#Part 1 recovery references

[i-cast-teatus-deletus]

TW for a picture of a pretty gnarly almost-certainly-infected nipple graft.

I came across a handful of similar blog posts about taking care of someone post-surgery, but this one was by far the most informative. Most of them were, no offense, largely complaining about how difficult the day of surgery was for them (and, no offense, often due to their own lack of understanding and preparation for surgery day. That sort of thing is what this neuroticism is all about, making sure I am not stuck in a bad situation based on things I could have avoided had I thought clearly for 7 minutes at SOME point).

This one got me seriously thinking about getting a hotel room close to the surgical site, even though we don't live extremely far away. But the drive they are describing is nearly identical to the drive we would be experiencing and they did not have a great time.

This blog post also links to a resource for JP Drain care, which is always useful.

[theclownghoul]

Gratuitous

Opinion piece & analysis

I really hate how Jinx’s suicidality is portrayed in S2, largely in Act lll but we’ll talk about all of it.

In S1 we have about three moments (by my count) that show Jinx harming herself or trying to end her life. Hitting herself in episode 3, being careless with the staples in episode 7 and pulling the pin on the bridge also in episode 7. There is also a line she says to Vi “You’re the reason I’m still alive” in episode 9 which given other things she says in that moment could be interpreted as other ideations.

What makes these moments different from S2 episode 9? Well none of the three main writers were credited to those episodes other than the dialogue in S1 episode 9. Most of them are communicated through animation only. They also just feel different, they’re vulnerable, other things are the focus and her doing these things is just a reaction to those feelings. There was something to get from the scene besides a showcase of her pain.

Episode 9 of S2 is not that. It’s gratuitous, it’s a spectacle, it’s gory and somehow losing all its impact. There’s the music which is not what I’d call tasteful or subtle. It’s making an impression, wants to force a feeling or reaction. Make you sad or horrified and oh, I was horrified but not the way they wanted.

Even the way she digs her nails into her cuticles in S2 episode 8 isn’t really meant to show us anything about her. It’s meant to affect the audience.

In comparison I almost appreciate how people have read her pulling the pin in S1 episode 7 as trying to manipulate or take Ekko out too instead of being a completely clear cut attempt. Because it at least shows that there is enough going on with the character’s mindset that we can speculate on her motivations and how she’s reacting to all the emotions that came from fighting her old friend. If you look at her face it’s sadness and regret (S1 is also better at story through facial expressions since there was forethought). You’re free to have your own reaction, not the one that’s set out for you.

I have mixed feelings about her fight with Vi now and telling Vi that she’s okay to go out by her hand. It feels closer to the moments in S1 than later in episode 9. There’s more going on, we’re meant to consider multiple layers of both her and Vi’s feelings in the moment. It’s a non explicit parallel to the Bridge and does show a pattern of behaviour. It’s also not credited to any of the main writers.

The scene from the opening of episode 9 as a whole, is it romanticization? Heard differing opinions on this and I honestly don’t know where I stand. One one hand it shows how empty she feels and how everything has come crashing down despite trying and it communicates her emotions through the images and music. On the other the scene is meant to be visually appealing while also showing her detonating the bomb very explicitly, like you see her blood. I’m sorry but this is some 13 reasons shit. None of this is helped by the fact that Isha was killed purposely to get her in this state.

I had way more emotions about the actual story in the scene with Ekko in S1 and the scene with Vi in episode 3. Originally I liked this scene but I just can’t really remember why exactly, especially when compared to the earlier ones. The other scenes aren’t lacking in any way when it comes to showing her despair so I’m lead to believe it’s a stylistic choice in line with S2’s music video focus.

Then there’s Ekko… what did he do to deserve this? I’ve said before that if he had to he would save her but the reason he had to was because this scene sounded like a good idea. Saw someone say why is it his responsibility to save her and yeah why? He’s her romantic interest? Not from her perspective at this point and that’s a terrible reason anyway. Not only are we shown her blowing herself up in detail, being inflicted with it but he also has to see that, multiple times. Please don’t make me think too long about it… then we don’t see what actually changes her mind and actually see their bond. That also doesn’t give me a lot of faith is what they think is important to show.

Then she sacrifices herself at the end to “break the cycle” which no one is actually clear on what is meant by that and the same damn song is playing. It’s weird.

I’d like to compare it to the Poison sequence from Hazbin Hotel since that scene faced backlash for romanticizing abuse specifically in that scene. If I can describe what makes Poison not exploitative and what makes Wasteland so then I can safely say they are different and there is something deeply sinister about Jinx’s scene.

Poison benefits internally, inside the context of the story from being visually appealing and pretty. That tells part of the story in and of itself and eventually it cracks, mirroring how Angel feels in the scene and in his situation.

Wasteland benefits externally, it’s done for the audience as I’ve been saying. There is nothing about Jinx’s mindset or actions that we get a better insight into from the stylistic choices. We know “she loves a spectacle” but that’s the only internal explanation that I could make. Even if they wanted the cutting of her hair and the burning on the last drop but the framing could have easily been different.

Think about the staple scene for contrast, it has no interest in being something other than what it is, brutal and disorienting, just as she is feeling in that moment. Jinx would behave that way whether there were “eyes” on her or not. Poison is the same, Angel “performs” to keep his thoughts at bay regardless of an audience. Wasteland only exists in its current form to entertain.

The final “sacrifice” also falls into this, solely focusing on eliciting a reaction from the audience and making a spectacle of sadness. There is no resolution to Jinx’s earlier conversation with Ekko, we don’t see her reflect, we don’t see a change. We have no reason to believe she’s in any way in a better place. Her decision to give her life for Vi’s isn’t particularly fleshed out and this as a conclusion to her arc is bizarre at best and offensive at worst, suggesting she had to remove herself from her loved ones lives, something she simultaneously feared and was tempted by.

I probably shouldn’t feel the need to make such a caveat but I am aware that the could be a matter of preference when it comes to how scenes like this are portrayed but the way this scene was done continues to strike me as odd. I can’t help but think it maybe intentionally or unintentionally is playing into the “sacrifice” message where, it may be a sad thing but Jinx had to die. And that’s a horrible thing to say.

[reasonsforhope]

Camera-trapping data revealed in a new study show a steady recovery of tigers in Thailand’s Western Forest Complex over the past two decades.

The tiger recovery has been mirrored by a simultaneous increase in the numbers of the tigers’ prey animals, such as sambar deer and types of wild cattle.

The authors attribute the recovery of the tigers and their prey to long-term efforts to strengthen systematic ranger patrols to control poaching as well as efforts to restore key habitats and water sources.

Experts say the lessons learnt can be applied to support tiger recovery in other parts of Thailand and underscore the importance of the core WEFCOM population as a vital source of tigers repopulating adjacent landscapes.

The tiger population density in a series of protected areas in western Thailand has more than doubled over the past two decades, according to new survey data.

Thailand is the final stronghold of the Indochinese tiger (Panthera tigris corbetti), the subspecies having been extirpated from neighboring Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam over the past decade due to poaching, habitat loss and indiscriminate snaring...

Fewer than 200 tigers are thought to remain in Thailand’s national parks and wildlife sanctuaries, only a handful of which are sufficiently undisturbed and well-protected to preserve breeding tigers. 

The most important of these protected areas for tigers is the Huai Kha Khaeng Thung Yai (HKK-TY) UNESCO World Heritage Site, which comprises three distinct reserves out of the 17 that make up Thailand’s Western Forest Complex (WEFCOM). Together, these three reserves — Huai Kha Khaeng Wildlife Sanctuary, Thungyai Naresuan West and Thungyai Naresuan East — account for more than a third of the entire WEFCOM landscape.

Now, a new study published in Global Ecology and Conservation documents a steady recovery of tigers within the HKK-TY reserves since camera trap surveys began in 2007. The most recent year of surveys, which concluded in November 2023, photographed 94 individual tigers, up from 75 individuals in the previous year, and from fewer than 40 in 2007.

Healthy tiger families  

The study findings reveal that the tiger population grew on average 4% per year in Hua Kha Khaeng Wildlife Sanctuary, the largest and longest-protected of the reserves, corresponding to an increase in tiger density from 1.3 tigers per 100 square kilometers, to 2.9 tigers/100 km2. 

“Tiger recoveries in Southeast Asia are few, and examples such as these highlight that recoveries can be supported outside of South Asia, where most of the good news [about tigers] appears to come from,” said Abishek Harihar, tiger program director for Panthera, the global wildcat conservation organization, who was not involved in the study.

Among the camera trap footage gathered in HKK-TY over the years were encouraging scenes of healthy tiger families, including one instance of a mother tiger and her three grownup cubs lapping water and lounging in a jacuzzi-sized watering hole. The tiger family stayed by the water source for five days during the height of the dry season.

The team of researchers from Thailand’s Department of National Parks, Wildlife and Plant Conservation, the Wildlife Conservation Society, Kasetsart University, and India’s Center for Wildlife Studies deployed camera traps at more than 270 separate locations throughout the HKK-TY reserves, amassing 98,305 days’ worth of camera-trap data over the 19-year study period.

Using software that identifies individual tigers by their unique stripe patterns, they built a reference database of all known tigers frequenting the three reserves. A total of 291 individual tigers older than 1 year were recorded, as well as 67 cubs younger than 1 year [over the course of the study].

Ten of the tigers were photographed in more than one of the reserves, indicating their territories straddled the reserve boundaries. The authors conclude that each of the three reserves has a solid breeding tiger population and that, taken together, the HKK-TY landscape is a vital source of tigers that could potentially repopulate surrounding areas where they’ve been lost. This is supported by cases of known HKK-TY tigers dispersing into neighboring parts of WEFCOM and even across the border into Myanmar.

Conservation efforts pay off

Anak Pattanavibool, study co-author and Thailand country director at the Wildlife Conservation Society, told Mongabay that population models that take into account the full extent of suitable habitat available to tigers within the reserves and the likelihood that some tigers inevitably go undetected by camera surveys indicate there could be up to 140 tigers within the HKK-YT landscape.

Anak told Mongabay the tiger recovery is a clear indication that conservation efforts are starting to pay off. In particular, long-term action to strengthen systematic ranger patrols to control poaching as well as efforts to boost the tigers’ prey populations seem to be working, he said.

“Conservation success takes time. At the beginning we didn’t have much confidence that it would be possible [to recover tiger numbers], but we’ve been patient,” Anak said. For him, the turning point came in 2012, when authorities arrested and — with the aid of tiger stripe recognition software — prosecuted several tiger-poaching gangs operating in Huai Kha Khaeng. “These cases sent a strong message to poaching gangs and they stopped coming to these forests,” he said."

...ranger teams have detected no tiger poaching in the HKK-TY part of WEFCOM since 2013.

-via Mongabay News, July 17, 2024

[violetrainbow412-blog]

No one else [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

wc: 6.8k

summary: Bob agrees to join you at a bar with your friends, but a stranger’s gesture unsettles him more than he expected. Later that night, in the quiet of your apartment, he finally lets himself be vulnerable—and loved.

masterlist part 1 (can be read as a standalone, it's only useful if you want some context!)

warnings: explicit sexual content (MDNI), oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink, mild jealousy, emotional vulnerability, references to past abuse, trauma triggers, mention of addiction/recovery, aftercare, soft!dom reader (if you squint)

There was no special reason for the invitation. You had turned to Bob on one of those afternoons you spent together.

“Some friends are going to a bar tomorrow. They told me to join them. Do you want to come with me?”

Bob took a couple of seconds to answer. Not because he didn't want to—he was already sure he'd go anywhere if it was with you—but because the question unnerved him a little. With me? he thought. As if that word, said so casually, carried a weight you didn't notice, but he did.

“Sure,” he had said, trying to sound casual too, though slightly excited to be hanging out with you.

It was just a bar. People laughing, glasses in hand, dim lights. But to Bob, it meant more. It meant you weren't hiding him, that it wasn't just a get-together between you two when everything stopped. It was you bringing him into your world, even if it was just for a few hours.

You had agreed to meet the guy there. That night, you arrived a little early, ordered something cold to start the evening, and sat down to wait for him at one of the tables your friends had set aside near the window. There was music playing, but not so loud that you couldn't talk, and the warm light from the hanging lamps gave the whole place a more intimate feel than you expected.

You were checking your phone when you saw him come in.

Bob walked through the door with his hands in his pockets and a slightly uncertain gaze, searching the crowd until his eyes found you. He was wearing a white T-shirt that subtly outlined his shoulders, with an open blue flannel over it. His hair was a little messy, as if he'd hastily arranged it with his fingers.

He approached you slowly, but without hesitation.

“How do I look?” he asked, half-jokingly, as he stopped in front of you.

You stood up from the chair, placing a hand on his chest without thinking twice.

“Stunning”

Bob blinked, surprised by the directness of the response, and lowered his gaze slightly. If he'd been told that a sentence like that would disarm him so much, he wouldn't have believed it.

“You look... wow,” he murmured, not very subtly, as his eyes scanned your loose black blouse and light-colored jeans, which revealed just enough to make him briefly forget you were in public.

You laughed, amused by his reaction.

“Come, I’ll introduce you to them.”

You took his arm, gripping those muscles well hidden in everyday life, and led him toward a group of people. There were eight or nine of them, maybe, men and women. Each of your friends greeted him and said their names. Later, you spoke. You introduced him simply as Bob, without titles, but with a loving smile that was hard to ignore.

“You were right when you said this guy of yours is quite the cutie, huh?” mocked one of your sassy friends.

Bob blushed violently, and when he looked at you, something in your expression told him he'd have to get used to that kind of interaction. He didn't know how much you'd told them about your relationship, so he tried to stay as discreet as possible.

To be honest, all his attention was reserved for you. You looked dazzling, not in an exaggerated way, but like someone who looks beautiful on her own no matter what she wears. When the flow of conversation returned to the table, you leaned toward him to whisper something. He didn't hear you the first time, so you decided to lean in close to his ear.

“If you get bored, just tell me and we’ll go, okay?”

He just nodded, swallowing that tenderness with a lump in his throat. Because he wasn't bored. He was trembling inside, yes, but he wanted to make an effort to make you happy.

You ordered a beer for you and one for him, making sure he was comfortable with it. You knew, very vaguely, about his history with drug abuse, but you didn't know if abstinence included alcohol as well.

He remained attentive to whoever was speaking, and occasionally answered questions someone asked him. His tone was ambiguous, of course, as he tried to keep his powers and the evil entity he harbored within him hidden.

At some point, you slipped your hand under the table and placed it on his thigh. Bob tensed at first, more out of surprise than discomfort, as the contact unsettled him; not because he didn't want it, but because he wasn't used to someone touching him like that. So openly.

While you continued talking with your friends, laughing, passing a napkin, or sipping from your glass, your hand remained there. It moved up, and down, and played with the fabric as if it were an automatic gesture. As if you'd done it a thousand times before.

He wondered if you were pretending not to notice his gaze or if you just thought you wouldn't affect him the way you did. So he forced himself to keep his composure, to laugh when someone said something funny, to pretend his skin didn't burn beneath where you brushed against him.

“Want another beer? It’s on me.”

You leaned slightly in his direction, taking advantage of the fact that the others were distracted by other conversations. The scent of your perfume, combined with that of the beer, permeated his nostrils.

“I still have one”

“But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m fine for now.”

You nodded, understanding.

"And something to eat? Fries?"

“Whatever you fancy is fine. We can share.”

One thing is certain: Bob, in and of himself, made you want to kiss him. But that night you felt even more attracted, probably because of the atmosphere, the drinks, or simply because he was twice as handsome as usual.

“And what do you think of them so far?”

“Your friends?” he murmured, and you hummed a nod. “They’re nice. Very playful.”

“They are. But you get used to it over time.”

“Are they usually like that with the people you bring?”

“What people?” You pretended not to understand, taking a sip from your glass while making sure to look him in the eye.

“You know… like me”

“You mean mysterious boys who don’t talk much?”

“And you have no idea how social gatherings work,” he snorted, not reproachfully, but with a hint of acid. You squeezed his thigh affectionately.

“You’re the first one I’ve brought, so I wouldn't know.”

“I feel weird,” he suddenly confessed. “I mean, not like it’s a bad thing, but… you know, I want them to like me and stuff.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” you retorted back “You’re quiet, yes, but that’s not a crime. Your style is more like… interesting silences.”

“Interesting silences?”

“Yeah. Like when you're thinking about saying something, but decide not to. It's sexy.”

That curious sound that pleased your ears so much, a laugh that seemed to hurt him escaped from the back of his throat.

“It’s not on purpose”

“That doesn’t make it any less sexy,” you insisted.

A tiny blush spread across the boy's face as his arm slid down your back, wrapping itself around your waist and thus shortening the distance between you.

“Well, if that’s what we’re talking about,” he murmured in a deep voice, almost hoarse from the closeness, “I don’t think I’m the one who should hold that title.”

His eyes scanned your face with a mixture of admiration and barely contained desire, as if he were trying to memorize your features.

“Robert Reynolds,” you raised an eyebrow, half amused and half incredulous, “are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” he gave you one of those smiles of his—unusual, soft, a little crooked as if he still didn’t quite know how to do it. “Is it working?”

As he spoke, his fingers traced a slow circle in the fabric of your shirt, right at the base of your back, causing an involuntary shudder.

“Pretty good, I’d say.” You brought a hand to his neck, caressing the warm skin with your knuckles, moving just a little closer. “Now give me a kiss, will you?”

Despite the chuckle he let out at your request, he didn't hesitate for a second to please you. He gave you a short but deep kiss that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

After your intervention, he relaxed considerably. Although you couldn't say he was participating enthusiastically, he at least seemed calmer. At one point, he took your hand, which was on his thigh, perhaps looking for a form of regulation or simply because he wanted to feel closer to you.

The evening continued peacefully. You chatted, laughed, and even they told a few stories that you were sure were meant to embarrass you—in the best possible way—but Bob listened with joy. He couldn't quite interpret the feeling bubbling inside him. It was happiness, yes, but also a strange satisfaction at feeling like he was uncovering a few of the secrets you harbored.

It was amid this harmony, just as the general laughter began to die down, that a waiter walked confidently up to the table. He carried a tray laden with small glasses of clear liquid, they trembling slightly with each movement. His appearance was so sudden that for a second everyone remained silent, confused.

“We didn’t ask for that,” you exclaimed at that moment, stopping him with one hand as you frowned, “Maybe you made a mistake.”

“Someone sent them to you. From the table over there.”

Every head in the group turned in the indicated direction, and then a rather cocky guy winked at you through a half-smile. Your stomach lurched at the gesture, and a disgusted expression quickly appeared.

“I don’t want them”

“That’s not true, leave them here.”

Apparently, your friend's answer carried more credibility, and the waiter simply ignored you. Like birds around crumbs, everyone swarmed to get a shot of vodka. They seemed amused by the situation.

“Seducing strangers again, huh?” someone quipped, raising an eyebrow as they brazenly took one of the shots.

“Again?” Bob hurried, glancing at you with a mixture of surprise and a barely contained expression of annoyance. Although he had intended only for you to hear, his voice came out louder than expected.

“Oh, let me tell you,” another voice chimed in, amused, nudging the blue-eyed man with a knowing elbow. “It’s not the first time someone’s sent her a drink.”

“I’m starting to wonder if that ass of yours is really worth all the madness,” someone else joked, raising their glass before taking a gulp “But hey, if it gets us free stuff, I’m not complaining.”

Most of the group took the matter with amusement, and you simply decided to ignore it. They were right when they said it wasn't the first time something like this had happened, but each time, rather than feeling attracted, you were surprised that there were men dumb enough to spend their money on a stranger and her entire table.

Considering the matter to be stupid, no further discussion was made. By this point, you'd already had enough beers for the edges of the evening to begin to blur, so it was no surprise that when the conversation turned to something more trivial, it seemed irrelevant, almost like a detail not even worth remembering.

You didn't notice the change in Bob right away.

He didn't say anything. He didn't make any obvious gestures. But when you turned to meet his eyes, they weren’t as open as they had been a moment ago. He wasn’t looking away, but he no longer held your stare the way he had before. His hand, once resting confidently on the curve of your waist, was no longer there; he had withdrawn it. Not abruptly, but with a movement as silent as it was meaningful.

You, however, didn’t see it as a bad thing. In fact, you didn’t read into it at all. You simply assumed he was just tired.

You'd been there for a while, your voices mingling, and the warmth of the place was beginning to curl like a thick blanket over your skin. You took another sip, barely savoring it, and then approached him without thinking much. One of your hands slid over his thigh, as you had before; naturally, affectionately. He didn't move away, but his body didn't react the same way.

He was there. But something in him wasn't there.

“Is everything okay?” you whispered softly into her ear.

Bob nodded once, without looking at you, while he hummed his response. That was enough to set off a small alarm in the back of your mind. Not because you feared anything bad, but because you knew that specific type of pause. It was like a way of collecting himself when something touched him too much.

Maybe he felt exposed, you thought. Maybe the meeting was too much, or he was suddenly overwhelmed.

It was easy to forget: he wasn't like your friends. He didn't like being the center of conversation, nor being surrounded by comments he couldn't tell if they were meant to be funny or not. And, as always, his instinct wasn't to complain, but to shut down a little. To retreat inward.

Without forgetting the matter, you rested your forehead on his temple, brushing his skin with your lips.

“Do you want us to go now?”

The question wasn't meant to offer a clear conclusion. Rather, it was a way of holding him back, of offering him a way out before the silence became awkward.

“No, I'm fine,” he murmured.

But he didn't mean it. And you, even if you didn't fully know it, were starting to feel it.

You stroked his leg again, more slowly this time. As if you could reconnect with him with that gesture. As if your body knew it needed him close even when your head still couldn't understand the reason for his distance.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye.

His face was a little more serious, his jaw clenched like someone holding back. You didn't know yet that it wasn't the meeting, it wasn't the music, your company, or the noise. It was something more invisible to your eyes.

For a while, you sat there, trying to act naturally so he wouldn't feel guilty or uncomfortable. But as soon as you saw an opportunity to escape, you took it.

“Let's go home, okay? My head hurts a bit, and I've already had too much to drink,” you said quietly, as one of your friends began to tell a rather boring story for the third time.

Bob barely looked up from his glass. He didn't object, didn't even ask if you were serious. He just moved as if grateful that you were the one who said it first.

You said goodbye with hugs, some more effusive than others. There were jokes, laughter, someone asking you to invite him back, and another shouting something about taking care of your boyfriend. Bob didn't respond. He merely smiled with his lips closed.

Outside, the air was fresher, and the silence, was like a truce.

You called a taxi as you walked toward the corner. He kept his hands in his pockets, his steps a little slow. He seemed calmer than he had been at the bar, but still withdrawn. You brushed his arm with yours as you walked, and he moved closer, as if by reflex.

“Are you going home, or…?” you asked carefully.

Bob didn't respond right away.

“I think so,” he said, without much conviction.

You looked at him. In profile, his eyes looked sad. You didn't say they were, but there was something there, something that didn't fit with the night or the times he'd kissed you with his heart in his throat.

You moved a little closer, with that kind of affection that doesn't ask permission.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

He turned his face toward you, just a little, and narrowed his eyes as if he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

“You could stay at my place,” you added, with a calm smile.

Bob swallowed. It wasn't an invitation with ulterior motives. Or maybe it was. But not the kind he usually feared. It was an invitation to breathe in a place where he didn't have to pretend.

“If you’re tired, we can sleep. If not… that’s okay too,” you said, glancing at him. “I just want to enjoy you a little longer. You look so pretty today that I can’t just let you go.”

He smiled. One of those smiles that barely cuts, but is worth twice as much for being so rare.

“Okay,” he accepted, quietly, as if it were a surrender.

And you, silently, intertwined your fingers with his. The taxi arrived shortly after, and when he opened the door to let you in first, your eyes met his, and you knew—without needing words—that he was ready to open up to you.

The ride was more pleasant than you expected. You leaned into him for warmth, and Bob didn't deny you his embrace, where the gentle beating of his heart felt almost like a lullaby.

As you stood at the entrance to your apartment, the jingling of your keys replaced the silence between you. As you entered, the comfort welcomed you, and you felt you could finally breathe more freely.

You asked Bob to go ahead to the bedroom while you quickly went to the bathroom. You wanted to remove your makeup and also brush your teeth to get rid of the taste of alcohol in your throat. You thought about taking a shower, but discarded it because of the thought that Bob might fall asleep before you could talk to him.

When you finally came out, he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He'd already taken off his shoes, leaving him in only his thick gray socks, and he raised his head slightly when he noticed your presence.

“Okay, honey, what's wrong?”

“What’s up with what?”

“With you,” you whispered.

He looked away as you approached him.

"Nothing”

“Bob,” you insisted, more firmly this time. However, he didn’t seem to want to budge.

The preceding silence made you frown, and you thought it was time to intervene, although now with more determination.

“Bob, what’s going on? You’re acting weird. Did something bother you? Were my friends rude?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “It’s not like that.”

Testing the waters, you closed the distance and settled onto his lap, straddling him. It was a low move, but you knew your lover always became more compliant when your body was that close. His body reacted—of course it did—but his arms stayed limp at his sides. So you reached up, cupping his cheeks, gently guiding his face toward yours to make him look at you.

“So? What is it, huh?” you asked gently. “You can tell me. You know I won’t get mad.”

“It’s not that I think you’ll get angry. It’s just… it feels really dumb to say out loud.”

“Your feelings aren’t dumb, Bob,” you corrected him. A gentle kiss on his lips was enough to make his shoulders relax and his hands finally settled on your thighs. “What is it?”

“It’s just that…” he murmured, his gaze fixed on some indefinite point, “I think I felt bad about… you know, the man thing.”

“What man?” you asked, tilting your head in genuine curiosity. It was a simple gesture, but it puzzled him. He couldn't tell if it was confusion, indifference, or tenderness.

“Who sent the round of shots to our table. The one who was flirting with you.”

You didn't say anything right away, but the way your eyes searched his seemed to say too much: you didn't understand why this affected him so much, or maybe you did, but you wanted him to say it.

“I'm not your boyfriend, I know... but...”

The phrase hung in the air, like a loose thread that threatened to unravel what you had woven that night. You watched him for a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, without responding immediately.

“Is that the problem?” you asked softly. “Do you think because you’re not my boyfriend I’ll go with someone else?”

Bob didn't say anything. He opened his mouth, as if about to explain, but then seemed to change his mind. He looked down again, his brow furrowed, as if in pain. Then you lifted his head and plastered on a smile meant to inspire confidence.

“You could have anyone you wanted,” he complained, a mixture of frustration and surrender in his voice “Anyone. Just need to smile at them like that and you’d have them in the palm of your hand.”

At first, you looked puzzled, but after a second, your expression changed. With determined tenderness, you reached up and caressed his cheek.

“And you think I don’t know?” you exclaimed. “But I invited you. Why do you think I did that?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Because I like you, Bob. Very much.”

The words hung suspended for a moment. You didn't need to repeat them; you'd already said it all with that tone, with that body leaning toward his, with that warmth that emanated from the closeness.

You smiled sweetly at him. Then you kissed the tip of his nose, his cheek, the line of his jaw. You hugged him, still feeling him stiff beneath your hands. He didn't reject the gesture, but he didn't fully surrender himself either.

“I’m not usually good at reading signs,” he said hoarsely.

“And what do you think mine says now?”

Bob looked at you for a moment, his pupils dilated by the mixture of emotions, desire, something he could barely name. Then he replied in a low voice:

“For me to stay”

You nodded, barely smiling.

"Exactly"

You kissed him again, this time slower, deeper. A kiss that didn't seek urgency but clarity, as if each caress of your lips could erase the doubts he'd been carrying since the bar.

“I love that you get so nervous when I touch you,” you whispered against his skin. “As if you don’t understand yet that you can have me all the way. Whenever you want, however you want.”

Bob swallowed. His hands moved to your waist, not with impulse, but with an unspoken longing. He hugged you as if he feared that by holding you tight, you'd disappear.

“You know what I like best?” you added, brushing your nose against his. “That you don’t realize what you do to me. But I do. I see it. Every time.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he could finally let something out. And then you kissed him again. Short, soft kisses, repeated over and over again, intended to fill an old emptiness. Kisses that mingled with words, murmurs, and soft laughter.

“I like the way you look at me. I like the way you listen to me. I like that when you're with me, the world falls into place. And I want you to make sure that sticks in your head, got it?”

Bob wrapped his arms around you. His fingers trembled a little, but now they didn't flinch. He didn't seem afraid to touch you anymore.

“You’re so hot, Bob. It’s painful to see how you don’t realize that more than one girl would kill me to kiss you like I’m doing now.”

You leaned gently toward him, until your bodies were chest to chest. With a gentle push of your hips, you made him lie back on the mattress. Bob let himself go, his eyes fixed on you, as if he were suddenly struggling to breathe.

"But I'm the one who does it, aren't I? Lucky me”

You leaned a little further into his chest. Your hair fell to the side, caressing his neck as your lips continued to explore it. Kisses on the corner of his mouth, on his jaw, on his neck. Kisses that didn't ask for permission.

Bob was physically unable to utter a word. He knew that if he opened his mouth it would only be to let out a moan, so he didn't.

Suddenly, your bodies began to seek each other out more intentionally, unhurriedly, but with a growing passion that could no longer be hidden. Desire throbbed beneath your skin, between faint sighs and caresses.

Clothes weren't a barrier, but a gentle reminder of what was still to be discovered. You didn't need to rush. You were already choosing each other. Every touch, every lingering kiss, every shared breath was the clearest proof that you were right where you wanted to be.

The man beneath you exhaled faintly as you rubbed your hips against his crotch, as if you wanted to tease and prepare him at the same time. He felt you smile against his lips.

“Let me take care of you, honey.”

Carefully, almost ceremoniously, you slid your lips down his neck and began trailing wet kisses down his chest. You slipped off the flannel and then the white t-shirt, placing your hands on his forearms, firmly on his biceps.

The first time you saw him naked, you were pleasantly surprised, as you didn't expect to see that gorgeous six-pack hidden under his baggy clothes. They always say the best are the quietest, don't they?

You reverently continued kissing his chest, making sure that each time your lips parted, it was with the grace and delicacy of a butterfly landing on his skin. You licked along his abs, tracing your route to the hem of his jeans, where some prominent veins stood out. The closeness made you salivate.

“May I?” you asked softly, placing your hand on his belt buckle. He only managed a nod from his spot.

It didn't take you long to pull his pants down to his ankles, taking his boxers with them. It was obvious he was beyond hard after all that make-out session you'd had, and all you needed was a fistful of your hand at the base of his shaft to make him twitch.

You began with slow, rhythmic, circular movements up and down his swollen length. With each stroke, his breathing quickened and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. From your spot, you could see him biting his lip, definitely trying to mask how hot it was to see you giving him this attention.

You whispered to him that there was no need to be silent, and to motivate him to let himself feel it, you slipped the tip of his member into your mouth. He couldn't resist, and a breathy moan filled the air. Sure, Bob had had this kind of experience before, but this was his first time sober. Without the meth dulling his senses, and with how much he wanted you, you going down on him felt like heaven—better than any high he’d ever chased.

Your lips were warm, and he couldn't tell if it was your saliva or your precum that made your insides so deliciously wet. After a few seconds, he didn't even have the strength to mask his moans, so he just let them out without any shame.

Every now and then, even as you took him all in, you whispered how good he tasted or how much you loved fucking him with your mouth, feeling him down to your throat. More than the movements, your words were what was driving him to the edge.

He wasn't used to receiving that kind of praise during sex. It was something new, yes, but something he could get used to.

Suddenly, the world shrank to the sensation of your tongue sliding over his cock, at first at a cautious pace, then so fast it made his legs tremble. His hands moved on their own to your head, brushing your hair with his fingers until he managed to secure it in a ponytail, which he held with one hand.

The sight of you looking down at him, your eyes watering and your cheeks pressed against his, made him utter a growl of curse.

Then he began to set the pace, guided by that growing urgency burning in his loins, that pre-orgasm desperation that made him tremble inside. He knew you could have made him come easily, effortlessly, but the instant he felt himself approaching the edge, something deeper and more primal took over: he wanted to come inside you.

He wanted to feel your walls squeezing him as he came, how you enveloped him completely. He wanted to kiss you at the same time, devour your moans and mix them with his, as if that moment could fuse them in a more intimate way than any other.

“Wait, wait, baby…”

You stopped, and his member slipped out of your mouth with a soft pop. He felt dizzy from the worried look you gave him, as if you'd done something wrong when, in reality, you were doing everything perfectly.

Before you could ask him anything, he sat up and, with an almost savage rhythm, yanked his pants out of the way. You let out a squeal as his hands—strong and manly—held you by the waist as if you weighed nothing and laid you down on the mattress.

Bob was a meticulous man, in every sense, always behaving prudently to avoid making a mistake. But that night he turned into the messiest lover you could imagine.

The first thing he pushed aside was your black shirt, his movements determined, as if he couldn't wait any longer. He didn't even bother to remove your lace bra; he simply pushed it down enough so he could lean down and nibble at the skin of your tits, hungry for you. At the same time, one of his hands deftly descended to your stomach, searching for the fly of your pants.

His desperation overwhelmed you completely. He was soon making his way through your pants, his hand descending firmly to your crotch, where he cupped your still-covered pussy. Even through your panties, the wetness was unmistakable. He swallowed hard, overcome by the thought that pleasuring him had been able to awaken that desire in you.

He murmured—begged—to be let inside you. His voice was desperate, almost delirious, whispering again and again that he couldn’t wait, that he needed you like he needed air. You responded with the same eagerness, cupping his face and pulling him down into a kiss, exhaling one sentence: that he could do whatever he wanted to you.

You both let out a moan in unison as he positioned himself at your entrance, sliding inside you a moment later. You were consumed by passion, sick with desire for each other, to the point of feeling like you could shatter into a thousand pieces. As if at that moment nothing else existed, and the explosion of that insatiable longing was the only thing left of you in the world.

His thrusts became steady and deep, as if he had to reach the bottom of you to be satisfied. He breathed so erratically against your neck that it only made everything hotter.

His every movement seemed driven by something more than desire: a raw, ancient need, as if your body were the only refuge capable of containing him. There were no thoughts, only the shared urgency, the heated touch of skin against skin, the trembling that grew with each thrust. And amid that intensity, he wasn't just seeking pleasure… he was seeking belonging. Holding onto you as if afraid he'd lose himself if he slowed down, if he stopped feeling you this way.

“Do you think I’d let anyone else fuck me like this?” you whispered, right against his ear. Your velvety voice sent a shiver through him. “Only you can do that, handsome. I’m completely yours. Only yours.”

Your words twisted something deep in his stomach. It caught him off guard, realizing how far you’d gone to offer yourself to him—fully, selflessly, in a way no one else ever had. Bob already knew he was yours, body and soul. But he never expected to hear, from your own lips, that you belonged to him too.

Wanting to motivate him again, you sweetly complimented how well he was doing and confessed how much you wanted him to make you cum.

It got to the point where all there was in the room was a mix of the lewd sounds of your bodies colliding, incomplete sentences, moans, grunts, and the feeling of heat emanating from your naked skin.

He knew he wouldn't last long. And maybe he was a hopeless romantic, but he wanted you to come at the same time, as if that would make the moment more intimate.

His thumb traveled to your clit, pressing hard, rubbing insistently to stimulate you enough for your climax. Your hips responded, moving frantically against him almost instinctively, while your nails dug into his back, clutching at something tangible to endure the ecstasy that was already beginning to course through you from the tips of your toes.

A high-pitched moan escaped your lips without warning, and in that instant, he knew you'd come. The way your body shuddered, clenching tightly around him, was a turn-on impossible to resist. Feeling your orgasm engulf him pushed him over the edge, and then he surrendered without reservation, spilling himself inside you with a deep, broken groan, so intimate and delicious that you wished you could keep it forever, like a precious secret between the two of you.

When Bob collapsed against your chest, rising and falling with a shaky breath, he needed a moment to pull himself together.

The warmth between the sheets was still felt, the echo of sighs and bodies intertwined. His cheek sank between your collarbone and the edge of your neck, breathing slowly, as if he could only just allow his lungs to do their work.

Your fingers moved in slow circles over his back, just above the line where his tense shoulder blades were beginning to relax. The sweat on his skin was already drying, but he didn't pull away. Not yet.

“You okay?” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, but said nothing. It was enough for you to feel him. His weight, his breathing, his meaningful silence. You knew him well enough to know that when he was silent, something was settling inside him.

A few more seconds passed. Then he slid a hand down your side, absentmindedly caressing the curve of your waist, as if he needed to remind himself you were there.

"Thank you"

“Why?” you asked, now stroking his damp hair, ruffling it gently.

“For... this. For you. For not letting go when I shut down like this.”

You didn't say anything right away. You just kissed his forehead, slowly, with a reverent gesture.

“You need more to get rid of me.”

A sigh escaped his chest, sounding almost like a laugh. He sat up slightly, lying on his side so he could see you better, one of his legs crossing yours as if he needed to stay in touch with you.

The dim nightlight partially illuminated his face. His eyes were dark and soft, vulnerable. Your fingers ran down his cheek, then down to his chest, where you could still feel his heartbeat racing calmly.

“Need anything, sweetheart?” you murmured, voice thick with heat. “Water? A tighter grip? Or maybe you just want to hear how fucking gorgeous you look wrecked like that?”

He let out a soft, shaky laugh.

“You know, I didn’t realize how much I liked hearing you talk to me like that… not until now.”

“Talk to you how?”

“Well… you know. All those compliments. The sweet things you say.”

His words stumbled out awkwardly, like he still wasn’t sure how to respond to your praise without putting up his usual defenses.

You smiled.

“Funny how we’re always learning new things about ourselves, huh?”

He looked down, and you took advantage of that second to take his face in your hands.

“I’m just not used to this,” he said, barely whispering.

"To what?"

“That someone loves me so calmly”

Your chest tightened. And you leaned in to hug him, closing your eyes for a moment to contain the emotion that was beginning to rise within you as well.

You stayed with him like that for a long time. Caressing him, whispering small things in his ear: how handsome he looked with his hair messed up, how much you loved the sound of his voice when he moaned, how adorable his blush was, how irresistible he seemed to you even when he was insecure. And Bob took it all with bravery and modesty, trying to convince himself that you were sincere with your words.

“I think we should clean up a bit,” you suddenly mumbled, amused “We’re kind of... sticky.”

Bob, who might have fallen asleep due to the calm, let out a soft laugh, with a slight sigh at the end.

“Probably yes”

“Do you want to take an ice bath to wake us up?”

As soon as the phrase left your lips, you felt a shift. His hands, resting on your waist, froze, and his body tensed as if you'd said something you shouldn't have. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, unfocused, his mind probably traveling somewhere farther away.

“Hey,” you mumbled, frowning slightly “What’s up?”

Bob opened his mouth, but it took him several seconds to form a response. Finally, he let out a sigh.

"It's no big deal"

You already knew that wasn't true, but you insisted immediately. You ran your fingers along his chin, gently guiding him to look at you. You waited. You gave him space.

He swallowed. Then he looked away again. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was low, almost timid.

“It's just... cold water makes me a little tense. It always has. I don't know why... well, I do. I just don't like to say it out loud.”

You remained silent. Present, without pressure.

“When I was a kid,” he began again, more firmly this time, “if I misbehaved or… if my dad thought I had, he’d sometimes make me take a bath with ice-cold water. Not for hygiene or anything. It was a kind of punishment. He’d run it hard, saying I needed to wash it off. Sometimes he’d leave me in there for minutes, which at my age seemed to feel like hours.”

His voice held no anger. It held tiredness. A kind of ancient shame that he no longer knew whether it belonged to him or not.

“Since then… I can't. It's hard for me. Cold water makes me think about it. Even though now I'm the one who turns on the tap.”

A pang of tenderness tightened in your chest. You didn't say anything at first. You just leaned toward him, caressing his cheek with your lips. A kiss. Then another, on his temple, as gentle as you could.

“Thanks for telling me,” you whispered. “I won’t suggest it again, okay?

He nodded slowly.

“But we can still take a bath,” you continued, still hoping. “A warm one. We fill the tub, sit for a while, I put in some bath salts, some candles. It doesn’t have to be for any reason other than to wash off all that’s left behind… the sweat, the residue, the intensity. Just to relax. Together.”

He looked at you. And for the first time in minutes, his expression truly softened. He looked relieved, almost small. He nodded once more, this time with his eyes shining with something hard to describe.

"Sounds good"

“Let me pamper you for a while, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything today.”

You sat up slowly, still holding him, and helped him up with you. The air between you was no longer heavy, but warm. True intimacy, love in its quietest form.

As you walked to the bathroom, Bob felt something inside him click, something that had been awry for a long time. Not because you'd said something miraculous, but because you hadn't judged him when he revealed a piece of information that made him so vulnerable. You looked at him the same way after he told you, as if nothing about him scared you, and you even looked for an alternative to make him feel better.

A while later, when you were already submerged in the water and he could feel your back against his chest, he understood. The feeling was clear and floated peacefully between you; he was loved, there was no doubt about it. Sincerely and deeply.

He was safe.

taglist: @highinhardtown @yesshewrites1 @haydenlizz @tenmaabnesti @qardasngan @serenitybloodmoon @littlemsbumblebee

[paranoidpandora]

Chembaron Viktor 👀

Vanco baby chembaron Viktor AU:

A short plot idea for this AU, I am not a writer, but I am a plotter, so if anyone finds inspiration here, feel free to write something based on it and use my art in your fics (with credit, of course).

In this AU Viktor was adopted by Silco and Vander shortly after he left Singed and that was also around the time VI was born (Vander and Silco being in their mid 20s). 

Silco and Vander did all they could for Viktor, went to Pilotover to have a brace built for him (not sure yet, but maybe it was mama Talish who built the brace for baby Viktor) and pulled everything they could to get him into the Academy. Vander and Silco pulled every last coin they had for Viktor's brace and school supplies. But he was only there for a short time before the riots started raising the tension between Zaun and Piltover so Vander and Silco pulled Viktor out of the academy worried about his safety. 

Viktor was in his mid-teens when the riot happened. He, Vi and Powder weren't supposed to be there, but of course they didn't listen and went after their parents. And that's where Viktor saw his aunt and uncle dead and Vander almost killing Silco. He went after Silco as he ran away and was the one to drag his father to Singed to heal him. Viktor still resented Singed for what he did, but he knew if anyone could save Silco, it was him. 

Silco recovery was long, and as they both stayed with Singed Viktor befriended a murk wolf puppy Singed had in a cage intended to sell as he killed her pack, not knowing there were puppies; only one survived. As a way to make up to Viktor, Singed says he can keep the murk wolf. 

After Silco got better, he tried to convince Viktor to go back to the academy, but Viktor refused. Silco wasn't the only one left with PTSD from that day; Viktor witnessed his aunt and uncle die at the hands of enforcers, and then he saw his parent trying to kill his other parent. It left him with a deep fear and sense of needing to protect his loved ones. He couldn't handle leaving his father, and hurt, after almost losing him. 

Viktor helped and was a vital part of building Silco's criminal empire, working with Singed to perfect shimmer as well as working on his own strain that would help his own illness.

Silco told him to stay away from Vander, and while Viktor had no intention to see the man who destroyed his family, he did want to see his sisters Vi and Powder. He would sneak away when they were out of The Last Drop to spend time with them; it was Powder who named his puppy (one head Pixi (my reference to Rio) and the other head Blitz (again my reference to Blitzkrank)).

One time Vander caught them together (Viktor told them not to say anything about him to Vander because he didn't know where he went after the riot, but they are little kids and it slipped). He followed the girls, and they seemed extra excited to go out. 

Viktor went to leave right away, but Vander begged him to send a message to Silco, asked if he found the letter he left for him in the mines. Viktor, weak to the person he once called a father, confesses everything to Silco, that he has been seeing his sisters (Silco knew, of course) and what Vander had said. 

Silco did go back to the mines (first thinking it was a set up, but Vander isn't smart enough for that) and finds the letter, and he and Vander slowly work on their relationship and eventually get back together.

Short time skip to maybe a year or two before season 1 act 1 time. 

Vander and Silco convince Viktor he should go back to the Academy. Things are calmer and the business is going steady Viktor would have the time to attend the academy. Viktor agrees, but only under the condition that he doesn't move to Pilotver, he goes to his classes and comes back under the excuse that he needs to keep up with his own chembaron duties, but really, even though his parents are back together and he's with them and his sisters and new brothers back, he didn't deal with his PTSD and thinks he needs to be there to keep them safe.

So this would be the starting point of the story; all this before is backstory that can be told in flashbacks, just how I would construct the story, IMO that's all. At the core it's a JayVik story.

As Viktor comes back to the Academy, he has a few years to catch up on. Heimer is happy to have him back, he knows how brilliant he is and helps him create a schedule where he can do catch-up work alongside contemporary classes. This is where he meets Jayce and other Pilotver classmates. Harassment started right away as it was clear how intelligent Viktor was and it started out of jealousy and hatred of him being from Zaun, even Jayce joins in on the bullying, even though a small crush is starting to form right away. But it doesn't take long for rumours to spread that Viktor is, in fact, a powerful chembaron, son of the two men who have zaun under their rule. His classmates don't believe this cripple is a powerful crime boss and this rumour only serves to make the harassment worse. Viktor doesn't do anything about it because he promised his dads he won't do anything that would make him a target of the enforcers; they can't risk giving them any excuse. 

Some of the things they call him is; puppy (this is mostly Jayce tho), bitch or mutt (based on his dad Vander being called the Hound), and of couse cripple, drugie (his shimmer violet eyes) ect.

Note about his health, I imagine Viktor's health to be better then in the show because Vander and Silco got him better care when he was a small kid and the shimmer strain he developed with Singed, I had him having some chornic lung issues an he uses the mask in the artwork, it both filters the dirty air that makes his lungs worse and it defuses the shimmer in small amounts to heal his lungs, he used his shimmer to heal himself for years now, why his eyes turned violet, and might have a slight dependency on it, if it can serve some plot purpose.

How his classmates find out about him being a crime lord, I have two theories; it could be one of them or it could be both:

1. The parents of his rich kids classmates know about Silco and Vander so they know who he is and his own influence in the undercity and tell their kids (so they keep away from him but they don't believe he's some dangerous mobster and use it to mack Viktor).

2. Sky is one of his classmates and knows about who he is and how dangerous he is and tells everyone to be careful around him and who he is (but again they don't believe it and mock Viktor).

Oh and also whenever Viktor goes to Piltover his murk wolf waits for him by the Zaun side of the bridge, where Viktor tells her she can't go further and to wait for him, he tried leaving her at home, but she refused to let him leave without her. So Pixi and Blitz always wait for Viktor to come back. Sometimes Powder also comes to play with her and wait for big brother. 

Time comes around where the students need to make a big project (for a class or a competition), and Jayce has an idea for something, but he will need something he can't find in Pilotver, he ventures into Zaun and in a pawnshop he asks about what he needs and is told by Benzo of he really wants it he needs to see "the kid", a chembaron that deals in that sort of thing (it can be the gems or a special type of shimmer or something else, not that important). He gets a meeting with the chembaron after paying Benzo a pretty penny for the privilege. 

It's at a bar called The Last Drop an what do you know, he enters and sees Viktor at a bar with a huge murk wolf at his feet (this is the moment of the art, how Jayce sees chembaron Viktor for the first time). Jayce can't believe the rumours are true and is in shock. 

They sit down (Vander from the bar is staring daggers at Jayces lol, if you see a faint shadow in the background of the work that Vander). 

Jayce tells Viktor about his project, and Viktor agrees to get him what he needs if they work on the project together (Viktor is also crushing on Jayce, and them trading insults at class is really like flirting, but not completely; sometimes Jayce crosses the line because he's an idiot). 

The vibe I was going for is them.

These idiots are crushing on each other hard but them being stupid is keeping them apart. Jayce is dealing with his views on zaunites, his jealousy of Viktor's intellect, and his own sexuality. Viktor is a walking sack of trauma and PTSD, Jayce reminds him of Vander, which means he's projecting all his unresolved issues and trauma about Vander on Jayce, trust issues being vulnerable with someone who isn't his siblings or Silco (Vander used to be on that list before the incident).

They gravitate to each other, but when they get close, they clash, very angsty, very hurt/comfort, and little bit of silly because they are such idiots.

Anyway that's as far as I got, I beg if anyone wants to write this, despite this block of text I am very much not a writer, so it would be awesome to actually read a fic like this :)

Bonus the art in b/w cause it looks rad :)

[dameronspector]

Philophobia

(PART 1)

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Stark!Reader

Summary: Devastated by your father’s death and cutting yourself off from everyone, you are on the road of recovery, accompanied by your uncle Rhodey. After Rhodey has finally convinced you, you agree to reunite with Sam Wilson and help him with his tech. He introduces you to another techie nerd, named Joaquin Torres, for the first time. Will you let your phobia get in the way and push away your new found family and this beautiful boy? Or will you get better and let yourself be loved once again?

Warnings: Mentions of Death and Depression/Depressive episodes, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Abuse by a parent (not Tony), Weight loss due to stress, Nightmares, Some cursing, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Rogers Slander- please don’t read this if that’s not something you’re looking for, Reader is sassy and a bit reserved because of The incident and because they’re a Stark, Reader has some phobias, Found family, also there’s a few references and hidden plots in this. 😁 (please keep in mind that I wrote this from my point of view as a south asian.)

Author’s note: I probably went overboard and this is very long + very self indulgent….but tony stark is the father who raised me and joaquin torres is my boyfriend so i Had to do this. ☺️ also lots of found family content with Rhodey, Sam and Bucky. Set around the time of TFATWS. Please let me know if there’s any changes to be made if I have written anything wrong.

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Moving back to New York was extremely hard and painful for you ever since your dad passed away. That was the city that you were born and raised in and it had the ghosts of your father’s and family’s moments everywhere. But you told Pepper that you couldn’t handle living in that cabin anymore because 1. you were going stir crazy since you loved the hustle bustle of a city and 2. the depressive episodes were more frequent than ever.

You’d think living in your family cabin that has your father’s memories written across every wall would help you…but you’re a Stark. Ignoring your own problems and running away from emotions is kind of your specialty. Hereditary, even.

Pepper, bless her heart, told you that she’s happy you are trying to get back your life back on track and that she would always be there for you. Even if you called her Pepper, she’s always been your Mother.

Hardest part of it all was saying goodbye to Morgan. Little Morgan who was so attached to you and vice versa. She was too young to even process her father’s death, how was she supposed to understand why her elder sibling was never leaving their room? And now that same sibling was going too far away from their house. It took Pepper, Happy and you to console Morgan and she was finally ready to send you off–only with a (pinky) promise of visiting her during holidays.

Rhodey and Happy helped you settle in your newest house- a penthouse in manhattan that your dad left behind for you. That was 3 months ago. Now, fully settled in your new space, you’ve decided to restart college to finish your degree that was put on pause because of a giant purple psycho. You had decided you will stop the whole Avenger shit the moment you lost your dad. You needed to leave that life behind in order to move on, and what better than being filthy educated and eventually finding a normal job?

Well, let’s just say it didn’t go as planned.

I mean, really, were you expecting to just magically heal from the most traumatic time of your life in three months, with no therapy or contact from your family and friends?

Panic attacks are like your best friends. The other day you had a panic attack because you found a scarf that was gifted to you by your dad. Embarrassing, really.

Nightmares are something you have been walking hand-in-hand with since your dad was kidnapped and you were just a little kid. But now, every night you close your eyes and you see your father’s lifeless eyes staring back into yours.So it’s not surprising that you have become insomniac as well.

Overall, you were continuing the Stark legacy of being severely mentally ill but not doing anything to help it or accepting any help. The only difference was that you chose NOT to drink until you blacked out because after watching your dad do that as a kid, you developed a strong distaste for any type of alcohol. It was so bad, that you got diagnosed with dispophobia– a persistent fear of drinking alcohol. It’s real, look it up.

You chose the other option—pushing everyone around you away until you wallowed in your misery, loneliness and sorrows.

This behaviour of yours was constantly stressing Pepper, Rhodey and Happy out. All three of them did their best to help you and make you socialise, but everytime they approached, you either ignored their calls and messages or told them you were busy (by busy you meant that you were tinkering on your father’s old suits that you moved to your apartment, but you didn’t tell them that.)

Even FRIDAY tried giving them updates on your well-being but you had threatened the AI to not “leak” any of your “information”. This was giving the three of them a major déjà vu. Eventually, they had enough and Rhodey came to your house one day because he knew he’s the only one who can call out your shit. He kinda had a Phd in tackling the Stark family’s issues.

“Look kid, it’s been 3 months. You haven’t bothered to call or text any of us. We didn’t even know if you were alive since you have banned FRIDAY from reporting anything to us as well. Can you please spend one evening with us for a dinner? Hell, if not all of us,then atleast meet up with Morgan?”, Rhodey said firmly with his eyebrows furrowed and arms folded tightly around his chest, leaning on your kitchen island.

You were making your dinner when he decided to come over. Trying your best to be nonchalant, you kept stirring the soup with your back to him, and scoffed, “You sound exactly like dad sometimes.”

Rhodey closed his eyes in frustration. “That’s not important right now. You’re doing the same thing that Tony did when he was feeling all these… emotions. Please, stop this kiddo. You’ve got all of us. Always. Just reach out once and we’ll be there to catch you”, he replied in a soft tone.

You took a deep breath and he saw your shoulders go up and down. You stopped stirring the soup, turned the gas off and turned around to face him.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, making yourself smaller, and intently focused on your shoes to avoid meeting his eyes.

“There’s nothing to ask. I’ve already told you I will be starting college soon. I’ll keep myself productive and occupied. It’ll be alright, don’t worry about me”, you say, your voice scratchy after not using it for a long time.

Rhodey observed you with his sharp gaze. You knew you were screwed the moment you saw Rhodey at the door because he could read you like a book. Honestly, it was extremely intimidating but you will never admit that to his face. He’s been around for your whole life- right from your birth. He knew you like you were his own child.

“FRIDAY, activate babysitter protocol”, he said, his voice stern.

You snapped your gaze up from your shoes to stare at him in confusion.

“On it Mr. Rhodes”, FRIDAY replied.

“What the hell is this?”, you replied narrowing your eyes at him.

“I know you blocked FRIDAY from telling us anything about you. Did you know Tony had an emergency protocol built in so that if there’s anything that went wrong while you were alone, FRIDAY would update him?”, Rhodey replied nonchalantly.

You widened your eyes and immediately teared up on hearing how protective your dad was over you. You were too tired to fight back so you just shut your eyes and wrapped your arms around your body tighter.

“FRIDAY, give me a proper run down of the kid’s activities and schedule in this past month. Including their health”, Rhodey asked the AI while observing you closely.

“OK sir. In this month, they have stepped out of the house only once for buying groceries. The rest of the month they’ve been at home, fixing Mr Stark’s suits”, FRIDAY finished.

At this, Rhodey’s eyes widened. “Tony’s suits? How did you even get these suits?” “They sneaked in the suits 2 months ago, Sir”, Rhodey’s eyes snapped back to yours. 2 months ago- right after you moved in. The suits were at the new compound and they were heavily guarded.

They should’ve known better because did they really expect you, a genius like your father, to not figure out how to hack the systems? It was a cakewalk for you.

You scrunched your eyes in shame and bowed your head. “Kid….”, he sighed.

“Tell me about their health, FRI”, Rhodey asked in a pained voice.

“They’ve had panic attacks almost every week. I suggested taking medication or visiting the therapist, but my requests were ignored. I’ve also observed a spike in their heartbeat everytime a loud noise is heard. They have nightmares regularly due to which they have stopped sleeping altogether. All the stress has made them lose weight, their appetite has lessened and has made them more irritable and unpredictable”, FRIDAY finished (snitched, you think).

Hearing it from someone else made it sound so much worse. You couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down your face.

You were too busy keeping the sobs from coming out of your mouth to notice Rhodey coming closer and wrapping his arms around you. He brought you closer and hugged you tightly and that completely broke you.

You leaned your head against his chest and wrapped your arms around his torso and just sobbed. Rhodey hushed you gently and rubbed your back softly with one of his hands.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t deal with this, Uncle. Please. I need him back”, you said in between sobs while clutching him tightly and pressing your face into his chest. Rhodey teared up at this and put one of his hands behind your head.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Let it out. I’m so sorry I didn’t visit you sooner. I know what you’re feeling. But I’ve got you now. Please allow me to help you?”, he said weakly.

You let out a shuddering breath and tried to calm yourself down. “Okay. ”, you replied in a weak voice. Rhodey broke the hug before putting his hands on your shoulders and let you wipe your tears. He caressed your head and told you, “We’re gonna get you something to eat first. From tomorrow, we will work on your routine and talk to your therapist about your insomnia and panic attacks. And then, you will be taking lots of rest. No more tinkering on the suits endlessly or skipping meals. We will go on walks and you will have a dinner with us at the cabin soon. That okay?”, he asked gently. You looked up at him and nodded your head yes. “Good. Now, you sit your ass down and Rest. Let me prepare your dinner”, he says while moving around you to get to the stove. “Do you even know how to turn on the stove?”, you say in a stuffy voice while wiping your nose with your sleeve and side eyeing him. He abruptly pauses and turns around. “You’re such a little shit, you know that?”, he says sassily while pointing a finger at you. That brings out a genuine smile from you and you just chuckle before he starts laughing as well. Your smile fades slowly. “Thank you. This means a lot to me,” you reply softly. Both of your eyes start tearing up and he just nods his head before giving you a side hug. “Anything for my favourite Stark”, he says in a shaky voice.

2 Months Later

You and Rhodey fell into a rhythm after that night. He stayed with you for some days and got you checked with your therapist and helped you around the house. He took you out for jogs every morning, made you work out and exercise every day. This made you feel productive and gave you a routine to follow. It also improved your appetite and you started to genuinely enjoy making healthy and filling meals.

You stopped unnecessarily tinkering on the suits and the medicines prescribed by your doctor helped you sleep better. You still had a long way to go but you had finally started stepping out of the house and went to a dinner at the cabin. Happy, Pepper and Morgan were so delighted to see you and they told you how proud they are of you. You just gave all the credit to your uncle Rhodey.

Rhodey had become a major figure in your life lately. He’d always been there for you and your dad but now he was like a teacher and mentor to you. All thanks to him, you could get your life back on track. And he was happy to help you anyways because you were like his own child.

But he’d started to take you to various social events lately and you HATED that. You were always a shy and socially anxious kid (a complete opposite of your father.) So the thought of attending social events where so many people and cameras were present…that was enough to send you into an early grave.

“Rhodey….for the last time. I’m not going with you. What am I even gonna do there? Sit and yawn while all you military and political people make speeches? No thanks”, you said breathlessly and jogged a little ahead of him.

He joined you immediately, huffing and puffing, “First of all.” Huff. “Slow DOWN. Jesus Christ.” Huff. And he stopped while putting his hands on his knees.

“Keep up, lazy! We gotta keep THE War Machine kicking and alive, come on!”, you say while jogging backwards and smiling at him.

When you saw that he was not going to join you, you stopped and jogged over to him. “Lazy, my ass. I’m 60 years old, you little shit”, he said while looking up at you, eyes narrowed and hands still on his knees. Still huffing and puffing.

You chuckled and helped him stand up with your arm around his back and another arm holding his. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You wanna sit down? Might as well drink some water, I’m thirsty.”

He nods his head yes and both of you sit down on a nearby bench and take a breather. You’re quiet for sometime, soaking in the crisp morning air and looking at the water fountain in front of you when Rhodey speaks up.

“I know you hate these events. But, please come to this one. We have a reunion in order, anyways”, he says cheekily while looking at you with that big smile of his plastered on his face.

You turned your head to look at him and raised your eyebrow, “Reunion? With whom?”, you ask skeptically. “Please don’t say Steve Rogers, Rhodey. I swear to god, I will never step foot in this city again”, you say, irritated.

He scoffed, “Nah, don’t worry. That’s never happening. It’s Sam. He’s been telling me that he wants to meet you.”

You observed his face for a second to see if he was being serious. “Sam? Sam Wilson? Why would he want to meet me?”, you asked, confused. Ever since the Sokovia Accords were brought into existence and ever since you sided with your father, Steve and the others didn’t want anything to do with your family. But you didn’t have anything against any of them— well, except for Steve. That was personal.

Even back then, you told your dad that you thought Bucky was innocent and that you want him to forgive Bucky somehow. You never met your grandparents so their accident/murder didn’t affect you. And you especially didn’t give a fuck about your deadbeat grandfather who would abuse your dad, but you felt your dad’s anger was justified as he loved his mom. You didn’t have an issue with Sam either. Not even when Rhodey met with that fatal accident that made him lose his legs. You saw the footage, and Rhodey told you as well, that Sam simply dodged. He didn’t cause the fall, nor did he injure him on purpose. The fall happened because his suit malfunctioned. But since Steve was the glue that was holding them together, they avoided talking to you at all. They were simply being loyal. And we all know how Steve Rogers thanked their loyalty in the end.

You would never forgive him for breaking your dysfunctional-found-family apart by being a selfish asshole and by abandoning your dad when he needed his support the most.

Rhodey shrugged. “Dunno. But he was looking forward to meeting you. He’s the kindest man I know, kid. And I know you don’t hold a grudge against him either. Please, come with me. I promise we will go get some ice cream later”, he said earnestly and smiled.

You let out a deep sigh. “Chocolate chips. Double scoop”, you said and lifted your water bottle to drink to avoid looking at his smug expression.

“Oh, you shall get anything you ask for, your highness”, he said while extravagantly bowing at you.

You just smirked and got back up to jog.

The constant clicking of the cameras was quickly causing a throbbing ache to appear behind your eyes. You were dressed in your formal clothes, presentable as always, and entered the museum arm-in-arm with Rhodey.

After giving a thousand repetitive interviews, half of which Rhodey denied on your behalf, you finally saw the man in question—Sam Wilson. Captain America.

Honestly, you were so proud of and excited for him to take up the mantle. It wasn’t a shock that Steve handed over that shield to Sam. He deserved it.

He saw the two of you and came over to talk. As he came closer, you saw just how shocked he was to see you there.

“Whats up, man? How are you?”, Sam said while shaking hands with Rhodey and bringing him in for a hug, all the while flashing his lovely, tooth-gaped smile.

Rhodey patted his back and broke away from the hug. “The usual. I got a surprise for you”, Rhodey said while putting an arm around your shoulder.

Sam, still surprised, flashed another one of his smiles at you.

“I just can’t believe you’re here. I hope you know how grateful I am”, he said earnestly while putting his hand out to shake yours.

You looked at his hand and shook it. “I’m surprised you wanted to meet me”, you say while smirking at him.

His smile faded after hearing that and he looked at you with a solemn expression.

“Yeah. I’m sorry it took me so long. I-” “Mr. Wilson, it’s your turn to speak.” Sam looked back at the woman and nodded his head at her.

“Uh…I’ll catch up with you after all this is done. Please wait until then?”, Sam turned around and asked you, nervously.

Rhodey looked at you to decipher your reaction. “Okay. I’ll wait. But not for long and not in front of these cameras”, you say coolly.

Sam smiles at you and Rhodey before approaching the stage.

“See? That wasn’t so bad”, Rhodey says while leading you to sit at the front row.

“We’ll see about that— not the front row, Rhodes... It’s like you want me to run away”, you groaned while slowing your pace.

Rhodey just laughs and pats your shoulder. “Come on, I’ll be next to you the whole time. You can even crush my hand if you want to.”

You and Rhodey sat down and watched Sam approach the stage.

Sam looked sharp in his well-fitted suit but something about his expression screamed anxiety.

He began his speech.

“Steve represented the best in all of us. Courageous, righteous, hopeful. And he mastered posing stoically”, everyone chuckled at that. You scoffed.

“The world has been forever changed. A few months ago, billions of people reappeared after five years away, sending the world into turmoil. We need new heroes. Ones suited for the times we're in. Symbols...are nothing without the women and men that give them meaning. And this thing...”, he chuckles before picking up the shield and continuing.

“I don't know if there's ever been a greater symbol. But it's more about the man who propped it up, and he's gone. So, today we honor Steve's legacy. But also, we look to the future. So, thank you, Captain America. But this belongs to you”, Sam concluded and handed over the shield to the museum security who then put encased it in a glass case. The camera flashes went off.

You couldn’t believe this was happening. You knew something was wrong the moment Sam stepped up on the stage. Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

You furrowed your eyebrows and turned your head to look at Rhodey.

“Why did he give up the shield?”, you asked confused.

Rhodey solemnly smiled.

“Maybe try talking to Sam about this?”, he explained to you, gently.

You nodded your head in understanding.

Rhodey went over to talk to Sam while you checked out the other exhibits to give them a little privacy.

You ended up looking at Bucky’s exhibit.

They were displaying those clips of him in the 40s, smiling and free of all the pain, and they made your heart clench in sadness and guilt. He deserved better.

“Still can’t believe bionic staring machine was a heartbreaker back then”, you heard Sam’s voice behind you.

You looked at him and smirked.

“As if he’s not a heartbreaker anymore. Those baby blue’s? Could break a grandma’s heart too, which is funny because he would still be older than her”, you joked and looked back at the display.

Sam stood to your right with his hands in his pockets. He laughed at your joke and looked up at the TV displaying Steve and Bucky together.

He let out a sigh and brought his lips together in a thin line.

You looked over to him and studied his profile observed the way he carried tension in his shoulders.

“Penny for your thoughts?”, you asked him gently.

He shut his eyes and looked down, letting out another deep sigh.

“Kid…I’m sorry”, he said, his voice heavy with guilt.

You furrowed your brows.

“For what?”, you asked, genuinely confused.

Sam finally looked up at you with teary eyes. His brows scrunched together.

“Everything. The accords…Rhodey’s acci- injuries. For-for not making an attempt to maintain contact with you, for-”

“Hey. Don’t. I’m not angry about any of that. I never was. And I will never hold a grudge against anyone that wasn’t on my da- on our side”, you cut him off and explained to him firmly. “And if Rhodey isn’t upset about his accident, then who am I to question it? I know you didn’t dodge. It was an accident. I saw the footage way back then, Sam”, you laid your hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

He was overcome with emotion. He deflated as if years’ worth of weight on his shoulders had been lifted off of him. He simply nodded his head.

“If anything, I’m sorry. For everything you had to go through. I hope you’re doing better, now”, you continued.

Sam gave you a half smile.

“Yeah, I’m good. Helpin’ out my sister with the house and my nephews.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. You didn’t know he had a sister or nephews.

Sam chuckled. “Yeah…I got a younger sister and 2 nephews— AJ and Cass.”

You smiled. “I had no idea. I’m glad you guys can live together again”, you replied sincerely.

“Thank you, kid. I had no idea you’re so….nice”, he smirked.

You let out a loud laugh. Contrary to popular belief and rumours, you were a good and polite kid. Your dad, Pepper, Rhodey and Happy made sure of that. It was always funny to find out how people would judge you on the basis of your last name. But, it could also be because of your resting bitch face.

Both of you quieted down and looked at the display once again, when you decided to finally bring it up.

“Sam, why’d you give up the shield?”, you asked curiously.

He pursed his lips.

“That shield is heavy. And I don’t know if this country is ready to see a man like me bear the weight of it. No matter how many times everyone keeps telling me that it was Steve’s choice, they don’t know the consequences of me being Captain America until they wear my shoes. Steve didn’t know it either because at the end of the day, our skin colour doesn’t match and that isn’t suitable for the shield”, he replied heavily.

It felt like someone had put cold water on top of you, his words cutting straight through your ignorance. The pressure that Sam was undergoing would never be understood by anyone who didn’t look like him. That’s why Rhodey was so understanding of his decision.

You straightened up.

“Oh. Sam, I’m so sorry. I didn’t-”, you paused to gather your thoughts and word them carefully. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I should’ve known better. I understand. And I respect your decision”, you replied, genuine understanding dripping from your words.

Sam looked at you, surprised. He wasn’t expecting you to understand his situation.

“That’s- it’s..alright kid. Thank you for understanding me. It means a lot”, he replied sincerely and patted your shoulder.

You were about to take his leave when he spoke up.

“Listen, I got a proposal for you.”

You quirked an eyebrow.

“Just…hear me out, okay? Rhodey told me to keep an eye out for you whenever he’s busy. Says you do well with discipline in your routine. If you don’t mind, you could join me and help me out with the tech stuff, you know?”, he said hesitantly.

You were about to deny his offer when he put his hands out in a placating gesture.

“I know, it’s been a long time. You’re not interested in this stuff anymore. But I could use some extra hands and who better than a Stark to help out with technology, right? And, who knows, maybe you’ll make a friend”, he tried to convince you.

“A friend? You think I’m some loner or what, Wilson? (You kind of were, a loner, but we will ignore that.) And just who is this friend?”, you asked him with narrowed eyes.

“He’s my new team member. A tech savvy nerd, like you. You’ll get along, trust me. Except I’ll warn you, that boy yaps a Lot”, Sam replied while chuckling.

That sounded way too familiar to you. You immediately froze and just stared at Sam, lost in thought. All those unwanted and painful memories were coming back to you.

Sam put his hand on your shoulder and you snapped out of your stupor.

“You don’t have to answer me immediately. Take your time, the offer is always open for you. Okay?”, he asked hopefully, ever the optimistic counselor.

You let out a big sigh.

“I don’t know. I’ll see”, you murmured. You could feel that uneasy feeling creep up your veins that told you to shut down, keep everyone away and to run somewhere far away where you could be isolated in peace.

You were finally feeling comfortable in your little bubble that consisted of you, Rhodey, Pepper, Happy and Morgan. Now you had to go out and make yourself accommodating and welcoming again. You had to repeat everything and start from scratch. It was a lot. You were not ready for that.

Healing is never linear, you knew that. But you were doing so well for the past two months. You clenched your fists and begged your mind to keep it together. You were pretty good at masking it.

Sam just nodded his head and patted your arm.

“Come on, I’ll walk you and Rhodey off.”

You both returned to Rhodey and said your goodbyes.

“See ya, old man. Take care of yo’self, alright?”, Sam said while hugging Rhodey.

“You too, Wilson”, Rhodey said before breaking the hug and patting Sam’s back.

“I’m proud of you, Sam. Never forget that”, Rhodey said gently.

Sam just smiled weakly and patted Rhodey’s shoulder before turning to look at you.

You looked at him and gave him a barely there smile before surprising him with a hug. You don’t know what came over you but you just wanted him to know that you appreciated his support and the conversation that you two had back there. Your words failed you, so you did the next best thing you knew– a hug.

He looked at Rhodey over your shoulder and patted your back like an older brother.

“Take care, kid. Think about what I said”, he said after breaking off the hug.

You simply nodded your head yes.

“And both of you are invited to the family cookout, alright? Rhodes, make sure you bring them with you. Sarah makes a mean cornbread”, Sam says while pointing at you.

Rhodey chuckles and you grin before departing.

You sat in the car and looked out of the window, deep in thought. You were processing your conversation with Sam and debating whether you should join him, or not. You couldn’t help but keep thinking about this friend that he mentioned and how he reminded you too much of-

“Whatcha thinkin’?”, Rhodey asked lightly, as if to not startle you.

You glanced back at him and turned your attention to the front of the car. You sighed softly.

“Had a good chat with Sam. We apologised to each other and sorted out our misconceptions.”

“That’s good, right?”, Rhodey asked and tilted his head to look at you.

You nodded. “Yeah. It was really nice to clear all of that up. He’s so…lovely to talk to. We also talked about his decision to give up the shield. I felt so stupid when he explained it to me. How could I not understand that beforehand?”, you said while clenching your jaw, feeling guilty for judging his decision.

Rhodey gave you a soft smile.

“Atleast you’re self-aware, sweetheart”, he said lightly.

You finally gave him a smile.

“Yeah. He also gave me an offer. To join him”, you said hesitantly.

Rhodey smirked knowingly. Sam had already discussed this with him.

“And? What’re you thinking?”, Rhodey asked nonchalantly so as to not freak you out.

You let out a deep breath.

“I don’t know. I’ll think over it”, you replied with finality in your tone.

Rhodey felt the walls build up again so he backed off instead of pestering you to talk more.

“That’s okay. You can take all the time you want, kid. There’s no rush”, Rhodey said sincerely.

You looked at him and squeezed his hand.

“Shall we go get that ice-cream now, your highness?”, Rhodey joked.

You finally let out a chuckle and nodded your head yes before turning your attention back towards the window. You let out a sigh.

You were not going to get any sleep tonight.

Part 2

—————————————————————————

AN: Whew. This was so LONG, I’m so sorry. 😭🙏 but I just couldn’t stop writing because I love me a stark!reader as that’s literally me but also I needed some found family content + closure between the stark family and the cap fam, too. Which is why I had to break it in 2 parts. Our lovebirds will meet in the 2nd part. Keep guessing the references and this mystery person until then.😛 thank you for reading!

[thesharktanksdriver]

Devils may love?: resolution of the heart, return of the mother, and revenge of the son

The briefcase is a reference to re4 since the original dmc was the scrapped version of re4….also Dante being lowkey jealous of lady and vice versa. You’ll be seeing more of that in this series lol, both are pining so hard

Links for: masterlist, part 1, part 2, part 4

Tag list:@galaxylibella @dragon-lord-lysander @idleviewer @rosvaline @superbfuryfest @localeggdealer @mellophoned

Ten years had passed since the Temen-ni-Gru incident that would change your life as you knew it

And so much yet so little had changed and happened

You healed, that’s one thing for sure even if it took a long ass time

All the while Dante and lady took turns taking care of you within the slowly fixed up devil may cry

It was surprising but your healing was longer than Dante getting off his ass and fixing the place

Though that was done through your considerate effort of telling him that if It still wasn’t mostly presentable by the time you could walk then you’d spritz him with water again

That and maybe guilt worked well enough as a motivation factor and he got to work

And soon enough that place was slowly fixed

First the doors and smaller things like the pool table

But then eventually the desk, jukebox and various other amenities were replaced

You’d even spruced the place up a bit with a new coat of paint plus some plants and a nice old Persian rug you’d thrifted

In all honesty you were somewhat glad to have the chance in helping Dante rebuild

Because it made rebuilding yourself a bit more easier as well

With your apartment destroyed and several ribs broken you had become a roommate to Dante in devil may cry

He’d always lived on the second floor of the building which was thankfully not destroyed compared to the first

So you had been set up in a extra room beside his own during your recovery period and rebuilding

In that time of him and lady both taking Jobs, making money and ensuring you didn’t cough up a lung you’d taken to fining a new space for yourself

A hopefully better apartment maybe a bit closer to work

And also one you’d hopefully make into a proper home unlike your last

With the destruction of your pervious estate you actually got something out of it

A fresh start and some sweet sweet compensation money

So with that and your savings you eventually found a place much to Dante’s whining about you leaving him

Yeah, he made it sound like you were divorcing him and taking the kids with how he practically grovelled at your feet

Fucker was probably just upset you weren’t making him pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream anymore

lady didn’t find much amusement in his whining considering how she’d smack him on the head whenever he brought it up

Speaking of her, though lady wasn’t technically apart of devil may cry besides a few missions here and there that she or Dante needed help, but she frequently showed up at the office

Sometimes it was a quick swing by in which she’d poke her head in and give you a smile

Something you’d respond in vigour with

Even if Dante pouted that you seemed more happy to see her than him

Other times she’d give you company while Dante was out on a mission

Sitting down with you to talk about all the things you’d missed when you dropped out

Like Mrs Smith and Mr Johnson being caught together in a storage closet despite both being married

Or how Chris from math ended up confessing to the entire class that he was into feet

Wild times that made you the slightest bit relieved you missed it all

At some point lady has also sold her family home

Staying there brought too many bad memories

Especially considering her moms blood had still stained the floorboards

So she sold it

Moved on and used the money to get herself a cozier place compared to the large but silent home she once lived in

Then burning her dads old books and journals of ramblings in a bonfire that you and Dante helped her with

You think It was cathartic for her

She’d cried into your shoulder that night as the fire crackled and roared

Dante patting her back silently as she gripped onto you as her only lifeline

A few days later she finally buried her mom

A small funeral taking place between her, you and a few others

The entire time she clung to you once more

All you could do was try and console her as best you could

But that was enough for her

Mary was dead and you were the last piece remaining

You’d keep that small part of her alive with each smile and giggle at inside jokes you’d both once had

In 10 years you’d like to think that you’d grown a bit more as a person

It was natural, especially considering you’d gone from an 18 year old dropped into the wanted and told to sink or swim

And then a year later nearly died in a demon tower

That changed a person both physically and mentally

And you were no exception

For one you began pursing your passions in the form of hobbies on the side

The things your parents never let you indulge in

Never let you explore or even try in favour of pushing whatever extracurricular they wanted on you

The funny thing was that you probably weren’t even good at what you indulged in

But you didn’t care

You just found it fun

And sure, you might’ve sucked

But at the end of the day when you looked at the the fruits of your effort it was all worth it

Worth every cent or penny you’d spent

Worth every part of your savings not used on sprucing up your new home

Worth the way in which you get your “kidnapcation bonus” as Dante had put it oh so nicely at the time

For as broke as Dante perpetually was, he’d always paid you well and the “bonus” was no exception

If anything it was way too much for what you expected or really wanted

Jobs that he was given by Morrison or by customers with the password always came with fat cash

But despite that you quickly learned the money didn’t last long with him

Not on the fact he spent it quick on himself (well…beside maybe his pizza or sundae tab and his collection of red leather coats) but rather because he spent it on others

He spent it on anonymous donations to those affected by the temen-ni-Gru tower

The non profits that popped up to help survivors of the surrounding chaos and shelters that took in people who were displaced

Spent it on a place called “grue’s cellar”, seemingly for a debt he thought he needed to repay to who it was named after

A man who was a former friend and died, leaving his two remaining daughters to take up the mantle for the seedy bar used as a hub for mercenaries and brokers

Tiki and Nesty

That’s not even mentioning the other generous donations to the Goldstein family

He’d told you about it once, you had asked why he sent so much to those two in particular when he could sometimes barely afford to keep the lights on

Not in an accusatory manner but rather out of a simple curiosity

Especially since those two cases were much more specific compared to the regular charity work

Not to mention how much he sent to both

So he explained

And after hearing about the loss of Nell and Grue you’d made it a habit to also send flowers to both of their graves each year

A small thing you’d done as a silent gesture yet something Dante caught onto

He never said anything about it

Just hugged you when he’d caught you placing yet another order for yellow roses to be placed at Miss Goldstein’s grave

Though you didn’t know her or Grue you’d felt a need to honour them

Not only for Dante’s sake but also as a thank you to both of them

A thank you for Nell for creating the weapons that kept your dumbass of a boss alive each mission

For Grue it was for the fact he’d looked out for Dante and welcomed him during a time Dante had been lost with no direction

All this to say you got extra compensated from Dante to pursue what you wanted and have a lot more than you’d initially thought

Not a bad thing per say

But you most definitely don’t save the rest for when the dumbass urgently needed it…definitely not

……ok maybe you did but you also saved it for the fact that you’d also started gun courses with Dante

After the tower incident you realized that maybe some firearm lessons could do you a favour in the future

And Dante couldn’t disagree with the statement

And neither could Lady either

So Dante had took over in showing you the basics of gun safety and how to properly use a handgun

Lady seemed a bit sour she couldn’t be the main instructor

But Dante had brought up a good point of him mainly working with pistols whilst she used a literal canon half the time

And maybe that was also her slight competitiveness showing

She was always like that in school as well

Showing off and one upping others playfully

Sometimes it was with things like sports other times it was through verbal exchange

A playfully snide smile as she curled an arm around your shoulders

And though those times had passed she still kept that edge

Especially against Dante

When he would help your line up a shot at a target he set up she’d occasionally slide in

Much to his chagrin

You didn’t mind much unless they were tugging you from the other

Like kids fighting over a toy

Though maybe the three of you were all emotionally stunted in your own ways

Which was probably true even if you didn’t want to admit that

Through months of missing your shots and not even hitting the target you’d eventually say you had decent enough Handle of a gun now

Not the best

And certainly not to either of their levels

But both of them seem proud of you

Not to mention somewhat relived that you now at least knew some sort of self defence

and once more that was enough

“Now here’s how you do it honeypie, you just gotta-“ Dante stands to your side helping shift your aim ever so slightly. He’s interrupted by lady who jabs him with her elbow, moving him out the way

She places a hand on your hip and uses her leg to shift your stance a bit. She presses against your back ever so slightly, bringing her hand to lower your aim as Dante once did. “Don’t listen to him hon, he’s off slightly”

“Hey! I wasn’t off lady!”

“Yeah you were! And you didn’t notice it nor did you notice their stance”

“Making mistakes are apart of the process”

“Your just saying that because you were too distracted looking at their a-“

“Guys can we please focus on the fact that we’re in a public shooting range right now and your quarreling like your divorced“

Like you Dante had changed in the 10 years since the Temen-ni-Gru

Though that’s not much of a surprise

Especially considering Vergils descent into hell and the subsequent feelings that would follow

Your not exempt from it either

Even now you still feel pangs of guilt pierce your heart

You replay the scene in dreams

Never able to get to him in time

Yet always there to see him fall

His eyes staring out from the abyss of hell

Blue and burning with a motivation that you can’t excuse but can understand

In his honour you’d reread William Blake when you could

Thought over his interpretations

His words

Wrote them down and your own in a little book

Debated with what you remember him saying

His words in blue, yours in black

Ink settling on a page

For as little time you’d known him, and for as bad as the situation and he was

He still kept a small bit of your heart

Because you know he couldn’t have had it any better than Dante after that night

Not to mention he believed his mom abandoned him

You can’t hate him

You can hate his actions and his pride but you can’t quite hate Vergil

And it’s because of that in your own way you mourn

Similar to Dante but in different ways as well

Meanwhile You know Dante has his fare share of nightmares

Even before loosing Vergil you’d occasionally find him slumped over at his desk

Face scrunching up and fingers twitching as small pleas escaped him

“I’m sorry” and “please don’t leave me” repeated in murmured tongue as he slumped over unconscious

For awhile you didn’t know what the proper course to take was

Wake him up or let him continue to dream of all the demons haunting his mind

After a few times more of it happening you asked him what he’d prefer you to do

He opted for you waking him up

Something that came surprisingly easy

He’d always wake with a startle when you’d place a hand on his shoulder

The gentlest of touches doing so to stir him

Probably from all the years he’d spent having to keep his guard up even when unconscious

But when the dreams of Vergil come it’s something a bit different

You have to fully shake him awake

Almost as if he doesn’t want to be woken up because he wanted to save Vergil

Even if it was impossible

Even if it was for nothing since he’d slip away into the depths of his mind when he woke up

The ending would never chance and even if it had it wouldn’t change the truth of the situation

Before Vergil he’d wake up and wipe away any tears with a smile

Brushing off your concerns

“I had the most terrible dream of the last pizza slice being taken”

But his mumbles beforehand were evident that a slice of food wasn’t his source of distress

Not when he’d call for his mom

For his dad

For his brother

For Nell

For Grue

And perhaps weirdly enough for you

However after the tower he wakes with a jolt and each time nearly falls from his chair

Tears still pouring down his eyes

There’s no lightly brushing off your worries

Instead he simply cries

Looking down at the hand that hadn’t been able to grab Vergil

Tears dripping down onto it and on a cut that had already healed

And yet to him in his mind it seemed to remain

Still bleeding as tears added salt to it all

He shakes

A man you’d seen as a pillar of strength wavers and crumbles before your eyes

And like all those times before your there for him

Sometimes sitting at his side silently, your hand gripping his

His fingers digging into yours, hoping not to let you slip away

Other times you hold him close as you did after all those times he come back from a hard mission

But now no blood soaks you

Just his tears

Just the guilt you both feel

Sometimes he’ll talk

Sometimes you’ll talk

Sometimes he’ll listen

And sometimes you’ll listen

But occasionally you’ll both hum under each others breath

Joining in harmony through tears and suffering

In other ways he changes as well

He’s still Dante for better or for worse but he’s a bit more reigned in

He still jokes around when coming back from a hunt, playfully kicking open the doors with a “honey I’m home!”

Still calls you that infuriating nickname that lady had unfortunately joined in on

Still orders pizza or strawberry sundaes even though he has a growing tab

Not to mention the way he still avoids doing work that isn’t hunting demons

But there’s a sort of quietness to him now

At least when others are there in the haven you’d call DMC

He’s still light hearted and Sauvé but you can tell he’s being more calculated

He’s more careful

More guarded

You can’t blame him though, not after the tower

Not after Vergil or god forbid Arkham

But with you at least he’s his usual self

When those doors close and it’s just the two of you in devil may cry he’s the Dante you know

And come to begrudgingly appreciate

He puts on the jukebox to goad you into dancing with him

Pulling your from the desk to drag you into doing some moves to some cheesy 80’s love ballad

A few chuckles escaping you when he does some cringey move and fake singing the lyrics as he spins you around

Or the other times in which he’d once again plant the paper work far out your reach when he noticed you were getting tired

Or how he’d insist to walk you back to your new apartment, his arm around your shoulder then entire walk there even if it was 10 minutes

At the end of the day when all things mattered he was still your Dante

Even if now he didn’t act like a complete idiot when clients were around

….Oh and he got a tan-

The sound of echo and the bunnymens “lips like sugar” wafts through devil may cry as the owner to this quaint demon hunting store spun you around in a mock waltz. “Dante I swear to god!-“

“She floats like a swan, Grace on the water. Lips like sugar, Lips like sugar~” for a guy who probably never learned calculus he somehow knew how to dance “Just when you think you've caught her, She glides across the water. She calls for you tonight To share this moonlight”

“Dante the bills are due-“

“You'll flow down her river, She'll ask and you'll give her.” He spins you around, then hitching his leg out to swipe out one of your legs to dip you down “Lips like sugar, Sugar kisses, Lips like sugar, Sugar kisses~”

Despite your initial annoyance you can’t help but laugh at his goofy dance moves and singing

You once thought the Temen-ni-Gru would probably be the pinnacle of your work experience for Dante

To be fair, not many would say that their boss’s evil twin would kidnap them and summon a demon tower their dad used to seal off both the human and demon world

Not that many situations could top that

So you can’t exactly be blamed for the fact that besides that and the demon raccoons would be your worst work experience

Unfortunately you’s proven wrong once more

But hey, it took 10 years to get there

And it all started when a clone of Dante’s mom had appeared

J

It had initially been a rather slow week for DMC

No good jobs popping up quite yet

No customers with the password phoning in

In all honesty it was kinda nice minus the fact that in that boredom Dante decided to impale the cut off heads of various demons to the wall

Like a macabre set of paintings fit for the Adam’s family mansion

Paintings that you’d have to inevitably have to clean up after once the blood settled and stained the floor (thankfully not on the Persian carpet, you’d been adamant on that and Dante had thankfully been mindful of it)

And thrown away said heads once they begun to rot and stink up the place

But that was an activity and something to fret over later

A familiar sound of the phone ringing makes you perk up as Dante picks up the receiver

You scoot a bit closer to listen in on the conversation, gliding across the desk as you sat on its edge

“Devil may cry” you both await for the recipients next word, only for a small bit of disappointment to swell up in both yours and Dante’s chest, no password “sorry we closed at 9…again no password. Can’t seem to get any real business”

“Well look on the bright side, at least there’s less things going bump in the night for regular people” you say sliding off the desk, shoes making a clink on the hardwood.

“Yeah i guess…but that does mean less is going on your paycheck to settle my tab Honeypie”

“First of all for the thousandth time do not call me that, secondly if you do that I’ll-“

Before you can finish your threat Dante suddenly pulls you close

Tugging you into his arms and into his chest that feels more like a brick wall

You can’t help but audibly omph when your head smacks against pecs of solid steel

Though it’s not heard over the fact that the door was busted down into pieces by a motercycle that skids into the shop

Tires grating against the floors that days earlier you polished

Internally you scream at your hardwork being tarnished yet again

But by now that’s routine

The perpetrator sitting atop the red bike was a woman, long blond hair and in a combo of leather pants and leather lace up bodice with sunglasses

A woman who looks familiar in a way you can’t put your finger on

“Woah, slow down babe! I’m a taken man already” he’s far too lax for someone who literally had someone break down the doors to his shop, not to mention his protective reaction earlier.

With a snack to his chest you break free from his hold mumbling a “The hell you are!” Before getting up and moving to the side away from the blond who took a look around the shop. Circling the desk like a shark and occasionally looking to you.

“Well, well, what do we have here? Natures call? It’s in the back” he motions to the back of the shop, if this was his way of trying to get you out of here it wasn’t working. Not when you’d have a bone to pick with with woman for scuffing the floor when he was done probably fighting her later.

“So…you must be the handyman who will take any dirty job? Am I correct?” She props a hand on her waist, you’d give her this, she’s certainly hot enough to pull off the sexy and mysterious look and vibe. Wouldn’t save her from your wrath.

“I only take special jobs. If you know what I mean.” Dante pulls his sword out from the wall, uncovering the chest of a busty woman on a poster. God knows why he decided to put that thing up in the first place. “If you came to ask that, my lovely assistant could’ve answered you instead of barging in”

“You’re the man who lost a mother and brother to evil twenty years ago” at that you go a bit more still than you’d like to admit. That wants public knowledge nor did Dante go telling people that all Willy nilly. She did research. Dante’s grip on his sword tightens as she adds “the son of the legendary dark knight, Sparda. Mr. Dante.”

“Well the way I figure it, in this business a lot of your kind comes around” he twirls the sword walking forward as you walks a bit more back “and if I kill each one that comes, eventually I should hit the jackpot sooner or later.”

Not threatened by the sword now pointed at her the woman simply replies “in that case, you should be used to this sort of thing.”. Suddenly her arm crackles with electricity which surged through the sword she grabbed with her bare hand. She then kicks Dante back sending him through the desk making it crack in two before grabbing and impaling the sword through his chest by throwing it at him.

“God damn it” it’s grunted with a small breath of defeat as you pick up a gun tapped under a table, taking a shot they do literally nothing to the woman since she fries them bullets mid air. With one hand extended to you while the other electrocuted Dante. Thankfully though that’s where the electricity stops, it doesn’t shoot out to attempt kill you as it did him .

“Good try but if he can’t beat me neither can you” She doesn’t turn to say this to you but she seemed glance at you with the corner of her covered eyes before turning her attention back to Dante “but are you really the son of the legendary dark knight, Sparda? Didn’t your daddy teach you how to use a sword?”. You can’t do much to try and stop her as she bare handed picks up the motercycle and throws it at Dante. You were qualified for targets not this shit.

Thankfully though this is when Dante decided to actually respond, twirling his guns as if a piece of machinery wasn’t currently headed his way. “A sword? Hah, time to go to work guys” ebony and ivory are fired in rapid succession, the machine is stoped mid air and flung back in an array of bullets and fire. The woman dives away from the machine as it’s sent back like a boomerang, while you’re left to wonder why Dante had to be this dramatic. “Even as a child, I had powers. There’s a demonic blood in me…”he says this still impaled.

“What strength…”

“What a pain” you grumble looking at the flames crackling, already going to grab a fire extinguisher.

“You’re only one outside Honeypie over there to know about my avengance. And I know for fact that they didn’t spill” he pulls the sword out from his chest to stab it into the ground, then pointing a gun at the woman “it looks like I’m getting closer.”

There’s a beat of silence in which the woman sizes him up and then gets up. “It seems that way. But I’m not your enemy. My name is Trish” you’re calling bullshit on that “I came to seek for your help… to put an end to the underworld.”

“What?” Wow, you and Dante were in sync

She takes of the sunglasses, turning to the two of you dramatically. A familiar face you’d never seen truly in person stares back, that of Dante’s deceased mother Eva. Her photo on the ground reflects the flames yet to be put out in an ironic twist of fate.

Dante has never really gone out of his way to hide stuff from you before…well besides the dirty mags he would stuff into the bottom drawer of the desk you’d now once more have to replace again

He was usually honest with you

He made it a point to be honest with you on most subjects unless it was too personal

But even then after around 11 years of working with him there wasn’t much that you didn’t know by now

You knew how he preferred the sweet scents of strawberries for his laundry down to the flavour of cake he and Vergil had on their birthday

Most of which he told you because he trusted you

Yet now your left in the dark as the white haired hunter busied himself in preparation

Besides the aftermath of the incident 10 years ago you’d never seen him so shaken

as you swept away debris and ash it’s easy to see how he’s breaking a bit internally

The photo of Eva out of its broken frame held by his shaking hands

He looks damn near a panic attack and no matter how much you try to talk to him he won’t listen

You know how his mothers death has eaten at him

Seen it in how he looks to that photo

Pressing a kiss to his fingertips that he then pressed against the cold glass of the frame sometimes on days he was particularly down in the dumps

Sometimes you find him holding it close on what you assume to be her some sort of anniversary for her

Perhaps it’s her birthday or maybe her death day

Your not sure

But either way it resonates in him down to his very core

And now is no exception when seeing the doppelgänger that was Trish

He’s rattled and you can’t blame him

But you can get a bit annoyed when he doesn’t tell you anything

Doesn’t tell you where he’s going

Nor what exactly the blond woman had technically “hired” him for besides her whole “put an end to the underworld” thing

At least before he’s always told you what the mission was and where he’d be

But now he refuses staunchly

Shooting down all questions as he loaded up ebony and ivory

Avoided looking you in the eyes when you said you were worried for him

Could only hold you closely and tightly for a few minutes before he left

His hands gripping you as if he was afraid to let go

As if he was expecting that he wouldn’t possibly hold you again

“stay safe while I’m gone ok? Don’t know how I’d run this place without you Honeypie” escapes him as he seems to try to memorize your touch against his own.

All the while you want to say “and I don’t know how I’d live without your presence in my life” yet you hold back for his sake. In his eyes you can see how he wants to say more yet holds back for different reasons compared to you.

It kills you

Absolutely destroys you when he leaves with something he wants to say but shakes the thought away

Swallowing down whatever words he meant to speak aloud

Only for them to die in his throat before walking away

The doors remains shattered on the floor yet it feels as if he’d slammed them in your face

And your left to pick up the pieces of the office

All the while Lady was meant to arrive in a day or so

To “keep you company while I’m gone” but was likely a bluff by Dante for her to be your bodyguard

You weren’t adverse to her company by any means but it was annoying to you that it feels like he can’t trust you on your own

Because whatever had gotten to him left him afraid for you

So Terrified that he had to run off without telling you where he was off to

Not even caring to think of how if he’d never come back how much it would crush you that you wouldn’t at least be able to bury him

Though, if it’s as serious as he’s treating it then you’d probably be dead not long after

…even then though, you could have only a day left on earth and you’d spend it trying to give him a proper burial if you could

Sighing you pick up the dreaded broom and look at the destroyed DMC

The wood from both the desk and door scattered across the burnt flooring with skid marks. Chunks of metal from the motorcycle scattered around with a healthy share of bullet casings mixed in

This was gonna take awhile….

Starting with sweeping you drag the bristles across the floor

Already mentally adding up how many things could be fixed whilst how many needed to be replaced

All before you find something

A small piece of Paper?

Pausing in your actions you knelt down to pick it up

Unfolding the small note so see something written on it

“Mallet island?” You mumble it aloud looking at the fancy cursive that definitely wasn’t Dante’s along with the fact that a lipstick mark of crimson red stained the fibres. Seems like Trish had left you a clue.

This was a shit idea

So plainly stupid that you’d be idiotic to go

But maybe Dante’s antics had been slowly making you more and more dumb over the years

All the stupid jokes and pranks finally catching up and decreasing your brains cells by the minute

Or maybe you cant stand the thought of him bleeding out reaching for someone

Anyone

But dying alone in some forgotten place never to be found

Yet mourned by you and the few others he let close into his tender heart

it’s perhaps selfish but you don’t want him to think he’s in this by himself anymore

The look in his eyes before he left spoke volumes

He thought he might not come back from this

Thought he’d potentially never get to see you again

You’d felt it in his touch

In his eyes as they attempted to burn your face into his memory as if to remember while he laid dead and alone

He looked like that boy you’d met at dmc all those years ago

Hiding the hurt with jokes

Storing the loneliness away with smiles

Resolute in believing that he had no one left in this world

But that wasn’t true anymore

He had Lady

He had Morrison

He had you

And you couldn’t let him do this on his own

It’s selfish and it’s stupid and You’d be practically signing your own death certificate

But for Dante you’d do it in a heartbeat, same for Lady as well

Because both have done so much for you

Dante especially

He made you feel alive

Wanted

Cared for and appreciated

So even if he didn’t want you to go

Begged you not to, you wouldn’t let him face this alone

Not when he’d be facing something that had him scared down to the very depths of his heart

Gripping the small note that Trish left, you set off whilst silently asking for both Dante and Lady to forgive you

And also mentally thanking them for teaching you how to defend yourself

Getting to mallet island is no easy task

It’s in the middle of buttfuck nowhere in the ocean

Which was saying allot because most places in the ocean were the middle of nowhere as well

So this particular place was a pain in the ass to get to

But thankfully Trish had seemed to predict this since after apparently dropping off Dante she came to pick you up while you were in the middle of bartering with a fisherman to drop you off at the island for a cut of your pay

Safe to say your paycheck was thankfully not cut in two and the fisherman gave her a particularly nasty death glare

Not that she cared though

She just guided you to an old plane in a small hanger

Admittedly following a woman who you knew had lightning powers and had previously fried Dante like one of those mosquito electric tennis rackets was perhaps another stupid idea

But at this point you were allowed to make all the bad decisions you wanted because you’d never experienced making them in collage

Sitting in the small aircraft you can’t help but look at Trish

Because sure, she looks like Eva but you don’t know Eva

Not truly anyways

So to you she’s someone who’s face you’d seen

Heard about in stories

But had no personal connection to in the way Dante had besides knowing that she was important to Dante

But because of that you could separate her from the woman in front of you

This wasn’t Eva, you and Dante both knew that but even still Dante couldn’t let go of the visage of his mom overtop of the stranger in front of him

You knew that well when before he left he kept staring at the photo of his mom

Nearing a panic attack as you did your best to help him through it

Acting as his anchor in the moment

The rock he could lean on just as he’d been for you on hard days

You couldn’t possibly know a fraction of what he felt

But you could at least attempt to help him through it

Which was why you began talking to the blond

Trying to get whatever answer you could out of her through small talk

She’s guarded

Mysterious to a near maddening degree

But there’s something to Trish that’s equally telling as her obscurity

She’s not human, or at least not fully human

That evident with her wielding of electricity and the visage of a dead woman down to the smallest details

But what’s more telling his her mannerisms

Trish doesn’t act human

When she blinks it’s after too long intervals

Sometimes her pupils dilate to slits when she thinks you aren’t looking

Nails a bit too pointed for acrylics

But what’s most telling his how she interacts with you

It’s awkward but not in the way of an awkward conversation

Moreso like she wasn’t sure how to act with you because your human or some extra additive in an equation

She could pull on Dante’s strings because of her resemblance but she didn’t have that advantage with you

Thus leaving you at a slight advantage when it came to her

Your not blinded by the past

So you ask her about things

“How did you track down Dante?”

“Word of mouth and some connections”

Though a decent answer at first it doesn’t give you much to work with and it’s too unspecific which makes it all too suspicious

Neither you nor Dante have heard of her before

Sure, she could be new to the mercenary/hunter scene

But even then word spread fast amongst the area because of how it was a niche job

And something especially would have spread with someone like her joining it

That’s not even accounting for the fact that if she’d been asking around most others would’ve alerted Dante

The select cluster of hunters in a certain area you learnt looked out for one another even if they competed for jobs

It was a weird honour code thing

Dante knew about it as did Lady

In fact it was Dante who helped her establish herself once she joined the scene officially as well

This honour code somehow also extended to you since through the grapevine Dante was able to warn you of a PI your parents tried to hire to find you

Something a sort of colleague/connection gave the heads up to weeks in advance

Safe to say that PI was scared off via both Dante and lady’s combined efforts

And if a rando was asking around it would’ve raised eyebrows and you would’ve gotten a call before she even entered the shop

So while that answer is good at first glance you know better to look behind the curtain which raises more questions

“What dragged you into this?”

“Personal reasons, same as you in a sense. Unlike you though I have to do this”

Was she implying she was doing this for someone else?

It’s hard to tell with how her expression doesn’t break but stays impassively neutral

Though her fingers tap on the yoke of the plane

Nervous?

No maybe not, but maybe something else like guilt?

She’s implying that you could back out

That you didn’t have to be here unlike her

But something or someone is making her do this

Maybe whether she wants to or not

Was she also trying to subtly warn you? Tell you to turn back when you could?

It makes you raise an eyebrow and mentally store that for later

Hopefully once she probably betrays you she’d tell you her reason

And you’d be able to tell Dante

But with that question after question comes and goes

“How old are you?”

“Aren’t you not supposed to ask a woman her age”

“What do you do for work?”

“Hunting”

“The specific kind?”

“What else would I be going to Dante for?”

“How’d you know about Dante’s family?”

“Connections and some digging”

“Did you also dig up stuff on me?”

“Some….though that was moreso due to your association with Dante, otherwise I would’ve left you alone”

“Well that’s reassuring”

“If it’s any consolation, I just know your work history and that you didn’t finish schooling”

The back and forth is exhausting in how vague and cryptic she is

She’s definitely practiced these answers and how to evade or dodge answering things

Give a response that would typically satisfy others into not realizing they’d never gotten a resolution to the question

But after years of Dante you’d become a pro at recognizing that

Especially when the bastard tried to skirt around admitting he didn’t fill out a report

Or when he tried to not tell you that the raccoons in the back somehow got into his gun stash and that the very clear sounds of gunshots in the back were instead nothing to worry about

She’s slick but but slick enough

Though on the subject of her being slick you can’t help but look at her outfit

Dante would probably kill you for saying this but you had to admit that she looked pretty god damn good

The leather was sleek and had an air of confidence that she exuded

Not to mention it was stylish as all hell

A stark contrast to the white button up and jeans you’d wore

Maybe it was lady’s fashion magazines and constant hounding for you to step out of your comfort zone with fashion but you can’t help but ask

“So uh…maybe a weird question but” you pause for a minute looking at her through a reflection “where’d you get the leather? I’ve been looking for a place that sold good quality stuff since forever now and-“

Ok maybe retrospect that was a bit out of nowhere considering the situation and all the other questions before hand but you had to admit the leather was a good fucking look

Not only was it durable but it was just cool as hell

And maybe a nice leather piece added to your ensemble like a fitted leather vest would be nice-

Shit, maybe Dante had been rubbing off on you more than you thought

His collection of red leather you’d have to wash on a near constant basis

And his new look of red leather coat over red leather vest combo

Damn him for looking good in the fashion department when he’s on job

At dmc despite having a great closet he opted for

somehow this is the question cracks at her Stoney answers

Getting a genuine laugh coming from her painted lips

Cherry red glistening from dying sunlight as she began the process to land

Something you hadn’t noticed over admiring her clothes

“From a place I forgot the name of” she replies before adding after a moment “but I’ll tell you if I remember its name”

The plane lands skidding against a half hazardly cleared runway near the edge of the island

From above and in person mallet island radiated loneliness

Something you come to feel from both yourself and Trish once she lands

The smile of your previous comments fading as she hardened once more

Seemingly remembering what her object was, whatever it is

She opens the door to your side of the plane, offering you a hand to get down from the small drop

Her touch feels electric

Like the feeling of static electricity before it shocked you

Yet it doesn’t

Just a lingering feeling of a threat

She explains that she’ll meet you later on the island

Had to ensure the plane ended up somewhere it wouldn’t be tampered with

A convenient excuse yet something you don’t dare question aloud

You just nod as she twirls the keys around her pointer finger

She turns to go

But you feel as if you need to say one more thing

“Hey! Thank you for the lift! Maybe once this is all over you can take me to that store and we can go shopping together”

you can’t help but thank her

Perhaps it’s stupid, but their entire idea was the stupidest thing known to man

But you thank her because at least for now, she was helping you

Even if she had ulterior motives

Even if she’d backstab you later and kick your body in a ditch to rot

Even if she led you to walk into the lions den knowingly

At least for this small moment she was an ally and you felt the need to thank her for her help

Even if for a minute she was on your side

At that she paused

Going completely still as if processing your simple words

‘Thank you’ two words that can convey so much

Words your repeated so much in your childhood yet never revived from anyone but Mary and eventually Dante

They could mean so little and yet also convey the world

And you have a feeling that if for a moment just like her allyship that your words meant the latter

A simple thank you meant something to her

Makes her pause

Maybe even makes her feel a semblance of guilt as she looks over her shoulder at you and nods

“Sounds like a plan” the edges of her lips quiver and you’re unsure if it’s from keeping down a smile or guilt seeping into her.

The island looms before you as you look down at the pistol in your hand and briefcase of goodies in your other

Truthfully you just kinda grabbed any weapons you could alongside ammo and some medical supplies and threw it in there

That’s not even mentioning the stuff that was previously in the case that was quickly overlooked and you shoved shit in and closed it in a hurry

Only gods of organization knew how you were able to cram so much In a 8 by 12 square grid system but you’d done it

Whats perhaps even more miraculous was the fact that you could even carry the military grade briefcase

Maybe it was magic?

All you know is that lady gave it to you “in case you need it one day” with a wink and pat on your shoulder

She then left it at that, not answering any of your questions of what prompted this as she shoved the case into your hands and walked off to do a mission or something

A sly look in her mismatched eyes and a kiss blown your way that Dante pretended to catch and shove into a blender

Which earned him a reminder of his increasing debt with that somehow tacted onto it

Knowing her there was probably some sort of canon in there that you overlooked as you packed in some handguns and a pair of swords that looked cool

You sigh, your grip on the case and the gun tightening as you began to make your way up to the mansion?

Your not exactly sure what else to call it besides maybe a castle villa

Immaculate stone walls curling up into the sky as you walked pathways carved into the islands side

Stone on the left whilst a steep fall into the ocean on the right

A safety hazard in every meaning of the word not even mentioning the living safety hazard that was Dante ripping and tearing through this place already

You will admit though, this place was beautiful

A solemn sort of beautiful with its gothic peaks and intricate stone masonry

Yet the place screams and cries of an unspoken tragedy

Whether it happened or was yet to come was undetermined until you began the trek to walk its halls

To selfishly help your begrudgen friend and idiot of a boss

Your not the best at fighting still, just barely started being able to hit the bullseye of targets set up

But this wasn’t something you’d let him do alone

Not when the ghost of his mother haunted him in a form of blood and flesh

So shaking away your worries you enter the castle

But not before also shaking away the distinct feeling of being watched

A pair of Golden Eyes peering into the back of your head and disappearing just as your turned to look over your shoulders

Lingering for just a moment longer staring out trying to search

Before making your way to your mission

Entering the eeriest place known to man the entrance? Which was a crack in the wall closed behind you

Sealing you off from walking out of this nightmare and waiting outside

Something that your mind screamed at your dumb tender bleeding heart

But what’s done has been done

The door to safety has closed

This leaving you to voluntarily walk towards the nightmare

And boy was this place creepy as fuck

Walls of stone surround you as you walked around this decrepit place

A crumbled stairway lit by dull candlelight

Distant echoing of footsteps and the occasional ticking of a grandfather clock

Greek pillars tower over you in an imposing manner as a statue of a man atop a horse rides into a mock battle in front of carpeted stairs

The fact you swear you feel eyes follow you yet again

Everything here makes your grip tighter than before

Fingers clamping up so damn hard it hurt

But perhaps tighter than your grasp is your resolve

So you press onwards

Heading onwards through an unlocked blue door

It seems you found where Trish seemingly took the plane? It was hung up

But that didn’t make any-

You know what your worry about that later

What you needed to worry about were the weird ass puppet corpses scattered in the ground

A clear sign Dante or something else had already been through here

And what you should expect to potentially fight

The puppets themselves are half hazardly stitched together

With crude weapons in their wooden hands

Strings cut leaving the marionettes dead on the ground in their colourful Italian garbs

Despite them being on the ground already defeated you don’t risk it

Instead giving each a shot to the head as an extra measure

Some twitch and flail but then fall stiff like their wooden limbs

And you enter through a twin spur of red doors

Finding a long hallway and a room you quickly enter with yet another red door

Maybe specifics the door colour was unneeded but helping catalogue it could be beneficial later on

Especially since your already starting to think this place was a maze

There you find a small library’s worth of books scattered across tables with scrolls tucked away in boxes

And then a statue on a pedestal

The watcher of time

Distantly in the temen-ni-Gru you remember walking past a few of these

It was seemingly something connected to the demon world

Vergil mentioned Something about lesser demons offering the blood of their own kind to be blessed with the lioness woman’s grace

She stares impassively at you through band carved marble

The hours glass atop her back making her strain and yet she offers grace

A kindness in feline eyes

Though you don’t have much to give her you decide to make a small cut on your finger for her

Letting a few droplets of blood drip down onto her mantle as an offering

Even if your not Dante who can benefit from this you’d at least like to think you’ll get some luck from this

You’d need it

You hate this place

It’s claustrophobic and cold

Hallways twisting like snakes within a labyrinth

Filled to the brim with various variations of demons

And now almost more than anything you hate puppets (you still hate Arkham’s jester ass more but soon it might be second place)

Your been following Dante’s trail of destruction through the various hallways and a courtyard

Not to mention climbing up a tower

All the while more puppet parts trailed ahead of you

You knew Dante was skilled and quick but damn did he make it through this place in a record time

It was impressive even fro him

Especially considering his tendencies to fool around and show off in combat

Instead of going for quick and easy kills as you had he metaphorically played with his food

Making showy finishers and changing between weapons and fighting styles

Making combos in quick succession

Here though it’s clean cuts

Methodical with how their sliced in half or how the head is cut off

You guess it does make sense that maybe he was particularly upset

This was about revenge or something

With a sigh you slip into yet another room

A pair of wooden doors open to reveal a bedroom you basically deflate at the sight of

Your sure as hell you’d hadn’t aged the worst of the worst that this villa had to offer but those puppets sure as hell drained you

Because sure, Dante and Lady trained you

But that still didn’t mean you were necessarily a pro nor enjoyed this

You just cared too much about Dante to go against your own discomfort to do this

Blood drips down and stains the once pristine white of your button up

Dirt and gunpowder mixed in as well

The room itself is pretty nice

A big canopy bed likely covered in dust

A statue of a woman that looks like it needed to have something implied in the chest to release a glowing gem

An ominous mirror that has the reflection of some weird demon knight in it

A desk of old tomes-

Wait what was that part with the mirror

You whip your head back to the mirror just in time to see a figure walk its way out the reflection

Imposing was one way to describe it? Him? Her?

Well whatever the demon knight was exactly

curled horns pointed downward

Well used looking armour

An ominous purple glow

And most wields though the eyes

Golden glowing eyes that bore into you to a degree you didn’t know possible

As if the demon was trying to stare directly into your very soul for whatever reason

Shit bullets definitely aren’t going to work on it, not with that armour

And you definitely don’t have time to rummage through your briefcase hoping for something to get the upper hand

Not with the giant ass sword on its back dripping demon blood…

A realization hits you

Perhaps along the way the trail of bodies was at some point was Dante’s

But it seems at some point this knight was the one making the bread crumb trail knowing you’d follow

Purposefully leading you to here

A trap

You knew walking into this place was a trap in the first place

Like walking into the labyrinth as Theseus did

But you hadn’t expected something quite like this

Intentionally leading you to here

To this dusty ass bedroom

Wait, why’d he’d lead you to a god damn bedroom of all places to ambush you?

Was it the dramatic mirror entrance? If so literally popping out of nowhere would’ve been just as creepy

This is so weird even beyond the whole demon shit happening that it’s kinda ridiculous-

Your snapped from your racing thoughts as the knight outstretched a hand towards you

Gloved yet with pointed claws

Despite aiming at it there’s no reaction

Not like it had much to worry about anyways when you’d bullets probably would do nothing but still

You had to do something

Protect yourself at least a little before you died

So you’d at least say you died trying to

Or died in battle to end up in Valhalla or something

“Hey stop!” The knight doesn’t heed your words, its gloved claw still getting closer “I’ll shoot asshole!”. It’s a bluff, you can’t not when for some reason your body freezes in some sort of doe response. Never thought you’d become one of the horror move protagonist with the survival instincts of an apple you’d used to complain with Dante about, but here you were.

Its gaze is piercing, making your body feel as if it’s frozen under the weight of its power and its weird motivation to stare at you. Its face, or what you had initially assumed to be its face doesn’t move even as you begin to hear it speak in a quiet and strained voice that broke at every word uttered “hold…infinity…palm…han-“.

Whatever it strained to say is interrupted when the door opens revealing the familiar red of a certain demon hunter. Blue eyes widening when seeing you and then the approaching hand of the demon knight. He doesn’t think, Dante just moves to action whipping out ebony and ivory. “Hands off pal” his tone lacks the usual joking edge and it’s instead sharp and cold, he pulls the triggers shooting at the gauntlet making its movement stop inches from you. The face you now realized to potentially be a mask whipping around to the intruder with a huff only you can hear it exude. “This stinkin hole was the last place I’d thought I’d find anyone with guts, especially someone with the guts to try and harm my assistant” though less cold than what he’d said earlier there’s still a tense anger to his words, a bitting edge to his mocking.

The knight doesn’t respond to him or attempt to talk as he did for you, instead keeping its gaze on you a moment longer before snapping its fingers and making the balcony doors open. It pauses and then motions for Dante and you to follow before jumping down into the courtyard below, the doors closing behind it.

Immediately afterwards Dante turns to you and you tense up perhaps even moreso than with the knight.

You were so screwed.

Even if you survived Dante, Lady was sooooo gonna kill you

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (1/3)

- Summary: After you are left greatly injured by a dragon riding accident, the small council puts pressure on your father, King Viserys I, to have another male heir.

- Pairing: (male!targ) reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (rating will go all the way up for the last two parts)

- Word count: 9 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. ❤️ I hope you enjoy the first part. I've tried to fit into this one most of the information you've given me. The rest will be in the next two parts.

- Next part: 2

The council chamber buzzes with tension, thick as smoke, as the lords gathered around the long table cast uneasy glances at King Viserys. The king, grey hairs creeping into his Targaryen silver, wears the weight of the realm across his brow. His gaze is distant, fixed on the empty chair at the end of the table where you, his only son, should be sitting, were it not for the incident that left you bed-ridden, your ribs shattered and your leg mangled. The air is tight, a storm brewing beneath the grand stone arches and tapestries that adorn the walls.

Viserys lets out a weary sigh as Grand Maester Mellos, hunched and robed in the dull grays of his order, speaks. “Your Grace, the Prince’s injuries are… severe. His recovery remains uncertain, particularly with the damage sustained to his leg. There is concern that even if he does survive this ordeal, he may never ride Dallax again.” Mellos’ tone is cautious, as if picking each word with tweezers.

At that, Otto Hightower, ever poised and calculated, leans forward with his usual practiced air of concern. “It is regrettable, Your Grace, but these events could have been avoided had the young prince exercised more restraint. Dragonriding is no sport to be taken lightly, yet Prince Y/N chose to put himself and others at risk with those… dangerous maneuvers during Maiden’s Day celebrations.”

The jab is subtle, but the intent is sharp. Otto’s words are always carefully weighted, his voice smooth as oil yet edged like a blade. There’s a flicker of something behind Viserys’ eyes at the mention of your name, but it’s Corlys Velaryon who rises to your defense before your father can respond.

“Dangerous, you say, Lord Hightower? A dragonrider’s bond with his mount is not something to be dictated by the whims of others,” Corlys counters, his voice deep and resonant. “The Prince, young as he is, shares a bond with Dallax that most dragonriders would envy. To stifle that connection for fear of injury would be to deny what it means to be Targaryen.”

Tyland Lannister, ever opportunistic and sharp-eyed, cuts in with a smooth smile, “While that may be true, Lord Corlys, we cannot ignore the situation at hand. The heir is gravely injured, and we do not yet know the extent of his recovery. The Crown’s stability must be maintained, especially with Queen Aemma carrying another child. We all pray for a healthy son this time, as it would ensure—”

Viserys’ eyes narrow, cutting off Tyland mid-sentence. “You would dare place my son’s potential death before the birth of another heir?” There’s a warning in the king’s tone, though it lacks the sharpness it might have once had. He looks tired, older somehow, as if the weight of his crown presses down harder with each passing year. “Y/N will recover. He is strong, like his mother.”

Otto’s voice slices through the tension again, softer but no less cutting. “No one doubts the Prince’s strength, Your Grace. However, we must be practical. The realm must always have a clear line of succession. Given the uncertainty surrounding Prince Y/N’s condition, ensuring that the Crown is secure with another male heir is not an option to be taken lightly.”

Corlys shoots Otto a disdainful glance, his irritation evident. “It seems some here are quick to forget that Prince Y/N is still very much alive. Would you so easily cast him aside, Hightower?”

Otto doesn’t flinch. “I speak only of the reality we must face. The Prince’s injuries are a reminder of the dangers inherent to our lineage. Daemon Targaryen was much the same in his youth, reckless and bold. Look where that has led him. The realm cannot afford another… unsteady Targaryen to destabilize it.”

Viserys’ face hardens at the mention of Daemon, but there’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. It’s no secret that Otto sees you as another Daemon-in-the-making—bold, fiery, and likely to cause as much chaos as your uncle once did. But Corlys, undeterred, presses forward.

“The Prince is no Daemon, and it is folly to compare the two. Y/N is his father’s son, and he carries his mother’s heart in him as well. You speak of him as though he were already lost, yet he fights even now to return to us.”

Mellos interjects, his voice soft yet firm. “We must consider all possibilities. Should the worst happen, the realm would be thrown into disarray if another male heir is not secured. Queen Aemma’s pregnancy provides an opportunity to ensure stability. No one wishes harm upon Prince Y/N, but the Crown must prepare for all outcomes.”

The chamber falls silent as Viserys leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His eyes flicker from one lord to the next, the weight of their words heavy upon him. It is clear that this is not just about your health, but about the fear that haunts every Targaryen king—the fragility of power, and the burden of legacy.

At last, Viserys speaks, his voice measured but lined with steel. “Y/N is my son, my heir. He will recover. We will not speak of replacing him while he yet breathes and fights. The Queen’s child—should it be a boy—will not supplant my son’s birthright.”

The lords exchange uneasy glances, but none dare press the matter further. Otto’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes calculating, already plotting his next move. Corlys gives a satisfied nod, as if some silent victory has been won in this battle of words.

“Let us end this meeting,” Viserys declares, standing abruptly. “My son needs me at his side, not in this chamber, bickering over shadows.” With that, the King strides from the room, leaving the lords in tense silence. 

The echoes of that discussion linger, the council divided, the seeds of doubt planted. But in the end, it is your fate, your strength, that will determine the realm’s future. Whether you rise again or fall will shape the course of House Targaryen’s history, and those who doubt you now will soon see just how much fire runs in your veins.

Alicent Hightower’s fingers work restlessly, picking at the skin around her nails until they redden, a nervous habit she can never seem to fully break. Her eyes, tinged with worry, flicker toward Rhaenyra, who paces before the hearth, her face a storm of emotions. The princess is rarely still, her movements a reflection of her restless energy. But today, there’s an undercurrent of unease in her steps.

Rhaenyra finally pauses, catching Alicent’s gaze, her expression softening just slightly. “You’re worried about him too, aren’t you?” Rhaenyra’s voice carries a note of exasperation, though it’s more for her brother than for Alicent. “Everyone is,” she adds, her tone a mix of annoyance and affection.

Alicent nods, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress as she carefully forms her next words. “I heard the fall was… grave. My brother, Gwayne, he’s been beside himself with worry. He asked after Prince Y/N’s condition, but I haven’t had the heart to tell him much, as I didn’t know the truth of it myself.” Her eyes search Rhaenyra’s for any sign of reassurance.

Rhaenyra gives a small, mirthless laugh, though there’s fondness in her voice. “It was a bad fall, yes. Several broken ribs, a twisted leg… it was awful to see him like that, especially with all the blood. But you know my brother—his head’s still intact, and that’s all he seems to care about. He was already jesting the moment I rushed in to see him after it happened. Can you imagine?” She shakes her head, lips curving slightly. “The first thing he told me was that the dragon landing was all Dallax’s fault, as if the creature hadn’t been trying to save him mid-air.”

Alicent lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The tension in her shoulders eases just a fraction, and despite herself, a soft smile graces her lips at Rhaenyra’s words. “That does sound like him,” she says quietly, her voice warm with a touch of relief. “He’s always been kind to me, even when others were not. I thought I might visit him, to see how he fares. But I didn’t want to intrude… especially with everything happening.”

Rhaenyra’s sharp eyes catch the shift in Alicent’s tone, the nervous edge behind her request. Her smirk returns, a knowing look that dances in her violet eyes. “Is that all, Alicent? You simply wish to return a kindness?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but it isn’t cruel—rather, it’s affectionate, as one might tease a younger sister.

Alicent’s cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink, and her fingers return to picking at the skin of her thumb. “I only thought it would be polite…” she trails off, clearly flustered under Rhaenyra’s knowing gaze.

“Polite,” Rhaenyra repeats, almost to herself, savoring the word like it’s some private joke. Then, with a mischievous glint, she steps closer and leans in as if sharing a secret. “Why don’t we visit him now, then?” she suggests, her voice both challenging and inviting. “I was planning to see him anyway, and I imagine he’s bored out of his mind. You’d be doing him a favor by distracting him from all the fussing Grand Maester Mellos has been doing.”

Alicent blinks, caught off guard by the sudden suggestion. “Now?” she echoes, her heart skipping a beat. She had been expecting to arrange a visit discreetly, perhaps later in the day, but to go now, with no time to compose herself or prepare… She hesitates, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering wildly. But then, she straightens her spine, smoothing out the folds of her dress. “Yes,” she replies with quiet resolve, the flush still faint on her cheeks. “Let’s go now.”

Rhaenyra’s smirk softens into a genuine smile. “Good. He’ll be glad to see you, I’m sure of it.” She turns and leads the way, her stride confident and purposeful, and for a moment, Alicent is struck by how effortlessly her friend carries herself, a blend of grace and fire that draws everyone’s eyes.

Alicent hurries to match Rhaenyra’s pace, her thoughts racing as they walk down the long corridors of the Red Keep. She’s already imagining what she’ll say when she sees you, how she’ll carefully choose her words to avoid showing too much concern, or worse, revealing the affection she’s kept hidden for so long. It’s no secret that she and you share a certain awkwardness in each other’s presence, a tension that dances between propriety and something unspoken. But perhaps this visit will be different, she tells herself. Perhaps today she’ll find the courage to speak more freely, to let you see the care that lingers behind her usually composed exterior.

The clang of armor and the soft murmurs of passing courtiers fade into the background as the two young women make their way toward your chambers. The air seems heavier the closer they get, anticipation thickening with each step. Rhaenyra glances at Alicent from the corner of her eye, noting the way her friend’s hands twist together nervously. “You know,” Rhaenyra says casually, breaking the silence, “he’s probably expecting me to bring news of the council meeting. But I think he’ll be more interested in who I’ve brought along.”

Alicent’s breath hitches, but she quickly composes herself, offering a light, practiced smile. “I only hope I don’t disturb him.”

Rhaenyra chuckles softly. “Disturb him? You’re more likely to brighten his day, Alicent. He’s been locked away in that chamber long enough. I’d say he could use the company of someone with a gentle touch.”

As they near your chamber doors, the conversation fades, leaving only the echo of their footsteps in the dimly lit hallway. Alicent’s heart pounds in her chest, nerves battling with the quiet thrill of finally seeing you after days of anxious waiting. She takes a deep breath, her hand resting briefly over her stomach as if to steady herself, before glancing at Rhaenyra, who gives her an encouraging nod.

The heavy oak door creaks open, and the first thing Rhaenyra and Alicent see is Queen Aemma, heavily pregnant, perched on the edge of your bed, fussing over you with the care only a mother can give. Her hand smooths the unruly strands of silver hair from your forehead, her gaze filled with a mixture of sternness and deep worry.

“You should be resting more,” Aemma chides softly, adjusting the pillows behind you for the third time. “It’s a miracle you survived that fall. You push yourself too hard, my sweet boy.”

You chuckle, though the sound is edged with the discomfort you try to hide. “Mother, I’m hardly on death’s door,” you say, your voice light despite the tightness in your chest from the bruised ribs. “You’re embarrassing me, fussing like this in front of my guests. I’ve survived worse—remember the time Dallax nearly knocked me off during that storm over Dragonstone?”

Aemma gives you a look of mock disapproval, though her eyes glisten with affection. “That’s no reason for you to go risking your life every time you’re in the saddle. But I suppose I’ll leave you to your visitors. If you need anything, send for me at once.” She leans in, ignoring your protest, and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Behave yourself, and don’t be too stubborn,” she adds with a small smile, before gracefully rising from the bed.

As she turns, Aemma’s gaze softens when she sees Rhaenyra and Alicent by the door. “He’s in good hands now,” she says warmly, giving Rhaenyra a brief but knowing smile, before excusing herself from the room.

Once Aemma is gone, Rhaenyra moves closer, her usual air of confidence returning as she grins down at you. “So, how is my brave brother faring today? Still planning to be back in the saddle by week’s end, or has the council convinced you to take up a life of courtly entertainment with Mushroom?”

You chuckle again, though it comes out more like a wince. “Well, if I can’t fly, I suppose I can stand in the throne room and juggle while Mushroom tells his bawdy tales. It might be just what the court needs to liven things up.” Your eyes gleam with amusement, though there’s a hint of frustration beneath your humor, the kind only Rhaenyra would notice. You’ve never been one to take well to being bedridden.

Rhaenyra snorts in amusement, shaking her head. “I’d pay good coin to see that. Though I doubt our dear father would find it as amusing as the rest of us.”

Your gaze drifts then, catching sight of Alicent standing just a little behind Rhaenyra, her hands clasped together nervously. She gives you a small, polite curtsy, her cheeks tinged with a soft flush. “Prince Y/N,” she greets, her voice gentle, almost tentative. “I heard about your fall, and… I was worried. I hope I’m not intruding by coming here. I—”

“Alicent,” you interrupt, your tone softening as your expression shifts into one of genuine warmth. The playful banter fades, replaced by something quieter, more sincere. “You could never be a bother. I’m glad you’re here, truly.” Your words seem to ease some of the tension from her shoulders, and the corner of your mouth lifts into a reassuring smile.

Rhaenyra looks between the two of you, her smirk deepening, though she wisely stays silent for the moment, letting the exchange unfold.

Alicent takes a hesitant step closer, her eyes briefly meeting yours before she looks down at her hands. “I… I wanted to bring you something,” she says, her voice nearly a whisper as she reaches into the pocket of her gown and retrieves a small, delicately woven ribbon in shades of deep crimson and gold. “It’s just a token, to wish you a swift recovery. I know it’s nothing much, but I thought…” She trails off, the blush deepening on her cheeks as she holds it out to you.

You reach out to take it, your fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment—a touch so light it’s almost imperceptible, yet it sends a ripple of warmth through you. The contact lingers in both of your thoughts longer than it physically lasts, and you catch the way her breath hitches slightly, the same way yours does. “Thank you, Alicent,” you say, your voice softer than before. “It means more than you know. I’ll keep it close—perhaps it’ll speed along this recovery of mine.” Your thumb brushes against the fabric of the ribbon, savoring the thoughtfulness behind the gift.

Alicent’s lips curl into a shy smile, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of relief and something else—something tender that neither of you have the words for yet. “I’m glad… if it helps even a little,” she murmurs.

Rhaenyra, ever perceptive, clears her throat pointedly, though there’s a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Well, now that you have such a fine token to aid in your recovery, brother, you’ll be back on your feet in no time. And if you do decide to take up juggling, I’ll make sure it’s the talk of the court.”

You roll your eyes at Rhaenyra’s teasing, but there’s warmth in your gaze as you turn back to Alicent. “Next time, maybe you could bring Gwayne along. I’m sure he’s been worrying just as much as you have.”

Alicent nods, still holding that shy smile. “I’ll see if he can visit soon. He’s always asking after you.”

Rhaenyra steps back, giving Alicent a pointed look before quirking an eyebrow at you. “So, shall we sit and keep you company, or do you have other princely duties to attend to from your bed?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, wincing slightly as your ribs protest. “I think I’m due for a bit of entertainment. It’s been dreadfully dull in here with nothing but Mellos’ remedies and reports from the small council. Stay—both of you.”

With that invitation, Rhaenyra finally settles into a chair near your bed, while Alicent quietly takes the seat on your other side. For a moment, a comfortable silence settles in, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the quiet sounds of the Red Keep outside your window.

But beneath that surface calm, there’s a new feeling—not unpleasant, but charged with possibilities unspoken. You and Alicent exchange brief, sidelong glances, your minds both swirling with thoughts you’re not yet ready to give voice to. And though Rhaenyra pretends to be absorbed in adjusting her skirts, you know your twin far too well to miss the satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

The morning sun filters through the stone arches of the courtyard, casting crooked shadows as you make your way through the Red Keep. The steady thunk of your cane against the cobblestones marks each step, your gait still uneven from the injury. Though you’re no longer bedridden, the limp remains, a constant reminder of the fall that nearly cost you everything. Despite this, there’s a quiet determination in your stride—strength buried beneath the calm exterior.  The deaths of your mother and brother cloak your soul and heart with grief, but you continue to go on as months drag on. Because your mother would wish for you to stay strong, you know this in your bones.

You’re just about to reach the library when you hear the low, familiar drawl of your uncle, Daemon Targaryen. “Another council meeting, and once again, your name was left unspoken,” he says, stepping out from the shadows of a nearby pillar. His silver hair gleams in the light, and there’s a sharp edge to his eyes that matches the curve of his smile—part amusement, part disdain.

You pause, turning to meet his gaze, though you remain composed, unbothered by the subtle provocation. “I’m used to it by now, uncle,” you reply, your voice even, almost indifferent. It’s not a complaint, merely a fact, a truth you’ve come to accept. The small council rarely considers your presence necessary these days, not when Otto Hightower holds sway over your father and lords like Tyland Lannister whisper about the need for more ‘stability’ in the line of succession.

Daemon’s expression darkens, his eyes narrowing. “Used to it?” he echoes, his voice dropping with barely contained irritation. “They push you aside as if you’re nothing more than an afterthought, a decoration. And you’ve grown comfortable with it?” He steps closer, the intensity in his gaze unmistakable. “You’re the king’s son, his heir, yet you let them treat you like some soft-spoken scribe, buried in books and songs while that leech Otto tightens his hold around your father’s neck.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the cane, though your expression remains calm. You meet his eyes steadily, unflinching in the face of his scorn. “I prefer to choose my battles, uncle,” you say quietly. “Like Dallax, I know when to show my teeth. There’s no sense in snapping them at shadows.”

Daemon scoffs, a mix of exasperation and grudging respect in his tone. “Spoken like a poet, not a dragon. You should be making them fear you, not waiting for the perfect moment that may never come. They should see fire in you, boy, not this... apathy.” His frustration is clear—he’s never had patience for subtleties or caution, preferring the boldness of action over waiting in the wings.

But you don’t flinch. You’ve long learned that the fire in your blood doesn’t need to be on display at every moment. “And where did being feared get you, uncle?” you ask with a hint of amusement in your voice. “You’ve been exiled twice, alienated half the court, and have more enemies than friends. If that’s the path you think I should follow, then perhaps I should throw more reckless tournaments and provoke the lords with tales of misrule.”

Daemon’s eyes flash, though there’s a hint of grudging admiration beneath the irritation. “Perhaps I’ve made mistakes, but at least I act. I don’t hide behind patience while others pull the strings. You speak of showing your teeth when the time is right, but when will that time come? When Otto’s scheming has woven its webs so thick that there’s no air left to breathe?”

You give a small, knowing smile. “You mistake stillness for inaction. Even a dragon rests before it strikes.” Then, with a touch of humor, you add, “And besides, Dallax may have thrown me, but I landed well enough.”

That draws a snort from Daemon. “Landed, yes. With a leg that’ll remind you of it every day.” Despite his harsh words, there’s a glimmer of reluctant approval in his eyes. “But you’ve got a point—Dallax hasn’t eaten you yet, so perhaps you’ve earned a measure of respect. Just don’t think that quiet strategy will protect you forever. Sooner or later, you’ll need to show them who you are, nephew. And when you do, make sure they remember it.”

You nod slightly, letting the words hang between you for a moment before you turn away, your pace deliberate as you resume your walk. “I’ll keep that in mind, uncle,” you call over your shoulder, a hint of dry humor lacing your tone. “Perhaps one day, we’ll both show them our teeth together—when it truly matters.”

Daemon watches you go, his eyes lingering on your form as you disappear into the corridors. Despite the tension, there’s an unspoken understanding between you. You both know that fire is not always meant to be unleashed at every provocation—it can burn hotter when contained, waiting for the moment to strike with devastating precision.

But for now, you choose patience, aware that when the time comes, it will be all the more powerful for having been held in check. As you leave your uncle behind, a small, satisfied smile touches your lips. You know your strength, and you’ll reveal it when it’s most needed—not before.

The fire crackles quietly in the small chamber as Alicent sits across from her father, Otto Hightower. The room is dimly lit by the glow of the hearth, and the air feels heavy with unspoken tension. Otto’s eyes are fixed on his daughter, sharp and calculating, as he recounts the events of the recent small council meeting.

“The council remains divided,” he begins, his tone measured. “The matter of succession is still a delicate topic, but it’s clear that the King will not remain unmarried for long. The realm demands stability, and he knows it.”

Alicent’s brow furrows, her head snapping up at the implication in her father’s words. “Father, you can’t possibly be suggesting—”

Otto’s gaze remains steady, unyielding. “I’m not suggesting, Alicent. I’m stating a reality. The King is vulnerable, grieving, and the pressure of the realm weighs heavily on him. It’s only a matter of time before he considers remarriage, and when he does, you must be ready.”

Alicent’s expression hardens, a rare defiance flickering in her eyes. “I won’t do it,” she says firmly, though there’s a tremor beneath her voice. “I won’t be used like this.”

Otto’s patience visibly thins, a tightness forming around his mouth. “Is this about the Prince?” he asks, his voice edged with irritation. “You’ve grown fond of him, haven’t you? You think that because he’s been kind to you, that he’s somehow different, somehow worthy of your loyalty?”

Alicent shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers twisting in her lap as she struggles to find the right words. “He is different,” she insists, though her voice is quieter now. “Y/N is the heir, Father. He’s kind, thoughtful, and gentle in ways that others aren’t. He doesn’t play these games like the rest of them do.”

Otto’s expression tightens, his frustration barely masked. “The boy is reckless,” he snaps, his tone cutting through her protest. “Too much like Daemon, whether you see it or not. He flies that dragon of his in dangerous stunts to impress the smallfolk, and he’s already alienated half the council with his indifference to their politics. You think kindness will make him a strong king? He’s more likely to lead the realm into chaos than rule it with a steady hand.”

Alicent’s chest tightens, anger flaring in her eyes. “He’s not Daemon!” she retorts, her voice stronger this time. “He’s nothing like him. Y/N has a heart that Daemon lacks, and he cares deeply for those close to him. You only see what you want to see because it fits your plans.”

Otto’s eyes narrow, his patience worn thin. “And you see him through the lens of a girl smitten by his gentle words and kind gestures. You think he’ll protect you from the harsh realities of court, but you’re wrong, Alicent. This isn’t about what you want—it’s about what the realm needs. The King’s decision must be guided carefully, and you will play your part.”

Alicent’s heart races, her throat tightening with a mixture of fear and resentment. She knows there’s little room for argument when her father takes this tone. “I won’t betray him,” she whispers, her resolve wavering under the weight of her father’s expectations.

Otto leans forward, his gaze intense. “You’re not betraying him, you’re securing your future—and the future of our house. You will do what’s necessary when the time comes. The King’s affections can be swayed, and when they are, you must be there. You’re a clever girl, Alicent. Don’t let emotions cloud your judgment. Remember, loyalty to your house comes first.”

She lowers her gaze, the firelight casting shadows across her face. The thought of maneuvering against someone she’s grown to care for—a young man who has only ever shown her kindness—makes her stomach twist with guilt. But Otto’s expectations press down like a vice, and she knows all too well the consequences of disobedience.

“Prepare yourself,” Otto says, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “When I give the word, you must be ready to act.”

Alicent swallows, her resolve crumbling beneath the weight of her father’s will. She nods, unable to muster more than that, her mind churning with conflicted thoughts as she tries to reconcile the path being laid out before her. Her heart aches with the burden of what she knows may come—sacrificing her desires for the sake of duty.

As the conversation falls into a tense silence, the crackling of the fire is the only sound that remains.

The Red Keep is quiet in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun casting shadows through the stone corridors. You walk with only a slight hitch in your step now, the limp almost entirely gone after months of healing. It’s a small victory, but one that fills you with a new sense of freedom, a reminder that you’ve come through the worst of it. Yet, as you round the corner into one of the smaller courtyards, the sight that meets you sends a jolt of concern straight through your chest.

Alicent is seated on a stone bench beneath a tall tree, her shoulders trembling with barely contained sobs. Her hands cover her face, and even from a distance, you can hear the quiet, heart-wrenching sounds of her crying. It’s a rare thing to see her like this; Alicent is usually so composed, so careful in maintaining the image of poise that’s expected of her. But here, alone—or so she thought—she’s unraveling.

Without a second thought, you approach her, the concern plain in your eyes. “Alicent,” you call softly, your voice gentle, almost hesitant as you close the distance between you. She startles slightly at the sound of your voice, quickly wiping at her tears in a futile attempt to regain her composure. But it’s clear that the floodgates have already opened, and there’s no hiding the raw emotion in her eyes.

“Y/N,” she manages, her voice catching as she forces a tremulous smile. “I didn’t think anyone would be here…”

You kneel down in front of her, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your leg. “What’s happened?” you ask, your voice full of warmth and concern. “You’re crying, Alicent. Talk to me. What’s troubling you?”

For a moment, she can’t meet your eyes, her hands clenching in her lap as she struggles to hold back more tears. But when she finally looks at you, the anguish in her gaze cuts straight to your heart. “It’s my father,” she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of her confession. “He’s… he’s been instructing me, pushing me to get close to the King. He… he wants me to…” Her words trail off as a fresh wave of tears spills down her cheeks. “I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be a pawn in his games.”

Your expression softens even further as you take in the depth of her distress. Without hesitation, you reach out and gently cup her cheek, wiping away her tears with the pad of your thumb. “You’re not a pawn,” you murmur, your voice low and steady, infused with a tenderness that you reserve only for her. “You’re Alicent—kind, thoughtful, more than any of these schemes or plots.”

She closes her eyes at your touch, leaning into the comfort you offer, as if drawing strength from your presence. “But what choice do I have?” she whispers, her voice cracking. “He’s my father. If I don’t do as he asks, I’ll be seen as disobedient… or worse. I feel trapped, Y/N, and I hate it. I hate how helpless I feel.”

The fierce protectiveness that surges through you is almost overwhelming. You lean in closer, your other hand finding hers and holding it firmly, grounding her. “You’re not helpless,” you say with quiet determination. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. You have my word, Alicent. No matter what schemes your father or anyone else tries to weave, I’ll be there. You’re not alone in this.”

Her eyes snap open at your words, searching your face for any hint of doubt, but all she finds is unwavering sincerity. There’s a softness in your gaze that she’s come to rely on, a steadiness that offers her a sense of safety she’s found nowhere else. “But how can you protect me from all of this?” she asks, her voice laced with desperation. “You can’t control what the King decides, or what my father pushes me to do.”

You smile, a gentle curve of your lips that holds both reassurance and quiet confidence. “Perhaps I can’t change everything,” you admit, your thumb still brushing away her tears. “But I can stand by you. I can make sure you don’t have to face any of this alone. And if they try to force your hand, they’ll have to deal with me first.”

Her breath catches at the intensity of your words, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, the weight of courtly duties and schemes fading into the background. She clings to your hand, drawing strength from the way your fingers entwine with hers. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “You don’t know how much it means to hear that.”

You squeeze her hand gently, offering a small but genuine smile. “You deserve to be happy, Alicent, not burdened with all these games. Whatever happens, you have a choice—and I’ll be here, no matter what.”

There’s a long pause as she looks at you, her heart in her eyes. It’s a look that speaks of more than just gratitude; it’s a mixture of emotions that neither of you can quite name yet, a deepening connection that lingers just beneath the surface. “I believe you,” she says softly, her voice steadying at last.

For a moment longer, you stay there, kneeling in front of her, your presence a quiet but steadfast comfort. The world outside the courtyard feels distant, irrelevant. Here, in this quiet corner of the Red Keep, the schemes and pressures of power seem to hold no sway.

As you help her rise to her feet, your hand still holding hers, you can see a spark of resolve returning to her eyes. “You are not alone,” you tell her, a promise wrapped in those simple words.

And for the first time in what feels like ages, Alicent allows herself to hope that she won’t be swallowed by the games of court—that, with you by her side, she might find a way to reclaim her own path amidst the chaos.

The council chamber is as it always is—filled with tension and the murmur of hushed conversations as lords and advisors deliberate the future of the realm. The lords gathered around the table speak in low voices, with Otto Hightower presiding over the meeting with his usual composed authority. Viserys, looking more weary than ever, listens half-heartedly as discussions about trade routes and tax levies dominate the conversation. Rhaenyra stands off to the side, holding the wine jug as she fulfills her role as cupbearer, her expression one of faint boredom—until the door suddenly creaks open.

All heads turn as you stride into the chamber, unannounced, your cane in hand though you walk with almost no noticeable limp. The lords freeze in surprise, the very air growing still as you make your way directly to your seat at the council table. Your presence is commanding, purposeful, as if you’ve planned this moment down to the finest detail. Rhaenyra’s eyes gleam with amusement as she watches from the sidelines, a smirk curling her lips—she’s the only one in the room not taken aback by your unexpected arrival.

The council members shift uncomfortably in their seats, unsure how to respond. Otto Hightower is the first to speak, his voice laced with thinly veiled irritation. “Your Grace, this is most inappropriate. You were not summoned—”

You cut him off sharply, your gaze piercing as it sweeps across the table. “And it is most inappropriate that I have not been summoned to these talks,” you say coolly, your tone brooking no argument. “I am the heir to the throne, yet it seems my presence is no longer deemed necessary while decisions are made that affect my future and that of this realm.”

Viserys opens his mouth to intercede, but you raise a hand, your eyes never leaving Otto’s. “Save your apologies, Father,” you continue, your voice growing firmer. “This is not a matter of oversight or courtesy. It’s a matter of respect—respect that has been slowly eroding while certain parties here conspire to keep me in the dark.”

Beesbury and Tyland exchange nervous glances, both lords visibly shifting in their seats. The weight of your accusation hangs in the air like a blade, unspoken but understood by all. Otto, however, remains collected, though there’s a glimmer of annoyance in his eyes. “No one seeks to replace you, Prince Y/N,” Viserys says, attempting to smooth over the tension. “You are my son, and my heir. There is no question about that.”

You scoff, your gaze now locked onto Otto with unyielding intensity. “Is that so?” you reply, your voice laced with challenge. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe when whispers circulate through the court, and when my own seat at this table has been deliberately left empty.” Your gaze flickers briefly to Beesbury and Tyland, who both quickly avert their eyes, before returning to Otto. “I know about the talks. I know about the concerns for the continuation of the Targaryen bloodline. If that is what worries this council so deeply, then perhaps it is time I address it myself.”

The room goes utterly silent, every lord and advisor hanging onto your next words. Viserys looks puzzled, while Rhaenyra’s smirk widens, her eyes alight with curiosity and pride. “What are you saying?” Viserys asks, trying to understand where this is leading.

You straighten in your chair, your voice clear and decisive as you deliver your next statement. “I have decided that I will marry.”

The words drop like a stone into a still pond, sending ripples of shock through the room. Viserys’s eyes widen in surprise, while several of the lords exchange stunned looks. Even Rhaenyra, though aware of your intentions, seems momentarily caught off guard by how bluntly you’ve declared it. But the greatest reaction comes from Otto Hightower, who immediately tenses, his carefully constructed mask of composure slipping just slightly.

“Marry?” Otto repeats, disbelief tinging his voice. “Your Grace, this is a most sudden decision—”

“Sudden, perhaps,” you say, cutting him off again, “but necessary. If the continuation of the Targaryen line is such a concern, then I will see to it myself. And I already know who I intend to wed.”

The room waits with bated breath, every eye fixed on you as you pause for dramatic effect. Then, with absolute certainty, you deliver the bombshell: “I will marry Lady Alicent Hightower.”

A shocked silence follows, broken only by the sound of Otto’s breath catching in his throat. The lords gape, disbelief etched into their faces, and Viserys’s eyes widen in surprise, a mix of confusion and relief crossing his features. But it is Otto whose reaction is most striking—his face blanches, a rare display of genuine shock. “This is…” he begins, clearly scrambling for control, “This is not—”

You turn to him, your expression hardening, your voice cold and edged. “Are you offended, Lord Hand?” you ask pointedly. “That your daughter would one day be Queen? Is this not the very opportunity you’ve sought?”

Otto’s mouth opens, but no words come out as he searches for a response. You can see him weighing his options, assessing whether to push back or accept the twist of fate you’ve thrown at him. Before he can gather his wits, Corlys Velaryon’s deep voice rumbles through the chamber, breaking the silence.

“If Lord Hightower finds this match disagreeable, perhaps the Prince would consider my daughter, Laena, instead. The blood of Old Valyria would be preserved, and such a union would strengthen House Targaryen’s ties with the Velaryons.”

You hold back a smile at Corlys’s calculated offer, knowing full well that he’s taking advantage of Otto’s moment of hesitation. Otto’s eyes narrow at Corlys’s interjection, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he realizes he’s being cornered. Backing down would mean missing out on the very outcome he’s been subtly maneuvering toward, even if it wasn’t quite in the manner he’d intended.

After a long moment, Otto exhales slowly, carefully regaining his composure. “Of course, Your Grace,” he finally says, his tone clipped but respectful. “I… only wish for what is best for both you and the realm. If this is your decision, then I will see to it that the arrangements are made.”

You nod, satisfied, as you see the acceptance in his eyes. “Good,” you reply, your voice firm and unyielding. “Because I have no intention of letting anyone else dictate the future of this house. The realm needs strength, unity, and continuity, and I will see that it is achieved—on my terms.”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, realizing that they’ve just witnessed a pivotal shift in the dynamics of power within the Red Keep. Rhaenyra’s smirk remains, her eyes gleaming with admiration as she watches you assert your authority, while Viserys seems both relieved and unsettled by your newfound determination.

As the meeting continues, there’s no doubt left in anyone’s mind—you are no longer the sidelined prince. You are a force to be reckoned with, and the council now understands that you will not be ignored or underestimated.

The sun filters softly through the arched windows of the Red Keep, casting warm golden light over the ladies of the court as they gather in one of the sewing chambers. The room is filled with the gentle murmur of idle conversation, the sound of thread sliding through fabric, and the occasional soft laugh. Alicent sits among them, her focus on the delicate embroidery she’s working on. Her hands move with practiced grace, though her thoughts are distant, lingering on the conversation she had with her father and the weight of the expectations he’s placed on her.

She’s lost in her thoughts when a familiar figure bursts into the room with the energy of a brewing storm. Rhaenyra sweeps into the chamber, her eyes scanning the room until they land on Alicent. The princess’s expression is one of unbridled excitement, a grin wide and mischievous spreading across her face. “Alicent!” she calls out, her voice ringing with barely contained glee.

The ladies of the court look up from their work, startled by the princess’s sudden entrance. Alicent rises from her seat, her brow furrowing in confusion as she sets aside her embroidery. “Rhaenyra,” she says warmly, though with a hint of uncertainty. “What’s gotten into you? You look like a dragon who’s caught a sheep.”

Rhaenyra steps closer, her grin widening as she takes Alicent’s hands in her own. “I wanted to be the first to congratulate you,” she says, her eyes alight with barely restrained amusement.

Alicent blinks, bewilderment etched across her delicate features. “Congratulate me?” she repeats, glancing around at the other ladies, who are now watching the exchange with rapt attention. “I don’t understand—what are you talking about?”

Rhaenyra leans in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for the other ladies to hear and exchange curious glances. “You don’t know? Oh, Alicent, you’re going to be married.”

The world seems to tilt for Alicent, her breath catching in her throat as her heart pounds wildly in her chest. “Married?” she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper. “What… what do you mean? To whom?”

Rhaenyra’s grin softens into something more sincere as she watches the realization dawn on Alicent’s face. “To my brother, of course. Y/N announced it himself in the council meeting not half an hour ago. He declared that he’s decided to marry you.”

For a moment, the room seems to spin, the words hitting Alicent like a physical blow. Her chest tightens, and she feels a flush rise up her neck as her mind races to catch up with what she’s just heard. “He… he said that?” she asks, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something else—something that makes her heart skip a beat.

Rhaenyra nods, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she squeezes Alicent’s hands. “He did. Right there in front of everyone. You should have seen the look on Father’s face—he was stunned, and Otto nearly choked on his own breath. And you know what’s even better? He said it with such certainty, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He’s chosen you, Alicent. You’re going to be a queen one day.”

Alicent’s legs feel weak beneath her as the gravity of the situation sinks in. Her mind flashes back to the conversation with her father, to the pressure and expectations, to the fear that she would be forced into a match she had no say in. But this—this is something entirely different. Y/N chose her. Not because of Otto’s schemes or because it was expected, but because he decided it. The thought is overwhelming, both terrifying and thrilling all at once.

She struggles to find her voice, her emotions swirling in a chaotic mix of disbelief, gratitude, and apprehension. “I… I never imagined…” she stammers, unable to form a coherent sentence as she tries to process what this means for her.

Rhaenyra’s expression softens as she sees the turmoil in Alicent’s eyes. “You’re shaking,” she says gently, releasing one of Alicent’s hands to brush a stray tear from her friend’s cheek. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but you should have seen the way he spoke about it. He was so resolute, so determined. And you—you deserve this happiness, Alicent. You deserve someone who sees you as more than just a tool in their schemes.”

Alicent’s breath shudders as she tries to regain control of her racing thoughts. “But what if… what if this is just another game? What if he’s being pushed into this?” she whispers, her voice laced with fear and doubt.

Rhaenyra shakes her head, her expression turning fierce. “No. This isn’t like that. My brother’s no fool, and he’s not one to be forced into anything he doesn’t want. This was his choice, and I think it’s about time someone reminded the court that he’s more than capable of making his own decisions.” Her grin returns, wry and full of pride. “And besides, I think you know him better than anyone else. You’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Alicent’s eyes widen, and a fresh flush colors her cheeks. She’s known for some time that there’s been an unspoken connection between her and Y/N, but she never dared to hope it would lead to something so monumental. The thought of being his wife, of standing beside him as queen—it’s as daunting as it is exhilarating.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she finally manages, her voice thick with emotion.

Rhaenyra’s smile softens into something more tender as she pulls Alicent into a warm embrace. “Then don’t say anything yet. Let it sink in. But know this—you’re not alone, Alicent. You have me, and you have him. And now, you have a future that’s yours to shape.”

As they part, the ladies of the court begin whispering excitedly among themselves, the news spreading like wildfire through the chamber. But Alicent barely notices, her mind still spinning as she tries to grasp the enormity of what’s just been revealed. For better or worse, everything has changed in the span of a single afternoon.

And somewhere deep in her heart, beneath the fear and uncertainty, a flicker of hope begins to bloom.

The sound of your boots echoes as you step into the Dragonpit, each footfall deliberate and heavy against the ancient stone floor. The cavernous space looms around you, darkened by shadows cast by the great arches above, yet the air hums with the presence of power—dragons and their keepers. You wear a deep, crimson coat embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of coiling dragons, the rich fabric tailored perfectly to your frame. Beneath it, your tunic is a dark charcoal, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt, and black riding gloves encase your hands. Your hair, a cascade of silver, is tied back in a loose knot, allowing a few strands to catch the breeze. The light armor you wear, adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen, adds an edge of battle-readiness to your regal attire. Today is not merely for show—it’s a declaration of your return to the skies.

The Dragonkeepers, clad in leather armor and bearing the scars of long service to the dragons, bow slightly as you approach. Their deference is not out of fear, but out of respect for what is to come. With a silent nod from their leader, they move aside to reveal the imposing silhouette of your dragon.

Dallax emerges from the shadows, his massive form a study in sleek, predatory grace. His scales are a deep, inky black that gleams like polished obsidian under the faint light. Unlike most dragons, his eyes are not the usual shade of fire-yellow; they are a striking, luminescent green, gleaming with intelligence and an almost unsettling awareness. His pupils narrow to slits as he focuses on you, a low rumble vibrating through his chest. His body is built for agility and speed, lean but powerful, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. But it’s his teeth that make him most unique—when he’s calm, they are hidden away, retracting into his jaw, giving him a deceptively benign appearance. But you know better; when agitated or in the heat of battle, those teeth emerge like rows of daggers, sharp and menacing. It’s no wonder Rhaenyra affectionately calls him “Toothless” when she’s in a playful mood.

You take in the sight of him, a thrill running through your veins. It’s been months since you last mounted him, but the bond between you remains unshaken, as if it were a living thing forged in fire and blood. Dallax’s eyes meet yours, and in that moment, the unspoken understanding passes between dragon and rider. He has waited, patient but eager, for this moment as much as you have.

The Dragonkeepers pull back as you stride forward, your limp almost unnoticeable now, a testament to the months of recovery you’ve endured. With a firm hand, you reach up and grasp the saddle harness, your fingers gripping the familiar leather. In one smooth motion, you pull yourself up and swing your leg over Dallax’s back. You settle into the saddle, feeling the comforting weight of the straps as you secure yourself. Dallax shifts beneath you, his wings unfurling slightly, the dark membrane stretching wide, catching the breeze as if testing the air.

You take a deep breath, the scent of leather, smoke, and ancient stone filling your senses. “Fly,” you whisper in High Valyrian, a command and a plea all at once.

With a growl that vibrates through his entire frame, Dallax lowers himself briefly before launching into the air with a powerful surge of muscle. The ground falls away beneath you as his wings beat with precision, each stroke lifting you higher until the walls of the Dragonpit are a blur. The rush of wind tears at your hair, your coat billowing behind you like a banner as Dallax ascends into the open sky.

As you break free into the sunlight, the city of King’s Landing sprawls out below, the rooftops and winding streets glinting in the late afternoon light. Dallax roars—a sound both thrilling and terrifying—as he soars above the Red Keep, his shadow sweeping across the stone battlements like a predator stalking its prey.

From her chambers, Alicent stands by the window, her eyes fixed on the sky as she watches you fly. Her hands are clasped in front of her, a mixture of awe and fondness in her expression as she traces your flight path. You cut through the clouds with an effortless grace, Dallax responding to every shift of your body as if you are one being. For the first time in what feels like ages, there’s no tension in Alicent’s shoulders, only the quiet joy of seeing you in your element—free and commanding, a true Targaryen heir.

Behind her, Otto Hightower steps forward, his expression a mix of calculation and displeasure. He watches silently for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he observes the ease with which you handle your dragon, the majesty of it undeniable. “He’s just like his uncle,” Otto mutters, more to himself than to Alicent. “All fire and pride—reckless.”

Alicent doesn’t turn to face her father, but her smile lingers, soft and secret. “Perhaps,” she replies, her voice distant, her gaze still following your every move. “But there is more to him than you see, Father.”

Otto’s mouth tightens into a thin line, but he says nothing more, turning away from the window. To him, dragons are dangerous, unpredictable forces that must be controlled. But to you, they are freedom itself—a reminder that no matter how thick the walls of the Red Keep or how intricate the webs of intrigue, you are a dragonrider first and foremost, and no one can cage that fire.

As you guide Dallax into a steep dive, pulling up at the last moment to skim over the rooftops of the city, you feel a deep, exhilarating rush. The wind in your face, the roar of your dragon, and the vast sky stretched out before you—it’s a sensation unmatched by anything else, a reminder that the world is yours to claim, one way or another.

You circle back toward the Red Keep, allowing Dallax to level out and glide effortlessly. From below, you see Alicent at the window, her face turned upward, her smile radiant and full of something unspoken—pride, affection, and hope. For a brief moment, you dip your wings in her direction, a silent acknowledgment that she sees you for who you are, beyond the politics and the expectations.

[alive-gh0st]

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you survive days in exile with nothing but silence, sarcasm, and the occasional protein supplement. the cabinets are wrong. the tea is judgmental. and the man keeping you alive keeps looking at you like he’s trying not to feel anything at all. but then he takes you outside. and holds you close. and watches you smile in a mall full of chaos and lace and very cute underwear. you laugh. you tease. you try not to fall. and for the first time, he slips. just a little. just enough to wonder what your hand might feel like if he reached back.

❤︎ contains: sfw. celestial exile continues. emotionally repressed supervillain x emotionally exhausted divine being. omni!mark. cupid!reader. slow-burn tension. sarcastic affection. unhinged cabinet logic. mall chaos. dressing room runway antics. casual flirting in dangerous proximity. flying scenes that feel like confessions. emotional repression vs soft lingerie. mutual denial. protective body language. heavy glances. pinky touches. quiet thank-yous. and one terrifying glimpse of wanting more.

❤︎ warnings: emotional repression. mutual pining. vague past violence/genocide. trauma recovery. captivity. unspoken grief. avoidance. denial. reference to exile (ongoing). feelings disguised as insults. intimacy framed as a threat. and the quiet devastation of being wanted by someone who doesn’t know how to want gently.

‪❤︎ wc: 2847

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: did i write 2.8k words just so omni!mark could get absolutely derailed by lingerie and emotional vulnerability in the same day? yes. did i enjoy it? also yes. anyway, this is your sign to traumatize your local war criminal with kindness and lace. see you in part three—where the denial gets louder.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s been 20 days.

Not that you’re counting.

Not that you’re pacing, either. Or talking to yourself. Or re-folding the same shirt for the eighth time just to feel like you’re doing something.

Okay. Maybe you’re doing all of those things.

But it’s hard not to when every second stretches thin—like thread pulled too tight and just about to snap.

There’s no sun to track. No breeze. No open windows.

Just artificial light, sterilized air, and the hum of a home that still doesn’t feel like yours.

Even if you’re grateful. Even if you’re safe.

Still, you think you might go mad if you spend another hour with your own thoughts and nothing to rearrange but Invincible’s horrifyingly disorganized cabinet system.

The freaking cabinets are still wrong.

You know that. You knew it by the third reorganization. Probably sooner.

(Or was it the fifth?)

Either way, the system still makes no sense.

Why are the protein supplements next to the bandages? Why does the tea have its own drawer but not the coffee? Why is there a drawer for knives labeled “emergencies”?

You don’t even drink tea.

And now you’re sorting it by vibe.

This one’s a divorcee. That one’s a passive-aggressive therapist.

You haven’t slept.

“This one feels judgmental,” you mutter to yourself, holding up a box of chamomile and staring into its tiny soul.

“You go next to the sleepytime mint. You need each other.”

A soft sound from behind you. A sigh.

Deep, tired, on the edge of done.

You spin around just in time to see him lean against the doorway—arms crossed, wearing that sleek, impossibly clean suit like it’s his second skin.

His expression is unreadable.

Invincible stares at the cabinet. Then at you. Then back at the cabinet.

“You’re losing it.”

You beam at him.

“Correction—I lost it. Somewhere around hour thirty-six of isolation, I think.”

He doesn’t argue. Just rubs his temples and mutters, mostly to himself, “You need clothes anyway.”

Your eyes widen. Your whole body lifts an inch off the ground—hopeful, puppy-like, definitely sparkling.

“Wait—are you serious?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just turns and walks away like that wasn’t the most exciting sentence you’ve heard all week.

You scramble after him, socks sliding on the floor. “Don’t play with me, space tyrant. You’re serious, right? This isn’t a joke?”

No answer.

An actual squeal leaves your throat. “Oh my god! You’re really really letting me outside?!”

So you make a very dramatic sound of joy and throw your arms out, launching yourself toward him—

Invincible sidesteps.

Utterly.

You nearly trip over yourself while spinning on impact, stumbling through empty air like a tragic cartoon character. Your arms hang in midair, half-hugging a ghost.

You stare at him like he just slapped your favorite rom-com protagonist mid-confession.

“Did you just dodge affection?”

He glances over his shoulder.

Deadpan.

“Instinct.”

You place a hand over your heart and clutch the space dramatically. “I’m wounded.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll stop reorganizing my med supplies by moon phase.”

You puff your cheeks. “No promises.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Apparently, Invincible’s original plan involved clearing out the entire shopping center.

No civilians. No lines. No wandering eyes.

Just you, him, and a completely empty commercial space sterilized of all human life.

You find this out mid-putting on some worn-out shoes.

“Wait—you’re serious?” you blink, yanking the shoelace tighter before skillfully tying it into a perfect bow.

“Like, everyone gone?”

He doesn’t blink—not that you can see because of his black goggles.

“Yes.”

“You’re really gonna throw every shopper out just so I can pick some shirts?”

“…Yes.”

“Okay,” you say sweetly, “no.”

Invincible stares.

You stare back.

And then—before he can lift a single finger or radio in some absurd planetary-level clearance protocol—you grab his wrist and start marching.

“I want the chaos. I want the crowd. I want the sock bin rummage experience, Invincible.”

“You don’t even know my—”

“Yeah, yeah, real identity. Don’t care. You are not kicking out innocent bargain-hunters for my clothing.”

He lets you drag him.

Begrudgingly.

With his jaw clenched like he’s preparing for war.

Which is fair, considering what’s coming.

The flying here should’ve been his first warning.

You thought it would make you feel better��free, maybe. You hadn’t flown in weeks.

You missed it.

Missed the wind in your hair, the rush, the view.

But it wasn’t the same.

You weren’t flying.

Invincible was.

You weren’t even gliding. You were carried—in strong, unrelenting arms, wrapped in a flight path that didn’t belong to you.

The air felt heavier than it should’ve. The sky too far away.

You didn’t say anything.

Just leaned in closer. Gripped a little tighter.

Not because you were scared.

But because you felt hollow.

And he noticed.

You could feel it in the way his hand shifted—curling firmer around your waist, anchoring you just a little closer.

In the way his descent slowed, just barely, like he was buying you more time.

You didn’t speak.

And neither did he.

But when your feet hit the ground, he held on for a second longer than needed.

Just one.

You pretended not to notice.

Invincible didn’t let go until you started walking.

And even then, his eyes followed your back for too long.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The mall is alive.

Not just in the literal way—with sound and people and flickering sale signs—but viscerally alive.

Buzzing. Bright.

A sensory overload of synthetic smells and shoe store pop music.

You love it.

Invincible does not.

He’s walking behind you like a bored bodyguard, arms folded, expression unreadable beneath his goggles.

You’re pretty sure he’s been silently cataloguing every nearby exit. And possibly every shopper’s dental records.

You, meanwhile, have been bouncing from store to store like an unleashed pinball.

“I like this one!” you shout from inside a changing stall.

He doesn’t respond.

You fling the curtain open dramatically, striking a pose with one hip jutted and a bright orange sweater dangling halfway off your shoulder like a model on a discount poster.

“Rate it. One to ‘marry me in the food court.’”

Invincible blinks once.

“…It’s orange.”

You gasp, offended. “So is the sun. So is joy. So is orange juice, which I’m pretty sure you drink at least twice a day.”

He just lifts a brow.

You huff and disappear back behind the curtain. “Okay, no taste. Noted.”

Another outfit. Another dramatic reveal.

A spin.

A finger gun.

A blowing kiss.

A very committed runway strut that almost ends in tripping over your shoelace.

He doesn’t react to that either.

No laughter.

No eye-roll.

Not even a twitch of that annoyingly chiseled mouth!

You stop mid-turn and squint at him like he just told you romance is dead and fuzzy socks are optional.

“Are you even looking?”

He’s standing rigidly still, arms crossed, eyes facing your direction but giving absolutely nothing away.

Like a statue.

A very hot, very exasperated statue.

You walk up to him, still in the latest outfit—a pastel crop top and high-waisted jeans that actually fit.

“I need feedback. Emotional investment. Commentary. Where’s the supportive energy?”

Invincible tilts his head.

“You look good in everything.”

The words fall out flat. Honest. Zero hesitation.

You blink.

Your stomach flips.

Oh.

Oh no.

That was… weirdly sincere.

Your hands tug nervously at the hem of your shirt. “That’s… not helpful.”

“It’s accurate.”

His gaze flickers over you briefly—quick, neutral—but there’s something unreadable in it.

Something that presses against your chest like a weight you didn’t know you were carrying.

You turn around before your face can betray anything.

Just nerves, you tell yourself.

Just being out again.

Just fresh air and open spaces and praise from a man who could punch the moon in half.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

But when you glance back and catch him still watching—even after you’ve turned away—

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends he wasn’t doing it.

And neither of you says anything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You’re almost done.

Your arms are full of shopping bags, your legs are sore from outfit montages, and your dignity is mostly intact—despite nearly flashing the entire dressing room twice and almost face-planting into a clearance bin.

Invincible, on the other hand, looks like he’s aged ten years.

You nudge his side as you walk past him toward the escalator.

“So,” you chirp, too casually, “we still haven’t gotten any underwear.”

His footsteps stutter.

You keep walking.

You don’t turn around, but you hear it—the faintest hitch of breath. The tiniest pause. The mechanical reset of a man short-circuiting in silence.

He says nothing.

And you bite your bottom lip to hide a cheeky grin.

A few stores later, you find the right one.

Bright lighting. Racks of lace and satin. Mannequins posed like they know what they’re doing.

You step through the entrance like you own the place.

Invincible hesitates at the threshold like it’s radioactive.

“You coming?”

You glance back.

“I’ll wait outside.” He looks at the floor.

You blink. “Suit yourself.”

But five minutes later, you catch him loitering just inside the store—hands clasped stiffly behind his back, pretending to be deeply interested in a wall of sports bras.

You hum as you rifle through a rack.

Satin, cotton, mesh.

Pastels, florals, deep cuts.

But it’s the lace that makes you stop.

White.

Delicate. Almost sheer.

With a tiny red bow at the center of the bra and the waistband of the panties.

It’s sweet. Flirty.

Absolutely criminal.

You hold it up, tilt your head, then glance over your shoulder.

“Thoughts?”

He doesn’t respond.

So you lift it higher—press it gently against your body, just below your shirt.

“This one’s super cute, right?”

His head turns—slowly. Like he’s dreading what he’ll see.

His eyes land on you.

On the set.

On the delicate lace. The tiny red bow.

And then his brain breaks.

It’s not obvious.

But it’s there.

His entire body goes still.

Jaw clenched more than usual. Shoulders locked. Eyes unreadable.

Like someone yanked the emergency brake on his nervous system.

You blink up at him—too innocently.

“Well?”

Invincible swallows.

Hard.

Then—without lifting his gaze—he gives you the faintest nod and turns sharply toward a rack of completely unrelated flannel pajama pants.

He doesn’t even realize his hands are fists.

You watch his back as he stares at absolutely nothing.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, grinning. “You’re blushing under that stupid mask, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t even look your way again.

Not once.

Not even when you hold up a matching set in black with a little ribbon in the back.

Not even when you tell him to rate it from one to cardiac arrest.

From that point on, every time you ask for his opinion, he just stares at the floor and mutters a barely audible “fine.”

Which is probably the most fun you’ve had all day.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark doesn’t speak when you step beside him again, bags in hand and that satisfied, smug little hum slipping past your pretty lips like you didn’t just emotionally compromise the most dangerous man on Earth.

He should’ve flown you home faster—cut through the clouds like usual.

Sharp.

Efficient.

Clean.

Instead, he’s hesitating.

You’re standing close. Too close.

Looking up at him with that same soft, victorious glint in your eye.

Like you know.

Like you planned this.

And maybe you did.

You say nothing.

Just tip your head and wait.

So he steps forward, wraps an arm around your waist, and lifts off.

You don’t flinch. Don’t tense. You never do.

That’s the problem.

You fit too easily against him now. You lean in too naturally. Your fingers curl into the front of his suit like they belong there.

Like you’re the one holding him steady.

Mark flies slower than usual.

Lower, too.

He tells himself it’s for safety.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just rest your cheek gently against his shoulder and let the wind tangle your hair.

And god—he can feel you smiling.

Not the loud, chaotic one you wear when you’re teasing him. Not the fake one you use when you’re trying to act fine.

No.

This one’s small.

Tired.

Maybe a little too soft around the edges.

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

Doesn’t know what to do with the heat curling under his skin either.

With the way his brain keeps flashing back to white lace and red bows and the ghost of your voice asking, “This one’s super cute, right?”

He grits his teeth.

Tries to focus on flying.

But you shift just slightly in his hold—settling in closer—and suddenly his brain’s looping again.

That damn red bow.

That voice.

That smile.

By the time you reach the house, you’re quiet. Still humming something he can’t name.

He lands gently, sets you down even gentler.

Your hand lingers on his chest a second too long before you step back.

He should say something.

He doesn’t.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But when you start walking toward the front door, he follows.

Silently.

It’s been 20 days.

And somehow, this feels more dangerous than any of them.

Mark’s still thinking about the way you looked in that shop light.

Still pretending he isn’t.

Still not sure what he’ll do when he stops.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Back inside.

No more noise. No mall music. No wind.

Just quiet—thick and still and a little too loud in your ears.

Invincible drops the bags by the door without a word.

You watch him start to leave—turning slightly, like he’s about to retreat to whatever broody superhero man-cave he disappears into every time things get too real.

You don’t blame him.

But before he can fully step away, your hand moves without thinking.

Just a touch.

Just your pinky—hooking gently around his.

His body stills.

No dramatic reaction. No flinch or jerk or sharp inhale.

Just stillness.

Like maybe that soft little touch short-circuited him harder than all the lace in the world.

You don’t say much. Just—

“Thank you.”

It’s quiet.

Real.

Tucked under your breath like a secret not meant for the air.

Invincible doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t pull away either.

For a second, the world feels like it’s holding its breath with you.

Then, slowly, you let go.

The warmth fades.

He walks away a moment later.

Slower than before.

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˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Mark stares at the ceiling.

There’s no light. No sound. Just that same old hum from the vents and the quiet weight of everything he’s pretending not to feel.

He should be asleep.

But sleep never comes easy anymore.

Especially not after today.

Especially not with the ghost of your touch still curling along his skin like it belongs there.

It’s too much.

You’re too much.

Too soft. Too familiar. Too dangerous.

Too willing to look at him like he’s not a weapon.

Too willing to smile like he’s not something dangerous. Something sharp. Something wrong.

And god, the way you touched him—

Just a pinky. Just a tug.

But his body had frozen like you’d cracked straight through it.

Nobody touches him like that.

Not anymore.

Not gently.

Not without fear.

And you?

You keep doing it without even realizing.

Like it’s natural.

Like you don’t know what he is.

And that’s the problem.

Because you don’t know.

Not really.

You don’t know what he’s done.

What he’s capable of.

You’ve never watched a planet die. Never watched someone you loved die by your hands.

You don’t know that when he closes his eyes, sometimes he sees Nolan.

And sometimes he sees you.

Not broken. Not bloody.

Just… close.

Too close.

”Thank you.”

You whispered it like it was safe to say.

Like he was safe to say it to.

And he let you.

He let you touch him like that.

Let you mean it.

Mark’s jaw tightens.

He turns sharply, grips the pillow tight, squeezes his eyes shut like it’ll erase the way you touched him.

It doesn’t.

Because all he can see is that damn mall.

You.

Spinning in front of him. Smiling. Twirling.

Teasing.

Clothes hanging off your frame like you were modeling just for him—and maybe you were.

The way you posed. The way you asked him to rate you.

Mark breathes out slowly.

It’s reckless.

Dangerous.

Not because you’re soft.

But because he’s not.

And it’s getting harder to pretend.

Harder to act like you don’t matter when you keep showing up in places you shouldn’t.

In his thoughts. In his space. In that damn lace—

Mark sits up sharply.

Rubs a hand down his face.

“Ridiculous.”

His voice is hoarse. The word doesn’t land.

Because it’s not just the lingerie.

Not just the teasing.

Not just your damn grin when you know you’ve gotten to him.

It’s the fact that you’re not afraid.

And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

He doesn’t want to need you.

Doesn’t want to reach.

But god, if you held out your hand again—

Mark clenches his fists.

He won’t.

He can’t.

But still—

Mark doesn’t sleep.

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ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[23victoria]

Am I Still Me? ❀

f1 grid x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader

wc: 6.6k+

summary: the aftermath of y/n’s horrible crash in suzaka, part 2 to ready, set, suzuka!!

warnings: cussing, angsty, sad, kinda depressing ig, emotional and physical trauma

authors note: sorry i took so long with this, honestly didn’t know what to write 😭💀, also if you get some of the references i put in here and characters names you a real one!! any feedback is appreciated and please like, comment, and reblog!! hope you enjoy!!

PART 1

f1 masterlist

The beeping of machines, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the distant murmurs of nurses and doctors—it all blurs together into a foggy haze. When you finally open your eyes, it’s like surfacing from a deep, dark ocean. The light is too bright, the sounds too sharp. Your body feels heavy, achingly so, and it takes a moment for the fog to clear enough for you to remember why you're here.

The Japan Grand Prix. The crash. The pain.

Your vision focuses slowly, revealing the worried faces of your parents, sitting by your bedside. Your mother's eyes are red-rimmed, and your father's face is etched with concern. When they see you awake, relief floods their expressions.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re awake.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry and scratchy. Your dad quickly offers you a sip of water, helping you take small, careful sips.

“How long…?” you manage to croak out, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“About a week,” he replies gently. “They had you in an induced coma to help your body heal.”

You try to take in the information, but your mind is sluggish, struggling to process it all. You notice the casts on your left leg, the bandages wrapped around your torso. Every breath sends a dull ache through your ribs.

“Your injuries were severe,” your mom says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “The doctor said you had a punctured lung and liver, three broken ribs, a laceration to your kidney, and broken femur and tibia in your left leg. The doctors… they did everything they could.”

The gravity of her words sinks in slowly. You close your eyes, tears escaping, feeling the weight of your injuries, the immense road to recovery ahead.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

The days blur together, filled with endless medical procedures and physical therapy sessions. The pain is constant, a relentless companion that gnaws at your resolve. The physical therapy is grueling, each session pushing your body to its limits. Your left leg, encased in a cast, feels like it’s made of lead. The simplest movements send waves of pain through you.

Your parents are always there, their support unwavering, but you can see the toll it’s taking on them. They try to hide it, but you notice the way your mother’s hands tremble when she thinks you’re not looking, or the way your father’s shoulders sag with exhaustion.

It’s not just the physical pain that wears you down. The psychological toll is immense. The fear, the uncertainty—it’s all-consuming. The thought of never racing again haunts you, a dark cloud that looms over every waking moment.

Despite their best efforts, the doctors and therapists can’t hide the reality from you. Your injuries are severe, and the road to recovery is long and uncertain. There are no guarantees that you’ll ever be able to race again.

A few weeks into your recovery, your finally allowed visitors, you receive a visit from Max. He enters the room with a tentative smile, looking unsure of how to approach you.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, his voice soft. “How are you holding up?”

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’ve been better,” you admit, your voice tinged with bitterness.

Max sits beside your bed, his expression serious. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through,” he says. “But I want you to know that we’re all here for you. Whatever you need.”

You nod, grateful for his words but unable to shake the feeling of despair that clings to you. “Thanks, Max,” you say quietly. “It means a lot.”

He stays for a while, chatting about the latest races and team developments, trying to lift your spirits. But when he leaves, the emptiness returns, heavier than before.

Lewis visits next, his brotherly presence a comforting balm. He’s always been a source of inspiration and comfort for you, and seeing him now brings a glimmer of hope.

“Hey Y/N/N,” he says warmly, enveloping you in a gentle hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

You manage a weak smile. “Thanks for coming, Lew.”

He sits with you, sharing stories and offering words of encouragement. “You’re one of the strongest people I know,” he tells you. “If anyone can come back from this, it’s you.”

His words touch you deeply, but the doubts still linger.

George's visit is bittersweet. He’s always been like a brother to you, and seeing his concern is both comforting and heartbreaking.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he says softly, his eyes filled with worry. “How are you holding up?”

You shrug, trying to mask your frustration. “Some days are better than others.”

He takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I know it’s tough, but you’re not alone in this. We’re all here for you.”

You nod, but the words feel hollow. The reality of your situation is a heavy burden, one that seems to grow with each passing day.

Lando brings a burst of energy into your room, his usual cheeky grin tempered by concern. “Hey, superstar,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re looking better than I expected.”

You chuckle, appreciating his attempt to make you laugh. “Thanks, Lando. I guess I clean up well.”

He spends the visit telling you funny stories and trying to distract you from your pain. For a brief moment, you almost forget about your troubles. But when he leaves, the emptiness returns with a vengeance.

Oscar visit is quieter, more introspective. He’s always been a man of few words, and today is no different.

“Y/N/N,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

“Thanks, Oscar,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sits beside you, his presence a comforting anchor. “So…what do you wanna talk about?,” he says simply.

You look at him surprised, “What do I want to talk about?”

“Yea, what did you want to talk about” he says softly.

“You're not going to tell me that “You're strong, you’ve got this, you're gonna overcome this” you say indifferently.

He shakes his head saying “Nope.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Because I'm pretty sure everyone else who visited you has said the same thing, so I want to know what you want to talk about. Any good shows you’ve been watching? Hospital drama? Yes, no, maybe? Tell me I wanna know” he says gently.

You smile at him, greatly appreciating the normalcy his bring. You smile saying, “Did you bring food?”

He smirks, laughing “Yes I brought you y/f/f.”

You squeal, happy to have some outside food, the hospital starting to bore you. “Yes, there is some hospital drama. Apparently a resident has been sleeping with a neurosurgeon, and get this, he was married the whole time! And he didn’t tell her until his wife showed up last night for a case!” you say opening your bag of food.

Oscar looks at you in shock, “No way! Holy shit! Tell me more!”

Charles visit is the hardest. He’s always been your closest friend on the circuit, and seeing the pain in his eyes is almost too much to bear.

“Y/N/N,” he says, his voice choked with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

“Charles,” you say, reaching out to take his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

He nods, but you can see the guilt etched into his features. “I know but I still feel like I should’ve been there for you earlier,” he says quietly.

“You were,” you reply, your voice firm. “And you still are.”

He stays with you for a long time, his presence a comforting reminder of the bond you share. But even his support can’t chase away the shadows that cling to your mind.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

One particularly difficult day, you’re in the middle of a grueling physical therapy session. The pain in your left leg is excruciating, and every movement feels like a battle. You’re sweating, gasping for breath, and on the verge of tears.

“I can’t do this,” you whisper, your voice trembling with frustration and pain. “It’s too hard.”

Your physical therapist, a kind but firm woman named Maria, looks at you with sympathy. “I know it’s hard, Y/N,” she says gently. “But you’re stronger than you think. You’ve come so far already. Don’t give up now.”

You want to believe her, but the doubts are overwhelming. The thought of never racing again haunts you, a constant shadow that refuses to be dispelled.

“I’m worried about her, Y/F/N,” your mom says, her voice thick with worry. “She’s losing hope.”

“I know,” he replies, his voice equally troubled. “We need to do something.”

The next day, they call a meeting with all the drivers who have visited you. They gather together like a small conference room, their faces etched with concern.

“Thank you all for coming,” your dad begins, his voice serious. “We wanted to talk to you about Y/N. She’s struggling, and we need your help.”

Your mom nods, her eyes filled with tears. “She’s losing hope, and we’re afraid she’s going to give up. We need you to remind her of the fighter she is, to help her see that she can get through this.”

Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, Max, and Charles exchange worried glances, their expressions serious. They all care deeply about you, and the thought of you giving up is unbearable.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” Lewis says firmly. “We’re not going to let her give up.”

The others nod in agreement, their resolve clear. They begin to plan regular visits, phone calls, and messages of encouragement, determined to lift your spirits and help you see the light at the end of the tunnel.

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The next few weeks bring a steady stream of visitors. Max is the first to arrive, his usual confidence tempered by concern.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, sitting beside your bed. “I brought you something.”

He hands you a small box, and when you open it, you find a miniature model of your race car. “I thought it might help you remember what you’re fighting for,” he says quietly.

You smile, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Max. It means a lot.”

Lewis is next, bringing a stack of racing magazines and a collection of your favorite movies. “I thought you could use some entertainment,” he says with a smile.

George brings a scrapbook filled with photos and memories from your racing career. “I want you to remember how far you’ve come,” he says softly.

Lando arrives with a box of your favorite snacks and a playlist of uplifting songs. “Music always helps me when I’m feeling down,” he says with a grin.

Oscar arrives with a stack of books, his quiet presence a calming balm. “I know you love to read,” he says simply. “I thought these might help you pass the time.”

Charles comes last, bringing a framed photo of the two of you celebrating after a race. “I want you to remember all the good times we’ve had,” he says softly. “And all the ones we still have ahead of us.”

Their visits bring a small measure of comfort, but the road to recovery remains daunting. The physical pain is relentless, and the psychological toll is equally severe. There are days when you feel like giving up, when the thought of never racing again is too much to bear.

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Today was another day of physical therapy, the room was sterile, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on the rows of equipment in the physical therapy room. You sat on the padded bench, beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. Your physical therapist, Maria, stood in front of you, her expression firm yet encouraging.

"Alright, Y/N, we're going to try to put a little more weight on your leg today," Maria said, her voice gentle but insistent. "You’re making great progress, but we need to push a bit more."

You nodded mechanically, gritting your teeth. The pain was a constant, gnawing presence in your leg, a cruel reminder of the crash that had shattered more than just your bones. You took a deep breath and tried to stand, but the agony was immediate and overwhelming. You crumpled back onto the bench, gasping.

"Come on, Y/N, you can do this," Maria urged. "Just one more try."

Something inside you snapped. The relentless pain, the frustration, the overwhelming sense of loss—everything boiled to the surface. You exploded.

"NO! NO! NO! I CAN'T DO THIS!" you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls. "I CAN'T! IT HURTS! I'M IN PAIN! AND DON'T YOU TELL ME YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS WHEN YOU DON'T! YOU HAVEN'T LOST THE ABILITY TO WALK! YOU HAVEN'T BEEN TOLD YOU MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO DO THE ONE THING THAT GAVE PURPOSE TO YOUR LIFE!"

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Maria's face paled, and she took a step back, her hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Y/N, I—" she began, but you cut her off.

"Just please, take me to my room," you said, your voice breaking. "I can't do this anymore."

Maria hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Okay," she said softly. She turned to call a nurse. "Please take Y/N back to her room."

The nurse arrived within minutes, her face a mask of professional concern. She helped you into a wheelchair and wheeled you down the long, sterile corridors back to your room. The journey was a blur, the walls closing in on you, each turn of the wheel a reminder of your limitations.

Once inside your room, you pushed yourself onto the bed, curling up into a ball. The nurse lingered for a moment, her eyes filled with sympathy.

"Do you need anything, Y/N?" she asked quietly.

"No," you muttered. "Just leave me alone."

The nurse nodded and exited, closing the door softly behind her. The silence that followed was deafening. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of despair settle over you. The hours dragged by, each second a reminder of the future that felt increasingly out of reach.

You heard the faint knock on the door but didn’t respond. You knew it was someone coming to check on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The knocks continued throughout the day, but you ignored them all.

You didn’t eat, didn’t speak, didn’t move. The room grew darker as the hours passed, the light outside fading into night. The pain in your leg was nothing compared to the ache in your heart, the sense of hopelessness that had settled in like a lead weight.

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Nights like this are the hardest. The darkness magnifies your fears, turning whispers of doubt into deafening roars. It’s one of those nights now, the kind where sleep seems impossible. The weight of your injuries and the uncertainty of your future press down on you like a suffocating blanket.

A soft knock on your hospital door interrupts your spiral of despair. It’s Charles, his silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. He steps inside quietly, his eyes searching yours with concern.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling up a chair next to your bed. “I heard what happened, thought I’d check on you.”

You manage a weak smile, but it quickly fades. “Thanks for coming,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I’m not great company right now.”

He takes your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to be. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

For a moment, the two of you sit in silence, the weight of your shared pain filling the room. Then, the dam breaks.

“I don’t know how to do this, Charles,” you confess, your voice trembling. “Every day feels like a battle, and I’m so tired. I’m scared I’ll never race again. Racing is everything to me. It’s my passion, my dream. And now… I feel like it’s slipping away.”

Tears stream down your face, and Charles moves closer, wrapping his arms around you. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out all the pain and frustration you’ve been holding in. His embrace is warm and strong, a safe haven in your storm of emotions.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice breaking with emotion. “I know how much racing means to you. It’s not fair what’s happened. It’s not fair that you’re hurting like this.”

You pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. You can see the tears there too, the raw pain he’s been holding back. “Charles, I feel like my life is over. If I can’t race… what’s the point? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Without it, I don’t know who I am.”

He cups your face in his hands, his eyes filled with determination and love. “Y/N, you are so much more than a racer. You’re strong, and brave, and passionate. You’ve touched so many lives, including mine. This injury doesn’t define you. You do.”

You shake your head, the weight of despair still heavy on your heart. “But what if I can’t do it? What if I can never race again?”

Charles’s grip on you tightens, his voice firm but gentle. “Then we’ll find a new dream, together. But I believe in you, Y/N. I’ve seen what you can do. You’ve overcome so much already. Don’t give up now.”

His words pierce through the fog of your despair, lighting a small spark of hope. “But what if I fail? What if I can’t come back from this?”

Charles’s eyes lock onto yours, filled with a fierce resolve. “Then I’ll be there to catch you, every step of the way. We’ll face it together, no matter what. You’re not alone in this, and you never will be.”

The sincerity in his voice, the unwavering support in his eyes, brings fresh tears to your eyes. “Charles, I’m so scared.”

“I know,” he whispers, his own tears falling freely now. “And it’s okay to be scared. But don’t let fear steal your dreams. We’ll fight this, one day at a time.”

You lean into him, your hearts beating in sync as you cry together, the shared pain and love binding you closer than ever. In his arms, you find a flicker of hope, a reason to keep fighting.

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The next day your parents come in, their expressions filled with concern. They sit on either side of your bed, each taking one of your hands.

“Y/N,” your mother says softly, her voice filled with emotion. “We know you’re going through a lot. But we’re here for you, every step of the way.”

Your father nods, his grip on your hand firm and reassuring. “You’re not alone in this. We’re all rooting for you. And so are your friends.”

You nod, but the doubts still linger. The thought of facing another day of pain and struggle is almost too much to bear.

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It’s been five miserable and grueling months in the hospital. You’ve improved a lot, the doctors say but you just feel like you're stuck in limbo, going nowhere. Today you receive a surprise visit from all the drivers at once. Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, Max, and Charles fill your room, their presence a comforting reminder of the support you have.

“Hey, superstar,” Lando says with a grin. “We’ve got a little surprise for you.”

He hands you a small box, and when you open it, you find a collection of letters and messages from fans all over the world. Each one is filled with words of encouragement and support, reminding you of the impact you’ve had on so many lives.

You feel a lump in your throat as you read through the letters, each one a reminder of why you started racing in the first place. The passion, the thrill, the joy—it’s all still there, buried beneath the pain and fear.

“We’re not going to let you give up,” Max says firmly. “You’re one of the strongest people we know. And we believe in you.”

Lewis nods, his expression serious. “You’ve overcome so much already. This is just another challenge, and we know you can get through it.”

George takes your hand, his eyes filled with determination. “We’re here for you, Y/N/N. Every step of the way.”

The others nod in agreement, their support unwavering. In that moment, you feel a flicker of hope, a small but growing light in the darkness.

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As the days fly by, the recovery process grinds on. The physical and psychiatric therapy sessions remain grueling, one pushing your body to its limits and the other peeling back layers of fear and doubt you didn't even know existed. You're forced to confront not just the physical pain, but the emotional turmoil of possibly losing the one thing that has defined you for so long: racing.

“Tell me about your fears, Y/N,” Dr. Yang, your therapist, prompts gently during one of your sessions.

You take a deep breath, the words sticking in your throat. “I’m terrified that I’ll never be the same again,” you admit. “Racing was everything to me. It was my passion, my identity. What if I can’t do it anymore? What if I’m not...me?”

Dr. Yang nods, her eyes full of understanding. “It’s natural to feel that way. But remember, you’re more than just a driver. You have other strengths, other passions.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “But I don’t want to be anyone else. I don’t know how to be anyone else. Racing was my life. Without it, I feel...lost.”

Dr. Yang leans forward, her voice soft but firm. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience, Y/N. It’s okay to feel lost right now. But this is also an opportunity to discover new parts of yourself, to grow in ways you never imagined.”

The thought of having to reinvent yourself is daunting. The stress and anxiety of not being able to race again loom large, casting long shadows over your recovery. Each day is a battle against these fears, a struggle to hold onto the hope that you can still find a way back to the track.

Each therapy session, both physical and psychiatric, feels like an uphill battle. The pain, both physical and emotional, is relentless, and the progress often feels painfully slow.

During one particularly tough session, you break down. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you sob, the tears streaming down your face. “I don’t know if I can ever be the Y/N I used to be.”

Dr. Yang sits quietly for a moment, letting your words hang in the air. “You’re right,” she says finally. “You might never be the same Y/N you were before the accident. But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a new version of yourself, one who is just as strong and passionate, even if in different ways.”

Her words strike a chord, the truth of them both painful and liberating.

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One day, after a successful therapy session, you receive another surprise visit from Charles. He enters the room with a bright smile, holding a small box.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he says, his voice filled with warmth. “I’ve got something for you.”

You open the box to find a small, intricately designed keychain in the shape of a racing car. “It’s beautiful,” you say, touched by the gesture.

“It’s a reminder,” Charles says softly. “Of your passion, your strength, and your determination. No matter what happens, you’re still a racer at heart.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes, but this time they’re tears of gratitude. “Thank you, Charles,” you say, your voice choked with emotion. “I needed this.”

He smiles, his eyes filled with warmth. “We all believe in you, Y/N. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”

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The days that follow are still hard, but the nights are a little easier with Charles by your side. One night, as you’re lying in bed, exhausted from another day of therapy, Charles sits beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said,” he begins, his voice soft and contemplative.

“About what?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.

“About racing being your life, your dream,” he replies. “I get it. Racing is my dream too. But I’ve realized something important. Dreams can evolve. They can grow. And sometimes, when one dream ends, it makes room for a new one.”

You look at him, your eyes searching his. “What do you mean?”

He smiles, a small, hopeful smile. “I mean that no matter what happens, you’re not defined by this one thing. You have so much passion, so much drive. If racing isn’t in the cards anymore, I know you’ll find something else that lights that fire in you. And I’ll be there to support you, every step of the way.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, soothing the deep wounds of doubt and fear. “Thank you, Charles,” you whisper, your voice filled with gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he replies, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

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The days continue to blur together, but with each passing week, you begin to see more progress. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer as overwhelming. The therapy sessions remain challenging, but you start to look forward to them, eager to see how far you can push yourself.

Your friends and family continue to visit regularly, their support a constant source of strength. Max, Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, and Charles all make it a point to check in on you, their encouragement lifting your spirits.

And through it all, Charles is by your side, his presence a comforting reminder that you’re not alone in this fight. His unwavering support, his quiet strength, his deep love—they’re the anchors that keep you grounded, the lights that guide you through the darkest nights.

As the months continue to pass, you begin to see more and more progress. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer as overwhelming. The therapy sessions remain challenging, but you start to look forward to them, eager to see how far you can push yourself.

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It's been six months since the accident. Half a year of relentless therapy, sleepless nights, and countless tears. But today, as you sit in the hospital's discharge room, a sense of cautious optimism fills the air.

Dr. Yang, your psychiatrist, and Dr. Miller, your orthopedic specialist, sit across from you. Dr. Miller adjusts his glasses and smiles warmly. "Y/N, I have to say, your progress has been remarkable. You're officially discharged."

You exhale, a weight lifting off your shoulders. "Thank you, Dr. Miller. Thank you, Dr. Yang."

Dr. Miller nods. "Remember, Y/N, this is just the beginning. You'll need to continue with your physical therapy and workouts to strengthen your body. We also need you to come in for your planned appointments. But if you keep up the good work, we're hopeful you could start racing again by next year."

Dr. Yang chimes in, "In about a month, you can begin to slowly train with your racing trainers to get back to racing. We know how much this means to you."

The relief washes over you. The thought of getting back behind the wheel, even if it's just in training, ignites a flicker of hope.

"Thank you both," you say, your voice trembling with emotion. "I can't wait to get back to it."

As you leave the discharge room, your heart pounds with a mix of excitement and nervousness. The past six months have been a rollercoaster of emotions, but today, you feel a renewed sense of purpose.

When you step out of the hospital doors, a loud cheer erupts. There, standing together, are the boys: Charles, Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, and Max. They hold up a large banner that reads, "Welcome Back, Y/N!" and they're all grinning from ear to ear.

Charles is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug. "We knew you could do it," he whispers.

Lewis steps forward next, a proud smile on his face. "Told you, didn't I? You're stronger than you think."

George gives you a high five, his excitement palpable. "Y/N’s back in action!"

Lando and Oscar cheer loudly, their enthusiasm infectious. "We missed you!" they say in unison.

Max, usually so stoic, actually looks emotional. "You had us worried for a while, but we never doubted you'd be back."

You laugh, wiping away happy tears. "Thank you, guys. I couldn't have done this without your support."

Charles takes your hand, his eyes shining with pride. "Let's get you home."

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The drive home is filled with laughter and lighthearted banter. The boys recount stories from the past six months, filling you in on all the racing drama you've missed. It's comforting to know that life has continued on the track, even as you've fought your personal battles.

Once home, you step into your apartment, which has been kept in perfect order by your parents. The familiar surroundings bring a sense of peace. Your parents are there, tears of joy in their eyes as they welcome you back.

"You're home, sweetheart," your mom says, hugging you tightly.

Your dad smiles, his pride evident. "We're so proud of you, Y/N."

Over the next few weeks, you settle into a routine. Physical therapy sessions continue, and you push yourself harder than ever, determined to regain your strength. The boys visit often, their presence a constant source of encouragement.

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A month later, you're cleared to start light training with your racing trainers. The anticipation is overwhelming as you step into the familiar surroundings of the training facility. Your trainer, Tyler, greets you with a wide smile.

"Welcome back, Y/N. Ready to get to work?"

You nod, your heart pounding with excitement. "Absolutely."

The training is rigorous, but the thrill of being back in the environment you love so much drives you forward. The first time you sit in a simulator again, your hands tremble slightly, but as you grip the wheel, a sense of calm washes over you. This is where you belong.

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As the months pass by, your progress is nothing short of extraordinary. Your body grows stronger, and your confidence begins to return. You start to believe that racing again is not just a distant dream but a tangible reality.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, you go to visit Charles at his apartment, you sit with Charles on the balcony, looking out over the city lights.

"I was so scared," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Scared that I'd never feel this again. The rush, the passion."

Charles wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. "I know. But look at you now. You're doing it, Y/N/N. You're coming back stronger than ever."

You smile, resting your head on his shoulder. "I couldn't have done it without you, without all of you."

He kisses the top of your head. "We'll always be here for you."

"Charles," you begin, your voice soft but filled with sincerity, "Thank you. Through everything that's happened, you've been my rock. You stayed by my side, through the tears, the pain, the doubt. You've been my anchor, keeping me grounded when I felt like I was drowning."

Charles reaches out, gently taking your hand in his. "Y/N," he says, his eyes searching yours, "you don't have to thank me. I care about you more than anything in this world. When I saw what happened, I was scared. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I'm just grateful that you're here with me today."

Tears well up in your eyes as you squeeze his hand, overcome with emotion. "Charles, you mean everything to me. I don't know what I would do without you."

He brushes a tear from your cheek, his touch gentle and comforting. "I love you, Y/N" he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've loved you from the moment I met you. And now, seeing you here, stronger than ever, I know that my love for you will never waver."

You meet his gaze, your heart bursting with love. "I love you," you say, the words spilling from your lips like a prayer. "With all my heart and soul, now and forever."

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It’s a new year, the new racing season buzzed with anticipation. Rumors swirled like wildfires about Mercedes’ new driver. Speculation ran rampant—some said it could be Sebastian Vettel, making a surprise return, while others thought it might be another seasoned veteran. Few dared to hope that it could be Y/N, the driver whose crash had left a deep scar on the hearts of fans worldwide. Yet, the more optimistic whispered her name with a sense of defiant hope.

As the Australian Grand Prix approached, Mercedes remained tight-lipped, stoking the fires of speculation. The paddock was electric with curiosity, journalists and fans alike desperate for any clue. The suspense reached a fever pitch during the free practices and qualifying rounds, as an anonymous driver in the silver arrow of Mercedes set blazing lap times, ultimately securing third place on the grid.

Race day dawned bright and clear, the air humming with excitement. The stands were packed, and millions of eyes worldwide were glued to their screens, waiting for the moment of revelation. As the clock ticked down to the start of the race, the Mercedes garage was a hive of activity, the tension palpable.

Then, the announcement came over the loudspeakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to meet Mercedes’ new driver.” The garage doors opened, and out stepped Y/N, her familiar figure met with a moment of stunned silence before the crowd erupted into deafening cheers. The roar of support was overwhelming, a testament to the impact she had made in her career and the resilience she had shown in her recovery.

Sky Sports' David Croft, commonly known as Crofty, was almost speechless as he watched her walk to her car. “What an incredible moment, ladies and gentlemen. Y/N L/N, a name synonymous with tenacity and talent, has made her triumphant return to Formula One. After everything she’s been through, to see her here, ready to race, is nothing short of miraculous. Welcome back, Y/N.”

You waved to the crowd, heart swelling with emotion. You climbed into the car, focus shifting to the task at hand. You were back where you belonged.

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As the lights went out, signaling the start of the race, your heart pounded with adrenaline. You launched off the line, holding your position through the first few corners. The car feeling like an extension of yourself, every movement precise, every decision calculated.

“Alright, Y/N, keep it steady. We’ve got a long race ahead,” Amaria’s voice crackled through your earpiece. Her calm tone was a steady anchor in the chaos of the race.

Lap after lap, you pushed the car to its limits, the memory of your accident a ghost that spurred on rather than holding you back. You were in the zone, overtaking with surgical precision and defending your position fiercely. On lap 15, you made a daring move on Max, slipping past him into second place. The crowd went wild, the roar echoing in your ears even through your helmet.

“Great move, Y/N. You’re doing fantastic,” Amaria cheered, her voice filled with pride.

As the race progressed, you found herself closing in on Lewis. You knew the pit stops would be crucial. On lap 28, you dove into the pits, the crew executing a flawless stop. You rejoined the race in third but quickly reclaimed back second position, setting your sights on first place.

“Pace is looking good, tires are optimal,” Amaria updated. “Keep pushing, you’ve got this.”

Your focus was razor-sharp, every muscle in your body attuned to the car’s movements. You chipped away at the gap, each lap bringing you closer to the leader. By lap 45, you were on Lewis’s tail, and with a brilliant maneuver, you overtook him, claiming the lead.

The final laps were a blur of speed and strategy. Lewis was close behind, pushing hard, but your determination was unyielding. Your hands gripped the steering wheel, eyes scanning the track ahead, your mind calculating every possible outcome.

“Just a few more laps, Y/N. You’re almost there,” Amaria’s voice was a lifeline, keeping you grounded.

Lap 56 came, and the crowd’s anticipation was palpable. You held your ground, defending your position with the skill and tenacity that had earned you a place among the best. As you crossed the line, the checkered flag waving, the realization hit you—you had won. You did it.

The crowd erupted in applause, the noise almost deafening. You parked the car at the P1 sign, the enormity of your achievement washing over you. You climbed out of the car, tears streaming down your face as you celebrated with her team. They lifted you up, their cheers of joy echoing through the paddock.

David Croft’s voice echoed through the stadium, capturing the essence of the moment. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we have witnessed history in the making. From a young girl in her hometown, driven by an insatiable passion for racing, to being the only girl in her karting races, lovingly supported by her parents. She defied the odds to become one of the first women to race in Formula 1. She survived a horrific accident in Suzuka, a nightmare that could have ended her career and dreams. Yet, she faced her darkest fears, battled through unimaginable pain and doubt, and today, she has overcome those scars to win the Australian Grand Prix. Y/N’s journey is nothing short of inspirational, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Welcome back, Y/N. We could not be any prouder. You have shown us what true courage and determination look like."

Other drivers came to congratulate you—Lewis, Max, Lando, Oscar, and more. Each hug, a testament to the joy and respect they had for your journey and your victory.

You ran towards Charles, your heart bursting with pride. You found each other in the sea of people, and you jumped into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You did it, baby, you did it! I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you. You’re a winner! You did it! I’m so proud, baby. I love you so much!”

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice choked with emotion.

You stood on the podium, the weight of your journey settling on your shoulders. You have faced the darkest moments and come out stronger, your love for racing and the support of those around you guiding you back to the pinnacle of the sport. The crowd’s cheers were a testament to your resilience, a reminder that no matter how difficult the road, you had found your way back home.

© 23victoria 2023-24 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate or claim my work as your own

[i-cast-teatus-deletus]

Post-surgical nutrition is not one of my real areas of interest for this blog, for a lot of reasons. For example, as surgeries go, top surgery isn't a particularly invasive surgery and the recovery time isn't particularly long. Nutrition is also a somewhat complicated topic because there's no one-size-fits-all solution and trying to be specific enough to be useful but general enough to cover even part of the spectrum of possible diets is pretty difficult.

This is a moderately long article with a lot to think about, but I think that they managed to give a lot of very specific advice that will suit a wide variety of people. Some things that it includes that are difficult to find in a lot of articles on post-surgical nutrition are:

Written (at least partially) by an Registered Dietician who has a MHSc (Master of Health Science) as well.

Doesn't recommend any additional supplements outside of regular vitamins, a particular pet peeve of mine because of the ridiculously lax regulations on supplements in the states. I mean, maybe bromelain or arnica or whatever helps, but most likely it has zero benefit and at the risk of getting a supplement that's incorrectly labeled or intentionally tainted/cut with other products.

Wide variety of food recommendations, including some recs that would work for someone who's vegetarian or has specific food allergies. Some of the products they mention specifically are pretty cost-effective, as well.

Pretty reasonable recommendations on how to increase calorie intake after surgery without confounding the point with a bunch of diet talk.

I likely won't add anything else about post-surgical nutrition unless it's a similarly high quality source (though I am making a tag for it), but even if I don't, this is a pretty robust resource that probably doesn't need supplemented.

[littlest-bugz]

The Collective You

[one system's brief advice about accepting the idea of the collective you]

One of the best pieces of system advice started from a tumblr post and was elaborated by my DID specialist. I can't find the original tumblr post that started it, so I'm making a little post of my own <3 Share the knowledge. and also hope that someone can link the original post lol.

When I was REALLY going through it™ with my first diagnosis w/ DID, and a lack of integration, all of my alters felt like separate individuals, some of us feeling as distanced as a coworker or a stranger altogether. We were just getting a grasp on internal communication between all of our subsystems, and it was rough. We felt so entirely differentiated that we were our own people trapped in one body. While I don't really care about what language you use, all alters in CDDs are a part of one person [there's only one body and brain]- the collective you.

So obvs, I'm scrolling tumblr like the chronically online doomscroller that I am, and I see this post that goes along the line of not knowing who you are, but knowing you are 'you', regardless of who you are [referring to alters]. And it said something like "we're all me enough to pick up our meds"- something like that. iirc it was a half light hearted, half advice post, but that was really good advice for me. I kind of internalized it after I processed it in therapy. It's actually why I have started to love parts language lately tbh.

After further processing this idea in therapy, Identity Confusion stopped mattering in the grand scheme of things. I focused less on worrying about who I was, and just focused on the fact that I'm me. Just like the post I saw- We are all me. The example of all being me enough to pick up my medications just applied, like, everywhere. Even when it came down to the smallest things- with coping with other symptoms too.

Oh? I don't like coffee right now? I guess I should switch to something else. [differentiated alters]

Oh? I have barely any drawing skills right now? Okay, really sucks but I can work on something else and come back to it later. [skill variance between alters]

Oh? I have to go to a doctor's appointment? I know I'll forget that- Gotta write a list, and put it up on the board so I remember. [day to day amnesia]

You know what happened? My dissociation got better! Not immediately or entirely, obviously, and my memory [re amnesia] still sucks, but that's part of the disorder- plus other disorders that I have. This idea of the collective you is something that I think is really beneficial to all CDD systems, especially during the mid to later stages of recovery.

I, admittedly, credit most of my healing to conversations I have had with my DID specialist. Especially since, without her, I wouldn't have been able to process this idea of the collective me further, but the conversation wouldn't have been started if I hadn't seen that post on tumblr. This was a budding concept with us due to the separation we had. It helped with integration. GRANTED... Not every alter got the memo, obviously, but It's something that I'm still working on. Of course, being me comes with the prerequisite that I am a person with DID, and that I am made up of multiple parts.

Now for the piece of advice I got from my therapist- Though it requires a certain level of knowledge of your own system, such as a list of alters and some identifying info [fav drinks, fav colors, those type of things]. Look at the list of your alters wherever it may be. Just whatever you use for logging your system members. Look for the commonalities between alters. There will be at least some commonalities.

For example; A good 45% of us like bunnies, 45% like cats, and 10% have a liking for other kinds of animals. Using this information, I can pretty much deduce that 1. the collective me loves animals and 2. the collective me likes cats and bunnies especially.

Another example; I looked through our simplyplural, which has a favorite color thing [in ours at least]. By looking through the list, I figured out 1. wow I like literally all colors- my fav color is rainbows and 2. I especially like pink and light blue.

More examples; the list.. THE LIST... I looked through it and saw that a good 90% of us like MONSTER ENERGY DRINKS- of varying flavors, but the common denominator was Ultra Strawberry Dreams, but all of us like [or tolerate] water as a preferred drink. From there I can come to the conclusion that I prefer water over anything else and that I have a problem with monster [being light hearted but I genuinely do].

I hope you get the idea I'm going for. I used this process for nearly every aspect of our collective identity, though some had to genuinely be voted on, such as our LGBTQIA+ labels [offline, we just call ourself queer, but that's.. aside the point LMAO].

Obviously, there are going to be outliers- Having DID comes with the fun [/s] aspect of alters being differentiated from each other in some capacity. Example for the monster energy one- We have a handful of alters that HATE energy drinks- even just fizzy drinks in general. There's one guy who will only drink Black Coffee and water- nothing else. He's the guy who is always hiding away our monsters in the way back of the fridge, but guess what!! He's me!! The part of me that doesn't want me to ruin my health over energy drinks. The part of me that knows I deserve better than my unhealthy habits.

Getting to know the collective you is just like learning about your system! It is not inherently different than figuring out what an alters dislikes or likes are. The idea of The Collective You shouldn't feel scary or anxiety inducing- if it is, you may want to confront those feelings with a therapist if you have access to one. Every CDD system is the collective [or, well, system] of one fragmented individual- That is a studied and objective fact. I wanted to give advice from one recovering system to another.

No, this will not work for everyone, every system is different, but I'm hoping this post finds the right audience in knowing that it's worth a shot to try this!

[dreamingofaizawa]

Violent Tendencies Masterlist

Synopsis: Growing up in a tiny town, your volatile nature earns you a reputation and a trip to the nearest juvenile detention hall. Meeting and then leaving John Price in juvie changes the trajectory of your life, and finding him again ten years later is something you'd only ever dreamed of.

Small town AU. Sheriff! John Price x AFAB! Fem! Reader

Status: Ongoing

NSFW is marked with **

1 - Violent Tendencies 2 - **Violent Woman 3 - Tempest 4 - Price 5 - Graves 6 - **Lightning and Thunder 7 - **Celeste 8 - **Purple 9 - Two Step 10 - **Please 11 - **Blood 12 - **Pretty Woman 13 - Ride or Die 14 - An Eye for An Eye - WARNING: Noncon/Dark content 15 - Recovery - WARNING: Noncon/Dark content 16- Scattered - WARNING: References to and mentions of noncon/dark content 17- Next Part - coming soon

[tivaforgood]

So, it's official: NCIS: Tony and Ziva is coming in September, which is only a few short weeks away!! Seriously… it'll fly by in the blink of an eye!

If you've been here for a while, you'll know that I'm a long-time Tiva lover, and this is the most excited for anything I have ever been, for obvious reasons!

But it recently dawned on me that there are people out there who may only be meeting Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David for the first time through the spinoff trailer, and wanting to watch the show because it looks awesome! (I wholeheartedly agree!)

Of course, this is a couple that spanned 8 years on NCIS, and over 190 episodes. That's a whole lot of television! While it is possible to watch all of them before the show premieres in August – and I would highly recommend it, as there's so many small moments you'd miss, and it's the best way to fully understand them –I realise that it might not be for everybody. If you only want to watch the mothership for Tiva, then you probably don't want to see most of the unnecessary filler episodes in the middle. Which is why I've made this – a breakdown of all Tiva episodes you need to watch before the spinoff comes out! (i.e things you need to see so there are very few gaps in your knowledge!) • Major Tiva episodes are highlighted in bold italics. • Anything else on the list are episodes that are recommended you watch, but which are not absolutely pivotal for you to be able to understand their story.

Season 3: (if you can, watch the whole thing.) 3x01: Kill Ari (Part 1) 3x02: Kill Ari (Part 2) 3x04: Silver War 3x06: The Voyeur's Web 3x08: Undercovers 3x09: Frame Up 3x10: Probie 3x12: Boxed In 3x22: Jeopardy 3x23: Hiatus (Part 1) 3x24: Hiatus (Part 2)

Season 4: (again, if you can, watch the whole thing.) 4x01: Shalom 4x09: Twisted Sister 4x16: Dead Man Walking 4x20: Cover Story 4x24: Angel of Death

Season 5: 5x01: Bury Your Dead 5x02: Family 5x10: Corporal Punishment 5x12: Stakeout 5x14: Internal Affairs 5x16: Recoil 5x18: Judgement Day (Part 1) 5x19: Judgement Day (Part 2)

Season 6: (yet again, watch the whole season.) 6x01: Last Man Standing 6x02: Agent Afloat 6x05: Nine Lives 6x08: Cloak 6x09: Dagger 6x22: Legend (Part 1) 6x23: Legend (Part 2) 6x24: Semper Fidelis 6x25: Aliyah Season 7: (and again, watch the whole thing.) 7x01: Truth or Consequences (THE ULTIMATE TIVA EPISODE) 7x02: Reunion 7x03: The Inside Man 7x04: Good Cop, Bad Cop 7x10: Faith 7x13: Jet Lag 7x18: Jurisdiction 7x24: Rule Fifty-One Season 8: (nothing is good about this season aside from these eps) 8x05: Dead Air 8x22: Baltimore 8x23: Swan Song 8x24: Pyramid Season 9: (I'd watch the whole thing.) 9x01: Nature of the Beast 9x11: Newborn King 9x12: Housekeeping 9x13: A Desperate Man 9x15: Secrets 9x23: Up in Smoke 9x24: Till Death Do Us Part Season 10: (Watch every episode. Trust me. This is THE Tiva season!) 10x01: Extreme Prejudice 10x02: Recovery 10x03: Phoenix 10x04: Lost at Sea 10x05: The Namesake 10x06: Shell Shock (Part 1) 10x07: Shell Shock (Part 2) 10x08: Gone 10x09: Devil's Trifecta 10x10: You Better Watch Out 10x11: Shabbat Shalom 10x12: Shiva 10x13: Hit and Run 10x14: Canary 10x15: Hereafter 10x16: Detour 10x17: Prime Suspect 10x18: Seek 10x19: Squall 10x20: Chasing Ghosts 10x21: Berlin 10x22: Revenge 10x23: Double Blind 10x24: Damned If You Do Season 11: 11x01: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot 11x02: Past, Present and Future Season 13: 13x23: Dead Letter 13x24: Family First Season 16: 16x13: She 16x24: Daughters Season 17: 17x01: Out of the Darkness 17x02: Into the Light 17x10: The North Pole 17x11: In the Wind [the spinoff begins directly after the events of this episode!]

Perhaps I'm biased, but if you can watch all 190-odd episodes, do it. It's the best way to truly understand these two characters and their relationship (and everything they've been through). And I feel it likely that the spinoff will contain small easter eggs and references to tiny Tiva moments, so to appreciate and recognise them all, I highly recommend watching every Tiva episode in existence! <3

[hiwelcometothemonstersancturary]

Poppy Worldwide/Save Everyone AU masterpost

Hi, this is the second masterpost I make for the AU. You can find the first one here, which does not include the characters introduced for Chapter 4 of the game. This masterpost is for the "updated" version of the au, which includes everyone up to chapter 4.

The AU's premise: A rewrite of the canon game, but with a twist: Instead of being responsible for the toy's deaths, the Angel/the Player rescues every single one of them instead, with no exceptions. This includes characters like Mommy Long Legs, Catnap and Doey. After confronting the Prototype and sparing his life, Angel leaves the factory with everyone, calls the authorities, and now the toys must adapt to the strange world outside the factory while healing from their traumas.

For more info on the AU, including trigger and content warnings, please see the read more!

----------------

REFERENCES:

Original Masterpost

Angel reference sheet (TO BE REDONE)

Main Toys reference sheet (COMING SOON)

Smiling Critters reference sheet, part 1

Smiling Critters reference sheet, part 2

Nightmare Critters reference sheet (COMING SOON)

The Prototype / Experiment 1006 reference sheet (TO BE REDONE)

AU WRITING:

Game Arc:

Poppy Worldwide: TRUE SALVATION ROUTE (coming soon) - the updated fanfic, with the events of Chapter 4 added alongside some corrections and minor alterations in the previous chapters. Consider this the up

dated (and maybe better?) version of the AU!

Poppy Worldwide: SALVATION ROUTE! - the first fanfic of the AU where my madness started, written before Chapter 4 came out. Does not feature Doey, Safe Haven, or Sawyer. Will be completed soon.

Post-Game Arc:

Doey NOT coping with his trauma (Tumblr Post)

AU ART:

Silly Angel x Prototype sketches

HEADCANONS & SCENARIOS:

About Thomas Clarke;

Small stuff about their prosthetics;

How the Smiling Critters were assumed to be dead/why aren't they on Safe Haven during the game events;

Favorite music genres

Scenarios:

Valentine's Day

----------------

THIS AU WAS MADE AND WRITTEN BY ME, AKA GARÇA VISCONDE MIRIGIS, AKA A (white) BRAZILIAN QUEER INDIVIDUAL WITH AUDHD, AND I DO NOT LIKE TONING DOWN DISABILITIES OR MENTAL HEALTH TOPICS. If you don't like the way I'm handling certain disabilities or topics and you believe you know more, please consider sending an ask or message explaining your POV so I may improve the AU.

Trigger and Content Warnings (TW and CW):

Canon-typical violence, which yes, does include gore, blood, guts, and tons of medical inadequacies;

Child physical, emotional and mental abuse (thanks, PlayCo.);

Mentions of starvation (both in the factory and with Angel);

Overall discussions of mental health, including conditions such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and multiple personalities. If you think people with these conditions are somehow """scary""", or think narcissism is an insult, please get away from my blog;

Suicide, suicidal thoughts and discussions of previous suicide attempts;

Overall discussions of medical trauma;

Overall discussions of grief and death;

Ableism;

LGBTQIA+phobia (not a focus, but Angel is an intersex nonbinary individual who moves to the USA in the 80s and this did give them trauma)

Angel also suffered xenophobia and racism thanks to being a white latine in 80s USA. This is mentioned a few times, but is not a focus.

Some important info: This AU has a heavy emphasis on trauma recovery, mental health, and the relationships between Angel and the toys and the toys with each other. Please check the TW and CW for more info.

The Smiling and Nightmare Critters are all alive as well. Safe Heaven's toys are also all alive. Neither the Prototype nor Harley Sawyer die by the end of the game's events, but the doctor is paying for his crimes while the Prototype is helping Angel as much as he can.

I tried my best to follow as much canon as possible, but I opted to alter some tidbits about the timeline in order for things to not be as confusing, and added a LOT more to the characters we know of. Since the game doesn't give us much personality to them, I decided to use my own interpretation of them. Everything I altered was in an attempt to better fit the themes of both the AU and the canon game.

The Prototype in this AU is not an one-dimensional villain; he is a deeply traumatized individual who did LOTS of bad stuff pre and post-Hour of Joy in an attempt to protect all the toys. He failed being a good guardian and parent to the toys and he is paying the consequences of allowing Catnap to make a cult, isolating Poppy, and having the brilliant (sarcasm) idea of making the Hour of Joy.

Canon Ships for the AU include:

Everyone x Therapy;

Mommy Long Legs x Miss Delight;

Catnap x Dogday;

Hoppy Hopscotch x Bobby Bearhug;

KickinChicken x Bubba Bubbaphant;

Picky Piggy x Maggie Mako;

Leith Pierre x Harley Sawyer (pre-HoJ);

The Angel x The Prototype (QPR).

[demie90s]

No Spark Lost

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ DIANA TAURASI X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

Part 1 MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: Diana Taurasi x reader (*soccer star!*fem!reader)

⭑ summary: You were the face of soccer. A household name, viral athlete, and walking highlight reel—until your ACL tore mid-game and the season ended. Months into recovery, you show up courtside at a Phoenix Mercury game. Hoodie, jeans, no limp in sight. But when halftime hits and you’re asked to shoot around, you remind the world—and Diana Taurasi—that your fire never left.

⭑ genre: Slow-burn tension, legend-to-legend energy, mutual obsession, competitive flirtation

⭑ warnings: Strong language, injury references, sexual tension, light physical contact, Diana being bold as hell

⭑ word count: ~ 0.8k

You can’t tell people you’re fine when you’re not.

But you can look them dead in the eye, knee wrapped tight in K-tape, and still walk like you didn’t spend the past eight weeks learning how to move without pain. You can pull on a hoodie—slightly oversized, grey, soft like comfort—and jeans that still hug your hips just right, even with the brace underneath. You can show up to the arena with no sunglasses, no entourage, no crutches.

You just can’t hide when you’re the most famous sidelined athlete in the country.

So when I walked into Footprint Center for the Phoenix Mercury vs. Chicago Sky game, heads turned. People murmured. The sideline reporters tried to act chill, but I caught them clocking my walk. Limp? Barely. Stiff? Sure. But broken? Never.

I nod to security, give a lazy wave to a couple young fans in my jersey, and keep moving. Straight to my seat courtside, three down from the Mercury bench. I don’t need attention. I don’t need pity.

But damn if this doesn’t sting.

⸻

Flashback — Two Months Ago

We were up 2-0. 67th minute. I had already clocked an assist and a goal. It was humid as hell. Turf thick. I went for a cut I’ve done a thousand times—defender tight on me, eyes on the ball, whole damn stadium leaning in.

Left plant. Right slice.

Then my foot slipped.

And the second I tried to catch myself, my leg went back—too far—and she landed on me.

Some forward from the opposing team also slipped trying to pivot. Unlucky timing. Maybe karma. Maybe just physics.

The sound?

Not a snap. Not a crack.

Just a shift. A grind.

And I knew.

Didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Just laid flat, blinking up at the lights while the ref screamed for the med cart.

I remember a teammate sobbing. Our coach shaking his head like he could fix it just by willing it.

But me?

I took the mouthguard out and said, “It’s my ACL.”

Then I laughed. Just once. Bitter. Quick.

Everything changed after that.

⸻

Present Day

Halftime. Phoenix is trailing by 3. Diana’s hit back-to-back threes. Kahleah Copper is cooking. The arena smells like sweat, buttered pretzels, and momentum.

I’m posted on the sideline, hoodie sleeves pushed up, nodding along to the music.

That’s when I hear: “You bored yet?”

I look up. Coach Nate Tibbetts, Mercury’s new head coach, is grinning at me like he’s up to something.

“Little,” I admit. “Bench warmer energy.”

He laughs. “You ever think about hooping again?”

“I’m retired,” I deadpan. “From two sports now.”

He steps closer, crosses his arms. “Wanna run a few shots?”

I blink. “You serious?”

“Just shoot. Keep it light. Let the crowd see what all the hype’s about.”

“Who set this up?”

He shrugs. “Diana maybe. Maybe me. Maybe you look like you could use the ball in your hands again.”

The tunnel opens like an invitation.

I hesitate for one second. One.

Then I roll my shoulders back and head to the court.

⸻

Halftime – Lights Still On

Ball hits my palm like it remembers me.

Crowd notices instantly. Whispers turn into low chants. Cameras shift.

I step behind the arc. K-tape visible just under the denim. My stance ain’t perfect, but the form?

Flawless.

First shot:

Swish.

Second:

Corner pull-up, slight fade—net.

Third:

Quick dribble, step-back, deep three. Crowd gasps.

“Damn,” I hear from behind me.

I turn—slow—and there she is.

Diana Taurasi.

Arms folded. Lip twitching. Hair pulled back, watching me like I’m an equation she used to know but forgot how to solve.

“You recovered, huh?” she asks.

I don’t answer.

She walks up with a ball of her own. Tosses it once. Catches.

“You and me. One-on-one. First to five.”

“You serious?”

“Why not?”

“I’m literally on IR.”

“You’re here.”

I smirk. “You’re lucky I like proving people wrong.”

⸻

Unofficial Halftime Game

She checks it.

I jab once, slow. My knee barks—but I ignore it.

Spin. Pump fake. Pull. Bucket.

She narrows her eyes. “That was cute.”

Her turn. She drives—low, controlled—tries to spin, but I step right in front. Force her wide. She misses. Ball rolls.

I grab it.

Step back.

Three. Wet.

Crowd’s eating it up. Phones out. Twitter about to explode.

“Don’t tell me this hurts,” she says, stepping in close, chest nearly brushing mine. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of it.”

“I’m not,” I whisper.

“Then stop holding back.”

Next play she pushes—just a little. I don’t flinch.

She goes up. Misses again. I grab it.

Final shot. I take my time.

One bounce.

Eyes locked.

She smirks. “Gonna limp your way to glory?”

I shoot.

Swish.

5-0.

She lets out a breath. Grins.

“You ain’t lost shit.”

I toss the ball to the side.

“Nope,” I say, stepping into her space now. “But you’re real interested in checking.”

Diana laughs low. Doesn’t back up.

Just lingers.

“You ever come to practice…”

“You ever stop watching me…”

We leave it there.

The buzzer sounds.

Game on.

And I’m still standing.