?” He teased quietly.

“Always.” You murmured, swallowing the sigh that escaped him as you wound your arms around his neck, drawing him down at the same time you shifted your own body until every inch of him was pressed against you.

He swore as your thighs parted wider for his hips to nestle into, his cock sliding over your wet cunt as you did so, and he couldn't resist any longer when you rocked, slow and deliberate, against him. Fingers tangling in his hair whilst you moved like you were trying to drive him out of his mind.

"I need to feel you."

And fuck, how could he ever deny you anything.

How could he have ever tried.

There was a tremble to his movements when he finally pushed inside you, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he slid in inch by inch until his hips were flush against yours and you were whimpering his name like a prayer.

Your eyes fluttering shut at the stretch of him until his nose nudged sweetly at yours, his breath shaky against your lips when he whispered. "Don't close your eyes, keep them on me."

Mattheo moved slowly once your pleasure-drunk gaze was locked on his.

Languid rolls of his hips and butterfly soft brushes of his fingers up your sides that made the loveliest sighs clamber up from your throat.

Gentle hands removing your arms from around his neck and raising them above your head so he could stretch you out beneath him and melt into you until there was no space left at all between your bodies. Your hearts. Your bonded souls.

And it all felt like nothing could, or would, ever part you again.

He choked on your name when you tightened around him, groaning soft like you'd wounded him, like you’d stolen his breath even as he fought to grasp it with everything he had.

His eyes squeezing shut despite what he'd said because it all felt too fucking good and Mattheo was starting to fray apart at the seams quicker than he wanted to.

“I'm sorry– I’m not gonna last long.” He gasped, voice wrecked and sounding pained by the admission, but then he was moaning into your mouth as you kissed him.

A wild, desperate thing, that told him “don't worry about that, I just want you’ before you answered out loud with a threadbare noise of your own when you hitched your legs up higher around his waist and he thrust deeper, greedier, burying you into the mattress with each half-frantic snap of his hips.

It felt like the fire had blazed outwards from its hearth and swallowed the room, like it had found a home beneath your skin, flaring and spreading until it had then latched onto his, ready to devour him whole.

There was no more kissing anymore, just breathless pants into each other's mouths and his hands clenching desperately around yours whilst pleasure and delirium chased and nipped at your heels.

“Ohgodsohgods–fuck,” You whimpered when he angled his hips and ground into you, his pelvis catching at your clit with each aching press. “Mattheo–”

"I know,” he rasped, his forehead shoved against yours. His body beginning to shake and his pace faltering, movements jerking as your hips rose sharp to meet his own and made light burst behind his eyes. “I know, fuck, come for me angel. Let me feel it.”

You fell apart then, cunt fluttering around him until he followed you into bliss with a hoarse shout that he muffled by kissing you, rough and intense at first, and then slower. Sweeter as the fierce pressure of his orgasm mellowed into a low, buzzing warmth over time.

It took a few minutes for him to be a little less breathless, for his muscles to feel a little less liquified and his vision to lose the hazy smudge of lingering pleasure. But when it finally did, he rose above you just enough that he wasn't crushing you with his weight and looked down at you in awe.

And much to the threat of his own heart, you were staring at him the same way, stunned, eyes that were a bit glassy like you couldn't believe that what had happened between you was real. That it wasn't all some dream that you were destined to wake up from any second, heartbroken and alone.

The ache to reassure you, was a fierce thing that temporarily made him forget how to speak. Tightening his chest to the point of pain, to devastation that any flicker of your doubt was only there because he had planted it himself in a stupid attempt at denial that he would spend the rest of his life making up for.

And he would begin by gently stroking your cheeks in the way that he knew you adored, peppering soft kisses along your forehead and down the line of your nose until you laughed, soft and sweet, and his lips hovered just over yours. His eyes catching your gaze with all the raw honesty and love that he possessed.

"Marry me." He murmured, pressing a doting kiss upon the surprised parting of your lips. "Fuck the laws and our families and your fiance. You are mine and I have always and will always be yours, so marry me instead."

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle #mattheo x reader #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle x y/n #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle fanfiction #mattheo riddle fanfic #slytherin boys #harry potter fanfiction

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edensrose · 28 days ago

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. ۫ᯓᡣ𐭩 r. sukuna ✧ f reader ˚₊‧꒰ა taking what's not his ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

“ 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 king decides a fallen god's wife 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴. ” in which the king of curses takes the honoured one's wife as a war prize ˖ ꯴ ⌇ violence, angst, toru's rolling in his grave.

The Gojo estate never knew such horrors, but with the Strongest long gone, who could possibly stand in disaster's way?

The halls you and your husband upheld for your short reign have been engulfed by flames. The burn of failure scorches every hallway. Ashes of a great clan now engraved in the dirt. A mercy for those who have not been slaughtered by the blade instead. Blood ran rivers over your peaceful abode. Your sanctuary, your home, your everything has been reduced to soot and shame. The King of Curses stood proud at the sight. The Strongest had lost, and so his domain was flooded by hellfire.

But still, you stood tall.

Tooth and nail, you fought. For your clan, for your husband who you haven't even seen the body of. Perhaps it's a blessing. You would rather fall first than see those dull eyes staring back at you.

Screams and gurgles echoed the once peaceful citadel. Malice made its home in the graves of your fallen people. Your head held high, even while you're knelt in your shared bedroom. Four walls that knew so much love, laughter and solace — the last place to be touched by the tyrant king.

You won't let him have the satisfaction. Your blade readied firm between clenching fists. Tears dripped to the steel and you drew the sharpness to your throat. You won't be captured. You won't be a war prize for a mad conqueror. The Jujutsu world has already fallen with your husband, so it was your time too.

Braced. Breathed. With one last look at the picture nestled on your husband's desk, you smiled shakily. Satoru's wide grin and bright eyes will be your last sight. So be it.

The blade bit your flesh. You tighten on the handle and sliced swift —

Clank! Half its length fell to the ground.

Your eyes widen and you scrambled to reposition it over your heart. Thrust forward. Ragged.

It never came.

You screamed and used all your might to shove the broken blade into your chest. So that your heart may bleed and you may rest with your husband. "Release me, you monster!"

Rune-littered hands cupped the blade and forced it down. Your jaw was taken into the unforgiving, hot hold, and you cried out at the sear through your flesh.

In-spite of yourself, your eyes shot open. Teary, veiny, yet your glare daggered all the same. On instinct you spat a pointed wad. It hits a lower eye. But the madman smiled — grinned and wretched your head closer.

"So." He mused, voice grave like the cruel night you're basked in. Eyes firelit like the flames that have engulfed the last shred of your soul. You and your husband's bedroom. He was elated. What more should you expect from the King of Curses?

"This is the Madam Gojo?"

Your head is tossed side-to-side. Unceremoniously. Why should he handle you with the grace you deserved? Charred nails dug into your flesh already flushed red from his burns. "Ending your miserable life already? Why, no fight left in your weak heart?"

"Kill me if you must."

"Kill you? Tempting." His thumb shoved into your cheek and you wailed at the surge of heat. Tears doubled in your vision. You're defenceless. Your home ruined. Your husband slaughtered. But what Sukuna said next struck all of your fears into existence.

"However, it would be quite the waste. . . don't you think?"

You gulped down a sob and squeezed your eyes shut as you're yanked closer. Your hands raised to shove his off, but all you're met with is more scalds that weaken every fibre of your being.

"Open your eyes."

You refused.

"Open. Your. Eyes."

Excruciating blisters littered your body and you keened. You had no saviours. All of your attendants long since met their demise. Your screams echoed a desiccated, aflamed citadel. Like the cries of a lonely, frightened lamb. Your husband was gone. He could not save you. So you peeled your gaze onto him, and immediately felt the soothing caress of ease over your aching body.

You gasped for breath through your sea of tears. His grip only tightened, but no longer did his nails ruin your face.

"I saw you."

What was this mad tyrant on about? Was killing your husband not enough for him? Satoru's heart already stopped, but yours went on; and yours beats for him even beyond the grave. Even in this fiery carnage.

Sukuna drew you closer. Leaned over your knelt form so that your neck arched painfully and his weight suffocated you. His thumb ran over your lower lip and you quiver. Still, your eyes could not leave him. Petrified. Agonised.

"I saw you in his eyes when he realised he had lost."

His face twisted into a grin. Yours wet with tears, shook with sobs.

"I saw you together with fear." He grasped your throat. Cut off your air supply. You choked and tried to envision your husband. Satoru. Just one last time. Happy, alive —

Anything but this. Anything but that grin.

"So much fear." He cackled and pressed a cruel tongue to your tears.

"For his pretty little wife, in the hands of a king."

#. ۫ ۶ৎ . 𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 '𝒏 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 ﹕ satoru & sukuna ꒱ . ˚◞✧#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #sukuna ryomen x reader #gojo angst #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk angst #jujustu kaisen x reader

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alwaysanangelneverag0d · 4 days ago

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~Fast Break to your heart~Pazzi AU

NWSL Paige x WNBA Azzi

a/n:hello yall im very excited to release the first chapter of this i of course welcome any feedback or criticism.Especially in how i write womens soccer.I promise i will get a bit more detailed on that front jjst give me time🙏🙏🙏

Wc:5.3k(i swear most chapters will be much longer then this)

Chapter 1:Collision

Early May-2026

When she agreed to go to the game, Azzi told herself it was to keep the peace. Cam had called it team bonding. Azzi had been halfway through unpacking a box labeled kitchen decorations when Cam burst into her apartment, ripped open the blinds, and announced she was picking her up at three. Azzi had no choice. It was in moments like this that she wished she didn’t coincidentally live in the same apartment as Cameron Brink.

Now Azzi sat on the couch, book on her thigh, hoping Cam would forget she was forcing her into this.

But then she heard a knock and saw Cam standing in her doorway, arms crossed like a disappointed older sister.

“We’re gonna be late,” Cam’s tone was casual but sharp. “And I swear to God, if you bring that book with you, I’m throwing it out on the freeway.”

Azzi gasped. “Wow, threatening literature now—that’s low.”

“I’m not threatening the book. I’m threatening you, Fudd.” Cam stepped inside and snatched the book dramatically. “I’m not letting you third-wheel your own social life.”

Azzi sighed, running a hand through her curled hair. “It’s not about the book, I just couldn't care less about socc—”

Cam cut her off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But consider this: it’s either sit in a packed stadium with friends or keep unpacking boxes, not knowing where you want to put your championship plaques.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “They aren’t even plaques… they’re framed jerseys.”

“Oh, my bad. I meant the Azzi Fudd Hall of Fame wall.”

Despite wanting to shoot daggers, Azzi cracked a grin, stifling a laugh.

Cam grinned back, knowing that when Azzi smiled, it meant victory. “That’s better. Now go put on something that isn’t sweatpants. You know Rickea hates waiting.”

Azzi groaned, mumbling, “The peer pressure is crazyyy.”

“Exactly,” Cam grinned. “Welcome to the team, Fudd.”

As they walked out of the apartment building, Cam reached out and bumped her shoulder slightly.

“Serious question,” Cam glanced sideways at her. “Why the hell are you still unpacking boxes for your kitchen? You’ve been here like two weeks.”

“Three, actually,” Azzi muttered. “Not that I’ve been counting.”

Cam raised a brow. “That is worse.”

Azzi didn’t respond immediately. She just kept walking through the lot, dragging her feet like her body was forcing her forward. The silence stretched long enough to make Cam look at her with concern.

“It’s not like, deep or anything,” Azzi said quickly, definitely not convincing. “I’ve just been really busy.”

“With what?” Cam added. “I have seen you read the same book three times this week.”

Azzi cracked a grin. “Hey, at least I’m consistent.”

Cam stopped walking and paused. “I get it—you don’t feel like this is home.”

Azzi’s shoulders stiffened. “It’s not about that.”

“It’s exactly about that.”

Azzi paused. She didn’t want to admit it, but Cam was right—even though she hadn’t fully acknowledged it out loud.

“I guess I just—” Azzi exhaled, “don’t feel settled yet.”

Cam didn’t say anything, letting Azzi open up at her own pace.

“I miss rhythm. The familiarity of the people, the court, routine.” She paused. “When I was at UConn, even the silence felt like it belonged to me. Here? It just feels like I’m a visitor. Like, I don’t belong here yet.”

Cam frowned, but her eyes showed understanding.

“You do belong here. Maybe just not in the ways you want to yet, but you do. You don’t have to force yourself to prove you belong every single day.”

Azzi nodded. “I know… but it’s just weird. Being without the girls. The noise. Familiarity.”

Cam bumped her shoulder once more. “Then let us be your noise.”

“You’re already loud enough.”

And then, to almost prove Azzi’s point, their moment was interrupted by a set of honks.

Azzi jumped, while Cam just shook her head with a grin.

“HELLOOOOOO!”

“Rickea, chill, we’re coming,” Azzi called back as they jogged toward the car.

“Took you long enough. I was about to start charging for loitering.”

Cam laughed. “My bad, Kea.”

Rickea shook her head. “Distractions get you nowhere when it comes to me.”

“Sorry, Kea. We’ll keep it quick next time.”

“You bet,” Rickea added. “’Cause next time, you’ll be walking to the game.”

———————————————————————-

Rickea’s Jeep vibrated with bass as Mary J. Blige blasted through the speakers, the windows rolled halfway down to let in the warm L.A. evening air. The girls were screaming the lyrics with unfiltered enthusiasm, not a single note in key, and none of them cared.

Cam was drumming on the dashboard like it was a snare, Rickea slapped the steering wheel in rhythm, and Dearica had her head halfway out the window, harmonizing so badly it looped around to charming. Azzi sat in the back, squeezed against the door, a reluctant passenger in the chaos.

But the noise was oddly comforting. Loud in a way that made silence feel impossible. Like friendship layered over static.

Azzi stared out the window, watching the city blur past in neon smudges and golden smears of sunlight. Her heart was ticking faster than it should’ve been, though she couldn’t decide if it was from nerves or something else.

She laughed when Cam tried to hit a high note and cracked spectacularly, clutching her chest like the lyrics had physically wounded her. It was ridiculous. And for a second, it felt good.

The closer they got to the arena, the more the atmosphere shifted.

Traffic thickened. Tailgates flipped open. Fans in pink and black filtered onto the sidewalks in packs. The air felt charged, like something big was about to happen.

Cam twisted sharply in her seat, dropping her sunglasses onto her lap as the chorus faded into the next track. She turned down the volume, not dramatically, but with purpose. The quiet hit harder after so much noise.

Cameron smiled at azzi as if she had something of great importance to say

“Just so you know,” she began dramatically, “there’s gonna be tons of hot, muscular women waiting for a beautiful, curly-headed basketball player like you to waltz in there.”

Azzi rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. This again.

The group’s obsession with trying to set her up was getting exhausting.

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m a visionary, actually,” Cam corrected, completely unbothered.

“A horny visionary.”

Rickea cackled as Cam threw her head back, clutching her chest like Azzi’s answer had physically wounded her.

“Listen, Az,” Cam said, leaning in like she was sharing sacred wisdom. “All I’m saying is—new city, new you. Let someone ruin you for once. Preferably someone with sexy thighs and a six-pack.”

Azzi groaned, already preparing to recite the same speech she’d been giving since she landed in L.A. “I’m not trying to date anyone right now. Or hook up. Or do anything other than basketball.”

“Yeah, but a basketball can’t kiss you goodnight,” Rickea chimed in from the driver’s seat, not even missing a beat.

“If it somehow could,” Azzi muttered, “it would probably still do it better than all the people you sleep with.”

Cam let out a loud snort. “BURN.”

Rickea gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like Azzi had shot her point blank. “She’s ruthless! Cam, I told you she was cold-blooded off the court, too!”

Cam and Rickea launched into a fake argument over who was the more emotionally neglected friend, their voices escalating with every fake accusation. Azzi leaned back into her seat and stared out the window, letting their banter fill the space around her.

There was something peaceful about the noise. Familiar. Like background music to her restless thoughts.

But the moment they stepped out of the car, everything changed.

The hum of the stadium hit Azzi like a wave—loud and alive. You could feel the energy in the air, buzzing with anticipation. The crowd, even from a distance, moved like a tide, their chatter and laughter rising in waves as the arena loomed overhead like a coliseum built for modern-day gladiators.

And the closer they walked, the more Azzi felt it: that quiet shift in the air. Like she wasn’t just walking into a soccer game, but into something bigger. Something electric.

The concrete beneath her sneakers felt different. The lights ahead were brighter. The sound of a thousand voices layered over one another felt like prophecy.

It was just a game.

Fans were weaving in and out of lines, most decked in jerseys, scarves, and posters in the team's hues of pink, black, and grey. But what pulled her into noticing was the name

Bueckers

Over and over again

It was on the back of jerseys in bold lettering. On colorful signs that almost felt like declarations. Even painted on the cheeks of young fans

Azzi’s breath hitched. Paige’s name might as well have been sewn into the air

They didn’t just admire. They adored her

‘’Is this normal? ’’ she asked under her breath as they headed towards their section of seats

Cam followed her gaze. “For Paige? Yes, L.A. worships her, she’s like the female Messi”.

“Shit they’d probably elect her for mayor and she wouldn’t even have to campaign” Rickea added.

Azzi let out a chuckle, but for some reason, her chest felt tight. She had played in front of sellout crowds. She saw her name on posters, jerseys, and faces, just like Paige. But this noise wasn’t for the sake of a team, it was for her.

Paige

The one the city had crowned theirs

Her eyes glazed over a sign ‘’The prophecy lives”

She didn’t know which made her feel worse. That Paige had a hype azzi dreamed to have one day.. Or the fact that she understood why.

—————————————————————-

As they weaved through the crowd towards their seats, Azzi found herself feeling weirdly off balance. Not sick, just..off.Maybe it was the lights. Or the noise.Or maybe something else.Someone else

She barely had a moment to ground herself when Cam cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed,

“PAIGEEEEE”

Azzi was mortified. “Cam, what are you doing?” Azzi hissed, grabbing the taller girl's arms in an attempt to stop the draw of attention Cam had summoned. Heads turned in their direction. Azzi immediately ducked lower in her seat. The last thing she wanted was attention, especially when it came to Cam’s antics

“I'm tryna get PB's attention,” Cam whined as she waved her arms frantically in the air like she was lost in the forest begging for a helicopter rescue.

Azzi followed her gaze towards the field. There she was. Paige Bueckers. Talking to a teammate, water bottle clutched in strong, veined hands. Azzi blinked. Something inside her hiccupped. She turned back to Cam.

“Wait, you know her?”

“ I could’ve sworn I mentioned her name once. Possibly even twice”

Azzi was truly astonished

“When you said ‘Paige’, I didn’t think you meant the Paige Bueckers.”

Can shot her a proud look. “Yep.The one and only. The chosen one, they say”

Rickea giggled, “We love Paigey, even though she looks mean, she's like a teddy bear.”

Azzi’s eyebrow raised. “She does not give off the vibes of a teddy bear’

“I mean to be honest, she has always had a certain reputation, you could say,” Rickea smirked as if she was about to reveal government secrets

“A Reputation of…?”.Azzi was curious

“Being a massive S-L-U-T,” Rickea’s smirked

“Don’t you think that's a bit harsh?” Dearica chimed in from the other side

Can let out a loud snicker at this. “Only harsh if you didn’t go to Stanford with her. I eventually lost track of the number of girls who came up to me, in literal tears, because Paige ghosted them

“Oh yeah,” Rickea added,” and always the same excuse- ’ I need to focus on soccer’.Not like she was lying.”

“I think I saw her sleep in cleats one time in spring sem,” Cam giggled.

‘She had the same line for everyone’’Rickea shook her head. “Never lasted more than a week with a girl.”

Azzi said nothing. Her eyes drifted unintentionally back to the bench. Paige was crouched, lacing her cleats. Something was mesmerizing about just that simple act. The way she carried herself in simplicity made Azzi’s stomach drop.

Azzi blinked, realizing she was staring. That’s when she felt a nudge

Dearica leaned in. “She’s hot, isn’t she?”

Azzi’s face flushed.”Um–what? No.”

But her voice was too flat for someone who was denying it.

Rickea smirked, “Mhm.”

“Seriously, I don’t have time for a distraction like that; basketball is my only focus.”

“Well, your loss.” Rickea licked her lips, “'Cause if I was into girls, I’d let Paige ruin my life.”She threw her head back dramatically .”Those gorgeous chiseled abs?That jawline? She could call me ugly, and I’d still thank her for acknowledging me.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. Biting her cheeks to keep from breaking out in a grin

“I think you two would get along well.”

Azzi blinked, shocked at Cam’s sudden comment

“Me and Paige?”

Rickea and Cam nodded in agreement

“As weird as it sounds, yeah.” Cam added, “You are way more alike than you’d like to think.”

“I doubt that,” Azzi scoffed. What could she possibly have in common with Paige?

“I'm being serious, Az.” Cam paused, “You both live for the game, like, don't get me wrong, I love ball. But you both don't just play the game you love-you live it.”

Azzis breath caught

“You train it every day like it's a religion to be preached. You push yourselves even when you're long past empty. You breathe the game into your lungs. I've only met two people like that.You.And her”

Azzi was rendered speechless. She felt uncomfortable with how Paige’s dedication made her feel. How seen she felt

“Though I must say you are definitely much much nicer,” Rickea joked, earning a hard jab to the ribs from Cam in retaliation

“Still,” Cam added, “You would like her more than you think, hun.”

Azzid forced herself to let out a laugh and smile, but it came out ingenuine hollow. Forced

Might like her?Absolutely not. Liking Paige Bueckers would not be happening.

The lights dimmed slightly. The announcer's voice boomed through the arena, echoing off the walls and out of the open roof.

Azzi shifted in her seat. She hadn’t expected to come here and feel like this. Her heart ticked like it was ready to explode. Not in fear of the game . There was the unfamiliar weight lingering. A force threatening to break her walls.

A quick montage played on the arena jumbotron.Highlights flashing. Explosive cuts of goals and saves.

One by one, the announcer began calling out the starting eleven players, each name sparking a wave of applause and chants. The anticipation built steadily, like the calm before a storm.

“Starting in goal… number 19… Angelina Anderson!”

The crowd erupted with cheers, fans waving scarves and chanting her name.

“And holding midfield… number 23… Christen Press!”

A fresh roar surged through the stands, a mix of whistles and applause echoing off the arena walls.

Rickea hit Azzi’s side. “Just wait until you hear the crowd when they announce her.”

Azzi just nodded at Rickea's words. Her body began to sweat

Why is she affecting her like this

“And starting at forward…”

Cam rubbed her hands together in excitement

A quick pause of silence

“Number 5…..PAIGEE BUECKERRRSSS!”

The stadium exploded in increased volume

“PB! PB!

Chants came from every end of the arena

But this wasn’t like the names before. It wasn’t cheering.This was worship

Devotion.As if she were something holy. The entire stadium had turned into a congregation, and Paige was there gospel

She gazed up in silence as the Jumbotron showed Paige’s slow jog onto the field. Her movements were calm and easy. Like she didn’t need to meet the energy of the crowd.The energy wrapped around her.Made space for her

Azzi hated how poetic every thought in her brain felt. She was jealous that just a jersey and a name brought utter devotion from people.

The city didn’t just love Paige. They believed in her. The kind of belief where they built statues.The kind of belief that puts pressure on your soul.

But she knew then something deep inside her had shifted. Something her mind had failed to catch up with.

A warning, maybe, or possibly a pull.

And that terrified her.

___

The field was in complete chaos. players colliding like atoms, cleats slicing grass, arms jostling for space. And then, without warning, the chaos formed around her

Paige.

She didn’t just receive the ball- she absorbed it. A touch so clean it looked magnetic, as if the ball had been drawn towards her. Her back was to goal, one defender already pressing close, but Paige’s first move was so subtle it barely registered until the defender lunged and missed.

Azzi leaned forward in her seat.

Paige spun, shielding with her shoulder, and accelerated. Not in the way most players sprinted-desperate, messy-, but like a blade sliding through air. Each stride was long, hungry, clean. She pushed the ball ahead with the outside of her foot and slipped through a seam that shouldn’t have existed. Azzi blinked. The defenders were caught on their heels, like they were chasing a ghost.

One last defender closed in, a center back with broad shoulders and fast feet. Paige didn’t slow. She tapped the ball to the right with her instep, drawing the defender that direction, then cut back left so sharply the girl nearly tripped over her own two feet. Paige was through. Open.

Azzi’s pulse quickened.

The box approached. The goalie stepped up.

And Paige didn’t hesitate.

Her foot met the ball with terrifying control, a low, curling strike with the inside of her cleat that spun like it had a mind of its own. It curled around the keeper’s outstretched hand, bent at the last moment, and kissed the inside of the far post before settling into the back of the net.

Azzi didn’t even realize she’d held her breath until the crowd exploded.

A sound so huge it felt like it shifted the air in her lungs.

Paige didn’t celebrate

She turned back towards midfield

And then she did it

Lifted the hem of her jersey to wipe the beads of sweat off her face

A simple gesture

But to Azzi, it felt like her world had tilted

Her eyes caught the flash of skin. Smooth, carved with the definition that could only come from obsession,from hours of morning reps . Paige’s abs were unreal. She was convinced they were sculpted from the gods. Sharp lines traced down her stomach, flexing even more with heavy breaths. In that moment, Azzi wondered what it would be like to trace the tips of her fingers along those sharp lines.

She blinked, forcing her mind and eyes to gather themselves

Did she just stare at Paige Bueckers' abs?

Yes, god yes, she had

She glanced away as fast as she could, hoping none of her teammates had picked up on Azzi’s wandering eyes.

But to her dismay, Ricked leaned in

“Now you see what I was talking about.”

Azzi groaned, “Don’t.”

“Like I said,” Rickea whispered, “I would let Paige ruin me.” She let out a low whistle, eyes still fixed on the field.

Azzi tried to force a laugh, but she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She felt deeply unsettled and wasn’t sure if it was due to Paige’s ridiculous body or the fact that for a full 11 seconds, Azzi had frozen. Completely mesmerized

But she wasn’t interested. She swore it

She crossed her arms, trying to shut the feeling out. But her mind only drifted back toward the slow lift of that jersey. The pale skin. A strength only achieved by devotion and obsession

The way it made her feel something.A feeling that she had spent her whole career running from.

For the rest of the game, she told herself she was watching in the interest of the sport. She clapped when the crowd clapped, winced when they gasped, and nodded when Cam shouted about a missed call. But in truth?

She wasn’t watching the game

She was watching her

Every time Paige moved across the field, Azzi felt her eyes follow. It wasn’t out of her conscious-but something magnetic. Like rereading a line in a book that left her hollow

The way Paige sprinted in perfect form.The way she called for the ball-voice loud and imposing, carrying through the crowd.The flick of her hand when she made a gesture.The flame in her eyes when a pass didn’t connect.

Azzi Fudd knew nothing about soccer, but she didn’t need to. Paige made the rules irrelevant. Watching her play was not about understanding the strategy. It was about feeling intensity radiate off of every kick, every pivot.

She played like it was her god given purpose. Not cocky, but inevitable

It was irritating. And maddening

Yet Azzi couldn’t stop watching.

When the final whistle blew, the crowd cheered. Azzi felt as if she had just snapped out of a trance

The game was over, and yet Azzi couldn’t help but feel like it just started.

Cam insisted on staying behind to greet Paige.

Azzi lingered at the edge of the group as they approached, keeping her distance like a cautious observer. She wasn’t trying to be rude—she just didn’t want to intrude. It felt strange, being here. It was like she was hovering on the edge of Paige’s spotlight. Cam wasted no time. She threw her arms around Paige in one of her signature Brink hugs, the kind that squeezed the air out of you. To Azzi’s surprise, Paige laughed a soft, raspy sound that felt too human for someone Azzi had half-convinced herself was just a goal-scoring robot.

Still, she stayed back.Watching.Observing

When Paige’s eyes finally flicked toward her, Azzi turned away—too quickly, too obviously. She pretended to squint up at the arena seats, as if something up there had suddenly become fascinating. Anything to avoid the weight of her stare. Because even as Rickea and Dearica began chatting with Paige, Azzi could feel her eyes trailing across her skin like a scan. Cold.Observant.

Her skin suddenly felt too cold for a warm L.A. night.

She forced herself to glance back. Paige was still watching her, expression unreadable.

“Who’s she?” Paige asked, nodding toward Azzi. Her voice was low clipped and polite, but hollow. Void of interest. It wasn’t curiosity, just protocol.

“That’s Azzi!” Cam said brightly. “The super cool, ridiculously talented new teammate I told you about.” She shoved Azzi forward like she was offering up a shiny trophy.

“Oh. Right,” Paige said, her tone dry. She shifted her weight, hands fidgeting at her sides. “Nice to meet you.” The words landed with a dull thud, lacking warmth or care.

Azzi stepped forward only slightly, offering a stiff nod. “Nice goal earlier,” she said flatly, the compliment thinly veiled behind indifference

Her voice was cooler than usual, measured, detached. The kind of voice she used on the court when the scoreboard was close and emotions were too dangerous. Her teammates shot each other quiet looks, confused. That wasn’t how Azzi usually spoke to people. That wasn't the girl who laughed at Cam’s dumb jokes or hugged Rickea after practices.

Paige didn’t even blink. “Thanks.” Her response was mechanical, as if she were reading off a script. No smile. No acknowledgment. Just a hand held out like a formality.

Azzi shook it briefly. The handshake was firm, businesslike. Her palm was warm but steady, soft yet calloused. Azzi hated that she noticed that. Hated that, for a second, she wondered how someone could have hands like that and still feel so distant. So far from reach.

As soon as their hands separated, the thread between them snapped. Paige turned back to Cam, as if Azzi had never been there. Like she wasn’t worth more than a few seconds of transactional introduction.

Azzi stood still, pretending it didn’t bother her. Pretending she hadn’t just been dismissed. She told herself she didn’t care.

They stayed a while longer, the conversation flowing around her like a current that was too dangerous to step into. Paige talked to Cam, laughed with Rickea. Even joked with Dearica. But not once did she address Azzi again.

And Azzi didn’t try either.

When it was time to go, she gave Cam a quick hug, hearing her say, “We’re overdue for a chat and some Shirley Temples.” Azzi gave a small, detached wave in return and followed the others toward the exit. Her chest tightened, but her face remained calm.

She wasn’t offended

She just didn’t expect someone to be so good at making her feel invisible.

———————————————————————

Later, as they were walking back to Rickea’s car, the sun had dipped, causing the sky to be painted in deep blue and oranges should’ve made Azzi lighten. Usually, she would pull her phone out and take a picture, but her body still felt rigid. Her Hand still felt warm. She could still feel the way Paige didn’t acknowledge her. Like she didn’t exist

Nope.Nope.She was not letting a small interaction get in her head. Especially when that person was probably gonna forget her name the next day

She was pulled out of her trance as Rickea made a dramatic stop in front of the car

“Ok, what the hell was that?”

“What was what?”

“Why were you acting like Elsa the ice queen when you met Paige?”

Dearica gave Rickea a look and leaned against the passenger door.” Seriously, Azzi, you shook her hand like you had just ended a business meeting.”

Rickea added, “Yeah, that’s not like you at all.”

Azzi scoffed, smirking even though she had wanted to curl in a ball at the fact they had also noticed.”I was being normal, you guys are just being dramatic.”

“Normal,” Dearica shot back, “You were stiffer than Cam’s hair on picture day. That’s not the same Azzi who tried to fight the vending machine for stealing her protein bar.”

“I'm just tired, it's been a long day,” she replied, her voice in a calm tone that signified she was done talking about it.

But she felt it in the way they looked at her. As if they could see straight through her lie.

“Ok, let's go.” Azzi opened the back door of the car and slid in. Grateful that they didn’t push. She rested her head against the hot window. Silence settled in the car as the hum of the city slowing down filled the space

Rickea and Dearica talked quietly in the front, but Azzi felt elsewhere. She was too busy fighting against her brain

Stop overthinking about someone you met once. You’re being dramatic. She’s allowed to act cold towards you if she feels like it. She doesn’t know you

She most definitely forgot your name already, anyway. Which is good because that means it will be easier to forget her, too. You are here for basketball. Not that kind of attention

Paige Bueckers shouldn’t bother her. But her thoughts still betrayed her. She had been ignored by worse. Her parents, her coaches, and teammates. But somehow, the ignorance of a stranger stung her heart deeper.

It was the effortlessness of Paige's switch to indifference that made her stomach do backflips.

She’s probably just an asshole to everyone. Cam practically said it herself

But somehow Paige's ignoring her had felt deeply personal. And thats what pissed her off most. How was she letting a stranger occupy her mind like this

You don't even know her, and you have a game tomorrow. Stay focused.

She clenched her hands into fists in her lap to regain control.

Azzi Fudd never feels like this. Curious about someone.Not right.Unsettled

And definitely not intrigued. Especially by someone like Paige Bueckers

But even as Rickea pulled into the apartment parking lot

Azzi knew the thought of Paige would still linger.No matter how far she pushed it down

——————————————————————

Later that night, after unpacking two or so more boxes. The apartment was purely quiet. A silence she had been craving all day

A blanket was pulled over her legs while Stewie snoozed between her feet. A half-unpacked box sat next to her mockingly

Azzi sipped from her second glass of wine. Or maybe it was her third? She didn’t bother to count. Staring at the book in her hand

She had read the same paragraph 7 times in the last ten minutes. Her eyes tried again to absorb the words of her book, but her brain wasn’t registering them

It was probably just nerves. She had her first regular-season game tomorrow, and that had her in her head.

But as she turned another page, she knew that wasn't true. Her only thoughts were a certain 5’8 blonde

Paige.

Not in a weird way, not like a crush or some shit. You’re just curious.

But the game had ended hours ago, and thoughts of Paige still lingered like static in the crevices of her brain. Azzi kept picturing those stupid abs and how they caught the lights in the arena. She could still feel the Vibration from when they chanted her name. Like it was a sermon at church.As if she were the Holy gospel

The way they worshipped Paige.Pure devotion. It got under Azzis' skin in ways that made her wanna squirm. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about it

Before her brain could stop her, she reached for her phone. Tapped into Instagram

Just out of curiosity.Not intrigue

Her fingers typed the name like it was second nature. As if her name was something she regularly searched

@ paigebueckers

Her profile was clean. Not much personality.Serious.But here and there was the odd personal photo. Still, Azzi kept scrolling as if she were studying a code she couldn’t decipher. Then she stopped

It was just a team photo. The year Stanford won the national championship. Paige was right in the middle, and she was smiling. One that was too real to be a posed smile like in various of her other photos.Real.Genuine.And for a few seconds, Azzi just stared

So there is softness somewhere deep inside.

She zoomed in without a thought, pulling the image wider. As if she would be able to see more of her this way.

Then her thumb betrayed her and double-tapped.

Fuck.

She felt her soul leave her body

Azzis' eyes widened in fear, staring blankly at what she had just done. It wasn’t just any photo. But a photo from three years ago. And Paige would see it at the top of her notifications

Wait. She probably won’t notice. She gets thousands of likes per day. It will be buried in seconds. And she won't see it in time

Azzi set her phone down on the coffee table. And reached for the wine. Planning to finish the bottle to forget what she had just done

But the second the glass lifted to her lips, her phone buzzed

She looked. Her body suddenly felt cold

paigebueckers sent you a message request

No way.No

Her mind raced ahead, imagining the worst. A string of question marks. Or worse, Paige calling her out, sharp and ruthless: “Who the hell are you?” or “Stop creeping on me.”

But when the message loaded, it was nothing like what she expected.

paigebueckers: I didn’t take you to be a Stanford fan.

Her heart fluttered.

In that moment, Azzi Fudd wished she had chosen something stronger than a bottle of wine.

#uconn wbb #pazzi #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige x azzi #azzi fudd #pazzi fics

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quietstormxr · 6 months ago

Text

Forgotten

Pure, unadulterated angst.

Reader x ?

Poll Results: Reader x Xaden Riorson

A/N: Fourth Wing Spoilers, Mentions of depression

Word Count: 1.7k

Trying something different and asking for y'alls input. There will be a poll at the bottom for you to participate in the story if you're interested.

Tomorrow, Always Tomorrow - Home

You watch as they rally around her. The way they are now busy watching her every move. Training her at every opportunity. They even made her a damn saddle for her dragon. They constantly train her on the mat, design daggers for her hands and strength.

Staring at the blazing fire in the common room, you slowly watch your surroundings and the comings and goings. But no one knows you’re there.

You’re invisible.

Not only to those who you thought cared about you, but also thanks to your signet. You huff a laugh as you mask yourself in the alcove that you’ve come to claim as your own.

All you must do is survive for a few more days before you’re free from them all. Free from any eyes looking for you, free from expectations, from them.

You always knew that you weren’t a priority. You always faded to the back of conversations, the back of the room. Left to your own devices, you let the resentment fester, the feeling of not being worthwhile.

No one ever described what a bond breaking between a dragon and a human felt like, but you could feel the way your dragon’s voice seemed to start feeling like it was underwater. The communication line between the two of you seeming to be drowning, the same way you felt yourself breaking apart at the seams.

As you arrived in formation when the alarms went off, you kept to yourself and your eyes straight ahead. Nothing in your mind registered anymore. The only thing behind your eyes was the festering of relentless anger.

As you go to leave formation and gather your things, you feel a tug on your arm. You look back to see Imogen tapping your shoulder.

“Xaden wants you for the headquarters squad.” You raise your eyes to hers and give a tight nod, nothing showing in your eyes.

While packing your things, you can’t help but wonder if you could just walk away from it all. If they think you’re dead, it wouldn’t matter at this point. With a plan forming in your mind, you pack everything that you deem important and leave the rest of your things behind. You close the door, not leaving a note or anything to find. You’ll either succeed in your plan or you’ll face a punishment you won’t return from.

You head to the flight field. Your dragon waits behind all the others. You huff a laugh at the fact that even your dragon knows how much you just want to fade into the background of it all.

You may not want to listen or watch the comradery of those you used to consider friends or even a lover, but you make sure to keep your eyes sharp. You watch as everything unfolds in front of you, until you watch as Xaden and Garrick stride towards you.

“I assume Imogen told you that you’re coming with us.” Xaden says, no pretense of niceties in sight.

“Yes.” Succinct. Final. There’s nothing more to say.

Both look at you seeming to take in the stone of your appearance, most likely confused by your lack of warmth they were so used to seeing. They exchange a look, but Xaden nods to you and strides away. You watch as they both stride towards Liam and Bodhi, all of them collectively looking back towards you. Even though you are eager to lash out at them, yell, scream, and cry, you just look back with a look of impassivity.

“Headquarters squad, let’s go.” Xaden calls as he mounts Sgaeyl.

You fly at the back of the riot, which your dragon does willingly. There’s no need for you to voice your feelings towards those in front of you when your dragon is already well aware.

The way you lag behind the others has you touching down at the lake about ten minutes after everyone else. As soon as you do, you’re met with a scene that causes you to snort in derision.

Of course Sorrengail wasn’t going to react well to things that were kept from her. You knew that from just watching the way the girl had treated her friends. Everyone is so preoccupied with the scene in front of them, they don’t realize you’ve landed.

Forgotten again.

The pattern is now almost comical. You watch, still mounted as Xaden tries to reason with Sorrengail, Liam trying to prove his friendship, Bodhi and Garrick waiting hesitantly.

Soon enough, it seems Xaden has calmed the little scribe down and everyone is mounting again. No one even realizes that you weren’t even aware of the gryphons either. No one tries to reassure you; you just must reassure yourself.

Once at Athbyne, you search the empty barracks on your own and honestly can’t believe your luck. The plan you have may just be easier to pull off than you ever thought.

While you’re exploring the rooms of the outpost, it seems the group has come to a decision to fight. As you make your way up to the wall where everyone is standing, you listen as Sorrengail goes into details on the venin you’re about to face.

Without caring to hear more, you turn and head back to your dragon. You’ll still execute your plan, but there’s no way that you’re going to leave innocent people out there to die. If you do, then you’re no better than anyone back at Basgiath.

As you sweep the perimeter of town, you’re met with a sight that breaks your own heart. A child has been left behind in the mess of confusion and fleeing. A little girl crying, curled up in a ball, wailing somone’s name to save her.

You can’t help the tears that swim in your eyes feeling like you’re watching yourself break into a million pieces.

You command your dragon to land and immediately pick up the girl. You begin running towards the mine where the rest of the townspeople are but stop in your tracks. Eyes flaring wide, you watch the venin completely drain Soleil and her dragon.

You turn again and sprint as fast as you can with the girl in your arms back to your dragon. You mount and command your dragon to bring you to where the rest of the townspeople are being gathered.

Once there, you bring the little girl to a woman who has her arms out and seems to be shouting the little girl’s name. Watching as she is now cradled and being comforted, you turn your back on the scene and take a deep breath. All you want is someone to comfort you like that. No, not just someone. One specific person.

You shake your head at the thought that causes your heart to crack open.

When you bring your head up, you’re met with red eyes and a shock of tattered purple robes.

“Such pain for such a young person.” The male voice hisses in a raspy voice that sounds like a distorted rumble.

You can’t hide the flash of recognition at the words that settle in your mind.

“Why don’t you take all of that pain and channel with me?” He says while beginning to circle around you.

Looking around, you realize that you’re alone. There aren’t any other riders or fliers in this area.

“You can show them what real power looks like and show them you aren’t one to be forgotten.” The words he’s spitting begin to swirl in your mind. The thought of being able to be powerful and not just a shell that’s been rejected hitting you square in the chest.

You shake your head trying to escape the hold that the venin’s words have seemed to settle in your mind.

“I won’t be controlled. By you or any power.” You spit through clenched teeth, trying to bite back from the hold that you can’t seem to shake from your mind.

“Your spirit is fierce. It would be so pleasant to break you.” The venin continues.

You find yourself reaching for the sheath that was given to you months ago with instructions not to use unless absolutely necessary. You suppose this situation would render it’s use necessary.

You double over with the sheer amount of power that the venin seems to be plying towards you. Without overthinking, you grab the hilt of the dagger and fling it. Your aim is the one thing you’ve never questioned about yourself and as you expect, it finds it home in the chest of the venin.

The creature’s eyes seem to blaze with the fury that you were able to best him. You find yourself crawling backwards trying to get as far away as possible.

Suddenly the din of the battle still going on around you crashes back into your mind. You look up to see dragons locked in battle, to your left and right civilians are still running for cover. Realizing that your own dragon’s focus is taken helping Deigh eviscerate a wyvern, you know this is when you have to make your decision.

You take a steadying deep breath, trying to calm yourself from the interaction with the venin. As soon as you feel your heartbeat return to something a little more normal, you’re off. You swing your pack on your back as you run. With one look back, you feel like your entire being is breaking, but you just can’t imagine staying anymore.

A slight panic tries to break through your thoughts, it must be your dragon knowing what you’re about to do. However, as you continue running, you feel your dragon’s connection growing thinner and thinner. There’s no reason to devote much thought to it as you keep going, if you die away from your dragon, so be it. No matter what, from now on it will be on your terms.

You steal into a thick cover of forest and throw your bag down. You slide down the trunk of a tree and collapse into a tired heap. At this point, the sun has crested on the horizon and night is beginning to set. Your mind can’t help but wonder if anyone has even realized that you’re gone. The last thought you have before sleep finds you is that your dragon can find a new and worthy rider.

#fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing x reader #xaden riorson #bodhi durran #garrick tavis #bodhi durran x reader #xaden riorson x reader #fourth wing xaden #garrick tavis x reader #the empyrean #the empyrean fanfic #fourth wing fic #fourth wing #bodhi fourth wing #garrick fourth wing #iron flame #iron flame fanfic

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tobisaurus · 3 months ago

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#ides of march #march 15th #caesar #carry on cleo #kenneth williams #15th march #julius caesar #stabby stab #this is what happens to dictators #dictator on day one #may your daggers be sharp

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writers-potion · 1 year ago

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Writing Weapons (2): Knives and Daggers

Dagger vs. Sword

In many situations, daggers might be more plausible than a sword fight.

Dagger are eaiser to carry and conceal, lighter, faster, good for spontaneous action, suicide bids, self-defense and assassination.

Dagger vs. Knife

No clear distinction; terms used interchangeably

Dagger is more for thrusting with 2 sharp edges

Knife is more for cutting (slashing) with 1 sharp edge

Concealment

Carried in a leather sheath on the belt

Can be concealed under a cloak, in a bodice (sheath sewn into the bodice), in a boot, behind hari ornaments

Bodice daggers (popular in the Renaissance) had no cross guards.

Connotations

Beside its combat value, the dagger has lots of emotional and sexual symbolisms.

The closeness need to attack with a dagger creates intense personal connection. They are often used in fights where emotions are running high: gang warfare, hate crime, vengeance.

Due to its shape and the fact that it's usually worn on a belt made it a symbol of virility in many cultures and periods.

Sometimes it was the hilt rather than the blade: like in the case of bollocks daggers with two...balls on either side of the hilt.

Fighting Techniques

Stabbing:-

The dagger with long, thin blades are made to stab a vital organ like the kidneys, liver, bowel, stomach or heart.

Stabbing directly at the chest seldom works, since the blde may glance off the ribs. Position the dagger below the ribcage and drive it upwards, through the diaphragm and into the lungs. If the sword is long enough and your fighter is a professional, you can get to the heart.

If no professional, just keep going for the stomach and you'll get one of the vital organs eventually.

Slashing:-

When describing a slash wound, show a lot of blood streaming, or even spurting.

Slashing dagger fights are bloody - show your MC's hands getting slick with blood, grip on the weapon slipping.

The aim is to cut the opponent's throat or cut tendoms, muscles, or ligaments to disable. Slashing the muscles in the weapon-wielding arm is the most effective; insides of the writst or back of the knee is also critical.

Assassinations:-

Show good knowledge of the humna antatomy

Use a stabbing dagger

A single, determined, calculated and efficient stroke, probably below the ribs.

Self-Defense:-

Disable the attacker by slashing their weapon-wielding hand (elbow or wrist)

Quick, multiple stabs wherever the MC can get the blade to land; the attacker won't give time for careful positioning

If the blade is too short to do any significant damage, maek up for this by stabbing so ast that the pain and blood loss distracts the opponent.

Vegeance and Hatred:-

Someone who is motivated by raging emotions will stab the victim repeatedly, even after he is already dead.

The attacker may stab or salsh the victim's face, disfiguring it.

Contemporary street fights and gang warfare usually involves these.

Duels:-

If both fighters are armed with daggers, include wrestling-type moves as they try to restrict each other's weapon hand.

Show them trying to disable each other by slashing insides of writes, elbows, the back of the knees, etc.

Dagger + Sword

If the character is expecting a fight, they can hold a sword in their right hand, and a dagger in their left to fight with both

Sword + mace combination also common.

Blunders to Avoid:

Direct stabbing at the chest wouldn't work.

Hero cannot cut his bread with a stabbing sword

adapted from <Writer's Craft> by Rayne Hall

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hayatheauthor · 6 months ago

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Have u done a post on anatomy of swordfight? Or like weapons in general. I have a lot of different weapons planned out: bow, different types of swords, daggers, shields, spears, etc. I can't find a single proper guide explaining how to write fight scenes for these that make sense.

The Anatomy of Writing a Sword Fight

Thank you for the ask! I really love your ideas/reqs and will be making at least 2 more blogs as a reply to this ask (that will cover bows etc). For now I've gone with swordfights.

This guide dives into the technical aspects of sword fighting—from the types of swords and injuries to the medical realities of treating these wounds.

My long-form posts are usually filled with long detailed paras but this time I wanted to focus more on the 'facts' and had a lot of things to cover so I stuck to concise pointers for each area. That being said, feel free to ask follow-up questions if needed!

Understanding the Blades

Firstly, here's a quick breakdown on the types of swords and their impact on injuries

Longswords Longswords are double-edged, straight blades often used with two hands. They cause deep slashes capable of severing muscles and tendons, and thrusts that can puncture organs or arteries. Heavy blows can also break bones.

Rapiers Rapiers are thin, pointed blades designed for thrusting. They cause precise punctures targeting vital organs or arteries. Less effective for slashing but deadly in skilled hands.

Katanas Katanas are curved, single-edged blades optimized for slicing. Their shape allows for those gory slashes that can amputate limbs or expose bones. Thrusts can also be fatal.

Sabers A saber is a curved blade with one sharp edge, typically used on horseback. These blades are designed for slashing, often causing wide, shallow wounds.

Short Swords and Daggers Smaller blades that are used for close combat can sometimes fall under the sword umbrella based on their shape and length. A Jambiya for example is categorised as a 'short sword'. These work for deep puncture wounds in tight quarters. Can sever arteries or puncture the heart or lungs.

In short, the design influences the wounds. Remember:

Straight blades are versatile, causing both slashes and thrusts.

Curved blades focus on slicing, leaving gaping wounds.

Thin blades like rapiers target precision strikes to critical areas.

Types of Sword Injuries

As mentioned above I'm trying to cut to the chase with this blog so for each injury type, I've covered what I think are the key points. These are the appearance, severity, blood loss caused by this type of wound, and pain levels. I think these four basically cover everything a writer needs to know when picking their poison.

Slash Wounds

Appearance: Long, open cuts with jagged or clean edges depending on the blade.

Severity: Superficial slashes may damage only the skin and fat layers, but deeper cuts sever muscles, tendons, and even arteries.

Blood Loss: Significant, especially if major arteries like the femoral (thigh) or brachial (arm) are cut.

Pain: Immediate burning or stinging, with sharp increases if nerves are involved.

Thrust Wounds

Appearance: Small entry wounds but potentially deep and catastrophic internal damage.

Severity: Can puncture vital organs such as the heart, lungs, liver, or intestines.

Blood Loss: Often internal, leading to hidden dangers like haemorrhaging or collapsed lungs.

Pain: Stabbing pains that radiate outward, especially if organs are pierced.

Blunt Force Injuries

Appearance: Bruising, swelling, or fractures from strikes with the flat side or hilt.

Severity: Can lead to broken bones, ruptured vessels, or concussions.

Blood Loss: Minimal unless skin is broken.

Pain: Deep aches or sharp, localized pain from fractures.

Assessing the Severity of Wounds

When assessing the severity of a wound, there are a few important things to keep in mind. To make it easier, I've put together a quick checklist to help you out.

Location: Wounds to the head, neck, or chest are often life-threatening. Injuries to limbs are less fatal but can lead to significant blood loss.

Depth: Shallow cuts are often cosmetic but painful. Deep wounds risk severing arteries, damaging organs, or causing fractures.

Angle: Oblique cuts may glance off bones or armor. Direct thrusts to unprotected areas are far more dangerous.

What Happens When Each Area is Wounded

It's kind of a given that each area of the body is different and would thus cause different reactions when pierced. While many writers stick to the 'blood dripping from the mouth, hand desperately clutching the wound' look, I think it's a good idea to consider the medicinal side of your injuries.

Are there arteries in this area? Vital organs? Muscle and tissue? Here's a quick breakdown of those questions (no I haven’t mentioned every area or organ of the body):

Limbs

Forearms and Upper Arms: Severing the brachial artery results in rapid blood loss. Cuts to tendons disable grip strength or arm movement.

Thighs: The femoral artery is a critical target. Damage here leads to exsanguination within minutes if untreated.

Calves and Feet: While less life-threatening, injuries here severely limit mobility and can cause nerve damage leading to paralysis.

Abdomen

Liver: Heavy bleeding due to its vascularity. Potentially fatal without intervention.

Stomach: Leakage of acidic contents causes severe internal infections.

Intestines: Punctures lead to sepsis from spilled waste material.

Kidneys: Severe back pain and rapid blood loss from renal artery damage.

Chest

Lungs: Punctures cause pneumothorax (collapsed lung), leading to difficulty breathing and chest pain.

Heart: Even small cuts are often fatal due to rapid blood loss and cardiac tamponade (fluid pressure around the heart).

Ribs: Fractures can puncture lungs or other organs.

Neck

Jugular Vein or Carotid Artery: Severing either leads to death in under two minutes from blood loss.

Trachea: Obstruction causes immediate respiratory distress.

Spinal Cord: Severance leads to paralysis or death.

Back

Spinal Cord: Injuries vary from numbness to total paralysis depending on the location.

Kidneys: Vulnerable to back stabs; severe bleeding and pain radiating to the abdomen.

Face/Head

Cheeks: Slashes leave disfiguring scars but are rarely fatal.

Eyes: Punctures result in blindness and intense pain.

Skull: Blunt force may cause concussions or fractures; penetrating wounds can be fatal if they reach the brain.

Treating Sword Fight Injuries

In the chaos of a sword fight, providing immediate care can mean the difference between life and death. The first priority is to stop the bleeding. For deep cuts or arterial wounds, use a clean cloth or pressure bandage to compress the injury. If the bleeding doesn’t subside, especially in limb injuries, apply a tourniquet above the wound, ensuring it’s tight enough to restrict blood flow without causing further damage.

Once bleeding is controlled, stabilize the victim. Immobilize fractures with makeshift splints, and in cases of suspected spinal injuries, avoid moving the victim unnecessarily to prevent exacerbating the damage. Finally, cleaning the wound is critical to minimize infection risks. Remove debris carefully and irrigate the wound with clean water if possible. Though battlefield medicine is rudimentary, these steps provide a fighting chance for survival.

Also, one thing people forget to go over is temperature. Keeping the victim warm is essential, as blood loss can lead to hypovolemic shock, which compromises the body’s ability to circulate oxygen.

Historical vs. Modern Treatment

The approach to sword fight injuries varies dramatically between historical and modern contexts. While I can’t completely break down the differences, here’s (what I hope) is a quick overview that will aid in your research.

Historically, treating wounds was rudimentary at best. Herbal poultices were applied to reduce inflammation, and cauterization—burning the wound to seal it—was a common but agonizing method to prevent bleeding and infection. Stitching techniques were crude, and the lack of sterilization meant infections like sepsis or gangrene were often fatal.

Fret not, modern medicine offers a more hopeful prognosis. Sterile wound care, antibiotics, and surgical interventions allow for precise repairs to severed arteries, muscles, or organs. Advanced imaging technology can assess internal injuries, while blood transfusions and IV fluids combat shock effectively.

This just underscores how important it is for writers to consider what timeline their story is set in. Sorry but your medieval prince won’t just have a full recovery after suffering a brutal gash, especially not if his only source of medicine was love interest’s xyz solution. Infections are a very real issue. In fact, most deaths during that time were due to infection. Do your research.

The Psychological Aftermath

The aftermath of surviving a sword fight extends far beyond physical wounds, leaving lasting emotional and psychological scars. Many survivors experience trauma or PTSD, manifesting as flashbacks to the battle, vivid nightmares, or an overwhelming sense of anxiety, especially in situations that trigger memories of the fight. I would absolutely love to see people incorporate this in their writing! If your modern OCs can get flashbacks and nightmares after a single gun altercation what makes you think the medieval ones won’t experience something similar?

Survivor’s guilt is another common burden, particularly if the character witnessed comrades die or was forced to make life-and-death decisions during combat. These emotional struggles can deeply shape their personality, making them more cautious, resentful, or even vengeful. Villain arc here we come!

One thing to remember; physical limitations compound the psychological toll. Permanent injuries like chronic pain, reduced mobility, or disfigurement can remind a character daily of their ordeal, influencing how they interact with others and navigate the world.

As a writer it’s important to take recovery into account. Exploring these aspects adds depth to the character’s recovery arc, making their journey more relatable and human.

Remember folks; a sword fight isn’t just a moment of action—it’s a fight as brutal and dangerous as any knife or gun altercation you can think of (if not worse).

Crafting the Fight Scene

To end this blog, here are my (and various Google articles’) two cents on what you should be focusing on/keeping in mind during a swordfight.

Writing a compelling sword fight requires balancing technical accuracy with emotional resonance. Pacing is key: alternate between rapid exchanges of blows and brief pauses to allow tension to build. These pauses provide an opportunity to describe a character’s thoughts, pain, or strategic planning.

Sensory details bring the scene to life—capture the sharp clash of steel, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the searing pain of a wound, and the slickness of a sweat-soaked grip on a sword hilt.

Focus on the characters themselves to make the scene more engaging. Highlight their emotions, such as fear, determination, or desperation, alongside the physical toll of the fight. Show how fatigue sets in, how their breathing becomes labored, and how every swing of the blade drains their strength.

Injuries should be portrayed realistically; instead of dismissing wounds as minor setbacks, use them to heighten tension. A cut to the leg might slow a character’s movements, while a stab to the shoulder could make wielding their weapon excruciating.

Balancing these elements ensures your fight scenes are not only thrilling but also grounded in a visceral reality.

Resources for Writers

Books:

"The Book of the Sword" by Richard Francis Burton

"Medieval Swordsmanship" by John Clements

Videos:

YouTube channels like "Skallagrim" and "Scholagladiatoria" for sword reviews and techniques.They’re very helpful for all sorts of weapons actually so OP I think you should consider stalking their channels you’d find a TON of info (I get most of mine from them lol).

Articles:

I don’t have any precise ones but to boost your research consider medical journals on trauma and wound care. Oh and historical accounts of duels and battles.

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aspenmissing · 3 months ago

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If I may request... something something about reader who really likes Silco's nose? I find it really pretty... and fascinating... (I'm really open to other characters too haaaaa thank you thank you 🫶🏻💕)

ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 5818 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀꜱᴄɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ! ʜɪꜱ ɴᴏꜱᴇ ɪꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴛɪɴɢᴜɪꜱʜᴇᴅ <3. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ! (ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ)

SILCO

There was something about Silco’s nose that you adored—obsessed over, really. Maybe it was the sharp slope of it, the way it framed his gaunt yet commanding face. Or perhaps it was how it wrinkled in distaste when someone displeased him, how it crinkled ever so slightly when he smirked at his own dark wit.

You couldn’t help yourself. Every time he was near, your fingers itched to touch it, to trace the elegant ridge down to his lips.

You weren’t quite sure when your obsession had begun, but you did remember the first time you gave in to the temptation to touch it.

It had been late. The kind of late where the world outside was quiet, even the usual hum of the Lanes reduced to nothing more than the occasional distant murmur.

Silco’s office was dimly lit, a handful of candles flickering atop his desk, their wax pooling and dripping slowly down their bases. The air was thick with the scent of ink, aged parchment, and the distinct bite of pipe smoke curling lazily from the half-burned tobacco resting in the nearby ashtray. It was a rare moment of stillness—one you had grown to cherish.

He sat behind his desk, utterly absorbed in his work. His mismatched eyes flicked back and forth across the pages in front of him, the furrow in his brow deepening as he read. His gloved fingers moved with precision, flipping through the documents in a slow, methodical manner, only pausing to tap against his chin in thought.

You were lounging on the worn leather couch across the room, a book open in your lap, though you had long since stopped reading.

Your attention had drifted—to him.

To the elegant cut of his profile, the sharp lines of his face cast in shadow. To the way his lips pursed slightly in thought, the low hum in his throat as he considered whatever ruthless schemes were currently filling his mind. But mostly, to his nose.

You had always admired it—obsessed over it, really. The proud slope of it, the way it framed the rest of his features so perfectly. Sometimes, when he was displeased, it wrinkled ever so slightly, or when he was amused, the slightest crinkle would appear near the bridge. It was a part of him you found endlessly fascinating, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you wanted to touch it.

No, scratch that—you needed to. You hadn’t even thought about it. Not really. You just… reached out.

Soft, hesitant fingers brushed over the bridge of his nose, tracing the elegant line as if committing it to memory.

The moment you made contact, Silco froze.

His breath caught mid-inhale, and for a single, excruciating second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Oh. Oh no.

Your stomach flipped violently. Why did I do that?

Panic shot through your veins as you quickly withdrew your hand, fingers twitching uselessly in your lap. You hadn’t exactly thought this through, had you? It had been impulse. A deeply ingrained fascination that had, for the first time, crossed over into action.

Silco exhaled—slowly. Deliberately. Then, with the same methodical precision he handled everything in life with, he lowered the page he had been reading.

And stared at you.

Not his usual lazy, half-lidded stare. No. This was something else. His sharp gaze pinned you in place like a dagger through silk, mismatched eyes unreadable.

“Did you just…” His voice was quiet, dangerously even. “Touch my nose?”

Your throat went dry. “I… might have.”

His expression didn’t change, but his gaze flicked between your face and your guilty hands, still clenched tightly in your lap. His silence stretched unbearably long, his stare unrelenting.

You swallowed.

Oh God, I broke him.

“… It was an accident,” you blurted. A slow blink.

“Oh?” His tone was mild, but you didn’t miss the razor-thin amusement beneath it. “Your hand… accidentally found its way onto my face?”

“… Yes?”

Silco’s lips parted just slightly, his tongue running over his teeth as he considered you with quiet, almost clinical scrutiny. His brow twitched, not quite in annoyance but in that signature Silco-exasperation that you were all too familiar with.

Your body tensed, waiting for some kind of punishment—some remark that would undoubtedly put you back in your place.

But instead, he let out a long, suffering sigh.

Then—he shook his head.

“You’re lucky,” he muttered, voice laced with dry amusement, “that I’m too tired to deal with your nonsense.”

And just like that, he went back to his work.

You sat there, completely still, your pulse hammering in your ears. You had touched his nose. You had touched his nose, and he let you live.

Your lips twitched as you finally exhaled. He had gone back to reading, yes—but you saw it. That tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. You had caught him off guard. And deep down, he was amused. It was the first time you touched his nose.

But it would not be the last.

JAYCE

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the sleek marble of Jayce’s penthouse. It painted soft lines across the bed, illuminating the tousled sheets and the faint imprint of last night’s warmth still lingering between them. The air smelled of warm linen, a hint of coffee drifting from the kitchen below, but most intoxicating was the familiar scent of him—rich and woodsy, with faint traces of steel and cologne clinging to his skin.

You stirred under the plush covers, shifting slightly against the warmth wrapped around you. Not just the warmth of the sunlight, but the solid, steady presence beside you.

Jayce.

His arm was lazily draped over your waist, his bare chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. His face was turned toward you, relaxed, serene, lips slightly parted, framed by that ever-present stubble you adored so much. The golden light kissed the sharp angles of his jaw, highlighting the roughness that made your heart stutter every time you looked at him.

You swore you could stare at him like this forever.

Carefully, you reached out, your fingers tracing lightly along the line of his jaw, feeling the rough texture beneath your fingertips. The sensation sent a small thrill through you. That perfect balance of softness and ruggedness—just enough to tickle your skin when he kissed you, just enough to remind you of him.

A quiet sigh rumbled from his throat, low and content, and a small smile tugged at your lips. You did love this. More than you probably should.

Then, before you could pull away, his lips parted, voice thick with sleep and amusement.

"You really like that, don't you?" Your fingers froze against his jaw, caught red-handed.

Jayce cracked one eye open, brown softened by the morning light, his lips curled into something dangerously close to a smirk.

You huffed, trailing your finger along his chin with feigned nonchalance. "Maybe. Maybe not."

His arm tightened around your waist, his warmth pressing into you as he let out a low chuckle. "Oh, you definitely do." His voice was smug, still heavy with sleep, but there was an affection behind it—a teasing fondness that made your heart stutter.

Before you could protest, he pulled you closer, his stubble brushing against your cheek as he pressed a lazy, half-awake kiss to your temple. The scratch of it sent a tingling warmth through you. Then another kiss, slow and teasing, trailing down your jaw.

"You do this on purpose," you muttered, barely managing to keep your voice even.

Jayce hummed, the sound deep and rich in his chest. "Maybe. Maybe not." He mimicked your words, lips brushing over the shell of your ear, the playful scrape of his stubble sending another delicious shiver through you.

You sighed, fingers curling against his bare shoulder, warmth settling into your bones. "Never shave it off."

Jayce let out a soft laugh, lips ghosting over your skin. "Oh? That much of a fan?"

"You have no idea," you murmured, tilting your head to capture his lips in a kiss—one that started soft, sweet, but quickly deepened into something slower, more indulgent.

His lips molded against yours, warm and inviting, his hand sliding over your back, fingers trailing in lazy circles along your spine. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like this moment was something to be savored. And you did—every part of it. The way his stubble grazed against your skin, the heat of him pressed against you, the way he tasted of sleep and something distinctly Jayce.

The kiss stretched between you, languid and unhurried, like the golden morning light spilling across the room. He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice low, teasing, "So, I guess shaving's off the table, then?"

You grinned, running your fingers along his jaw again. "If you ever shave it, I’m leaving you."

Jayce let out a deep laugh, full and warm, the sound vibrating against your chest. "Noted."

With a lazy smirk, he shifted, flipping the both of you over so you were pinned beneath him, his weight deliciously warm. His arms caged you in, his body pressed against yours as he looked down at you, eyes still sleepy, hair deliciously messy from sleep.

"Alright, so… what do I get in return for keeping the stubble?" he teased, voice still rough with sleep, but undeniably playful.

You scoffed. "The pleasure of keeping me in your bed, obviously."

Jayce chuckled, leaning down to brush his nose against yours. "Mmm, sounds like a fair deal."

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, a slow drag of his mouth against yours, his stubble scraping deliciously along your skin as he kissed you slow and deliberate. His hands roamed lazily, fingertips tracing patterns over your exposed skin, and you sighed against his lips, completely melting into him.

"Jayce," you murmured between kisses, voice barely above a whisper.

"Mm?"

"You know what would make this moment even better?"

He pulled back slightly, raising a brow. "Let me guess—more stubble appreciation?"

You laughed, swatting at his chest before slipping your arms around his neck. "No, you dork. Breakfast."

Jayce groaned, burying his face against your neck in mock defeat. "You really know how to kill a mood."

"You love me anyway."

A hum of agreement vibrated against your skin, followed by a soft, lingering kiss against your collarbone. "Yeah," he murmured, pressing another kiss against your shoulder. "I really do."

Your heart swelled at his words, warmth spreading through your chest.

He finally pulled back with a grin, his fingers brushing over your cheek. "Alright, alright. Breakfast first, then back to bed?"

You smirked. "If you're good."

Jayce huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he finally rolled off of you, stretching his arms above his head before sitting up. "You are so lucky I love you."

You grinned, reaching up to run your fingers along his jaw one last time, enjoying the familiar scratch of his stubble. "I know."

He shot you a playful look before leaning down for one last lingering kiss. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Alright, what are we having?"

You hummed thoughtfully, curling back into the sheets with a smirk. "Well… pancakes sound good. Or maybe waffles."

Jayce stood, stretching, completely unbothered by his state of undress as he padded toward the kitchen. "You just want an excuse to pour syrup all over me, don’t you?"

You gasped, feigning offense. "I would never."

Jayce shot you a knowing look over his shoulder. "Mmhmm. Sure."

You simply smiled, watching him disappear into the kitchen, his voice carrying down the hall. "Just so you know, if you’re eating breakfast in bed, I expect full cuddling rights after."

You grinned, stretching lazily under the covers.

"Deal." Maybe you’d stay in bed a little longer today. Actually, scratch that.

You definitely would.

VIKTOR

The soft glow of Piltover’s evening light streamed through the window of Viktor’s lab, bathing the room in hues of amber and gold. Outside, the city buzzed with distant life—faint voices, the hum of hextech energy, the occasional chime of an airship passing overhead. But inside this room, there was only the quiet symphony of Viktor’s mind at work.

The desk before him was cluttered with blueprints, ink-stained notes, and complex diagrams, all stacked haphazardly as if they had been abandoned mid-thought. A cup of coffee—long cold and untouched—rested precariously near the edge of a thick book on bioengineering. The only thing moving with precision was Viktor himself, his fingers twirling a pen as he murmured calculations under his breath, eyes sharp and lost in deep concentration.

His cane rested beside him, leaned against the desk within easy reach, though he hardly noticed it now. He was too focused, too enraptured by whatever theory or experiment he was trying to perfect.

And you? You were watching him from your usual perch on his desk, legs lazily swinging, your fingers absentmindedly tracing invisible patterns into the wood.

He was beautiful like this.

Not in a grand, obvious way, but in the way of something carefully crafted—sharp angles and delicate lines, warm golden eyes that burned with intellect. He carried his exhaustion in the soft shadows beneath his eyes, his determination in the stubborn furrow of his brow.

But your focus, as always, drifted to the two distinct marks on his face.

The first, a small, dark mole sitting just above the left corner of his lips. The second, resting on his right cheekbone, contrasting against his pale skin like a tiny ink blot on parchment.

You loved them.

Viktor never seemed to think much of them—he was far too occupied with matters of invention and progress to consider something so small, so insignificant. But you disagreed. Those moles were part of him, little marks of uniqueness, and you found yourself drawn to them over and over again.

So, without much thought, your hand lifted, fingers grazing softly over his cheek.

The scratching of his pen halted.

Viktor didn’t flinch—he was used to your touch by now—but his head tilted slightly, a faint flicker of amusement appearing in his eyes as he turned toward you. His lips quirked at the corners, not quite a smile, but something close.

“Something on my face?” he asked, his voice carrying the usual dry humor.

You hummed in thought, tilting your head as if examining him. “Mhm… several things, actually.”

Viktor let out a soft chuckle, setting his pen down with a quiet clatter. “Oh? Do enlighten me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned in closer, your breath warm against his skin. He didn’t pull away—he never did—but you noticed the way his fingers flexed against the armrest of his chair, as if grounding himself.

Then, ever so softly, you pressed a kiss to the mole on his right cheekbone.

Viktor’s breath hitched, though he remained perfectly still.

“This one,” you murmured against his skin.

Then, your lips trailed lower, your fingers delicately tracing his jawline as you moved to your next target. You took your time, savouring the warmth of him, the way his skin reacted to your touch.

Another kiss—this time just above the left corner of his lips, where the second mole rested.

“And this one,” you whispered.

Viktor let out a breathy chuckle, but there was something unsteady about it, like he was trying not to react too much. His cane shifted slightly as he adjusted his weight, his body tense despite the easy smirk playing on his lips.

“Are you mapping out constellations on my face, milý?” he mused, his voice lower now, quieter. (Dear)

You grinned, pressing another featherlight kiss to his jaw before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Maybe.”

Viktor regarded you carefully, his golden eyes glimmering with something unreadable. His hands, which had remained idle for most of this interaction, finally moved—one rising to gently rest over yours, his fingers curling lightly around them.

“And where do these constellations lead?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You cupped his face fully now, your thumbs stroking the delicate hollows beneath his eyes. He leaned into your touch, the tension in his posture melting, his breathing slower, more measured.

“They lead me to you,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against his. “Always.”

A quiet hum of satisfaction left Viktor’s lips as he closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if committing this sensation to memory. When he opened them again, the warmth in his gaze had melted into something softer, something vulnerable in a way few people ever got to see.

His fingers laced through yours, holding them against his face, as if reluctant to let you pull away. “Then I suppose I am fortunate to be your chosen destination.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against his in the lightest of touches. “You are.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside continued on, Piltover’s hum never ceasing, but in this space—this small, intimate space—you were both still.

Then, to your surprise, Viktor shifted slightly, his grip tightening just enough to keep you close. His lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, just the promise of one. Testing.

And then, with a deep, quiet sigh, he finally pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that stole breath or demanded more. It was slow, gentle, like the ticking of a clock when time no longer mattered.

When you parted, Viktor exhaled against your lips, his hand still holding yours against his cheek. “You are rather distracting, you know,” he murmured.

You grinned, brushing another kiss to the mole just above his lip. “And you love it.”

Viktor chuckled, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let his forehead rest against yours once more, the warmth of you anchoring him in a way that no theorem or blueprint ever could.

For once, he allowed himself to stop.

For once, he let himself enjoy the sensation of being loved in every breath, in every touch, in every kiss.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

JAYVIK

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the intricate details of Viktor’s workshop. Tools, papers, and blueprints were scattered across the desk, but your attention was elsewhere. Specifically, on the two men who had thoroughly stolen your heart.

Jayce was reclined on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, fingers tapping idly against the fabric. His hands—the hands you adored so much—were strong, calloused from years of labor, and yet impossibly gentle when they traced along your skin. It was those very hands that built the Hextech you now marveled at, the same hands that held yours so protectively when you walked together through the streets of Piltover.

“You’re staring,” Jayce teased, his lips curving into a cocky grin as he flexed his fingers, stretching them before clenching into a fist. “See something you like?”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, but before you could muster a response, Viktor, who was perched on his stool near the workbench, let out a soft chuckle. He leaned on his cane, tilting his head to the side, amber eyes filled with amusement.

“It is hardly a secret that our dear Y/N has an…appreciation for your hands, Jayce.”

You shot Viktor a playful glare, crossing your arms. “Oh? And what about you, then?”

Jayce, catching on quickly, smirked and turned his gaze toward Viktor. “Yeah, Y/N. What do you like most about Viktor?”

Your gaze softened as you took in the sight of him—the sharp angles of his face, the determined glint in his eyes, the way his lips, perpetually bowed into a natural pout, seemed almost unfairly perfect.

“Your lips,” you confessed, voice tinged with warmth. “They’re beautiful.”

Viktor, for all his wit, faltered for a second, his fingers curling around the handle of his cane as if to ground himself. His mouth parted slightly, and you couldn’t help but admire the way his lips curved in thought. It was entirely unfair how effortlessly captivating he was.

Jayce burst into laughter, his chest rumbling as he clapped a hand against his knee. “See, Vik? You’re not the only one with admirers.”

Viktor huffed, rolling his eyes, though the faintest hint of pink dusted his cheeks. “I never claimed otherwise.”

Feeling bold, you moved closer to Viktor, cupping his face with both hands as you ran your thumb gently over his lower lip. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the world outside the workshop seemed to vanish. Then, just as smoothly, you turned and slid yourself into Jayce’s lap, grabbing one of his hands and threading your fingers through his own.

“Two geniuses, and both of you are completely at my mercy,” you teased, grinning as Jayce hummed in approval and Viktor simply sighed, though his eyes gleamed with affection.

Jayce squeezed your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers. “Hopelessly so.”

Viktor merely shook his head, the smirk returning to his lips. “Utterly.”

As the night stretched on, the three of you remained close, enjoying the warmth of each other’s presence. Viktor eventually stood, cane tapping lightly against the wooden floor as he stretched. “I suppose I should get back to work,” he murmured, though he made no move to leave.

Jayce, still holding your hand, scoffed. “Come on, Vik. You’ve been at it all day. Take a break.” He tugged you both closer, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you in place. “Y/N and I demand your presence.”

Viktor arched a brow but didn’t resist as you reached for him, coaxing him to sit beside you on the couch. With a soft sigh, he relented, resting his cane against the side before allowing himself to settle into the cushions.

You curled against him, content between the two of them, feeling the warmth of Jayce’s hand against your own and the occasional brush of Viktor’s lips against your temple as he relaxed into the rare moment of peace.

Jayce played idly with your fingers, occasionally tracing patterns into your palm, while Viktor hummed quietly, the vibrations of his voice soothing against your skin. It was rare to have them both like this—completely at ease, caught in a moment of tenderness.

“I could get used to this,” Jayce murmured after a while, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Viktor chuckled. “Yes, well, do not get too comfortable. The work is still waiting.”

You sighed dramatically. “Can’t we just stay like this forever?”

Viktor gave you a knowing smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Perhaps for a little while longer.”

And with that, you melted further into their embrace, knowing this was exactly where you were meant to be.

VANDER

The warm scent of hops and smoke lingered in the Last Drop, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. But no matter how many times you walked through these doors, there was only one thing in this entire bar that made you feel truly safe—Vander.

And more specifically, his arms.

They were a fortress of strength, rough and calloused from years of fighting and providing, yet they held you as if you were made of the most fragile porcelain. It was intoxicating, the way his presence alone was enough to make you feel secure, but the moment his arms wrapped around you? That was when you truly melted.

“Y’know, you’re like a little shadow sometimes,” Vander chuckled as you pressed against his side, your fingers absentmindedly tracing over the thick muscle of his forearm. His voice was laced with amusement, but the warmth in his tone betrayed how much he enjoyed it.

“Not my fault you’re so comfortable,” you murmured, barely looking up from where you were playing with the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. The fabric was stretched over his biceps, and you bit your lip, resisting the urge to squeeze just a little harder.

Vander hummed in thought before shifting in his chair. The next thing you knew, he was pulling you onto his lap, his arms effortlessly circling your waist as he leaned back against the worn wooden seat.

“There,” he rumbled, his chin resting against the top of your head. “This better?”

You sighed happily, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as his arms tightened just enough to make you feel utterly caged in by warmth and safety. “Much better.”

The bar continued on around you—clinking mugs, boisterous laughter, the occasional outburst—but in Vander’s arms, none of it mattered. His thumb rubbed lazy circles against your side, and his chest rumbled with contentment.

“You really do like my arms, don’t ya?” he teased, the smirk evident in his voice.

You huffed a laugh, tilting your head up to meet his knowing gaze. “Can you blame me? They’re strong, warm, and they make me feel safe. I think I might be addicted.”

Vander let out a deep laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest. “If that’s the case, guess I better keep ‘em around you at all times, huh?”

Your grin widened as you pulled his arm tighter around you. “Now that,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw, “sounds like the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Vander only chuckled, but the way he held you closer told you everything you needed to know.

You were right where you belonged.

As the night wore on, you stayed nestled in his embrace, his arms never loosening their hold. Occasionally, he would brush a kiss against your temple, his beard tickling your skin, sending shivers down your spine. It was little things like that—those small, affectionate gestures—that made you fall for him all over again.

“I swear, you’re worse than the kids,” Vander teased as you traced idle patterns along his forearm, your fingers enjoying the feel of his skin.

You smirked, resting your chin against his chest so you could meet his gaze. “Oh? And here I thought you liked it.”

Vander shook his head with a good-natured chuckle, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek. His thumb brushed softly against your skin, his eyes dark with something deeper—something that made warmth spread through your entire being. “I do. More than you know.”

A blush crept up your neck at the sincerity in his voice. No matter how strong and formidable Vander was to others, with you, he was something softer. Something safer. And you cherished that side of him more than anything.

The bar had started to quiet down, the patrons either leaving or lost in their own conversations, but neither of you moved from your spot. Eventually, Vander sighed, shifting slightly to get comfortable. “C’mon, love. Let’s head upstairs. Can’t have you fallin’ asleep on me.”

You pouted, reluctant to leave the warmth of his embrace, but as he scooped you up effortlessly in his arms, you had no complaints. You curled into his chest, your arms draping over his shoulders as he carried you up the stairs to your shared room above the bar.

Once inside, Vander sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding you close. You buried your face against his neck, inhaling deeply, relishing the way he smelled—earthy, warm, like home.

“You’re never gettin’ tired of this, are ya?” he murmured, amusement dancing in his voice.

You shook your head, tightening your arms around him. “Never.”

Vander sighed, but it was a happy one. “Guess I’ll just have to hold ya forever then.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and as he leaned back against the bed, pulling you down with him, you had no doubt that he meant every word.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lying there, you listened to the steady beat of his heart, matching your breathing with his. His fingers trailed lazily over your back, tracing small circles, the motion lulling you into an easy state of peace.

“Y’know,” you murmured, half-asleep, “I think you were made to hold me.”

Vander let out a deep chuckle, his grip tightening slightly. “Yeah? That so?”

“Mhm.” You nuzzled against him, sighing in content. “Big arms, strong hands… meant for keeping me safe.”

Vander pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice softer now, filled with a quiet kind of love. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t ever plan on letting go.”

His words settled over you like a blanket, and with one last deep breath of his scent, you let sleep take you, safe and sound in the arms you loved most.

MEL

The glow of the Piltover skyline barely held a candle to the warmth in Mel’s eyes. No matter how many golden trinkets adorned her fingers, no matter the lavish silks that draped over her body, nothing compared to the glimmer in those greenish-gold pools that seemed to hold the world itself.

And Y/N could never look away.

Mel had long since noticed. The way Y/N’s gaze lingered when they talked, how their fingers would trace along Mel’s cheek under the guise of pushing back an errant curl—anything to keep her looking back. It was an unspoken devotion, quiet yet persistent, like a secret worship that didn’t need words. Mel would often catch the way Y/N’s breath hitched when she turned to face them fully, the way they seemed utterly captivated, as though the rest of the world faded into irrelevance.

Tonight was no different. They lay together in the golden embrace of candlelight, the flickering light casting long shadows over the plush bedding. The air was warm, filled with the lingering scent of jasmine and the faint traces of Mel’s perfume. She leaned against the headboard, her posture effortlessly elegant despite the intimacy of the moment. One of her hands idly played with Y/N’s fingers, tracing each knuckle, the lines of their palm, as if memorizing them, while her other hand moved lazily across their bare skin, drawing invisible patterns that sent shivers down their spine.

Y/N, however, did nothing but look at her, gaze locked onto those mesmerizing greenish-gold eyes, as if trying to etch every flicker of light and depth into memory. Every time Mel blinked, her long lashes cast the faintest shadow over her high cheekbones, a fleeting moment of mystery before her eyes found Y/N’s again, anchoring them with something that felt both powerful and impossibly gentle all at once.

“You never tire of staring, do you?” Mel’s voice was soft, amused, the faintest trace of fond exasperation lacing her words. There was a knowing lilt to her tone, as if she had asked this question many times before, already expecting the answer.

Y/N hummed, tilting their head as if considering. “No. Never.”

Mel chuckled, shaking her head, the corners of her lips curving in that signature smirk of hers. Her free hand drifted from Y/N’s palm up their arm, barely touching, just enough to leave a trail of warmth in its wake. “And why is that?” she asked, though she already knew.

Y/N let their hand cup her cheek, thumb grazing just beneath the lower lash line, drinking in every hue of gold and green that shimmered beneath the dim lighting. “Because your eyes make everything else seem… dull.”

Mel blinked, something shifting in her expression—softer now, contemplative. She had been the subject of admiration before. Compliments, honeyed words, rehearsed flattery—she had heard them all, yet none of them felt quite like this. There was no hidden agenda behind Y/N’s words, no game, no expectation—only a quiet, consuming sincerity that made Mel’s breath catch in her throat. It was rare, this kind of devotion, the kind that expected nothing in return and yet made her want to give everything she had.

She let out a slow exhale, studying Y/N as if they were the one draped in gold, the one adorned in the kind of beauty that made the stars themselves seem dim.

A rare flicker of vulnerability softened Mel’s features as she searched Y/N’s face. “You are insufferable.”

Y/N only smiled, thumb brushing along the curve of her cheek. “But you love me anyway.”

Mel sighed, a small smile curving her lips as she let her forehead rest against Y/N’s. “Yes,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered, a gentle ache blooming in their chest. Love, when spoken from Mel’s lips, felt like a promise wrapped in velvet—soft but unbreakable, tender but resolute. They could feel her breath against their lips, warm and steady, grounding them in the present, in the quiet intimacy of this moment.

Before they could respond, Mel closed the small space between them, sealing her answer with a kiss. It was slow, unhurried, her lips moving against theirs with a kind of deliberation that made Y/N feel as though time itself had ceased to matter. Her fingers curled into Y/N’s hair, a silent plea to stay close, to never look away.

As their lips parted, Y/N whispered, “Say it again.”

Mel let out a soft hum of amusement, tilting her head. “Say what?”

Y/N ran their fingers gently through Mel’s curls, eyes still locked onto hers. “That you love me.”

Mel traced her fingers along Y/N’s jaw, her voice carrying a warmth that rivalled the candlelight. “I love you,” she murmured, and then again, softer, as if sealing the words into Y/N’s skin. “I love you.”

Y/N let their eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, a contented sigh escaping their lips. “Good,” they murmured. “Because I plan to spend the rest of my life getting lost in your eyes.”

Mel smirked, shaking her head as she brushed her thumb over Y/N’s bottom lip. “You really are hopeless.”

Y/N chuckled, nuzzling closer. “Hopelessly in love with you.”

Mel let out a quiet laugh, pulling them closer, her fingers splaying across their back in a way that was both protective and claiming. “Then don’t ever look away.”

And Y/N, ever mesmerized, kept their eyes open until the last possible second, committing the golden-green warmth to memory once more. Because in Mel’s eyes, they saw more than beauty. They saw home. They saw the quiet vulnerability beneath the grandeur, the depth behind the carefully woven façade. They saw love—not spoken in words alone, but in the way Mel looked at them, in the way she held them close as if they were the only thing that truly mattered.

And Y/N would never, ever look away.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #mel x reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce x y/n #viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #vander x reader #vander x y/n #vander x you #silco x reader #silco x you #silco x y/n #jayvik x reader #jayce x reader x viktor

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gloomwitchwrites · 7 months ago

Text

Rescue

Thranduil x Female Elf Reader

Content & Warnings: canon-typical violence, brief blood, secret feelings, mutual affection

Word Count: 800

A/N: Requested by @kakashipandadog for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Cult Sacrifice)

You’re captured on a scouting mission, believing that you’re being left to your fate. At your most desperate moment, help arrives.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

The stones are singing. Chanting.

That is all you see and sense. There is solid rock beneath your palm and pressed against your cheek. Voices upon voices all communing in unison wrap around you, and yet there is something deeper here you cannot place. Perhaps if you just blink away the haze or rub at your eyes, your vision will clear and it will come to you.

Have you failed your king? You must have. Why else are you so disoriented?

You attempt to stretch, to move your limbs, but scratchy resistance greets you, rubbing against your leather armor and bits of exposed skin.

Groaning, you close your eyes.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The chanting becomes clearer—becomes guttural.

No. The stones are not singing. Nor do the trees. These are voices. Living and present.

On your next exhalation, you twist just enough and see a dark sky above you. There are no stars—just a void. Around you are torches, burning bright with fire but providing no warmth. You are tied down with rope to a large stone slab. Around you are orcs, circling your restrained body, beating their chests and stomping their feet.

From their mouths comes the language of their maker. Black Speech. An abomination. You do not know the words or what they mean but you recognize it for what it is.

There is no hope here.

You are to be sacrificed to something and no one is coming to rescue you.

This was supposed to be simple scouting. King Thranduil gave you instructions, but you've failed to return. Will he send someone to find you? Or is your fate already sealed?

With what little movement you have, you attempt to search for your weapons. While your bow and quiver of arrows are gone, the orcs may have overlooked the hidden daggers. Orcs are not particularly smart and it’s entirely possible you might find something sharp to cut your way out. Defending yourself is a different matter. There are several dozen orcs, and if you only wield a small knife, you may not make it far once you’ve freed yourself from your bonds.

The chanting increases, becoming a crescendo. One of the orcs breaks from the group moving toward you with their serrated blade held high. It raises it over its head, ready and poised to bring it down.

Your fingers splay wide, roaming down to grasp at your boot. This is your last chance.

It's malicious grin wanes, body seizing suddenly as if frozen in ice as it prepares to drive the blade home.

You don't know what to make of this until your gaze drops and lands on the blade sticking out the orcs stomach. The point of the metal is coated in black blood.

Your eyes widen as it's yanked out and the orc falls sideways, revealing King Thranduil.

He's ethereal and calm, blade already spinning to strike another orc down.

He came for you.

King Thranduil did not come alone. There are several other Elves with him, each with blade or bow, cutting through the small horde of orcs with ease.

Hope rises, and with it comes a wave of determination. With another twist, you manage to reach your boot, an in it, a dagger. Removing it, you turn it on the rope, sawing as fast as you can as everything around you descends into chaos.

The threads fray, and the rope snaps. You move to the next, already feeling lighter. It is unraveling—loosening—but it is entirely too slow. At the moment, you are at the mercy of others. Though you are being rescued, you still have to depend on yourself.

An orc comes rushing forward as just as you start on the final tightened rope holding you in place. You saw at it manically, breath coming in quick bursts as you ready for the incoming blow. You might not have the use of your legs but you have your arms.

The orc swings—and the rope snaps.

Turning the blade handle around in your palm, you thrust upward, sinking the knife into the orc’s throat.

It gurgles, dark blood bubbling in its mouth.

Withdrawing the knife brings more blood with it, and the orc keels over, hitting the ground hard.

King Thranduil appears behind it, sword raised and at the ready, his gaze following the corpse. That icy stare turns on you, becoming soft and concerned. There is momentarily flare of affection that blooms in your chest.

You hastily swat the feeling away. It’s not something you can act on.

“You came for me,” you say, voice slightly raspy from disuse.

That softness only intensifies in his eyes, and it resonates, wrapping you up in quiet comfort.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you behind.”

#thranduil fanfic #thranduil of mirkwood #thranduil fanfiction #the hobbit thranduil #thranduil #thranduil fic #thranduil fluff #thranduil x reader #thranduil x you #thranduil x female reader #king thranduil #king thranduil x reader #the hobbit fanfic #the hobbit fluff #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit fic #the hobbit movies

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phossiii · 5 months ago

Note

Would Monsters!Y/N ever learn about Phosphorus’s criminal background? I don’t just mean for relationship building and such, but also learning that damn Pimp get-up he wore at one point🤣🤣🤣 Just so Y/N could stare judgementally at Phosphorus, who may have been indulging in drugs at the time as well given Thorne also ran a drug business.

｡𖦹°‧⭑ melting

synopsis: phosphorus doesn't take kindly to disrespectful business partners... especially when they disrespect you.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, violence, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, takes place within the monsters universe.

"I've got to say, Señor Fósforo," Esteban grinned, rakishly, as he surveyed the club, eyes gliding over girls and party-goers alike. "You certainly don't fail to disappoint. This is the best get-together I've been to in a long while."

Amused, Phosphorus out a hearty chuckle, using his thumb to light the end of his cigar.

Damn well better be...

The amount of money he shelled out for this little shindig was enough to make a duke sweat.

Most, if not all, of the big name players in Gotham's criminal underworld were there, dining on gourmet hors d'oeurvres and puffing on premium smokes.

All to get "re-acquainted".

"You flatter me, Esteban. Five years and nothing's changed," Phosphorus sighed, leaning back against the cushions of the booth as he released a smooth stream of smoke. "But now that we've got the pleasantries out the way, I think it's time we get down to business."

His light-hearted demeanor switched quickly, turning sharp and poignant.

"I take it my business in the East End is going well... given your solid gold watch, that eyesore you've got parked out front... and the blow you've got on your nose."

Eyes wide, Esteban quickly wiped away the evidence, swallowing thickly as he adjusted the collar of his dress shirt.

"Better than ever, Señor. B-But of course we are fully prepared for you to resume your position."

"On the contrary," Phosphorus sighed, looking down at his scotch. "I need you to continue running the East End."

Esteban raised a brow.

"Huh? But why?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Phosphorus reminded sharply, before allowing his eyes to drift over to your form on the dance floor. "But I need some more time on my hands... I've got... other things to tend to."

You flipped your hair over your shoulder with a carefree grin, laughing with a few of the other mobster girlfriends you met as you all danced like nobody was watching.

When, in fact. everybody was watching.

Phosphorus bit the inside of his cheek, fighting off an invisible grin at the sight of your happy expression.

You were thoroughly worried when he broke you both out of Belle Reve, afraid of the wrath of Batman more so for his sake than for yours.

But he assured you that everything would be fine, and encouraged you to have the time of your life—all on his dime, of course.

So, when he said you both had a party to go to that night, you accepted the little black card to his offshore account and went ham at the stores for the first time in your life.

Which brought you here, cutting a rug under the strobe lights of the club.

"Diablo Mami..." Esteban gasped, having finally noticed you through his fear-filled, coke-laced haze. "Qué hermosa!"

Your silvery laugh rang through the crowd as you swirled your hands around your body, your fire drawing intricate designs in the air.

Using your power, you outlined your hips in rhythm with the music, accentuating the curve of your dips in the tiny, black dress.

'Goddamn...'

Not a day went by without Phosphorus thanking his lucky stars you gave an asshole like him a chance.

An asshole... who just registered Esteban's words.

With a painful quickness, he snapped his head over to the Colombian drug lord, eyes sharpening like daggers.

"What was that?"

"La diablesa..." Esteban marveled, gaze raking over your every inch. "Horns... And a tail, too... I've never seen someone like her before... So sexy..."

Phosphorus's jaw ticked as he watched the man looked at you, his expression displaying his thoughts clearly as he practically undressed and fucked you with his eyes.

In an instant, the cigar hanging out the skeleton's mouth went up in flames, completely burning up right to the bud.

But Esteban was too enraptured in you to notice.

"I'm a little parched, Señor," the drug lord grinned, rising from his seat and adjusting his blazer. "I think I'm going to get a tall drink of wa—"

He wasn't even able to finish his sentence before an irradiated hand grabbed him harshly by the neck, hoisting him up in the air and completely knocking the table over in the process.

The shattering glasses of scotch grabbed the attention of everyone in the club, along with the screams of nearby women as Esteban choked and gurgled, blood slowly leeching from his every orifice as Phosphorus cooked him from the inside out.

"On second thought... your employment is no longer necessary."

Many watched with horror as he melted the man in his grasp, refusing to let go until Esteban's head was completely liquefied, leaving only his body intact.

From the dance floor, you watched with a tired sigh, crossing your arms over your chest with disapproval.

"This is what I get for leaving him alone," you huffed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Leaving the terrified mob girls behind, you strutted off the dance floor, moving to go yank your boyfriend out of his mess.

"All right, nothing to see here," you barked, scanning over the room with a side-long glance. "He's a dead man. I'm sure we've all seen one before."

With a flippant puff of fire, you ignited the man's body with hellflame, cremating him in a matter of seconds.

"Let's keep this party goin', alright? Back to your business."

Murmurs of agreement rumbled throughout the room before the music cut back on and the attendants returned to their partying.

"As for you," your voice sharpened, brows furrowing as you grabbed Phosphorus by his tie. "We need to talk... Alone."

"Is this a talk or a talk talk? 'Cause I wouldn't be opposed to the former," he cooed, tenderly sliding his hand down your side to rest over the curve of your ass.

But the glare you fixed him with said otherwise.

"Ah... the latter."

"What did I tell you about the melting, my love?" you sang from your seat on Phosphorus's desk, softly caressing his jaw as you held him in between your legs by his tie.

Even though your words were sweet, they were not without an underlying, scolding tone.

"Only do it if absolutely necessary," he grumbled, as if he were a child.

"And was it absolutely necessary?"

"...Yes."

"Alex."

Your grip on his tie tightened, eyes glowing a faint yellow.

"It was! Honest!"

"Oh, yeah? What did he do?"

"He was eyeing something that belongs to me."

His voice dropped an octave, eyes gliding over your face with a possessive glint.

(You couldn't see them, but you'd become so perceptive with his body language that you might as well have)

"Yeah, well, that something's about two seconds from skipping town."

"What?!"

"I told you the moment we stepped into Gotham that we needed to keep a low profile. Parties are typical of the nightlife, but melting is not!" you sighed out of your nose, reigning in your volume just a tad. "If Batman catches wind that you're out, he will not hesitate to drag you back to Belle Reve and throw away the key. And then what am I supposed to do? "

You released him, your arms coming up to hug yourself as you looked away.

"With my record clean, they won't take me with you. And I'll never see you again..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, doll, that's not gonna happen," Phosphorus quickly shifted, his hands quickly rising to cup your face and turn you toward him. "I assure you, I'm being careful. Everything's being delegated to my lieutenants. I'm as far removed from the business as possible."

Glancing up at him, you searched his face for insincerity.

"Promise?"

With a small smirk, he placed a soft peck on your lips, running his thumb over your cheek.

"Promise."

At that, you grinned, pulling him back in by his tie and pressing your lips into his neck, much to his amusement.

He'd have to make promises more often...

"If that's the case... whaddya say to a little more one-on-one time?" you softly whispered into his ear, punctuating with a little nip to his jaw.

The timbre of your voice sent a shiver down his spine, forcing the man's hands to reverently grasp at your hips.

"Whatever you want, doll... whatever you want..."

#phossiii #creature commandos #creature commandos x reader #dc #dc x reader #dcu #dcu x reader #doctor phosphorus #doctor phosphorus x reader #dr phosphorus

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hearts4hughes · 3 months ago

Text

BODYGUARD | BSF!RAFE CAMERON x FEM!READER

a/n: what i’d do for a bsf like rafe 🙄

warnings: mdni ; degradation ; dom!rafe ; angst w/ steaming ending ; fingering

overstimulated was an understatement. from the sweaty people crowding around you to the warmth radiating off of rafe, you were overwhelmed.

he stood behind you like a looming guard, shooting daggers into any boy who dared to look your way. his eyes, blown wide from whatever coke he’d just done, followed your every move. his chest was flush against your back as you stood in the sea of people.

if you wanted a drink, he was getting it for you; if you wanted to dance, he was blocking you from everyone’s view; if you wanted to talk to another guy… well, that just wasn’t happening.

you took a deep breath, trying to ground yourself.

usually, you didn’t mind rafe’s antics. yes, he may have been overprotective, erratic, and unusual for a best friend. though, he was still your number one. but today, you felt suffocated, finally catching his red flags.

you shuffled away from him, his chest no longer pressed against you. it took less than five seconds for him to step closer again. you turned around to face him, your cheeks flushed from liquor. he gazed into your eyes as if he were waiting for a command.

you pulled at the collar of his shirt, causing him to bend down. with your lips close to his ear, you said, “i’m going to get some fresh air.”

he nodded. “i’ll come with you.”

great.

you shook your head. “i’ll just be a second. stay here.”

he mimicked your head shake. “no, i’m not leaving you alone outside.”

“it’s okay, rafe—”

“no, it’s not.”

you scoffed. “i’ll be fine.”

“i’m coming with you, and that’s the end of it.” his tone left no room for debate. he was stubborn, but goddamnit, so were you. you crossed your arms over your chest, your breasts swelling. he swallowed as it became increasingly hard not to look lower than your eyes.

“i couldn’t do this, rafe,” you said, frustration evident in your voice. an argument hung on the tip of his tongue. “i couldn’t handle you constantly being glued to my side. i loved you; you were my best friend, but i needed to be able to get my drink sometimes. and i should have been allowed to dance and talk to guys.”

he stared blankly at you, scratching the back of his neck. “i was just trying to protect—”

“bullshit!” you yelled, sick of terrible excuses. “you weren’t protecting me, you were being fucking clingy!”

his breath quickened, and he looked up at the ceiling. he was doing everything he could to stay calm. he couldn’t mess this up. he needed you.

eyes began to follow the scene. people gazed back and forth between you and rafe. it wasn’t usual for the two of you to fight.

“you’re causing a scene,” he muttered through gritted teeth. his jaw was clenched, prominent veins popping out of his neck.

“i. don’t. care,” you emphasized each word. he scoffed, shaking his head. suddenly, his hand latched onto your wrist, dragging you into an empty bathroom and locking the door.

you yanked your wrist out of his grip, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “what the fuck, rafe?”

his back hit the door as he ran a hand through his already-messy hair, exhaling sharply. “you were causing a scene.”

you let out a bitter laugh, your head tilting back. “oh, i was causing a scene?” your voice dripped with disbelief. “what do you call dragging me in here like some fucking kid you needed to put in time-out?”

rafe pushed off the door, stepping toward you. “i called it making sure you didn’t do something stupid.

your stomach flipped, but anger burned hot in your veins, overpowering anything else. “stupid?” you echoed, voice sharp. “stupid like what, rafe? like wanting a single fucking second to myself? like wanting to be able to breathe without you hovering over me like a fucking bodyguard?”

his jaw ticked, hands flexing at his sides like he was barely holding himself back. “you didn’t get it,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“then make me get it,” you shot back, arms crossing over your chest. “because right now? all i saw was my best friend acting like some possessive, overbearing asshole—”

before you could finish, rafe’s hands shot out, gripping your face, forcing you to look up at him. his pupils were blown wide, breathing heavy, fingers firm but not rough. “i am possessive,” he murmured, voice dangerously low. “i am overbearing. and you—” his thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, his lips just inches from yours. “—you fucking love it.”

your breath caught in your throat.

and the worst part?

he was completely right.

“and you know what?” he huffed out a laugh. “i’m starting to think you’re becoming an ungrateful brat.”

your brows furrowed. “w-what?” your tone was quiet and weak.

“i protect you, i help you, i do everything for you.” he rasped, lips brushing over yours. “and what do i get in return? a fucking hissy fit.”

his grip tightened on your jaw, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you still, to make sure you were listening. his eyes flickered between yours, sharp and unreadable.

“rafe,” you whispered, unsure of what you were even trying to say.

he tilted his head, studying you like you were something to be figured out. then, slowly, he smirked. “you like pushing me, don’t you?”

you swallowed hard, your throat dry. “that’s not—”

“yeah, it is,” he cut you off, his voice dropping lower. “you like seeing how far you can go before i remind you who’s in charge.”

your stomach flipped, heat pooling low in your belly at his words. you hated how well he knew you, how easily he could see right through you.

“you’re quiet now,” he taunted, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “not gonna keep fighting me?”

you opened your mouth, but no words came out. rafe’s smirk deepened.

“that’s what i thought,” he murmured before crashing his lips onto yours.

rafe groaned as your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make his grip on you tighten. his hand slid from your throat down to your hip, fingers pressing bruises into your skin through the thin fabric of your top. he kissed you like he was trying to prove something; like he needed you to understand just how deep his obsession ran.

“fuck, you taste sweet,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough and breathless. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark, hungry. “bet you’d taste even sweeter if i-”

“shut up,” you cut him off, crashing your lips back into his. you didn’t want to hear whatever filthy thought was about to spill from his mouth, didn’t want to admit how badly you wanted to hear it.

he chuckled against your lips but didn’t argue. instead, he pressed you back against the bathroom counter, his hands gripping the edge on either side of you, caging you in.

“you gonna keep pretending you don’t love this?” he murmured, dragging his lips along your jaw, down to your neck. his teeth grazed over the sensitive skin, making your breath hitch.

“rafe…” you whispered, unsure if it was a warning or a plea.

he hummed in response, lips trailing lower. “say it,” he demanded softly, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the hem of your skirt higher. “say you like it when i get like this.”

your body betrayed you before your mouth did, hips arching into him, hands gripping his shoulders like you needed him to hold you up.

his lips curled into a smirk against your skin. “that’s what i thought,” he whispered before sinking his teeth into the delicate skin of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

you gasped, your fingers tightening in his shirt. “fuck—”

“language, sweetheart,” he teased, but his voice was strained, his control hanging by a thread. his hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, sliding up your waist, fingertips dipping beneath the fabric of your top.

you knew this was a bad idea. you knew this was crossing a line neither of you could come back from. but as rafe’s lips found yours again, all slow and deep and claiming, you realized you didn’t care.

not when he touched you like this. not when he looked at you like you belonged to him.

it was sudden— the way his fingers laced around your panties, the way he dragged them down, and the way two of his fingers plunged inside of you without warning.

your mouth hung open, gasps leaving your precious lips. he rested his forehead against yours, staring deeply into your eyes.

“you’re so tight.” he grunted, fingers working at a relentless pace inside of you. “gonna ruin you, baby.” it wasn’t a threat, no; it was a promise.

“oh my go-” you moaned, your face falling into rafe’s shoulder. your teeth find his arm, biting down to suppress your moans.

rafe’s mind runs wild at the sight of continuous wetness dripping out of your needy hole. he adds another finger, causing your body to arch off the wall and into him. he swore he could’ve cum just from the sight of you.

he takes his eyes from between your legs to your face, which is thrown back in utter pleasure. beads of sweat dripped down your face as your stomach flexes with each thrust of his digits.

“enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” he asked with a cocky tongue. “i must be a saint for keeping up with your bratty behavior and then rewarding you.” he tsked.

you whimpered in response, causing his dick to twitch in his pants. his face fell into your neck, sucking and biting down on the soft skin.

then, the band in your stomach threatened to snap. “i’m coming!” the words flew off your tongue. he smirked in response, not faltering his speed.

“give it to me, baby.”

and that’s all it took.

white spots overcame your vision as you grasped onto your best friend for dear life. your legs shook before buckling. luckily, rafe’s arm wrapped around you.

a wet patch in his jeans formed as he felt your cunt convulse around his fingers. he removed them slowly, holding them up like a badge of honor before bringing them to his lips and licking them clean.

“if you weren’t my best friend, and i didn’t care about your wellbeing, i would bend you over that sink and make you cum until you couldn’t anymore.”

#nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron blurb #bsf!rafe #bsf!rafe cameron

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