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asapeveryday · 14 days

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SHOCK FACTOR ★彡PART 5

Prev. Next.

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Rival!Reader

Warnings: swearing

Summary: a lot of media attention and some solo time isn’t enough to keep paige away from you.

A/n: one more chap after this then we done 😛

YOU WAKE UP with a pounding headache, not as engulfing as last night but still enough to induce a groan as you lift your head from your pillow.

The hotel-white pillowcase is smeared with residual makeup and your hair feels tangled and unruly. It was surprising how well you slept, seeing as multiple things had happened the night before that should’ve kept you up till morning. You look around to see the hotel room is empty, then check your phone for the time. It’s 1:34pm, you’ve slept into the afternoon.

Your phone is absolutely filled with notifications.

JUJU-KINS😘

U up?

Coach is lit tweaking rn

U bouta be getting media trained FOR LIFE

ELAINEY 🤞

hey

can we talk pls?

ur only in town for a couple more days

it’s not as bad as it seems i swear

i was drunk

COACH

Call me when you see this message.

I hope you already know what you’ve done wrong so I don’t have to waste my time.

You’re smarter than this!

Collapsing on your bed again, you bury yourself in the sheets. Being in Connecticut had just turned out to be a nightmare, you’ve barely interacted with your teammates, your friendship with Elaine was ruined, you’ve had the most confusing relationship with Paige and you’ve made a fool of yourself online.

You shoot a quick text to Juju as well as some other teammates who’ve checked up on you, being sure to ignore Elaine’s texts. You find yourself re-reading your messages with Paige, thankfully your drunk brain hadn’t texted anything too out of pocket, and though you clearly remember her typing after your last message she hadn’t responded since then.

Your call with Coach was the most dreaded of all, you truly respected and feared her, so sitting through an almost half-hour phone call about your responsibilities, failures, expectations and repercussions was awful.

In short, you were to be off of social media until back in state, live privileges were fully revoked, if you were to be found partying and clubbing you’d be in massive trouble, you had to issue a statement on Instagram and twitter (which was pre-written by some professional), and the next practice you participate in will be the worst practice you’ve ever experienced in the history of bad practices. Most probably an insane amount of sprints.

You release your statements on Instagram and Twitter, but before deleting the apps you check out Paige’s comments. She’d obviously received a similar order. Her Instagram story consisted of a black screen and a small box of text, simply entailing how spreading love and positivity while uplifting other players is an obligation she intends to follow from this point onwards.

Her twitter had two new tweets:

paigebueckers1 : Me and (Name) have had some truly special experiences in college basketball. She’s an amazing player who is only gonna go higher and get better as she grows. When I was a junior I was stuck in crutches hoping for the chance I have now. (Name) as a junior herself is absolutely killing it on the court and I for one will always be rooting for her, competitive comments online or not. Keep doin what you’re doin @yourusername !

paigebueckers1 : God is good! 🙏

Turning your phone off, the only thing you’re thinking is ‘you’re so full of shit.’

You wonder if she wrote that herself or if somebody wrote it for her and made it seem like it was her own typing. Regardless, it didn’t matter anymore. You’d had your experience with the Big East Champion, and it was enough for a lifetime.

The amount of content coming out regarding you and Paige was insanely overwhelming. Debates online regarding your skills, looks, personality and basically anything the public can grasp were rampant. You and Paige had been a bit of a scandal ever since she shaded you on that panel, and the media had been seriously following you two back and forth between the seemingly friendly interactions and more hostile ones.

Eventually you stumble upon something different. A video of you and Paige in the background of KK and Ice’s live that day in the coffee shop. You can see yourself fumbling with napkins, and Paige approaching. It’s almost entrancing to see everything play out from another perspective, to see how her face eases into a smile at your smartass comments, to relive your own amused emotion at her stare, to watch Paige speedily write her number on a napkin before the camera shifts and the live ends.

You’re unsure how to react to all of this. No matter how close or far you could get with Paige, would it ever amount to anything? To the slightest bit of trust? Her lips were almost on yours that evening in the street, but just an hour earlier she had lied to your face about knowing Elaine.

You recall what Elaine drunkenly spat out during your argument outside the bar.

“N’ I’ll tell you what. She’s going to play your ass and you’re never gonna get over it, cus that’s what she does.”

Was this spoken out of experience, or a mixture of jealousy and intoxication? Had Elaine once been that girl on the street, inches away?

You can’t help but think it wasn’t the case. Paige bit her tongue around you to stifle a laugh or to hold back a rebuttal to your teasing. When it came to Elaine, Paige bit her tongue in a different way. A loathing way. You couldn’t explain it.

Plus, Elaine had said herself that you were not Paige’s usual type. If she meant you and her were not alike, that was the truth. You and Paige had more of a history, more similar lifestyles and experiences, more. At least you assumed so.

Finally, you decide you’ve done enough thinking for the day. It was time to line up some plans, maybe meet up with the team for a couple hours and then hoop solo in the evening. Anything to distract from the situation.

The sound of a basketball against the blacktop, the hollow bounce that always found itself back to your hand. It’s sustenance to you, it’s breathing.

Storrs had been blessed with a hotter Sunday then usual, even in your shorts and t-shirt you were sweating, shooting hoops the same way you’ve been doing since you were a child.

The court was empty and outdoors, perfect for you to hold the ball for a moment and admire the scenery, the changing colours of the sky as afternoon fades to evening.

You hear the bounce of a ball again, but yours is secured in your hand.

“Hey.”

You’re not surprised to see her. The sink in your stomach as you meet her eyes in almost predictable.

“What are the chances.” You scoff. “Don’t you have like, the entire UConn gym to hoop?”

“I come to this court all the time.” Paige narrows her eyes. “It’s usually peaceful.”

“I figured.” You say curtly, turning your head to see the setting sun. It was very peaceful, even with the impending silence between you and the blonde.

“How drunk were you last night?” Paige asks.

You spin around to give her a look. “Drunk enough to get on live,” You scoff. “but sober enough to read a text and send it without regrets.”

At the mention of your short conversation with Paige over text, you can see her cringe. She obviously hadn’t been expecting you to find out about her relationship with your friend, let alone be so upfront with it.

“I never fucked her in my car…just so you know.” She finally manages to breath out.

You almost bark out a laugh at this. “You think I’m mad cus you fucked her?” You ask, walking towards Paige and lightly dribbling the ball. She simply stares at you, mouth slightly agape.

“Are you not?”

“Is the blonde fucking seeping into your head?” You snap, mentally celebrating as her lips forms a straight line. “If you don’t know, you better figure it out.”

Paige brings a hand to her face, rubbing her forehead as if it’s aching. Her eyes are wide and analyzing you, thinking of the best way to respond.

“Go on,” you tease her. “tell me why I’m mad.”

You’re close to her now, too close for comfort. You can see her smile lines, her plush lips, her silver chain glinting beneath the black long sleeve she’s wearing. The sleeves are rolled up, and you can’t help but noticed how veiny her arms are, how her long fingers are holding the basketball against her body.

Biting her lip, Paige finally responds. “You’re mad because I lied.”

“Smart girl.” You scoff, almost choking on your breath when her jaw clenches at your comment. “I’m mad cus you lied to my face. And cus you went on live and shit talked me again for no reason.”

You and her stare at each other for a long moment before she breaks a smile. “That was my bad.” She murmurs. “I was uh, Ion’ know. I was in sum kinda mood.”

“The mood to lie?” You raise your eyebrow. “Or the mood to be a bitch?”

“Don’t call me a bitch.” She scowls, and you’re reminded of the last time you called her that, at the end of your game against UConn.

“That’s what you are, Bueckers.” You say with a smile, eyeing her down and getting in her face just a little more. “Bitches lie, bitches make problems out of nothing.”

Her eye is fiercely trained on you, on the way your lips move as you degrade her. You can’t tell what she’s thinking in the slightest.

“(Name), I’m sorry.” She says softly.

Once again you two are staring in silence. The proximity is intoxicating, you can practically smell her clean clothes.

“Are you still fucking Elaine?”

“Hell no.” Paige shakes her head furiously. “That ended a while ago. We haven’t talked in like months.”

“She still has your location.” You grumble. “That’s how she knew I was with you at the restaurant.”

“Shit.” Paige groans, immediately pulling out her phone. “She interrupted us on purpose then? Psycho.”

You watch as she turns off her location for Elaine and blocks her before slipping her phone back in her pocket.

“We didn’t hookup for long.” Paige says, obviously feeling the need to explain herself. “Jus a couple times. I broke things off, she couldn’t accept how busy my schedule was.”

You shrug, not knowing what to say.

“Guess she couldn’t accept you and me either, huh?” Paige smirks, shooting you a ‘forgive me’ type look.

Ignoring the swell in your heart at the stupid comment, you just chuckle and shake your head.

“Do you wanna 1v1?” She asks almost sheepishly.

You think for a moment.

“You sure I’m on your level?”

Paige looks embarrassed for a moment, remembering what she said on her live. “Quit playin.” She rolls her eyes. “C’mon, show me what you got.”

You’d be lying if you were to say you knew the score.

Was she taking score? You and Paige were equally insanely competitive, but this wasn’t a true test of skill. This was a test of endurance. A test to see who would break first.

You knew this when her hand grazed your waist as she darted past you to the other end of the court, or when she stared you down, tongue between her lips as she blocked your shot. You retaliated yourself, letting your hand linger a bit too long as you helped her up from the ground after tripping her up, or whistling at her as she makes another three.

The heavy breathing, the piercing stares, the cold air as the sun disappeared. You were in a zone you’d never been in before, somehow equally focused on the game and the girl.

You manage to steal the ball from Paige in a swift moment, but suddenly she’s in front of you again. Her hands dart for the ball, attempting to smack it out of your hand. She almost manages to steal it back, but your grip tightens just at the right moment.

She’s stuck to you, her hands attempting to pry the ball out of your own. You can hear her breath, you can see the beaded sweat on her forehead, you can feel her blue eyes watching you, watching your chest widen and shrink with every inhale and exhale, watching your lips.

It’s a replay of the college game that started all of this.

You struggle for a moment longer before the tousle is not longer controlled, the ball slips between both of your sweaty hands. You and Paige both scramble to save it, but it bounces out of your grasps and away from the court.

Neither of you chase after it.

She’s still up close to you, face flushed from the game.

“What was the score?” She huffs, out of breath. Paige’s voice is raspy and tired. You feel something spark inside of you.

“No clue.”

Paige’s face breaks into a small smirk as her hands find your waist, uncertain and soft, just barely ghosting your frame. “That was my ball.”

“Shut up.” You mumble, your heart hammering at the feeling of her eyes exploring every part of you, lingering on your lips before she finally leans in.

Paige’s lips are rough against yours, but fit perfectly as if moulded for your own. She melts into you, her hands finally tightening around your body, her face tilting just right so she can finally taste you. It’s something you didn’t know you’d been waiting for. She kisses with a million emotions, with urgency, passion and the slightest bit of control. It’s electrical.

When you need to break the kiss to breath, you simply tug on her ponytail. You were not expecting the slight whimper as your lips part.

“M’ not done.” She mutters against you, catching her breath.

“I want you, P.” You whisper, looking up at her. Paige’s face immediately changes at this, lips tilting upward in an annoyingly charismatic way.

“I know you do, baby.” She murmurs. “Let me take you home.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers x reader #paige buckets #rpf #rivals to lovers #paige x reader #uconn women’s basketball #f/f #series

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kin-glomerate · 2 years

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/tag addition post

#speaking #its a (red) riot #smiling shadow #hi my names orion and i regularly debate which kins to include on this blogs and which ones not to bother with to the point #that i sometimes forgot i have certain kins until they smack me in the face again #ticking time bomb self destruction omen #the nightmare is horrors snare #goatskull ramifications are made of rage

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indigosunsetao3 · 22 days

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The Date

Warnings: Jealousy, Manipulation, Smut

Third expansion of the Ex Husband Price list.

The lawn was out of hand. You had been letting it grow, not bothering to venture out to the shed to even pretend to know how to use the mower. John would show up and take care of it like he always did, even if you told him not to. You had the sense that he was letting it go on until you cracked and called him but you wouldn't, not this time. He would have to be the one that gave him.

But then you received a deposit in your bank account. It was the exact amount John sent you via check. You find it odd; he always sent a check just to agitate you. But you woke up with an email alert one morning that the money had arrived at 12:01 in the morning. Maybe he was out of town for work. Fine. You'd just wait for the next check and keep watching the weeds and lawn grow.

Then the next check came via deposit two weeks later. The email alert was once again at 12:01 in the morning. It was as if it were on schedule to automatically draft out of his account to yours. That sets your nerves on edge a bit. He wasn't sending checks and he had set up an automatic payment.

Then an anonymous letter in your mail box a few days later made you realize you really had to do something with the lawn. Apparently some neighbors were 'concerned' about the overgrowth and wanted to inquire as to if you 'needed assistance'. It was enough to piss you off that you debated on just leaving it for another month just to make them even more 'concerned'. But in the end you hired the teenage boy down the street to clean it up and give him an extra large tip for how much of a mess it was.

After six weeks of silence from John you finally gave in. He had never been quiet this long. Even when you were freshly divorced and he was deep in a mission he always reached out one way or another. You stare at the phone trying to figure out who to call after three calls to him go right to voicemail. His parents are long dead, no siblings to speak of and you had only met a distant cousin once at the wedding. You tried Gaz, he had always been the most reasonable of John's men. But he didn't answer. The call at least rang a few times before going to voicemail so his phone wasn't off and he didn't decline it. You don't leave a message.

By week nine you've become desperate. You drove by John's apartment to see his truck is parked outside of it but by the looks of it, it's been there a while. You circled back a few more times over the following days and it doesn't move. There are also never any lights on inside his place.

At week ten, against your better judgement, you try Ghost. His Lieutenant had always been a stand off guy but Price had told you in the very beginning if something happened to him Simon would be the one in contact.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings. The automated voice for his voicemail box answers up and you hesitate before leaving a very brief message asking him to have John call you. You make up a lie about an issue with John's payments to you, before hanging up. Simon never calls you back, and neither does John.

Three months have gone by and now you're mad. No one has reached out to you. Not a single call returned. You had even gone as far to dig through old files of John's you still had that he never picked up to try and find other contacts. Not a single person picks up or returns messages. No emails are ever answered and you've run out of options.

Every twos week though, John's money is deposited into your account like clockwork at 12:01 in the morning. You think that has to be a good sign, that he is fine because the money would run out eventually.

It's a false hope. You know how much money John has from his work. Those deposits could continue without him adding more money to his bank account for years to come. But if he was dead, surely they'd freeze his assets? Someone would reach out to you as next of kin since you were all that was left of his family. Even if you were the ex-wife.

Maybe he really was done this time. Maybe he decided you weren't worth the time or effort. You had been the one to ask for divorce, to have him served the papers and hounded him to sign them. You should be happy that he finally cut ties, that he was moving on which meant you also needed to move on.

Fine.

The dating pool is dismal. You finally download a few dating apps after your friends give you recommendations and it's a nightmare. The men on there are all too young for your taste or, after a bit of internet stalking, you find they are actually still married and looking for some action on the side. Then the ones you think may actually work end up boring, lack any sort of personality or they just disappear after talking for a few days.

Three failed dates makes you think you need to give it up. Maybe dating wasn't for you, at least not right now.

But finally one of them clicks. Luca. He's attractive enough, the reason you had swiped right on him to start, even if a few years younger. You talk for a bit, play the game of getting to know one another over text and eventually level up to some flirtatious pictures. It's fun. He always greets you in the morning with a good morning text and keeps the conversation going throughout the day. He's paid you much more attention than any other guy has for what seems like months.

You keep your options open though. Finding that a few men have shown interest in you and you match with a couple of them as well. No need to tie yourself down, not yet. You had just gotten out of a marriage, commitment was not at the top of your list. You chat with them, keeping the conversation going...yet you find you are neglecting a few of them in favor of talking to Luca. They don't quiet disappear, some actually strangely persistent which boosts your confidence a bit more after all the other failures.

Four months of John being gone and you are going out on a date that you are actually excited about.

Luca had arranged the whole thing; an art exhibit, drinks and dinner. He insists on picking you up, arriving with flowers, and opens the car door for you. The art is mediocre in your opinion, but you weren't there for that. You were there for Luca who is attentive to anything you could potentially want or need. He orders top shelf drinks at the small hole in the wall lounge and makes sure your table at the restaurant is tucked in the back so you can talk in privacy.

By the end of the night you decide you're taking him home with you; and not just because he's the one driving. On the car ride back, with a pleasant buzz vibrating through your body, you slide your legs open a bit wider when Luca rests his hand on your thigh. He grins to himself but doesn't verbally let on that he's noticed. Instead he gently swipes his thumb over the soft skin there, letting his hand venture a few inches higher every time he returns to touching you after shifting gears in his sporty little car.

When he takes the exit toward your house you offer for him to come in for a nightcap, which he agrees to. His pinky gently swipes over the lace of your underwear, his hand so far up your skirt he barely has to move. It's chaste as if to test the waters after all the teasing. You grin at him, resisting grabbing his wrist to guide him to fully you touch you as he pulls into your driveway.

"Is the lace for-" he paused as he throws his car into neutral and pulls the brake. "Who is that?" His eyes are locked out the windscreen and you twist to look at what he's seeing, you had been too busy watching him drive to even look at your house.

There in the headlights is a man standing by a truck. You know that truck, and you know that man.

John.

Four months of nothing and here he was, leaning casually against his vehicle as if you were late to meet him. The relief that floods you to see that he is actually alive is soon replaced by anger. How fucking dare he. Four months of radio silence. No calls, no emails, no one reaching out to return your increasingly desperate messages. And now this, of all the nights.

"John," you say as you stare at Price. Your hand gently pushes Luca's off your leg, as if afraid John will see.

John doesn't move from his casual position as he looks toward the car. The cigar in his left hand flares bright as inhales and the gesture is calm, but you know him. You can practically feel the seething anger from this far away.

"Who is he?" Luca asks, his voice a little unnerved as he watches John. John is staring daggers right at Luca even if he couldn't really see in the car thanks to the bright LED headlights. "Do we need to call the authorities?"

"What?" You stammer tearing your eyes from John back to him. "Oh no. He's my ex husband," you explain and Luca's eyes widen in disbelief. You had told him you were recently divorced so that wasn't the shocking part, it was more the fact your larger than life ex was sitting there like a dad waiting for his kid that was late for curfew. "He must have just gotten back from deployment. I have no idea why he's here."

"Deployment," Luca repeats back, his eyes darting between you and John, obviously a bit nervous. John still hasn't moved, he's still taking his time savoring his stupid cigar. "If he's your ex, why is he at your house then?"

"I have no idea," you say truthfully. "But I fully intend to find out and send him on his way. Bastard thinks he can ignore me for four months then show up as he pleases," you seethe as you grab your clutch from the floor.

"Do you need me to-" Luca starts as he reaches for his keys as if he were going to climb out the car with you.

"No!" You say a bit too fast, "no it's alright. No need for you to deal with my mess," you smooth over. Truth is you are fairly certain John would murder Luca if he even moved to open the drivers side door.

"I'll call you in the morning. Make sure everything is alright?" Luca asks, actually seemingly a bit relieved you told him no to getting out with you. He doesn't seem impressed by the whole situation but his self preservation keeps him from saying or doing anything else.

"Yes, please. I really did have a nice night," you say genuinely. You do not want John to ruin the one good thing that has happened to you in a long time. He wasn't going to win everything, damn it.

Just as you lean over to press a kiss to Luca's cheek you see John adjust. John pushes up from the truck and takes one last long drag of the cigar before throwing it into the darkness of the lawn. Asshole. You had actually been paying to maintain the stupid thing and he's just discarding his things around like he owns the place.

And, as if he did truly own the place, John walks up to your house and produces a key to let himself in. He doesn't look back as he walks inside and shuts the door, though a second later the porch light clicks on for you.

"Talk to you in the morning," Luca says, though his tone doesn't sound promising. Fucking hell if John took this away from you, you were going to murder him yourself.

Scrambling out of the car you shut the door, not bothering to look back, as you stomp up the front walkway. You need to deal with John right now, you can fix things with Luca later.

The front door is unlocked as you bang it open and you slam it shut behind you before yelling out for John. He doesn't answer.

The downstairs is still dark but the light in the upstairs hallway is on so you know that is where he's gone. Throwing your clutch onto the couch, the stupid fucking couch that you hadn't bought a cover for yet, you proceed upstairs. Your feet are screaming at the brutal steps you take and at the top you find your bedroom door is open, though the lights are off.

"John Price you better not being in MY goddamn bedroom," you snap as you walk over and swing the door open. He is. He's standing on the other side of the bed, one hand holding back the curtain to peer down at the street where Luca is driving away.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" You yell as cross your arms over your chest. "Four months and you decide now is the time to show up? Fuck you John," your hands shake, as if in need to throw something at him. "Fuck you for disappearing and fuck all of your men for never returning a single message. I thought you were missing, thought you were dead," you continue to rant. "But you show up in my driveway like it's your house?" You laugh sarcastically. "I don't want you here, I want you out. You want to disappear from the face of the Earth? Then fucking disappear. Forever."

Your chest is heaving. All the hurt and pain from four months of worry had flown out of you before you really could think about it. And yet, and fucking yet, John just calmly watches you from his position by the window. His arms are crossed over his chest as he assesses you and you find yourself lifting your chin at his appraisal as if to dare him to say something.

"Worried about me, love?" He asks with a cocky smirk.

"Are you serious?" You snap as you gesture your arm for him to get out. "Go John, get out of my house. I don't want to see you. I don't want you here. And leave the key." You gesture again as he hasn't even moved from his spot.

"Gaz and Simon said you called," John says simply as he finally uncrosses his arms and moves around the edge of the bed toward you. "Laswell said you even dug up one of her alias emails to message her. Got my ass right chewed for leaving that lying around," he smirks as an embarrassed flush creeps up your chest.

"Well fuck her too for not answering me," you say, stepping a bit to the side as John gets closer. "And fuck you for thinking it's funny," you barely whisper.

"Never said it was funny," he answers as he crowds you between the dresser and wall. He's not too close, not yet, but just his presence makes you feel like you are suffocating under him. "Why did you call so much? Did you miss me?"

"I was worried," you finally say with an exasperated tone. "You were always just...around. Then you stopped showing up. Stopped sending the checks. I thought something had happened," you reason. "Just because I divorced you doesn't mean I want you dead," you pause, "well before. Now you can fuck right off. All of you can. Leaving me scared out of my mind, desperate for a scrap of news. Someone could have called me. But no. You decide to just, what, toy with me?" You reach out and shove his chest, the anger flaring back up, and move to go around him. "Just go John."

He catches your wrist though and he tugs you back to face him, spinning you on your heels so you stumble a few steps. You snap your arm back to get him to let go but he holds firm and then pulls you toward him, using your off balance stance to his advantage until you're pressed against him.

"I had work," John says simply, his other hand coming up to gently tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear. "You didn't seem too lonely though. Had a few dates it looks like," he smirks though it doesn't meet his eyes, his hand tilting your chin up to look at him. "Find anyone you fancy? How many boys you bring home?"

"Piss. Off." You snarl, mad at yourself for leaning into the gentle gesture he had given you before he went for the jugular like he always did. "What does it matter if I've been on dates? You left, not me."

"I left because you made me leave," John counters. "You filed for divorce. You always tell me to leave. You are the one who wanted me gone." He tilts his head to the side a bit, his signature move when he knows he's correct and dares you to fight him on it. You don't because he's right.

"You know why. You know why I filed," you start and when he doesn't answer you forge on. "Because your first love is your job, it's always your job. I can't be second to it. I can't be your after thought." You push at his chest with your hands but he holds you fast, even as you dig your nails into the fabric of his thin shirt. "And you did it again," you laugh though there is no humor in the sound. "Screw you, John, for assuming that I'd be okay being second best in your life."

"My duty is my job," John answers, "you knew that when all of this started. You accepted it when I warned you. You came back time and again when I tried to give you an out," he states, his tone starting to rise to anger now. "I tried to push you away, but you were persistent. You were determined to make me love you. Showing up on the damn base and nearly bowling Gaz over when he told you to leave because you knew I was in my office avoiding you." He pauses as you cut your eyes to him and you swear there's a hint of pride in his voice from that bold act.

"Then when I finally did allow myself to love you, against my own better judgement, that's when you decided you couldn't do it anymore. That you couldn't handle it. So, sweetheart, fuck you for making me love you then deciding you didn't want me anymore." He finishes with sarcasm but you can see the hurt behind his eyes. Always hiding his emotions, careful to keep that guard up and everyone at arms length, even you.

"I'm not having this conversation," you say after a second, tucking another stray hair behind your ear. This confession out of him had been the most honest one you had ever gotten. But you didn't want it right now. You wanted to be mad, wanted to be furious and to storm about the house in your rage. "You could have said all this before but it's too late now. Just like you are too late to get back this time. I've finally moved on." Lie.

"Is that why you practically shoved the pretty boy off you and followed me inside?" John asks quirking an eyebrow. "You could have easily just left. Yet you came after me and had him leave," he leans so his face is barely an inch away from yours. "Doesn't sound like you've moved on," he smirks.

"You went into my house, of course I am going to follow you! I also want to know where you get the damn audacity to just show up and act like nothing has happened." You snarl pushing again but his arms are like vices around you.

"Because, sweetheart, we both know nothing has happened." He reaches up and grabs one of the clips in your hair and pulls it free with a swift motion and tosses it to the ground. It's one he had given you, a gift from his many travels, and the green jeweled tip reflects in the dim light from the hallway as it falls to the floor. "I knew you'd follow me," he grabs the second one, the first ones twin, tossing to the floor as well. You feel your hair fall down the nape of your neck.

"You may have filed that paperwork, may storm and rant like a petulant child," he runs his hands through your freed hair, almost massaging your scalp as he shakes your hair loose, before grabbing a handful and yanking your head back causing you to gasp. "But you haven't moved on from me. You need me, miss me," he searches your eyes as you stare up at him. He knows he's won, he can see the way your eyes are searing into him, the way your breath hitches in anticpation.

He crushes your upturned lips with his, nearly sucking all the oxygen out of your lungs with the brutal assault before pulling back. "And you know I'm yours until the world burns to ash," he finishes, his lips grazing over yours as he talks.

You know he's right. You know that no matter what, John Price was going to be part of your life because he was yours and you were his. You had broken him down, made him love you and now there was no other option for either you. There was no life after John, not a real one anyway. Time and again you would come back to one another, through all the fights, the anger and pain it would still be the both of you.

You kiss him back with fervor, your fingers fisting his shirt in your hands and he doesn't waste time finding the zipper on your dress. He has it undone in a matter of seconds and he doesn't savor taking it off you. His hands are rough as he shoves the off the shoulder sleeves down further as you wriggle out of them, his booted feet kicking away the silky material without a second glance.

"Splurged for new lingerie for this date?" He mutters as he takes in the lacey matching number you had worn. "Poor Luca is missing out," he smirks as his hands slides down your sides before finding the delicate dark green lace. His fingers hook into the material before he pulls on them, hard. The tearing noise echoes around the room, followed by your offended gasp.

"John!" You snap as you look down at the tattered pieces on the floor. You hadn't even caught onto the fact he knew the name of your date without you ever mentioning his name. His eyes are racking over your freshly exposed lower body and you watch him raptly, enjoying the hunger in his face.

"Oops," he taunts. He would be damned if you kept lingerie you bought with another man in mind. "It was very pretty," he teases as he grinds his boot down knowing the dirt under them is marring the material beyond repair.

John pushes you back toward the bed, one hand snaking around your back to brace you as he bends you onto the mattress. You sigh into the kiss as his lips find yours again, your hands running along his back to grab at his shirt. You tug it up, pulling as far as you can before he assists you the rest of the way. He leans back and uses one arm to pull it over his head, exposing his tanned and toned chest and the soft stomach that hides the taut muscles underneath.

"Don't you dare," you threaten as his hands come down to the small joint of lace between your breasts. He doesn't listen. He yanks on the lace, jolting you up off the bed a bit in his strength, and rips the bra clean in half. "Damn it John," you say as he pushes the tattered pieces off your skin before your words turn into a groan as his calloused hands find your breasts and grab palmfuls of each.

"I'll buy you more," he answers simply as he bends down to kiss at your neck, his fingers pinching and teasing your nipples as you squirm. "Just for me," he warns as he bites down on the soft skin near your collarbone.

"Just you," you agree as his lips move to your sternum and up your right breast to lick teasingly at one of your nipples. You arch up, pushing him to continue, as his now free hand slides down your plush hips and leg. He's surprisingly gentle as he hooks one of his hands behind your knee and hikes it up, spreading you underneath him. His fingers trace long sweeping lines up and down the sensitive skin on the back of your thigh as you whine.

"I can already feel how wet you are," John says before he bites down on your abused nipple then moving to the other one. "Already down your legs," he continues as his other hand pushes your left leg up to match the right. You're completely spread, and pinned, under him and you can feel the roughness of his jeans barely pushing against your clit.

"Please," you whine as you try to push your hips up for some more friction, pressure, even if his belt buckle was dangerously close. He doesn't give it to you though, he pulls away slightly and you huff frustrated as your hands move to grab at his lower back and tug him down. He doesn't move his hips but he does relent and let his fingers swipe up your leg and right over your center.

"Because you asked so nicely," he answers, fingers teasing outside of your entrance as his palm grinds down against your clit. He adjusts so his face is hovering over yours, watching you as you twist your head to the side to try and breathe, your hand pushing your hair off your face. "So fucking needy for me," he says as he feels you try to bare down and push his fingers into you. "I love watching you like this. So desperate," he pushes your face with the hand that is braced near your head so you look up at him.

You don't give him a chance to talk more, your hands coming up behind his head and tugging him down to kiss you. Just as you open your mouth to let his tongue sweep in, he pushes a finger into you causing you to groan into him. He begins a slow and delicious pump, adding a second finger without warning, though it slides in without resistance.

"Always so ready for me," he praises as your hands scramble at his back. "What's the record for how fast I've gotten you to cum?" he teases as he curls his fingers inside of you, hitting that soft spot, "five minutes?" He bites at your lip and tugs it gently. "I think I'm about to beat it. You've missed me," he smirks as he picks up the pace, letting you rock your hips in rhythm to his ministrations.

He wasn't wrong, you aren't sure how fast it was but you feel the snap of coiling tension release in your belly as John gently strokes your inner walls. It's pure bliss that you feel as you arch up on the bed, your body almost trying to get away from the sensation as he continues to push you through it. It's a good thing you didn't leave the bedroom window open when you left the house earlier or the whole street would have known with how loud you cried out.

While you come down you feel John pull his fingers out and you pant as he slides the two fingers in his mouth to suck them clean. You're staring at him blatantly, not bothering to even try to shy away and close your legs, as he moves to undo his belt. His eyes are boring into you as he slips out of his pants and kicks them away, he hadn't bothered with boxers this evening.

"Pretty little thing," he grins as his hand finds your center again and he runs his index finger over your center and clit, causing you to twitch a bit. He grabs your hips to yank you to the edge of the bed where he's standing. He rests one hand on your lower belly before the other grabs his own heavy, leaking, cock to guide it to your entrance.

He slides in with one easy thrust, not an ounce of resistance. Your body ached for him and it was more than ready to welcome him back home.

You both moan together as he bottoms out and with his hand pressing on your lower belly you know he can feel himself within you. He smirks as he pulls back and thrusts back in, his fingers clenching a bit over your soft skin at the sensation. He keeps up the slow movements, savoring the feel, enjoying watching your face as you rock along with each roll of his hips.

Soft and slow were a rarity between you, especially as of late, too desperate for one another to take your time. So it doesn't take long for him to increase his speed.

"Fuck John, fuck," you whine as he has both of your hips in his hands, pulling you down onto him as he fucks into you. You clench down as his expertly trained fingers find your clit again and he groans at the tension. "There, right--John," your words are a babbling, panting, mess as he pushes you toward that edge. But then he pauses and you drop your head back onto the bed from where you had bent up to watch him slide in and out of you. A frustrated groan leaving your lips; you were so damn close.

"Patience," John admonishes, "you've already had one." He smirks as he grabs your legs and pulls them up so your ankles are resting on his shoulders. In this position you feel him slide that fraction of an inch deeper and you gasp. You know you're going to be sore for days after this position but damn if it didn't feel good in the moment. And the soreness was more of a delicious ache, a sweet sting of a reminder of how John thoroughly wrecked you.

"There it is," he grinds out, more to himself than you. You know he can feel he's kissing your cervix. The pressure is a bit painful for a moment as he experimentally rocks, as if letting you prepare yourself. Satisfied you aren't whining in pain his hands grip your thighs like vices to hold you in place as he fucks you proper. "Fuck sweetheart, so fucking tight," he practically grunts out.

You don't have a response. Your hands are holding onto the comforter for dear life to keep yourself from being pushed to far back up the bed. Your throat is growing dry from the panting and groaning, unable to contain yourself as you feel his rigid head run rub against that spot over and over again. "John," you cry out, a warning and a plea.

"I know sweetheart," he answers, his tone comforting as he twists his head to softly kiss the inside of your ankle. "I can feel you-fuck," he breaks off speaking as you tense, arching up as if your body was a coiling spring getting ready to snap.

Two more rolls of his hips and you fall apart. Your hands grasp at his on your thighs, scrambling at his fingers for some sort of grounding. He loosens his grip just a bit and holds your fingers as you fall over the edge, whining his name as you feel him twitch inside you as he comes. The wet squelching sounds that fill the room as John rides out his orgasm are filthy, delicious and most importantly wonderful.

Your hands fall limply back down to the bed as you come down, John finally letting go of their painful grip on your thighs as he finishes. His hands are gentle as he lowers your shaking legs down from his shoulders and he bends down to kiss you. Careful to not pull out just yet, knowing that you savored that connection. Something that he had denied you these past few times in a cruel power move.

You kiss him a few times as he smooths the sweaty hair off your forehead and neck. You can feel the sheen of sweat down his back as you run your hands up and down the hard, scar marked skin. He doesn't move away from you as you pull him further down onto you and nuzzle against his neck, just breathing him in. You missed this, missed this second half of the intimacy with him. While the first half was always more fun, the second half was what sealed your connection. Something you hadn't felt with him in over a year.

"Get comfortable," John says after a few minutes of silence and you've laid back, shutting your eyes just enjoying the moment. He pulls out of you slowly and you snap your eyes open at that. Fear that he was leaving must have been evident in your eyes because he pauses, "I'm not going anywhere."

You nod, using your elbows and hands to move yourself up the bed and to dig at the blankets to get under them. John walks around to his side of the bed, the side you never touched, and slides in next to you. His hands smooth over your body as he tugs you tight against his chest, his face half buried in your hair as he holds you.

"I've missed you," he says quietly after a long while. A confession he would only let slip in the dark where you can't see his face, and one you potentially wouldn't hear.

You smile to yourself as you grip the back of his hand that is between your breasts a little tighter. An acknowledgement of his words, too tired to speak as you are on the brink of sleep. You feel him gently kiss the back of your shoulder before you slip into slumber.

John's phone lights up in his discarded jeans pocket an hour later. It's a text from Soap with the simple message "It's done." John checks the phone once he knows your asleep before curling back up behind you, leaving you none the wiser.

John had known all about your venture into the dating pool. He had his men monitoring your activity, using fake email accounts to corral you into a very specific algorithm; one that Alex Keller may or may not have cracked. A favor John called in to his old friend in the CIA and Alex hadn't asked a single question. And maybe John himself had been two or three of those men that seemed promising. The ones that had chatted you up only to disappear after a few days, leaving you on read. And perhaps Ghost had scared off some of your in person dates when men managed to slip past their careful caging of your dating pool.

Luca had been an unforeseen issue. He was compatible, a good match for you really, and Gaz hadn't been able to work him out of your interest no matter how tempting his words had been behind the fake profiles. So when the in person date had been arranged (a simple phone call to the phone company allowed John to get a transcription of your texts) John had been sure to be waiting for you when you got home.

And for good measure Soap had been waiting for Luca when he got to his own home. Soap had been lounging casually on the bench in his foyer to give Luca a simple warning. Never call you or text you again. The man had been too spooked to do anything but nod at Soap's words. Johnny patted him jovially on the shoulder and slipped back out, dropping the key he pilfered a few days ago in the little dish by the door.

When you wake up a few hours later and climb into John's lap to sleepily ride him you don't see the cocky grin on his face in the dark. You assume the blissed out kisses he gives you are from you grinding down on him and not the fact he knows his plans have worked.

You're his again.

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Tag Request: @shadofireshinobi

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #cod #fanfic #cod fanfic #my fic #ExH!Price #john price cod #cod john price #john price x reader #captain price x reader #18+ content

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bhaalble · 8 months

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Insane about Orin again. What makes me nuts (/pos) is the wildly different impressions you get of her on a Tav run vs a Durge run. On a Tav run Orin is functionally murder royalty. Her assassins are kept well in-line, she bears the mantle of slayer. Sarevok tells you about her lineage of Bhaalspawn and how early on she was singled out as special. She was the youngest ever Unholy Assassin and a literal mouthpiece of Bhaal as a child. Gortash definitely views her as unstable and plans to sever the alliance regardless, but it feels much more like a concern for his own safety than anything else.

Contrast this to a Durge run where she's talked about as the perpetual upstart. Scleritas of course contributes to this in a big way, needling at her sheltered Temple existence as opposed to Durge's experience of the outside world. Sarevok is MUCH more dismissive of her and her accomplishments, all but saying he's rooting for you to take her down a peg. You find journal entries from Durge calling her murder tableaus a waste of not only her time, but Bhaal's. Its up for debate how much Gortash MEANS anything he says to Durge but his clear preference seems to be something even she's aware of. I haven't yet found any dialogue that indicates whether or not the incident when she killed her mother where Bhaal used her as a mouthpiece still happened in a Durge run. Assuming it did, how must that feel to have all that happen and yet your father still passes his favor to someone else! His Chosen, not you but some purer incarnation of his blood. His Slayer, not you who have killed even your own kin in his name, but the lobotomized wreck of your half-sibling who may even be working against him. There's so much you can reflect off of how Bhaal treats the Durge if they lose the duel, the way his favor (or lack thereof) can dominate the whole of your existence. The sibling trauma is DEEP and visceral

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #orin the red #dark urge #dark urge spoilers #bhaal

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undeadcortez · 1 year

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LOVE IN A TIME OF JEALOUSY

kai anderson x fem! reader | 6.3k words

!! SMUT BELOW THE CUT !! do not read if you are not eighteen or older | oral sex (m receiving), throat fucking, unprotected p in v sex, anal fingering, mentions of anal sex, no aftercare, degrading (kai calls reader a whore, a slut and a bitch), pet names (kai also calls reader baby and baby girl), very hot and cold mixed signals, kai is a warning all on his own

not gonna lie, this one took a while to complete, and the ending is definitely not it’s strong point, but i wanted to leave it open ended in case there was anyone who ached for a part two where kai has feelings and loves on the reader. tumblr gave me a heap of issues trying to get this ready to post so if things don't make sense or if there was a warning i missed, let me know!!

Kai was pissed, to say the very least.

Sitting in his leather chair, elbows rested upon his thighs, hunched forward and legs spread open with a subtle bounce to the left, it was like they could almost see the smoke rising from his ears. The frown that pulled at his lips, the furrowed eyebrows, the tightness in his jaw — yeah, Kai was pissed. And they all knew the reason.

You were late. However, it wasn’t just that you were late. This was the third meeting that they’ve all waited in silence for thirty solid minutes, sitting on the floor in the uncomfortable anger that radiated off of their leader. It was almost suffocating, the awkward silence. Meadow swore she could choke on it, and Beverly seconded that theory.

“Maybe she’s just not coming, divine ruler,” all, but Kai’s eyes fell on Ivy as she broke the stillness, “I mean, she’s so hot and cold about this whole thing anyway, do we really want her here? Is it safe to have her here?”

Kai didn’t answer, and Meadow felt the need to speak up, “yeah, what if she’s out there, blabbing about everything, divine ruler? She’s nothing more, but a liability at this point, and I’m sure everyone here agrees.”

Then others murmured, and Harrison nodded his head. Kai’s gaze focused straight ahead, unwavering on a seam between wooden panels, but he took it all in. He knew you were a weakness to the cause, to everything he built. He thought about it nearly everyday — when he ate breakfast, when he was busy with the city council, when he watched you sleep peacefully beside him in his own bed.

Truth was, though, you never would. Kai had you wrapped around his little finger, and months of manipulation was to blame. If Kai said jump, you’d say ‘how high, divine ruler?’, and he knew it, too. Which is why whenever the thought of you spilling the cult’s secrets to someone crossed his mind, it wasn’t there for long. He knew you never would.

You were strong. The hardest it took to break down into submission, into a mere shell of your previous self. Kai enjoyed it, honestly — seeing you digress from complete independence to someone who lives, breathes, and adores him. And because it took so much to make you like that, because of all the time he poured into creating a woman devoted to him as a leader, he knew you wouldn’t crumble at the simplest of questions.

But, it was only that; him as a leader. You loved Kai, and he knew you did. He trusted you, loved you back in ways only he could. There’s no label here, though, and Kai couldn’t trust every man in the world to respect that you were untouchable, entirely his for the taking.

There were several opportunities to close the door, but Kai never would. Not until you were swollen with his kin, and even then, he debated the idea of getting a ring. What would his men think about him marrying? But, then again, who cared what they thought when he was their ruler? He ruled, made the rules, and if he married, so be it.

That’s not what he wanted, though. He simply just wished for your devotion, spiritually, physically, and emotionally. And though he’d broken you past the first, maybe even the last, that second wish would only be granted the moment he made it official. His girlfriend, or better yet, in your eyes, wife and possible mother of his messiah.

“Kai,” Winter broke him out of his thoughts, and touched his arm with her infamous gentleness, “they’re right. We should really consider cutting her off. Whether that’s kicking her out or killing her—.”

“Would you guys just shut the fuck up already?!” he snapped, standing up from his chair, and lost the staring contest between him and the wall. His eyes were nearly black as they peered down at his sister, and they only seemed to darken as he spoke, “you’re all dismissed. I don’t want to hear another fucking word from any of your goddamn mouths until morning.” He turned around to head upstairs, and slammed the door behind him.

Winter was the first to follow. She didn’t attempt an apology, but simply disappeared up to her room. Ivy was next, passing by Kai as she hurried out the door to her home, followed by Meadow, Harrison, and then Beverly who all, but ran to her car a few moments later. They left Kai alone, sitting on his sunken living room sofa, in the same position he started: waiting for you.

It would be another thirty-eight minutes before the headlights of your car peeked through the curtains, illuminating Kai’s face. The anger written on his face was gone now, and his expression laid flat— the only way one could tell were his eyes, and how they held nothing, but rage within them. Pitch black.

The jingle of your keys rang in his ears, and he grew angrier at the sound of each of your steps, nonchalant as they patter on each concrete stair. The lock turned and the door flew open before him, revealing you with a bright smile and smudged mascara. He remained sitting.

“Good evening, divine ruler,” you greeted as you tossed your keys into the bowl and shuffled off your coat. The casualness of the whole thing only made Kai’s anger worse. “What are you doing up here?” you questioned, and it was clear you had forgotten about the meeting entirely as a smirk pulled on your lips, “I was expecting you to be downstairs, tending to your—.” Kai’s speciality tonight was cutting people off.

“Where the fuck were you?” his tone matched his eyes, angry. The teasing smirk you adorned faded immediately.

“Kai, I—,” you rushed, but stammered to quickly correct yourself, “divine ruler, I told you last week I was going out to visit friends tonight.” You had. At dinner as Kai was stuffing his face full of the grilled chicken you had prepared. You should’ve known better then that the man doesn’t listen while he’s eating, just as much as you should’ve known better than to remind him of mentioning it before.

He stood from the sofa, greasy, blue waves framing his stern features. He towered over you, always did, and you hated it, especially like this. It made you feel incredibly small. His strong cologne, one that wreaked of tobacco, assaulted your nostrils, and a heat radiated off of him that you once found comfort in. A comfort that you knew you weren’t getting any of tonight.

“I’m sorry, Kai,” you whispered, doing all you could to avoid eye contact with the rageful, black globes that peered down at you, “please, don’t be mad.”

He was silent, and as he stepped forward, you found yourself stepping away. It was your natural instinct to flee, and you had hoped you may just be able to, until your ass was flush with the end table, and Kai’s hips were pinned against your own. There was no escape.

His hands rested upon the flat top of the table, completely enclosing you in his aura. It was thick with rage, almost suffocatingly so. Your chest was pressed against his own, rising and falling rapidly with every rushed breath. Breath that was intermingling with his, as his lips hovered above your own. This closeness wasn’t foreign in the slightest, but the goosebumps crawling up your arms it created in its wake were. And no matter how hard it was, you maintained eye contact.

“My people think I’m a fucking idiot because of you,” he spat, and his tone was harsh, but the volume was low, which was something you were entirely grateful for. “They look at me, waiting for you,” he paused and his grip on the table tightened, “for hours!”

You flinched. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Kai frustrated, nearly red in the face over the littlest of things, but it was something you could never get used to. Especially when you were on the receiving end. Maybe a few months ago, you would’ve bit back, stood up for yourself in some capacity… you were too far broken now.

“They think I’m some pussy-whipped bitch, YN!” he continued, “they think I’m risking this whole movement for some goddamn, sloppy pussy! Do you know how fucking dumb that makes me look, huh? Do you know how that makes me, their leader, look? When I’m waiting around for some whore to arrive home before I can spread my word?”

The fear you felt was boiling into rage, nearly matching Kai’s beneath your skin, but there was no fighting back. And if you were honest, Kai had said far worse things than this. So, you stood, breathing in his anger and bottling it up before murmuring, repeating for the third time, “I’m sorry, divine ruler.”

“Who were you with?” he asked, completely ignoring your apology once again. Suddenly, you knew it wasn’t just about you missing a gathering. Kai was jealous.

You were devoted to Kai. Even without the label, your fidelity was unwavering, despite whatever Kai believed. There was opportunity, and it was hard, but you’ve rejected each and every advance. And sure, you craved the exclusiveness, but maybe a part of you enjoyed Kai like this. It showed he had weakness. It showed he was human beneath that thick skin. Not to mention, the primal, possessive sex it resulted in was otherworldly. So, you kept Kai believing he didn’t have you entirely in his clutch, though he very much did.

“Just a few old friends,” you answered honestly, and it only pissed Kai off more. His left hand fell from the tabletop and rather held your waist. His thumb pushed up against the bone, pushing in, and you felt a whimper crawl up your throat. You promptly swallowed it down.

“Their names, YN,” he nearly growled, “what are their fuckin’ names?”

The look on his face made your cunt ache, the anger in his voice ran through your veins, and that rage you once felt in return was burning into lust. You didn’t know why it turned you on so much when Kai got so possessive. It was toxic, and you knew it as much as anyone else. It’s just the way he held you, his strong grasp on you and the closeness and the heat and his musk, it’s all overwhelming and it’s all so hot.

Debating on whether to tell the truth, or to speak at all, you finally opened your mouth, “why does it matter?”

A strong, irritated sigh left Kai’s nose, “you know why it matters.” You did, but you remained silent. “Answer the goddamn question!” he commanded after a moment of silence.

The grip on your hip was gone. He had dropped his hand back on the table, and rather pushed his hips against yours, sandwiching you further between him and the wooden surface. You squirmed. Kai was hard — you could feel the outline, the heat, of his angry cock pushed against your stomach. “Answer the fucking question, YN!” he yelled, and a thick wad of spit landed on your cheek.

“Ethan!” you answered, “I was with Ethan and Maggie.”

They were a couple you were friends with since middle school. It was always Ethan, Maggie, and you, even when the pair decided to hook up in high school and date in college. It had been years since you’d seen them, but it didn’t matter to Kai. No explanation could have mattered to Kai at that moment. You felt his cock kick beneath his layers. “You’re such a fucking whore,” he spat before pushing himself away, leaving you cold and trembling against the table.

There was no way Kai was done with you, and it would have been foolish to think so. As he paced along the length of the living room a couple of times, you remained, watching his every move like a hawk with blown pupils and glazed eyes. He brought a hand up, pushing back his hair from his face, and you could tell a million emotions had washed over it. Jealousy, anger, sadness… You opened your mouth to say something, but were cut off by his hands engulfing your cheeks, and his lips were smashed onto yours.

Gripping the table until your knuckles were white, you kissed back as well as you could muster. Kai’s lips were sloppy, moving against yours in a rageful lust, entirely passionate with emotions you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Instead, you simply basked in your own desires, your own lust which had clouded your mind the second his palms met your cheeks.

His tongue soon wiggled its way past your lips, immediately establishing dominance, and you let him. Smashed up against the table, smothered between it and his muscular body, you let his tongue roam around in every inch of your mouth, moaning. The heavy feeling of his erect cock was back on your tummy, the warmth of it all had returned, and though he was angry, it was everything you needed.

When he pulled away, you swallowed down a disapproving whine. A thick trail of spit connected your lips, dangling between the two of you until it ultimately broke when he opened his mouth to speak again, “did he kiss you like that?”

It took all of your strength not to yell, to not roll your eyes to the back of your head and groan. It was so frustrating, confusing. On one hand, you liked the jealousy. You loved the heat of it all, the tight grip on your body, the furrowed brows, the bruising kisses. On the other, you hated your fidelity being questioned. You slept, ate, and thought only of Kai. It wasn’t fair — after all you’d done for him. “I didn’t kiss him, divine ruler,” you murmured, “I promise, it’s not anything like that.”

Somehow, that’s not what he wanted to hear. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid, YN?” he started, “do you think I don’t know when you lie to me? I know you like the back of my hand, better than anyone ever will. You fucked him tonight. Maybe you fucked that dumb bitch, Maggie, too. You’re a whore, it’s what whores do. Now admit it, or suffer the consequences.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Kai,” you stated, and you felt the tremble of his cock beneath his jeans at your words, “and I’m not about to start tonight. I didn’t fuck Ethan, I didn’t fuck Maggie, and I’m not a whore. Give me whatever punishment you see fit, but let it be known that I am devoted, and that devotion to you, divine ruler, is unwavering. You’d be punishing the innocent.”

His lips were back on yours with no further words. Bracing yourself on his shoulders, fingers curling against the muscles there, you kissed back. Bruises were sure to appear in the wake of his hands as they gripped your hips. The kiss was nothing short of passionate, as his tongue slipped past your puffy lips and made itself at home again. You whimpered into it, giving up whatever strength you had left tonight, and completely submitted there.

His taste was overwhelming now. You couldn’t quite place your finger on just what flavors were dancing on your tongue — it was just Kai. And it was intoxicating all in itself. As tongues rubbed along each other, his harsh while yours simply just ached to be against his, he groaned. His nose was smashed against your cheek, lips moving with fever that you just couldn’t keep up with. He pulled away again.

“I’m sorry, divine ruler,” you whispered, meeting his eyes, your own still glazed over, “please, forgive me. I promise, this won’t happen again. I’ll never be late again. I’ll never leave your side.”

His cock twitched, you felt it again against your tummy. He didn’t say anything in return, but he didn’t need to. You knew he wasn’t satisfied with just an apology, he never would be. His hands began to guide your hips, away from the table, and headed towards the stairs. You obliged.

Your steps were wobbly, stumbling as a strong hand left your right hip to open the door to lead the both of you downstairs. Another whimper crawled up your throat as his second hand fell to his side, waiting for you to make the trip to his bedroom first. You loved his hands, his powerful grasp. It made you dizzy, and made your cunt ache. Whenever it disappeared — didn’t matter if you had it for a while or just a few split seconds — it left you feeling like a newborn deer.

You could feel his gaze on your back as you gripped the handrail and made your way to the all too familiar den at the bottom of the stairs. His steps were heavy behind yours, and it was something about just hearing the solid step of his boots growing closer and closer… Once he reached the bottom, his hands were back on your hips, this time from behind. His hips were pressed firmly against your ass, and you could feel the thick outline of his cock again, pushing between your clothed cheeks as he walked with you to the bedroom. You didn’t know if it was for the better or for the worse that he still hadn’t said a word.

Once you were at the foot of the bed, his hand left your hip. Rather, it settled just below your shoulder blades and pushed, causing you to crash face first on the spring-filled mattress. Your lips trembled as a whine went tumbling through them, turning your head in hopes to see Kai. It didn’t work. With his other hand still grasping your hip, and his pelvis pushed snug against your bum, he was out of sight — at least his face was. His other hand had slid from your upper back to your lower, forcing you into an arch, and he moaned. That’s when he finally spoke back up.

“Prove it then.”

Your brows furrowed, “wh— what?”

A heavy sigh passed through his nostrils, and you swear you felt the warmth of it wafting against your back. “I said,” he paused, leaning forward and further pushing his dick between your clothed ass cheeks, “prove it, bitch. Prove that you’re sorry and devoted to me.”

You failed at your attempts to swallow down your moans. Letting another slip past your lips, you asked, “yes, divine ruler. How can I prove it to you?”

“You can’t be that devoted to me if you have to ask how,” he bit back through clenched teeth, and suddenly, his warmth was gone. His strong grasp was still present on your hips, and his cock was still situated between your bum cheeks, but he stood up straight. You whimpered and clenched around the painful emptiness, shivering as your pussy began to weep into your panties.

“Lay down,” he commanded, and then his whole presence was gone. Taking a step back, he was no longer holding you, rather observing as you did as you were told. And when he found a problem with it, he clicked his tongue, “nuh uh, with your head at the foot of the bed.”

You obeyed, and had nothing to say in response. With your neck bent over the curvature of the mattress, you watched with an upside down lense as Kai looped his fingers under his shirt and pulled it off. Your fingers clutched the cotton sheets beneath you, pushing your thighs together in an attempt to stop the ache between them. It was no use.

Kai was beautiful. Even as those hurtful spats left his mouth, even as he made you feel so small he could crush you, he was still beautiful. Ethereal — with abs that could cut diamonds, and blue hair that fell in waves and perfectly framed his face. That’s why he was so dangerous, you’ve figured. Draws in the innocent with his Godly features, just to turn against them the moment they see beyond his looks. You watched his hand graze over his tummy.

Calloused fingers ran over the brown, thick hair that kissed his lower belly until they were met with the hem of his jeans. With a watering mouth, you watched as he popped the button and unzipped, allowing his jeans to fall to the floor. The blue, plaid boxers he adorned left little to the imagination. A little wet spot of precum staining the front, and the perfect outline of his hungry cock. They soon met the floor as well.

He stood before you, naked, which wasn’t a sight you were unfamiliar with. Wrapping a hand around the length of his dick, and tilting his head back as he gave it a few warning pumps, you couldn’t do much, but carry on watching. So, you did just that, watching as he inched closer to your mouth, and finally felt the warm tip of his cock hit your lips. It smeared precum across your mouth like lip gloss as Kai spoke, “open.”

Once you parted your lips, your mouth was invaded by his girth. A harmony of your whimpers and his moans flooded the room as he sunk his cock further and further into the abyss of your mouth, right until his tip was kissing the back of your throat. You gagged around it, which was met with a stinging slap to your cheek. “If you’re gonna act like a whore,” he started, voice raspy and lustful, though still harsh, “then you’re gonna be treated like one. No gagging; this isn’t your first time here.” You whined as he slid in further.

The hand that just slapped your cheek moved to your throat, gripping it as he bottomed out in your mouth. His thick bush of brunette pubes tickled your chin whilst his balls sat heavily on your nose. You didn’t have any choice, but to take a deep breath, and groan at the smell of his musk invading your every sensation. You closed your eyes — there was really no point in keeping them open when your vision was blocked by his length anyway — and braced yourself for the raw experience you were about to endure. Kai was right, though; this wasn’t your wasn’t your first time here.

Blowjobs were more popular than sex in your relationship with Kai, especially when he felt you didn’t deserve to get off. Your throat was trained to adorn Kai, so while you’ve never had him like this before, it was better than a virgin throat. He began to move.

A long, stretched moan left his parted lips as his hips pulled back. You took in another breath just as the thick of his dick slid out of the tight confines of your throat. You pushed your tongue against the tip of it, collecting the precum and swallowing it down. Your throat was already on fire. “Atta girl,” he praised, which may seem surprising, but wasn’t rare once you were in the thick of it with Kai. Add it to the many reasons why you love a good, jealous fuck from Kai.

You groaned as he slammed back in, and it stung, but you loved it. Hearing the filthy, guttural noises Kai was making, mixed with the feeling of his strong grip on your throat… you pushed your legs tighter together. You were sure there was a wet spot where your thighs met, staining your pants in humiliating fashion, but you couldn’t care. Right now, you were just for Kai’s use, and you knew it. You kept your hands to your sides, gripping the cotton sheets, and got Kai off.

His thrusts were sloppy. No pace seemed to stay for more than a few mere seconds before he was speeding up, fucking into your throat. His free hand ran down his neck, over his collarbones and down his chest while his head remained tilted back. He was heavenly, if only you could see it. Instead, when you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of his flushed, shiny dick sliding out of your throat, and you watched as he pushed it back with vigor. You whimpered around his length.

A few more thrusts in and his hand released your throat. You relaxed a bit, relishing in the feeling of his hand traveling to the scooped neckline of your top. Rough fingers slipped beneath the soft material and fished your tits out from the confines. He watched them bounce as his thrusts carried on, and you closed your eyes as calloused fingers had begun to brush over your nipples. They hardened beneath his touch in seconds.

“Good girl,” he praised, and his balls tightened, both indications of his oncoming climax, “taking your leader’s cock down your throat like it’s butter… with the prettiest set of tits I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. They’re all for me, right?” You hummed in agreement. “That’s what I thought,” he responded before pinching your left nipple roughly. You arched your back, moaning at the sensation coursing through your body, so overwhelmed by the simplest touch, you didn’t wrap your head around Kai cumming down your throat until after he was pulling out.

Your throat ached at its newly found emptiness. Cum connected Kai’s tip to the back of it as your mouth hung open for a few moments, attempting to catch your breath, but you merely choked on the thick juices as they threatened to climb up your throat. You hurriedly swallowed it down, whimpering as you opened your mouth to catch some air once more, but were met with Kai’s lips instead.

The position was awkward — Kai craning above you, a hand under your head to aid you in closing the space. Your neck ached, but it wasn’t something you were about to complain about. Kai’s tongue was slipping past your lips, tangling with yours, and that’s simply all you could think about. Well, that and the ever growing desire between your legs.

Your hands have Kai melting between them as they reach up and cup his cheeks. His body language, once stiff and angry, softened beneath your fingertips. The only harshness was his stubble, ticking at your palms, but it was nothing compared to the rage that was, just moments ago, filling the room with its hot and stuffy feel. You could bask in that moment for eternity. To bathe in that gooey scene, where Kai’s only concern was to love you, and yours to love him. It’s moments like these where you remember why you do exactly. Love him, that is. And you do love him, just as much as he loves you. All too soon, though, Kai is pulling back, the moment is ending, and the air feels thick again.

“On your hands and knees,” he commanded, a hand wrapping around his dick once again, “now.”

Once in position, Kai pulled down your pants and frilly panties until they hit your knees. Then, he didn’t wait another second to harshly spit on your asshole. You shuddered, moaning as it soaked your rim and dripped down between your drenched folds until it landed square on the sheets below. A firm hand gripped your bum cheek, pulled it to the side and left you further exposed to the man behind you. His other hand remained stroking his, once again, hardening cock. You clenched around nothing, whimpering at the overwhelming emptiness.

“Hmm,” he hummed, and you swear you could feel his gaze burn against your cunt as he pondered, “which hole do I fuck first?”

Your ass was let go, but only for a moment before a harsh slap landed across it. A groan slipped past your lips, and the blood was surely rushing to the surface in the form of Kai’s large hand, ready to bruise into the shape. “I asked you a question, bitch,” suddenly, you missed the loving Kai you had a moment ago, “which hole do I fuck first?”

It didn’t matter what you said here. Kai would choose whichever hole he desired more despite what you say. You didn’t mind that, though — you were just aching to get fucked wherever. An answer was all he was looking for, whether he thought it was right or wrong. “My pussy!” you cried out, “please, divine ruler, I want you to fuck my pussy first.”

Somehow, that was the right answer. “Good girl,” he repeated and without another moment to waste, his swollen tip was passing through your folds. He groaned, hand returning to the globe of your ass to spread you open. The sound was unholy — you were so wet, enough to continue to drip onto the sheets, and as Kai lined up with your cunt, it squelched. “Holy shit,” he uttered breathily, “you’re so fuckin’ wet, baby girl. You really do love being treated like a whore, don’t you?”

“Mhm,” you hummed as the fat head of Kai’s dick pushed into you. A soft gasp pushed through your parted lips, followed by a moan slipping right past them. Your fingers tangled in the sheets, gripping them as Kai bottomed out. You could feel the heat from his balls on your clit and whimpered at the prickly sensation.

He stayed like this for a moment, simply relishing in your warm, plushy walls, and you swore you could feel the tip of his dick in your stomach. His hand was now on your hip, and the grip was sure to leave bruises in the shape of Kai’s fingertips. His other hand remained on your ass, practically kneading the fat of it between his fingers as he admired what was all his for the taking. You whined as he pulled back.

His thumb grazed against your spit-soaked rim just as the swollen, pulsating head of his cock rested at your entrance. If the grip wasn’t so tight on your hip, you would’ve thrown your hips back, pushing him back into the depths of your cunt. Instead, you waited in near agony, relishing in the little friction you were getting on your asshole. It wasn’t enough, though, far from it.

When Kai slammed back into you, you saw stars. Moans filled his room, both yours and his creating a beautiful harmony in the sex-filled air. Immediately, Kai found a rhythm he was satisfied with, nothing short of rough. “You like that, baby?” he asked through his teeth, and you could hear the smile on his lips.

“Yes… divine… ruler!” you answered immediately, each word strained between his thrusts and followed by a smacking sound from his hips slamming against your own. His heavy balls hit your clit, over and over without fail. The sensitivity had you whining, and it didn’t help when Kai began to push against your rim. When his thumb finally breached, you nearly screamed at the stretch.

It sank in and stopped at the first knuckle. You threw your head back, chin resting upon the pillow beneath you. Struggled moans and whimpers left your lips like a never ending fountain. They were loud, but Kai, like in any other aspect of your relationship, overpowered them. Deep growls, grunts, and groans rumbled from his chest as he sped up. He finally pushed his thumb in its entirety into your pretty asshole.

His hand left your hip, and you could already feel the ache that took over in his place. He leaned forward, and rather groaned a handful of your hair. He growled as he pulled on it, yanking you up from pillows, the only comfort you found that evening. He didn’t let go once your back was firm against his chest. He held on tight as the back of your head hit his shoulder, receiving bruising kisses along your own. All the while, his thrusts were growing faster. His trusts were growing sloppy.

With a dropped jaw and wide eyes, you whimpered as Kai had his second orgasm of the evening. Pumping you full in a matter of minutes, leaving you with nothing, but only the subtle building of a coil in your tummy. He let go of your hair, and suddenly, your face crashed into the pillows once again. His cock left your achy cunt, and his thumb slipped out of the warm, plushy walls of your asshole. You could feel his cum dripping down your thighs as he spoke up, “flip around, baby girl.”

Once flat on your back, he tugged your pants and underwear completely off. You worked to take your shirt and bra off until you were both completely bare. His eyes devoured your body, pupils blown so wide you would have thought this is the first time he’s ever seen you naked. His cock was already hardening again, but you could tell his Godly stamina was running a bit thin. The tip was nearly purple, and the head had just a subtle bead of white decorating the top.

“You belong to me,” he stated, and no matter how much you wished for those words to be a lie, no matter how much you craved independence, freedom… you knew they were true, “say it, slut.”

The contrast between his caring ‘baby girl’ to the harshness of his ‘slut’ had your head spinning with whiplash. “I belong to you, divine ruler,” your voice was raw, fucked out, and even though your pussy was begging for release, you would’ve been content stopping there.

You were exhausted. As Kai inched closer, hovered above you, you could tell he was, too. Sweat decorated his forehead, causing the blue strands framing his face to curl just the slightest. His breath was hot as it hit your face, “tell me all of your holes belong to me.”

The wet, heavy tip of his dick rubbed against the rim of your asshole. You shuddered. “All of my holes belong to you, Kai,” you repeated, and every muscle in your body tensed as he prodded at the hole with the head of his cock.

“Don’t you fuckin’ forget it,” he murmured, and suddenly, his cock was disappearing from your bum. Rather, he quickly re-entered your cunt, leaving the hole sticky with precum. You couldn’t complain one bit, though, because his cock was buried deep against your cervix, and his thick bush of pubes was hitting your clit just right. You knew you wouldn’t last more than just a mere few thrusts. And he wouldn’t either.

Your hip fit snug in his hand, and his thumb pulled at the hood of your clit as he began to pound into your puffy cunt. You whimpered, now further exposed to his bushy pelvis as it hit your clit with each and every thrust. His other hand grasped your own, tangling your fingers together and pushing it down against the pillow beside your face. You squeezed, hard.

Your free hand was finding refuge on his shoulder, nails digging into the skin. He growled. There wasn’t a moment devoid of eye contact. His were nearly black while yours sparkled beneath him. Both held immeasurable lust, and maybe even a little love. His tip hit that plushy spot inside of you.

“Oh!” you moaned out, finally closing your eyes in hope to just relish in the pleasure.

Kai sped up his motions, attacking your g-spot over and over. “Look at me,” he commanded immediately, and your eyes fluttered open while your cunt wept around his cock.

It was all so hot. His breath as it wafted in your face, your own intermingling with it and steaming up the room. The coil in your lower tummy was burning, tightening and tightening with each thrust of his hips, each hit to your clit, each clench of your pussy. Sweat dewed on your skin, and the beads pearling on Kai’s forehead began to run down his temples.

He groaned, and you could feel his balls tighten just slightly. “Repeat it, baby girl,” he asked, an almost whine to his voice, though it was still gruff and raw.

The coil was close to snapping. Your clit was tensing up, your cunt was tightening — all you needed was a few more thrusts. “‘m yours, divine ruler!” you cried out as Kai rubbed the hood of your clit a few times. It was over; the coil snapped.

Your orgasm hit like one big wave. Your pussy fluttered around his dick, thighs trembled against the mattress. You moaned, too blinded by the climax to realize Kai was finishing off, too, pumping you full of his cum for the third time that night. You hadn’t even realized you closed your eyes once more.

When you opened them, you were met by the two hands, still interlocked with white knuckles and sweaty palms. You hummed, trembling still from the intense climax, as you moved to look at Kai, whose head was dipped between the both of you, blue waves dangling in front of your eyes. And suddenly, a droplet fell onto your tummy.

It was water, a tear to be exact, wept straight from the eye of the man on top of you. Before you could speak, or even move your hand to wipe anymore that threatened to spill over, Kai was pulling out. And it was only a moment where you caught a glimpse of those glazed eyes before he disappeared from the bedroom. He left you in a flash, the cum spilling over your folds still dewey and warm. You shivered.

Kai’s jealousy was a tricky little thing, but you had never ended an envious fuck like this. He loved you, he wanted you despite all the shit he’s put in motion to keep it from happening. You knew you had to talk to him about what just happened, but perhaps that was a chat to bring up in the morning. Instead, you pulled the covers over your shivering body, breathed in Kai’s scent that riddled the blankets, and thought about the one thing you knew for sure now:

He loved you.

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#evan peters #evan peters x reader #evan peters smut #kai anderson #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson smut #smut #ahs smut #ahs #ahs cult #ahs fanfiction #ahs fanfic #american horror story #american horror story smut

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bonefall · 4 months

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Clan Culture: Names and Titles

A guide to the meaning behind warrior names in Better Bones, including when a kit receives their first suffix, what happens in the case of a conflict, and honor and dishonor titles.

Edit 1: More added to FAQ!

Clan cats ferociously value their titles through life. It is a symbol of their honor, the proof of their rank, and a sign that they are a blessed warrior of their Clan.

Famously, a warrior name consists of a prefix, and a suffix. The prefix is given by their kin, and the suffix changes at least three times within their lives. The first, -kit, is given when a kitten sees their first full moon with opened eyes. The second, -paw, is given at their apprenticeship ceremony. The last is awarded after completing their Warrior Assessment, as written in Law 12 of the Warrior Code.

Once a Clan cat has a suffix, to leave it out of their name is ONLY done by family, else it is a sign of open disrespect for their rank. To respectfully shorten a Warrior's name, one sound from the prefix and one from the suffix are combined.

Squirrelflight = Squilf / Pishkafsheek = Pishee

Hallowflight = Hawf / Shahafniooaw = Shaw

In Clanmew, some names can get quite long! The full title only has to be used during sacred ceremonies, so that StarClan will gaze down upon the warrior using their name as a vector. Nicknames are common; a full name is a holy incantation.

(Though, this works both ways. Some enemy warriors make a point to use the full name when they cuss you out in battle, so StarClan can watch them beat you up. It's especially funny when they do this and then get their ass kicked.)

Below the cut;

Fading Kits; The Promised Name and the First Name.

Journey to the Moonplace; Conflicts and Leader Choices

Pride and Shame; Honor and Dishonor Titles

FAQ

Fading Kits; The First Name and Prefixes.

It is a part of life, for cat parents of all cultures, that they will have at least one kitten in a litter who does not live past their first month. It's so normal that it is not treated like a tragedy, it's as expected as afterbirth.

In Clan Culture, these are called "Fading Kits" or "Faders," and the same word is used for the 'twinkle' of a star. It is believed that Faders are StarClan Warriors who get "caught" during their delivery of the souls of the other kittens, and briefly fall to earth before fading away again.

They're thought to be family, in most cases! It would be very insulting to tell your grandfather that you don't recognize him, so, kittens are not "named" until it's clear they are not simply faders.

The first rank a Clan cat has is "kit." They are given this suffix, along with their official prefix, after they witness their first full moon with open eyes. It is believed that a Fader would not be able to gaze upon the moon without bursting into tears and dying on the spot, desperate to return to StarClan's hunting grounds. This title is called the "First Name."

(Jaykit was slightly delayed in receiving his First Name, as there was some debate that he could complete this ritual. The matter was settled by the Cleric, Leafpool, describing the moon to him in detailed prose to which the 3-week-old replied, "ok")

Prefixes are taken from just about anything that Clan cats are familiar with. Animals, colors, plants, so on. The reasons these names are picked can range from it being a good physical description, to having an abstract symbolic meaning, to being in honor of another cat.

While no word is "banned," there are names that carry social connotations. Thistles, wildfires, and honeysuckles have political implications. Cuckoo birds are referenced as an extreme insult. Cooked food used in a name would be considered extremely silly. Parents may be talked to if the names they pick are considered bad or 'not serious.'

If the First Name is ESPECIALLY bad, to the point of being abusive, the Clan might refuse to honor it. This is rare, and subjective based on the culture at the time.

Fading Kit: A kitten that dies without an obvious reason before its first moon. Extremely common and expected within a litter; not named.

First Name: The first prefix a Clan cat has, earned after witnessing their first full moon with opened eyes.

Journey to the Moonplace; Conflicts and Leader Choices

According to legend, the very first "True Names" were given to the five founders, after the First Battle. Upon each leader, their ancestors bestowed the fragment of a star, so that they too would be able to bless their warriors with holy titles of their own.

This is a sacred responsibility. A leader is expected to put immense thought and care into bestowing a name upon their warriors. Part of this process is checking with StarClan to ensure that there is no spirit with the exact same name. Full titles are holy, an incantation that means you. It's EXTREME disrespect, both to StarClan AND the warrior, to make them share the same title.

If a leader is about to see a conflict when they're being given their -star suffix, StarClan itself will give them a new prefix... but they will always honor a meaningful personal request.

Though they act as an extension of StarClan, every leader is unique in the sorts of names they give! For example, Mistystar likes to "theme" litters with matching or similar suffixes, Brokenstar would pick names that sounded threatening and cool, and Bluestar preferred 'straightforward' names.

To challenge the name that a warrior has been given is a challenge against the leader that named them. You're calling into question something that they have the sacred authority to do-- and possibly even saying that they don't have StarClan themselves on their side. It's a very serious thing to do in public.

According to Law 12 of the Warrior Code, all apprentices must do three things before they can be considered a warrior. The Assessment, The Pilgrimage, and The Vigil. These are called The First Tasks.

These are typically done in order. After passing the assessment, the apprentice goes on a trip with their leader to the Moonplace, which is the Moonstone in the Forest, and the Moonpool at the Lake. There, the leader communicates with StarClan to present the name they've chosen, and to make sure that no spirit shares it. When approved, they return to the Clan where the Warrior Name Ceremony is held and the vigil is sat.

A warrior's first vigil will last for 12 hours. Since Clan cats are crepuscular, the apprentice may choose if they want to sit for a Day Vigil, or a Night Vigil. They must stay quiet for this entire time, unless interrupted by an incoming threat.

(However, this is a value so strong it can permanently impact a young warrior. Stoneclaw sat vigil on the night of the WindClan Massacre, and watched ShadowClan warriors kill her sister, mother, and father. She found herself unable to speak ever again.)

True Name: The full title of an adult Clan cat.

The First Tasks: Three actions that an apprentice must complete before becoming a full warrior, as outlined in Law 12.

Pride and Shame; Honor and Dishonor Titles

A full name is a holy incantation, calling upon StarClan itself to turn its gaze upon the warrior it describes. When that name no longer properly encompasses who that warrior is, the leader might choose to change it.

For outstanding achievements, a cat can earn an Honor Title.

There's many ways to earn an Honor Title. An act of inspirational heroism (Hallowflight), a huge discovery or contribution to Clan life (Leafpool), or even surviving an extreme injury that should have been deadly (Honeysnake). It's also common for them to be given for distinctive scars and injuries (Shredtail, Crookedstar), which are a point of pride for Clan cats and their battle-oriented culture.

Because it's totally up to the discretion of the leader, there are certain times in history where they become common, and others where they're rare. Some leaders believe that the first warrior name should be simple to encourage the quest for an Honor Title, while others believe that they should be spontaneous and sacred rewards.

For a crime or a terrible sin, a cat can be branded with a Dishonor Title.

Like their counterpart, Dishonor Titles can be acquired in all sorts of ways. Usually, they're given for codebreaking behavior, so that the whole Clan will address them by their mistakes for a certain amount of time and see them as an example. Some cats will even specifically request that their leader gives them a Dishonor Title after a serious failure-- it is thought that while they live under the shameful title to repent, their true, "holy name" can hide away until their pride recovers enough to wear it again.

Dishonor Titles are not supposed to be permanent unless the crime was severe, such as Darkstripe's poisoning of Sorrelkit. Before being cast out of ThunderClan, Firestar renamed him Belladonnaheart for what he'd done-- it would have served the double purpose of calling StarClan to witness the exile, AND of warning other cats of WHY he'd been cast out.

(though, it was undercut immediately by Tigerstar, who renamed him as soon as he had the chance. Debate rages on if Tigerstar had the holy authority to do such a thing, and what the 'true name' of the spirit now is.)

But, Dishonor Titles can also be used in cruel ways. When Swiftpaw was killed by the dogs and it seemed like his cousin Brightpaw wouldn't survive, Bluestar furiously challenged StarClan by giving her the warrior name "Swifthound." They would take TWO swifts to the stars, or leave her alone to recover. This was a terrible thing to do, to turn her into a pawn in Bluestar's war with StarClan and force her to wear the guilt of the gruesome death of her cousin as a holy title.

TigerClan also used Dishonor Titles in a shocking and sickening way-- by changing Stormpaw and Featherpaw into Graypaw and Silverpaw, to remind them that their birth killed their codebreaking mother, and that their traitor of a father was not here to pay for his crimes, so they would instead. Mistyfoot and Stonefur were also forced to take the names Festerberry and Heartworm.

Honor Title: A reward given for outstanding achievements.

Dishonor Title: A punishment given for breaking the Warrior Code or committing a sin.

FAQ

Q: "On conflicts; if a cat earns an honor title or becomes leader, does their old name get 'freed up' for a new warrior?"

Yes! Conflicts only apply to the final name; though the names of famous cats will be avoided generally (Tigerstar, for example.)

Q: "When a spirit fades away, is their name freed up?"

Yep. StarClan won't protest if a spirit is fully faded or forgotten; but they still won't allow cats to share names with famous individuals. For example, Tigerstar had been double-killed by Firestar, but StarClan still renamed Tigerheart to Heartstar.

Q: "Are there any outright banned prefixes or suffixes?"

Nope. Just use in-universe judgement as mentioned above. Every leader is different, and cultural views of certain prefixes shifts over time.

Q: "If conflict names are so discouraged, how do they deal with conflicting kits and apprentices in StarClan?"

Young cats that reach StarClan are called "cherubs." They unlock a full title based on the cat they "should have become" in life, and choose the age they wish to appear as. Cherubs are very special spirits that I'll get into with more depth another time!

Q: "Do Fading Kits exist in StarClan? Do they take up a name slot?"

No. If they weren't just a "visiting" spirit, the soul is young and clean enough to get immediately re-used for another Clan cat. They're not named.

Q: "I have a question about Tigerstar's authority to change names!"

These are ambiguous cases even in-canon, and actively debated within Clans and between individuals. Tigerstar had a lot of lives from the Dark Forest after being outright rejected by StarClan, and many cats wanted to discredit his rule on top of that, leading to some fractures in how Tiger-Titles work supernaturally.

Stormfur's strongly-held personal beliefs lead to him still referring to Stonefur by his Dishonor Title. Most Clan cats believe that Darkstripe's true name is still Belladonnaheart, so using his old name doesn't properly summon him. The most important factor is if the cat in question believes they're correct.

Q: "Can Honor Titles and Dishonor Titles be revoked posthumously? Can true names change after death?"

Yes, but it's difficult and rare. Either the leader who set the name can do it, or there would need to be lakewide acceptance of such a thing through a ritual or the slow turn of memory through generations. This is more controlled by mortal cat perception than StarClan's will.

#Clan Culture #Warrior Names #Better bones au

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pedropascallme · 3 months

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Wreck and Resurrect

Pairing: Damien Haas x f!Reader

Summary: “It wasn’t that you went out of your way to be disobedient—it wasn’t as if you had to obey at all, point blank, period. You had your own life, your own responsibilities, and Damien was well aware of that; he would never try to hinder your ability to go about your day. But when he spoke like that, voice tinged with an edge of dominance as he put you in your place, even jokingly, and then when it got to the point where he acted on it...”

Content: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), p in v sex, sexting, brattamer!Damien, like full on dom!Damien, oral (m & f receiving), teasing, degradation, praise, choking, use of a belt where a belt does NOT need to be used, mild dacryphilia? If I missed anything please let me know!

AN: Hi! So this is definitely...porn. I re-read and edited and added and took away so much from this fic that at this point it feels like gibberish to me. But I hope you guys enjoy it!!

You woke up before Damien’s alarm. It went off the same time every morning, and you had started to anticipate it even in your sleep—a Pavlovian response to the consistency.

You liked the routine; the way you woke up to his face every day, the way he wiped the sleep from his eyes before rubbing his chin, silently debating whether or not he wanted to shave. And then he would turn over, check to see whether or not you were awake with him.

“I’m sorry,” he turned off the alarm on his phone and rolled back over to kiss you. “Go back to sleep.”

Today, you pulled him closer, keeping him flush against you and deepening the morning kiss he offered. “Don’t want you to go.”

“I’d be a little concerned if you did.” He smiled against your mouth, letting you embrace him. His skin was warm, heated by a night spent pressed against you under the comforter. “I gotta get up, baby.”

“No.” You tightened your arms around his midriff, and he laughed.

“C’mon, don’t be a brat,” his voice, still gravelly and laced with sleep, made the words go straight to your core; it was never too early to want him. “I have a short day. Then I’m all yours.”

“I’m not being a brat.” Your gaze met his, and you frowned. “How short?”

“Just a few hours,” he untangled himself from you, getting out of bed. You watched him stretch, blushing at how the muscles in his back flexed when he rolled his shoulders. “You think you can be good until I’m home?” He smiled, teasing, leaning over you and brushing strands of hair from your face. He tucked it behind your ear, then cupped your face in his hand and let his thumb trace your cheek bone.

You weren’t sure why you felt so needy for him this morning, but you leaned into his touch as soon as his palm made contact with your skin. “I’ll be good.” You grabbed his hand, kissing it, “I promise.”

His smile widened, bending down to kiss you again before turning away to get dressed.

~~~

Hours after Damien had left for work, you found the motivation to get out of bed—motivation that took the form of cats in absolutely dire need of attention—and tried to go about your day. You ran errands, did some work of your own, made a breakfast worthy of the Mythical Kitchen (on a good day); but, Christ almighty, were you bored. There was something missing, and it was making you antsy.

You hadn’t forgotten to do anything—everything on your checklist was in proper order, crossed out and completed. So why did it feel like you were neglecting something?

Damien’s words from earlier that morning echoed through your head.

“Don’t be a brat.”

Ah.

The final piece of the puzzle.

It wasn’t that you went out of your way to be disobedient—it wasn’t as if you had to obey at all, point blank, period. You had your own life, your own responsibilities, and Damien was well aware of that; he would never try to hinder your ability to go about your day. But when he spoke like that, voice tinged with an edge of dominance as he put you in your place, even jokingly, and then when it got to the point where he acted on it...

You loved that kind of attention. You knew exactly where pushing him in the right places would get you. And if Damien thought you were being a brat, then you’d capitalize off of that.

You picked up your phone and fired off a brief message to him.

💬How’s work?

While you waited for a reply, you stripped down from your daytime clothes, rummaging through his dresser to find suitable attire to enact your plan. Your phone dinged when you found the right shirt, as if on cue.

💬Lots of busy work. How has your day been?

It was like he was serving you the opportunity on a silver platter.

💬Pretty good. I miss you.

You stood in front of the full body mirror on the wall; Damien’s shirt hit the midpoint of your thighs, and you pulled it up ever so slightly to reveal the perfect amount of skin.

You took a picture and hit send.

💬Found your soft shirt that I like! Highlight of my day.

You watched intently as the bubbles of his forming message popped up on screen, then disappeared, then popped up again. You laughed silently.

💬Spencer almost saw that.

You smirked.

💬Ask him if he wants another look.

💬You are in so much fucking trouble.

You took another picture, this time leaning on the bed, legs spread just enough to give the camera a glimpse of the naked space between your thighs.

Send.

💬For what? I’m just showing you how pretty I look in your clothes.

For the second time, you watched him start typing, then stop, then start again.

💬Brat.

You smiled at the message.

~~~

You stayed like that for the next hour; lounging in bed in his shirt and waiting for him to get home. When you heard the lock on the door click, you shot out of bed.

Padding out of the bedroom and down the hall, you expected at least a kiss before the inevitable punishment that awaited you, but all you got was Damien’s cold gaze.

“Knees.”

You tried to wrap your arms around him, a lazy attempt to play dumb as to what it was that had made him so fierce. He let you hang off of him momentarily before pulling you off and gripping your jaw in one hand.

“I said get on your knees.”

You did as you were told.

“Fuck’s gotten into you today, princess?” He smiled down at you, but the kindness that was usually there had been replaced by something primal. “Thought you said you’d be good.”

“I was good.” You managed, shifting your weight, trying to give your knees some relief on the hardwood floor.

Damien laughed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You really think so?”

“I was good.” You reiterated, fully aware that you were still acting like a brat, but trying to see just how deep a hole you could dig yourself into.

That was half the fun.

“No, you weren’t,” he stated, “Tell me.”

You stared up at him, the ghost of a smile on your lips. You stayed quiet.

You watched Damien sigh, exhaling for as long as it took him to shuck off his coat and throw it onto an armchair behind him.

“You gonna keep playing like this?” He asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You couldn’t hide your smile any longer.

He undid his belt, folding it gently and holding it out for you. “Hold it.”

You took it, running your fingers over the leather. He undid his zipper.

“That’s fine. Keep playing.” He ran a hand through his hair before reaching down to remove his cock from the confines of his pants, “But you know what brats get.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a warning. You watched him fist his cock, and admired the way he seemed almost uninterested in his own movements despite the fact that you knew how much he was looking forward to this.

“Spit.” He commanded, and you let a strand of saliva fall on the tip of his cock; your lips parted, waiting for your cue. Damien pumped himself, aided by your spit, and after a moment tapped his cock to your lips. You set the belt down haphazardly on your lap while trying to stabilize yourself by putting a hand on his thigh.

“Did I say to put it down?” He tsked at you. You shook your head. “Use your fucking words. Did I tell you that you could put it down?”

“No.”

“So pick it up.” You did, growing achier by the second at the way you were positioned under him, but too excited to care.

“C’mon,” he refocused your attention, “Open wide.” You did, letting your tongue poke out over your bottom lip, and he pushed into you. You gagged when he hit the back of your throat, and when you made eye contact with him, he was smiling. “Didn’t think I was going to be nice after your little performance today, did you?” You tried to shake your head, but he wasn’t impressed. “Words.”

Your muffled response sent vibrations up his spine, and he stroked your hair. “That’s it. Gonna let me fuck your face? Let me use you like a slut since you wanna act like one?” Again, your words were muted around his cock, and Damien growled at the image of you on your knees with your lips wrapped around him.

He pulled you back by the hair, intent on staying still and watching you put in the work. He let you take a deep breath before he pushed you back down. Tears sprung from your eyes when you choked on him. You squeezed the belt in your hands tighter as he held you down.

“Are you crying, princess?” He cooed, keeping his cock pressed deep down your throat. “I thought this is what you wanted, baby. Didn’t you want attention?” He pulled you off of him and watched intently at the way you gasped for air, drool coating your lips and chin.

“Want—want you to fuck me.” You pleaded, voice hoarse from the strain his cock had put on your throat.

“Yeah?” He brushed a stray tear from your cheek, bending down momentarily and bringing his voice to a low whisper. “I don’t care what you want.” It sounded so sincere, and you couldn’t help but whine at the words as they left his mouth.

He straightened back up to his full height, and you opened your mouth without being asked this time.

“You wanna be a good girl for me now?” He all but laughed when he saw what you were doing. You nodded, and he let you lick a stripe up the underside of his cock before you took it back into your mouth. “Little late for that, don’t you think?” He smiled. “Belt,” he beckoned, and you handed it to him. He removed his hand from your hair, opting instead to keep you against his body with his belt by looping it behind your head and pulling with both hands. This time, he pushed you all the way down onto him. Your nose pressed against him, and you spluttered while he watched on.

“You can do it,” he moaned at the feeling of your mouth around the base of his cock, “Just a little longer baby, you can do it.” He reiterated. “Look at me—hey, look at me, princess. I’m counting down from ten.”

He started his countdown. Your face was wet with tears and spit, and you could feel your thighs growing sticky. You tried to shift your weight again, maybe offer yourself a little friction, a moment to appreciate how genuinely turned on you were by his actions, but the look he shot you as he reached six on the countdown made you stop dead, frozen under his gaze as you attempted to be good for him.

When he got to one, he dropped the belt, and you heard the buckle clang against the floor. He pulled you off of him, hand once again wrapping around your jaw as he leaned down, meeting you half-way to kiss you. It was heated, passionate, and you loved how his tongue flicked into you as if he was trying to taste himself on your lips.

“Knew you could do it.” You keened under his praise, raising your arms and wrapping them around his shoulders. He let you stay on him this time, and you thought maybe you had proven yourself to be the good girl you said you were. He lifted you up, carrying you to the bedroom.

When he put you down, you immediately started to undress; it didn’t take long, still only wearing his shirt, but once it was off you crawled across the mattress to him. You tugged at his clothes, trying to get him to strip along with you. Damien moved slowly, paying no mind to your whines as you grabbed at the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his boxers. He stretched out on the bed, and you moved to straddle him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked.

“Please, Damien—want you to fuck me.” You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, hoping that your saccharine display would convince him of the fact that you were ready to be good.

“Didn’t I already tell you that I don’t care what you want?” He whispered, lips mere millimeters away from your ear when he pushed his cheek against your head where it rested against him.

You whimpered against his skin. “But I was good.”

“Show me again,” he beckoned you from your hiding spot, “Show me again how good you can be.”

You whined, pouting. “How?”

“Just stay like that,” he guided you so that you were sitting up, “Make yourself cum like this. Can you do that for me?” His cadence was softer now, and he pushed hair from your face in a parallel to his actions that morning. You leaned into his touch now as you had then, planting your hands on his chest.

“But I want you to fuck me." You pleaded in vain.

“Brats don’t get what they want,” Damien’s tone turned harsh again. He moved his hands up the length of your legs and stopped to grip your waist, “Brats get what they deserve.”

The angle was odd, and you struggled to find a pacing that suited your needs. Damien watched you squirm above him, the faintest smirk on his lips; his hands stayed on your hips but didn’t offer any assistance. He wanted to watch, nothing more.

You bent yourself forward, still supporting yourself with your hands on his chest, and rolled your hips over him. You could feel him under you, hard and warm, and it did nothing to ease the heat in your lower stomach. You continued grinding down onto him, trying to find the delicious friction you sought; the tip of his cock pressed against your clit when you bucked your hips, and you let out a quiet moan.

“There you go,” Damien murmured. He had moved one arm under his head, propping himself up to get a better view. You grabbed at his bicep, squeezing softly, trying to get as much of him as you could. “You gonna make yourself cum for me?”

“Can’t,” you whined, still sweeping your hips over him, now with more fervor, trying to find the position that would give your clit the pressure it needed to let you reach your high. “Please, Damien, let me cum on your cock.”

He tilted his head back, “Isn’t that what I’m letting you do now?”

“Inside.” You were begging.

“No.” He squeezed your hip with the hand still situated there. He seemed to relent slightly, beginning to guide you. “Cum like this.”

You felt like crying; pent up and desperate and not at all able to make yourself feel even half as good as he would be able to. You let him pull you back and forth, the sounds of your slick coating his cock creating an absolutely obscene backing score to your actions. You felt the pressure in your stomach rise when he bucked his hips into you, pulling you forward to let your clit rest directly on him while you moved, directed by his hand.

Your breath hitched, and Damien, clearly getting impatient and fueled by his own want to fuck you, repeated the motion. Something inside you snapped, and you were cumming; your nails left small crescent imprints on his skin, clawing lightly at his arm and chest. You cried out, and he pulled you against him, letting you calm your breathing while you lay on his chest.

“You ready to be good now?” He nosed the crown of your head.

“Mhm,” your sounds were somewhere between confident and moaned. “Gonna be good.”

“What do you say?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me cum—thank you for letting me cum.”

“You’re welcome, princess.” He kissed your forehead, and once he was certain you were ready, he flipped you off of him. He sat up, coaxing you onto your stomach before getting up to kneel behind you. You had never been happier to be on your hands and knees, the promise of what was to come made you dizzy with lust.

He positioned himself low on the mattress, and before you had the chance to ask what he was doing, you felt him lick a stripe up your cunt.

"Oh—" You shivered, bending yourself down further on your hands to give him complete access to you. Damien said nothing, continuing to lick slow circles around your hole. He spit, watching it trail over you and down to your clit where it fell off your skin in drops. You tried to reach back for him, to pull on his hair and encourage him to do more.

But then he was straightening up, situating himself on his knees and sliding his cock through your folds.

“What did we learn today?” His teasing words paired deliciously with the way his cock pressed against your entrance.

“Don’t be a brat.” Your words were muffled by the pillow you pressed your face against.

“That’s right,” he swiped his cock through your folds, gathering your slick, and you moaned softly. “You going to say sorry?”

You made a noise that sounded halfhearted. He pulled you back by your hair, forcing your back to arch, your face centimeters from his own. You giggled, still mildly hell-bent on seeing just how much trouble you could cause. He swatted at your thigh to get your attention back.

“Try again. Apologize.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry for being a brat—I’m so sorry, Damien, I’m sorry for being bad, I promise I’ll be so good for you, please.” Your words were rushed, eager to please him and get what you had been craving all day.

“Good,” he released your hair from his vice grip and let you reposition yourself properly in front of him. “One more time,” the tip of his cock nudged your entrance, so close to penetrating you but still not enough, “Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” You whimpered, and you had hardly finished your sentence before he rammed into you; there was no time wasted on getting you used to the way he had you speared, none spent on familiarizing your cunt with the stretch of his cock—he was as desperate as you were, and entirely unforgiving.

“God, fuck. Yeah, take it all like that,” his mouth hung open as he watched your cunt swallow him. You made absolutely pathetic noises, squirming against him, wiggling your hips around the intrusion of his cock.

“Fucking wet,” he groaned, hands once again finding purchase on your waist and pulling you against him with every thrust. “Does it turn you on, baby? Does acting like a slut make you wet for me? Letting me fuck your face and use you? Is that what got you wet like this?”

All you could manage was a hoarse cry, a garbled moan of affirmation. You heard him laughing behind you before he cut himself off with a moan, seated deep inside of you. Your cunt pulsed around him.

“Fuck—I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you moaned, the drag of his cock against your walls made your eyes roll back into your head.

“I know, baby, I know you’re so sorry,” he whispered, hands combing through your hair lovingly while he ravaged you, “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” You smiled, pressing your face further into the pillow to muffle your sounds. “Yours, I’m yours—your good girl.”

“Yes, you are,” he sped up his thrusts, and you couldn’t help the scream you let out into the pillow. He leaned forward, pulling it from you and throwing it to the side. “Let me hear your pretty sounds, princess—let me hear my good girl’s pretty sounds.”

You were certain that whatever complaint you might receive from the neighbors would be worth it; all you could do was cry out for Damien, telling him how good he felt, how you’d be nothing but obedient from now on, and he punctuated every one of your wails with a sharp snap of his hips. Your walls fluttered around him, and he took the opportunity to bask in you; he pushed himself deeper, tip of his cock kissing your cervix while you moaned quiet praises of the feeling.

“Feels so good,” you squeaked, and he bent down to kiss the back of your head. One hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing gently.

“Are you gonna be a good girl and cum on my cock like you were begging to?” He whispered, cock pushed as far inside of you as your cunt would allow.

“Yeah—please, yes!” You pushed your ass back against him, daring him to fuck you deeper, and he obliged; you felt drunk off his cock, the way he forced the air from your lungs with every thrust and how at a certain point you could remember nothing but his name and how deeply you loved and trusted him.

Damien reveled in your calls for him, the noises you made sent vibrations through his fingertips from where they rested on your throat.

He wrapped his free arm around your midriff, fingers finding your clit and rubbing circles in small bursts that synced with the motion of his hips. You squeezed your eyes shut, chanting his name like a prayer—over and over and over again.

“Such a good fucking girl,” he whispered down at you, and you were an absolute goner by the time the praise hit your ears; you felt your thighs shaking first, followed by the tightening in your stomach that, when it snapped and relaxed, spread pure, unadulterated pleasure through your body. Your moans of his name reached a crescendo and you collapsed under him, sore and tired and satisfied. You continued to murmur helplessly as he thrust into you, and when he came with a growl of your name and a string of curses, you felt a warm sensation in your lower stomach. You sighed happily at nothing in particular.

Damien immediately crowded you on the mattress, sweaty bodies intertwining, his arms wrapped around you in a desirous hug.

“You did so good, baby, you did such a good job for me.” He kissed whatever skin he could reach, peppering your cheek and shoulder with soft kisses. “My good girl, my perfect girl.”

You hummed into him, hand creeping up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I did good?” You asked for further validation, hazy from the pleasure.

“So fucking good,” he pulled you closer to him. “Do you feel good? Was that too much?”

You shook your head, smiling at the way he checked in on you; his prioritization of your comfort never ceased to make your heart feel full. “Just what I wanted.” You reassured him.

“Me too,” he sighed, tracing shapes on your back. The room went quiet, and your breathing fell in sync with his. “Do you wanna clean up?” He nudged you finally, "I can get you a towel—or, or run the shower?"

“Not yet,” you had closed your eyes, content to rest on him, “Comfy.”

He smiled at you, kissing your forehead, and leaning back. “Y'know...I do like that shirt on you.” He mused.

“Yeah?” You perked up, suddenly wide awake again.

“Yeah,” he ran a hand through his hair, “I mean—I like everything on you—and off you—but I especially enjoy seeing you in my clothes.”

You laughed quietly, “I’ll keep that in mind next time I decide to act out.”

He grasped your face with both hands, covering your face with kisses and laughing, “Was that the lesson you learned today?”

“Learned not to be bratty,” you laughed at the way his stubble tickled your neck when he dipped down to kiss your pulse points, “Learned that when I am bratty you still give me what I want.”

He rolled his eyes playfully, letting go of your face and wrapping his arms around your waist again. “You got me all figured out, huh?”

“I think so,” you sighed dreamily, nuzzling your face against his chest, “Y’big softy.”

#damien haas #damien haas fanfiction #damien haas smut #damien haas x reader #damien haas x you #smosh #smosh fanfiction #smosh fic #smosh smut #smosh games #smosh pit #smosh squad #smoshblr

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sergeifyodorov · 1 year

Note

would you actually be willing to give like a pretty long rundown of those main guys from the 2015 draft class?? because i would be Very interested

Of course! I wrote this in a Google doc so I could get it all down. It's a LOT btw -- this is the abridged version, leaving out what are probably important details, and it's still [checks] 11k words long. Sorry about that.

Anyone who tells you that the draft is a science is an idiot not worth their twenty-dollar stadium beer. The draft has analytical elements, sure, but it is a crapshoot through and through. If you dare to take a look back on draft histories from the past ten years -- the past twenty, the past thirty -- only rarely is the first pick, the “best in show,” actually the best of his class. I mean, no wonder, right? How well can you determine how good a man is going to be at hockey when you have only seen him as a teenager? Accuracy and prophecy are not kin.

Every ten years, though, you come across someone whose trajectory is easy to map. A prospect who is so head and shoulders above everyone else -- in numbers, in the eye test -- that you cannot help but say that they are going to be The Next One. God save the poor boy you put that name on.

In this case, it is 2014, and they are speaking those words again. On the dingy ice of an OHL arena, a red-haired Toronto boy with scared fawn’s eyes paces around the circles, faster than anyone else in the building. There are articles written about him already, calling his experience the torture test and labelling him Jesus, the saviour, the new great. It will get worse for him from here.

A Generational Prospect

It is 2004, and all eyes are on Sidney Crosby. He has eclipsed QMJHL scoring records. He performs highlight-reel antics. It is known that he will make the NHL as a teenager, and that whichever team has him will have an asset they should not ever think to relinquish.

Now, in 2023, all expectations of him are blown away. He is fifteenth on the all-time scoring list, having played most of his life in the dead-puck era, and will be inside the top ten by the time he retires. He has never been below a point per game, having gotten to a hundred points as an eighteen-year-old rookie and only slowed down to ninety at thirty-five. He has won three Cups; two Harts; two each Art Ross and Rocket Richard.

Something similar can be said for his contemporary, one Alex Ovechkin, sixteenth in all-time scoring, second ever in goals. While neither were always the most singular, dominant player of the past eighteen years (has it really been that long?) their longevity and consistent high-level play have cemented them into that tier of all-time greats.

Such players only emerge once (or, for them, twice) in a generation; a “generational talent.” Gordie Howe was the first, before drafting happened at all, then Gretzky, joined as a part of the WHA merger, then Lemieux, then, debatably, Jagr through the early half of the dead-puck era, then Crosby and Ovechkin. Jagr was drafted fifth overall partly due to political constraints (it was 1990, and Czechia was behind the Iron Curtain), but all of the other drafted ones went first. While development curves for everyone else are hard to map, it is easy to tell, for them, how good they are as youths. We all call Gretzky the “Great One,” but he actually got that nickname before he was a teenager, because of how much better than the rest of his peers he was.

This is how we go up to the 2015 draft. Let’s say that it is September 2014, a full hockey season before the draft, so we can set the scene. Go back to the dingy Erie rink, watch the red-haired boy speed around the ice.

This is Connor McDavid. He was born in January just outside Toronto; if you are unfamiliar with the term “GTA,” I will pause now to tell you that it means Greater Toronto Area, and that it is the nexus of all hockey in the world. He is a Leafs fan, as so many of the GTA hockey-playing hopefuls are.

Connor is an unusual child, even by young hockey prospect standards. Entry to any of the CHL major junior leagues -- the OHL, the WHL, the QMJHL -- starts at sixteen, but select few can apply early, and if they are academically, physically, and emotionally deemed adept they can be accepted for exceptional status and join at fifteen. This happens once every two or three years nowadays; Tavares and Ekblad were the only ones to predate McDavid. As well as being deemed exceptional by the board of the CHL, he is exceptional among peers, too: intelligent and analytical, black-and-white, painfully shy. He works hard in school, desperate to avoid coming off as a “dumb jock.” Media interviewers ask for him, but they have to change the settings on their microphones in order to pick up his voice, it is so soft.

He has already won trophies; scholastic achievement, sportsmanlike behaviour, CHL rookie of the year. He will score at least one point in all but one of the first eighteen games of the 2014-15 OHL season, before breaking his hand in a fight (getting himself a Gordie Howe hatty, being that he already has a goal and an assist). He will score a hundred points in thirty-eight games, and a hundred and twenty points in the forty-seven games he will play.

Understandably, his name is penned in at number one on the draft board. Even such deficits as breaking a hand and being out for six weeks don’t tank his stock, it is so obvious how well on track he is to outpace all but the best.

He is sweet and shy, a captain of Erie based mostly on skill, and tight-laced into the destiny of future franchise saviour.

At least he has a friend, though, right?

Dylan

The 2014-15 Erie Otters are a good team. A great one, even -- third in league standings by season’s end, and you don’t get that far if your single generational superstar is sidelined half the year with a hand injury.

This is where Dylan comes in. Like Connor, he’s a GTA boy, and a young Leafs fan. Unlike Connor, he’s part of a serious hockey family -- the middle child of three. His older brother Ryan has already been drafted, in the first round, no less. He’s a real student of the game, too, a stats obsessive and a calm, steadfast personality.

Remember how we said the draft is a crapshoot? That’s very true. Prospects may have precise rankings when all is said and done, but in the meantime I find it best thinking of them as instead arranging into tiers -- there’s the generational talent in this year, but disregarding him we have a first overall-level, then a small handful of top prospects. Not saviours in their entirety, but certain to make a team very happy. Dylan projects as the latter group -- he’ll be somewhere between three and five. In 2014-15, he’s the OHL scoring leader, and takes the Erie Otters’ single-season record.

He and Connor are also best friends. Connor’s quiet, anxious even, but Dylan has a coolheaded sort of confidence that brings out the best in him. Rarely are they pictured without each other; rarely are they spoken to without mentioning the other. There’s a sweet little video out there of the Otters going to New York state and going on this little ziplining/outdoor climbing gym, and Connor and Dylan are about as glued to each other’s sides as you can be while obeying the harness safety rules. In hockey terms, while a little young for it, they’re married. Much like Crosby and Malkin are, although over a much shorter term, and publically the two Otters are much closer.

Dylan is the one I feel as if I can talk the least about. He is mostly defined by what he is not: not Connor, to start, and before the actual draft takes place that is the most of it.

Of course, that’s the most of what any of it is, isn’t it? These are teenagers, separated into imprecise tiers and mostly defined by which tier they slot into. The three boys below Connor, no matter how good they are, are defined by being not Connor.

Jack Eichel most of all.

Jack, to start, is American, unlike any of the other three. He’s a late birthday -- born in November of 1996 instead of the first eight and a half months of 1997 -- so he’s, in theory, had another year to adapt. (Brief footnote: the September 15 cutoff is what determines draft eligibility, either the year you turn eighteen or the year you turn nineteen. If you were born in, say, June of 2000, you would be eligible for the draft in 2018. If you had the audacity to be born in October of 2000 instead, you’d have to wait until 2019.) His development pipeline is also unlike the others, having come up into the NCAA, college hockey, and playing at the US National Development team before committing to Boston University. He won the Hobey Baker award as a freshman, and led the NCAA in scoring as a rookie.

He was marketed, coming into the draft, as the American Connor -- the new face of American hockey, a homegrown star, a fellow generational talent, although that was a feeble marketing strategy to dull the disappointment of going second to greatness. He was proud and polite, quiet but not scared, a young man uncomfortably aware of his own myth and rather irritated at the fact he had a myth in the first place. Taken in and treated well, he would probably have a well-suited disposition to a high-stress, playoff-bound team.

It’s unfortunate that that wouldn’t realize until eight years after he was drafted.

The Draft Itself, or, What Caused All These Problems In The First Place

The draft lottery rolls around. The lottery and the draft take place on different days -- the lottery several weeks before, so that for a long time the boys have an idea of to whom they will go. The first four teams to pick are, in order:

Edmonton. Edmonton had been very bad, for a very long time, and had three shiny prizes already to show for it: Taylor Hall, drafted first overall in 2010; Nail Yakupov, drafted first overall in 2012; and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, drafted first overall in 2013. I’m sure you already know this, but Edmonton was Gretzky’s team, while Gretzky won all his cups, and they now stand to get themselves another generational talent in Connor McDavid.

Buffalo. The Sabres have a few decent pieces: Ryan O’Reilly, Sam Reinhart. They haven’t made the playoffs in a few years, and have plummeted to the bottom of the standings, finishing thirtieth out of thirty.

Arizona. Arizona has never gotten off the ground, not once. They are a dust mote of a franchise, held in place by Gary Bettman’s fragile ego and the skimmings of Original Six markets. Their survival, as doomed as we know it is, is banking on a distant hope of good prospect luck and better PDO.

Toronto. While Arizona is the smallest of small markets, Toronto is… well, it’s Toronto. Remember earlier, how I said that the GTA is the nexus of hockey? Toronto is called the Centre of the Universe, and for good goddamn reason. The Leafs are one of the most storied franchises in the NHL, and simultaneously one of the winningest (the second-most Stanley Cups, after Montreal) and the losingest (their most recent Cup was almost sixty years ago.) Their fanbase dwarfs all but the most hardcore of French Canadian separatist contingents. There’s a common phrase now, when any hockey news is mentioned -- but how does this affect the Leafs? It’s well-done satire.

And with four teams, we have four boys. So I come upon the last one now: Mitch Marner. Mitch, like Dylan and Connor, is a GTA boy, a born and raised Leafs fan on an OHL team. He plays for the London Knights -- a diminutive forward (he weighs in at 160 pounds soaking wet at eighteen, and eight years later barely cracks 180) with fantastic playmaking skills, the creativity and gall to do things other players have never even thought of. He’s a sweet one, too, bubbly and energetic and cuddly and kind.

Here is how the draft goes:

The Oilers take the stage first, for the fourth time in six years. The ceremony is unnecessary. Connor McDavid is the name everyone knows they will say. Connor walks up to the stage, looking vaguely nauseous, and dons the jersey and the hat. (His facial expression in the interviews afterward is thoroughly dissected over the next eight years. Some say it’s simple stage fright; others say it’s personal distaste for the Oilers -- remember, Toronto boy, Toronto heart. I choose to believe it’s the first one. Not all of us are John Tavares.)

After a first-round prospect is chosen, they bring him down for an interview, then shuffle him off to some arena underbelly for photos upon photos. Connor performs his niceties, but before he is taken back, he asks to stay. He wants to watch Dylan get drafted.

The Buffalo Sabres come second, and pick Jack Eichel. Eichel is asked, throughout, how he feels about Connor, being behind Connor, coming second to Connor. The narrative being pushed is called McEichel -- the Canadian wunderkind versus the American one -- and he wants no part in it. He’s impressed by Connor’s play, in their few brief meetings he thinks of him as nice enough, he wants to carve out his own path.

This refusal to play along may have been the start of the discontent, in hindsight. The media clearly wasn’t going to get anything out of soft-voiced scared-eyed perfect Canadian boy Connor, but Jack, sharper edges and colder heart, might be good for a soundbite or two about this new league-made rivalry. Jack, though, ever aware, puts himself solidly into Generic Hockey Interview voice and backs off.

The Coyotes come third. Here is where a choice occurs, the first genuine decision. Connor McDavid had been slotted into first pick since the day he got accepted for exceptional status. Eichel had taken a few years more, but his place in second after Connor was well known for months on end. Dylan and Mitch, however, were up in the air. Do you pick the big one with more points, or the small one with star power?

The Coyotes follow the conventional hockey wisdom, and take the big boy. Connor waits to watch his friend take the jersey, then hugs him in the wings.

Finally, the Leafs.

Let’s actually take a step back to talk about the Leafs rebuild, for a second, because it, like everything the Leafs have ever done, is a testament to failure. Also, somewhat, because it is relevant. Also, moreso, because I can’t shut up about hockey and you’ve asked me to talk as long as I like. If you’re still reading, I want you to know that a) I am ever thankful for your time and b) we’re, like, just getting started here.

The Leafs’ last contending era was before the 04-05 lockout season, which means it predates the salary cap. They struggled in the midsection, for a long time, then finally fell enough to gain the fifth overall pick in 2008, with which they selected a big tough young defenceman named Luke Schenn, the first official piece of the Leafs’ rebuild, strange as it may be. Luke, while competent enough, was obviously not the sort of franchise-changing star the Leafs needed, and they struggled in the midsection again, before gaining, once more, the fifth overall pick, with which they selected Schenn’s partner, one Morgan Rielly. The two would be perfect partners, but we won’t know this for eleven years. Luke was traded twelve hours after Rielly’s draft.

Rielly is still in the AHL the next year, 2013, when the Leafs make the playoffs. This is the infamous 4-1 series: the Leafs go down 3-1 in the series, claw their way back up to game seven. They gain a 4-1 lead, going into the third period, and then blow it completely and lose the game, and the series, in overtime. They do not make the playoffs in 2013-14, and before the 2014-15 season begins they change management. The man they install as President decides to tank, and tank hard, selling as much of the Leafs as he can in the hopes of landing that elusive first pick.

They end up with fourth overall, and Mike Babcock, the Leafs’ head coach, does not want Mitch Marner, instead asking the then-management for the bigger defenceman, a boy named Hanifin who will go fifth to the Hurricanes. The Leafs take Marner anyway. Watch him as his name is called. He, like the first three, sits in a nest of other prospects and their families -- Mitch actually sits right behind Jack Eichel -- but unlike them, when his name is called the other prospects lean over to offer him congratulations, as well as his parents and brother. Mat Barzal, from across the aisle, offers a bro-hug as Mitch goes by.

The rest of the draft goes as usual. The 2015 draft, beyond narratively, is one of the deepest drafts in recent memory; players you may recognize include Timo Meier, Mikko Rantanen, Travis Konecny, Sebastian Aho (the Carolina one!), Roope Hintz, Kirill Kaprizov, Troy Terry… the list goes on. These players have their own stories, but few really tie in to this one. (So far.)

Summer passes; we move on. Training camp rolls around.

Connor McDavid, as expected, makes the team. He moves in with Taylor Hall, a fellow first overall. Jack Eichel also makes the team.

Dylan and Mitch do not. Dylan’s reasons are unknown to me, but Mitch is sent down because, again, Babcock does not want him. He’s naturally undersized and does not have a frame that builds muscle; Babcock is not under the impression that young men in Mitch’s image make good hockey players. Both Mitch and Dylan are returned to the OHL.

The stage is set now; each boy has a team. Eight years on, only half of them are on those teams. But we can’t worry about that yet! We have to make it to the NHL first!

World Juniors and the Memorial Cup

Once Connor makes the Oilers, Dylan Strome is named captain of the Erie Otters. Very cool, to only get what you deserve after the golden boy is gone.

Jack and Connor are off playing with the big boys. They’ll get their own section later -- we have to work our way up, not up and down and up and down. I’ve got to be somewhat cohesive, you know? So, we’ll stay, for now, in the world of junior hockey.

The Otters and the London Knights, Mitch’s team, are in the wonderful circumstance of not only both being very good at the same time, but also being in the same division as one another. This means they see each other quite often (no plane travel in the OHL. Bus only.) and have thus formed… a bit of a rivalry. It is becoming difficult to dance around: Dylan Strome, despite the politeness they’ve shown each other at the draft, hates Mitch Marner.

And why wouldn’t you? He’s the one Dylan fought with all last season for the OHL scoring title; he’s fast on his feet and can shoot from impossible angles; he makes plays you’ve never even considered, much less considered possible. He dangles through the Otters and scores the easiest impossible goal you’ve ever seen and laughs as light as air about the whole thing. And he’s tiny. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Marner drew a lot of comparisons to Patrick Kane in his junior days -- thankfully without the character in common, but as a hockey player. An undersized (almost comically so) London winger with otherworldly ability to manifest scoring chances out of nothing. The exact sort of irritating worm that not one of us wants on the other team.

So, of course, they get put on the same team.

The 2016 World Juniors are summoned. Connor McDavid, then dealing with a broken collarbone and a great deal of pressure, is not on Team Canada’s roster. Dylan Strome and Mitch Marner both are. Suddenly and thankfully, the media’s focus shifts from one, false rivalry in McEichel to a very very real one.

I don’t want to dismiss what happens next as a mere symptom of the fact that hockey players are engineered to get along with their teammates, even if they don’t like each other. Admittedly, it does start that way -- Mitch is a winger and Dylan a centre, and both skilled, so the coach puts them on the same line. Simple enough. And then they spark up a friendship.

Dylan’s reasons for hating Mitch were not personal, just hockey-related. Dylan hated Mitch because he was good and he knew it, the simple way a teenager hates their direct competitor. On the same team, though, the competition aspect is removed, and the barrier for hatred is gone. This is the Dylan/Mitch enemies to lovers arc, if you want to put it that way.

Mitch, for the record, I doubt ever hated Dylan. He doesn’t have that in him, never had. He saw a rival, sure, and as soon as that rival wore a matching jersey I assume he taped the word friend over whatever defined their relationship before. Mitch is probably one of the most gregarious, friendly, charming hockey players out there. Beyond his cute little face and on-ice highlights, even. He’s loud, sure, but when he talks he knows how to include you. He finds out what you like and talks about it, he singles you out if you’re shy and builds up your confidence. He’s just plain nice.

Dylan, like the rest of us, was charmed. Within weeks he went from calling Mitch annoying to telling us all about how he loves cuddling (!?) with him. They became fast friends and great linemates.

Dylan’s not the only one Mitch Marner befriends at Worlds, though. Somewhere between matches, Mitch takes an elevator at the complex they’re staying at, and ends up sharing it with a boy from the American team, a tall square-jawed Mexican centre with a Justin Bieber obsession. This is Auston Matthews, one of the projected top picks of the 2016 draft -- born just two days after the cutoff that would have made him eligible to go in 2015. He played with Jack Eichel at the USNTDP, before taking his age-eighteen year to go play pro in Switzerland. He holds the NTDP scoring record as a seventeen-year-old, and will continue to hold it until Jack Hughes breaks onto the scene. The two boys in the elevator do not yet know it, but they are about to share the mantle of franchise saviour, for the franchise most desperately in need of saving.

Either way. The Canadians place sixth at World Juniors, the Americans do better, the Finns win the whole thing. (In the long run, Laine turns out not to be better than Matthews after all.) Mitch and Dylan go back to their OHL teams.

Erie and London tie in points that year, but London wins the OHL title and goes to Alberta for the Memorial Cup, the CHL trophy. Mitch Marner takes home the scoring title, the Stafford Smythe (CHL equivalent of the Conn Smythe), and the Memorial Cup itself. He is one of the most decorated winners in OHL history, touted as being clutch, creating magic, and racking up points. He has close friends in Dylan Strome and fellow Knight Matthew Tkachuk, who will be selected sixth overall in the 2016 draft, the second American after Auston Matthews himself. And when NHL training camp rolls around in the fall, even Babcock cannot deny he is ready, no matter how slight he may still be.

Connor Complex

There’s nothing that fuels story like a good rivalry, and the NHL was obsessed with marketing this rivalry. The Canadian versus the American. The perfect child of a long line of red-blooded southern Ontario tradition versus the Boston boy with a chip on his shoulder. Jack and Connor, Connor and Jack. They hyped Jack up the time leading up to the draft, trying to hint that he was almost as good -- no, just as good -- as McDavid himself.

He was not, and everyone knew.

The 2014-15 Sabres, then the worst team in the NHL and having done an elite job at tanking (they are one of the worst teams in the analytics era, besides the 2022-23 Anaheim Ducks -- I wonder what prize might be waiting at that number one spot? Surely not someone named Connor.) wanted McDavid. The Pegulas, the owners of the Sabres, tried to hide their disappointment in him as pride. They had an all-American star, they said, someone who had grown up not too far from Buffalo himself, and in the same country, no less. He would be the sort of man to lead them into a new golden age, away from the misery of the tank years.

And yet the narrative persisted. McEichel, they whispered. Look at how good Connor McDavid is, and look at how much Eichel is not him. McDavid, they say, McDavid McDavid McDavid. No article could be written about Jack without mentioning how he came second to Connor.

The Sabres tried to quell the whispers. Look at our boy, they say. They signed Eichel to an eight-year, ten million dollar contract, and in the beginning of the 2018-19 season they named him captain. Isn’t our boy great.

The team does not improve. The Sabres hadn’t made the playoffs for three years when they drafted Eichel; they still haven’t made the playoffs today. I wasn’t around to look, but the team was bad. Eichel did his best, but he was young and inexperienced and did not -- never did -- have captain’s blood in him; Ryan O’Reilly lost his love for the game.

The whispers of character issues start to come out. Jack Eichel is a “locker room cancer;” he’s selfish, stuck-up, quick-tempered. He’s caught in a cage where the only key is to be Connor, something which he never wanted to achieve in the first place, and never could have even if he did want it. The whole narrative was completely fabricated. He liked Connor well enough when they met.

I do imagine he has feelings about it, though, and feelings about Connor now. He didn’t know him, not enough to have an opinion on the boy, but the name followed him around long enough for him to think about it. Imagine it. You’re good in your field, great, even. You’re doing well enough to earn yourself a superstar contract, you’re an All-Star, and yet the only way you will get any recognition at all is when they say that you are worse than one of the greatest players ever to play the game. They lock you into a connection that you have never wanted, barring you from forging your own path. You exist permanently in that orange-and-blue shadow. I don’t blame Jack for being angry. I would be too.

Babcock

Auston Matthews was incredible from the jump. He was big, he was strong, his wrister is the stuff of legend. He won the Calder in his and Mitch’s rookie year, by a not insignificant margin, well ahead of Laine. He was a coach’s dream doll, unusual enough to be marketed and good enough to be useful. Unavoidably masculine even at nineteen.

Mitch less so. Mitch is still small, remember, and struggles to gain weight. I know I talk about his size a lot, but it’s genuinely important. Hockey and its fan culture has long been a group that prioritized size and raw power above all things. Mitch possessed neither of those things, and when he struggled with gaining muscle it was seen as an unwillingness to try. If you know anything about the ability of our bodies to gain or lose weight, you know that it is simply a genetic roll of the dice, a scale that puts a little bit of us into the “gains muscle mass easily” category and decides when to stop. Most hockey players actually aren’t very far up the muscle-gaining spectrum, especially when compared to American football or baseball players -- mass is strength, yes, but it’s also more to move around on ice -- but Mitch is especially low on the scale. Because of this, he is seen as unmanly, a dangerous thing to be.

The Leafs media market is a nightmare, and always has been. Because this is the Centre of the Universe, there are more eyes on the Leafs than on any other team. More eyes mean more writers, means you have to say weirder and wilder things to beg for clicks. Outrage is a good marketing tactic. Getting mad about one of the prize prospects seemingly not wanting to bulk up for the good of the team is a very easy thing to do.

What’s more, Mitch, after his entry-level contract had expired, had had a very difficult and long-drawn out contract negotiation, asking for a lot of money -- essentially the maximum that the Leafs could afford at the time. Because of the salary cap constraint, this was seen as kind of selfish. The angry clicks move. Mitch is sensitive, they say. Soft, selfish, weak.

It’s easy enough to dismiss out of hand when your uncle from Belleville does it, because what does he know. It��s different when it’s the head coach of the Leafs. Mike Babcock, is, at the time of hiring, the highest-paid coach in the NHL. He was signed before the 2015-16 season, and at that point had an eight-year contract, which would have carried him up until this year.

Mike Babcock sucked. Structurally, his teams were fine -- the Leafs made the playoffs in 2016-17, and haven’t missed it since, but he was awful, horribly mean to the boys under him, and especially, especially Mitch.

We should skip ahead a little bit. It’s the beginning of the 2019-20 season. The Leafs have made the playoffs three times already, and lost in the first round each time -- but this, too, is not yet a phrase that strikes worry into our hearts. They’re young, and they have plenty of time left.

Respected veteran Jason Spezza came home to the Leafs, having spent his career -- a player who might squeak the Hall of Fame, but is more likely just below its level -- in first Ottawa, where he was the captain of the Senators briefly and one of its most well-loved players, and then Dallas. Like the boys I talk about here, Jason Spezza is a former OHL player, a GTA boy, a Leafs fan. The Leafs’ season opener is against Ottawa, the team where Jason Spezza left most of his mark. There used to be a promotion with the Senators -- a local branch of some pizza chain would offer a free slice if the Sens scored more than five goals in a game. Spezza (and his linemates, Heatley and Alfredsson) were so good, they named his line the Pizza line. Mike Babcock makes Jason Spezza a healthy scratch on that day.

This is seen as disrespectful, but no more than a coach living up to his hardass reputation. You do what the coach tells you, don’t you? Lest you become a whiner, or worse, a locker room cancer. Scratching an extremely well-respected veteran on the opener against his former team is just something some guys do. A message, if you will. Stay the course, Babcock just wants his players to respect him.

And then news of the list leaks.

It happened when Mitch was a rookie, but they kept it hidden for three years. The Leafs went on a father-and-sons trip, one they do every season. They’re on a road trip, with only their fathers, isolated from their home.

(A brief aside to talk about Mitch’s dad; his name is Paul Marner, and he is the most stereotypical hardass hockey dad on the planet. A nitpicker, an armchair coach, a bully. I do not imagine Mitch felt particularly comforted by his and Babcock’s combined presence on this trip.)

Babcock approached Mitch and asked him to organize all of his teammates in a list. He wanted Mitch to arrange them in order of hardest workers to laziest; he thought Mitch was one of the lazy ones, and wanted to drive this point home by making him categorize his teammates like this. Mitch, as a rookie hockey player does in the presence of the Maple Leaf hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, obliged. He was under the impression it would be a private affair, just an assignment from Babcock to teach him some sort of lesson. Whether it be out of fear or honesty, he placed himself last on the list.

Babcock told the others.

Specifically, two Leafs vets that Mitch had placed low on the list -- Nazem Kadri and Tyler Bozak. Imagine this: you are a decent centre on a bubble team, but nonetheless an established NHL veteran of about a decade, and your coach shows you a list a rookie made. He tells you that the rookie arranged everyone by work ethic, grinders to lazy shits. You are firmly on the “lazy shit” end.

How much does the coach have to suck, or how much does the rookie have to be loved, for Kadri and Bozak to react like they did? The rumour says they called for Babcock’s head on the spot. Mitch was in tears. I wouldn’t want to stay in Toronto if that happened to me. No wonder he and Auston signed for so much -- Babcock was barely halfway through his contract when they did. If I’d thought that I would have to deal with him for that long, I wouldn’t accept anything less than as much as they could possibly pay me.

In the end, in the beginning of December, 2019, Mitch got hurt and the Leafs went on a road trip. They were already losing by the time they’d left, and they kept losing. Normally, a team on a road trip doesn’t take the hurt players with them, but they took Mitch. The Leafs lost six in a row and finally fired Babcock, letting Sheldon Keefe take his place. Mitch’s presence was a comfort.

Go West

The Leafs make the playoffs first, and take Mitch with them. The Sabres are fighting a silent war with their star centre, but they are no closer to success.

Connor McDavid is named captain at nineteen, the youngest in the history of the NHL. He scrapes the team to a playoff spot, then to a second round loss. He wins the Art Ross and the Hart.

The year before his entry-level contract expires, when he is first eligible, he signs what is then the most expensive per-year contract in NHL history -- eight years, a hundred million dollars. He is looking forward to spending the rest of his prime as an Oiler. He wins the Art Ross the next year, comes very close the year after. The Oilers do not make the playoffs again until after Covid hits.

He gets hurt a lot, too -- he breaks his collarbone as a rookie, missing half the season, and at the very end of the 2018-19 year, crashes into the net irons and shatters his knee. There are rumours of the man who broke Connor’s collarbone doing it on purpose; Connor claims that he overheard the man bragging about it, and I am inclined to believe him. This guy gets traded to the Oilers not too long after that.

In the meantime, Dylan is struggling. The Coyotes stick him in Tucson, a team he is obviously too good for. His entry-level contract slides another season. He wiffles between Tucson and Arizona, not being considered good enough to stay up but being too good to stay down. In the end, on the last year of his entry-level contract, he is traded from the Coyotes to the Chicago Blackhawks, a similarly bad team with a few remnants of its Cup-winning days. Dylan, a feeble icon of Chicagoan hope for one last dance with the aging core, centres Patrick Kane.

In his first half-season with the Blackhawks, he scores 51 points in 58 games. There are hopeful flashes of what he can be, the touted prospect he once was.

Things wrap up on New Years like this: Connor is beyond a hundred-point pace; Dylan, although in no less danger, is at least out of the dust at the bottom of the barrel; Jack is caught in a cold war; the team loves Mitch.

John Tavares has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Playoff Series

March of 2020 rolls around, and with it the coronavirus pandemic. The league is shut down before the season ends, and the playoffs re-formed in July, inside a bubble -- no one in, no one out until they are eliminated. The Sabres stay with their families, having once again missed the playoffs. The Leafs are set to play the Columbus Blue Jackets, and the Oilers are set to play the Blackhawks.

This, to date, is Dylan’s only playoff appearance, and he is set to face Connor.

Dylan wins.

The qualifying round -- functioning as the first round of the bubble playoffs -- is a best of five, not of seven, and the Blackhawks defeat the Oilers 3-1. They then proceed to lose in five games (this one is a best of seven) to Vegas, but Dylan’s job is done.

The Leafs lose in the first round again. The Leafs have made the playoffs since Auston and Mitch’s debut, every single year, but they lose each time; in six, to the Capitals, then in seven every year after that. Or, in this case, in five.

Covid had not stopped by the end of the 2020 season ( :/ ) and the NHL was rearranged for what would be ostensibly the 2020-2021 season, but ended up being played mostly in 2021. Because of border laws, the Canadian teams are sequestered into their own, North division. Dylan Strome signs a two-year contract extension with Chicago right before the season starts -- one that will carry him until the end of the 2021-2022 season.

If you’ve seen All or Nothing on Amazon Prime, it is this season that is covered. The Leafs tear through what is seen as a weaker North division, taking a comfortable first place spot. Connor McDavid cracks a hundred points in fifty-six games. Both Leafs and Oilers lose in the first round.

The Leafs do it perhaps most remarkably. They have drawn the Canadiens, a rather insubstantial team who are in their spot mostly because they have one of the best goaltenders in recent memory at their back.

I watched this game, live, before I was a serious Leafs fan. I can only imagine what it would be like if you were already invested at that point; I would not wish to live that horror on anyone. I tried to watch All or Nothing, later, but I stop here.

Corey Perry and John Tavares are both on the ice, in the race for the puck. Tavares catches an edge, as you sometimes do, and falls, and Perry’s knee is in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, and it catches Tavares in the side of the head. He falls to the ice, his limbs splaying unnaturally. He won’t move.

Medics come over, to try and raise him to his feet. He fights against them, blood streaming from a cut in his forehead, unable to tell if they are trying to hurt him or not. There is no one in the crowd, the stadium empty for the pandemic. The camera cuts to Kyle Dubas in the rafters, who has a phone in his hand and swiftly vanishes back into the halls of the arena. He is calling Tavares’ wife. We do not know what is going to happen. Everyone looks shaken -- the Habs have just watched a man nearly die, the Leafs have just lost their captain, perhaps forever. They lose, although the game feels like an afterthought. I do not want to watch hockey anymore.

They win the next three straight, though, even without him. Then they lose, twice, in overtime.

The Leafs, as they have done for the past four years up to this point, go to game seven.

Partway through the game, Mitch Marner panics in his defensive zone and puts the puck over the glass. This is a penalty, it is a penalty every time, and he knows that. He sits in the box, looking defeated already. He curls in on himself, and the camera flashes to the penalty box. He’s crying. He knows the game is lost.

The Leafs are eliminated again, and there is a target on his back now, not only for the puck going over the glass but for the tears. He’s soft, they say. As they have said since he was picked, because he doesn’t look like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t act like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t play hockey like a hockey player should. He makes too much and he disappears when it matters.

Thoughts on the Leafs’ playoff successes suddenly switch from the core is young, even if this is frustrating to they need to win before it’s too late. Already, in recent years, they have suffered historic game-seven chokes and drastic failures to launch. Whether they do it against teams like the President’s Trophy-winning Capitals or the barely-alive wild-card Canadiens is irrelevant. They cannot win a round, at all. The Leafs are already the team with the greatest Cup drought, and they are now gaining a long playoff round victory drought too. It should be time, at least, for them to look like they are a contender.

This is how the Leafs find themself stuck; a particularly frustrating timeloop, even though hockey itself is nothing but. Sports are cyclical by nature. A team is bad, then okay, then good, then declining, then bad again, and this repeats anew. Some teams try to get themselves out of this cycle by being good forever; I can assure you that this only really happens to the New York Yankees, who employ a cadre of evil wizards to keep everything on that hell team going well for them. Most other teams who try end up stuck like the Canucks are, right now: bad enough to miss the playoffs, but not good enough to get key picks for a rebuild. I can see next season play out, clear as day: they struggle out of the gate, one of their stars gets hurt right when it seems like they’re at the very, very start of gathering momentum, they’re bottom-10 by January and the team says everyone but Pettersson are on the table, they trade picks and low-grade players, they get blazing hot post-deadline and finish twenty-first.

There is, unfortunately, also a perception that pure talent is not what makes players playoff performers -- instead, some so-called “clutch gene” that exists, or not. The reality is somewhere in between. Clutch exists. There are always players who can score when no one else can even dream of it, but a greater problem is luck. President’s Trophy winners are not often Cup winners (even if higher seeds are most likely to win), because the regular season is a much, much bigger sample size and the playoffs can change the course of all of it by a goalie having a hot streak at the right time. The 2018-19 Tampa Bay Lightning, third-best team in NHL history, got swept in the first round by Sergei Bobrovsky going crazy. The 2022-23 Bruins lost in seven in the first round in much the same manner.

And no matter what, the Leafs are always on the wrong end of the luck. Bounces hit the post. The refs take back goals for reasons they would have ignored at any other time of year. John Tavares slips, and his head makes contact with a knee.

Mitch ends up the whipping boy. He is the Leafs’ most valuable player, and this is a team with Auston Matthews on it, but I’m serious. He was the Leafs’ leading playoff scorer in 2023, he’s one of the best penalty-killers in the league, he’s adored by everyone who’s ever once talked to him. He only ever wanted to be a Leaf, and now that he is here he is the sacrificial lamb for the anger at a curse that is not his fault.

I do blame the media. I will always blame the media, those who turn on him at a moment’s notice because they know picking on the skinny pretty unmanly one will get more clicks than anything else. I beg of you -- know that, of anything that it could be, it is not Mitch’s fault.

Jack Eichel has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Neck Injury

It is 2021, and the Sabres aren’t going to make the playoffs. Jack Eichel has been captain for coming up on three years, and has been a Sabre for coming up on six, none of which have even slightly improved the team. He is widely disliked within the fanbase, and, rumouredly, within the locker room and organization.

Jack is frustrated, dragging a mediocre team along through a slog of the past six years, and he has never been the kindest man on the planet. He is about to get worse. The Sabres are on a losing streak when they head to Long Island, and Jack is hit the wrong way and slips a disk in his neck. The Sabres insist he’ll only be out a week and a half.

It is a great sin in hockey, to go against team. Anything that can be seen as selfish is demonized; shooting from a difficult angle when your teammate is wide open, not playing when you can muscle through the pain. Not trusting your coach or management is about as bad as you can get. If you’re a team guy, willing to sacrifice health and limb for the boys, you are held as saint, no matter how hurt you become in the end. This is a philosophy that has been drilled into these men since they were kids, as soon as they put their first skates on. You can stand any pain for the length of a hockey shift; you can play through anything for two minutes. It is a dangerous, dangerous school of thought, one of the most destructive parts of hockey culture. But it is, nonetheless, law.

Eichel is about to commit a sin so great they’ll kick him out of Heaven. I do think that, of the four of them, he is the only one with any semblance of genre awareness: when he was first scouted as a prospect and they were comparing him to McDavid, I think that he would be the only one to ignore the media’s spin on that as thoroughly as he did. He knows what he is, and he knows himself. Of course it comes off as bitchy and selfish, though -- that kind of pressure can’t be kind to anyone.

Before the week and a half is up, he visits a specialist doctor about his neck. This is where it all starts to go wrong.

The Sabres take issue with that for two reasons: one, that they hoped he’d be able to come back after the end of it. Keep in mind that he has herniated a disk in his neck, an injury typically so severe it’s impressive he’s walking -- slipping a cervical disk often causes nerve pain that radiates down through the entire spinal cord below that point, which is the whole body from how high up his is. Two, that the doctor he consults is an independent surgeon, one unaffiliated with the Sabres themselves.

The thing about belonging to a hockey team is that you are, because of the way your employment is linked to your physical health, essentially their property. They make your medical decisions for you, they feed you, they tell you how to move. Going to someone else is a breach of contract, and the already-tense connection between Jack and the Sabres gets more tense. The Sabres keep losing. They lose eighteen games in a row.

Jack’s doctor recommended a surgery that no NHL player has ever had; cervical disk replacement. The Sabres did not want this -- the surgery carries risks, yes, but they also wanted to control the way that Jack’s injury was handled, and going through with this surgery was Jack’s wish, not theirs. The Sabres do their own evaluation, and ask for a different, more common surgery: spinal fusion. This surgery carries less immediate risk, but the bones in Eichel’s neck will also be fused, and he doesn’t want that. Because the team has final control over a player’s health, not the player, they decline his disk replacement. Having reached a stalemate, they rule him out for the rest of the season, trying to win a war of attrition.

September 2021 rolls around, and the Sabres, along with thirty-one other teams, take training camp. At the beginning of training camp, players do a physical exam. Jack, because his herniated disk has not improved, because he needs a surgery that has been denied from him, because he is stubbornly and bravely willing to wait out the Sabres, fails his physical. As a result, the Sabres, fed up with him, strip the captain’s C from his chest.

Jack makes one final request to the team: either let him get the surgery or trade him. In the end, they trade him to the Vegas Golden Knights, a team that did not exist when he was drafted. The Golden Knights approve him for the disk replacement surgery the day they acquire him.

The surgery is a success; his rehab goes better than anyone expects, and he starts tearing it up when he comes back. I would argue that, if the Golden Knights win the Cup this year, he should get the Conn Smythe -- he has been an invaluable member of the team, even without a letter on his chest.

It is less important for him to win his million awards than it is for him to come in and out of this surgery in the first place, still able to play. He fought with the team that was supposed to have upheld him as their star for months over his right to do what he wanted with his own health; in the end, the only way to go was for him to change that team. He was the first to have this surgery, but after him there have already been hockey players who have undergone it -- much like Tommy John, the baseball player who got his ulnar ligament reconstructed and the surgery to do so named after him. He fought for the chance to control his own body and won.

And for that, he was demonized.

The Sabres missed the playoffs every year they had him; they missed the playoffs every year after he left. Because he was the captain and he had the audacity to go against the organization’s wishes, he was hated. In Buffalo, he is still hated. If you ask, they’ll tell you he was a locker room cancer, that he was undevoted to winning. If you look at him in Vegas, neither of those things are true.

Jack Eichel is a rare man -- he does have that “clutch” gene, or rather doesn’t have the choke instinct. He has always been unbothered by the spiral around him. He operates well in the mire, and when the pressure rises it doesn’t affect him (or maybe, even better, he feeds on it.) He has the right kind of mentality -- that fuck-you, I’m here and you can’t change that, you tried to control me and I wouldn’t bend mentality. He has only made the playoffs once, this year. Like Dylan, actually, his only appearance has involved defeating Connor McDavid. Go back and watch his highlights from the Vegas-Edmonton series if you can: he has a couple of pretty goals and more than a couple great defensive takeaways, but he doesn’t lose his cool, not once. He has earned his right to be here, and he knows it more than anyone else. I’m rooting for the Stars, but I hope he wins some day.

153

How do you talk about the Edmonton Oilers? I mean, without either excusing or demonizing them, although I admit I have Hater Instinct and trend towards the latter. They have the best player in the world; that grown-up incarnation of the wide-eyed boy on the Erie rink. They have the best playoff performer in the world; Leon Draisaitl, who I have not avoided mentioning until now on purpose, but whom I cannot continue without bringing up. They have been terribly cap-managed since the day McDavid was drafted, and are an unstable roster with blazing-hot offense and very little defence or goaltending at all.

For a brief moment, let’s not talk about the Oilers. Let’s only talk about Connor himself.

McDavid has 850 points in 569 career games. Not even Sid had that many points through that few games. If he stays healthy, Connor’s well on track to become the second player ever to hit two thousand for his career -- after a certain other Oiler, who need not be mentioned. He has won just about every award you can win, with the exception of the Selke… and the Cup.

If it’s possible, he has proven himself better than all of the hype at the draft saying he would become a great. To watch him, you can see the way he has changed his team, how even though they have all learned from him that he is still the best.

There is something that many Oilers do. When next your team plays them, pay attention to it: they cut into the offensive zone with possession on the outside, using tight little crossovers to gain speed, after which they’ll usually try to rush the net (if there are no defenders in the way). This is a move that McDavid has patented; he’ll use it, just as many of the others will, but he’ll probably be the one that scores. The depth all skate like him, really, fast and in wide arcs, trying to generate a rush chance.

Connor as a player is a tour de force, the best power-player in the world by a mile, no slouch at even strength, speedy enough to score even shorthanded. The boy’s got wheels. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which NHLers are fast and which are slow, but Connor’s just that tick above everyone else that you can see it without eye training at all.

Connor as a person is a bit less showy. He’s quiet by nature, shy and soft-voiced. Because he was hyped so much (franchise saviour, McJesus, Next One) he has been media trained into sterility, giving the same level answers as everyone else, hardly daring to express any opinion at all. His eyes are big, rounded, and one of them is lazy from a time when his brother tried to take it out as a child, and that combined with his heavy brow and stiff expression -- he’s never been a good smiler, smirks with one corner of his mouth and that’s mostly it -- give him a resting expression of something like concern, or maybe despair. When he laughs, he doesn’t really “laugh,” just kind of coughs, a one or two-syllable affair. He avoids eye contact with the camera, and often the reporters as well. There is no seething emotion under the surface, not like with Eichel, nor does he speak analytically like Dylan does. He moves through his life as if he is someone who does not want it to turn out quite like this.

I do not know if he wants to be in Edmonton. There are jokes about how he is desperate to leave, but I definitely don’t believe those; there’s a difference between not wanting to stay and wanting to go. I don’t think he hates it. He has been given a responsibility, the captain’s C -- and because, unlike Jack Eichel, he is a good Canadian boy who has been given a destiny, he accepts it. He loves his teammates, especially Draisaitl, whom he seems to derive all his confidence from.

I will also say that I don’t believe he’s stupid. Naive, perhaps; not stupid. There is no way out for him, even if he was sure he wanted to leave; he’s the best player in the world, far too expensive for any contender to afford in either trade or cap space, and if he asks for a trade he won’t let himself go to a team that isn’t already a contender. He will remain an Oiler at least until his contract is up, and I imagine that his staying afterwards depends on Draisaitl.

People talk about him leaving a lot, largely because of the team that has been assembled around him. The Oilers are not a well-created team, and I will say that plainly now and spend as little time technically deconstructing it as possible.

Beyond McDavid and Draisaitl, they have:

A rookie starting goaltender, whose success as we know it is based on a single-season sample size and a complete playoff collapse.

A five million dollar backup goaltender, who earned his contract by being carried by the Leafs, despite being utterly horrendous for a long enough stretch leading up to his free agency that anyone who looked beyond the win-loss numbers wouldn’t have signed him.

One genuine shutdown defender.

One young up-and-coming defender; by far one of the most promising Oiler (or otherwise) defensive prospects, beyond the usual suspects.

One netfront grinder who is great at playing wing to high-power setters, but cannot drive his own line.

One decent 2C.

Sarah Nurse’s cousin. Sarah’s better.

A supporting cast of bad defencemen and middling-at-best forwards.

Many charming characters, of course: Zach Hyman, the grinder, is a beloved ex-Leaf, and I’m personally a fan of Nugent-Hopkins, the 2C, but the vast majority of this is not the sort of thing a contending team is built upon. McDavid has missed the playoffs almost as often as he’s made them. The playoffs are a crapshoot, but in order to try your luck you have to at least be able to enter the lottery, and it takes a stunning amount of effort to be able to do that.

So, McDavid lingers, in this kind of limbo. It mirrors the Leafs, almost. (And yes. Because McDavid is an Ontario boy, and the Leafs are the Centre of the Universe, we have to mention them both in conversation. Not all stories revolve around the Leafs, but this one does.) One true contender, and one generational talent, both what we picture to be well overdue for their Cup run, but neither having yet done so.

The thing about the stories of the class of 2015 is that they intertwine, that they mimic and mirror each other. These boys have not simply gotten drafted in the same handful of picks in the same year and gone on their merry ways -- they layer, they parallel, they weave around each other. Connor is the captain of a team that cannot win, Jack is a captain, Mitch cannot win. Jack fought for the right to control his body and was demonized for it; Mitch negotiated for a contract that he determined to be a fair price for Babcock, and was demonized for it. Whatever pure saviour they figure Connor to be, Jack is the twisted inverse of that, falling from grace.

Connor has one of the best seasons in NHL history, one of only seventeen player-seasons with over a hundred and fifty points (Nine of those seasons belong to Gretzky. Another four belong to Lemieux.) He loses, in six games in the second round, to the Vegas Golden Knights. At the time that he’s eliminated, he leads the playoffs in points. Leon Draisaitl is tied for second place. Counting from the date Mitch Marner played his first game in the NHL, the Oilers and Leafs have almost exactly the same number of playoff game wins, with the Oilers having one more.

There’s No Place Like Strome

Before we can look to the future, there is one person I have been neglecting. Dylan, poor Dylan. I think it would be only half an unfair assessment to call him a draft bust. He’s talented, for sure, but not nearly the same calibre that the draftees around him are. Hardly a Marner, an Eichel, or even a Rantanen or a Meier.

His career has existed quietly in the shadows, so far from Connor McDavid that it only feels fair to mention them in the same conversation in this context. It has been eight years since they were best friends, Connor so close to Dylan he waited in the stadium in order to watch him get drafted. They didn’t look each other in the eye in the handshake line when Dylan won their series. Connor didn’t go to his wedding.

That being said: so far, he has found himself a knack for landing in the shadow of greatness. When he was an Erie Otter, it was Connor -- Dylan held the scoring title in their draft year, while Connor was out nursing his hand, but Connor was the chosen son and Dylan was the Coyotes’ consolation prize. When he was traded to the Blackhawks, he found himself centring Kane and Debrincat, but of course both of them were the offseason and trade deadline’s prizes, and not him.

And then he signed in Washington.

So now, we go back to Ovechkin. Alex Ovechkin is one of the greatest players of all time; his Capitals are on the decline now, but they contended for a long time while he was playing and may still contend as long as Ovi still skates. For a long time, the team relied on Ovechkin’s goalscoring, assisted mostly by his faithful centre, Nicklas Backstrom. They, too, are married; they have played a thousand games as teammates, been through a decade of heartbreak together before the Cup was theirs. During the 2021-2022 season, Backstrom took time off -- he needed hip surgery, something likely to end his career. Ovi was alone.

There is a fundamental difference, of course, between the expectations of wingers and centres. A winger, like Ovi, scores, or assists, at his own leisure, but it is the centre’s job to drive his line. Ovechkin is generational -- he will sink forty goals no matter what -- but he still needs someone to move him out of the defensive zone, someone to make his assist.

Enter Dylan -- a young centre, not especially fast on his feet but intelligent, and clearly experienced in the realm of managing high-calibre wingers (see: Debrincat, and the ghost of Patrick Kane.) He joins the Capitals on a one-year contract, desperate to prove himself. Chicago didn’t want him, and Arizona didn’t either. It takes barely until November before he is, once again, the necessary shadow of greatness.

Ovechkin, the team’s captain and centrepoint, clearly likes what he sees, and the management does, as well. The Capitals offer Strome a five-year extension.

Maybe it’s because he’s less of a superstar then the other three members of his draft class, but Dylan has a life outside of hockey -- a wife and young daughter. After being thrown away by other teams, and with his new family, I can only imagine that it was… peaceful, if anything, to be offered this contract.

Chicago, after rapidly getting rid of him, Debrincat, and then Kane, would go on to tank spectacularly, and win themselves the first overall pick. They will use it to draft another generational talent. His name is also Connor.

The Blue Wedding

So, here we stand, at the end of it all. Dylan finally has a home, a mother hen of a Russian bear that it has become his job to assist in record-breaking, and soon to be two daughters. Jack has a team that loves him, freedom from pain, and an ongoing potential Cup run. Connor has a sterile mansion, a best friend, and an unsteady team. Mitch’s life is up in the air.

Right as I’m writing this, the general manager of the Leafs has been unceremoniously kicked out. His tenure will end the day before Mitch’s no-move contract kicks in, but it is not known if Mitch’s time as a Leaf will survive that long. He is well on track to become one of the greatest Leafs of all time, and his tenure might be cut short in the prime of his career.

But let’s wrap up with this: Mitch will get married this summer. Because he’s Mitch, the darling of the league, everyone’s best friend, I imagine the wedding party to be extensive/ Packed to the brim of current and former Leafs, as well as people who have never been Leafs. I wonder if Dylan Strome will be there -- or even Connor McDavid, although McDavid never even attended Dylan’s wedding.

The stories, as they do, go on.

#asks #mitch marner #jack eichel #connor mcdavid #dylan strome #hope this helps and/or gives you brain poisoning #narrativeposting

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