#also the fragmented pieces on her shoulders and head

[bioswear]

I WAS INCORRECT HE IS NOT THE LAST GREY GIANT

MASSIVE NIER REINCARNATION SPOILER BELOW

he completes the DrakeNieR trifecta of giant grey godlike beings causing terror on a city

[itsxarien]

i will fall in love with you over and over again | katsuki bakugo x reader

summary:

Your quirk was meant to save lives, but with every revival, it slowly chipped away at your memories. Ochako smiled brighter, Deku lingered longer, and Katsuki stayed—always stayed.Even when you forgot his name. Even when you forgot him.

warnings: major angst, memory loss, spoilers!

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The first time it happened was when you revived Katsuki’s deceased cat.

You were children then, barely old enough to understand the weight of life and death. But when he found you crouched by the creek, his small hands trembling over the lifeless body of his beloved pet, his voice was already hoarse from calling your name.

“Please,” he choked out, red eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “Do it. Just…just bring her back.”

You stared at him, uncertain. The raw desperation in his voice made you second-guess whether this was really the same Katsuki who shoved you off swings and tugged on your pigtails.

But his voice cracked again, and you gave in.

Tiny hands trembling, you knelt beside him, fingers brushing against the cat’s cold fur. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know if it would work. You were too young, too inexperienced but the light of your quirk flickered faintly between your palms.

And suddenly, she stirred.

Just for five minutes.

The cat let out a weak meow, nuzzling into Katsuki’s trembling hands. His chest hitched with a choked sob as he cradled her, burying his face in her fur.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay, girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He hugged her tightly, arms curled protectively around the frail creature.

And when the light in her eyes slowly dimmed once more—her small body going limp in his arms—he pressed a final, tear-soaked kiss to her head.

Then he turned to you.

Without a word, he threw his arms around you, clinging to you as though you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His fingers fisted the back of your shirt, shoulders trembling violently.

But your eyes were dull.

Blank.

Who… was this again?

Your fingers twitched faintly at your sides, your gaze vacant as you stared over his shoulder. There was warmth against you—the faint dampness of his tears soaking into your shirt. But you felt nothing.

When he pulled back, his red, swollen eyes searched yours.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice cracking slightly.

You blinked slowly. Tilted your head faintly.

“…Huh?”

Confusion flickered briefly across his face, but it was gone in an instant. He forced a shaky grin, nudging your forehead with his.

“Idiot,” he muttered hoarsely, ruffling your hair. “You look wiped out.”

But the faint crease between his brows lingered. And he stared at you a little longer than before.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Over time, Katsuki learned the cruel price of your quirk.

How ironic.

The ability to heal and revive—the very embodiment of hope—was also your slow undoing. A power so heroic, yet its cost so merciless.

In order to save someone, you had to lose pieces of yourself. Slivers of your heart. Fragments of memories you once held dear.

And Katsuki couldn’t help but wonder—once you were pushed to the limit, would you forget everything?

Would you forget him?

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Izuku’s body hit the ground with a sickening thud, sending dust and pebbles scattering across the broken bridge. His fingers scraped along the jagged pavement, knuckles bloodied from the fall.

He groaned softly, clutching at his shoulder as he slowly pushed himself up.

“Dammit…” he hissed through clenched teeth, wincing at the sharp sting pulsing through his arm.

But before he could rise, you were already by his side.

“Don’t move, Izu.”

Your voice was light, a soft, reassuring hum as your hands hovered over his injuries. A faint golden glow flickered between your trembling fingers, spilling warmth over his torn skin. Slowly, the bloodied scrapes faded—the broken bone mending beneath your touch.

Izuku sucked in a sharp breath as the pain dulled, his muscles loosening slightly.

But instead of relief, his chest tightened.

His hand shot out, gripping your wrist before you could continue.

“You shouldn’t use your quirk in times like this.” His voice was low but firm, his green eyes narrowed with concern. “You know how it affects you, (N/N). I can handle myself just fine.”

You forced a sheepish smile, brushing him off with a lighthearted laugh.

“Don’t worry, Izu!” you chirped, your voice too bright—too forced. “This is just me practicing for when I become a hero… I have to get used to it someday, don’t I?”

You meant it as a joke, but the faint quiver in your voice gave you away.

Because even now, you could feel it—the subtle sting behind your eyes, the faint disorientation creeping in at the edges of your mind.

It was happening again.

But you pretended not to notice.

“Idiot.”

The sharp voice came from behind you, laced with unmistakable irritation.

You barely had time to turn before Katsuki’s shadow loomed over you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His voice was low, cutting, but you caught the faint tremor in it.

“The dumbass is right,” he muttered, jerking his head toward Izuku. His crimson eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t waste your efforts on shit that can be fixed easily.”

You blinked at him.

And before you could say anything, Izuku let out a low, incredulous scoff.

“Wait—did you just agree with me?” he asked, staring at Bakugo with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Bakugo’s scowl deepened instantly. His glare snapped toward Izuku, eyes blazing with irritation.

“Shut up, dumbass!” he barked, fists clenching slightly at his sides.

Izuku’s lips parted slightly, brows knitting faintly in surprise. But then—just barely—he smirked.

“You agreed with me,” he taunted softly, his voice deliberately teasing.

Bakugo shot him a withering glare, his jaw clenching sharply. His hands twitched, sparks crackling faintly at his palms.

“Say it again and I’ll throw your nerd ass off this bridge.”

But Izuku only grinned wider, his eyes glimmering with barely concealed amusement.

And even as the two bickered—hurling threats at each other with all the ferocity of childhood rivals—you knew.

You could see it in the way they lingered close. The way they subtly kept their bodies angled toward you. The way their eyes kept flickering back—searching, wary, worried.

Because they both cared.

And you smiled softly, even as the edges of your mind blurred slightly. Even as you knew you were losing another sliver of yourself.

But you didn’t say a word.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The use of your quirk became more frequent as the three of you entered U.A. The missions grew harsher. The battles bloodier. And with them, so did the people who worried for you.

You were stronger now. Sharper. Your control over Reverie was improving—you could heal faster, revive longer. You were starting to master it, refining the edges of your power with each mission.

But the cost remained the same.

The memory loss never left—it simply grew quieter, more patient. Lurking beneath the surface, gnawing at you slowly.

It would take everything eventually.

You knew it.

And so did they.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Your hands shook faintly as you pressed your palms over the woman’s bloodied chest. Her breath was shallow, fading fast, but you didn’t stop.

Golden light flickered from your fingertips, mending the torn skin, sealing the wound. You poured every ounce of strength you had left into her frail body, coaxing her pulse back to life.

You felt your quirk pulling at you—taking from you. You could feel it in the sharp sting behind your eyes, in the dull ache spreading behind your temples.

When you pulled back, the woman’s chest rose steadily, color returning to her face. She clung to your hand, her fingers trembling as she murmured a tear-soaked, broken “thank you.”

You smiled faintly.

And then you staggered, vision tilting slightly. Your knees threatened to buckle, the weight of exhaustion making your limbs heavy and sluggish.

A faint warmth trickled down from your nose.

Blood.

You stared at the crimson droplets falling onto your trembling hands. It took you a moment to register what was happening.

“Hey—hey!”

Ochako was by your side in an instant, her hands gripping your arms tightly, steadying you. Her brown eyes were wide, round with worry as she stared at the blood smeared across your upper lip.

“(N/N), you’re bleeding!” Her voice was tight, barely above a whisper. “You need to stop—”

But you shook your head, a weak, lopsided smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m okay,” you rasped softly, forcing a breathless laugh. You could taste the iron in your mouth, but you still smiled. You lied.

Ochako’s brows furrowed deeply. You could see the tremor in her hands as she cupped your face, wiping the blood from your lip with the edge of her glove. Her hands were shaking.

“Please, just rest,” she begged softly, her voice breaking slightly.

But you didn’t.

You carried on with the mission.

Despite the dizziness threatening to pull you under, despite the way your hands trembled faintly, you didn’t stop.

You pressed your bloodied hands against another fallen civilian’s chest, reviving them for five fleeting minutes.

Enough time to let their loved ones say goodbye.

You moved onto the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Because they deserved their goodbyes.

And if it meant sacrificing another sliver of yourself, you would do it without hesitation.

The man’s sobs echoed through the broken city street, his knees hitting the cracked asphalt with a hollow thud. His arms trembled as they clung to the small, lifeless body in his lap, the delicate frame of his child. Her limbs hung limp, eyes half-lidded, robbed of their light far too soon.

You had brought the child back with your quirk, just for five minutes. Enough time for the father to say goodbye.

But when she awoke, she screamed.

And the father, through tears, held her anyway.

“It’s okay… I’ve got you,” he whispered, rocking her as if he could shield her from the agony she was reliving. “Daddy’s here. I’ve got you, baby.”

The girl’s cries faded into broken gasps. She stilled in his arms before slipping away once more. Cold and lifeless.

You staggered backward, legs trembling beneath you. Something sharp cracked behind your eyes, a splintering sensation as if a fault line had split in your skull.

The world turned blurry.

When you blinked again, the sobbing man was a stranger. The charred street, unfamiliar. You stood there, lost in the very place you were supposed to save.

Katsuki’s voice cut through the fog.

“Hey! Hey, look at me!”

His voice was rough, sharp with urgency, but his hands were steady as he grabbed your face, thumbs pressed to your cheeks, grounding you.

Your eyes were unfocused, glassy with confusion. You didn’t know where you were. Who you were. But his voice was loud. Familiar. Real.

“Focus, dammit.” His forehead pressed against yours, sweat-damp hair clinging to his skin. His breath was uneven, but his voice was steady. Low. Rough. “It’s me. Come on, (N/N). Stay with me.”

And just like that, you were back.

Your chest heaved sharply, a gasp catching in your throat as your mind slowly pieced itself together. Your name. Your quirk. Your mission. His voice.

Bakugo held you in place for a moment longer, his grip firm but careful. His breathing was shaky against your temple. And when you looked into his eyes, wide with something raw and fragile— he was scared.

He almost lost you.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Then it started becoming more evident as you became the intern of a hero that owned a hospital. As her intern, you were tasked to heal patients, and if you were given the permission to, revive a patient for five minutes so their loved ones could say farewell. The heroine you were interning for, Lady Sakuko, knew the limitations and didn’t want to risk you and so you stuck with healing.

But some families begged you.. And you couldn’t say no.. It was cruel to do so.

And so you paid the price.

It started with training exercises. Lost memories slipping through your fingers. Sometimes it was minor, a name you couldn’t place, a route you couldn’t recall. Sometimes it was bigger.. Fading details of your past, faces you swore you knew but couldn’t recognize.

Your childhood best friend, Izuku, noticed first.

You were in the common room when he passed you a glass of water, his green eyes soft with concern.

“Hey, you okay? You kinda zoned out earlier.”

You stared at him blankly. “Huh? When?”

He hesitated.

“During training,” he murmured gently. “You didn’t dodge when I called your name.”

You blinked slowly at him, confused.

You didn’t remember.

His eyes softened with worry, but he forced a bright smile, brushing it off with a chuckle.

“Maybe you were just tired,” he said lightly. But the concern in his eyes lingered, even when he turned away.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You didn’t remember your favorite cafe

Ochako suggested stopping by after classl. Her voice was bright, casual, trying not to sound worried.

“Hey, wanna grab those cream puffs you like? You always get that matcha latte too.”

You blinked at her, confused.

“What café?”

Her smile faltered slightly.

“You know… the one by the park? You love that place.”

But you didn’t remember.

You stared at the tiny shop across the street, its warm glow spilling out onto the pavement, but it meant nothing to you. No familiar scent. No sense of nostalgia.

Ochako covered it quickly, her voice bright and casual.

“Oh! Maybe I’m mixing it up with someone else’s fave,” she laughed lightly. “Wanna check it out, though?”

You nodded absently, but you could feel her gaze lingering on you the entire time.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You can’t sleep.

The rooftop is cold, the wind nipping at your skin, but you don’t move. You stare out at the city, its flickering lights blurring faintly at the edges of your vision.

You hear footsteps behind you, heavy and familiar. When you glance over your shoulder, you expect to feel a flash of recognition.

But you don’t.

The blond boy strides over with his hands in his pockets, his eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. His presence is strong—almost too much. He carries himself like he owns the entire sky.

He stops beside you, eyes narrowing slightly. “You didn’t go to your café today.”

You stare at him blankly. You don’t answer.

He turns toward you fully. His voice lowers. “What café?”

His crimson eyes falter ever so slightly. His knuckles go white in his pockets.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, he scoffs faintly.

“Tch. It’s a shitty place anyway,” he mutters. “Too sweet.”

You don’t know why, but your chest aches.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The hospital wing is too small.

Cots are pressed against every wall, medical supplies scattered haphazardly across tables. Blood stains the once-white sheets. The air reeks of antiseptic and scorched flesh.

You sit by the cot of a fallen soldier, his blood pooling onto the sheets, soaking through the thin fabric. His eyes are glassy—vacant. His fingers twitch once, and then still.

“Please…” his wife whispers from the other side of the cot. Her voice is thin, trembling. “Please, save him…”

You don’t hesitate.

Your hands, slick with blood, press down on his chest, trembling as the familiar warmth of your quirk pulses through your fingertips. Light spills from your hands, golden and dim, sinking into his ruined flesh.

He gasps sharply. His eyes snap open, and he screams.

You don’t flinch.

You hold his hand as he thrashes violently, as his body relives every wound he has ever suffered. As he sobs and clings to his wife’s trembling arms. As she cries and holds him, even as he begs for it to stop.

Five minutes.

You stay with him until he goes still again. His wife kisses his cooling lips, her sobs raw and broken. She holds him close, even though he is cold.

You slowly stand, legs trembling. Your head throbs violently, and your vision briefly tilts sideways. Your hands shake so violently you barely manage to wipe the blood from your cheek.

“(N/N)!”

You don’t register the voice at first. The words are muffled, distant, until a pair of arms suddenly wrap around you.

Ochako.

You blink slowly, trying to focus on her face, but her features swim and blur. For a brief, disorienting moment, she is a stranger.

Her hands grip your arms tightly, her voice trembling. “You’ve been overworking yourself at the hospital… (N/N), you should remember to pick who you revive. You can’t save all of them.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “But I can.”

Her eyes burn with tears. She shakes her head weakly. “And it’s taking a toll on you!” Her voice cracks as she tightens her grip. “You’re my best friend, (N/N)… I know that it’s selfish… but sometimes… people go.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

You just stare at her, your breath shallow. You want to hold her. To promise her you’re fine.

But you don’t.

Because you can’t remember if you are.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You’re slipping.

You can’t remember your name. You can’t remember the mission. You can’t remember why you’re here.

But you know you need to keep moving.

Your legs shake as you stumble forward, your body screaming in protest. Each step feels heavier, each breath shallower, but you don’t stop.

You press your trembling hands to the bodies littered across the battlefield, summoning every ounce of power left in you.

You revive them.

Again. And again. And again.

You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just do.

And then you find him.

His body is crumpled against the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His gauntlet is cracked, sparking faintly with remnants of his quirk. His hand lies slack around the grip. His eyes are closed.

You don’t know who he is.

But your heart shatters.

You fall to your knees beside him. Your fingers tremble violently as you press them against his chest. His blood seeps into your skin, warm and sticky, but you don’t care.

You don’t understand why you’re crying. You don’t know why it hurts so much.

But it does.

Your hands shake so violently you can barely summon the light. It flickers faintly at your fingertips, sputtering weakly. You’re too far gone. You barely have anything left.

And still, you pour everything into him. Every drop of strength, every broken piece of yourself, every memory you don’t even have anymore.

“Please,” you choke softly, voice cracked and trembling. “Please, just… come back.”

You’re not sure if you’re speaking to him, or to yourself.

You press harder, ignoring the searing pain in your arms, the tremor in your shoulders. Your vision blurs with tears you don’t understand, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks.

And then he gasps sharply, his eyes flying open with a sudden, broken breath.

You let out a strangled sob.

His chest heaves with shallow, ragged breaths. His eyes—crimson and glassy—flicker hazily to you, unfocused and wide with confusion. Blood clings to his lips, his skin pale from blood loss.

But he is alive.

And then you smile.

Tears slip down your cheeks, your eyes blurry, but you smile anyway. You let out a shaky, broken laugh, soft and breathless—because he’s breathing.

Your trembling fingers brush over his blood-matted hair, pushing the damp strands from his face. Your hands linger, trembling faintly against his skin.

You stare at the face you don’t recognize.

But somehow, somehow, it still feels familiar.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft and fragile, breaking faintly over the words.

“I think I loved you before.”

Bakugo Katsuki allows himself to cry.

Because you still do.

Even if you don’t remember.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The war was over.

The scars it left behind were not.

U.A. slowly stitched itself back together. The halls were quieter now. The seats emptier. The classrooms once filled with voices and laughter now carried a somber stillness.

But you were alive.

And so were they.

You sat by the window in the classroom, the sunlight spilling weakly across your desk, warming your hands. The soft murmur of your classmates lingered faintly around you, their voices dull and distant. You watched them quietly. The way they moved, the way they smiled, the way their hands trembled slightly when they thought no one was looking.

They were familiar strangers.

You knew their names because they told you. You knew their faces because they showed you old photos. You knew their stories because they sat beside you and spoke softly, laughing through their tears, hoping you would remember.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

No matter how hard you tried, it was all blank.

You stared down at your notebook, the lines empty. The words wouldn’t come. Your fingers trembled slightly against the pen, your chest tightening with something sharp and suffocating.

You clutched the pen harder.

And then you heard someone sniffle.

You glanced up, eyes widening slightly.

Ochako sat beside you, her hand pressed to her mouth, trying to stifle the small, broken sound. Her eyes were red, tears clinging to her lashes, falling despite her best efforts to hold them back.

You blinked slowly, confused.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered softly, your voice cracking faintly. Your eyes flickered around the room. Izuku, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, trying to smile for you. Kirishima, clenching his jaw as his hands fisted faintly on his desk, his knuckles white. Mina, her face buried in her arms, shoulders trembling softly.

And then you looked at Katsuki.

You didn’t know why, but you couldn’t look away.

There was no pain on his face. No tears. No trace of sadness.

Just tenderness. Raw and steady.

You stared at him with so much love, like your heart remembered what your mind had forgotten. Like somewhere, in the hollow of your chest, you still knew him.

And you tried so hard.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to remember—to claw through the blank spaces, to tear through the fog—desperate to find even the smallest flicker of a memory.

But nothing came.

Just empty, aching silence.

You pressed your palms against your eyes, your shoulders trembling slightly. A broken sob caught in your throat, and you shook your head sharply, voice small and broken.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out softly. “I’m so sorry. I—I can’t remember. I—”

You covered your face with your hands, hot tears slipping between your trembling fingers. You tried to stop them, tried to breathe through the suffocating weight in your chest.

“I’m trying so hard,” you whispered shakily. “I want to remember, I do. But I—I can’t. I can’t remember any of you.”

Your voice cracked painfully as you lowered your hands, your eyes desperate and glassy. You clutched the fabric of your shirt over your chest, knuckles pale from how hard you squeezed.

“And I’m so sorry…” your voice broke completely, trembling and raw, “for forgetting you.”

And then you felt warmth.

Arms wrapping around you.

Steady. Strong. Familiar.

You felt Katsuki’s hands cradle the back of your head, his fingers slipping into your hair, holding you gently against his chest.

Your trembling hands fisted weakly into his shirt, clinging to him, your tears soaking into the fabric. You shook faintly in his arms, and he just held you tighter.

He pressed his lips softly against the crown of your head.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice rough and low, but gentle. “You don’t have to remember.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face deeper into his chest, tears falling freely.

He stroked your hair softly, his voice breaking faintly as he held you closer.

“We’ll just make new memories together.”

You hiccupped softly against him, and his arms tightened faintly around you.

“We have time,” he murmured against your temple. “We have forever.”

And so you broke completely in his arms.

Because even if you didn’t remember who he was, you still knew him.

THE END.

[burreauxsss]

nobody has to know

background: y/n goes to a frat party and defies every warning her friends give her about the newest LSU quarterback joe burrow.

(all pics from pinterest, all rights reserved.)

notes: mix of social media/messages and fic writing, short blurb. also why do i lowkey want to go to the masters for the golf? its my dream

word count: 570

warning: implied smut, 18+, not proofread (similar storyline to my lamelo ball x wmba reader series)

As you're in your dorm getting ready for a party, the atmosphere calm as All the Stars by SZA and Kendrick Lamar murmurs in the background with your friend group waiting on you to finish up. Once you did, the group heads to the nearby off campus bar.

Walking into the bar for the party, after a long duration to find a parking spot due to almost being at max compacity, many girls stood around, talked, drinked and other things while the lights flashed. Almost everyone at the event attended LSU, including the athletes.

But you saw a group of people yell as the football players came in one by one, and one locked eyes on you as he walked in. Joe Burrow.

Your friends immediately pulled you to the side right after, like you were a puppy running away from its owner without a leash, as if it were a game. Obviously, you became defensive, but they looked right at you as they grabbed your drink mid-sip.

"Y/N. We're all going to tell you this one time, but Joe's a known player. He's a new quarterback from Ohio State, but he has a girlfriend, and he's just scouting side pieces so he can be pleasured here." Kamryn, your roommate, says as she continues to hold the drink in her hand.

If you deliberately roll your eyes, he wouldn't do that. Plus, if he had a girlfriend, they're probably over because he didn't take the starting quarterback offer somewhere closer you thought.

"Actually, we're not joking. We don't want you to get hurt when he blocks you one day or worse. Just stay away from him, okay?" another one of your friends calmly says as they give you the drink back and they go back to partying with other people.

Just as you start to walk towards him, you feel a hand tap your shoulder. You turn around and its Joe.

"Hey, you dropped your ID back at the bar. I was looking for you," the tall blue-eyed boy says, looking down at you.

"Oh, well thanks."

Keeping it simple as you take the ID out of his hand and you walk up to the bar, he offers to buy you another drink.

"Your outfit is really nice, lemme buy you a drink."

You thought about turning it down, but was this the only chance you'd probably have to talk to him before he goes to someone else? 'Backstabbing' your friends would be horrible, but he seemed nice. So what was the worst that could happen between you two?

After rebuying your drink of choice, somehow you both end up in his car an hour later. Sitting in the passenger seat, talking about why you're both at LSU, what it's like being from Ohio, and the differences in the humidity. You check your phone andsee a message in the group chat from your friends.

Joe saw a small fragment of the messages and immediately smiled. Although on his phone, he saw a text message notification. He ignored it as he turned off his phone, and undid his seatbelt and got into the backseat, then as he let y/n straddle him as he grabbed her shirt, knowing what was about to happen.

The next morning you wake up in your dorm hungover but a sense of satisfaction and soreness coursing through your body, on the other side Joe's phone blows up from his girlfriend Adeline clearly pissed about how shes being ignored per usual.

totallynoty/n

❤️ 2,300 💬 40

Liked by: itskarmyn joeyb_9 journ3y and others

totallynoty/n: we had a TIME last night

itskarmyn: hungover core

username_1: get back on that basketball court girl

journ3y: do we need to talk about what condition your dress is in right now or even where is it? totallynoty/n: nah im good.

username_2: joe liking this.. whats going on

*load more comments*

authors note: something different because im running off of god knows what right now. hope everyone liked this.

[hummingbird24220]

The Littlest Listener (Part 5)

One Piece x Reader — Whitebeard Pirates (Ace) x Platonic!Mermaid Reader

It started with a story.

You’d heard it in whispers—legends passed between mermaids and fishfolk, half-laughed off tales of rare mermaids who could walk on land. Some said it was a gift passed down through bloodlines. Others claimed it happened when the sea itself allowed it. A few believed it was sheer willpower—heart stronger than water, anchored by love or stubbornness or the simple, impossible desire to walk beside someone you cared for.

And you? You were absolutely going to figure it out.

You approached Marco first—because Marco always had a solution, and more importantly, books.

“I want to study,” you told him one morning, tail coiled beneath you on your favorite bench. “About mermaids who can walk.”

Marco blinked, adjusting his glasses. “Walk like… on legs?”

You nodded. “I want to stand beside the crew. Not just swim near them. I want to walk onto an island one day. Like everyone else.”

He was silent for a moment, then let out a small breath. “You’re serious about this.”

You gave him a lopsided grin. “Dead serious.”

“…Alright.” He turned, already heading below deck. “I’ll get the books. And a towel.”

Marco had brought you a tower of texts—old logs from Fishman Island, scattered sailor folktales, anatomical studies, and even one suspiciously romantic novel titled “The Sea and Her Soldier.”

He also provided a towel for your hands (“No soggy pages, please”) and made sure your study spot was stocked with snacks, water, and exactly zero distractions.

Except Ace.

Ace showed up constantly.

“You really think you can grow legs?” he asked one day, peering over your shoulder. “What if you get weird legs? What if they’re like… goat legs?”

“I’m not gonna have goat legs.”

“I’m just saying. Be careful what you wish for.”

You threw a soggy bread roll at him. He caught it and ate it anyway.

Still, he never made fun of your goal. Not really. He watched you read with that quiet kind of pride he never said out loud. Sat with you during long afternoons when you got frustrated. Helped you sound out confusing words.

And when you found a story about a mermaid who had once walked on land—briefly, painfully, but triumphantly—Ace was the first person you shouted for.

“See?!” you beamed, slapping the page. “It’s possible!”

He leaned over to look, eyebrow raised. “It says she passed out for a week and had noodle knees.”

“I’ll take noodle knees!”

It wasn’t easy.

Some nights your tail ached just from stretching it. Sometimes the books contradicted each other. You tried rituals, breathing techniques, meditation (which Thatch interrupted with kazoo music). You even begged Marco to check your blood and bones with his flame-based diagnostics.

“There’s something,” he admitted, watching the soft glow of his power trace your tail. “Something shifting, but it’s faint. If it happens, it’ll be you that makes it happen.”

That made your heart swell.

You weren’t a soldier or a swordsman. You weren’t the strongest or fastest anymore. But this? This was something only you could do.

And you were going to figure it out.

One fin at a time.

-

It took days of planning. Seaweed. Salt circles. Sunlight timing. The “most mystically aligned tide” (according to a very dramatic book Marco let you borrow under protest).

The ritual had everything—half ceremony, half wild guesswork, and 100% fueled by your own stubborn, sea-slick hope.

You’d chosen a quiet, hidden cove not far from the Moby Dick, one you’d passed dozens of times while scouting. You could still hear the crew in the distance, faint laughter on the breeze.

But here, it was just you. You… and your mission.

You started at sunrise.

Wrapped seaweed around your arms and waist like ceremonial sashes. Arranged coral fragments and pearl shards into a spiral around your rock. Murmured the words—ancient, half-remembered phrases from the stories—and pressed your tail into the soft sand, letting the sun warm your scales.

You closed your eyes. Focused your breathing. I want to walk beside them, you thought. I want to stand. I want to fight beside them. To dance at their parties. To step on land and not sink.

The ocean hushed.

A deep, quiet current swirled around you, gentle and curious. And then—heat.

It started in your fins. A tingle. A pull.

You gasped, clutching the rock beside you as your lower body seized with unfamiliar pressure. It wasn’t pain—not exactly—but your bones ached. Your muscles spasmed like they were arguing with themselves.

Then—POP.

You looked down.

And froze.

Toes. Actual, webbed little toes. Five on each side—poking through the fins at the edge of your tail, wiggling experimentally in the air like baby fish learning to flap.

You stared in stunned silence.

Then squealed so loudly that seagulls took off from the cliffs.

By the time you swam back to the ship, Ace was waiting at the edge, fidgeting and scanning the sea like he hadn’t moved all day.

You burst up from the water, beaming. “Ace! I GREW TOES!”

He blinked. “Wait. What?”

“TOES. Look—!”

You slapped your tail on the rail. Your fin twisted, and sure enough, there they were—awkward and tiny and hilarious, sticking out like confused little flippers.

Ace immediately burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You did! That’s the weirdest, most incredible thing I’ve ever seen!”

Marco appeared next, having been dragged by your yell. “You what now—oh my god, she did grow toes.”

“Don’t mock me,” you pouted, flipping water at both of them. “This is a very big deal. It means I’m close.”

“Very close,” Marco said, blinking. “If you can grow those, it means the transformation process is starting. It might take time, but—”

“I’M GONNA HAVE LEGS.”

“Probably.”

Ace grinned and thumped your shoulder. “You’re gonna be the first pirate with a cutlass and flippers.”

You beamed.

Your tail still wasn’t a pair of legs. You still couldn’t stand beside the crew on land just yet.

But now?

You had toes. And that was something.

--

You trained like it was a second job.

Day in, day out—sun up to moonrise—you practiced shifting. Growing toes. Ungrowing them. Twitching webbing. Isolating muscle groups in your tail you didn’t even know existed. Marco supervised when he could, occasionally adjusting your form like you were some kind of clumsy aquatic gymnast.

Ace called it your “Leggy Training Arc” and kept score.

“Day 6: Two successful toe sprouts. One toe cramp. Confidence level: Wiggly.”

You flipped water at him. Daily.

But progress was happening.

You were getting better. Stronger. Your tail felt lighter when you tried to shift it. The warmth returned faster now when you focused your will. The ocean around you seemed to respond—gentler waves, quiet encouragement.

So finally, you decided: It was time.

The crew gathered in a quiet cove for the second ritual. Everyone was oddly respectful about it… at first.

Marco had the seaweed sashes ready. Thatch brought snacks like it was a picnic-slash-magic show. Ace sat front row with the smuggest, most supportive grin imaginable. Even Whitebeard watched with crossed arms and a faint nod of approval.

You closed your eyes, breathed in, and whispered the words again. Let me walk beside them. Let me stand.

The energy surged. Your tail tingled. Something shifted.

This is it… you thought. It’s happening!

You opened your eyes.

And looked down.

…

…

“Why is there ONE. GIANT. FOOT.” you shouted.

The crew stared. Horrified. Awestruck. Emotionally shattered.

Where your beautiful, scaled tail had once been was now one single, pale, skin-covered monstrosity of a foot—like a chicken drumstick from hell.

Toes. So many toes. All mashed into one end. You had a big toe the size of a peach.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME.”

Thatch fell backwards, howling with laughter. “IT’S—IT’S A MERFOOT—”

Ace wheezed so hard he nearly fell into the water. “It’s like a cursed flipper! Oh my god!”

Marco clutched his head like his medical career was flashing before his eyes. “I’ve never seen this in any of the literature!”

“CHANGE BACK, CHANGE BACK—!!” you screamed, flailing your horrifying leg-foot and accidentally slapping Ace in the shoulder with it.

You dropped into the water like a rock. Bubbles everywhere. One final shriek. A flash of light.

And when you resurfaced—soaked, panting, eyes wild—your beautiful mermaid tail was back.

“Don’t,” you wheezed. “Don’t speak.”

Silence.

And then: “Bigfoot confirmed,” Thatch whispered.

You groaned and sunk beneath the water.

You were called “Big Toe” for a solid two weeks.

Thatch carved a tiny wooden replica of the Big Foot and painted it pink.

Ace kept drawing it in chalk on the deck where you swam up. Marco refused to speak of it, citing "emotional scarring."

But despite the teasing—despite the humiliation—you still smiled. Because they laughed with you, not at you. And every time Ace caught you pouting, he’d nudge you and say, “Hey… no one else has done what you’ve done. You’re halfway to walking.”

“…With one foot.”

“Still counts.”

You were mortified. But you were also… proud.

Because you were trying. And one day, you would get it right.

Preferably with two feet next time.

-

It happened at dawn.

No chanting. No ritual circle. No dramatic seaweed crown.

Just… you.

You’d been floating beside the ship, thinking about the way the crew laughed during dinner the night before—how their boots had clunked on the wood of the deck, how they leaned on each other, how they all went below to sleep and you… stayed in your tub, as always.

And something inside you whispered: Go to them.

Your skin prickled. Your muscles clenched.

This time, it didn’t hurt. It shifted.

You gasped as your tail shimmered, bones stretching and realigning. You gripped the rope netting beside the ship, breathless as the familiar strength of your mermaid body curled inward—

And two legs—actual, symmetrical, human legs—unfolded from the ends of your hips, water dripping from the knees down.

You laughed.

Then screamed.

Then immediately face-planted onto the deck.

“ARE YOU OKAY?!”

Ace came sprinting over, barefoot and half-asleep. You were lying flat on the deck, legs twitching, arms out like a starfish.

You lifted your head and beamed at him. “I have legs.”

He blinked. “You… do.”

Then he laughed, all warmth and disbelief. “You actually did it. You’ve got real legs!”

You sat up and waved them wildly in the air, giggling. “I don’t know how they work yet, but LOOK! TOES! AGAIN!”

Marco walked by with a mug of coffee, paused mid-step, stared, and said dryly, “Please, for the love of science, try not to break your neck in the first hour.”

You tried standing again.

This time, Ace looped an arm around your waist and acted as a human crutch. “Left… now right… there you go…”

You wobbled. You giggled. You fell onto him three separate times. Thatch tried to bet on how many steps it’d take before you faceplanted again. Izo gave you his actual boots (“For style, not function”).

But step by step… you walked.

Ace led you across the deck, letting you lean on him as you passed parts of the ship you’d never reached before—the galley (it smelled amazing), the war room (full of maps and secrets), and finally…

“The table,” you whispered. “I’ve never sat here before…”

He helped you into a seat at the long dining table where the crew was already cheering your arrival. They made room for you. Piled your plate high. Banged their cups on the wood every time you managed to sit up straight without wobbling.

“Cheers to Little Legs!” someone yelled.

You flushed with joy. “Please don’t make that my new nickname.”

“Too late!”

That Night

You didn't return to your barrel.

Instead, they helped you climb a ladder (slowly, very, very carefully) to the crew’s sleeping quarters.

There, waiting just for you, was a hammock. Your own.

It swayed gently. It smelled like the sea and cotton and soap and home.

You climbed in with wide, starry eyes, legs tucked under you like they’d always been there.

Ace passed by and gave the edge a gentle push. “Welcome to the crew, Legs.”

You beamed at him. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope.”

-

The Next Morning

You ran.

You ran.

It was a clumsy, glorious sprint across the deck, wind in your hair, feet smacking the wood as you laughed like a maniac.

“She’s loose!” someone shouted. “Catch her before she jumps into the ocean with legs on!”

Ace tried to chase you. You dodged him. You ran circles around Thatch. You danced on your tiptoes in front of Marco, who looked mildly terrified you were going to fall again.

But you didn’t fall. Not this time.

You had legs. You could walk. You could run.

And your heart had never felt so full.

[magical-reid]

Unknown Past (part 4 + epilogue)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Barnes!Reader (No use of Y/N, reader is referred as Mrs./Dr. Barnes)

Setting: Modern MCU timeline, Avengers Tower.

Perspective: Third Person Limited (Reader’s perspective).

Word Count: 1.5 K

This is a multi-part story inspired by my fic "Remembering James".

Life at Avengers Tower didn’t slow down, but for you, it felt like the world had shifted.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a teammate or a stranger with familiar eyes. He was your past, your husband, and the missing piece you’d spent years trying to find without even realizing it.

And now that you knew, things weren’t easier.

The memories came slowly, fragments of a life you could barely comprehend. They weren’t all good—there was the war, the fear, and the moment you’d said goodbye to him, not knowing if you’d ever see him again. But there was also warmth. Laughter. His arms around you in the dim light of a makeshift barracks, promising that no matter what happened, you’d find each other again.

You hadn’t believed him then. But he’d kept his promise.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Gala

The invitation had been Tony’s idea, though “invitation” might have been too polite a word.

“Mandatory attendance,” he’d announced during the morning briefing, waving an expensive-looking envelope. “Black tie. No exceptions.”

The idea of attending a Stark gala didn’t exactly thrill you, but Natasha had insisted, pulling you into her room to “help” you find a dress. By the time she was done, you barely recognized yourself.

The sleek black gown hugged your figure, the high slit revealing just enough leg to make you feel daring. Natasha had swept your hair into an elegant updo, leaving a few loose strands to frame your face.

“You look incredible,” she said, smirking as she handed you your dog tags. “Keep these on.”

You hesitated but eventually slipped them around your neck. They settled against your chest, their familiar weight grounding you.

When you entered the gala, the room fell away.

It wasn’t the glittering chandeliers or the sea of finely dressed guests that caught your attention—it was Bucky, leaning against the bar in a dark suit that fit him like a second skin.

He wasn’t just looking at you. He was staring.

Natasha nudged him as she sidled up beside him. “Careful,” she teased. “You’ll scare her off if you keep looking at her like that.”

“She’s wearing them,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

“Dog tags?” Natasha asked, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Thought so. What’s the story there, Barnes?”

“Long one,” he said softly.

Natasha smirked. “You should tell her.”

You caught his eye, and this time, you didn’t look away. Slowly, you made your way across the room, your dress swaying with every step.

When you reached him, you tilted your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Care to dance?”

He hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Always.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Dance

The music was slow, the kind that drew couples closer together. Bucky’s hand settled on your waist, his touch tentative at first, as if he thought you might vanish.

You placed your hand on his shoulder, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his suit. It was strange, dancing with him like this—strange, but familiar.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You simply moved together, swaying in time with the music.

“I remember,” you whispered finally, breaking the silence.

His breath hitched, and his steps faltered. “You… do?”

You nodded, your hand slipping from his shoulder to rest against his chest. “Not everything. But enough.”

He stared at you, his blue eyes searching your face. “What do you remember?”

You smiled faintly, your thumb brushing against the fabric of his shirt. “I remember the field hospital. The wedding. The way you always called me Doll.”

His hand tightened on your waist, and you could see the shine of unshed tears in his eyes. “I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured.

“You didn’t,” you said softly. “You found me.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Morning After

The sunlight streaming through the windows was warm, a stark contrast to the cool morning air. You pulled Bucky’s shirt tighter around you as you padded into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

Natasha was already there, sitting at the counter with a mug in hand. Her sharp eyes zeroed in on the wedding band now gleaming on your finger, and her smirk widened.

“Well,” she drawled, “looks like the happy couple had a good night.”

Before you could respond, Sam walked in, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw you. His gaze flicked between your rumpled appearance and the dog tags hanging openly around your neck.

“Oh, this is golden,” he said, bursting into laughter.

Steve followed close behind, coughing awkwardly into his hand. “Morning,” he said, carefully avoiding eye contact.

Bucky appeared a moment later, his hair a mess and a sheepish look on his face. He froze when he saw the room full of amused faces, then groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Stop,” he muttered.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “What? We’re happy for you.”

Bucky peeked out between his fingers, his cheeks flushed. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Absolutely,” Natasha said without missing a beat.

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning into Bucky’s side. He wrapped an arm around you instinctively, his fingers brushing against the dog tags that still hung from your neck.

For the first time in decades, everything felt right.

And this time, he wasn’t letting go.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Epilogue:

The cabin wasn’t exactly quiet, but it was peaceful.

Birdsong filtered through the open windows, mingling with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. You could hear Sam and Steve arguing over something in the distance—probably who was worse at chopping wood—and Natasha’s low laughter as she egged them on.

Inside, the fire crackled warmly in the hearth, filling the room with a comforting glow.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, cradling a mug of tea in your hands as you watched Bucky fuss with an old, battered photo album on the dining table. He was quiet, his expression soft as he carefully turned the pages.

“Found it,” he said finally, holding the album up with a triumphant grin.

You walked over, setting your mug down as you slid into the chair beside him. He flipped the album open to a faded black-and-white photograph, the edges worn with time.

It was the two of you, standing arm-in-arm outside a church somewhere in Brooklyn. Your dress was simple but elegant, and Bucky was in his military uniform, his smile wide and a little crooked.

“God,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the page. “I forgot how young we were.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and warm. “We were kids,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t have a clue what we were doing.”

You leaned into him, your shoulder brushing his. “But we did it anyway.”

He turned to look at you, his eyes filled with something deep and unshakable. “We’ll get it right this time,” he said softly.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. We will.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Grave

Later that afternoon, the two of you walked down the winding path through the woods, your hands intertwined.

The small cemetery came into view as you rounded the bend, its weathered headstones standing sentinel in the clearing.

Bucky led you to a particular grave near the edge, where the shade of an old oak tree offered shelter. The headstone was simple, but the name engraved on it made your chest tighten:

[Your Full Name]

1920 – 1943

You knelt down, your fingers grazing the stone as you tried to reconcile the name with the person you were now.

“They told me you’d died,” Bucky said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “When I saw it all over the papers—‘Nurse Killed in Field Hospital Bombing.’ I thought—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I didn’t think there was any chance you survived.”

“I guess Hydra had other plans,” you murmured bitterly.

He crouched beside you, his metal hand brushing your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything you went through. For all the years we lost.”

You turned to him, your hand covering his. “It wasn’t your fault,” you said firmly. “And we’ve got time now. That’s what matters.”

He nodded, his jaw tight as he looked back at the grave. “You’re not her anymore,” he said after a moment. “Not exactly. But you’re still my wife.”

Your throat tightened, but you smiled through it. “And you’re still my James.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Future

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of gold and crimson, the two of you made your way back to the cabin.

The others were gathered on the porch, laughing and teasing as Sam triumphantly held up a perfectly split log. Steve rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. Natasha sat on the steps, polishing one of her knives as she watched them with a faint smirk.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours as you approached.

“You ready?” he asked softly.

You looked up at him, taking in the way the setting sun turned his hair to bronze and cast warm shadows across his face. There was still pain there, still scars from all you’d been through, but there was also hope.

“I’m ready,” you said, your voice steady.

Because this time, you weren’t just surviving. You were living.

Together.

[harvardjlaw]

Three strikes (are you out yet?)

Little fic creative writing piece I’ve been working on, inspired by motion picture soundtrack by radio head! Thanks for all the support on this, it’s also up on ao3 if that’s more your thing.

In five years, Randy Bradley will be graduating from a nice little community college with a bachelor's degree in social work, he will kneel in front of children, just like he was. With so much pain it can’t fit in their chests, with nowhere to go and nothing to claw and grasp on to, he will give them something to hold on to. He will attend their elementary school graduations, he will show them that holding on to their innocence is not a crime, that leaving scratch marks in their favorite belongings is something that will pass, and that as they get older they will find ways to share that pain, to divvy it out until the load spreads and fragments into every person they meet, as lessons, as secrets, and one day that load will feel less like a burden and more like a victory, like survival. He will see a nine-year-old boy furiously hacking away at Play-Doh on a table, smashing it into shapes. He will see that boy lift his head for the first time in weeks and look around the table for company.. he will find nothing and crowd it closer to his chest, his bottom lip quivering and his eyebrows knitting together.. he will do what his ma told him and hold it in. Randy will think of Benson every time, and no time does it get easier.

In two years Randy Bradley is heading to the gym before college, he takes control of his life like a steer with horns, he knows how easy it can all fall away from him. He knows that one day he will look back at photos of himself from this time and he will feel a soreness that spreads through his bones. Randy will see himself and for the first time in years he will see a man clean of his childhood.. he will think of Benson and laugh, the way he referred to him as ‘’The Randy Bradley” making a gesture with his fingers like an eye popping out. It’s the first time that memory has made him laugh and it almost catches him off guard because he had never been more terrified and humiliated standing there in front of that receptionists desk. An ache will spread in his chest, traveling up to make his eyes warm and watery and his bottom lip quiver, a strangled noise leaving his throat as the laughter descends into sobs, the worst part being he can’t even explain why.

The same day he might be lifting weights when he sees him, a man sitting alone against the back white wall of the gym, he looks like the sun sprawled across the long expanse of the sky from the yellow cardigan that drapes over his shoulders and he nurses from a water bottle like it was bottled love. Randy will bring his hand up and wave to him involuntarily, somewhere deep down hoping to be met with that sly crooked grin that spelled mischief, paired with that half handed wave he’d seen across the restaurant more times than he could remember. He wished he could remember every one, document it and revisit them like photo albums. The man in front of him furrows his brow and cringes at him, turning his head to the side and smiling as he sees a pretty young woman walk to his side, sinking her weight into his arms and framing her sandy blonde hair over his shoulder like a mop made of lace and silk. He holds her like he’s holding the world, and she laughs when his mustache tickles her neck. Randy will feel a tightness in his chest that feels like heartbreak, he wonders if Benson had that love for anyone, he wonders if he has ever even had someone like that to love. He wonders if it was him. He leaves the gym early, he thinks of Benson on the ride home and it doesn’t get any easier.

In a year Randy Bradley’s mom insists he go to therapy, his friends and family agree with her and he feels like a child again, aimless with no control of his life. He will go to therapy and the woman seems nice enough, she wears floral print dresses has a water cooler in the corner, has three children she loves more than anything and she tries to crack open the brittle walls he builds around himself but, her fingers only make it inches beneath the surface before they are pushed right back out. She says her favorite food is Greek salad from the food court at the mall, the Greek restaurant there is one of the only things left standing after business ran out and left the place desolate. A part of him cheers, when he sees the last store close down near the entrance, signaling a beginning to an end, and a thought passes his mind like it was always his own. ‘Benson would love to hear that.’ It will hit him like a gunshot and he finds himself sliding down the tiled mall bathroom wall his face falling into his knees and he shivers, for the first time it has occurred to him that he, fucking.. misses him. Badly.

His bottom lip quivers and he brings his crescent scarred palms to his mouth, he didn’t even make it into a stall before the sobs ripped out of him, something hours and hours of therapy hadn’t been able to dislodge suddenly broken free by a hallmark card store closing right by the front entrance. He feels his breathing speed up and he is undoubtedly having a panic attack, his vision is blurred with tears and panic and his arms snake their way around himself. People walk in and out of the bathroom, most avoiding except for one group of young boys in their early teens. They crowd around him and Randy scrambles to his feet like a rabbit in a snare trying to get away, to escape. But an older man, maybe the father of them pushes the group back with his arms, stares at him like he sees through him. “Jesus! Fuck boys— back up give the guy some room!! You okay kid? my son said you’ve been in here for a couple hours you’re redder than hell- you need an ambulance?” Randy barely processes the words but the man smells like cigarettes, Marlboro reds. He thinks of Benson, thinks about how he only smokes Marlboros because the other ones don’t taste the same. He thinks of the scent of it on his breath, his lips close to his own and the way Benson let his eyes travel up and down his face like he was seeing god himself for the first time and fuck.. fuck it nearly kills him.

He mentions this story to his therapist in passing, she reaches her hand out and places it on his knee, tracing circles with her thumb and staring at him with these eyes like she feels nothing but the utmost pity for him. She sees him as Randy Bradley, the talk of the state for the last year, the sole survivor of the BBB massacre and the ex hostage of the states new big bad wolf. “I know it’s hard Randy, but.. you’re healing.” She takes a leap of faith and pushes deeper, cracking through that brittle shell he’s put up over the years. “I know you hate him for what he did, and you should Randy. You’re allowed to hate a bad person for doing bad things to you and others, he tried to ruin your life.” She coaxes the words out slow and she can’t read the look on Randy’s face, she can’t see the gears turning in his mind but suddenly Randy has placed his hand on top of hers and forced it off of his knee. He never sees her again, like a loyal dog he paces around the yard of Bensons memory, snapping through the chain link fence at people who come to close to the front door. He chokes himself on the leash, he thinks about Bensons hands around his throat squeezing and grasping like hands on a rosary and it doesn’t get any easier.

In six months Randy Bradley will find himself knocking at the front door of Benson’s childhood home. He saw a moving truck outside, items slowly being cleared out from the home seemed empty since the state moved Benson’s Ma to an assisted living facility a few months ago, he was her only living relative and she couldn’t take care of herself anymore. They cleared out boxes and bags on to the curb and Randy would have been lying if he said he didn’t stop and let his fingers run across the fabric of Bensons backpack from kindergarten wondering why he even kept it, wondering if when this backpack wrapped around Benson’s shoulders he was happy. If this was maybe the last time he was happy. The front door opens and a woman in her thirties meets his eyes, she’s got a baby on her hip and bounces it softly and rhythmically, she’s got a cut off teeshirt on and cigarette hanging between her lips. She drawls out a slow ‘Can I help you? You ain’t the moving boy is you?’ It is at this point where he realizes he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, not at all. He just knocked on the door as if he expected Benson to open it, to look him up and down with that cynical snarky gaze and snort, puffs of smoke shooting out from his nostrils as he wiggled the cigarette between his teeth the ash falling on to the ground.

“Randy? The fuck you doin at my house kid?” Leaving his lips like a bullet, aimed straight at the corners of Randy’s mouth. Randy would throw himself into his chest like a child and grasp up the back of his shirt pulling it halfway off of him as he squeezed the life out of him, his face pressed against his heart as if he could love him so hard he could stop it from beating. Benson would gasp like the wind was knocked out of him but regardless put his cigarette out on the doorframe and drop it down to the ground crushing it beneath his foot as they stumbled backwards and backwards into the house, falling back on to Bensons couch and Randy would rest on top of him, moving up his body and crashing his lips on top of his, tasting the cigarettes on his tongue.. knowing he was just the same as he left him. He’d let Benson’s hand rest in his hair, grasping and pulling like an anchor to the earth like an anchor to him.

But Benson never opened the door, and Randy smiled down at the woman in front of him, waving his hand at the tiny babbling baby on her hip. “Oh— sorry.. wrong house. I was looking for my friend’s house.. sorry.” He laughs out awkwardly and shifts backwards nearly falling down the stairs and into the brand new installed sprinklers that line the yard. The door closes and Randy goes back to his car, he sits and bangs his head on the wheel, the breaths leaving his lungs like a balloon being squeezed out. He shudders and shakes and wonders what the fuck is wrong with him, what is wrong with his brain for being right back here again. He starts his drive home and when he looks at the passenger seat he wonders if he would have liked it, liked letting Randy drive him around. Letting him bitch and moan in the passenger seat feeding himself cigarettes and a paper cup full of to go diner coffee they grabbed on the road from wherever the hell they came from on the way to somewhere new. He thinks of Benson and it never gets easier.

In three months Randy Bradley will walk into the living room of Benson’s house and a breath like a dying animal will leave his lips. He’s there alone and he knows it’s the first day since Benson’s Ma has been shipped off like lost baggage to an assisted living facility, somewhere really nice he hopes. He can practically hear Benson’s voice grating in the back of his mind ‘Assisted living? Ain’t that those farms they take old ass guys out to and put em down around back like old yeller? Fuckin A, nothin like treatin the woman who raised you to cat food slop and daytime television, are you fuckin hearing me Randy?’

Randy walks around the room, and runs his fingers over every inch of his living room feeling the 70’s fabric couch bristle under his touch, looking at the photos on the wall and the juice stains and cigarette burns on the carpet that rests under his kitchen table. There’s still a gun cleaning kit resting out there on top of the wooden surface, a Winchester model 70 strewn out right next to it, the scope abandoned a few feet away on the counter top. He wondered if Benson fed his family hunting. There was a giant freezer around the corner, a deep one that didn’t come up to the height of a full fridge but rested there tucked in the corner. Randy steps over the strewn shot gun shells on the floor spilling out of a knocked over case on the counter and walks to the freezer. He half expects to open it and find a head inside, maybe some ears. Find some evidence to believe that Benson was this boogeyman that had haunted his sleep the last several weeks, find a reason to hate him more than he told himself he did.

He flipped the top part of the freezer open, grunting with exertion as the frozen over ice shattered down into the bottom of the freezer. Venison, rabbit, beef.. pounds and pounds of it probably now freezer burned to hell and back. He could practically hear Benson complaining now about how it tasted like the bottom of an old truckers new balances. He’d never question how he knew that but the thought of him knowing from experience always made a giggle bubble up out of him, he’d never tell Benson why he laughed though, let it eat away at him for fun. Randy slammed the freezer shut and turned around on his heels walking down the long expanse of hallway, his fingers sliding across the faux wood paneling as he tried to feel every second Benson had lived in this house, try to figure out at what point Benson had soured himself. He reached his bedroom door and he traced his thumb over the ornate brass knob, turning it and forcing it open as he walked inside. The door caught on Bensons work uniform exactly where he left it cast aside scorned on the floor. He thought about Benson living in here as a teenager, thought about him coming home from school and tossing his bag down jumping on to his bed and screaming into his pillow, laying there like a limp sack of potatoes and then getting up to sit at his desk and begrudgingly rattle out homework and job applications, freshly sixteen.

The calendar on his wall was frozen on the day he died, the days scribbled in with a sharpie that was pinned up on the wall with a dart stuck in a piece of cork. He could hear the ticking of Benson’s alarm clock by the bed and Randy walked forward, turning his body and plopping down on to the bed lounging there for a moment cushioned by one of Benson’s muscles tees, and god Randy would stare at that clock and do nothing but feel.. feel what it was like to be Benson, to be apart of his life in a way more intimate that he had ever had the chance to be.

Randy Bradley would slide his body down the bed and catch that black muscle tee in his hands, bunching it up into a ball for a moment before letting his hands relax and reverently tracing his fingers across the soft waxy print on the front of it. He’d bring it up to his nose and breath it all in, breath him in.. the smell of sweat and cologne he’d probably worn since he was fifteen, the smell of his favorite brand of cigarettes and gunpowder that seeped in through days of hunting out in the woods by the home. His hands grasped hard at the fabric audibly breathing it all in as he ran his hands up and down it, his lips meeting the shirt as he grasped at it like it was still attached to the man he had tried to find love in, tried to hard to find anything in but malice. Tried to find a reason in, found..himself in. His frantic breaths turned into wheezing sobs, pathetic squeaks seeming more accurate as he shivered.

Randy had told his mom he was going to stay at a friend’s house for a couple nights listening to her complain and nag and fuss over it, insisting they should come to their house instead but.. Randy said no. He had to go to theirs, it had to be this way. He stayed in Benson’s bedroom for two nights, each one brought him less comfort than the last, more questions, more anger more frustration more ache. Why had he done this, it couldn’t have all been for him.. Why was Benson’s life something he wanted nothing more than to fucking escape from. When he stopped in front of Randy, gun loaded.. why hadn’t he shot.. why hadn’t he killed him in a way that mattered. Randy left Benson’s home on the third night, stuffing hoodies and clothes into his car, admiring how much the Chrysler held in the backseat thankful he had chosen to pay the fourteen hundred dollar impounding fee, gently laying a photo on top of the stack of clothing, his brow knitted as he tried to break his gaze from it. A little gap toothed boy, posing for his first day of third grade, tucked behind his Ma’s legs like she’d save him from having to complete another year of that nightmare. He slammed the door and broke his gaze getting in the passenger seat almost on instinct.. waiting for the driver to come home and take him away. He thought about Benson, his little tooth gap and the way he smelled on his clothes, the way he would have fussed and made jokes about Randy being this pathetic over him. It never got any easier.

In four Days Randy Bradley will be standing in the back of a gathering of all of Benson’s closest friends and family.. there are four people. One of them is Donnie, one of them is Benson’s Mom.. one of them is Ms Beard and the final one is Bradley. There was no service, no memories shared and no long winded sermon about how he was a good and misunderstood man. Donnie went up to Benson’s Ma and patted her on the back before realizing she wasn’t in the mood much for talking. Randy hadn’t seen her speak once since she got here other than to stare and shake her head slow and disapproving at the casket. Sometimes when he walked past her between Donnie and Ms Beard he’d hear her whisper ‘Oh Benny..’ like it was the only thing her body was capable of saying, like she’d finally realized her sweet baby boy wasn’t much like himself anymore.. that she had helped fester it. Randy had no clue Donnie and Benson were even that close, but he had come out of everybody who they’d had shifts with.. well the more he thought about it the less impressive it got, everyone else was dead. Still he kept to his own, watching the kid turn and walk farther away from the group at times, puffing on a Newport and shaking his head, cursing under his breath as if trying to reason with Benson wonder why he fuckin did it. Call him an idiot. Ms beard had only come because she didn’t want Randy to do this alone, not when they were both affected by this.. not when she had a chance to assure that Randy would be okay this time.

Randy didn’t cry at the funeral, no.. he didn’t see a point in it. Benson wasn’t coming back and what point was there shedding tears that Bensons hand wouldn’t cradle and wipe away. He could never understand how a man who was capable of so much good and so much love, could substitute it all for so long that it felt bitter and acrid on his tongue. Made him spit venom and strike like a snake, snap and roll like a crocodile. The last word he had ever heard on Bensons tongue was his name, what right did he have to earn that from a man like him. After days of holding it in, Randy escaped to the parking lot and spit bile up into a green metal trash can, shivering and holding the edges. When he came back Benson was lowered into the earth below, he hadn’t gotten to see him.. part of him hadn’t wanted to. He thought of Benson grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him around, laughing at him in the car and he wanted to remember him like that. He went back to Ms Beards car with her and slid into the passenger seat, he didn’t cry.. he didn’t shout or break down he didn’t take some greater vengeance on Benson’s spirit. He just soaked in the moment feeling so much of him all around him without knowing he could claw him in.. was like a hell beyond others. It never got any easier.

In one minute Benson would be laying dead in the Kutzberg diner parking lot, three bullet holes coming down like the great hand of god straight into his chest filling his lungs up with blood and squeezing the life out of him like a fist around an overripe strawberry. Benson was twenty eight years old standing there in the same diner he had come to a million times, sat in the corner booth and drank half stale coffee finding an escape from his life for a few minutes in the halfway worn down seats. The same diner he had brought Randy to six hours before. His eyes were fixed ahead on the police outside, he couldn’t hear much except the sirens and his own heartbeat. No.. no no no… not yet.. not when he had just started living again, he had beat that sorry fucking excuse for an old man to death, for everything he fucking did to him for every night he made him wake up in tears in his bedroom.. every night he had wandered to his Ma’s room and found her strung out nodding off on the mattress with some man he didn’t know the name of. For every time he had made him feel fucking pathetic and weak.. made him feel like nothing. He had done something about it, he’d done everything he hadn’t thought he was capable of, everything he had preached to Randy all day about upholding, and it was supposed to all end? His heart was beating out of his chest like a train chugging down the tracks, he felt his breath become ragged as he tried to focus on anything other than the whooping of the sirens and the blue and red lights refracting into a purple that seared his retinas. He let out a shaky breath that devolved into a sound like a wounded animal, his eyes fluttering up away from the police waiting for him and over to Randy. Sweet.. sweet Randy Bradley. He looked like a damn deer in headlights, his shoulder slumped down on one side clearly shattered or dislodged from the bullet, the blood now dripping down the inside of his sleeve like a fountain on to the freckle splattered expanse of his arm.

He’d really fucked him up hadn’t he? But god damnit Randy was standing, standing up to him standing against him.. staring at him like he knew he had power over him and god there was no sweeter milk and honey than this boy. ‘But you’re still in charge Benson.’ He’d heard the lips leave Randy’s lips and his brow furrowed, stitching up together as he lowered his head down away from him his bottom lip quivering. Suddenly he was six years old, his eyes wide and fixed up in wonder staring at the giraffes on a zoo trip, he wondered how high their necks stretched it seemed like miles up.. the zoo field trip guide was rattling off facts and numbers but Benson was utterly transfixed, he wandered forward and stood on the edge of the railing looking up at one munching on a large netted hanging bag of feed and leaves, watching as they knocked it with the tops of their heads and missed pieces of leaves. A laugh bubbled up out of him as he rocked back and fourth on his heels, they were patterned like the sun spots on the lakes he’d grown up fishing out of.. tall deer with sun spots! That’s how he’d described them to his Ma when he got home. But for now he stood and just watched, wondered what they thought about, wondered if the two inside the enclosure were in love. If they had babies running around somewhere, wondered what they liked, if they like him if they got to know him.. he was sure they’d at least tolerate him like his Ma did. Through his whole life Benson looked at people like animals in enclosures, never allowed to get to close never allowed to read more than the plaques and never allowed to truly feel and know them. That was until he met Bradley… Randy. Randy.. that was until he met Randy. Randy was the first man he had ever been able to sink more than his teeth and his claws into, he saw him vulnerable and raw like a crustacean getting cracked open by a cuttlefish.

He saw a pool of himself looking back at him from the inky abyss under Randy’s skin, in the soft doe eyed stares he gave he saw something fixable, something not beyond repair, something he could piece back together and leave with a nice bow wrapped around it. When he shot Jess Benson came to one conclusion, he was going to die soon, whether it be now.. or tomorrow or the day after he didn’t have much time left, and as much as he fought and kicked and screamed like an animal he’d never get the years back he’d just lost. He would get Randy, Randy for however long he had left and that sounded like a fair trade, his last gulps of air for a brush of his thumb against his cheek. His hopes and dreams and aspirations he’d worked to cultivate as a child locked away in a box.. untouchable.. just for Randy to be a better man than him. His soul for a whisper of his name from Randy’s lips.

His shoulders slumped and he relaxed, if he continued to live all of this would have been for nothing, he wasn’t going to rot in prison knowing Randy was out there somewhere, waiting for him.. waiting on him. Waiting for some sort of sign that this was all a bad dream it was time to wake up from, the only thing he could do now to save Randy was sink his body so deep beneath the ground the headstone went with it. The cops wouldn’t question Randy with a bullet wound in him, wouldn’t question him now that the obvious culprit was dead.. he couldn’t have Randy getting pinned for what the fuck he did. That wasn’t fair to him, no.. not to his Randy… poor guy wouldn’t last a second in the slammer probably cry and call his mama on the prison pay phone until he fell asleep there tucked away in the booth.

He couldn’t look at him.. he knew if he stopped for one minute to look at that sweet face he’d drop to his knees and do anything he asked of him. He’d turn himself in, he’d turn to the great lord above he’d pray he’d beg he’d be a dog in a leash for that boy. In five years, he’d have a college degree, in 2 years he’d think of him at the gym.. in one year he’d try to improve his life, in six months he’d stop by his childhood home praying he’d see him in the doorway, in three months he’d sleep in his bed for three nights and benson would want nothing more than to hold him.. in four days his body would come back from the morgue and he’d be unceremoniously dumped into the earth.. and in five minutes Randy would be sat on the curb watching him bleed on the pavement. In thirty years, what would Benson have other than the memory of him.

He let the air flow out of his lungs and he marched out the door like a man on his mission, the gun withdrawn.. his finger not close enough to the trigger to shoot if he tried. Then one, two, three.. the air was sucked out of his lungs like a punch to the organs and as Benson hit the ground, spitting up a limp mouthful of thick syrupy blood.. he thought about Randy.. and it was the easiest thing he had ever done.

AO3 LINK

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65461819

[aimbutmiss]

Buggy stared at the stone wall in front of him with wonder and curiosity, as if the mysterious box-shaped rock held the secrets to life itself.

It probably did. At least a fragment of it.

“Fascinating, isn’t it? The ancient language.”

Buggy stopped his deep staring to turn to the tall man beside him. “It looks beautiful.”

Oden smiled at him. “Couldn’t agree more, Buggyjiro. What’s interesting about the writing system here is that it doesn't display the phonetics alone. The order of symbols and the way they’re connected also dictates the grammar…”

Buggy listened to the enthusiastic man talk about the writing in front of them, explaining and translating as he went. Maybe he was trying to pass down at least bits of the forgotten yet ever important language to him, or he was just really passionate about the poneglyphs. Either way, Buggy took every little piece of information that fell from Oden’s mouth as if it was a sacred treasure.

He stopped his little lecture as little Hiyori walked –more like stumbled, up to the stele and touched the surface with her tiny hand, babbling passionately. Though neither of them could understand what the little girl was trying to convey, they listened intently as if every little noise out of her made perfect sense.

“Is this one causing you two any trouble?”

Toki came over to them, walking in small steps as usual, and picked up the still bubbling Hiyori in her arms.

“Oh, not at all. She’s a clever girl, like her mom.” Oden said, making his wife giggle.

The samurai looked at them as if they were the most valuable treasure in the whole wide world. It warmed Buggy’s insides, yet there was a pang in his heart. Family. Something he longed to have for himself down the line, but he didn’t know if he could ever have it. He was pulled out of his thoughts when a strong hand squeezed his shoulder.

“I can tell you’re deep in thought. It’s good to think, but you need to learn when to get out of your own head, Buggy.”

Buggy looked up to his captain, not understanding when the man had even walked up to them. He hadn’t heard anything when he was approaching.

“Sorry. A lot to think about, though.”

“Hm, indeed. But you’re only 13. No need to think so hard at your age. Look at Shanks, he’s the master of not thinking.”

Buggy turned his head to watch Shanks run around the land, chasing a large snake around as he laughed without worry. Buggy grimaced. “That would be because he’s an idiot.”

Roger laughed. “That’s not such a bad thing in this world. If anything, you’re the one who’s too clever.”

“And that’s bad?”

“No, not quite. I just worry that’s all.”

Before Buggy could ask him to elaborate, the man abandoned the subject as he turned to Oden.

“You think you can leave a message in my steed on here? To let the future generations know that I was here.”

Oden laughed loudly, as he did most things. “Of course, Captain. That is if you can find anything that would dent this stone.”

Roger laughed back. “Who said anything about carving on the poneglyph, idiot? There’s no need, especially not when there’s a perfectly good gold surface next to it.”

That made Buggy smile. The captain was clever too, much more so than him, yet he couldn't see how that was a bad thing. If anything, he liked being clever because it made him more similar to the captain. They didn't look anything alike and he certainly didn't have his bravery. He'd like to have a trait of his to remember him by.

He frowned. Perhaps thinking too much was indeed not a good thing. He turned to the sacred bell of Shandora as the dialogue in the background became background noise; and though he was not raised to be religious, he prayed that he had a little more time with his dad captain.

[chaoslovesmisery]

Chapter 15. Into the Grasslands

Previously

****************************************************************

I feel a blanket placed over my shoulders suddenly reminding me that I'm not the only one here.

"Thank you," I say quietly as the boy hands me a bowl of watery lumpy substance which I assume is soup? I anxiously glance around the room, old wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, draped with cobwebs, and the walls bore the marks of scratches of what appears to have been from an animal and patches of peeling mud.

"By the way, what's in that bag you were carrying?" The boy says and I turn, staring at the satchel on the floor. I grab it and when I open it there is a piece of paper and a dagger with a ruby like gem-encrusted hilt. The dagger feels heavy. I open the note and there is only one word on it written in a red script.

Survive.

****************************************************************

It feels like I'm traveling through a tunnel, surrounded by memories that race past me—mere blurs of light swirling in an incomprehensible frenzy. The feeling is deeply unsettling, as if an unseen force is mercilessly propelling me toward an unbearable brightness.

"In the bin, in the bin!" a voice shouts, cutting through the chaos of my mind. A cold metal bin collides painfully with my chest and I double over, heaving into it. My stomach convulses, but only a bitter bile rises, leaving my throat raw. My eyes prick with tears, blurring my vision as a high-pitched ringing fills my ears.

"Shit! That sucked!" I groan, letting my head fall back with a heavy thud against the wall behind me. The metal bin is yanked away and in its place now a cup of warm liquid, cradled in my trembling hands. Its soothing temperature is a stark contrast to the chill that keeps running through my body.

"What do you remember?" Philip asks while sliding onto a stool beside me, his expression a blend of concern and curiosity.

"I was a child, I-, it was a place in a field of black/purplish flowers. There was a town, well if I could even call it tha -" Before I could finish my Hunter's watch rings.

"Oh shit, sorry Phil I gotta go, sorry Phil! Next time!" I hand him the cup and throw the blanket off me. In the corner of my eye I see a shiny pair of scissors which I grab before running out through the back in a dark alley.

"Nice of you to pick up," a voice says as soon as I answer.

"Hello to you too, Xavier," I reply, sighing and putting my back against the wall. I realized once more how exposed I was in my shorts, oversized sweater, and Sylus' indoor slippers. Oh... he's gonna kill me.

"Your comms and signal were turned off. Where are you right now?" He asks and I bite my lip. Should I lie?

"I'm out. What's it to you?" I say a little harsher than intended. He's silent for a moment before sighing.

"I thought you were dead, after getting split up last night and your injuries... Are you alright?" He asks. A twinge of guilt creeps into my heart.

"I'm fine, you did most of the legwork anyway," I grumble. There's an awkward silence in the air almost as if he's waiting for me to ask how he is as well but I can't bring myself to ask it. Especially knowing it's him, after all he's also Lumiere who has defeated even the harshest of Wanderers during the Chrono Disaster.

"Check in with Jenna," he says before disconnecting the call. I send her a quick message through my watch before a noise indicates an upcoming assignment.

There has been a Metaflux detection located in your current area, a highly dangerous Protocore fragment has been detected in your area. Proceed with caution and extract for further analysis.

"It's actually really close to me," I mumble to myself. I use the scissors and grab my hair. Is there a point to cutting it short right now? I guess I'll just cut it to where it's not in the way until I make it home. I cut my hair this time to where it stops halfway down my back. The hair falls to the floor, dispersing into feathers.

I look up to the sky and it appears the sun will be rising soon. I need to hurry up and change but to go all the way home just to come back to check out the source of the Metaflux seems so tedious. I could stop by the room I have a Sylus' place which says is no better than a closet, but I'm too embarrassed to see him so soon after leaving dramatically earlier.

"Hey there, little lady, trying to have some fun tonight?" A man leans casually against the alley wall, his confidence radiating like he owns the place. There is another man more stockier, grinning like a wolf that slinks in behind me closing off my escape route.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing out at this hour?" the first man croons, his tone teetering on the edge of mockery.

"You both must have a death wish it seems." I sneer, crossing my arms.

"Don't you know you're in the presence of greatness right now?" The stockier guy scoffs, laughing. I grip the scissors that's hidden in my sleeve from earlier.

"Is that so? And who exactly are you supposed to be? Sylus? Because that's comedic at best." I reply, my voice laced with sarcasm.

Their confidence deflates for a moment but they quickly recover before trying to close the distance. Just as I prepare to show them that I can handle myself, I sense a shift in the air, a palpable energy that sends a chill down my spine. The two men freeze almost sensing the same thing as I.

Steps echo from the alley as a Sylus steps into view. His eyes glance at the men first before landing on me, his gaze lowering to my bare legs before his eyes narrow slightly. I push down the hem of the sweater, which fits more like a dress, trying to cover more of my legs.

"Trouble?" he asks but the sharpness of his tone makes me freeze, holding back my comment that I could handle this without him. Well, these guys are definitely dead.

"Did you really think impersonating me would end well for you?" He advances with an effortless grace, the soft glow of dawn framing his silhouette. This time his eyes lock onto mine his gaze softens a bit. Before they have a chance to react Sylus extends his arm, lifting them off the ground as if they weighed nothing more than feathers, their limbs dangling helplessly in the air.

"Now you'll see the folly of your actions," he says casually, as if discussing the weather rather than the imminent fate of two would-be predators. With a flick of his wrist, the mist transforms into a storm around them causing them to scream in agony before silence replaces them and flecks of mist fall to the ground in their place..

"I figured you would have gone to change first, not go stroll around like this. As well as steal my slippers." He says teasingly, handing me a change of clothes and shoes. His gaze seems to linger at my exposed shoulder and I grab his arms trying to make him turn around which he does. I put pants over my shorts before something comes to mind.

"Don't turn around. But I'm actually curious, who changed me in these?" I asked as I quickly put a bra on under the sweater.

"Well you needed medical care so I only did what was necessary." He says smoothly and I almost fall to the floor trying to put on a sock.

"What?" I say, horrified.

"Did you change me?!" I ask mortified. What underwear was I wearing? Did the bra and undies match? No, please tell me I wasn't wearing my comfortable granny panties.

"No, you woke up at a certain point during the night taking off your clothes before rummaging through my closet and dressing yourself to your liking." He says chuckling and my stomach finally stops somersaulting. I crouch on the floor covering my face. Ah, fuck!

"Are you done yet?" He asks, tapping his foot on the ground impatiently. I grab his shoulder for balance to put my shoes on and he easily slides his arm around my waist helping me stay steady.

"I am now." I say and he looks at me amused. Dawn's light spills across the alley, illuminating us both.

"Also I'm looking for a Protocore fragment. I think it's nearby. Come with me?" I ask pulling away slowly from his arm. He stares at his hand for a moment before closing it and meeting my gaze.

"Lead the way." He says. I resonate with my watch to help with locating a bit more accurately where the Metaflux is coming from and it leads to a cellar door in front of the bar Elysium.

"Hmm, an interesting choice." He says before typing in some numbers and unlocking sounds indicates the now open door.

"What do you mean? " I ask, watching as lights flicker before turning on automatically. Sylus walks in front of me, stepping down before offering his hand for assistance.

"This is one of my underground armories." He explains. After helping me down he doesn't let go of my hand and I don't make an effort to shake him off this time. His hand is warm, what would it be like if he wasn't one of the love interests of this game? The cold air pulls me back into reality. Sylus leads me through the labyrinthine corridors.

"Are you absolutely sure the Protocore fragment is here?" he asks, glancing back at me.

"The Metaflux led me here," I reply, my focus steady trying to ignore the warmth of his hands.

"Guess I should thank it. It's been a while since I've been able to have one and one time with someone as busy as yourself," he says with a smirk.

"Didn't you say you would take me to Cloud Island?" I shoot back, a playful smile creeping onto my lips.

"Oh, I didn't know you were so eager to go on a trip with me. Wasn't it you who decided to go back to Linkon City?" he teases. I frown, he wasn't wrong.

"Well, yeah I need to be your inside source to be useful to you. Keep an eye on her for you and what not." I state.

"What's interesting is not once have I asked you to do any of those things and how you seem to think your intel is the only thing I place value in." He says and I flinch at his words. Everything has been for him so why is he responding like this? As if he never said before to keep monitoring her, or was I mistaken?

"If you weren't working today what would you be doing instead?" He asks in a lighter tone breaking the awkward silence.

"Well, if it weren't for my job, I might be out getting intel for you? Or maybe hanging out with the twins if they aren't working." I say and he crosses his arms.

"The twins are scheduled to work today and you're not on my payroll right now." He says and I can't help but chuckle to myself.

"Well then, I'd probably be in the park right now," I say, mentally picturing myself appreciating the autumn leaves or buying some roasted chestnuts from a food stand.

"And to think that these Protocore weapons might keep you from enjoying autumn's beauty. Shame." He admits. As we chat, a classic-patterned dagger in a display case catches my eye. A faint Metaflux emanates from the ruby on its hilt.

"You found what you were looking for already? The Association's mission system knows how to pick its hunters," Sylus remarks, eyebrows raised.

"Where did you get this from?" I ask. Something about it seems familiar. I swear I had just seen this recently. He carefully takes out the dagger and hands it to me.

"It's part of my antique collection, sweetie. A treasure from the grasslands." He replies. I clench the red gemstone at its hilt, but I don't feel that familiar surge of energy flow in.

"I can't resonate with it. But this is definitely exhibiting traces of Metaflux... it looks like this might be the Protocore they are looking for. I need to bring this dagger to the Association for further analysis," I state and he leans in close to my face.

"It's my most prized possession. Even if it's only temporary—" he starts but I cut him off while making my way to the door.

"If you're worried, why not come back to Linkon with me to—" I push open the armory's heavy door, and a gentle breeze washes over me. The air is refreshing, carrying the scent of grass—a stark contrast to the stale air of the N109 Zone.

As the white light dissipates, it reveals a breathtaking landscape. The endless grassland is bathed in daylight, wisps of clouds drift across the sky, and waves of green grass ripple in the breeze. I spot grazing sheep and cows in the distance. What the f-

I spin around and see Sylus next to me, his expression a mixture of confusion and awe. The armory has vanished without a trace. Only the endless expanse of grassland remains.

"What is this place? An illusion?" I wonder aloud.

"I can't even get a bad signal. Where are we?" he replies, pulling out his phone in an attempt to check our location. I shake my head in disbelief. And then—

"Baa Baa—"

"A lamb?" I say, surprised as a fluffy lamb trots up to us. Sylus lowers his phone, the click of a picture echoing in the air as he captures this curious creature.

"So, got any clues?" he asks, glancing at me. Suddenly, a cacophony of noises erupts in the distance. A massive flock of sheep descends upon us like an avalanche of wool, and the thunderous drumming of hooves feels like it could trample us at any moment.

Before I know it, a shepherdess wearing a vibrant red robe and beaded headdress whisk us away to her people.

Inside a cozy yurt, we change into garments the locals usually wear. After straightening out my clothes, I quietly picked up a small cup of juice a little boy had given us earlier.

"Despite the language barrier The little boy's gestures indicate that—" I began.

"He wanted us to draw patterns on our faces with the juice, just like the locals do." Sylus says. I look at Sylus' clean face. If something has to be drawn on it ...

"You wish, little dove. Don't forget. I also have my own weapon." Sylus replies, picking up his cup as well. Oh, right. The little boy also brought a cup for Sylus.

"You can't tell which one of us will be drawing on the other's face." He says. Leaning against a basket while sitting, Sylus had been observing me for quite some time. I dip my finger in the cup. Meanwhile, reviewing the steps to launch up a surprise attack on his face. But he grabs my arm and quickly takes the cup out of my hand and flips me on the floor gently.

"Ugh, why are you laughing?" I pout.

"Could it be due to your poor attempt at a sneak attack or could it be from this unique look you've had since changing. Is tucking leaves in your hair a trend with the locals?" he teases.

"What?" I ask, raising my hands to my hair trying to brush it out.

"If you had noticed it earlier, why didn't you say something? Honestly—" but before I can complete my sentence, Sylus' finger brushes against my left cheek. Juice is smeared on my skin. He got me.

"Playing dirty, huh?" I smirked.

"I warned you ahead of time. You just underestimate your opponent." He says. I launch a determined strike toward Sylus' face, but he gracefully avoids my strike with ease.

"I'm so scared," He taunts playfully.

"Stop dodging!" I yell, missing him again.

"Come here and sit down," I commanded, stomping my foot while pouting.

"You're not even going to hide the fact you're about to cheat?" He says laughing.

"Luke and Kieran know I'm like this," I grumble and there's a glint in his eye. He approaches me and I take a hesitant step back slowly as though I'm in front of a predator.

"Sylus?" I ask just before tripping. Before the juice could spill on me, his arms had already steadied my hand and his other arm was wrapped around my waist.

"What if I want to be the one who sees it the most?" He asks and there's an emotion I can't seem to pinpoint in his eyes. He leans his face closer to me so much so that his breath tickles my face and I catch sight of a faint scar on the inner corner of his eye.

"Here, little dove. Feel free to use it today." He says, closing his eyes, his long lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks.

"Be gentle," He says almost alluringly, making my cheeks flush.

"Hmmm, that will depend on my mood." I reply lightly as he lets go of my hand but instead wraps both arms around my waist. Dipping my fingers into the juice, I decide to draw on the spot where I know the Heroine would have scratched him when they first met. The drawing doesn't take long to complete. His eyes light up, as if he has just realized what I've drawn.

"What did you draw?" He asks, bringing his face even closer to my face.

"I'm not saying." I say pushing his chest away while blushing. I try to turn around to run but he brings me in close and I can feel his chest pressed into his back. His body feels like it's enveloping me into a blanket. The feeling makes my heart race.

"Where do you think you're going after putting a heart on my face?" He whispers in my ear, making me shiver.

"I won't let you go that easily, so prepare yourself," he says, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. He inches closer, but suddenly there's a gasp from behind me. I turn away, covering my face in embarrassment. The little boy who had given us juice earlier stands there, mouth agape.

"It's impolite to enter a yurt without permission," Sylus says to the boy, but it takes me a moment to realize he isn't speaking our language.

"You can speak Talanian?" I ask, surprised.

"How do you— hmmm," is his only response before he releases my waist. Before I can ask anything further, a shout erupts at the entrance.

"Hello travelers! I am entering!" The shepherdess, who introduced herself as Tarna, steps in, a hint of confusion on her face as she takes in the three of us.

"Jochi, don't be shy. Go ahead and hand them their drinks," she instructs in their language. Wait, how can I understand them? The little boy approaches me shyly, looking away as he hands me a cup and then offers one to Sylus.

"It's pear-leaf milk," he says, and I smile..

"Thank you," I reply, and he beams before leaving. We sit down, and Tarna sets plates of roasted lamb in front of us.

"I picked up some of your language from the grassland traders. I never thought I'd actually get to use it!" she exclaims, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"You've come a long way. Are you also heading to Tala for the Grassland Festival? The wrestling match will be legendary. You made the right choice in coming here," she continues enthusiastically.

"A wrestling match?" I ask, slightly taken aback.

"The khan has called for warriors from all the tribes. The champion will receive a sacred stone from him," Tarna explains, her voice brimming with passion.

"It's a red gem. 'Daybreak' is its name. They say it's capable of transporting you to a paradise." Transport to a paradise... That sounds just like the Protocore fragment. Sylus and I share a knowing glance, and without thinking, I grab his arm and pull him forward.

"Can we participate in the wrestling match?" I ask.

"Yes, but you'll be up against the bravest warriors from the grassland. Aren't you scared?" Tarna replies, raising an eyebrow. I look at Sylus and wink. He meets my gaze with a playful grin.

"Participation is what matters in the end," he responds.

"Great! I'll go tell the elder then!" Tarna beams.

"Ah. Since we're headed to the same place, why don't you join us? It's always nice to have company," she adds before leaving us. The moment she's gone, Sylus quickly reverts to his usual nonchalant demeanor. He sits in front of the food while I grab the dagger I had hidden in my regular clothes I had changed out of earlier. I touch the hilt where the ruby is missing.

"The Protocore fragment is gone, and it's probably why we're even here," I say, frustration bubbling up inside me as I grapple with the deja vu of this dagger. Sylus lifts his copper bowl filled with milk tea and nods.

"These patterns resemble those on the dagger. It's possible they're from the same tribe," I state, lifting part of my top garment to conceal the dagger in my skirt pants. Where did he get this from?

"You sure that sacred stone is the Protocore fragment?" he questions, his brow furrowing slightly.

"It's our only option right now. We might as well take it." I take a deep breath. The lamb is so delicious and tender that I virtually inhale my food. Sylus chuckles lightly before standing up and I follow suit.

"Winning that wrestling match and getting the gem could be our ticket home. I believe in you, Sylus." Hoping to solidify our resolve, I extend my fist for a fist bump but Sylus grabs my hand instead

"Let's not think about the competition for now, darling. We have more important things to do," he states while pulling me toward the yurt's entrance.

"...Such as?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"Admiring the scenery," he replies, gesturing for me to step outside.

We join the procession moving toward Tala for the festivities. Tarna has generously provided us with horses, and we find ourselves at the back of the group. A few young women dressed in riding gear suddenly stop their horses in front of us, their eyes darting between me and Sylus, curiosity lighting up their features.

"Do you think they're together?" one of them whispers in their native language, unaware that I can understand them though I may not know how to speak it. They chat with Tarna, discussing how handsome Sylus is and how he looks like a natural on the horse. The conversation flows to the wrestling match, and they glance at Sylus with amusement. With a sudden whip of their reins, the women send their horses into a gallop, swiftly disappearing into the distance.

"They were complimenting Sylus. He doesn't look like a foreigner while riding a horse," Tarna calls back to us.

"I told them he'd be participating in the wrestling match too. They'll cheer for him," she adds, and I can't help but smirk at Sylus.

"...They just met you, Sylus. You really are popular wherever you go," I tease, feeling a light pang in my chest.

"Once he enters the competition, a few girls might hand over their pouches to him," Tarna reveals, her voice filled with amusement.

"Pouches?" I ask, puzzled.

"It's a custom here. If a girl fancies a warrior, she gives him a pouch she made at the celebration," she explains, reaching into her bag to pull out a beautifully embroidered pouch.

"Sairt is my beloved, and he's a warrior from the Sud tribe. I made this for him," she says proudly. I glance at the pouch, realizing how natural and straightforward affection is for them. The people here don't beat around the bush...

I sneak a glance at Sylus. Our eyes meet for a moment before I quickly look away, my gaze dropping to the blank pouch in my hand that Tarna had given me earlier when she provided us clothes to wear. A soft chuckle from Sylus reaches my ears.

"Miss Tarna, what's the word you use around here to refer to your beloved?" he asks, a playful spark in his eyes. Tarna responds with a string of familiar syllables.

"Did you get that?" he inquires, smiling and arching an eyebrow. I blush and turn away.

"It's too long. There's no way I can remember it," I lie, shaking my head.

"Well, I did. Maybe I'll repeat it a few more times so it sticks in your head," he replies with a wink.

"Here on the grassland, when someone catches your eye, you confess to them," Tarna continues, her tone earnest. "You can't hold back. What if someone else claims them first? Whoever takes them keeps them."

"I agree. How would anyone know otherwise?" Sylus chimes in, narrowing his eyes with a playful smile tugging at his lips.

"But saying what's on your mind is important too," I add, feeling my heart race a little.

"As long as your feelings are genuine, they'll always be clear," I state.

"I believe sincerity means not having to beat around the bush or play any games," Sylus says, his tone sincere. A strange sense of anxiety forms in my stomach as I sulk, glancing at him and imagining how he and the Heroine would look together if she were here instead of me.

"This place might actually suit you better than the N109 Zone," I remark, a hint of envy creeping into my voice.

"You're not wrong. The air here is refreshing, and the people are honest," he responds, giving me a once-over. "And you look good in those clothes. Very cute."

My breath catches and my cheeks flush at his compliment, I'm lost for words.

"What? Isn't saying what's on your mind important when it comes to sincerity?" he teases, a sly grin spreading across his face. Ugh, this man. I tug at the reins and leave Sylus behind, a smile forming despite myself.

"You can say what you like. I'm heading on ahead!" I shout before moving toward the center of the group while hearing his laughter carry in the wind behind me. I can't help but smile to myself.

****************************************************************

A/N:

Chapter heavily based off/follows/influenced of Memoria: Grassland Romance chapters 1-2, Limited Event: Mountain Journey Chapter 2, Face-Painting Battle, and Mountain Journey Chapter 5, Crown of Flowers and a Heart of Nectar.

Read/Played in order:

1. 5-Star Sylus Memoria: Grassland Romance - Chapter 1

2.  Limited Event Sylus's story: Mountain Journey Chapter 2: Face-Painting Battle

3. Limited Event Sylus's story: Mountain Journey Chapter 5: Crown of Flowers and a Heart of Nectar.

4. 5-Star Sylus Memoria: Grassland Romance - Chapter 2

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A/N pt 2:

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I actually wrote a LOT more than this, there is about 40 pages worth so far I've written so far, so each week on my day off I'll just be editing the chapter and adding things here and there before posting. This almost feels like a break! I'm excited to be connecting the dots while we make our way through these memories. I really didn't expect this story to be such a slow burn but my patience also has it's limits lets see whose runs out first, Sylus or myself lol 

As always, thank you as always for supporting my story! 

****************************************************************

A/N pt 3:

Not that anyone asked I did SO crappy on Caleb's latest banner hard pity for EACH FREAKING ONE. They got me with the okie-doke and gave me a regular Caleb Card AT HARD PITY before giving me one Myth Card then pairing with the crate. After seeing Caleb's cakes I paid the price to R1 and I've always maintained holding 100+ tickets during each banner and BOOM all gone without even R1-ing. So OF COURSE I spent money getting him to R1... 241 wishes total. ONLY TO R1. I am a dolphin but Caleb had me jumping like a whale this time. I'm really hoping I'm not going to like the 6th love interest because this game has become my most expense hobby ever, though I can actually afford it for once. 

Just remember ya'll, Gacha is a form of gambling lets try not to be addicted to it. *queues circus music as I apply my clown makeup*

fin.

[laswells-ashtray]

Moms I'm having the brain wyrms, so Valeria is a free range weapon, savvy? For lack of better words, no one to keep her in check y'know?

What bout Nikolai? What is he, if not a weapon, but one more fine tuned. More primed and dialed in like a bomb on a watch timer. Is he not the type that knows he is what he is, but he is the one self aware enough to give that detonator to someone else.

What then? 🤔

Years of scrubbing brain matter from his hair and brushing skull fragments out from the groves of his boots had led him somewhere he never expected.

By John Price's side.

Behind the captain.

In front of his partner.

Whether John was pulling the trigger, or he trusted the gun in Nikolai's paws as the Russian watched his six.

Nikolai often found familiarity in the rotor blade of a helicopter. Part of a finely tuned machine and if he were to be sent soaring on his own then he was likely to behead. Tearing through flesh, massacring tissue and spraying blood across everything within reach.

So long as John was piloting, he moved the way the other man asked of him and in doing so acted as the very piece of machinery that would guide John out of the firefight.

He's also the very thing that rips men limb from limb should they approach when he's in motion.

The foundation of his very existence was reliant on another man's hands, as is the assurance of his control.

John aims and fires, afterwards he cradles him in soft hands and polishes the weapon he'd been entrusted with until the light shines back in Nikolai's eyes.

So, when John is questioning a man, the muzzle of a gun indenting the flesh of a woman's cheek as he silently pleads for her husband to answer John's questions, Nikolai awaits instruction.

Nikolai can't pounce, teeth clamping down on the man's trachea until blood spurts over the both of them and the man stops struggling. His muzzle may have been removed but a dog can't jump to attack until someone unclips his leash.

And then the man tries to dive up at John, nail-catching his jaw as he attempts to grab at the captain's face in a panicked swing.

The faint whistle deafens him like a gunshot.

He's behind the man before anyone's eyes can process that he moved, like fragments flying through the air. One hand bolted down at the top of the man's chest, claws stretching out to scrape his clavicle as Nikolai's other hand grips his jaw.

It takes a half second for the rage searing under his skin to start boiling his arm from the inside as he slams all of his weight into the movement. The violent snap of the spinal cord severing from the body's control panel fills the room, the man's neck is broken and he'll be dead as soon as his body can register the loss of control it was on his heart.

He's quick to let the casualty slip from his grip, watching blankly as the soon-to-be corpse's head cracks off of the metal chair on the way down.

A shrill, agonized wail escapes the woman by John's side as she sinks to the floor like the carcass of her husband before her. It reminds Nikolai of the ad break on the radio, noise that barely registers and means little to him.

His gaze meets John, eyes wide like a pup expecting a treat. John's posture is relaxed, shoulders loose and his expression borders on amused. It's being thrown a bone if he's ever seen it.

"Think we're done here."

"That we are, captain."

[sunny-mercya]

Terrific Blue

Platonic! Sanji x Male Reader

Fandom -> One Piece

Masterlist | Song of inspiration

Going inside that castle—what's left of it, after all it's more rubbles than once former glorious building—on discovery tour, was actually just a jest from Sanji to Robin, when they passed past by it and on their way out of that maze like portion of the library, to bring you back to Chopper.

But Robin had asked—there's a twinkling of enthusiasm in her eyes and a genuine smile on her lips—if they could, just a quick glance inside, just a few minutes and who was Sanji—never would he—to refuse a Lady's wish.

And Sanji said yes, scooping you up—after making sure you're still bundled warm enough with your (and his extra) Jacket—as if you're a tried child, which wanted to be carried otherwise it would get whiny fussy—although with how you currently feel and look like, that's the closest description for you—in his arms and following Robin inside the ruins.

Lighting up a new cigarette, from Robins view it seems as if he struggles just a bit with only using one hand—but Sanji isn't a beginner in smoking anymore, he know his way around to always lit up his cigarettes without hindrance—inhaling deeply the nicotine, which fills his lungs greatly like the cold air around them, before exhaling out to calm whatever might be there is to calm.

Sanji, in the early stages of being a teen, had only begun to smoke as a way to calm him down, whenever he felt the stress and pressure from working in the kitchen—especially during tight hours—would get so intense that he felt like he wasn't cut out for being a cook nor good enough in such category of job field—but it's been so long that smoking had become a everyday thing for Sanji, an habit he just couldn't live without it.

They really should bring you to Chopper right away—as you don't look so good and neither are you remotely fit enough anymore to really walk on your own—and not wasting time with a tiny sightseeing tour, but Sanji believes—despite his worry for your health—one or two hours delay isn't going to make you any more unwell.

So far, you had fallen asleep at some point during the walk—head resting on Sanji's shoulder—nothing interesting seems to be in these rubbles of ruins—only broken furniture of past period and destroyed fragments of stones.

No treasure, not even a single valuable item, in sight as if this castle had been raided before being destroyed—but there must be something hidden, something of value or desired knowledge, otherwise it wouldn't be part of the library.

Then Robin, as if she had found something and she probably did have with her devil-fruit ability, runs off till Sanji couldn't see her anymore—and if it weren't for her appearing blooming hands to give directions, when Sanji called out for Robin and tried to follow the way she had run off to, Sanji surely either would be lost or wasting too much time or both.

»Oi, Robin! You found something?« Sanji calls out in question to his friend, adjusting his hold on you—contemplating with himself if it wasn't better to carry you piggyback, but that means waking you up and Sanji didn't want to wake you now—when entering the chamber.

This chamber had definitely being discovered much later on, after the presumed raid and destruction had happened—also the probability of why the library had been built around it, to persevere such historical significance—which would explain why everything in here is still intact and why torched are being lit up.

Glancing around, no interest in the furniture and treasure—although bringing some to Nami wouldn't be such a bad idea to do, she would be so happy to be gifted gold and jewellery—Sanji spots Robin easily as the woman of archeology stands in front of a wall.

»Something interesting up there?« inquires Sanji as he walks closer to Robin, standing next to her now—gaze flicking up from one mural to another, till his eyes lands on a specific one.

Sanji stammers, cigarette falling from his mouth—landing on the ground below and extinguishing itself from the freezing air—»What the...« a mere whisper comes tumbling from his lips as if Sanji is afraid to speak any louder in case something or someone is with them in this chamber as well.

Sanji's hold on you tightens, had he almost dropped you—just like his cigarette seconds ago—as well, the shock upon seeing the mural sending chills down his spine, adjusting you once more in his arms and cradling you closer as if trying to shield from the mural.

»Robin. What is this. Why is [Name] on this mural?«

Sanji needs to hear whatever possible explanation Robin, with all her archeological and historical knowledge, would have about this—and while the written text doesn't look like Porneglypics, it's still seems to be a ancient language, which Robin is able to translate.

»When Luffy resembles this Sun God Nika, than—than this must be that rumoured knightly prince of the Sky, which [Name] seems to be resembling according to what I heard from the Tales in Wano.« informs Robin, taking a few steps backwards to get a much better view on the mural.

»And what does the text tell?« Sanji interrogates further.

»Nothing much. Nothing of significance importance. Expect for the text above the figure.« and somehow the silence, when Robin stopped speaking to reread the ancient text once more, was eerily like an unknown darkness.

Robin begun to translate the ancient text to Sanji, but what has been written up there sounded too sacred to hear for their own ears;

“And this Knightly Prince, upon the prayers of his comrades—the friends he loves—and to the plea of the, his sunny, god—to whom he owns his life and have pledged the oath of endlessly loyalty even beyond death—will conjure the sole heavens itself to emerge with the earth below—making the oceans rise so high, that they're crashing into themself before creating a path for the airily, like a mere breeze to graze upon the humans when calm, blast of judgment—and once gate of heaven is open, where he is the judge and the executioner as one, this knightly prince will cause the needed destruction against the very enemy, whom the god will—with such heavenly help from the loyal child of the sky—defeat and brings, like a grant of hope, another blissful era of existence for the freedom of humanity. Because this Knightly Prince is the very wind itself. And this knightly prince will always be free from the shackles of captivity.”

Despite wearing a thick winter jacket and below a hoodie—thanks to you, because you had made everyone wear some pullover or hoodie, not wanting them to experience such icy weather—to keep warm, Sanji still felt another chill going down his spine—making him flinch visibly—giving him goosebumps to experience as being exposed to the cold air.

The text sounds more like a prophecy than some kind of storytelling of the past and Sanji—when looking over to the figure on the mural and back to you—didn't want to believe that you're the resemblance of this, the so called Knightly Prince of the Sky, figure and neither that the text was like a description of you as well.

You could be destructive—deadly terrorising even, causing fear like thunder, when being upset or furious—Sanji knows this, saw it firsthand more than often and he had even experienced one of your punches and blasting attacks as well, but you being such (ancient) monstrosity—Sanji just couldn't comprehend.

Not when you whine like a child, whenever there's a cold weather.

Not when you would get so excited, whenever Sanji makes dessert—especially your favourite ones—and you stuffing them into you like a impatiently child—giggling happily in between the gulps of chews and giving Sanji compliments to his fabulous baking—or a starved men or as if scared that Luffy would steal the baked goods from you, just to get scolded by Chopper in the end—because too much sweets would make your blood sugar go haywire and gives you restlessness.

And especially not when you would go to Sanji, whenever you can't sleep—not even in your, too cramped tight, safe space—like a little sibling goes to their older brother.

But maybe it's just a coincidence that the text and the figure on the mural seemed to be a resemblance to you, but Sanji—even though he wished it to be otherwise—doubts it the more he looks at the mural.

Because this figure, of the supposed knightly prince of the sky, makes the exact same pose—arm outstretched with fingers ready to snap—you do, whenever you're about to conjure one of your wind blasts and this “Gate of Heaven”—like when Luffy's does his Gear—is one of your attacks as well.

Though that's not the actual reason why Sanji gets these chill of unease, it's not the figure—which looked so realistic carved into the stone, contrary to the painted images on the mural—itself and neither the text, its the eyes.

These judgmental eyes, which belongs to the knightly prince of the sky, are the only thing coloured on the whole mural—and while your own eyes are the colour of (e/c), these stone eyes were in a blue, such a bright blue, as if they resemble the crystal clear sky or ocean itself.

That blue was haunting, so terrifying haunting that Sanji forgets how to breathe for a second.

And when Sanji hears your voice, so meek and weak—your fever have risen, running high, he could feel the heat which radiates off from you—blood sugar levels definitely dropping even more lower than it had been before, a little whine to it in your voice when you asked something in a incoherent whisper—he only hushed you back to sleep.

~~~•~~~

»Did something happen? I mean, Robin did mention, when she had told us all about the library, that you two did a mid-stop inside a ruin like castle and there's some mural as well, but that doesn't explain why you all three so roughed up with injuries.« It's not a question from Nami—when she brought a new set of heavy blankets for you—it's a statement of keen observation from her.

Telling them about the discovery of the Mural, just like Franky when he had discovered one as well—Robin instantly vanishing, minutes after Chopper had patched her up, to take a look at it—was important information to mention, no doubt and Sanji doesn't disagree not argue about that point—not when Robin had said they should tell, after all she's women of expertise.

But Robin and Sanji had also come to the agreement, that as for now—not till it might happens a second time—this would be the only thing they tell the others about their discovery, because what had occurred next was still too unhinged—give them quite the scare and spiked up a fear they hadn't felt in a while—to share.

»Are you sure, Sanji?« now it's a question.

»Nothing worthy to mention had happened.« Sanji feels jittery, hoping Nami doesn't see the shakiness in his hands, when he desperately tries to lights up another cigarette—taking a deep inhale of the nicotine.

Yeah, Sanji concludes, it's not worth to mention this crow like creature—which so gigantic like giant themselves and with its pitch black feathers and these eyes of bright red—like a Ruby shining—with sharp canines in it beak, threateningly snapped at them.

»Okay. Then be so kind Sanji and explain why [Name] hair looks whiteish again. That's only happens he goes maddeningly berserk. So I ask again,«

Nami narrows her eyes at Sanji—not completely satisfied nor believing what she's being told, after all that sounds close to a blatantly lie Sanji pulls here—»Are you sure that nothing had happened?«

How else, if supposedly nothing seemed to have happen during the Murals discovery, are your wounds—besides Sanji and Robin, who are roughed up as well with injuries, you seemed to have taken the most impacts—to be explained.

But Sanji repeats what he had given as answer before and Nami responds with a scoff—telling him he's on [Name] duty and walks out of the room.

Of course you're having the most injuries, because besides the crow, there had also been another person which you fought—acting more like a protector to Sanji and Robin, even though you're barely able to stand on your own now, conjuring windy blasts after blast.

Though they didn't followed, despite they seemed to only being after you, when Sanji had taken you—throwing you over his shoulder, making you collapse with ragged breathing—and runs out of the castle with Robin.

~~~•~~~

»Sanji, could you please go out for a minute? I have to give [Name] his Sugar-shots.« Chopper walks in, asking kindly, but there's the serious undertone of a doctor to it—holding up the small metal box, which Usopp had built for all of them to keep your needed glucose-shots unharmed.

»Could I do them?«

»Has [Nickname] given you the okay for it again?«

»Uhm, no, but–«

»Than I can't allow it. Only when [Nickname] has given you consent, otherwise you're not allowed then.»

Sanji thought, after you had forgave him in Wano for what he did during the stay on Cake Island, everything between you and him is good again—but Choppers right, you hadn't given consent and someone else doing your shots for you is a personal doing to entrust.

»Please, Chopper. Just this once. You can even observe to make sure, I do it properly.«

And Chopper gave in to Sanji's plea—watching how Sanji pulls the thick layers of blankets away from you, moving up your shirt—to expose your stomach and already scaring spots to where the needle always go in, making you whine out from the breeze of cold—disinfecting throughly the era and inserting the needle into you skin.

There's another whine, painfully, from your lips—swatting away whoever there is, curling up into yourself not liking this minimal piercing feeling into your skin—but you soon relax back into the cluster of sleep, when the comfortable warmth returns and someone holding your hand in gentle comfort and tells you fairy tales.

[saesbangs]

doubling down. (pt 3)

itoshi sae x idol!OC (ikariya seira)

mending up the ever drifting connections.

2 < 3

The air of Kamakura had always been chill. Its breezy, relatively colder than Tokyo. Every kiss planted on her skin by the cool windーdanced with Seira's hairーsewned back memories now fragmented to pieces. Wandered around aimlessly, she found herself at the side of the roadーfacing the sea.

Despite years of being far from home, her muscles still lead her to the same spot each time without fail. She sat herself at the exact same place and position as one she used to belong whenever her and the two brothers watched sunset with popsicles in hand.

Cool air turned warm. She wasn't too sure if it was the radiant orange sunshine basking her, or the memories vivid in her mind. All she knew, was that no one was by her side. Not Rin's innocence, not Sae's unhinged comments. No cold popsicles which taste was not her favorite, yet she had it almost every day.

She let herself walked down the memory lane. Tears, laughter, banter, all she remembered clearly. Lips tugged into a thin smile as her mind wandered. Peaceful yet lonely was the day's sunset.

"Here."

Unexpected, an extremely familiar voice chirped from behind. She jolted in shock, head turned to check the source of the voice.

Right there, in front of her eyes, stood the man. Teal eyes bored, red hair unstyled, hands holding popsicles with one pointed towards her. As if he came out directly from her memory.

"Whatー" She blinked a few times, mouth agape from pure surprise, "SAE ARE YOU STALKING ME? How did you even find me here? With a popsicle ready too? Be honest! You're stalking me!"

As of any other Tuesday, he was unfazed by her reaction, "Quickly, before it melts."

With lips curled to a pout, she accepted the popsicle he shoved on her face.

"Also, I didn't buy it for you. Just so happen I saw you here."

He sat beside her, facing the open sea with sun about to set. The scene was almost complete. A whole reiteration of their childhood. Moment shared in silence, tied by the splitted popsicles.

Until she broke it.

"I'm sorry."

"Hmm," He hummed, not giving her the response she wanted.

"Hey, I said I'm sorry, Sae."

"Heard it."

She flopped her head on his shoulder, one of her long lost habit due to their distance. To her surprise, however, that day he decided to respond by placing a hand on her waist. One thing he never done before.

He scoffed, though, for whatever reason, "You'll stain my hoodie sitting like that while eating."

"Impossible! I finished it already!" She exclaimed, cheerful melody returned to her voice.

"Is that so. Did you win?"

"Yep, tossed it away already. Dispose of the proof!"

"Something Rin would do."

"Well, we both learned from you, didn't we?"

He fell silent for a moment, eyes solemn, "You're literally older than me."

"BY TWO MONTHS! Don't act like I'm 10 years older than you!"

"Older, but you're still more childish than anyone I know."

She nudged at his chest using her elbow, "What I'm trying to say is that you taught us to dream. I learned from you, to dream big and actually do something to achieve it."

"Hmm."

"Cause a dream is worthless if it remains just a dream, right? Only makes sense if you do everything to realize it."

"Yeah," He paused, giving a gentle squeeze to her waist, "That's what I thought, at least."

"Don't run again," She stretched her hand towards the almost night sky, "From me, from your dream. If you run away again you might not going to find it again, you know?"

"... I'll try."

Kamakura had and will always be special. For it was the place where she found him, and he found her. It was where dreams and the dreamers born. Stepping foot in the city would always led to one another. As if the cool breeze itself wished for their unity.

Maybe, Kamakura was warmer than she remembered.

--

2 < 3

[moncherriecoups]

Muted Hearts

Some love stories are whispered, not spoken. Some promises are signed, not said.

This is ours.

When I push through the front door again

I feel like becoming a different person

The two different worlds inside and outside of me

Pointing fingers, cursing, and calling me a coward

Me, with two names

Live two lives

Which one do you love?

Despite the two of me

I have one heart

So to you, I am one

──────────────────────────────

Seungcheol x f!oc

MINORS DNI

MINORS DNR

Tags: tense relationship, idolxoc, slowburn relationship, angst, sexual interaction

TW: Rough-angry intercourse

Word count: 3k

──────────────────────────────

Chapter Fourteen

The office was unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. The usual murmur of collaborative chaos—the tapping of keyboards, soft conversations, someone humming over their coffee—felt muted today. Sua’s steps echoed lightly against the concrete floor as she made her way toward the break area, hands wrapped tightly around a ceramic mug she didn’t remember pouring.

She had arrived earlier than usual. She always did these days. Not because there was more work to do—though there always was—but because staying home meant being alone with her thoughts. And lately, that was much harder than pretending to be okay.

Outside the window, the sky was a dull blue, bright but lifeless, like the world was trying to trick her into thinking things were fine. She sat down on the edge of the small couch tucked beside the kitchenette. It was the one no one really used except when they needed five minutes to breathe. She figured it was fair game.

On the coffee table in front of her, a stack of art magazines lay fanned out. She grabbed one without thinking and flipped it open to a page somewhere in the middle. A photograph of an installation caught her eye—an abstract piece, scattered mirrors suspended mid-air, fragments reflecting slivers of people walking by. It was disjointed, sharp, uncomfortably honest. She stared at it for a long while.

It felt familiar. Like her.

She blinked, the heat of tears pressing behind her eyes, and quickly shut the magazine.

Just then, the soft click of heels approached from behind. Her boss—clean-cut blazer, sleeves rolled, hair tied back—stepped into view, holding two cups of coffee. She gave Sua a small, knowing smile and held one out.

“Morning,” she said gently. “Thought you might need something stronger.”

Sua forced a grateful smile and accepted it. “Thanks.”

Her boss didn’t sit right away. She studied Sua for a second—long enough to see past the carefully styled hair, the neutral lipstick, the pressed shirt. Long enough to notice the sleepless eyes and the stiff shoulders.

“Can I ask you something?” her voice was lower now. “Off the record.”

Sua paused. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t even concerned in that overbearing way people tended to be when they just wanted to feel good about asking. It was real. Grounded. Honest.

But still—Sua smiled again. The tight, rehearsed one she’d gotten good at lately. “I’m fine.”

Her boss gave her a look that made it clear she didn’t believe that for a second.

“I saw the photos,” she said softly. “I know what happened at the concert. And… I know the kind of things that’ve been going around online.”

Sua’s hands stiffened around the mug.

“I also know a few reporters tried calling the office.”

Of course they did.

“I didn’t say anything,” her boss added quickly. “I won’t. But I need you to know that if you want to take time off… I’ll back you up. Fully.”

The silence that followed was a beat too long.

Sua swallowed hard. “Thank you. Really. But… I think staying is better for me.”

Her boss tilted her head. “Better how?”

Sua looked down at her lap. Her fingers were trembling, barely noticeable. “I just… need the normalcy. The structure. It’s helping. I don’t want to feel like a victim.”

The words surprised even her. But the second they left her mouth, she realized how deeply true they were.

She needed to believe she was still in control. That she could still walk into a space and earn her place and not be the girl the internet had turned into a spectacle.

Not Seungcheol’s girl.

Not the scandal.

Just Sua.

Her boss nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said. “But if that changes, I’m still here. Even if it’s just a ride home. Or a fake emergency to pull you out of something.”

That made Sua laugh—small, but real. “Noted.”

Her boss stood. “You're strong,” she added, before turning to leave. “But you don’t have to do it all alone.”

And then she was gone.

Sua sat in the silence again, surrounded by art and coffee and the lingering echo of kindness she didn’t know how to hold onto.

—

Sua entered her apartment with a loud sigh.

Finally.

It was already 9PM. Her work ended hours ago—at 4—but she hadn’t been able to leave on time. Not when stepping out the front door meant exposing herself to those relentless eyes. Cameras. Whispering mouths. People who weren’t supposed to know her name, let alone the license plate of her car.

But they did.

Even when she took the back exit, a few of them were waiting, clutching their phones like weapons. The day she saw someone checking her parked car in the basement was the day she stopped driving altogether.

Now, she stocked up on face masks like survival tools. Wore them in the subway, hidden beneath scarves, oversized hoodies, and tinted sunglasses. The disguise helped. But every layer made her feel less like herself.

Then again, she wasn’t really herself anymore.

Not lately.

She tossed her bag onto the couch, walked to the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of water, drinking it down in greedy gulps—like she could drown the fire clawing at her insides. But the water didn’t cool her. The pressure stayed.

Then—

Knock.

Her chest tightened.

Knock. Knock.

Sua didn’t move. She stared at the door. The sound alone was enough to send her heart racing. She hated this now—the ping of phone notifications, the shrill ring of the office line, and more than anything, the knock of unexpected visitors.

What if it’s one of them?

What if someone found her again?

Her breath caught.

She stepped silently toward the door, not even realizing she’d already curled her fingers around the knob.

And then—

A familiar presence behind the wood. A silence she could recognize with her eyes closed.

Of course.

She opened it. And there he was.

Choi Seungcheol. Cap pulled low, eyes dim with caution, jaw clenched like he hadn’t breathed since he got there. His face was a quiet storm.

“Hey,” he murmured.

Sua didn’t answer. She stepped aside and let him in.

The silence followed them like a fog. Thick. Claustrophobic.

He reached out to hug her—but she didn’t move. Didn’t lift her arms. Didn’t lean in. Not even when her body screamed at her to inhale the scent of him, to melt into him like she always did.

She stayed still.

And he noticed.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Sua stepped back. “Am I okay?” Her voice cracked. Then sharpened. “Am I, Seungcheol?”

His brows drew together. “I just—”

Seungcheol didn't get a chance to answer before Sua snaps again, “What the hell are you doing here?” Sua’s voice cut through the quiet of the apartment like a blade, low and cold and sharp enough to bleed.

She hadn’t meant to blow up.

Sua had spent the entire day swallowing every ounce of frustration, every spiraling thought, every jab of anxiety that clawed at her chest. She smiled at her staff. Greeted artists politely. Handled deadlines. Made phone calls. Acted like everything was fine even when her chest felt like it might split open at any moment.

But now, standing in her apartment, staring at Seungcheol—something snapped.

He was just standing there like he always did. Calm. So sure of himself. Baseball cap pulled low, black hoodie and sweats like he could disappear into the crowd at any second. Hands in his pockets. Voice soft and low as he greeted her.

And for some reason, that was the final straw.

Seungcheol blinked, caught off guard by the venom in her tone. “I—what? I came to check on you. You haven’t been replying to—”

“I don’t fucking care.” She whipped around to face him, her arms crossed tight across her chest. Her jaw was clenched, eyes flashing with something between fury and heartbreak. “You can’t keep showing up whenever you feel like it. Like I’m some goddamn checkpoint in your day.”

“Sua—”

“No. Don’t Sua me.” She took a step closer, her voice rising. “Do you even realize what’s happening out there because of you?”

“I do realize,” he bit back. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

“Then act like it! Act like you fucking care!” She shoved past him toward the kitchen, pacing, trembling. “I can’t even go to work properly. I had to lie through my teeth to my boss while those fans are fucking waiting outside like they’re hunting me for sport—because you couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut!”

“I never said anything about you!”

“You didn’t need to!” she shouted. “You looked at me like I was the only person in the room! You touched me like the world was yours to burn! You made me the target!”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and something cracked open in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to ruin this for you,” he said, quieter now, the storm in his voice giving way to something rawer. “I just—I love you.”

She laughed, bitter and broken. “You think that makes this better? That if you say love enough times it’ll fix the fact that I’m being stalked? That I can’t breathe without someone snapping a picture or twisting it into something ugly?”

“I didn’t want this either.”

“Then why did you let it happen?” Her voice was shaking now, not from weakness, but from the sheer effort of keeping herself together. “Why couldn’t you just be careful, Cheol? Why couldn’t you just—why couldn’t you fucking protect me?”

“I’ve done everything I could!”

“No. You’ve done everything you wanted. You never once asked me what I needed.”

He was breathing harder now, chest rising and falling with each word she threw at him like a weapon. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You think this is easy for me?” he snapped. “You think I’m not getting chewed out every day by the company? I put everything on the line for this—for you!”

She froze. Her eyes narrowed. “I never fucking asked you to.”

He took a step toward her, furious now. “You didn’t have to. I did it because I fucking love you.”

“Well maybe your love is ruining me.”

—

The air was thick with tension, as suffocating as the space between them. Their words, their emotions—everything hung like a storm ready to break, and Sua felt herself on the brink. She hated him. She wanted to push him away. She wanted to scream, to shove him out of her life for good. But all she could feel, deep down, was the savage need to have him, to destroy him, and to be destroyed by him.

"Say it again," Seungcheol growled, his voice a raw rasp, low and seething with anger. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, but there was something else lurking behind his eyes—something almost desperate. He wanted this. He wanted her.

Sua’s heart pounded. Her lips curled in a bitter smile as she met his gaze, eyes burning with fury and desire. "Your love is ruining me."

His face twisted with rage. "You don’t fucking get to say that."

“You think I’m just gonna let you walk away after that?” His voice was hoarse—low and dangerous. “You think you can just spit all that shit and I’ll leave you alone?”

“Why not? That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?” She turned, eyes blazing, fury igniting every syllable. “Running your mouth. Making everything worse. Getting me followed, stalked, treated like some filthy secret when you're the one who can’t keep your damn feelings to yourself—”

He was in front of her before she could finish, crowding her space, face flushed with pure rage.

“I fucking told you I didn’t mean for any of that to happen,” he growled, stepping closer until their chests almost touched. “You think I wanted you to get hurt? You think I’d fucking let anyone near you if I had a choice?”

“You don’t protect me, Seungcheol. You parade your love like some badge of honor but I’m the one bleeding for it!”

That hit him hard. She saw it in the way his jaw clenched, the fire in his eyes flickering into something darker.

“Then leave,” he bit out. “If I’m that fucking toxic, if I’m so bad for you, then go.”

“I want to!” she shouted, shoving him with both hands. “But you keep pulling me back in! Every time I try to walk away, you show up again—fucking smiling like an idiot, like you didn’t just ruin my entire goddamn life!”

He grabbed her wrists, yanked her forward, crushing their mouths together with zero grace, zero tenderness—just teeth, breath, and fury. His kiss was war. It wasn’t about love—it was possession. A brutal, messy collision of mouths that tasted like punishment.

And she gave it right back.

She bit his lip so hard he hissed. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and yanked him down, dragging him deeper into her chaos.

“Fuck you,” she growled into his mouth.

“Working on it,” he snarled back.

Clothes came off in harsh tugs. Buttons flew. Zippers jammed. His hoodie hit the floor, and her shirt followed. Neither of them was careful—fabric tore, seams popped. It wasn’t about undressing—it was about claiming. About stripping. About breaking.

He shoved her against the wall, his hands roaming rough, fast, gripping her thighs and lifting her like she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around him with a snarl, dragging him closer by the back of his neck.

He didn’t kiss her. He devoured her. Lips against her throat, teeth scraping down her skin, angry, desperate.

“You wanna pretend this means nothing?” he rasped against her skin. “You wanna act like you don’t need me?”

“Fuck off,” she hissed, grinding against him like she was daring him to fall apart.

“You hate me so much, huh?” His hand slipped between them, pushing her panties aside with no ceremony. “Then why are you soaking for me?”

She gasped, tried to speak, failed—then slapped him across the face. Hard. The sound cracked through the room.

His eyes darkened.

He didn’t stop.

He thrust into her with no warning, no buildup—just raw need. Her back slammed into the wall with the force, breath knocked clean from her lungs.

She cried out—not just from the stretch, but from the anger, the absolute surrender. Her hands tangled in his hair, yanking him in, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave lines.

“Harder,” she spat, voice wrecked.

He snarled like an animal and obeyed.

The wall shook with every slam of his hips. There was no rhythm—just power. Just fury. Just all builds up of everything unsaid crashing out of them in the dirtiest, most violent way possible.

His hand slid up her chest, gripping her throat—not hard, but firm enough to say, stay here. Feel this.

She locked eyes with him, gasping, shaking.

“I fucking hate you,” she breathed, voice cracking. “I hate what you do to me. What you make me become.”

He leaned in, sweat dripping from his temple, his lips brushing hers with venom. “Good,” he whispered. “Then hate me right. Hate me while I make you come so hard you forget why you ever wanted to leave.”

And he did.

She shattered—loud, messy, brutal. He didn’t stop. Drove her through it, chased his own climax with gritted teeth and a low groan that sounded more like pain than pleasure.

When he came, it was with his forehead pressed against hers, their breaths mingling like smoke and fire. Like poison and oxygen.

When it was over, he didn’t speak. Neither did she.

She peeled herself off him, stumbled back, legs shaking. He sat down on the floor, head in his hands, hair a mess.

They didn’t look at each other.

But the silence between them wasn’t peace—it was a warning.

They were the kind of lovers that left marks. And they’d both drawn blood.

—

The silence stretched as they lay there.

Still. Wrecked. Breathless.

The air was thick with heat and regret, but it was quiet now. Not peaceful. Just... still.

Sweat clung to their skin. The storm in their bodies had passed, but not in their hearts. Not in their heads.

Seungcheol’s arm was draped loosely over Sua’s waist, but neither of them moved. Their chests rose and fell at uneven rhythms, two people trying to come down from something they didn’t even want to name.

And then—

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” Seungcheol murmured, voice rough with exhaustion and shame.

Sua flinched like he’d slapped her.

She turned her face away, eyes stinging. “Don’t you dare make this sweet,” she said, low and hoarse. “That wasn’t love. That was us destroying each other.”

The silence after her words was heavier than any scream.

He didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t argue.

And maybe that was worse.

Because when Sua finally sat up—arms wrapping tight around her bare torso, back curling in like she was protecting something shattered—he didn’t reach for her.

He sat up too. Slower. Shoulders heavy, like every emotion was made of lead.

His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry.

Not yet.

She moved to the edge of the couch, pulled her couch blanket halfway over herself like it could shield her from the aftermath. Her hair was a mess. Mascara smeared beneath her eyes. Her lips were swollen and bruised from his kisses.

But it wasn’t the physical mess that broke Seungcheol.

It was the way she crumbled in silence.

Like her heart had given up trying to scream.

And then she did cry.

No warning. Just a soft sob that tore from her chest like a wound cracking open.

She turned away from him, hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she tried to muffle it—but she couldn’t.

Seungcheol’s breath caught.

He slid off the couch, down to the floor, like his body couldn’t carry him anymore. His head dropped between his knees. One hand pressed to his chest. The other clenched so tightly on his thigh that his knuckles turned white.

He didn’t make a sound, but his shoulders heaved.

They were both falling apart—together, but painfully alone.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer.

Then—

A shift.

Sua moved. Slowly. Hesitantly.

Her hand reached down, trembling fingers brushing against his.

Seungcheol froze. His breath stilled.

And then, without a word, he laced his fingers with hers.

They held on.

Not because they were okay.

Not because anything was fixed.

But because it was all they knew how to do.

Because they didn’t know how to be apart.

Even now.

Especially now.

Eventually, she tugged softly. He looked up, eyes rimmed red.

Her lips parted. “Can you stay?”

His chest caved in with a shaky exhale. “If you’ll let me.”

She nodded once. Eyes swollen. “Always.”

And that was enough.

They didn’t say more. Words felt useless. Cheap. Fragile.

Seungcheol climbs the couch slowly, guiding her gently back into his arms. This time she didn’t resist. She folded into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in like she was trying to find herself again.

His arms wrapped around her carefully. No hunger. No urgency. Just warmth.

They stay like that in the dim light of the living room, swaying slightly, heartbeats out of sync but trying to find rhythm again.

He kissed the top of her head.

Then her temple.

Then her cheek.

And when he pulled back to look at her—really look at her—there was something in his eyes that made her breath hitch.

Love. Undeniable. Raw. Bleeding at the edges.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he whispered.

She blinked hard, biting back a fresh wave of tears. “Then maybe learn how to protect me, not hurt me.”

He nodded. 

He kissed her again—soft this time. Gentle. Mouth brushing hers like he was afraid she’d disappear.

She pulled him closer.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

They stayed right there on the couch, tangled in the blanket and the wreckage of their fight, touching like it was the last thing keeping them sane.

It wasn’t lust this time. It wasn’t fury. It wasn’t punishment.

It was need.

Slow. Careful. Desperate in a different way.

His hands traced every inch of her like he was relearning her body. Her breath hitched with every kiss he pressed to her skin. She let herself be touched—not because it made anything better, but because it reminded her that they were still here. Still alive. Still clinging.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered at one point, forehead resting against hers, breath trembling.

She didn’t.

Instead, she kissed him again—deeper this time. And he took it as yes.

Their bodies moved in quiet rhythm. There was no rush. No roughness. Just long, lingering touches and quiet gasps.

She cried again.

So did he.

But this time, they didn’t cry alone.

When it was over, they lay tangled beneath the blanket, bare skin pressed together, her head on his chest, his fingers stroking her back in slow, soothing circles.

They didn’t speak.

But their hands were still clasped.

And even in the silence, it was clear:

This wasn’t a solution.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it was love.

Messy. Dangerous. Damaging.

But still love.

—

The light hit her face before the clock did.

Sua stirred against the warmth behind her, eyes squinting at the soft golden blur bleeding through her window. She blinked slowly. Her mouth was dry. Her muscles ached. Everything felt… heavy.

And warm.

There was a large hand resting across her waist. Fingers splayed, familiar. Too familiar.

She didn’t move at first.

The weight of the night before was still there, thick in the air, in her chest, in the faint bruises blooming on her skin.

His breath was even behind her, soft and steady against the curve of her neck. He was still asleep.

She should’ve moved. Gotten up. Put on clothes. Washed him off her skin.

Instead, she stayed.

Her hand drifted to her ribs. She flinched. There was a sore spot—she remembered his grip there. The heat of it. The desperation. The anger.

And then she saw it: the faint purple mark blooming along his collarbone where she'd bit down too hard. The scratch on his shoulder. A fading red streak down his arm.

The evidence of them. What they did to each other. What they always did.

She turned slowly in his arms, careful not to wake him, but Seungcheol stirred anyway. His brows knit, lashes fluttering. Then—

"Hey," he rasped, voice low and sleep-rough. He blinked at her, eyes still half-lidded.

"Hey," she whispered back.

They stared at each other for a moment, like strangers waking up in a crime scene.

And then, his thumb brushed her cheek.

Her chest squeezed.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

Sua looked at him for a second, then dropped her gaze. “Me too,” she said, quiet, like if she said it any louder it’d shatter the glass they were walking on.

“I didn’t mean to…” he paused, swallowing. His voice cracked a little. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But we did.”

He nodded slowly. “We keep doing this.”

She exhaled, tired. “Yeah.”

He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear, like it was the only thing he knew how to do right now. “Can we—” he hesitated. “Can we try again?”

Sua looked at him then. Really looked. Eyes swollen from sleep and everything else. Lips still chapped from last night. And yet… he was still him.

Her disaster.

Her disaster she still loved.

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s try again.”

Neither of them said how long it would last this time. Neither of them brought up the fight. Or the scars.

Because that’s not what this morning was for.

This morning was for quiet. For gentle hands brushing against bruised skin. For his lips on her shoulder as he whispered “sorry” again. For her thumb tracing his jaw, memorizing him again.

For one more promise neither of them could keep.

And for a moment, that was enough.

—

Sua calls in sick to work. Her boss understand. She spent her entire morning worrying about the bruises on Seungcheol's body, how to cover it up, and Seungcheol mostly just laughed and calms her down, "My make up team did the most amazing job ever, don't worry," he said as he placed a kiss on her hand.

Seungcheol leaves around 2PM for another rehearsal before his Japan tour next week. He hughs her longer than usual before he leaves.

"I'll see you soon. And I'll set up some people to keep you safe when I'm gone," he promised.

Sua, slowly accepted that this is her life now, just nods, and bury her face on his chest.

"I'll miss you when you're gone."

She turned back and close the door behind her after he left, making a cup of tea for herself, then suddenly her phone rings.

Unknown number.

She answered anyway.

“Jang Sua?”

The voice was clipped. Professional. Cold.

"Yes, this is she," Sua answered. Her heart beats faster but she assure herself that might be just another client.

“This is a representative from Pledis. We’d like to inform you about some internal matters regarding your relationship with Choi Seungcheol.”

She froze.

“We’re aware you signed an NDA. We’re also aware that despite your compliance, Mr. Choi’s actions have caused significant backlash.”

A pause. “He recently had a conflict with several members and staff over this matter. It’s created a disruption in the team. We’re doing everything we can to minimize the damage.”

Sua’s throat closed, "What?"

“We’re asking—strongly advising—you to cease any and all communication with him until this is resolved. For your safety. And his career.”

The line went dead before she could say a word.

Her hand dropped to her side. Tea spilled onto the counter.

Everything inside her had gone still.

Like lightning, striking in broad daylight.

──────────────────────────────

Thank you for being extremely patient with this series :")

I'll try to finish soon! Love you aaalll lots <3

[sonic-gallery]

Another World Ogiri August 2023 [What are Blaze and Silver doing...? ]

Please come home, master!

Two characters appear every month in surprising outfits and situations! Let's enjoy Ogiri together with illustrations that will make your imagination run wild!

This time, Blaze and Silver are back with a new look! High fighting ability and awesomeness that are unbecoming of a maid or butler! What kind of enemy will these two fight against, relying on each other and working together?

What kind of lines or narration would you use?

You can style it based on the atmosphere and world view of the two of you in the game, or you can create a bold arrangement! In the example, it seems reliable enough to turn away any unwanted customers... Even such free and interesting stories are OK!

Please enjoy it and tweet with the tag "#Isekai Ogiri" on Twitter ♪

We will introduce the good ones in a reply from Sonic's official Twitter account.

We are looking forward to your fun Ogiri posts!

Act8: “Reunion of the Magical Princess”

＜＜Gashaaan! >>

A large number of sharp pieces of window glass are scattered on the hotel's luxurious scarlet carpet...!

The monster's strong arms didn't stop as it tore down the glass wall of the second-floor atrium with all its might... It gouged through the floor, grabbed a white cafe table that had been thrown up, broke it into pieces, and headed towards a point. I threw it.

＜＜Dogagagaga! >>

The terrifying throw of destruction seemed to crush the poor waiter who was near the kitchen...but all of it was blocked by a psychic barrier that shone in cobalt blue, and it shattered into pieces. Masu.

"A monster that obstructs business! I'll eliminate it!"

It was Silver, a silver hedgehog with psychic powers, who screamed and his whole body was filled with psychic green light.

The monster that stands in the way is a giant golem that looks up at you and is made of a collection of toys and junk. The moment when Silver, his black garcon apron flapping in the air, tried to wield his "power" towards the monster...!

＜＜Dooooooong! >>

This time, the crimson flame arrow grazed Silver's side and hit the monster. Blow away that giant body.

After a roar, the maid descended to protect Silver while brushing off a veil of flames, turned around with her elegant black silk apron skirt, and spoke to him without even moving an eyebrow.

"Run, waiter. This is no place for ordinary people."

...Silver is not amused by being suddenly interrupted and treated like an amateur.

"You're a maid, aren't you? What on earth are you!" "The one who protects the weak from evil monsters... is the Magic Princess Blaze!"

"Magic, Koujo...?"

Blaze jumps towards the monster, leaving behind Silver, who becomes stunned for a moment. Silver couldn't resist protesting as he hurriedly chased after him.

“Who is the weak one?”

The fight against monsters is only a defensive battle.

The flame wielded by Blaze does indeed hit the monster, but it only scrapes the surface of the monster's body...Then, the fragments are immediately pulled together by a mysterious force, coalescing and returning to their original state. It is.

"First of all, I came here with the intention of doing an undercover investigation as a maid, but I didn't expect to be suddenly involved in a battle..."

Blaze, who can't move as much as she wants in her maid uniform, can't help but click her tongue.

``I was also asked to be a bodyguard at this coffee shop, and I became a waiter waiting for a monster, but I didn't find him as good as this.''

Silver agrees that he is an unexpectedly strong enemy.

"I mean, this store provides uniforms, right? Why did you bring your maid uniform?" "I-is that so? Emmy told me to wear this..."

Blaze flinched at the unexpected remark and blushed as he pinched the frills on his shoulders...but in the meantime Blaze turned around and said this to Silver.

"Hey, don't move around in front of me! You're getting in the way and I can't concentrate my firepower!" "Attack isn't working, right? First, find the weak point that triggers recovery!"

In the end, an argument begins instead of a battle. And the monster didn't miss that chance...

<< Zugon! Dogogo...! >>

The monster slowly...gathered its strength deeply, raised both of its fists, and fired a powerful blow toward the ceiling. The impact pierced the ceiling on the coffee shop floor and the ceiling on the floor above, all the way to the roof of the hotel, causing a major collapse.

A huge waterfall of frighteningly heavy rubble attacks Blaze and the others, increasing its muddy flow as it falls. When they both looked up, it seemed like it was too late...

The next moment!

"Huh!"

Silver instantly jumps over Blaze's head, spreads his arms out as if to protect her, and deploys a psychic barrier...! After deflecting the incoming collapse, Blaze uses it as a counterattack to repel the attack of the monster that attacked Silver from within the dust, and at the same time blows away the surrounding dust with explosive flames.

...This is a moment of perfect cooperation with no compromises. After catching their breath in a close call, the two finally opened their mouths.

"My body moved on its own...I don't feel like I'm meeting you for the first time." "...Ah."

Then, as he regained his stance and restored his body, Blaze continued with a serious look on his face as he looked at the monster approaching the two of them.

"I made two mistakes. The first was that I underestimated the enemy and came here without being fully prepared."

Still in the same position, this time I continued to look into Silver's eyes.

"Waiter. Please give me 20 seconds..." "I don't mind...but before that, can I ask you the second question?"

After a moment's hesitation, Blaze answered with a resolute look on his face.

"Secondly, I was disrespectful and disrespectful to my comrades who I should be relying on. That..."

Blaze interrupts him by saying he's sorry, and Silver agrees to Blaze's request.

"It's okay Blaze, we're both good friends! It's okay. I'll hold out for 20 seconds or 200 years! ...So, would you like one for me too?" "...?"

"My name is Silver."

The next moment, Blaze is immediately engulfed in scorching flames. With her eyes closed and her mind concentrating...Silver senses that she is trying to control some great power.

"Silver, thank you......Haaaaaaaaa!"

Blaze is about to unleash a blow that will change the situation, knowing the risk of exposing his defenseless side. That expectation and trust inspired Silver.

"I'll do it! Ha!"

Silver deploys full power of psychic energy in all directions. Hold the rubble all over this floor and prevent the monster from restoring, while at the same time hitting everything with psychic attacks to keep it in check...! I will protect Blaze.

However, fighting for a long time while protecting immovable objects is disadvantageous. Since you have to endure every attack that comes your way without avoiding it, you end up in a very poor situation.

Silver's plan was to survive the attack by not allowing it to attack, but the monster also seems to have noticed the plan and intensifies its attack.

What a long time 20 seconds is! How long can we hold out? Just when Silver's knees are about to fall due to repeated bullets...!

＜＜Doooooooo! ! >>

As the explosion of loud flames spread, Blaze, enveloped in such dazzling flames that it was impossible to keep his eyes open, finally released his power... and blew away the monster. It's ready.

"Aaah...! Mysterious sun, respond to the power of my flame...!"

The seven jewels on Blaze's pochette begin to contain flames and grow brighter one by one as her power grows.

Just when the monster was about to make a desperate attack with all its might, all of its power imploded on her...Blaze declared the execution of great power.

"Magical Princess Blaze! Burning Unlimited Mode! Haaaaa!"

Blaze wears multiple layers of flame in seven colors and transforms into a pillar of scorching heat. For a moment, huge wings of flame spread across her back, but they immediately dispersed and condensed into her outstretched arms...! It becomes a tremendous torrent of flame and pours out towards the monster.

"Haaaaaa!" "Haaaaaa!"

The monster also tries to resist by taking a defensive stance, but Silver supports Blaze from behind as he is pushed by the recoil of the flames, increasing its power, and he can no longer withstand it.

Everything that formed the monster was blown away, and the energy body at its center caused a huge explosion.

<< Zudoooon! >>

A huge roaring explosion that could be heard all the way to an island in the sky. The monster finally disappeared.

"Ciao, chao!"

After the dust from the explosion finally dissipated... In the remains of the monster's explosion, there was a small Chao of light crying.

The true nature of the monster was Chao's residual thoughts.

As Blaze and the others watch, the Chao of Light eventually finds a hole in the dilapidated floor, and as if realizing something, it happily steps inside.

"......?" "this is!?"

When the two of them follow Chao, they discover that they are in the basement of a coffee shop...and beneath the floor is a lush green garden with a clear stream.

The Chao of Light then stepped inside, looked around, and with a satisfied smile, disappeared into a pale light. I see...the two of them said.

"When building this coffee shop, you blocked the Chao's home..." "That monster was a mass of grudges from the Chao's who wanted to return to their hometown."

The two of them, who have come to understand the circumstances of the incident, look relieved, but sigh at the devastation surrounding them. The area has been completely destroyed, and there is no trace of that wonderful interior.

"Well, the incident has been resolved for the time being...but the store was destroyed in a spectacular manner, so we have to clean it up."

Blaze responded in a calm manner while smiling bitterly at Silver's suggestive tone.

"Okay. What should I do?"

When the two of them looked up at the light shining in from above, what they saw through the hole in the collapsed ceiling was a dazzling blue sky cut out beautifully like a painting. It was filled with clear light, as if reflecting the brightness of their hearts.

"One month later..."

After major renovations, this shop, which connected the mysterious Chao garden as an open cafe area, has been renovated as ``Chao Garden,'' a maid-style cafe that combines formality with a Chao-friendly warmth, and has gained a great reputation. Ta.

While Silver and Blaze are busy helping rebuild the store, an unexpected visitor appears. As soon as they saw each other, they stiffened without even serving customers...

"S-Sonic...!? Are you Sonic!?" "Why are you dressed like that...and us too!? What the heck is going on!?"

The moment they saw Sonic, Blaze and Silver regained their memories.

"Hey! You guys...!"

Sonic was also surprised by this, but Tails noticed that at this time, the chaos emeralds that Sonic and his friends were holding, the jewelry of Blaze's tail, and the silver pendant all glowed faintly at the same time. I didn't miss it. While Tails was deep in thought, the two of them searched through their memories before and after the incident.

"The moment I came to this world under the guidance of the Sol Emerald, I was caught up in that light."

Blaze said while stroking the seven jewels on her pochette. Marin, who came with him, wonders what to do.

"I was fighting at Eggman's base just moments ago. I was trying to prevent some kind of weapon from activating..."

Silver worries that he can't remember properly.

"In any case, how did the two of you manage to regain your memories?"

Tails took out his proud ``energy sensor'' and explained it to Sonic.

＜＜Beep beep...＞＞

"I knew it! Blaze's tail jewelry and silver pendant are mutated Chaos Emeralds! Just like ours."

Tails explains that from the wavelength of the energy emitted, they are definitely Chaos Emeralds, which is why they definitely glowed when the two regained their memories.

“As a phenomenon, the Chaos Emeralds have the power to resist this strange phenomenon.Although one is not enough, there are several nearby, and one of them has the original memory... I think that's the condition for resurrection.'' ``There certainly doesn't seem to be any problem thinking that way. As expected, Tails!''

Tails gets shy after being praised by Sonic, and Blaze and Silver also respond.

“I hear that emeralds sometimes attract each other with a mysterious power in times of crisis.I was forced to have this one from Emmy because it was the guidance of the stars...This is also one of those powers. Maybe it's Tsuna.' ' ``Certainly. It's so easy to gather four of them like this...? Huh? Isn't it strange? If that's the case, how come Sonic and Tails, who only have one each, are safe?'' Did you?”

At the obvious question, the three people's eyes focused on Tails.

"That's... At the moment the incident occurred, Sonic and I were together, each holding a Chaos Emerald. I think that's why it didn't work from the beginning... , I guess. Sorry, I can't be sure..."

Tails was starting to lose confidence as he continued to make deductions, but Sonic assured him with a smile.

"In other words, it's because of Tails that I'm safe, and vice versa, right? Isn't it great that we're the same? This is it!"

Blaze and Silver agree while looking at Tails, who is confused and extremely shy.

"Hmm. At this point, it would be best to have a better interpretation of the details of truth or falsehood. The most important thing is..." "It means that we have found a way to restore our friends!"

"YES! That's right!" "That's right!"

Tails finally regains his composure and starts proposing strategies to his friends.

``...I'll give the detector to Blaze and Silver as well. Now let's divide up and find the friends who have Chaos Emeralds and revive them! And in the end, we'll collect 7 Chaos Emeralds. I’m sure it will be your trump card.”

"I understand. I agree with your strategy. I'll leave the rest behind." "I understand. My Sol Emerald also says we should do the same."

Blaze agrees as he strokes the Sol Emerald, which trembles as it emits a pale flame.

"It's getting interesting," Sonic said in his usual tone as he stood up, and the remaining three got ready to leave with fearless smiles on their faces.

"That Eggman guy. I don't know what he did, but we'll definitely hunt him down with our hands!"

Sonic and his friends took another step forward, and with a new hope in their hands, they took another step forward...!

[likehoneyandsilk]

I Wanna Be Yours

Hi everyone! This is a draft I have been playing around with. As per my last post, I am trying out something new. This would be a short multipart piece of writing, however, it is not my usual style. That being said, I wanted to get across some content for feedback and opinions! This may flourish or very well end up back in my drafts. Regardless, it is worth a share! Thank you!

P.S. To get a vibe for what this will be think of "Strangers" by Kenya Grace!

. . .

Any lucid person would tell Savina she was being played by the strings. Like a puppet, twisted, and turned in all directives at the hands of her puppeteer. Filled with life at his convenience. But together, they satisfied each other's desires, the appetite for comfort and comradery. Together, they kindled fires so passionate and uncontainable. What was malignant was also nourishing.

And when he held Savina, she melted like snow underneath a scorching hot sun. Sensed herself wilt into fragments as he pressed his lips to hers, so soft at times and others so intense she believed the butterflies in her stomach would burst. When he replenished her air with his laughter, Savina spiraled into a cordial and pleasant world. And when he pressed into her, yearned every inch of her golden skin, and looked into her doe eyes, she swore she saw glimpses of heaven across his ocean blues.

It all began three months ago when she had caught his eye at a charity affair hosted by the Bengals. Savina was the creative lead for the organization of the event, representing her company with exhibited ease and tranquility, but inside she rippled with anxiety. For the next year, her company was to manage all charitable events held by the Cincinnati Bengals. The pressure to be successful and receive a well-deserved promotion hung above Savina's head like a grey cloud, lingering to storm down on her. She counted down the minutes till she could flee, take refuge in her tiny apartment, and adequately breathe.

One could never see the battles Savina played in her head. Because on the outside, to the dashingly bestowed bachelor in all of Cincinnati, Joe Burrow watched this woman with pure attentiveness, averting his lingering gaze as he worked the bravery to approach her. She dazzled in a black ankle-length dress, hugging her hips just enough and falling effortlessly around her lower limbs. Her breasts were round and full, graced with the black fabric, but not enough to hide the last few lines of an unintelligible script in a tiny black font that peaked from underneath. The straps resting on her shoulder were barely an inch thick. Leaning against a pillar, cradling a half-empty glass of sparkling water, Joe observed the astonishing stranger's doe brown eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes moving around the room.

And suddenly he felt time freeze. His breath hitched in his throat. He was speechless. A haste washed over Joe, the need to speak to the woman before him, to fill her attention with his existence only. Yet, before he could put one foot in front of the other, her cheeks burned red and she turned away, that long jet-black curled hair bouncing with every step she took.

Savina's hands trembled with nerves. Her body felt heavy, her senses foggy when she found his eyes on her. There was a limit to the extent of their paths crossing. Too much was on the line. The peak of her career lay in this event, and had she been seen locking eyes and trading longing glances at the untouchable man, she could have kissed all her dreams and aspirations away. Joe Burrow meant trouble, despite whatever miracle had sparked his attention in her, she had far too much to lose.

Mortified at how far her thoughts permitted her to proceed, how silly it seemed that she was convinced he had taken a liking to her, Savina set aside her drink and busied herself with the event. Presenting herself as efficient and professional, she lingered around the peripheral vision of her boss, who she doubted would even recognize her hard work as he was now numerous margaritas into the night. But to dismiss the urge she felt to meet the lingering gaze of the quarterback as he discreetly watched her move about the room, she occupied her time with the event.

Just before midnight, the bar made the last call. Savina watched as the few remaining guests made their way for whatever they could get their hands on. Thoroughly sober, yet she felt like she was hungover. She had found solitude in a corner of the event space, far from the bright lights and embellishments. She sat atop an unused speaker, leaning her head back against the wall. It was no lie that she had sought out Joe in the crowd. He was impossible to forget. All eyes seemed to fall on him. 6'4", athletic physique, and despite sporting a black suit like many of the men in attendance, he appeared to stand out the most. He smiled guilelessly, baby blue eyes sparkling underneath the lights. Every few seconds when he appeared overwhelmed, he ran a hand through his hair, emerging ever so effortlessly unshakable.

The lights of the bar had fallen dim. The music ceased playing and Savina watched her boss stumble up the steps of the stage, thanking everyone for attending. She stood up, tidying her dress, as she made her way to join the crowd. Engrossed in her boss's horrid speech, she awaited her name to leave his lips, to acknowledge that she had done well, at least some ounce of credit into organizing this event. Unbeknownst to her, she stood next to Joe, hardly reaching his Adam's apple even in her heels. Joe's heart beat profusely in his chest as he watched her through his peripherals.

Up close, despite not being in clear view, she was sensational. The blush embellishing the apples of her cheeks had faded, the rose pink hue now a reminder of the night. Her lustrous lips curled up in a smile and soon fell into a straight line, the glimmer in her eyes abruptly fading as the chocolate brown darkened into charcoal. Forcing his peaked interest away from her, Joe watched the intemperate man before them, dawdle down the steps. A muffled applause fell through the room, and Joe felt a shift in the air when he turned to his side.

The nameless stranger hung her head low. Her hands clutched the silk fabric of her dress. Her hair fell around her, and then behind her as she straightened herself. As if slipping back into reality, she turned her head, tilting it upward to finally allow her eyes to meet his. Her features displayed scraps of dissatisfaction and regret. Joe wondered if he could wish away all her pain. He opened his mouth to speak as bodies moved around them, and all at once he could tell she felt suffocated. Her eyes screamed, and her frame became timid as the crowd moved around her. The lights above them began to dim, and she occurred to freeze.

His mouth went dry. His vision was hazy. He reached out a hand, despite the voices in his head pleading him to stop.

He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear. Savina felt as if she might faint, from his proximity integrated with the irritation she felt towards her boss. All those weeks of hard work faded with the lights as the event closed. But Joe was saying something, and she flinched the slightest when his hand rested on the small of her back. She eased against him, preserving her energy and tuning out all noise to clear her head.

"I know a place you can get some air."

She filled his nostrils with a floral scent, so rich and exquisite. He smelled masculine. Like bergamot and applewood. Together they seemed to harmonize so well.

Savina gulped, nodding her head, and missed the feeling as his hand parted from her body all too quickly. She followed his large and tall frame through the crowd. He steered her towards coat check. As if playing coy all too well he remained a few steps away, fiddling with his phone. He nodded reassuringly as she met his eyes from the line.

Every muscle in her body tensed. Every inch of skin tingled.

Her mouth was parched as she fiddled through her purse for the coat check slip. Offering it to the attendant she watched them vanish into a room full of racks. Savina inhaled a large breath, holding in the air before releasing it.

Get it together Savina. She watched Joe scan the room, his demeanor impatient. He knew he was crossing a line. But so was she.

Joe backed away gradually, eyes scattering around the emptying room before forcing open a door that read "NO ENTRY UNLESS AUTHORIZED" with his back. Savina fell behind, as she scurried after him, flailing her coat around her. As she approached the door, she seemed to recall the reluctance to engage with this man in the earlier hours. All that still stood profound. She promised herself not to pivot from her goal.

Joe was not visible on the flight of steps that led to another door when Savina stopped to breathe in the solitude of the poorly lit room. It smelled of floor cleaner, remains of pine and citrus evident in the air. The voices faded completely, and Savina listened to the footsteps on the other side buffer with each passing second. Either she turns back now and forgets all this happened, or she takes a gamble on her screaming heart.

The air was crisp. Bitterly cold. Joe stood against the concrete balcony. Below him, vehicles passed by as specks of light, faster and faster. It was early October, yet the city had nestled into an early Winter coldness. The sky was clear above him. A few scattered stars sparkled, adorning the full moon that seemed within reach this high up. Dispersed cigarette butts littered the ground. Two empty lawn chairs sat underneath a lone umbrella perched within a discarded glass patio table.

Joe feigned composure. His hands rested in his pockets. His nose was slightly red from the cold. With his head bowed, he shifted his gaze between the door behind him and the scene below him. After what felt like a century, the door screeched open, closing behind her with such a loud bang it felt as if it vibrated through the ground.

Slowly, Savina made her way to him. Her heels clicked against the concrete. The bare skin of her legs became scattered with goosebumps. Her lungs felt fully expanded despite the iciness that settled around her. It felt good to catch a breath of true air. Joe turned, catching his eyes with her once again. An invisible string between them pulled them close. Savina found herself situated next to him, her gaze now shifted to the passing city beneath them. She could feel his eyes on her, and she wondered if he could hear how loudly her heart banged against her chest, or how red her cheeks had become.

Willing herself to speak, Savina sighed. But before she could spill out a single phrase, Joe spoke.

"I’m Joe." He offered her his hand, suggesting a handshake.

"Savina." Her voice came out quiet. She carefully positioned her hand in his grasp, and he held it so gently, and when they parted, she felt every electric speck flutter through her as his skin brushed against hers.

"How do you feel now Savina?" Gosh, how her name sounded out of his mouth. Joe's voice was both manly and soft. His eyes conveyed concern and prominent interest. He seemed the least bit flustered, but his calm and cool composure kept Savina grounded and at the same time craving him in all aspects. Savina smiled, slowly curling her lips into a smile.

"A lot better. The best I've felt all night." Joe watched her teeth graze her bottom lip. He stood straighter. A boyish smirk washed over his lips. A cold breeze passed between them. "I take it that asshole was your boss?" Taken aback by his word choice Savina could not help but laugh. She felt unrestrained. Her body was both filled with energy and glow. Joe watched the woman before him unfold. Her laughter was music to his ears.

"That would be true." Savine sighed, leaning against the balcony. A newfound surge of confidence reigned over her, that dark storm cloud above her head slowly evaporating.

"I was the organizational lead for this event. I work for Commons Corporate. This was my big break to show him what I've got, and to be frank, I think he won't remember a single thing."

Savina nodded disapprovingly as she confirmed her thoughts, pulling her hair behind her ears. Her eyes fell to the ground. Her confidence began to quiver, the recognition she would be frowned upon for engaging with a player beyond professionalism.

But she was lonesome. She craved camaraderie and consolation. She desired all the urges a young woman who found refuge in her apartment did.

"I think the event was amazing. And I can't stand men who can't give credit to women when it's due." Joe inched closer, pulling Savina's attention from the ground back to him. His body emitted heat. Savina was convinced underneath the layers, his body was warm and tender.

"Thanks." The whispered word barely leaving her mouth was audible. Their eyes fell from the others to their lips, the energy around them begging them to do something.

"Savina?'

"Mhmm?"

Savina stepped closer. Joe's arm wrapped around her frame, underneath her coat. Savina shuddered.

"Is this okay?"

Savina nodded, cradling her head against his hand as he rested it against her cheek. "And this?"

Savina nodded again, stepping even closer till her body pressed against his.

"Savina, can I kiss you?"

Joe's blue eyes merged a shade darker. His frame towered over hers, in a way that was protective yet flushed her body with deep desire. He tilted her head towards him even more. "You tell me to stop and I will."

Please don't stop.

"I want you to kiss me."

And with that, his lips were on hers. Every ounce of desperation filled Savina as his lips moved against her. He was delicate, holding her as if she were a feather, and kissing her so gingerly. Joe tuned her, her core pressed against his and she gasped, a rush of blood surging to her cheeks. His arms netled her against him, her own wrapped around his neck. She leaned back as he inclined into her, never once breaking their kiss, as her head dipped above the city below them.

"Savina, god damn it," Joe muttered against her lips, lifting her off her feet as he situated her on the edge of the balcony.

"Joe!" Savina gripped Joe's arms, eyes frantic as she forced herself not to look down.

"Easy, easy." He cooed, instantly calming her nerves as he pulled her off, twisting her body so that he leaned against the balcony now. "I wouldn't let you fall."

Joe Burrow was a stranger. A well-known man in the city, but truly and logically a stranger. Yet Savina trusted him blindly, a flutter of her heart telling her she was safe.

Savina was flush against his chest, her lips inches from his.

He held her so close. How could one feel so at ease when you just met them?

"What are you thinking about?" Joe watched Savina's brown eyes darken, a sudden plead of desire clouding over any logical thought. He'd be a fool to say he didn't present her with the same.

"We shouldn't be doing this." Her hand wrapped around his. She pulled away from him, tugging him with her. She walked backward, pulling him with her.

"We shouldn't." They stopped at the closed door, possibly the barrier to their separate ways. Savina's back pressed against the door, her hand still within Joe's own. Joe held the latch in his free hand, hindering the door from opening.

What they felt was electric. What they desired lay in the other.

What they needed was each other.

. . .

Friendly reminder to let me know what you think! Opinions/constructive criticism welcomed, my interactive options on my page are open! Thank you again loves!

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #27: Fragments

Prompt: memory || Master Post || On AO3 (coming in October)

A/N: Spoilers for Dawntrail.

---

“Would you wear one?” Wuk Lamat said. “The regulator.”

Synnove immediately shook her head. “No,” she said. “Never mind anything about souls and how they use them as currency here in Everkeep, that’s bad enough. No, I would never wear one, not if it meant forgetting the dead.”

Grandmother.

Uncle Tyr.

Grandfather.

Noraxia and Wilred and Moenbryda and Haurchefant and Ysayle and Papalymo and Meffrid and Tesleen.

Minfilia.

Ardbert.

“No, I wouldn’t either,” Wuk Lamat said. She slid further down the wall they were sitting propped against and rested her head on Synnove’s shoulder; Synnove dropped her head atop hers. Wuk Lamat continued, “It’s not just them we’d lose, it’s all the pieces of them that live inside us and how they’ve shaped us. I wouldn’t just lose Papa or Namikka, I’d lose all my understanding of who I am, and why I love Tural, and why I fight for the peace and happiness of my people.”

Synnove hummed. “That’s exactly it,” she said. “Even if they only touched our lives briefly, they’re still important. The good and the bad and all the in-between. We are ourselves, but we are also the reflections of those around us.”

Wuk Lamat nodded and together they stared out in the neon and electrope of a city that never slept, and claimed to never forget.

[bijouxcarys]

𝑻𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑩𝒊𝒏𝒅 (𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝑹𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒔 𝒙 𝑶𝑪) - 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑬𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

Masterlist

Character Profiles/Face Claims

Playlist

A/N: I'm on fire, and I'm taking advantage of this rush of motivation/inspiration while it lasts. Also, I don't usually provide translations in my works, but there are a couple of lengthy sentences in Russian that I included a translation for at the end of the chapter. Enjoy!

CW/TW: domestic abuse, suggestive themes, sexual harassment

Tags: @trippinsorrows @empressdede @thetribalqueen @heauxvibez @bigsimperika

@cyberdejos2 @keyaho @headoftheetable @jstarr86 @southerngirl41

@tshepisho @cry1nwhileimcumm1n @maeb99 @thedesireds @dzdndcnfsd

@expert-texpert @niknakbucks92 @sillyteecup @trentybenty

(let me know if you want to be tagged in future Roman fics)

Nate jolted awake, the heavy pounding in her head making her groan as she squinted at the sliver of light streaming through her curtains. Before she could even attempt to roll over and ignore the persistent throb, her bedroom door swung open, the knob slamming into the wall. Her eyes barely had a chance to adjust when Sergei’s stern voice cut through the fog of sleep and the lingering effects of last night’s drinking.

“Natalka,” he barked, not even bothering with a knock. “Vstavat’. Mitya wants to see you. Now.”

Nate groaned, pulling the covers over her head in a futile attempt to shield herself from the assault. The pounding in her skill was merciless, every beat of her heard sending fresh waves of pain through her head.

“Sergei, I swear to God, if you don’t give me a minute–”

“No time for that,” Sergei snapped, clearly not in the mood for her usual sharp tongue. His presence was always overbearing, a reminder that, despite their family ties, he wasn’t the type to show compassion for something as trivial as a hangover. “This isn’t a request. Get. Up.”

She reluctantly threw off the covers, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated. “Jesus, can’t you have a little decency? I could’ve been… I don’t know, naked or something,” she hoarsely muttered.

“Then lock your damn door next time,” he retorted, already halfway out the room. “Nu davay zhe. You’ve got five minutes.”

Nate glared at the spot where her uncle had been standing, cursing him under her breath as she forced herself to sit up. The room swayed slightly, the remnants of alcohol making her stomach churn. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply until the nausea subsided enough to reluctantly open them again, only to be met with the sight of her sapphire-blue dress draped carelessly over the back of her chair.

It came rushing back to her in disjointed fragments—the club, the music, Lana, the drinks. Roman.

Roman, with his infuriatingly confident smirk and the way he managed to get under her skin, just enough, even when she was trying her hardest to ignore him. Her eyes shifted to her desk, where a small scrap of paper lay. Shit.

His number.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if it was going to erase the memory of him slipping that piece of paper down the front of her dress. But the reemergence only made her skin prickle with a combination of embarrassment and something else she didn’t quite want to acknowledge.

She’d said too much, let her guard down, even if it was for a second. And now she had to deal with the consequences.

Snatching the number from her desk, she stared at it, the anger for her own destructive behaviour settling in. She couldn’t afford to let Roman know anything more than he already did. It was dangerous. And yet, for some reason, she hadn’t immediately thrown the number away when she arrived home at God knows what time.

She clenched her fist around the paper, intending to rip it to shreds, but stopped herself at the last second. No, she’d deal with it later. Right now, she had a bigger problem—dealing with whatever her father wanted at this ungodly hour.

She felt like she was moving through molasses as she dragged herself out of bed, throwing on a robe to cover her bare shoulders. Her head continued to pound harder with each step, but she knew better than to keep Sergei—or her father—waiting. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to be good. Dimitri didn’t summon her for casual conversations, especially not with Sergei looking like he’d been chewing on nails.

It wasn’t a pleasant sight, catching a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors mounted on the hallway leading to Dimitri’s office. Her eyes were still slightly red, her hair a bit of a mess. Dark rings under her eyes. Christ.

Sergei stood outside her father’s office, almost like a bouncer protecting the entrance of a sacred, secret society.

“Your father isn’t pleased,” he said bluntly, his tone lacking any warmth or concern. He was a soldier, a loyal enforcer, and it was clear that his priority was ensuring Nate followed orders, not questioning them.

“I gathered that,” she mumbled. The gaze of her uncle was unreadable, but she could feel the scrutiny as he turned to the side to knock on the door once, signalling to his dear older brother that Nate had arrived.

Dimitri’s voice called out from within. “Vkhodit’.”

Sergei opened the door, allowing Nate to step inside, her pulse quickening as she crossed the threshold. The study was dim, the heavy curtains drawn to block out the early morning light. Dimitri sat behind his desk, hands clasped in front of him. The flicker of cold in his otherwise indifferent eyes, sent a shrill chill down Nate’s spine.

“Natalka,” he said with a deceptively calm demeanour, as if he were addressing a stranger rather than his own daughter. “Sidet’.”

She obeyed without a word, lowering herself into the leather chair across from him. Sergei closed the door behind her, leaving them alone in the oppressive silence.

Dimitri leaned back in his chair, studying her with a gaze that made her feel like she was being dissected under a microscope. Picked apart and presented for everyone to witness and laugh at.

“Do you know why you are here?”

Swallowing, Nate tried to maintain a steady voice. “I… don’t know.”

He didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch out between them. The tension in the room became suffocating, her heart thudding in her chest as she waited for the inevitable. Finally, Dimitri leaned forward, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“I received a call this morning,” he began, his voice still cold and controlled. “Something about you, Madame X… Roman Reigns.”

Nate’s stomach dropped. She knew this wasn’t going to be good.

“You understand,” he continued, hardening his tone, “how this looks for our family.”

“Papa, I–” Nate started, but Dimitri raised a hand to silence her.

“Do not speak,” he snapped, eyes flashing with anger for the first time during this conversation. “Do you have any idea how dangerous your actions were last night? Associating with that man… in public, no less. What the hell were you thinking?”

Nate flinched at the harshness of his words, the familiar fear she tried so hard to suppress rising in her chest. “I wasn’t thinking,” she admitted, hating how small she sounded. “I was… I was drunk, I didn’t reali–”

“That’s precisely the problem, Natalka,” he cut in. “You weren’t thinking. You put yourself, and by extension, your entire family, in jeopardy. This is not a game, and I will not tolerate such reckless behaviour.”

Her ears tensed with the rhythm of her heartbeat as she sat there, unable to look her father in the eye. His words cut her deeply, but what scared her more was the icy, calculated way he delivered them. This wasn’t just a reprimand; it was a warning.

Dimitri stood up, moving around the desk to stand in front of her. Presence towering and suffocating as he peered down at his daughter. “You are a Volkov,” he hissed, each word dripping with disdain. “You do not consort with the enemy. I have done everything to protect this family. And yet, I hear you were… uyutnyy with Roman fucking Reigns in a club, like some common whore.”

Now, Nate knew her father was capable of being cruel, but this was a side of him she hadn’t fully seen directed at her before. Dimitri was terrifying by default, but this… this was a different beast entirely.

“It wasn’t like that,” she whispered.

“Then what was it?” Dimitri demanded, shuffling closer and leaning over her, one hand placed on either side of her on the arms of the chair. “Do you think he’s going to give you some information? That he’ll betray his family for you? Or were you just trying to piss me off, ty glupaya devchonka?”

The accusation stung, but Nate couldn’t deny that part of her had been driven by a desire to rebel, to push against the suffocating control her father had over her life. But this wasn’t the time to admit that. In fact, never would be the right time to admit that.

“Answer me!” he barked, his hand lashing out to grab her by the throat. The grip was iron-tight, painful. His grip tightened, and she winced as his fingers dug into her skin. “Do you think I am a fool, Natalka?” he seethed. “You’re reckless, you could have ruined everything!”

Nate bit her lips to keep from crying out, the pain around her neck nothing compared to the fear coursing through her.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, cringing inwardly at the timidity in her voice but knowing it was the only thing that might placate him.

Dimitri’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she thought he might actually strike her. The thought terrified her more than she wanted to admit, but she refused to look away, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he released her with a harsh shove, the movement carrying enough force to send her back into the chair.

“You’re a disappointment, Natalka.” He straightened up, brushing down his shirt. “I expect better from my children. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I will not be so lenient. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied hollowly. “I understand.”

He turned away from her, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than an afterthought. “Uydi s moikh glaz.”

Nate didn’t need to be told twice. She turned and left the room, her heart pounding with the fear and humiliation burning like acid in her veins. As she closed the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, her legs trembling. Her hand shakily came up to touch her neck, as if trying to decipher the reality of what her father had just done.

He was ruthless, unrelenting, borderline evil… But the sheer coldness in his eyes, the way he looked at her as if she were nothing, was something she would never forget.

As she made her way back to her room, still in the comedown of a night of drinking, she scolded herself. She had been reckless, stupid even, for letting her guard down around Roman Reigns. And now she was paying the price.

But more than that, there was a simmering rage building inside her—a rage at her father, at the world he’d trapped her in, and at herself for not being strong enough to break away from it.

When she reached her room, she saw the scrap of paper with Roman’s number still sitting on her desk. For a moment, she considered tearing it up, but then she hesitated. Instead, she picked it up, staring at the numbers scrawled across it.

Roman had said to call him when she was sober. And now, as she sat on the edge of her bed, Nate realised she had more reasons than ever to do just that.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

The heat of the shower still lingered on his skin as Roman stepped back into his bedroom. Droplets clung to his shoulders, rippling down his chest, with a few trailing down to the ridges of his abs before disappearing into the towel loosely wrapped around his waist.

The woman in his bed was stirring, her body a tangle of limbs under the sheets. She was waking up slowly, unaware that for him, the night was already a distant memory.

He reached for his clothes, pulling on a pair of briefs with a practised ease, his mind elsewhere. The sex had been good—satisfying in the most basic sense—but it had been a poor substitute for what he’d really craved last night. He hadn’t even thought about this woman’s name since she’d told it to him at the bar. All he could think about was the rage and tension that had built up after his interaction with Natalka Volkov.

Roman could still picture the way she’d looked at him, defiant and unyielding, even as she swayed in her drunkenness. He’d wanted to crush that defiance, wipe that look off her face and replace it with something else entirely. The image of them locked in a bathroom stall, her hands gripping the sink as he took her from behind, ruining her for her family, had flashed through his mind more than once last night. But in the end, he’d settled for what was in front of him—a quick release with a willing participant who had been too eager to please.

But now, in the cold light of day, the encounter felt empty. Roman’s eyes moved to the woman as she sat up, the sheet slipping down to reveal the curve of her back. She was beautiful, with dark brown hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back, but she wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t even really care to look at her, not with the intensity that had seized him the night before.

“Time to go,” Roman said, his tone flat.

The woman blinked, a little surprised by the abruptness, but she wasn’t new to this either. She nodded, gathering the sheet around herself as she slipped out of bed and began searching for her clothes. Roman watched her for a moment, noting the way she moved, the way she avoided looking at him directly. He wasn’t sure if it was shame or just practicality, but either way, he didn’t care enough to ask.

As she dressed, Roman let his mind wander back to Nate. That interaction, brief but dripping with a taut vitality, had left him feeling more unsettled than he cared to admit. He could still feel the ghost of her touch on his arm, her drunken fingers grazing his beard with a mimicked intimacy that neither of them had acknowledged. It had been nothing, just a scornful moment, but it lingered in his thoughts, simmering beneath the surface.

It was maddening, the way she got under his skin without even trying. Two fucking encounters. That was all it took. And he already wanted to do everything his wicked, sadistic little heart could conjure up. 

Frustration surged with a darkness within him. He wanted to break her, to see if she would crack under pressure. Take her apart piece by piece until she was left with nothing but the memory of him doing that very thing. It was a twisted thought, but one that brought a small, satisfied smirk to his face.

When the woman finally left, Roman didn’t bother to see her out. He heard the door close behind her and felt a strange sense of relief. Alone now, he could focus on the itty-bitty shred of information Natalka had given him last night: the accidental, unfortunate admission that she, in her own words, despised her father.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Roman stood at the head of the table, literally, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. He had assembled the entire crew—Paul, Tamina, the twins, Naomi, Solo, and Sami—all of them wearing varying expressions of curiosity, concern, and in Jey’s case, barely-contained annoyance.

Sami looked nervous, his eyes darting around as if waiting for something to go wrong. Jey’s stare was sharp, practically challenging Roman to justify Sami’s presence.

“Relax, Uce,” Jimmy tried to placate, but Jey wasn’t having it.

“What’s he doing here?” Jey grumbled.

“Because I said so,” Roman replied, carrying an edge that brooked no argument. “Now, everyone, sit down and listen.”

Reluctantly, Jey complied, muttering something under his breath as Jimmy exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Naomi. She just shook her head, a silent plea for him to keep things cool. The rest of the room settled into place, Tamina leaning against the wall, arms crossed with an indecipherable expression.

Roman ignored the tension with ease, and got straight to the point. “Last night, something happened that could… change things a fair bit,” he began cryptically. He could already feel the nerves from everyone thrumming in the air, especially from Paul, whose face had gone pale.

“I-is everything okay, my Tribal Chief?” Paul asked carefully, trying very hard to mask the worry in his voice. He was usually very prepared for whatever his boss had to say to his family, especially about business, but even he couldn’t have anticipated Roman’s bombshell.

“I gave Natalka Volkov my number last night,” the Tribal Chief announced, dropping the information like a nuclear impact.

Chaos erupted. Voices overlapped, disbelief and anger ricocheting around the room. Jey was the loudest, his voice slicing through the noise. “You did what?”

“Everyone, calm the fuck down!” Roman bit, leaving no room for a sliver of defiance. “It was a burner number. I’m not an idiot.”

Jimmy leaned forward. “But why, Uce? What’s the play here?” he asked through a little scoff.

Roman exhaled slowly, rubbing his palms together in an attempt to remain neutral. “She slipped up. Mentioned how much she hates her father.” He let that bit of information settle for a moment, allowing the others to come to their own realisation before he voiced it himself. “If there’s a crack in their family, we need to find it, exploit it. And if there’s a weak link… it’s her.”

Naomi sat back, leaning into Jimmy and folding her arms. “And what if she never calls? Or worse, what if this backfires?”

“It won’t,” Roman hummed confidently, now making a steady pace around the table as he spoke. “We can stay ahead. Keep it all controlled. Nobody… and I mean nobody… acts with my approval.”

Sami, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke, his voice a murmur. “This is risky, man. What if she’s playing you?”

Roman stopped pacing and turned to face Sami, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring somewhat. “Then we’ll adapt. But I don’t think she’s lying—she was drunk. But this is the first sign of weakness we’ve seen, and I’m not ‘bout to let it slip through our fingers.”

“You positive on this, Ro?” Tamina’s voice cut through the tension. “Volkov’s ain’t amateurs.”

Her younger cousin nodded slowly, the decision made and heavy on his heart. “I know. But this is our best shot, Mina. We don’t need brute force to take back what’s ours. I want that fuckin’ shipment back, and I want it now. Ain’t no Russian toeaina gon’ get in the way of that. And if we need to use his damn daughter, then we gon’ use his damn daughter!”

The room fell silent as Roman punctuated his point with a heavy-handed smack against the wall. There was doubt, sure, but also a grudging acceptance that this might be the only move left on the board. CCTV searches were falling flat, intel was low, and very little could be found on the Volkovs’ movements. They were experts, a result of decades, possibly centuries of high IQ, slippery ancestors who knew how to avoid the enemy and have them play into their hands with the snap of their fingers.

Natalka Volkov was their only hope. Roman knew that. Tamina knew it. Paul knew it. Naomi, Sami, and Jimmy knew it. And by God… Jey knew it, too.

“This… is how we win. We play the long game, and I need everyone on board.”

A chorus of nods followed, some more hesitant than others, but they were with him.

“A’ight,” Roman rolled his shoulders, letting out a steady breath. “When she calls…” he teetered around saying the word if, “I need it on record. Need to keep it all contained… Mina,” he looked up, nodding over at his cousin. “You hit record, make sure Sami helps out in any way you n–”

“Uhh, Uce, you sure that’s the best idea? Y’know with Sami bein’ new?”

“I can always put him with you, Jey, if that makes you feel better?” Roman tilted his head to the side, honestly so over Jey’s constant whining about Sami.

Sami looked between Roman and Jey, his hands fumbling nervously under the table before he cleared his throat. “I-I don’t have to do all that if it’s just gonna cause issu–”

“You do have to do it, Sami, because I asked you to.” Whilst Roman’s voice was softer, calmer, it was almost the amber-alert for what would come out of his mouth if he was pushed against any further. “You wanna be a part of The Bloodline?”

Instantly, the redhead nodded, his posture straightening. “More than anything.”

“Good,” Roman nodded slowly. “Then this is your chance. Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t, Chief, I promise you I will do everything I can to honour The Bloodline.”

Even though Sami was prone to being a bit… out of pocket, over the top—dare he say dramatic—Roman knew he meant well, and he was just doing what he thought Roman wanted of him. But that could also be a huge problem. A problem Roman hoped wouldn’t arise in the future.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Roman smiled a little, clapping Sami on the back. “But first imma need you to do one thing…” Keeping his hand on his back, he leaned down, his face right beside him.

“What’s that?” Sami asked with caution, knowing everyone had their eyes firmly glued to him.

“Acknowledge me.”

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

The Volkovs gathered around the long, polished dining table, the chandelier’s light bearing a cold glow over the room, but it did nothing to warm the icy silence between Nate and Dimitri.

Nate picked at her food, her appetite long gone, and instead sipped from her wine glass, the bitter taste lingering on her tongue as it slid down her throat. She didn’t even like wine, but it was better than speaking.

Katya, seated across from her, glanced up now and then, her eyes darting between their father and her sister. She could feel the shift in Dimitri’s focus—how it had landed on her today in a way that was unfamiliar and unwelcome. Katya was used to being in Nate’s shadow, and this sudden attention only made her more uneasy. But like always, she kept her thoughts buried deep, her face a mask of careful neutrality.

Sergei and Ivan conversed quietly at the other end of the table, their discussion veering into business, while Boris sat beside Nate, closer than she would have liked. He was just so fucking suffocating, and every time his hand found her knee, she had to fight the urge to shove him away. The way his fingers inched higher with each pass made her skin crawl, but she gritted her teeth, knowing that causing a scene now would only worsen her situation.

It was Dimitri who broke the uneasy quiet, his voice as controlled and measured as ever. “Starting in the new year, Boris will be moving into the house.”

Nate’s grip on her wine glass tightened. She didn’t need to look at Katya to know her sister was equally shocked. The words hung in the air, smothering her more than Boris’ proximity ever could. Moving in? Permanently? Her thoughts raced, latching on instantly to the complications. If Boris was moving in, it meant one of her only points of refuge—her home—was no longer hers.

“Why?” Nate finally asked flatly, making the storm behind her eyes.

Dimitri didn’t even glance at her as he took a measured sip of his own wine. “With everything that has been going on with the Samoans, it’s time we solidify our alliances. Boris’ place is here, with the family. Your marriage will follow shortly after.”

The finality in his tone left no room for objection, but Nate couldn’t just swallow the injustice. “And where exactly is Boris going to stay?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice, though she tried.

“Your room will be converted into a guest suite, or an additional study,” Dimitri replied, dismissively. “You’ll share with your husband, as is expected.”

Her stomach churned at the thought. Boris’ hand on her knee was unbearable as it was, let alone being forced to share a room with him every night. She caught Katya’s eye across the table—her sister’s expression was as vacant as ever, but there was a flicker of concern there, a small sign that she was as disturbed by this as Nate.

But Katya didn’t speak up. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

Boris leaned in, his breath hot against Nate’s ear as his hand slid higher, brushing against the inside of her thigh. “My chudesno provedem vremya vmeste,” he whispered. Words dripping with a mockery that boiled Nate’s blood.

Dimitri either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He continued, his attention moving on as if discussing something as trivial as the weather. “Nate, you will go with Katya to Brookefield on Friday. She needs to get her hair and nails redone. I have asked Alexei to accompany you.”

“Alexei!” Boris chimed with a widened grin. “Khoroshiy! I haven’t spoken to him in forever, how is h–”

“Why do we need Alexei?” Nate cut in, though she definitely knew the answer. Dimitri didn’t trust her, not after this morning. But she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out why he’d send Alexei of all people. Boris’ friend since childhood. A somewhat random selection for the occupation of protection.

“Because I said so,” her father replied sharply, cutting off any further discussion. “You’ll do as you are told, devochka.”

Nate stared at Dimitri, her anger barely contained. Every fibre of her being wanted to rebel, to shout at him, to fight back, but… she’d not been able to get the cold, cruel look in his eyes out of her mind, the right side of her neck still sore from where his fingers dug into it. That kept her in check. At bay.

But Boris’ hand was still on her thigh, and her father’s indifference was too much. Everything about this dinner, this day, this fucking life right now, was…Too. Fucking. Much.

She stood up abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I’m done,” she said with a vicious hiss through her teeth.

“Sit down, Natalka,” Dimitri commanded, still not looking at her.

But Nate was beyond listening. She turned to Boris, clocking the hand he rested on the back of her chair, acting as a kind of barrier between the door and her. She grabbed his sleeve and yanked his arm towards the table. “And you, derzhi svoi gryaznyye ruki podal’she ot menya, ili ya slomayu tvoi chertovy pal’tsy.”

Though his smirk faltered, he still glanced at Dimitri with a smug air of arrogance as the patriarch called out to Nate. “Remember who you belong to, Natalka.”

Nate didn’t stop. She couldn’t. If she did, she knew she’d say something that would get her into even more trouble. And right now, all she wanted was to get away, to find a space where she could breathe.

Storming out of the house, the cold November air hit her flushed face as she made her way through the estate. She walked quickly, not slowing down until she reached the bottom of the gardens where an old oak tree sat by the riverbank. The tree had been her in the past, a place to escape when things got too overwhelming. She hadn’t been here in a long time, but tonight, she needed solitude more than ever.

She sank down against the trunk, her knees pulled to her chest as she stared at the moonlight bouncing off of the river. But she barely noticed its silvery sheen. She was far away mentally, tangled in the mess of emotions she’d been containing all day.

For a moment, she allowed herself to be vulnerable, to feel the hurt that she’d buried deep down for so long. She missed her mother. God, she missed her so much it physically ached.

She closed her eyes, tears burning behind her lids as she wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them even closer. If she focused enough, she could feel her mother’s gentle touch, hear her soothing voice that could make everything seem okay, even when it… really fucking wasn’t.

But Irina Volkov was dead. Gone. A non-entity. Fuck… she was even starting to think like Dimitri.

How had it all come to this? The family’s expectations, the forced marriage, her own father’s control. If her mother were still alive, she was sure things would have been different. She had to believe that. She had to believe that the life she was living now couldn’t be the only one that had been written in the stars upon her conception. 

Despite her Russian heritage, Nate had never been a religious person. She was raised Catholic, attended church every Sunday, learned passages of the Bible that she could still recite to this day. But the concept of a God, the dedication to this mythical being in the sky, was one she could never fully wrap her head around, and one that always caused a strain on her personal life. No God would cause the suffering she’d both bore witness to, and experienced herself.

But she did believe… somewhere in her dark, twisted soul, in fate. That when bad things happen to you, you learn from it. Make sure it never happens again. Maybe she skipped out on the part about ensuring you don’t inflict it upon others… but she knew she could still feel hope. Granted, age and wisdom that comes with a highly-experienced 27-year-old that’s been exposed to things even someone three times her age hadn’t, had managed to crush that hope to a translucent shred.

But… it was still there. Somewhere.

The anguish tightened in her chest, but it quickly morphed into a white-hot rage. Fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. This wasn’t just her father’s fault.

It was Roman fucking Reigns’ fault, too.

He was the one who stole from her family, who’d set all of this in motion. If it weren’t for him, her father wouldn’t have been so cold to her today, potentially wouldn’t have made such a life-altering decision on her behalf in the name of punishment.

She fucking hated him. Hated him with every fibre of her being. How dare he come into her life, turn everything upside down, have the audacity to speak to her at a fucking club that her family practically owned, and then precede to give her his fucking number?

“Call me when you’re sober,” he’d said.

The words teased her. Taunted her. She’d stared at that damn piece of ripped up receipt all day, hating herself for remembering the number, for even considering doing exactly what he’d asked her to do.

But here she was, alone and frustrated, the memory of his words gnawing at her. Nate pulled out her burner phone, the one she used when she didn’t want anyone tracking her calls. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the keypad. This was stupid, she shouldn’t be doing this. But curiosity had always been her downfall, and tonight, it was getting the better of her.

This is a one-off. A curious inquisition.

And if he wants to speak to me… it cannot be over the phone.

And then she dialled.

RUSSIAN TRANSLATIONS: Uydi s moikh glaz - "Get out of my sight." My chudesno provedem vremya vmeste - “We’ll have a wonderful time together.” Derzhi svoi gryaznyye ruki podal’she ot menya, ili ya slomayu tvoi chertovy pal’tsy - “Keep your filthy hands off me, or I’ll break your fucking fingers.”