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pretty-royals · 22 days ago

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Missing something

| Summary : Once upon a quiet morning a small thing was forgotten—just a ring, simple and gold, left behind without a thought. And yet, for the rest of the day, Sanji grew quiet, distant, and strangely flustered. You watched him dodge your gaze, sidestep your touch, wrapped up in a secret he wouldn’t speak aloud.

Type : Fluff

Warnings : Slight angst on Sanji’s side,very soft hurt/comfort, Married™

The morning sun poured through the porthole of the shared bedroom, casting golden light over the curve of your shoulder. You stirred with a soft sigh, warm and wrapped in the lingering scent of Sanji’s cologne and the faintest trace of last night’s perfume—an blend of lavender and black tea that always clung to him after a late-night cleaning spree in the kitchen.

He was already gone, of course. Sanji always rose before everyone else, like the sun itself couldn’t function without him in the galley. You smiled sleepily, fingers trailing over the sheets where he’d lain beside you. But as your hand wandered, it caught on something small and cold resting on the edge of the nightstand.

Your brow furrowed.

You sat up, blinking away the fog of sleep, and picked it up.

A wedding ring.

His wedding ring.

The same gold band you had both exchanged months ago. You’d both promised to never take them off unless absolutely necessary.

Your lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Really, Sanji?”

He must’ve left it behind during his morning routine. That man could be precise in a fight and in the kitchen, but he was an absolute mess when it came to organizing his own life. How he managed to forget his ring of all things, though, was beyond you.

Still holding the ring between your fingers, you padded out of the room barefoot, intent on returning it.

—|

Sanji was in hell.

Not actual hell. No, not the fiery, brimstone kind.

This was a personal hell—a very specific nightmare built for only one man:

He had lost his wedding ring.

It started like any other morning. He’d gotten up early, brushed his teeth, showered, prepped breakfast, and was halfway through chopping vegetables before he looked down at his hand and realized the unmistakable absence of cool metal against his skin.

Panic had gripped him like a vice.

His first instinct had been to retrace his steps. He’d run back to the bathroom, rifled through towels, checked the sink drain like a madman, then sprinted back to the bedroom to toss the sheets like a burglar.

Nothing.

He hadn’t told you. How could he?

He couldn’t face you without it. You meant everything to him. That ring was more than a symbol—it was you. Losing it felt like he’d just dropped his entire world down a drainpipe.

So, he avoided you.

Which was hard, because you kept trying to talk to him.

You’d poked your head into the galley once that morning, the ring held behind your back. “Hey love, you okay? You seem a little distracted today.”

He hadn’t even looked up from the cutting board. “Oui, ma chérie, everything is perfect. Just focused on breakfast. Run along, okay?”

The confused look on your face had almost broken him.

Then there was lunch. You’d come by again, ring in hand.

“Sanji, can we talk?”

“Sorry, lunch rush! Later, my sweet! Mwah!”

He’d all but shoved a tray of soba into Usopp’s hands and practically dove into the pantry to avoid you. Each time he saw you, guilt tore another hole in his gut.

⸻

By the time dinner came around, you were fuming.

You’d tried giving him the ring three more times. Each time, he brushed you off. The most recent attempt, he’d actually ducked under the table when he saw you walking in.

You stood outside the galley, arms crossed, the ring clutched tightly in your palm. Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe he didn’t want to wear it anymore?

No. That didn’t make sense.

Sanji adored you. Worshiped the ground you walked on, to the point of idiocy. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about not wanting to wear the ring.

But damn if it wasn’t hurting.

⸻

It was late.

Most of the crew had turned in for the night. The lights on the Sunny’s deck were low, the sound of the waves soft against the hull. You sat on the bed, legs tucked beneath you, the ring sitting on the pillow beside you like a small, accusing ghost.

The door creaked.

You looked up.

Sanji stood in the doorway, half in shadow, half cast in the soft golden light from the hall. He looked exhausted. Hair disheveled. Tie undone. Shoulders slumped.

But worst of all—he looked ashamed.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You didn’t respond. You just looked at him.

He walked in slowly, as if approaching a minefield, and sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands twisted together.

“I…” he began, then stopped, cleared his throat, and started again. “I have something to tell you, mon amour.”

You waited.

“I lost it,” he whispered. “I lost my ring. I noticed this morning and I… I’ve been looking for it all day. I tore apart the ship. I searched the kitchen, the vents, even the damn seagull nests. I was too embarrassed to tell you. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care. That I wasn’t careful. I’m so sorry.”

He still didn’t look at you.

You picked up the ring and held it out to him, your voice calm.

“You mean this wedding ring?”

Sanji froze.

His head whipped toward you, eyes wide, jaw slightly open.

You arched a brow, voice carefully even. “The one I tried to give you since the start of the day? The same one you forgot in the bedroom this morning?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“I—I left it in the bedroom ?” he croaked, horrified.

You nodded slowly.

“I found it on the edge of the nightstand. I figured you took it off to wash your face or something and forgot. I tried to give it back. Multiple times. You even ducked behind Luffy once.”

“I thought you were mad at me,” he said, eyes still wide. “I thought you—”

“Sanji,” you interrupted, voice softening, “I’m not mad that you forgot it. I’m mad you ignored me all day. You could’ve just told me.”

He took the ring from your hand like it was sacred, eyes shimmering. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

You sighed and shifted forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your forehead to the side of his neck.

“Sanji, I married you because I love you, not because of a ring. That’s just a piece of metal. A beautiful one, yes, but you are the reason it matters.”

He turned his head slightly, his nose brushing yours.

“I’ve been a fool,” he murmured. “A lovesick, panicking, fool.”

You kissed his cheek. “Yes, but you’re my fool.”

He slipped the ring back onto his finger slowly, reverently, as though he were putting it on for the first time.

Then he turned to face you fully, cupping your face in his hands.

“Je t’aime” he whispered.

You smiled. “Je t’aime aussi. Now, no more hiding from me behind dining tables.”

He laughed, breathless and warm, pulling you into a real kiss this time—soft, deep, full of the silent apologies and gratitude he couldn’t quite say aloud.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I swear, I’ll never take it off again.”

“Good,” you teased. “Because next time, I might just make you earn it back.”

His eyes lit up, lips curving. “Does that mean you’ll punish me, Mrs. Vinsmoke?”

You smacked his shoulder lightly. “It means I’ll make you sleep in the kitchen.”

He laughed again, and this time it was full, bright, and wholly relieved.

And just like that, the weight lifted, replaced with something infinitely warmer—something that sparkled even brighter than a silver ring under moonlight.

Love, as chaotic and imperfect as it was, had never tasted sweeter.

By the command and exclusive favor of Her Most Radiant and Serene Highness, the Princess.You are hereby named the Special Guest of the Court : @clare-875

The Princess thanks you dearly—for your wit, your charm, and most importantly, your service to the crown.

The Court :

@dazaiwifey @the-maladaptive-daydreamers @sle3pymarimo @sweet-3-whispers

#one piece #one piece x reader #black!reader #opla x reader #pretty royal writing #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji #black leg sanji #sanji vinsmoke x reader #one piece sanji #op sanji #sanji x you #sanji

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childrenofcain-if · 10 months ago

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DEMO ✝ BACK-UP ACCOUNT

Wealth. Power. Death.

The Ballad of the Young Gods is a dark academia interactive fiction story, with dark fantasy and psychological thriller themes. Some of the romances also contain tropes and storylines which may be disturbing to some readers.

It is based on media like “Ninth House” by Leigh Bardugo, “The Secret History” by Donna Tart, “Masters of Death” by Olivie Blake, and SYFY’s “Deadly Class”.

It is rated 18+ for depictions of swearing, sexual themes, violence, and death.

Getting into an Ivy League school is a dream that thousands of American students nurse from a young age. Luckily for you, that dream is your reality. Four years of continuous hard work and pressure have made you a proud freshman at Yale University. And as if that wasn’t enough, you have been handpicked to attend Rathore College, whose selection process is revered across all the nation’s top educational institutions. But you should’ve known this stroke of luck came with a catch.

Yale is a crucible of power, where secret societies wield arcane magic and the dead are far from silent. The illustrious House of Styx wants you and this is a situation that not even your money can get you out of.

They are powerful, elite, and most of all, controlling beyond recognition. They are also the heart of the eight secret societies that attach themselves to Yale. From the White House to Hollywood’s most acclaimed stars, their influence reaches farther than anyone can dare to imagine.

A sinister conspiracy brews under Styx’s watchful gaze, one that threatens to unravel the fragile balance between the living and the dead. But in a graveyard of secrets, you and your accomplices are the ones with the shovels. You’re now in a world where the past is never truly dead, and the lines between life and death blur with each passing day.

But some secrets are better left buried, and some prophecies are destined to drag you to hell.

Cédric Armand Lacroix / Céline Armelle Lacroix (M/F)

Vindictive. Conniving. Ruthless.

As the heir to the Lacroix fortune, C is every bit as arrogant as their bloodline demands them to be. Even after the messy divorce of their parents which further led to their disownment by their father, Alain Lacroix, they refuse to give up on their dignity. They’ve vowed to destroy him one day and take what’s rightful theirs, brick by brick. The world bent to C’s whims, what money couldn't buy them, those pale green eyes probably did.

There is nothing that they can’t have, especially if they set their mind to that. That is until you came along and stayed one step ahead of them every time in everything that mattered. It wasn’t just the fortune or the legacy at stake; it was the bruising of their pride, the constant reminder that someone—anyone—could outmaneuver them. But beneath the layers of resentment and anger, there’s something more—something darker, even more dangerous.

An obsession takes root, one that blurs the line between hatred and fascination. And they vow to spend their whole life despising you for everything.

Romance trope: Enemies / Academic Rivals to Lovers.

Vance Kasper Næsholm / Vanessa Karina Næsholm (M/F)

Pious. Haunted. Disillusioned.

Raised under the oppressive influence of a rigid, fire-and-brimstone faith in a Danish Catholic orphanage, they were taught to see demons in every shadow and sin in every touch. Forever haunted by the visions provided by a wrathful God they can neither fully grasp their mind around nor escape from, their only reprieve came on the day they got adopted at the age of six and diagnosed with schizophrenia. But the truth of their ‘psychosis’ may be far more sinister than any medical diagnosis could account for.

As the tides become even stormier and their medications become ineffective when they arrive at Yale, all V can do is hold on to the last threads of control over their lives. Your first meeting almost makes them teeter over the edge.

Now that they’re your roommate, they’re bound to you by fate or folly, but whether they’ll be a stable ally remains to be seen.

Romance trope: Roommate Romance.

Wilhelm Johann Ostendorf / Wilhelmine Johanna Ostendorf (M/F)

Exhausted. Abandoned. Lost.

What does the world think of you when you’re a product of brilliance and neglect at the same time? With an Oscar-winning filmmaker for a father and a mother ensconced on the American board of directors at the Louvre, their pedigree is undeniable, yet it is a legacy more hollow than it appears. While their parents sculpted their careers into masterpieces and amassed accolades, they left W to be raised by their paternal aunt and uncle. A sizeable trust fund and periodic checks served as their parents’ only gestures of care, a shallow substitute for the love and attention their only child so desperately craved.

The only times they had felt more than someone who was deeply unlovable were the summers you spent on rusty swingsets and fast bicycles with training wheels. But the swingsets have long been dismantled, and the bicycles have been traded for cars.

The only questions remain—are you the same kid who saw them, really saw them, beyond the reality of being unwanted and the suffocating looks filled with pity that came with their name? Or will this reunion only serve to confirm their deepest fear—that they are, and always have been, truly alone?

Romance trope: Forgotten Childhood Friends to Lovers.

Dumitru Constantin Diaconu / Dumitra Constantina Diaconu (M/F)

Charismatic. Reckless. Guarded.

D’s name is the one that comes up in almost every conversation about Yale’s wildest parties. A natural-born rockstar charmer with a magnetic presence, they effortlessly draw people into their orbit, collecting hearts and bodies with the ease of someone who’s always been in the center of the gold rush. Despite the countless admirers and the trail of broken hearts left in their wake, you’ll always find them with a Marlboro between their lips and a new person in their arms to warm their bed at night. Their smile is a promise, and their laughter a siren call. In the haze of flashing lights and the thrum of bass that pulses through the walls, they are a heartbreaker in every sense of the word.

Feelings are a complication they don’t allow, a line they never cross. They’ve perfected the art of detachment, of keeping their connections strictly no-strings, because to let someone in would be to risk the vulnerability they’ve long since sworn off.

Will you be the only person they'd let peel back the barbed wire surrounding their heart? Or will you be left with nothing but the faint scent of cinnamon and a tale that wasn't meant to be?

Romance trope: Friends with Benefits / Sex First, Feelings Later. [You will only be able to unlock their romance route through a hookup.]

Maxwell Edmund Whitlock-Singh / Maxine Edythe Whitlock-Singh (M/F)

Duty-bound. Noble. Untouchable.

Politeness and decorum are second nature to M. They are the embodiment of manners, a living testament to the art of subtlety in a world where spectacle often trumps substance. They are the sort of person who commands attention without seeking it, a product of both royal blood and rigorous self-discipline. Dubbed the “Paragon of Styx,” M is a modern Plato, someone who finds as much solace in philosophical debates as in the classical texts they’ve devoured in multiple languages. As the second-born child of the Crown Princess of Wales, they have always understood that their life would be one of service with every action scrutinized, and every word weighed.

Their intellect is vast, but it is their passion for the esoteric that sets them apart. For all their convictions, there is a restlessness within M that even they cannot fully articulate. It is the paradox of their existence—a life of privilege that feels at times like a gilded cage, a role that demands both reverence and obedience. Indeed, heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Will you make them realize that life is more than duties and expectations? Or will you become yet another figure in the background, another reminder of the golden cage they were born into?

Romance trope: Forbidden Royal Romance / Secret Relationship.

Step into the shadows as the wealthy heir apparent to a billion-dollar industry who is just starting at Yale University as a freshman.

Be a part of Yale’s most enigmatic secret society, the House of Styx.

Fully customize your character including: pronouns, gender, physical appearance, personality, sexuality, and more.

Romance 1 out of 5 love interests (all of them are gender-selectable).

Study forbidden knowledge, practice dark magic, and try not to fail at your actual coursework.

Test your mind, body, and soul in rituals that blur the line between reality and nightmare.

Learn about the secrets that your mother took to her grave. Is she really the same woman you remember so fondly from your childhood?

Will you rise to navigate the sinister plans brewing under the nose of the House? Or will your actions drag you and your companions to the fiery depths of Hell.

W̶̗͖̝͆h̷͕̲̑̎̓̍̄̎͠͝a̵̢̛̫̾̓͗t̴̙̫͛̐͆̾̀̓̔̊͝ ̴̪́́̈́͛̂̉̀͒̊́ạ̸̗̯̲̘̬͗̀ͅr̸̢̪̜̭̼̠̟̜͚̂̈́͋͋̅͑̉́̎͝e̸̩̯͉̿̊̔͛̃̎͝ͅ ̵̢̹̜̤͍͙̩̬̰̜̏̃͝͠y̷̢̨͇̘͍̌́͐̍̆̓̑̐ǫ̶̢̧̡̛̥̤͉͎̟̃̏̍̓̒ͅu̷̓̂̾̇̇͜͝,̸͎̖̮̲̳̻̱̬̎̒͑͝ ̸̡̛̰̌͐c̶̛̪̗̰̻̜̲̘̺͗͊h̴̡͔̦̘̤̖͊̿̓̇i̵͉̘͙̥͍̼̜̐̐̄̅͝͝ĺ̶̡̧̧̼̦̦̗̰̝̼̓̊̀d̸̡͎͔͔̰̖̿̐̈́̓͊̌̃̓͜?̷̩̗̲̫̮͕̍̈́́̽͜͝͝

DEMO

RO DETAILS

SPOTIFY (for RO playlists, click on their names in the cast section)

DISCORD

WRITTEN BY: axel (he/him)

CODED BY: @albywritesfiction (they/them)

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swordgrace · 2 months ago

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❝ 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: an ardent moment shared in the early hours of dawn with your knightly husband, gwayne hightower.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gwayne hightower x wife!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.5K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, smut & fluff, sweet banter, set after rook’s rest, gwayne is cunt-struck, making out, light teasing, mild body worship, hair pulling, light grinding, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, gwayne canon munch confirmed.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: desperately need more gwayne requests in my life because I LOVEEEE writing for him! this was just something small & self-indulgent that I wrote, I hope you all enjoy it! 🫶

Dawn’s first breath whispered through velvety curtains, slivers of an ember-orange pooling over gold decorum, passing over stone floors. It murmured still, exhaling tendrils of vibrancy, veiled through shrouded emerald, striking Gwayne’s visage with a sudden glower.

Twilight began to dissipate, with not an ounce of haste, dismal darkness giving way to violet, the celestials clinging to the horizon even still. A tepid gale drifted in from Blackwater Bay, breeze tinged with a touch of saltwater.

It was far too early to be roused at such an ungodly hour, but sleep was an elusive beast, slithering away from the Knight when he needed it most. Days had passed since standing upon the battlefield, and yet his bones still quivered with a grating fear.

Dread surged through him at the thought of having to march out with Cole once more, as if the devastation witnessed at Rook’s Rest wasn’t enough. Dancing dragons and pyres of dragonfire still echoed through his wandering mind, a ceaseless haunting.

Recalling the scent of charred flesh and brimstone, bodies naught but ash crushed into the dirt — his stomach churned violently at the thought. Copper clung to his nostrils even still, body bearing the burden of war, pale flesh littered in scrapes and bruises.

It would be another sennight before they were to make haste to the Riverlands, but it did not bring him any semblance of comfort. His days were numbered, determined to spend it all within your presence, to fondly commit your flesh to memory before conflict’s next harkening.

To lay within silk and atop a feathered paillasse was a welcome respite from the rickety cot and hardened earth he’d been resting upon before laying siege to Rook’s Rest. He’d grown rather accustomed to a lavish lifestyle, a posh existence as both Knight and nobleman.

Beside him, your slumbering form remained partially swathed in the sheets, sage-hued shift nearly translucent when touched by morning’s sigh. An affectionate smile fluttered over his features, the Knight’s brow creased with worry.

To leave you once more was a sting unlike any other, a bitter and rotten thing, gnawing away at his aching bones. His lungs filled with a begrudging sigh, gaze carefully surveying your countenance, furrowed with sleep, hand idly tangled into the sheets.

Hushed, Gwayne sluggishly moved from your bed, muscles groaning with an incessant ache, still recovering from the callousness of battle. With feather-light footfalls, he paced toward an ornate vanity, seeking the basin of lukewarm water perched atop it.

Russet tresses remained disheveled from a restless slumber, cerulean hues briefly flickering toward you through the mirror. A soft stirring resonated from the sheets as you shifted toward the empty recess he’d left behind, evoking a rousing tenderness from within his heart.

With a steady palm, he doused his visage with spring water, raking his hand over his crown before returning to bed. Filling the space at your side, warmth renewed, Gwayne felt your body press closer, cheek flush to his clothed chest.

It was what he often yearned for, holding you like this — during arduous nights spent within forests, in the ruins of a burning field, he dreamt of you. An ebullient smile, a sway of your gown, fluttering of eyelashes against warm features; it was you his heart hungered for.

His chivalry often impaled itself upon its sword when he was near you, gallantry warped into baser instincts, those of lesser men; he was no better. Gwayne was thoroughly enticed by you, his precious wife — nothing ever proved more tempting than that of you, flush against him.

“I forbid you to leave.” The groggy lull of your voice, strained with sleep, had ensnared him from his own cacophony of thoughts. A low hum reverberated within your throat, digits flexing against the loose linen of his nightshirt.

A bemused huff tumbled from his lips, palm shifting to gingerly cup the base of your skull, fingertips ghosting over silken tresses. “Good morrow, dearest wife.” Gwayne mused, allowing you to rest your eyes for a few moments longer; he was certainly in no hurry to depart.

Pliant lips pulled into a tender smile, the very image of the maiden’s grace, beauty unparalleled as you began to rouse from slumber. Your Knight-husband is sturdy, broad-shouldered, flesh pale and kissed by dappled freckles, collar flourishing with a darkened bruise.

When your gaze first finds him, your heart leaps excitedly into your throat, thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird. His lips tilt into a threadbare smirk, as if suppressing any true intentions, mouth gracing your brow in a gentle kiss.

A muddled haze still gripped the forefront of your mind, now tinged with thoughts of his inevitable departure. When Gwayne had first left you, your heart wretched at the thought — now, it made you tear asunder with an incessant worry.

He wouldn’t want you to drown yourself within the depths of despair, but you feared what harrowing chaos this war would bring. Dragon’s fire upon the skies, scorching men to ash, hollow wisps within metal cages, now floating upon the breeze.

Fortunately, Gwayne was wickedly intelligent, his sense of self-preservation both intuitive and innately selfish — you hoped that he would return safely, if things became too destructive. As much as you attempted to scrub such pessimism from your mind, it proved to be quite an obstacle.

It did not take a Maester to uncover the stress that beset your features, and Gwayne knew it well, attempting to curb your concerns with a placating kiss. “You’ve only just awoken, and you twist yourself with vexation.” He murmured, warm breath pluming over your brow.

“I cannot help it,” Transparent, you let your husband know your disquieting thoughts, and even as you tried to smooth the worry from your visage, it remained in inklings. “You plunge yourself headlong into a war that would see no victory — only carnage.”

Gwayne valiantly purged himself of any nervousness, and instead, remained the very essence of unperturbed. “I returned to you once already, haven’t I? I shall do so again, dearest — not even dragonfire may keep me from you.” Soothingly, his fingertips drew circles over your crown.

Even then, his reassurance was not enough, a veiled satisfaction, at best. Fear chewed away at your innards like some feral animal, throat thick as you swallowed down your worry. “It frightens me, even still — you do not have to go.” The possibility of that was slim, as it stood.

“I’ve a duty as a Knight — I cannot flee from it, as you well know,” Cerulean hues found your gaze, doe-eyed, pleading for him to stay, but you knew as well as he did that he would leave. “You mustn’t worry yourself into a stupor.”

Despising his correctness, your lungs deflated with a strained exhale, expunging yourself of this nagging dread. You did not want to spend your days together raking yourself over the coals, and neither did he. “I will let it go — begrudgingly.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his smile threadbare yet genuine, reveling in your doting concern that you showered him with. “Your sentiments are most heartwarming, I assure you. I’ve an affectionate wife, one whose adoration I carry with me.”

As your nerves began to settle, disparaging thoughts of conflict simmering to a mere hush, you let out a chuckle of faux annoyance. “I do not believe that I’ve ever spoken of adoration.” You jeered, nose crinkling in amusement.

Gwayne scoffed, a glimmer of theatrical hurt fluttering over his features, set within his brow as he planted a palm above his heart. “Hells, wife — you wound me with such vitriol. We’ve only just awoken and this is how you treat your husband.”

Whatever dread and trepidation stirred within his heart, he squashed it, for now — let it return to mere cinders. The more his thoughts lingered on the inevitable, the more it pained him to leave you.

Instead, he opted for lightheartedness, for an ardent warmth, the love that blossomed between. A feigned gasp slipped past your lips as you lightly smacked his shoulder, features warming as he seized your wrist.

Wordlessly, he drew you close, flush to his body, lips planting a kiss to your palm. Wisps of dawn floated over your countenance, drenching you in slivers of a fiery gold; incandescently perfect. Any witty remark seemed to fade upon his tongue.

Gazes interlocked, a semblance of understanding passing between, a yearning that often permeated all interactions. He marveled at your beauty, a resplendence unrivaled, one that seemed to claw the very air from his lungs.

“I love you,” A sweet lull tumbled from your lips, shamelessly steeped in an adoration that had brought him to heel. “You are an honorable man, Gwayne — and the most excellent husband.” It was these assurances that the Knight held tightly to.

Admittedly, he did not feel honorable, especially now, thoughts wandering toward the depths of sin, savoring the sensation of your body pressed to his. Gwayne’s lascivious intent sometimes overruled any sense of logic, fact fading to mere fantasy.

Fingertips ghosted over his jaw, defined and pale, sweeping toward his mane of coppery tresses, disheveled from rest. A methodical exhale escaped through his nostrils, bewitched by your hand of gold, touch turning him to some starving creature.

Foreheads brushed against one another, a closeness he desperately clung to, afraid to be swept away within some desolate wave. “Honor betrays me in this very moment.” His confession was wreathed in desire.

A brief shiver crept along your spine, feeling his hand gently encapsulate your wrist, thumb caressing silken flesh. Through creased brows, you canted your head to one side. “Why do you say that?” You inquired, perplexed.

“Why do you think, sweetling?” Gwayne hummed, planting a searing kiss to your jaw, one that poised to linger, savoring your sweet skin. A flicker of understanding doused your features, lips parting as your throat stirred with a subtle gasp.

“Speak plainly, husband. I am not sure that I truly understand your intent.” Effortlessly teasing him, a jocular twinge permeated your cadence, one that seemed a touch sly. Against your neck, you felt Gwayne’s encroaching smirk like a hot brand.

“Bane of my existence,” The Knight whinged into your flesh, knowing how easy it was for you to toy with him; as coy as a cat. He lavished kisses to your throat, one hand stealthily slithering towards the curve of your hip. “I adore you for it.”

Laughter spilled from your lips, akin to a nymph’s playful melody, as warm as the first breath of spring. Gwayne huffed, a low and bemused sound as your palm shamelessly pushed beneath his shirt, mapping sinewy muscle below your fingertips.

His honor was well and surely damned with you caressing him like that, salacious fantasies beginning to take root, lustful seeds whose leaves flourished quickly. Wordlessly, he began to sit upright, gaze deliciously hooded as he started to push your legs apart.

Rose-hued lips glided to your mouth without a wisp of hesitation, clamoring for a brazen kiss. It was bruising, wrought with such adoration that it made your belly pulse with a familiar heat. Eager, your hand continued to slither over his muscles, caressing along his abdomen.

Gwayne was attentive, swift; he was bursting at the seams to have you then and there, blanketing you with his body, each kiss burning with an arduous fire. A low groan caught within your throat, excitement beginning to mount.

That is, until a knock resonated throughout your chambers.

“Good morrow, my Lady, we’ve come to draw your morning bath.” The scuttling of handmaidens could be heard from outside of the door, rather poor timing, but you were keen on it, much to your husband’s dissatisfaction.

Gwayne appeared positively pained, amber brows drawn together, mouth upturned into an exaggerated frown. “Seven Hells, could they not wait another hour? What am I to do?” He groveled, though it seemed more theatrical instead of genuine, earning a smile from you.

“Patience is a knightly virtue, is it not?” With a cheshire grin, you wriggled from beneath him, leaving your husband to sink back down against the pillows. “Come in!” You called, adjusting your satiny shift back into place.

Unable to smother his own gallant smile, he decided to heed your mischievous remark, making himself comfortable for the time being. As you perched along the paillasse’s edge, surrounded by disheveled sheets of gold and emerald, he found himself ogling.

It was unjust, immoral for a man to covet — a greater sin, and it made him a sinner, no better than some craven individual. He coveted you as if you were a precious jewel, one to be kept close to his heart, shimmering for his eye alone.

Around his neck, he felt the sudden weight of your affectionate token, your ring dangling from a chain of silver. Gwayne rarely removed it, and during the taxing journey home, he often held it tightly within his fist, a reminder of what awaited him.

As the handmaidens went about filling your washtub with warm water, you remained poised, patiently awaiting their departure. Even when turned away from your husband, you felt his smoldering stare, as hot as a scorching sun boring right through you.

Peering over your shoulder, as if to tempt your blithering husband, a shiver of delight rolled through your spine, instead; he was gazing at you. Cerulean hues had not wavered an inch, never straying, mouth beginning to curl with a softer smile.

Shimmering silver glistened around his neck; your signet, still clinging to his throat. It warmed you to know that he’d kept it close, body shuddering with a wave of incessant heat.

Gwayne leaned closer, arm outstretched as his fingers pinched at the fabric of your shift, countenance brimming with ardor. For a Knight of his stalwart disposition, he had a knack for teasing, digits nipping at your hip.

Seconds became agonizing, as if stretched out into years, and you seemed quite patient, features warming as your husband’s hand flexed near your thigh. Incorrigible, you thought, teeth ensnared against the flesh of your inner cheek.

To Gwayne’s delight, your handmaidens emerged with emptied pitchers, curtsying to the both of you before making a swift departure. As soon as the door had groaned shut, he seized you, laughing into your shoulder as you yelped.

“Gods, what torture that was.” Bemused, he tugged you backward, bringing you against the expanse of his chest, lavishing your throat in soft kisses. A wanton sigh slipped past your lips, allowing him to dote upon you until you wriggled away.

“Torture? You seemed rather content,” With a witty counter, you giggled as a theatrical groan rippled through his throat. Insistent, Gwayne reached for you once more, hands firmly holding to your hips, urging you to sit down. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

“I did not say that you could leave, dearest,” A pang of lust saturated his tone, a silent command, beseeching you to stay planted atop the paillasse. Anticipation swelled within you, stomach surging with a familiar heat as he eased you down onto your back. “Not yet.”

Seamlessly, your enthused husband wedged his way between your legs once more, rucking up your shift without a care. Careworn palms traced over your thighs, a hitch catching within your throat as his mouth returned to yours with a renewed passion.

Beneath your breast, your heart galloped with anticipation, welcoming him in, digits climbing along clothed biceps, reaching his crown of copper waves. A soft moan reverberated from you, bodies beginning to tangle within the other, an amalgamation of limbs.

Gods, you invigorated him — he found it impossible to execute such restraint when near you, especially now. Each kiss made him slaver like some starving animal, begging for a mere glimpse of your flesh, a thing of beauteous delight.

“Gwayne,” A tremulous exhale plumed over his lips, which occupied themselves with kissing your jaw, ghosting over your jugular. Knees squeezing at his waist, silken tunic hanging loosely upon him, exposing pale flesh, bruised in some places. “You are insatiable.”

A bemused chuckle escaped him, one of a playful mirth that soon dissipated into something more stalwart. The Knight felt like some debauched hedonist when around you, unable to rein in his turbulent feelings, or quell the overwhelming ardor he felt for you.

His mouth lavished passionate kisses to your throat; transfixed, Gwayne allowed his hands to travel along your body, kneading and caressing wherever he pleased. Underneath his lips, you tasted saccharine, a silken honey that served as a constant temptation.

“You drive me to madness, sweet wife,” With a wanton groan, your Knight began to unravel the laces of your shift, and you seemed eager to find some relief. The garment loosened, front ties easy to pick apart. “Such beauty.” His sigh was a passionate one.

Golden sunlight sliced through the curtains, catching across your visage, molten dawn that bathed you in its resplendence. Gwayne’s heart nearly stilled at the sight, a subtle hitch forming within his throat as he reveled at your perfection.

Cerulean hues studied your countenance, the way your lips parted with an excitable exhale, irises doe-eyed, mouth upturned in a tender smile. It was crystalline, the way he plainly admired you, ever the loyal and adoring husband.

As your gown drew apart through the center, Gwayne parted your legs a touch further, bones lurching at the sound of your bated breath. With a sudden haste, his lips dutifully returned to your collar, lavishing you in countless kisses.

It was then that his want and festering desire began to pull him to what he coveted most, the heart singing beneath your breast. Still, his kisses continued, forging their path near your chest, slipping toward your pebbling nipple.

“Gwayne,” A delighted whine erupted from your throat, back beginning to arch as he kissed your bosom, tongue briefly teasing the peak of your breast. One hand flew to grasp at the nape of his neck, fingers raking through copper tresses. “Please, do not stop.”

As if to vex you further, a hand slithered between your thighs, digits gracing your nethers. Much to his delight, you were already warmed, wet and honey-thick upon his fingers. “So swiftly, sweetling?” Such a lascivious jest fell effortlessly from his tongue.

“It is your fault.” A wanton whine split past your mouth, lips parted to make room for a strangled gasp. His digits briefly glided over your cunt, tearing themselves away as soon as they appeared.

Lips branded themselves over your flesh, continuing to tease your breasts before descending downward. Each kiss possessed meaning, a fervent love for you, etched into your skin as his mouth feathered across your stomach.

The name of your paramour whispered into the surrounding air, wrought with an amalgamation of adoration and desire. Digits perused through his tresses, back keening from the silken sheets below, aching for his embrace.

Gods, he could not envision a prettier sight, your flesh belonging to some divine entity, the image of an ethereal beauty. He kissed trails of lingering kisses over your body, worshiping you in the way that you rightfully deserves, growing closer to the heat echoing betwixt your legs.

Patience was both his virtue and his agony, desiring to taste you, more than that of any fine stout or aged wine. Gooseflesh iced his spine when you began to massage at his crown, an absentminded gesture, filling his stomach with an insatiable hunger.

His cock twitched within his breeches, aching with something desirous, mouth raking over your silken flesh with a single-minded purpose. As he planted slow, deliberate kisses to your hips, he sank against the mattress, hitching your legs up over his broad shoulders.

Careworn palms caressed circles into your thighs, dragging from your haunches toward your knees, and then back again. Sweet kisses buried themselves along soft skin, nearing your aching cunt as if to further prolong your torment.

“I must ravish you, dearest,” Gwayne exhaled near your nethers, drawn to you like a bee upon a blossoming flower. “My sweetest wife.” His constant lavishing of sultry praises made your cunt clench pathetically around nothing at all.

Watching his auburn crown move towards the apex of your thighs was a most tantalizing sight, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. It soon disappeared between your legs altogether, lips savoring the ambrosial slick of your nethers.

Consumed by a heat so feverish that it nearly destroyed you, his tongue raked hot embers over your cunt, tracing along the length of your slit before dipping between your folds.

A gasp tore past your mouth; it was an ecstasy beyond comprehension, gnawing away at your bones. Abhorrently sluggish, your husband tasted you with deliberate laps of his tongue, nearly groaning as his hands kneaded into your thighs.

Gwayne dutifully lapped at your core, nose brushing against your mound, tongue dancing from the pearl of your cunt to your entrance, his movements repetitive. A sigh of delight floated into the air, your pleasure made known as you lightly tugged on his tresses.

A string of crass sounds emanated from below; soft, needy lips hungrily kissing along your cunt. Trapped within a foggy haze, both mind and body succumbed to the salacious machinations of your husband, digits flexing over his crown.

Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower. Steeped within your slit, the taste of you ambrosial, Gwayne continued his ministrations, tongue flicking along your core, making a sluggish ascent toward your clit.

Every fiber of your being screamed with ecstasy, stomach swirling with molten heat, climbing higher towards an inevitable release. Hips jolted from the sheets and into his mouth, unable to keep from writhing beneath his tongue.

“Gwayne!” A shrill cry punctured your lungs, breathing pitched with want as your thighs squeezed at his head. Dizzy from such overwhelming arousal, your body began to furl, a coil of heat pulled taut within your belly.

His eagerness was palpable through each flick of his tongue, lost within the oasis between your legs. Palms stroked along your legs, coming to grasp with an iron hold upon your thighs, attempting to steady your constant squirming.

A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand forcefully tugging on your Knight’s auburn locks as he showered your cunt in an alternation of steady licks to lingering ones.

It was then that his tongue sought the clutch of nerves at the apex of your cunt, making your muscles twitch with anticipation. Deliberately, he stoked the fire churning within your belly, teasing your pearl with feather-light kisses and practiced circles of his tongue.

Cerulean hues coyly peered at you from his place between your legs, gallantry still well-intact, poisoned by his own lascivious intent. As your gazes met, you shivered, countenance unfurling with a look of complete and utter bliss.

Gwayne’s mouth deftly teased your pearl before planting a string of kisses along your slit, tongue lapping wherever he pleased. A groan wracked him, low and heady, intoxicated by your taste as his own hips ground against the mattress.

There was a slight alleviation to such burning friction, his cock throbbing ceaselessly, oozing with arousal into his breeches. In the past, he might’ve felt a twinge of humiliation, but not now, not when you bewitched him like this.

Arousal mounted with a searing intensity, scorching your body with a wave of feverish heat. Again, he traveled to your pearl, gently suckling upon the bundle of nerves. Your poor thighs rattled on either side of his head, twitching with throes of ecstasy as he toyed with your clit.

“Such a sweet cunt.” The tremor of his salacious purr made your back arch, hips desperately jolting into the friction of his mouth. He treated you to a careful barrage of kisses, tongue circling over your pearl in an agonizing tandem.

Thighs twitched and trembled with your encroaching release, your pinnacle within reach as you haplessly clawed at his tresses. His name spilled from your lips, innumerable moans that flooded the space between bodies.

Gwayne ensured that you were doted upon, and a sliver of him wondered if this would be the very last time — it was dismal for him to think that way. Nevertheless, your enthused husband carried on with vigor, suckling upon your pearl before lapping over your nethers.

Slowly, you unraveled, having to ground yourself to any shred of composure, throat wracked with a choked sob. The coil of taut heat snapped like that of a bowstring, giving way to an overwhelming release, a white-hot tide of bliss.

As you found yourself wrapped within your peak, you cried his name, knowing that those who wandered the royal corridors were sure to hear you. Gwayne groaned into your cunt, his own body rutting forward until he too came undone within his own breeches.

It was sudden, the overtaking of desire, his love for you, so mesmerizing and intense that he could bear it no longer. With his restraint dissolved, he kissed at your slit even still, lapping up the ambrosial remnants of your release.

With perspiration glittering upon his brow, the both of you began to climb down from your shared releases, chest swift to rise and fall as you caught your breath. Warmth clung to your body, a stickiness prevalent between your thighs.

Gwayne kissed your legs, pale features flourishing with a scarlet pallor, gaze pleasantly half-lidded as he praised your form once more. “I shall never tire of your taste,” He sighed with rapture, palm smoothing over your belly. “Are you well, sweet wife?”

The title often made you preen like some giggling maiden, batting your lashes at him as you caressed his scalp. “Very well, husband — I owe you my gratitude,” You mused, unable to suppress a delighted smile as he kissed your knee. “I love you, Gwayne.”

Slinking forward, he resumed his place, body blanketing yours, arms quick to snap you up in an affectionate haste. He cradled you, caging you in against his chest, visage one of an unbridled tenderness. “As I love you.”

Flush to one another, foreheads beginning to touch, the scent of your carnal aftermath clung to sweat-laden skin. Despite that, the moment was sweet, one of a comforting silence, and yet the ardor there was unmistakable.

“The bath,” Your lips curled into a bashful smile. “The water is likely cold, after all this time.” Bemused, you noted the inkling of debonair cockiness swirling within your husband’s gaze — one that you were very familiar with.

“Alas,” Gwayne murmured, planting a kiss upon your jaw as he coaxed you from bed, bearing your weight within his arms. “I suppose I shall have to keep you warm once more.”

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne hightower x you #gwayne hightower x y/n #gwayne x reader #gwayne hightower #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #house of the dragon smut

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azzayofchaos · 1 year ago

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Since my other Nether worldbuilding post was received pretty well... I'm back on my bullshit!

This time featuring zoning and biomes of the Neath: Lore below cut

Nether (noun): the formidable hellscape straddling the boundery between the Fragments of the Overworld and Death's Realms.

Derived from Beneath -> Neath -> Neth -> Nether.

The Nether is most easily accessable through outer regions of the nether, regions that are comparatively closed-off, and lacking in biodiversity compared to the Deep Nether where most Neath civilizations are centered.

The Neth is divided into three primary zones, distinguished by altitude and general climates.

The Calfactory Zone: the largest and most iconic of the three, the Calfactory zone is blisteringly hot and bone-dry, it's most prominent features are its abundant seas and lakes of magma, and the massive Supermagmas atriums that are common above the magma. In the largest of these atriums, the ceiling may be so high above as to be completely invisible from the ground, obscured by an ever present smog of toxic vapor and minerals formed in the self-generated micro-climates that are generated from the rising heat of the lava that begins to cool at a higher altitude.

In the Basalt Deltas and other biomes around the edges of these lakes, massive pillars of rock and crystals bulwark the more-visible ceiling.

The most common of this zone’s biomes is the Crimson woods, home to hearty thermal-philic fungi and plants that grow on the minerals and vapors of the lakes. Many are carnivorous in their lack of access to water or sunlight, and these forests contain many sub-biomes and ecosystems of flourishing life.

The Wastes are perhaps the most desolate regions of the Neath, irradiated deserts of red-rock, brimstone, and sharp sand. Even the vast majority of nether-folk avoid these deserts due to the leftover radiation that rots and destroys anything that waits too long. The only forms of life are particularly robust lichens and bacteria that are happy to sit by the boiling pools of sulfur and mud and toxic sludge that dot the landscape. Growing within the rocks themselves are colonies of amorphous fungus, called geocorpus molds, they get their spores into cracks in the soft netherack and slowly feed on it; the ‘rock meat’ is considered a delicacy in nether cuisine.

The Temperate Zone: Cradled in the heights of the Neath’s atriums and sat below the roof is the temperate zones; the rising heat of the zone below begins to cool and by doing so, distinct weather patterns form within this zone, leaving it, while still sweltering, a cooler though much more humid climate.

The main biome are the luminescent warped-fungal rainforests that collect the high-rising minerals and odd moisture from the lakes. Liquid is actually present here, though, if it’s not safely filtered through the innards of the various plants and fungi, this water is usually aggressively corrosive, and it is best to shelter from the acidic precipitation to avoid chemical burns. The nether folk and ender local to these rainforests are suited to deal with these conditions and the ender especially do not have trouble with the extreme pH of the water here like they would in the overworld. The zone is lit almost exclusively by the biolumincense of the organisms there and have often been described as false-stars.

In the Deep Nether, the ceiling may give way, allowing one to pass onto the plateaus of the Nether Roof and the yawning void above. The bedrock of the nether roof is jagged and layered in huge slabs, sometimes broken up my mazes of pillar-like structures and shallow, thermal pools of crystal-clear liquid. The kind you don't want to touch of course. fogs may hang low to the ground, but when its clear, or above the fog, the entire universe seems to spill out into the sky. The nether roof was culturally significant and a source of much knowledge and inspiration in the early days, but I'll get more into that in a later post 0.0

The Rime Zone: Plunge deep enough and one might find themselves bellow the lava beds. Here, where the heat can't quite penetrate, the temperatures will drop rapidly to sub-zero.

Namely, the Rime Zone is made up of the soul valleys, flat steppes of cinder and clotted sand, you can imagine it almost with the blindness effect, a fog that pools by your feet, and a heavier darkness hanging from the sky, it feels massive and endless and claustrophobic all at once. Frost collects as crystals on the irradiated, soul-soaked barrens, and the bones of the massive nether wyrms lie fossilized, breaking up the landscape. The sands are also split with patches of crazing on the ground and vents of blue fire that spills out and sets the sand ablaze.

These same wryms can be found sometimes, ancient things that dig through sand and soft rocks and the magma lakes, far and few between and treated with both fear and reverence.

And in the deepest pits of the Neath are the glowing frozen lakes that are colloquially and rightfully called the Gates to Death, glowing blue from beneath their surfaces. Indeed, any further down and you pass into limbo, the edge of Death's Realms.

Extra Notes??:

Soul sand/soil is tread on carefully or not at all, is one form of remnants from the apocolyspe. Like the general radiated rubble present through the Nether, it's a fault of nuclear fallout. Unlike other areas of radiation, its also been infused with the souls of those who didn't survive the joining of worlds. That said, unlike soul sand, soul soil is used productively to grow certain nether crops. It’s minerally and magically dense.

This infused quality is also precent in Nether Debris, resulting in a material that takes magic particularly well.

Iron cannot be found in dense veins and crystals like gold or quartz in the nether, but it's a pretty rich mineral a lot of netherack, giving it its ruddy coloring.

Sorry for this massive rant that no one asked for. If you have questions please feel free to send an ask, I may not have an answer yet but I'll certainly come up with one if I can.

I'm also hoping to do a pass on my headcanons about history and culture in the Nether and then we might start talking about character headcanons since this is also an actual AU.

If you read this far, here's some notes on striders and ghast

#minecraft #minecraft worldbuilding #Minecraft lore #speculative worldbuilding #minecraft nether #the nether #dreamingverse au #my art

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solxamber · 8 months ago

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Dragon's Favourite Sacrifice – Trey Clover x reader

Trey finds himself volunteering to be the human sacrifice to you in place of his siblings. What he didn't expect was to become your housekeeper instead of being eaten.

Crossposted from my ao3!

The village doesn’t know how to react when Trey volunteers as a sacrifice. He’s fully prepared for the worst, thinking back on all the horror stories the elders tell about the dragon god—the terrifying, ancient being that can destroy their village with one swipe of a claw. At least, that’s what everyone says.

But it had to be done. The village is on the brink of disaster and their last hope was the dragon god that lived in the mountains. The villagers began to proclaim that this was happening because they forgot to send a sacrifice in recent years. And when the current sacrifice chosen turned out to be one of his younger siblings, Trey had no choice but to volunteer himself.

As he approaches the temple, though, Trey wonders why the place looks like it hasn't been touched in years. Not exactly what you’d expect from a wrathful deity.

Maybe they just don't care about keeping things tidy before eating their next victim?

The inside of the temple is surprisingly cozy, but he doesn't have time to think about it. You, the ancient dragon, make your entrance—or rather, you wander in, yawning, and blink at him like you've just woken up from a really long nap.

“Hey… uh, are you the dragon god?” Trey asks, clutching the bundle of supplies he'd brought along.

You stretch, wings fluttering lazily behind you, before giving him a confused look. "Who else would I be? The village’s lost pet?"

Trey blinks. This is not what he was expecting. He was ready for a quick, brutal end. Maybe some fire and brimstone. Not... this.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “I’m Trey, from the village. They sent me as the sacrifice.”

You squint at him like he's just told you the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard. "Sacrifice? They still do that? I haven’t asked for a sacrifice in… decades. I was actually happy to not have my nap interrupted by scared humans. I was going to help with the crisis anyway."

Now it’s Trey's turn to stare. “You… don’t want the sacrifice?”

"Nope." You shrug, completely nonchalant. "You can go back to the village if you want. Or, if you're looking for a change of scenery, the village on the other side of the mountain is kinda nice."

Trey lets out a small sigh, but it’s not exactly relief. “I… can’t. If I go back, they'll think the offering was rejected. My siblings could suffer for it."

You pause, then nod thoughtfully. "Ah, yeah, human politics." You click your tongue. "I hate when that happens. Well, just so you know, the past sacrifices? Yeah, they all ended up in the village on the other side of the mountain."

Trey’s jaw drops. "Wait… what?"

"Yeah." You nod sagely. "They all thought the same thing—'Oh no, the dragon’s gonna eat me'—but I just sent them over there.”

He blinks at you again, trying to absorb all of this information. "So… you don’t actually…?"

"Eat people?" you finish for him, giving him a strange look. "No. That’s gross. Why would I do that?"

Trey's lips twitch upward. A beat of silence passes before Trey clears his throat again. "Mind if I stay, then? I can cook, clean, and—"

You give him a sideways glance, and your eyes light up. "Wait. You cook?"

"Yeah," Trey says, still trying to grasp that he’s negotiating his survival with a dragon.

A slow grin spreads across your face. "Well then, you’re hired. Welcome to dragon duty."

Trey’s not sure whether to laugh or cry at how anticlimactic this has all turned out. He’d prepared himself for noble sacrifice, but instead, he’s somehow signed up for dragon housekeeping duty. With a deep breath, he puts on a smile. "So, uh, what do you want for dinner?"

From that moment on, life with you is… surprisingly comfortable. Trey, ever practical, makes himself useful.

He handles things with the same calm practicality he’d use back in the village, except now, there’s a giant, sometimes snarky dragon looming over him as he goes about his tasks.

He spends his days cooking, tending to the temple’s neglected gardens, and even baking pastries—though you still don’t believe him when he says there’s no oyster sauce in his sweets.

“You’re pulling my tail,” you mutter, eyeing the perfectly innocent-looking cake Trey’s set out in front of you. “I can taste something weird in it.”

Trey just smiles. “Oyster sauce. Definitely.”

You huff, giving up on trying to figure him out, and focus on enjoying your meals and new company instead.

One evening, after a particularly good dinner (with no discernible oyster flavor, much to your disappointment), you glance at Trey lounging by the fireplace. He's been here for a while now, and you find that you're quite enjoying his company. In fact, you're enjoying it a little too much.

"So, you’re not as terrifying as the stories make you out to be," Trey comments one day, setting down a plate of food.

You snort, flipping lazily on your side. "Thanks, I guess. Humans are always so dramatic."

"And the drought?" Trey asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Taken care of," you reply with a smug smile. "Already brought in the rains.”

He nods and settles down next to you, holding a book from the library that you never bothered to visit.

Well, it's now or never. “So,” you begin, almost casually, “I’ve decided.”

“Decided what?” Trey looks up from the book he’s reading.

“That you’ll be my mate.”

He nearly drops the book. “Your... what?”

“My mate.” You stretch your wings, trying to look as imposing as possible—though you’re pretty sure Trey isn’t intimidated by you anymore. “You’re the first human who actually stuck around. And you can cook. That’s mate material.”

Trey is, understandably, at a loss for words. “…You’re serious?”

“Completely.” You flash him that grin again, all teeth and playful confidence. “Unless you’ve got a better offer somewhere else?”

Trey pinches the bridge of his nose, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “No, I think I’ll stick around.”

And just like that, Trey Clover—the supposed human sacrifice—finds himself the mate of a centuries-old dragon. Maybe this wasn’t the fate he expected, but all things considered… it could be worse.

At least the dragon likes his cooking.

Masterlist

#Trey clover x reader #trey x reader #trey clover #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #trey x you #trey clover x you

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anistarrose · 1 year ago

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[ID from alt: first is a tweet from a fake Oregon Parks Department account on twitter, @/OregonParksDept. The caption reads: "Brrr! Winter is upon us campers, so remember to obey all road signage, especially around tight curves. I sense a big change in the weather coming! #RoadSafetySavesLives".

The image is a snowy road, with a yellow triangular caution sign depicting a swerving car.

Second is another tweet from the same account reading: "Now here’s a rare sight- a Brimstone Moth in December! Remember campers, look but don’t touch!"

Attached is a photo of a yellow moth, with a vaguely triangular shape and a (seemingly photoshopped on) eye pattern.

Last is an edited version of the "we thought you were dead" meme, reading: "Aw, hey, Alex Hirsch's fake Oregon Parks Department account, we thought you were dead." End description.]

#themysteryofgf retweeted it so ???#artbook summoning ritual maybe ?? pretty please ?#gravity falls #alex hirsch #bill cipher

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wbbfannnnnn13 · 19 days ago

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Motion Sick // Chapter 4

Theme: homoerotic friendship angst

A/N: More angst, but the plot is moving forward slowly. Not much else to say other than I was giggling and kicking my feet at my ability for building tension and creating more angst. I think something might be wrong with me lol.

WC: 6K

Warnings: none

**** Chapter 4 ****

The past two weeks have been hell. Not fire-and-brimstone hell. Not even midterms-and-no-coffee hell.

Worse.

The slow, quiet, watching-your-person-slip-away kind of hell.

It started with the texting.

Azzi hadn’t meant to look. She really hadn’t. But when your locker is literally three inches away from someone else's and a phone buzzes loud enough to echo through the entire room, instinct kicks in. Her eyes flicked down before she could stop them. Just a glance.

But there it was.

A text from Kathryn⚽️

Azzi blinked. Once. Twice. Then she set her jaw, hard enough to feel it in her temples, and chucked her basketball shoes into her locker like they’d personally offended her.

Cool. Whatever.

Then came the dorm incident.

She was just going to help Ice with homework. Nothing dramatic. Nothing sneaky. Just some econ flashcards and maybe a few dumb inside jokes to break up the stress. She wasn’t trying to see Paige.

She wasn’t.

But on the way to Ice’s room, she passed Paige’s. The door was wide open—classic Paige, always forgetting to close it—and Azzi’s gaze flicked inside before her brain could even register what it was doing.

And there they were. Paige and Kathryn. Sitting on Paige’s bed, knees touching like it was the most natural thing in the world, eyes locked on the TV screen, controllers in hand, the blue glow of Fortnite lighting up their faces. Paige was leaning slightly into her, shoulder angled just enough to suggest comfort, familiarity. Kathryn’s laugh—loud and unfiltered—cut through the background noise as she tilted her head back, and Paige smiled at her like this was normal. Like this was hers now.

Azzi ducked into Ice’s room before her stomach could catch up with her.

But the worst?

The worst was the library.

Because it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t messy or loud. It was just… normal. And somehow, that made it worse.

She’d gone in for a quiet study hour. Headphones in. Hoodie up. Full-on incognito mode. But then she saw them.

Across the room, tucked at one of those long, creaky library tables—Kathryn, laughing softly at something Paige said. Paige, with her hair in a messy bun and those glasses she rarely wears (but always looks stupid cute in), scribbling in a notebook like she wasn’t currently tearing Azzi’s heart in two. Like it was nothing.

Like she didn’t even know.

But then—movement. A shift from their table. She glanced back.

And that’s when she saw it.

Paige’s hand, light and casual, resting on the small of Kathryn’s back. Just a brush of fingertips against sweatshirt cotton—barely there, but unmistakably familiar. The kind of touch that said: I’ve done this before. The kind that said: I want you to go first. I’ve got you.

Kathryn stepped ahead without hesitation. And Paige followed, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like they’d already figured each other out. Like whatever they were becoming didn’t need translation.

It was polite. That was the worst part.

Simple. Innocent, maybe.

But to Azzi?

It felt like a final cut. Not a slice. A slow, twisting knife.

She closed her laptop. Packed her things too fast. Told herself she was just tired. That it wasn’t a big deal. That Paige had every right.

And she did.

But that didn’t stop the crash.

Not the kind of heartbreak that came with tears or dramatics. Not yet, anyway. Azzi didn’t cry. She just… went quiet. So quiet it scared her a little. Like even her heartbeat knew not to make a scene.

She walked back to her dorm in a daze. Kicked off her shoes without untying them. Pulled her blanket over her head and disappeared into the stillness.

Because watching Paige fall for someone else wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not when she was the one who let her go. Not when she was the one who never said the words.

But still—it did. God, it did.

****

Azzi didn’t remember falling asleep Friday night—just that when she woke up Saturday, her hoodie was still on, her pillow was damp, and her throat ached like she’d swallowed something sharp in her sleep.

She didn’t get up.

The lights stayed off. The shades stayed drawn. The world felt distant, like it was happening without her. She stayed curled under the covers, letting time pass without keeping track of it. The only time she moved was to turn and face the wall, where the shadows were deeper and the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Her heart felt stuck—somewhere between her ribs and all the things she still hadn’t said.

She was grateful it was the weekend—grateful no one expected her to be anywhere or do anything. It gave her space to disappear without too many questions.

She didn’t eat much. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t even text Derrick back until Sunday night—and even then, it was just a simple: thanks for the soup. appreciate you.

Because the truth?

She’d pretended to be sick. And maybe on the surface, she was—exhausted, drained, aching in ways she couldn’t explain. But the kind of sick she felt wasn’t something NyQuil could fix.

She couldn’t handle Derrick’s kindness. Couldn’t stomach the way he knocked softly on her door, like she might shatter. Or the way he left a little care package outside—NyQuil, orange Gatorade, and two kinds of Campbell’s, all lined up beside a sticky note that said rest up, superstar.

It made her feel worse. Guilty, in a way that clung to her ribs and wouldn’t let go.

And Caroline—God, Caroline definitely knew.

She knocked once Saturday night. Didn’t come in. Just slid a granola bar under the door and said, “Eventually you’re going to have to talk to me. Or eat something. Either one.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to. But because she couldn’t.

Her voice was gone—used up by sobs she hadn’t even bothered to hide anymore.

She cried until there was nothing left. Then she cried some more.

And for the first time, it wasn’t quiet. It was messy. Loud. The kind of heartbreak that cracked you open from the inside out, that made you press your face into a pillow and scream until the ache turned into static.

It wasn’t cinematic or graceful. It didn’t leave bruises. Just a hollow kind of heaviness. A grief that hung in the air long after the tears stopped.

By Sunday night, Caroline had had enough.

She barged in without knocking, flipped on the overhead light like she was conducting an exorcism, and planted herself at the foot of Azzi’s bed.

“Okay,” she said flatly. “Get up.”

Azzi didn’t move.

Caroline yanked the blanket down anyway. “You don’t get to rot forever.”

Azzi blinked at her, eyes glassy, voice a rasp. “I’m not rotting.”

“You’re literally fermenting in your own sadness.”

Azzi turned away.

Caroline sighed—less annoyed now, more tired. “Look, I know you’re hurting. And I know it sucks to see her happy with someone else. But you don’t get to crawl into a hole and give up. That’s not you.”

Azzi swallowed hard. “It feels like me.”

“Well,” Caroline said gently, like she was trying not to scare her off, “then maybe it’s time to be someone else.”

The words didn’t hit all at once. They sank—heavy and slow—like a stone settling in her chest.

Because Caroline was right.

Azzi had spent so much time dancing around the truth—whispering it in her head but never daring to say it out loud. Like if she didn’t speak it, maybe it wouldn’t take up so much space in her chest. Maybe she could keep pretending.

Wanting Paige had always been the constant. Quiet, steady, stubborn. But wanting wasn’t the same as choosing. And she’d never chosen her. Not fully. Not when it counted.

She let the moment slip. Then another. Then a year. Then more.

She told herself it was timing. Or fear. Or loyalty. But deep down, she knew—she’d been scared of what it would mean to want something so badly it might undo her.

So she stayed still. While everyone else moved forward. She held Derrick’s hand and tried to memorize a future she didn’t believe in. She smiled for pictures she didn’t want to be in. She sat in rooms with people who loved her and still felt like a ghost of herself.

She let Paige go.

Not because she stopped loving her, but because loving her felt like breaking some unspoken rule she’d written in her own head.

Not a rule anyone had said out loud. It was quieter than that. Sneakier. It was in the way people talked, or didn’t. In the way certain things got brushed off or changed subject. Like there was only one right way to love, and Azzi had already missed the memo.

She didn’t grow up hearing that love like hers was bad. But she didn’t grow up hearing it was okay, either.

And sometimes, silence could sound a lot like shame.

So when it started—when Paige started feeling like more than a teammate, more than a friend—Azzi did what she thought she was supposed to do. She pushed it down. Folded it up. Told herself she was just confused. Told herself it wasn’t real.

And even when it was clear that it was real—achingly, undeniably real—she still didn’t choose it.

She convinced herself Paige deserved someone who didn’t have to untangle every feeling. Someone braver. Someone who didn’t flinch at their own reflection.

So she stood still. Let Paige go.

And somewhere along the way, she started to disappear. Faded herself out until all that was left was a version of her that blended in. The safe kind. The quiet kind. The kind who didn’t take up space.

The kind who convinced herself that watching Paige be happy with someone else was the price she had to pay for staying silent.

And what had that ever gotten her?

This. A dorm room that felt smaller every day. A boyfriend who was kind and steady and completely wrong for her. And a heart that cracked a little more every time she saw Paige smile at someone who wasn’t her.

She was so tired. Of pretending. Of flinching at her own reflection.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Just stared at the granola bar still sitting on her nightstand, unopened. Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks blotchy and warm. Her hoodie clung to her like a second skin, too much and not enough.

And then—finally—she sat up.

The blanket slid from her shoulders. Her joints ached like she'd aged a decade in a weekend. But her voice, when it came, didn’t waver.

“I think I have to tell her,” Azzi said, quiet but clear.

Caroline froze in the doorway, like she hadn’t expected that sentence to actually come out. “Tell her… what exactly?”

Azzi met her eyes. There wasn’t drama in it. Just a calm sort of exhaustion. A truth that had been building for years.

“All of it,” she said. “That I never stopped. That it was always her. Even when I pretended it wasn’t.”

Caroline let out a slow breath, like she’d been holding it in for way too long. Her eyes softened.

“Finally,” she whispered, crossing the room to sit beside her. “God, Azzi. What took you so long?”

Azzi leaned her head on Caroline’s shoulder. Let herself exhale.

“I guess I just needed to feel the kind of pain that would make me brave.”

****

That night, Azzi lay awake in bed, eyes on the ceiling, heart thudding slow and loud in the dark. A single thought ran laps through her head:

What if she doesn’t want to hear it?

The question made her stomach turn. Because maybe Paige had moved on. Maybe she didn’t need closure or confessions or anything from Azzi anymore.

But under the fear—under the ache that had lived in her chest for what felt like forever—something else flickered. Hope.

Because Paige’s birthday was next weekend. Her twenty-first. And if there was ever a time to take a swing at the impossible, maybe this was it.

Azzi already had something for her.

A gift she’d bought months ago—long after everything had shifted. After the silence between them had become more familiar than conversation. After they stopped texting about classes or movies or the dumb things their teammates said in the group chat.

This wasn’t some last-minute impulse buy. It wasn’t from when they were still Paige-and-Azzi, still trading playlists and brushing knees under cafeteria tables, still staying too long in film study just to sit beside each other.

No—this came after.

After the awkwardness. After the slow fade. After the ache had settled in her bones like weather she couldn’t shake.

She hadn’t planned on giving it to her. At first, she told herself it didn’t mean anything. Just a small gesture. A stand-in for everything she couldn’t bring herself to say.

She figured she’d toss it eventually. Or bury it in the back of a drawer, forgotten like an old uniform or a season that didn’t end the way it should’ve.

But she didn’t.

She kept it. Because somewhere underneath all the tension and time and heartbreak, one thing hadn’t changed:

She still cared. Still loved her. Even if Paige had no idea.

And now, with her birthday coming up—her 21st, no less—it felt like a chance. Maybe not to fix everything. Maybe not to go back. But to be honest.

Finally.

Paige Kathryn’s easy. That’s the thing.

She’s warm without trying, always ready with a quick joke or a crooked smile. She walks like she’s got nowhere to be but still manages to show up exactly when Paige needs a break from her own thoughts. And she listens—actually listens—like every dumb story Paige tells is worth hearing.

It’s been good. Really good.

Paige hadn’t meant for it to become a thing. Not really.

But now it’s late-night library runs that turn into hour-long breaks. It’s Kathryn sliding a pack of peanut butter crackers across the table mid-study session and saying, “Eat. You get mean when you’re hungry.” It’s walks across campus in the dark, sneakers scuffing the sidewalk, when neither of them really wants to say goodnight yet.

It’s also the dumb stuff. The good dumb stuff.

Late-night Snap streaks. Post-practice hangouts that feel casual but start to mean something. Pulling Paige into casual selfies and captioning them “tall girl energy 🫡.”

She makes Paige laugh. The real kind. The kind that escapes before she can think to hold it back.

And Paige? She’s laughing more. Sleeping better. Feeling… lighter, somehow.

She finds herself noticing the way Kathryn scrunches her nose when she’s thinking. The way she instinctively reaches for Paige’s cup without asking, takes a sip, and makes a face like “too sweet” before handing it back.

There’s been no big moment. No huge shift.

Just a slow unfurling. Safe. Steady.

And Paige hadn’t realized how much that meant until last night.

They were hanging out in her dorm room common area—feet propped on opposite chairs, a half-eaten brownie from the café between them, not saying much. The kind of quiet that felt easy. Familiar.

Kathryn had just beaten her in Connect Four (again) and was leaning across the table with that smug grin she always wore when she won. “You’re really bad at this,” she teased, bumping the empty board with her knuckle.

Paige rolled her eyes and reached out to shove her shoulder, but Kathryn caught her wrist mid-air, laughing.

And then she didn’t let go.

Not right away.

She held on just long enough to shift the moment—just enough to blur the line between playful and something more.

It was quick. But Paige felt it.

A flicker of heat. A heartbeat that didn’t know which direction to go.

And then later— Kathryn hugged her.

Not in a big way. Just one of those quick, easy squeezes people give when they mean it. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything, just gives.

Paige hugged her back. Her chin rested on Kathryn’s shoulder for half a second too long.

And that’s when it hit her.

A flutter. Low and sudden in her stomach. Tiny. Stupid. But real.

And right behind it— A sharp pang of guilt that made her breath catch.

Because she hadn’t felt anything in a long time. Not since Azzi. Not really.

And it’s not like she and Azzi are together. Not anymore. Not that they ever really were. But still— That flicker of feeling felt like something close to betrayal.

She tried to shake it off. Blamed it on nerves. On the way Kathryn’s hoodie smelled like vanilla and clean laundry. On how it had been so long since someone made her feel wanted and unafraid at the same time.

But the guilt didn’t budge. It settled in low, like a dull ache she couldn’t stretch out of.

She thinks about asking Aubrey. Or Amari. Hell, maybe even Caroline. They’re the only ones who know the full story—who were there when everything cracked open and fell apart.

But she already knows what they’ll say. You deserve to be happy. You’re not doing anything wrong. Azzi made her choice.

And maybe they’re right. But that doesn’t help.

Because Paige is still carrying the pieces. Still hearing Azzi’s laugh in quiet moments. Still wondering if she’s allowed to let someone else in.

****

The bass hits before the door even shuts behind her.

Ted’s is packed, as expected. It’s the first warm-ish Friday in weeks and practically every athlete at UConn has crawled out of their dorms to celebrate. The place smells like spilled seltzer and cheap cologne. Someone’s already chanting something off-beat near the bar. And the floor is just sticky enough to remind Paige it’s not exactly five-star, but that’s not the point. Ted’s is familiar. Loud. Private, in that no-one-posts-anything-from-here kind of way.

She’s officially twenty-one. And for once, she’s letting herself have a good time.

Her friends made a whole production out of it—streamers in their dorm, a cake littered with random mini liquor bottles, and a sash that says “Coach P” in sparkly gold letters she swore she wouldn’t wear, but now kind of doesn’t want to take off.

Aubrey is three shots deep, yelling something about doing karaoke later. Amari’s already dancing with some guy in a UConn Track & Field hoodie. The whole team showed up.

She finds herself scanning the crowd.

Not for Kathryn. Kathryn’s out of town. Soccer game. She’d texted earlier with a selfie and a “wish I could be there tonight 🖤” that made Paige’s stomach flip and her thumb hover way too long before replying something safe.

She likes Kathryn. A lot. More than she’s letting herself think about. There’s a calm to her. A steadiness. She listens without interrupting. Texts good morning without needing a response right away. Paige has caught herself smiling mid-practice more than once lately just thinking about her. And no, they’re not official. They haven’t kissed. Not yet. But it feels like they’re headed there. Fast.

And that should be enough.

But then she sees her.

Or at least, she thinks she does.

It’s hard to say, really—with the haze of cheap fog machines and colored lights cutting across the floor, the crowd moving like a heartbeat. Azzi, clear as day, standing near the middle of it all. Cropped, tight black tank. High-waisted jeans that hug her hips in a way that makes Paige want to look away and stare all at once. Her hair’s down tonight, curls wild around her shoulders, catching the light like she planned it that way.

Azzi’s laughing at something Ice says, head tipped back, and Paige feels it—right in her chest. A slow, burning ache she’s been trying to smother for weeks.

She shouldn’t care. Not when things with Kathryn are going so well.

And yet.

One look at Azzi, and Paige is winded.

She tries to steer clear. Swears she will. But then the crowd shifts and suddenly they’re closer, pulled into the same gravitational field by the music and the sweat and the history that’s never quite left them.

Azzi turns—and yeah, she sees her now.

There’s a flicker. In her eyes. In her jaw. Something unspoken that passes between them in the time it takes the bass to drop.

And then—Azzi smiles.

Soft. Familiar. The kind of smile that makes Paige feel seventeen again. The kind that used to be just for her.

“Happy birthday, P,” Azzi says, pulling her into a hug before Paige can decide whether to run or melt. Her arms slide around Paige’s waist with ease, like they remember the way.

Paige hugs her back, breathing her in—coconut conditioner and something sweeter underneath, something almost like home.

It’s brief. But it leaves her heart scrambled.

Azzi pulls back, just enough to meet her eyes, and then—without a word—holds out a hand.

Paige hesitates. For a second. Two.

Then she takes it.

The music swells. Some throwback R&B track with just enough bass to make everything feel hazy and suspended—like the room isn’t spinning, exactly, but tilting, ever so slightly. Just enough to make it hard to tell where the beat ends and where the impulse begins.

They don’t say anything. Not yet. They just start to move.

Not choreographed. Not performative. Just… instinct. Muscle memory.

Like their bodies remember something their mouths are still too afraid to say.

Azzi slides closer. Just a step. Just enough.

And Paige—she doesn’t stop her.

It’s easy. Too easy. They find the rhythm like they’ve done this a thousand times before—and maybe they have. In dorm rooms. At team banquets. Alone, in kitchens with songs playing off someone’s half-dead speaker.

Paige’s hands hover at Azzi’s waist, unsure at first. Cautious. Like touching might make it real. Azzi’s fingers trail from Paige’s elbow downward, just barely grazing, like she’s asking permission without words.

Then lower. Then still.

And suddenly— It’s not innocent anymore.

It’s subtle, at first. The way their hips shift in sync. The way Azzi’s back presses into Paige’s chest, slow and deliberate. The way Paige breathes in at the contact, like she wasn’t expecting it to feel quite like this.

But the intent— It’s loud.

The air thickens between them, charged with something neither of them dares name out loud. The bass in the song is pounding, but it’s nothing compared to the sound of Paige’s own heartbeat in her ears.

Azzi moves just enough for her shoulder to brush Paige’s jaw. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to ruin everything.

And Paige doesn’t move.

She doesn’t breathe.

Because for one impossible second, she wants nothing more than to stay right here—frozen in this in-between space, where they’re not saying anything but everything is being said.

She’s not sure how long they stay like that. Minutes, maybe. A whole song. Maybe two.

But it’s long enough for something to click inside her. A warning bell. A gut-check.

Because Kathryn.

Because this—whatever this is—feels dangerous. Feels like crossing a line she swore she wouldn’t cross. Not again. Not when there’s someone waiting in the wings who makes her laugh until her ribs hurt. Not when she’s finally starting to believe she could be someone new—someone good.

Paige steps back.

One small step. But enough.

Azzi turns slightly, eyes searching hers. There’s a question in them. Something tentative. Hopeful.

Paige shakes her head. Just once. Small. Almost imperceptible. But it’s enough.

Then she turns. One step, then another—pulling herself away from the static, from the heat building between them, from the girl she still dreams about far more often than she admits.

She disappears into the crowd. Back into the noise. Into the blur of music and movement and anything that doesn’t feel like this.

She doesn’t look back.

Azzi

Azzi hadn’t planned to say anything tonight. Well—she had, earlier. But after talking with Caroline, she’d told herself to wait. To let Paige have her birthday first. To not make it about them.

She almost stuck to that plan.

But then Paige had looked at her like that on the dance floor.

Had let her hand rest at her waist. Had leaned in, smiling, melting, moving like the song was written just for them. Like they were the only two people in the room. Like maybe—just maybe—they weren’t standing in the middle of something broken. Like the pieces between them weren’t so fragile after all.

And then— Paige shook her head.

Barely. Just once. But it was enough.

Azzi watched as she turned and walked away, slipping into the crowd like it didn’t hurt. Like they hadn’t just been on the edge of something.

Azzi didn’t follow. She couldn’t.

She just stood there, the song still playing, the lights still pulsing, her hands suddenly empty. And all she could think was— Of course she walked away. Because that’s what they do.

One reaches out. The other lets go.

So yeah—maybe after that, she’d wanted a second. A moment alone. Just her and Paige, somewhere quieter. A minute to breathe, to ask what the hell that was, to finally say the things she hadn’t said in months.

But Paige wouldn’t let her.

Every time Azzi tried to grab her hand, lean in, whisper “Can we just talk?”—Paige ducked out of reach. Said something like “Later” or “I need another drink” or “Caroline’s calling me.” And then she’d vanish—toward the bar, the booth, the crowd. Anywhere Azzi wasn’t.

It didn’t take long to catch on.

She wasn’t just busy. She was avoiding her.

From the booth, Azzi watched as Paige laughed at something someone said—head thrown back, hair falling into her face, a seltzer clutched loosely in one hand. She stumbled a little, grinning, cheeks flushed, that oversized white T-shirt slipping off one shoulder like it belonged to someone else and didn’t quite fit right.

She looked happy. Light. Untethered.

And Azzi felt it in her chest, that familiar twist. You’re so stupid, she thought. Of course this wasn’t the right time. Of course she doesn’t want to talk to you.

What had she even been thinking?

This was Paige’s night. Her birthday. Her friends. Her music. Her chance to forget everything for a while. Azzi wasn’t part of that. She was the afterthought. The weight. The reminder.

The ghost.

She sank lower into the booth, resting her drink on her knee, staring at the condensation instead of the crowd. She hadn’t realized how much hope she’d been holding onto—quietly, stubbornly. How badly she’d wanted Paige to still want her, even just a little.

But all she felt now was guilt. Low and heavy in her stomach. The kind that didn’t make a scene—it just stayed, quietly wrecking things from the inside.

You always ruin the good things.

So she drank.

Not enough to forget. Just enough to blur the edges.

The tequila burned, but not as bad as the look Paige gave her when their eyes met across the room and Paige turned away like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

Somewhere in the haze, Azzi ended up leaning against the wall near the back exit, drink number four (or five?) clutched in her hand, vision a little blurry. The music pulsed through her bones but she felt nothing.

She didn’t even see Caroline at first—just felt the tug on her wrist and the gentle voice saying, “Okay, you’re done.”

“I’m fine,” Azzi mumbled, though the floor disagreed.

“You’re not,” Caroline said, her tone just this side of gentle. “You need to go home before this gets worse.”

“I’m not—”

“Look, I already found a freshman who’s sober and heading back to the dorms. You’re going with her.”

Azzi wanted to argue, but the words didn’t come.

She just let herself be led toward the door, vaguely aware of someone pressing a Gatorade into her hand and murmuring something about “hydrate” and “text me when you’re back safe.”

She didn’t say goodbye to Paige.

Paige probably didn’t even notice she was gone.

Azzi didn’t remember making the decision—just the pull. That low, magnetic kind of grief that starts in your chest and drags the rest of you with it.

One second she was being led out of the bar by a wide-eyed freshman offering her a blue Gatorade and a sloppy “you good?”, and the next she was climbing the back stairwell to Paige’s dorm.

It was muscle memory now. Half-sober autopilot.

She didn’t knock.

No one on the team ever locked their doors. Not unless they were hooking up or pissed off.

Paige hadn’t locked hers.

Azzi stepped inside quietly, barely making a sound. The fairy lights above the mirror buzzed low, casting the room in warm gold. Paige’s jacket was slung across the desk chair. One of her shoes lay sideways under the bed. The place looked like it had spun out and never quite recovered.

Azzi’s throat tightened.

She pulled the small box out of her coat pocket—white paper, blue ribbon, a folded corner from where it had been pressed against her side all night. Her fingers hesitated, then set it down gently on Paige’s desk. Right there between a tangled phone charger and a half-eaten granola bar. Like it belonged.

She didn’t leave a note. Didn’t explain. Didn’t touch anything else.

She just stood still, eyes sweeping the room like it might still tell her something she didn’t already know. Like maybe the echo of what they’d been still lived somewhere between the blankets and the bulletin board. Like maybe the version of her that used to feel at home here would walk back through the door at any second and fix everything.

But she didn’t.

So Azzi turned and left.

Back in her room, she stripped down to her tank top, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling until her vision blurred. Everything inside her was too loud—regret, tequila, and the static of Paige pulling away on the dance floor.

She buried her face in the pillow and let herself break. No noise. No words. Just slow, quiet unraveling.

Paige

She wasn’t going to let it ruin her night. That was the decision. Final answer. No revisions allowed.

What happened with Azzi on the dance floor—yeah, it knocked the wind out of her. Stole a breath. Tilted the room. But only for a second. She bounced back. She always bounced back.

She smiled through it. Let the music carry her into another round of drinks, into another round of too-loud singing and shoulder-swinging dance moves. She let her friends drag her back to the middle of the room like nothing had happened. Like she wasn’t still reeling from the way Azzi looked at her. From the way it almost meant something again.

She even let Caroline put a plastic tiara on her head—sparkly and crooked and loud—and yell “Birthday Princess coming through!” like she was announcing royalty.

It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was exactly what she needed to pretend.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t run after anyone. She didn’t look back.

Instead, she kept moving. Smiling. Spinning. Nodding along like her thoughts weren’t ricocheting all over the inside of her head.

She cracked a few jokes. Posed for blurry selfies with sweaty foreheads and red Solo cups. Sent Kathryn a Snapchat of her third seltzer, captioned: god is a woman and her name is tequila. Kathryn replied with a picture of her stuffed bear wearing a UConn hoodie and the word obsessed.

It was dumb. It made her smile anyway. Because that’s what you do. You smile. You collect the small, easy things. You pretend they’re enough.

When the team stood on the booth to sing her happy birthday—shouting off-key, holding fake lighters in the air, harmonizing like absolute disasters—she laughed. Genuinely. She even did the little curtsy at the end, full performance mode, hand on her chest like she’d just won an award.

She didn’t think about the fact that Azzi wasn’t up there with them. Didn’t think about how every time she turned around, Azzi was there—but never with her. Always on the edge. Always watching. Always just out of reach.

She didn’t think about the way her chest still buzzed. From that dance. From Azzi’s hand on her waist. From the softness in her voice when she’d said, “Happy birthday, P.”

She refused to think about it.

Because if she thought about it—if she let herself feel even a fraction of what that moment almost was—she knew she’d unravel.

So she didn’t. She kept drinking. Kept laughing. Kept playing the part.

She shut down Ted’s like a pro—hugging everyone on the way out, taking one last photo by the neon sign in the back, holding her heels in her hand like it was senior prom.

And sometime around 2:40 a.m., she collapsed into her dorm bed. Still wearing her jeans. Still missing one earring. Still buzzing from something that wasn’t quite alcohol.

Half a smile lingered on her face.

It didn’t reach her eyes.

****

The next morning, her mouth tasted like metal and fruit punch, and her brain felt like it had been punted across campus.

She groaned into her pillow, limbs heavy, head pounding, sunlight stabbing through the blinds like it had a personal vendetta. Everything hurt. Even her earlobes.

She rolled over, squinted at the blinking phone screen on her nightstand. 8:42 a.m. Her alarm was set for 8:00.

She blinked again. Then bolted upright.

“Oh my God.”

She was late. For rehab. Not kind of late. Not five-minutes-late-but-charming-about-it. Actually late. And she hadn’t even brushed her teeth.

Still half in last night’s clothes, she scrambled out of bed, yanked open her dresser, and grabbed the first hoodie she could find. Then a pair of sweatpants from the floor. She jammed one leg in, stumbled, cursed, tried again.

As she turned to grab her sneakers from the corner, her elbow clipped the edge of her desk.

Something slid.

She looked down.

A small white box sat there. Neat. Quiet.

Wrapped in white paper. Tied with a ribbon.

Right in the center of her desk like it had been waiting.

She blinked at it. Felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck. She didn’t remember seeing it last night. But then again, she barely remembered getting into bed.

She paused. Brows knit. Curiosity stirring, slow and cautious.

She reached for the box—fingers brushing the edge of the ribbon, just about to lift it—

Buzz buzz. Her phone lit up again.

Ayanna: Where r u rehab started ten minutes ago don’t make me lie for u again 🫠

Paige groaned, grabbed her phone, stuffed it in her hoodie pocket, and turned back to the drawer for socks.

In her rush, her hip bumped the desk again—harder this time—and the box tipped.

It slid off the edge. Softly. Landed in the open top dresser drawer with barely a sound, nestled between mismatched socks, a stray makeup brush, and a broken hair tie.

Paige didn’t notice.

She’d already moved on, pulling her hoodie over her head, jamming her feet into sneakers, muttering a breathless, “I’m gonna die,” as she shoved her keys and Gatorade into a tote and raced for the door.

The room stilled.

Sunlight crept across the desk. And the box stayed buried. Unopened. Unnoticed.

Waiting.

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd

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cera-writes · 1 year ago

Note

Pretty pleeeease some nightcrawler smut with a more sub!nightcrawler?😭 Or just reader spoiling him and calling him a pretty boy, praising him, etc

A/N: say no more... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Pairing: Kurt Wagner x gn!Reader Tags: nsfw, oral sex (giving), praise, and just pure smut

Nothing but Praise

It was late into the night at the X-Mansion, the usual sounds of mutant powers and training sessions replaced by a serene silence. You were in the library, a book open on your lap, but your mind was elsewhere. Your thoughts kept drifting to Kurt, the enigmatic Nightcrawler, whose presence had become a constant in your daydreams.

As if summoned by your thoughts, Kurt appeared in a puff of smoke and brimstone right beside you. His sudden arrival startled you, causing you to drop your book with a soft thud.

"Kurt! You really need to stop doing that," you chided gently, though there was no real heat in your words.

He offered a sheepish grin, his blue fur shimmering slightly under the library's soft lighting. "Sorry, mein Freund. I forget sometimes how my teleportation can startle."

You shook your head, smiling as you picked up your book. "It's okay. What brings you here so late?"

Kurt hesitated, his tail flicking nervously behind him. "I... I could not sleep. Thought maybe I could find a book to help pass the time."

You noticed the slight tremor in his voice, the vulnerability hidden beneath his playful exterior. "Come here," you said softly, patting the seat next to you.

Kurt sat down, his proximity sending a thrill through you. You could see the fatigue around his eyes, the weight of recent battles and missions taking their toll.

"You know, Kurt," you began, turning to face him, "you don't have to be strong all the time. It's okay to let someone take care of you."

His yellow eyes met yours, a mix of surprise and something deeper, something yearning. "I... I do not know how to be anything else," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached out, gently touching his cheek. "Let me show you," you whispered back, your thumb brushing against his fur.

Kurt's breath hitched, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened them again, they were filled with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. "Ich verstehe nicht, was du willst," he murmured, his German accent thickening with emotion.

"I want to spoil you, Kurt," you explained, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. "I want to tell you how amazing you are, how beautiful."

His tail wrapped around your wrist, a silent plea for reassurance. "Really?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

"Really," you confirmed, leaning closer. "You deserve to be praised, to be taken care of. Let me be the one to do that for you."

Kurt's eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of insincerity. Finding none, a slow smile spread across his face. "Then show me, bitte," he whispered, his voice husky with anticipation.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "With pleasure, pretty boy," you murmured against his skin, feeling him shiver at the term of endearment.

As you pulled back, you saw the trust and desire in his eyes, a promise of what was to come. Tonight, you would show Kurt just how much he meant to you, in ways neither of you would ever forget.

You led Kurt to a more secluded corner of the library, where plush armchairs and a soft rug promised comfort. The dim light cast shadows that danced around you, creating an intimate atmosphere. None of the other students were permitted in the library this late, so it was just the two of you.

"Kurt, you're not just strong or brave," you began, your voice low and soothing as you sat down, pulling him gently onto your lap. His body was surprisingly light, his tail coiling around your leg in a silent affirmation of trust. "You're also incredibly gentle and kind. It's one of the many things I adore about you."

He looked at you, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and pleasure. "Danke, mein Freund," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Ich... ich weiß nicht, wie ich soll..."

"Shh," you whispered, placing a finger on his lips. "Let me do the talking for now. You just enjoy being taken care of."

You ran your hands through his fur, feeling the softness under your fingers. Kurt leaned into your touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Encouraged by his response, you continued, your hands moving down to massage his shoulders. He tensed briefly before relaxing under your ministrations, his head falling back slightly.

"You're so beautiful, Kurt," you said, your voice husky with desire. "Every part of you is perfect."

His cheeks darkened under his fur, a shy smile playing on his lips. "Du bist zu gut zu mir," he whispered, his eyes half-closed in pleasure.

You leaned in, capturing his lips in a gentle kiss. He responded eagerly, his tongue darting out to meet yours. The kiss deepened, filled with a passion that had been simmering between you both for too long. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless.

"I want to make you feel good, Kurt," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me what you like."

Kurt hesitated, then spoke softly, his German accent making each word sound like a melody. "Ich mag es, wenn du mich streichelst, und deine Zunge auf meiner Haut... you-your tongue, Liebling. Just... anywhere on me."

You nodded, understanding his desires. You began by trailing kisses down his neck, each one eliciting a shiver from him. Your hands roamed over his chest, tweaking his nipples gently, causing him to gasp.

"Ah, ja... genau so," Kurt moaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and desperation.

Encouraged, you moved lower, unzipping his jumpsuit slowly. His chest heaved with anticipation as you exposed more of his blue skin. You kissed every inch of newly revealed flesh, your hands caressing his sides.

"You're doing so well, pretty boy," you praised, watching as his eyes fluttered closed, a soft moan escaping him.

You reached his erection, already hard and straining against his suit. With a gentle tug, you freed it, admiring its size and shape. Kurt whimpered, his hands clenching in the fabric of the armchair.

"Suck me, bitte," he pleaded, his voice shaky with need.

Without hesitation, you moved in front of him, letting him take the chair as you wrapped your hand around his shaft, stroking him slowly. Then, you leaned in, taking him into your mouth. Kurt cried out, his hips bucking slightly as you took him deeper.

"Mein Gott, du bist so gut," he gasped, his hands tangling in your hair.

You bobbed your head, swirling your tongue around him, enjoying the taste and feel of him. Each moan and plea only spurred you on, eager to bring him closer to the edge.

As Kurt's moans grew louder, his body tensing with the impending climax, you knew this was just the beginning of a night filled with exploration and pleasure.

You continued to lavish attention on Kurt, your mouth working diligently around his shaft as you felt his body tense with each passing moment. His hands gripped your hair, guiding you gently but firmly, a silent command for more intensity. You complied, increasing the pace of your movements, your tongue swirling and flicking in ways that made him gasp and moan.

"Ah, mein Gott... du bist wirklich gut dabei," Kurt panted, his voice thick with desire and a hint of awe. His tail tightened around your leg, a physical sign of his growing pleasure.

You pulled back slightly, teasing the tip of his erection with the flat of your tongue, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him. "You like that, pretty boy?" you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes.

Kurt nodded, his eyes half-lidded and filled with lust. "Ja, bitte, mehr," he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper.

Satisfied, you engulfed him again, this time taking him deeper than before. Your hand moved to cup his balls, gently rolling them between your fingers as you sucked. Kurt's hips bucked involuntarily, caught in the throes of pleasure you were expertly weaving around him.

"Du... du bringst mich um," he gasped, his body trembling as he neared his peak.

You hummed around him, the vibrations adding another layer to his building climax. With one final, deep suck, you pulled back, letting him slip from your lips with an audible pop. Kurt's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his eyes wide and unfocused.

"Not yet, Kurt," you whispered, your voice a sultry tease. "I want to feel you come undone completely."

Standing up, you guided him to lie down on the soft rug, his body compliant under yours. You straddled him, your hands roaming over his chest, tweaking and pinching his nipples until he moaned beneath you.

"Please, I need... I need to feel you," Kurt begged, his hands reaching up to pull you down for a kiss.

You obliged, kissing him deeply as your hands moved lower, teasing the sensitive skin around his erection. You stroked him slowly, watching as his face contorted with pleasure, his mouth forming silent words of encouragement and praise.

"Tell me what you want, Kurt," you whispered against his lips, your hand stilling.

"I need you, I need to feel you," he breathed out, his eyes locked onto yours, pleading.

Understanding his desire, you positioned yourself above him, gripping his shaft to line it inside of you. His precum coated your fingers and it was enough to coat yourself for him before letting him enter you.

"Ready, pretty boy?" you asked, your voice husky with anticipation.

Kurt nodded, his hands gripping your hips. "Ja, bitte, tu es," he urged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you rolled your hips, feeling him deep inside of you. Kurt's breath hitched, his eyes fluttering closed as he tilted his head back in pure ecstasy. You gasped, your own breath shallow with the effort of holding back.

Once Kurt nodded, you began to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed as he moaned and encouraged you. Each thrust brought him deeper into you, the friction building deliciously between you.

"Mein Gott, du fühlst so gut," Kurt cried out, his hands moving to your back, urging you closer.

You leaned down, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss, your movements becoming more urgent. The sound of your bodies slapping together filled the room, mingling with Kurt's increasingly desperate cries.

As you felt your own climax approaching, you bit back another moan, biting your lips as the sight of Kurt panting and nearly crying from pleasure nearly sent you over the edge.

"Cum for me, Kurt," you commanded, your voice rough with desire.

Kurt cried out, his body arching off the ground as he came, his release spurting between you as he pulled out. The sight of him losing control sent you over the edge, and you stroked yourself a few more times just before climaxing, your own cry echoing his.

Collapsing beside him, you pulled him close, both of you breathing heavily, your bodies slick with sweat and other fluids. Kurt nuzzled into your neck, murmuring soft thanks and praises in German, his voice content and sated.

"Anytime, pretty boy," you whispered back, kissing the top of his head. "Anytime."

#xmen #x men 97 #nightcrawler x reader #gn!reader #gender neutral y/n #kurt wagner #kurt wagner x reader

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