#tft

[myconfusedsexuality]

I love reading a post or a DM and based on how much is written and how feverish it is written you can tell how horny they are its like "yes yes yes you fucking freak. I can tell how hard you are i can tell how fucking wet you are you fucking slut fuck yea."

[return-of-the-trinidude]

Walk up to a new set and immediately start looking for the 3 cost reroll comp

[kit-the-gaygent]

yo it's pride o'clock dumbass

[aurelion-solar]

Spirit Blossom Sett - TFT Chibi Champion Concept Art Eddy Huang

[sunnysprite]

tft au is insane!! their relationship is so so so cute, like reader is wills babyyyy! he don’t play about her!

fr he is like he takes care of her when she gets hurt playing :(

The tackle itself isn't even that bad, really. You've taken harder hits before.

There's a moment where you think you can shake it off—just another bruise, another stinging scrape—until you try to stand and your knee buckles like a drunk freshman at their first party. That's when the pain blooms, sharp and bright, and suddenly you're on your back staring at the too-blue sky, your breath coming in short, shocked bursts.

Coach is there before you can even process it, his voice low and steady as he kneels beside you, one hand hovering over your knee like he's afraid to touch it. "Talk to me," he says, and you open your mouth, but all that comes out is a shaky gasp. The second you try to roll onto your side, pain lances up your leg like someone's jammed a hot poker into the joint, and—shit, you're crying. You don't even realize it until the tears hit your collarbone, warm and stupidly embarrassing.

Then Will is there, too, his sneakers sliding across the damp grass as he slides to a stop beside Coach. He shouldn't be here—spectators aren't supposed to rush the field—but Coach just sighs and shifts to make room for him. Will's hands are already moving, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead, his thumb catching a tear before it can slide into your ear. "Hey," he murmurs, "look at me." His voice is so familiar it aches worse than your knee.

Coach prods your knee, and you yelp, grabbing Will's wrist so hard your nails leave little crescent moons in his skin. Will doesn't flinch. "Can you walk?" Coach asks, but you're already shaking your head. Will exhales through his nose and hooks an arm under your shoulders before Coach can even finish saying, "Let's try." The crowd erupts into applause as you limp off, half-carried between them, your good leg dragging like a stubborn child. Will's grip is firm, his side pressed warm against yours, and when you hiss in pain, he whispers, "Almost there."

The chair feels like a mercy. Will kneels in front of you, already unwrapping the athletic tape with practiced ease—he's taped his own ankles a hundred times, and your knees almost as many. His fingers are careful as they brace your knee, the tape pulling snug but not too tight. "Flex," he orders, and when you do, he nods, satisfied. His palm lingers on your calf for a second too long, his thumb rubbing a slow circle over your skin. You'd tease him about it if you weren't busy trying not to cry again.

Twenty minutes and an ice pack later, you're standing on the sidelines, testing your weight. Will hovers like an anxious parent. "I'm gonna kill their 10."

"No you're not."

"I am. That was an unfair dump tackle. She was too high up and took you down by your neck."

The realization hits you mid-sentence—Will's still muttering about their number 10's dirty play—when you freeze. "Wait," you interrupt, catching his wrist. "You know what that is?"

"Baby— what? Yes, I know what a dump tackle is."

The tape holds. Mostly.

You test your weight again, shifting from foot to foot like a skittish colt, but the sharp stab from earlier has dulled to a throbbing ache—manageable, if you don’t think too hard about it. Will’s watching you with his arms crossed, his jaw set in that stubborn line you know means he’s biting back a dozen protests. "You’re really going back out there," he says, not quite a question.

You flex your knee experimentally, wincing only a little. "I’m really going back out there."

Coach blows the whistle for substitutions, and you don’t miss the way Will’s fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you again. Instead, he exhales sharply and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "stubborn ass" under his breath. You grin, swiping at the sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand. "You love it."

[naganeka-of-zuretta]

Wtf is this comp

[naganeka-of-zuretta]

5 zaun on 2-5 so far. Its gonna ve a good game

[justavideo]