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antithetical-bolter · 2 days ago

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Out Of The Woods

Chapter 1

Shoutout to @antisocialfiore for helping me with the title!! This is my first fic I’ve posted to tumblr so any tips on how to keep chapters organized and whatnot would be lovely. Hang in there while I figure it out lmao. Chapter 2 is written and will be posted shortly <3

5.0k words | Seasoned ER nurse Iris McDowell finds herself pregnant after a one night stand with Robby, who is predictably handling things very poorly.

Warnings: unplanned pregnancy, discussion of abortions, excessive use of the word fuck, commas, and em dashes.

Tag list: @antisocialfiore @snowflames-world @eviemonroeer

Page dividers by: @cafekitsune

Iris

Well, shit.

That is most definitely two pink lines.

On three different tests. Iris Elizabeth McDowell, you fucking idiot.

Just my fucking luck, that getting tipsy and fucking the very hot and very emotionally unavailable attending would result in a god damn pregnancy. I’d been blissfully ignorant the last 3 weeks - my periods have never been all that regular but as soon as the nausea and the sore boobs hit I knew it was time to face the music. And sure enough, the music was telling me that I was pregnant. With Michael Robinavitch’s baby.

Robby, who has barely made eye contact with me past what was required for patient care since it happened. Robby, who let it slip at the bar that he had been interested in me for months now. Robby, who I was unfortunately in love with. Had been for an embarrassingly long time now - so him up and leaving the morning after the best sex of my life triggered a full blown crisis. Almost a decade of pining, all for one (admittedly spectacular) night. The whole debacle had me briefly considering finding a new ER to work at, but I decided I wouldn’t let a man dictate my life. Even if it was that man.

Do I want to keep it? I think so? Should I want to keep it? Probably not.

It’s not like I’m some young new grad nurse who doesn’t have a career. I’ve been an ER nurse for more than ten years now, working at the Pitt for all but the first two. I’m damn good at my job, so much so that I occasionally fill in for the charge nurses, and I have a great support system. But the thought of having to tell Robby that I’m carrying his child? Genuinely makes me want to puke. Again.

I have money, a 2 bedroom condo, a regular enough schedule that daycare wouldn’t be an issue. But do I really want to be a single mom? Put my body through the fucking wild ride that is pregnancy? Oh god. Pregnancy scrubs? The absolute worst. Not to mention actually giving birth.

Thankfully, the universe has seen fit to give me a single win in all this, and I have the next 4 days off to figure out how to be normal at work again. First order of business - call my OB. A brief phone call later, I have an appointment for 9:45. Just over two hours from now.

Fuck, I could really use my mom right now. Not like we were ever super close, with her living on the west coast and me getting the fuck out of my tiny ass hometown right after high school, but I’d like the option to call her and freak out. Both her and my dad were killed in a car accident just over three years ago, and somehow this scenario had never crossed my mind. I have an older brother who lives back home in Washington, but we have very different works views and I highly doubt he would be a good source of familial support. Cue the tears - but they feel cathartic. A release I desperately need right now.

My therapist is going to lose her ever-loving mind. A quick look on her patient portal reveals that she has an opening this afternoon, so I guess that makes 2 wins from the universe for me today. I’ll take what I can get.

I am very picky about my medical providers. Working in the field myself means I have seen some shit doctors, and I just flat out refuse to put my care in the hands of someone I don’t trust. My OB is the best of the best, and she’s really earning her copay right now.

The transvaginal ultrasound was quick, confirming that I definitely have something cooking in there. The tech asked if I wanted to hear the heartbeat - but I said no. I’m right at the six week mark so a heartbeat can be heard at this point but I am not ready for that just yet. Not until I decide what I want to do. My OB, bless her, ran me through all of my options. She knows I know them, I’m an ER nurse after all, but it’s like all my schooling and experience fell out of my brain the second the stick(s) turned pink.

She encouraged me to take my time making a decision, since I have a few weeks to make a choice either way. We went through what it would look like to keep, terminate, and adopt. Having all the information laid out in front of me makes me feel both better and far, far worse.

She also tells me that no matter what the father wants, this is my choice. That I should lean on my people, and find someone I trust to tell. That if I do decide to terminate, I need to have someone with me after I take the medications to make sure everything progresses as it should.

I leave the appointment armed with 4 different pamphlets and 3 sonogram images that I have yet to look at.

Therapy is significantly harder. Erica, bless her, has been my therapist since I moved to Pittsburgh for college when I was 18. She knows me far too well - immediately clocks that it must be hard to be dealing with all of this without my mom’s support, which triggers a crying spell. Once I’ve recovered from that we move on to how I’m going to tell Robby.

“I don’t know, Erica. He’s barely looked at me since we slept together, I can count the non-patient related words he’s said to me since then on one hand and none of them were particularly nice.” That man needs therapy more than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s an incredible doctor and great to his friends, but ever since he fucked up his relationship with Collins so badly that she left the state he’s been especially moody.

“How do you think he’s going to react to this?”

“Not particularly well. He’ll freak out, not speak to me for a few days, and then inevitably come back around and say that he’ll help me with whatever I choose. I know that if I decide to keep it that he would help, but that it would be out of obligation and that is not what I want. I would never keep him away from his kid but I can almost guarantee that I would be eternally fucked up over it.” Erica nods thoughtfully, taking a pause to formulate a reply that won’t send me over the edge.

“Maybe you should start by telling someone else, then. Maybe Samira, or Dana? Someone who will support you unconditionally without any emotional baggage taking up space in the back seat. They could help you decide what to say when you tell him, and support you if it goes as poorly as you think it will.” She gives me a very pointed look before continuing. “Also, and really think about this before brushing it off, maybe this conversation between you and Robby will help you both. A push that requires communication where there is a gap right now.”

“I - I, ugh. I just really, really don’t want to have to do this with him. He really hurt me when he just up and fucking ghosted me. Especially because he spent the whole night prior telling me that he’s been wanting to kiss me for months, and a whole bunch of other shit that he clearly didn’t mean.” He doesn’t seem like the type to spout bullshit to get a woman into bed with him, but I really cannot come up with another reason for him to be acting this way.

“It’s fair and reasonable for you to be scared. And if he screws this up, you have my blessing to tell him to fuck off. But no matter what you choose, you will be okay. It might suck for a while, but you will come out the other side.” The unspoken words are loud - that I will be okay but that it’s going to take a while for me to get there.

“I know you’re right but it’s hard to see right now.” Pretty much impossible, actually.

“That’s okay, I’m here to remind you. Your homework this week is to tell someone you trust.” Sad that I don’t consider the father someone I trust, but he definitely is not making that list right now.

“I’m going to call Dana literally as soon as we hang up - Samira’s working right now.” She nods in response, flashes me what I’m sure is supposed to be a reassuring smile but it just doesn’t land. We schedule an appointment for next week and then we hang up. I give myself 10 minutes to spiral before I pick up the phone and call Dana.

Dana picks up her phone on the third ring.

“Hey, kid! Where are ya?” I can hear the sounds of what is likely a bar or restaurant in the background and belatedly realize that there’s ER social plans today - most of day shift is gathered at the sports bar near the hospital to watch the first Penguins game of the regular season. Hockey is one of the few sports I will watch voluntarily, and I definitely told Dana I would try and make it out tonight.

“Shit, Dana. I totally spaced, had a bit of a personal crisis. Can I call you later? When you aren’t surrounded by our coworkers?” I hear a booming laugh in the background and immediately place it as Robby’s. Because of course he’s there. “Can you just, uh - text me when you leave the bar?”

“Hold up, Iris, wait. Are you okay?” Her voice changes, drops lower and sounds muffled. Like she’s covering her mouth while she speaks in an effort to afford me some privacy. She knows something happened between Robby and I, and has had a front row seat to whatever the fuck is going on right now so she’s sensitive to the fact that I might not want him knowing about said personal crisis. Little does she fucking know that he’s going to be quite privy to the details when I’m no longe actively in a state of crisis.

“I mean, okay is not really the word I would use but I’m safe and not currently in any physical danger.” Very much not okay, but I don’t want to make her change her plans for me. It’s so rare that we’re all able to see each other outside the Pitt and I know she values this time with her friends.

“Iris, honey. What’s wrong?” I don’t answer, but I do start to cry. My best efforts at keeping my sobs quiet are unsuccessful. “Oh fuck, you know what, never mind, I’m just gonna come over. Hang tight, okay?” I hear the screech of a chair as she presumably scoots back and stands up. Her voice is quieter as she speaks next, having moved the phone so she can talk to whoever else is at the table. “Change of plans, guys. I have to go. Enjoy the game and I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

The crying has not slowed in the thirty seconds it takes her to get outside.

“Dana, really, I appreciate it but you can stay and finish the game. I can wait.” I must not convince her, because she laughs at me. Fairly so, given that my words are very much broken up by sobs.

“Absolutely not. I’m on my way, I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

She arrives in eight.

I’m waiting by the door, and open it before she has a chance to knock. I’m still crying - no longer sobbing, but a pretty steady stream of tears track their way down my cheeks. I see the question forming on her lips but I beat her to it and hold out my three positive tests for her to see.

“Are we happy? Shopping? Making an appointment at the clinic?” Classic Dana - no big reaction, just thoughtful statements of action. Unfortunately I don’t know what I want.

“I don’t know yet. Took the tests early this morning and was able to get in last minute to see OB to confirm it. I’m just about 6 weeks along and I have no fucking clue what I want to do.” She closes the door behind her and immediately pulls me into a tight hug. Rubs my back with one hand and runs the other through my hair, tells me that it’s okay to not know what I want and that she’s here for me no matter what. Does not ask me who the father is. Unfortunately that is the biggest piece to this puzzle and I know I need to tell her.

We move to my couch and she makes me drink some water before continuing to fill her in. I decide it’s best to just fucking do it - no preamble and no backstory.

“Robby’s the father.” That stops her in her tracks for a second. Her eyes go wide and I can tell she’s working extremely hard to keep her own emotions under wraps.

“Well, shit. So that ‘thing’ that happened between you guys in September was sex?” I nod. “And, let me hazard a guess here, he freaked the fuck out and now he’s unable to act normal around you.” I nod again.

“That about sums it up. He left before I woke up and any effort I made to talk to him about it ended with him getting snippy and walking away from me. My texts went unanswered so I just stopped trying.”

“What an asshole - I’m so sorry, Iris.” She leans over to pull me into another hug. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I mean I kinda have to, don’t I? Would be a real dick move of me to not tell him about this. Even if he doesn’t deserve me speaking to him ever again.”

“I think that depends on what you decide you want to do. If you want to keep it, then yeah you’re gonna have to tell him. But if you don’t, then we go to the clinic this week and he remains none the wiser. Either choice is okay, whatever you decide to do will be the right decision for you.” I take a deep breath, enjoying having her here to support me.

“See that’s the thing, my first instinct is that I want to keep it. I’ve always thought that I could go either way on having kids, but now that it’s staring me in the face I can’t imagine not going through with it.” Saying it out loud all but confirms my decision - this is happening. I’m going to have a baby. And I’m going to have to tell Robby.

“Then that’s what will happen. I’ve got your back through all of it, and if you want me to hide upstairs while you tell Robby I can do that. I’ll even chase him out if he acts a fool.” She’s serious, and I love her for that.

“Might not be a terrible idea. The last thing I want is for him to be involved purely out of obligation.” I debate stopping there, not divulging the depths of my (extremely unadvised) feelings for him, but I’ve already gone this far so what’s the harm in spilling the whole story. “I’m like, stupidly in love with that man. Have been for a long time, and I was happy to have it kinda live in the background of my life up until recently. He approached me at that party we had for Jesse and we hit it off, and he was really sweet. Told me that he’s been wanting to kiss me for months and that he hasn’t been able to get me out of his head. We each had a few drinks, but I wasn’t drunk. A little tipsy for sure, but sober enough to consent and be smart about it. We even used a fucking condom! Then he was gone when I woke up and you’ve seen how he’s been since then.” She grimaces a little before responding.

“Yeah, he’s been in rare Robby form. Very broody. But, Iris, I really think he meant what he told you. Handled it terribly for sure, but he’s so thoroughly fucked up in the past that his ex literally left the state. He’s probably just trying to protect you in his own, very fucked up way.” I laugh and try to wipe away the tears staining my face, but they just keep coming.

“Well he’s doing a terrible job. Is it crazy of me to make him go to therapy before I let him really be involved? Is that, like, blackmailing?” The last thing I want out of all this is for my kid to be hurt in the same way - their dad hot and cold, unable to really make a commitment to be present in their life.

“Maybe a bit, but I fully support you in that. I actually think that’s plenty reasonable, and if he gives you pushback then he’ll hear about it from me.” So quick to jump in and support me, even when the problem is one of her best and longest friends. “If it makes you feel any better, the second I said your name at the bar earlier he looked like he was two seconds away from taking my phone and checking on you himself.” A mirthful laugh escapes me at that - it does not make me feel better.

“Then blackmail it is. Now, how the fuck am I supposed to have this conversation with him when I can’t even get him to say three consecutive words to me that aren’t directly work related?”

We spend the next hour brainstorming, and by the time she leaves I feel better. I have a loose plan, my tear ducts have long since run dry, and I no longer feel like I’m about to majorly fuck my whole life up.

I make myself a list before I go to sleep - things I need to buy for first trimester health, food I should avoid, and symptoms I’ve been experiencing so I can be as informed as possible.

My list exhausts me (that, and the tiny human I’m currently forming) and I fall into a blissful, dreamless sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

I spend the next few days making more lists. Baby names, furniture, birth plans. If there’s a relevant list to be made - it’s currently up on my fridge.

My first day back at work since The Event (TM) is fine, I guess. Dana greets me with a hug and a quiet check in, and while this isn’t that out of the ordinary it is unusual that she pulls me off the floor to do it. I feel Robby’s eyes track us as we walk back in from the ambulance bay, especially when we get closer and Dana does not smell like she’s just come back from a smoke break.

I treat Robby to his own taste of the silent treatment. No niceties, no attempts at small talk. Strictly patient care and work related conversations, and honestly conversations is a generous word. Terse exchanges is more accurate. Not even a polite smile in his direction. I don’t let it get in the way of my job, and if I do say so myself I really knock it out of the park nursing wise. Even escaping to the bathroom a few times per shift to puke doesn’t get in the way of my determination to keep up my ‘everything is fine’ facade.

Three shifts pass in this manner, three shifts where I can feel him fucking watching me like he knows something is up. Thirty-six hours of me sitting on the biggest fucking secret I’ve ever kept when all I really want to do is yell “Hey, fuckface! You ghosted me and it sucked, and I’m fucking angry about. By the way, I’m pregnant with your child. Get some god damn therapy if you’d like to be involved!” And then walk out, middle fingers up, leaving him to stand with the aftermath of his actions.

But, unfortunately, I am a professional adult so I don’t do that. I do heavily fantasize about it though.

Samira notices that something is up right away, but she is also on a long stretch of shifts so we agree to hang out when our work weeks are both done. We meet for breakfast (at 8pm) at the closest Denny’s and she spits out her coffee when I tell her that not only did I sleep with Robby, but that there’s going to be literal life long consequences for it come early June.

“Oh my god. I would ask if you’re okay, but I think I can answer that myself. When are you going to tell him?” I shrug as I finish my bite of French toast.

“Great question. He’s been fucking frosty with me lately and it doesn’t have me feeling very generous towards him. I know he deserves to know but god the thought of that conversation makes me want to punch a wall.” Another bite of toast. “I know that a few weeks after we slept together was the anniversary of Pitt Fest and Adamson’s death, but the way he’s been treating me does not make me want to tell him. It makes me want to be spiteful and keep it from him until the last possible second, so he can be as blindsided as I feel right now. Very immature of me and I won’t do that but it’s nice to entertain it for a bit.”

“He’s clearly fumbling the bag pretty hard right now, but you and I both know he’s going to do the right thing.”

“I know, and that’s almost worse. If he’s going to be all emotionally constipated while attempting to be present I am going to lose my shit. Dana said she thinks I am well within my rights to threaten him with therapy, so I think that’s my game plan.”

“That’s - that’s actually a great idea. If anything will get that man into therapy it’s the threat of potentially fucking up his child’s life.” She chuckles a bit. “Can I tell Jack? I will obviously swear him to secrecy but it might be nice to have him in your corner.”

“Please do - but if he tells Robby before I do I will kill him.”

“And I will help you hide the body. Also, he’s picking me up from this meal so if you’d like to fill him in yourself you’re about to have your window.” Like she summoned him, Jack Abbot walks in the door. He immediately finds Samira and she waves him over.

I decide that I do not have another long, emotional story in me and just spit it out.

“Hi, Jack.” He looks at me a little weird, we’re friendly at work but I don’t think I’ve ever called him by his first name before. “Welcome to the party, you’re about to hear some very classified information so prepare yourself.” He stares at me, a little stunned, but I just keep on talking. “I’m pregnant and keeping it. Robby’s the father, but I haven’t told him yet.” His jaw drops open, and he has to open and close it a few times before actual words come out.

“Uhhh, wow. Fuck. Are you, uhm, are you going to tell him?”

“I mean, yeah. Not sure when or how, but yeah. What’s your opinion on me using this as an opportunity to threaten him into therapy?” This gets a loud, genuine laugh from him.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. You want my therapists number? I’ve given it to him multiple times but he’s clearly never used it.” Abbot doesn’t wait for me to answer, just pulls a card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Are you doing okay? Managing symptoms alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks. Freaking the fuck out, but okay.” With that, I decide I’ve had enough social interaction for the day. “Now that all that’s out of the way, I’m going to head home. Samira, love you, thanks for the support, and Jack I’m a little sorry to drag you into all this but thankful that you’re here anyway.” I leave them at that, dropping enough cash to cover my meal and all but running to my car so I can have my next meltdown in peace.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I let another two full weeks pass before I even consider telling Robby. Erica, Dana, and Samira are all on my case a little bit but ultimately don’t push me too hard. My OB and therapist have both been informed that I’ve decided to continue the pregnancy, and the appropriate follow up appointments have been scheduled.

It takes an extra long session with Erica, complete with roll play and multiple outcomes of the conversation for me to feel even slightly ready to broach the subject with him. We decide that I’ll attempt to talk to him after our next shift together, a rare night where neither of us have to be in the next morning.

Dana knows, and as she leaves out the ambulance bay doors she shoots me a very encouraging thumbs up and a ‘call me!’ While I wait for him to leave. I don’t have to wait much longer. 10 minutes pass before I see him walk out, backpack slung over his shoulders and thick winter jacket thrown on like it’s armor. He doesn’t turn his head to look at me as he passes.

I parked at the very end of the lot today, hoping to use my car as an excuse to follow him for a bit. As we approach my green Honda CRV, I know it’s time to bite the bullet.

“Hey, uh, Robby? Can we talk for a sec?” He pauses, takes an AirPod out, and turns to face me. He looks like shit. Tired, like he hasn’t had a good sleep in weeks. I feel mean for thinking it, but I’m glad he’s getting just as much (little?) rest as I am.

“I’ve got somewhere to be, Iris. Now’s not a good time.” He may be facing me, but he’s not really looking at me. Fucking infuriating.

“It won’t take long, please. It’s kinda important.” Fuck him for making me plead to have a conversation - this is starting to feel a little humiliating. I can feel the tears forming and threatening to spill out, but he isn’t looking at me so he doesn’t see them.

“Not now. There isn’t really anything for us to talk about. I have to go, I’ll see you later.” And with that, he’s got his AirPod back in and is walking away. Fucking dick. The hot sting of rejection sits heavy in my chest, and I have to take a few minutes before I feel steady enough to drive home.

I work myself up pretty well on the way home, moving from shame to anger. I kick my shoes off in the entryway and slam my bag down, feeling like I need to scream. I decide a run will suffice and quickly change into my running gear. As I slip on my shoes and grab my running belt I decide there’s something I need to do first, and pull my phone out to send the riskiest text I’ve ever sent.

Iris (7:58pm)

Hi, asshole. I have been working up the nerve to talk to you for weeks, but since I apparently don’t deserve even five minutes of your time I guess this is how you’re going to find out.

I attach a picture of the tests and hit send, and then immediately send a follow up.

Iris (7:59pm)

Before you have the fucking audacity to ask, yes it’s yours and I’ll be keeping it.

I immediately put my phone on do not disturb and start my watch so I can track my run. I hit the pavement with a vengeance. My feet feel heavy beneath me, and it takes me longer than usual to feel warmed up enough to really run. I blast my angriest playlist, and run until I no longer feel like murdering the father of my unborn child.

I hit my favorite smoothie place on my way home, and call Dana as I walk and warm down.

“So I told him.” She gasps. “But, uh, over text. I tried to talk to him as he left but he blew me off and I was just so fucking angry and maybe jumped the gun a little, but it’s done now. I went for a run as soon as I got home, I’m walking back to my place as we speak.”

“How are you feeling about it, hon?”

“Terrified. Have not checked to see if he’s responded. Maybe a little elated? But like, in a manic way so maybe that’s not a good thing.” Dana laughs and reassures me.

“It’s alright, kid. That’s a big step you just took and you tried to do it in person, so fuck it. You want me to come over?” She asks, just as I turn the corner onto my street. My heart all but stops as I see an unfortunately familiar suburban parked in front of my house, and my breathing stops with it when I see that the man himself is sitting on my front steps.

“Oh fuck.”

“He’s at your house, isn’t he?” She’s far too smart for her own good, or maybe she just knows him too well.

“Yup.” God dammit, past Iris. Did you really have to send those texts?

“I can still come over if you want.” Seriously considering taking her up on that.

“No, I’ll handle him. But, maybe later? If and when I need to cry about this?”

“I’ll be waiting by the phone. You’ve got this, kid. Give him hell.”

#the Pitt fanfic #the Pitt fanfiction #michael robby robinavitch #Robby x ofc #Robby x original female character #Dana Evans #Jack Abbot #Samira Mohan #jack x samira

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shinysobi · 2 days ago

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si bel homme list (x.mh)

☆ best friends to lovers: photographer! minghao x lawyer! reader ☆w.c: 5.3k ☆ genre: non-idol au, romance, fluff, comedy, angst, slight coercion involved, copious references to smoking and drinking (mentions of cheating , NOT by Hao). masterlist

☆ a/n: so the first chapter is here, after months of procrastination and general breakdowns lol (not lol) i think i finalized the plot for this fic before any other one, which really is on brand for me, because then i stopped writing it entirely. while this is the first part for now, the rest will follow soon (i promise) because this is too fun to not write obsessively <3 ☆ huge thank you to @mylovesstuffs for betaing this, as usual, without the amazing feedback and support from cel there would be no fic from user shinysobi; thank you to the people i made this collab with, yuki ( @eclipsaria ) rae ( @nerdycheol ) and tiya ( @gyubakeries ). without these amazing people there would be no collab at all <3 check their works for this collab too yall, theyre all certified bangers <3 ☆ credits to @seungnm for the banner, and since this is part of yuki's 100 follower collab, check out the other works here ! (I might post another fic tomorrow ) also tagging resident 8stars: @solstyce-ent, @okiedokrie-main, @hannieoftheyear, @haologram

Unfortunately, despite whatever they said about relationships, they always ended easily; with a handshake and about a three-hour karaoke session where I poured my heart and soul into singing the most awful breakup songs known to man, while Minghao looked on in despair. No, more often than not, my breakups sound like a boring business discussion, where my exes and I meet over a cup of coffee or a business lunch, and discuss the matter of our collaborative project (relationship) going forward.

And every time it’s the same reason, one that I am sick of hearing—you’re too cold for a human.

“This is false,” I had moaned over my morning cup of coffee, “I’m a divorce lawyer, for god’s sake. I’m not an unfeeling robot like they make me out to be.”

“Maybe tone down the arguing and the obsessing over details,” Minghao had commented, sipping on his tea, “then the allegations will drop.”

Which brought us to this day, where it has been three years, six months, and five days since I began seeing Kim Cheong-hee, and thirteen days since he had gotten down on one knee and proposed marriage in front of a restaurant full of people. It was not my style, but I took it in stride, tamping down the feeling of discomfort and general squeamishness that came with the territory.

It has also been exactly eleven minutes since I found out conclusive proof of my fiance cheating on me.

Look, I’m not bothered by this. Men cheat. Women cheat. If they didn’t, I would not have been able to put down a deposit on my flat. Marriages dissolve all the time, because of one reason or the other. But apparently litigating in civil court over the dissolution of marriages does not mean one gets used to the sight of their fiance in bed with another woman. Or the sight of their wedding invitations lying on the table, apparently. Just how much of an asshole was this guy?

“Yewon,” he holds up his hands, “look, I can explain.”

“Is that why you asked me to get married to you that lazily?” I scoff, even as the woman in question scurries from the room, “I mean, semi-expensive restaurant, candlelit dinner, ring on top of the desserts. Too unimaginative, even for a man who spent his entire life fixing spreadsheets for a mid-sized company.”

“Hey,” He stands up, and I cringe at the sight of his naked body, “demeaning my work? Isn’t that a bit too much, even for you?”

“Sorry, old habits die hard.” I shrug, removing the ring from my hand, “I know your mother pushed you to continue seeing me. I knew you were never really interested in the first place. Even the whole proposal mess was her idea, not yours. She wanted a hotshot attorney with political proximity as her daughter-in-law, so she forced you to date me. Wait, is that why you wanted to come to those dinners so badly? Did you really think politics was your place?”

He says nothing. It's all true, then. Dating me when he really did not give a shit about me, is that why I liked the relationship in the first place? Having something in my life without really having to work for it, that's what I wanted. I can't even blame him for continuing this mess for so long—I was an active participant.

“Doesn’t mean you get to string me along for three years, without even thinking of the consequences.” I sigh, placing the ring down on the table, “is she pregnant? Is that why you're marrying her?”

He nods.

“And when, pray, were you going to tell me?” I grimace, “at the altar via video call?”

“Look, Yewon, I tried telling you—”

“I can sue you for this, you know that, right?”

He shuts up. He was arguing with me so passionately even a moment ago, but all that went out of the window when I brought up money. I snort, “Look, I don’t care. Just make sure you have nothing in my apartment by tomorrow morning.”

He nods, and I turn back to walk out of the bedroom. Outside, on the sofa, I look at the woman in question, who looks fairly mutinous at having to deal with a random woman barging into her boyfriend’s place and interrupting their time together, all the while claiming to be his fiance. Well, technically, I was his fiance at the moment; he just didn’t tell me he also had another one. “Don’t worry,” I bow politely, “I don’t care about men like that.”

The first thing that comes to my mind as I close the door behind me is — ah, so that was why he did not sleep with me.

—

“That was the question on your mind?” Minghao says, in disbelief, as I devour a leg of fried chicken, “not why the hell did my fiance have another woman on the side, but why did he not have sex with me?”

“To be fair, he dated her first, then started meeting me because his mother set him up and he really couldn't say no to her," I shrug, “if we get into semantics, I was the other woman, except I had no idea about it.”

Minghao presses his temples, “and why the hell would you think back to having sex with him?”

“No, I did not have sex with him,” I shake the chicken leg at him, “at first, I thought he was saving himself for marriage or whatever. Then I thought he was closeted, which was fine by me.”

“How the hell is being closeted fine with you—”

“Then I realised he just did not want to have sex with me,” I say, shrugging, “not important anymore, really. If I knew he had a girlfriend, I would not have spent so much time thinking about his sexuality. I spent so much time thinking I had something fundamentally wrong with me because he would not sleep with me.”

“Did you want that?” Minghao looks at me, expression unreadable, “did you want him to sleep with you?”

I make a face, “not really, no. The thought of being touched by that man was so disgusting, I had to avoid him in the beginning. Then I realised he didn’t have any interest in sleeping with me, so I gave up on avoiding him.”

“So you didn’t sleep with him at all, for all these years?” Minghao shakes his head, “this seems a bit much, even for you.”

“You’re talking to the woman who has never slept with anyone in her life, so no, this is not out of the ordinary,” I shrug, “I just find the act slightly disgusting.”

“Sex?”

“Yes, that.”

“Very well,” Minghao shrugs, setting down his phone to pick up a piece of chicken, “what do you plan on telling your family?”

I freeze. Right. I had forgotten about that. Telling my family means I have to be entirely truthful with them, and tell them about the disaster that was the relationship, the proposal, and the subsequent betrayal. They already thought I had a borderline personality disorder, this will land me in a hospital, if I’m being generous. My father might even have a heart attack. “I had not thought about that. My mother is going to kill me.”

“Prosecutor Kim?”

“Prosecutor Kim, yeah, that woman.” I groan, “she’s going to kill me. She hates it when I keep things from her, and I broke up with Cheong-hee without even consulting her in the first place, she’s going to kill me. My father will have a heart attack, and my sister is going to get me admitted for a check-up. My life is ruined.”

“Then?”

“Look, if worst comes to worst, I’ll just tell my mother I broke up with him over something trivial. Instead of telling her he had me as a side piece while he was off having the best time with the love of his life. Or that he dated me entirely because he was so much of a mama’s boy he couldn’t even tell her about his girlfriend.”

Minghao makes a low whistling noise, “I feel sorry for the girl actually, being stuck with Kim Cheong-hee for life.”

“I do not,” I shrug, “she’s an adult, not some poor child who got taken advantage of. The only person who’s getting the short end of this arrangement is their child. His mother will never forgive the child for ruining her chances of having a lawyer for a daughter-in-law, and eventually that resentment is going to seep into their married life as well. There’s nothing to be done anymore, but I do feel bad for the child.”

“What’s this, Choi Yewon, top divorce lawyer of Hwaseong, daughter of Professor Choi and Prosecutor Kim, is expressing sympathy?” Minghao gasps, “this is a new emotion.”

“Shut up, Minghao,” I grumble, “I’ve seen this exact playbook too many times to not recognise it instantly. Couple gets married because they’re pregnant and well, raising a child out of wedlock is not advisable, and everyone starts resenting the child for ruining their plans. I’m sure Cheong-hee will be thinking whatever his mother is thinking a few years down the line.”

“You’re saying he’s going to resent his fiancee, or wife, or whatever, a few years later?”

“I hope he does not, but statistically, there is not a lot of chances where that does happen,” I sigh, “sometimes I wish I had been a criminal lawyer instead of a family lawyer. At least then I would not be looking at the worst parts of society every day.”

“If you were a criminal lawyer, you would think of everyone as potential criminals, and act accordingly,” Minghao stands up from the table, “so, do you want to crash on my couch, or should I call a taxi for you?”

“It’s three in the morning, dumbass, I’m not paying premium prices to go to my home,” I mutter, “just give me some of your pajamas, I’ll sleep here tonight.”

“Don’t you have work tomorrow morning?” Minghao asks, but he’s already going off to his room to get clothes for me, “should you really be spending the night here at my place?”

“One of the few perks of being the genius at work, is that I get to roughly choose my own hours,” I smile as he hands me his sleeping shorts, “one of the only perks, that is. I barely get enough sleep, but at least I can come in at eleven in the morning and no one bats an eye.”

“That’s also because you don’t go home until ten at night,” he grunted, putting away the remnants of the fried chicken, “who told you to work this hard?”

“Staying in until ten at night got you the all-expenses paid trip to Bali last year, you buffoon,” I called out, before retreating into his spare room, “I spend all my disposable income on you, you dumbass.”

“Point taken. Please stay in until eleven at night from tomorrow, Miss Attorney.”

“Opportunistic asshole,” I mutter, “you’re giving me a neck massage every night then.”

When I emerge from his room dressed in his sleep shorts, Minghao is leaning on the wall opposite mine, staring at his phone. He slips his phone into his pocket, staring at me, “why the hell do you look even uglier than before?”

“Shut the fuck up, dumbfuck,” I grumble, walking back out into the kitchen, “what are you looking at? New appointment?”

“Yeah, someone has their bridal photoshoot scheduled for tomorrow, so I’m just going over the brief,” Minghao says, showing me a presentation of floral designs and happy couples, “they’ve changed their needs at least three times, so I am wary of making permanent decisions. No idea if they’ll even like this one.”

“Do you have a contract?”

“No, why?”

I stare at him, “you know what, you deserve it. You deserve to be mooched off of.”

“Don’t say that,” Minghao laughs, “it was a favour someone called in for them. Nothing I could do.”

“Just say no, you asshole.”

He shakes his head, then walks into his room. I sigh, then move out of the kitchen and into the guest room. Minghao can’t resist doing a favour, as usual. He’s been doing favours for people ever since we were in university, and even now, years later and with several awards to his name, he’s still doing the same favours for the same people who think it’s fine to treat him like garbage. And on top of that, he won’t even let me intervene.

—

“Attorney Choi,” my secretary peeks her head into my room, “your mother is here.”

I stare. What do you mean my mother is here? “Are you sure it's her?” I ask, suddenly aware of the day-old suit I was wearing, because Minghao did not have a suit in my size I could borrow, “it’s my mother? Prosecutor Kim? That woman?”

“Pretty sure it’s her, given how famous she is,” The paralegal grins, “she says she’s here to meet her daughter, and you’re the only woman in the office today.”

I sigh, feeling a headache come along. I did not need this, not on top of all my responsibilities that were waiting for me, “should I go to the visitor’s lounge, or is she going to come here?”

“I asked her the same thing,” my secretary replies, sheepish, “but she said she knew the way herself, and—” the telltale sound of a pair of high heels echoing down the corridor, “she’s here.”

With that, she escapes, scurrying off to finish whatever tasks I had assigned to her, and my mother opens the door to the office, walking in as though she owned the whole place. Well, I think, given the amount of power she still has, she might as well own Hwaseong entirely. “Yewon.”

“Yes?” I say, far too sharply for my own comfort. “What brings you here this morning, mother?”

My mother, never one to waste too much time on an introductory statement, dives right off the deep end, “Tell me why Cheong-Hee's mother called me this morning and told me the wedding was off.”

“Uh…” I sigh, “tea?”

“I am not here to drink tea, I want to know why I had to hear of your breakup from a third-party, instead of the person herself.”

I sigh, no point in hiding anymore, I guess, “Cheong-hee is getting married.” I say, pouring out a cup of coffee for myself, “he told me last night that he was getting married to the woman he was originally pursuing a relationship with.”

The expression on my mother’s face is interesting, because it’s a cross between wondering whether or not she’s heard it correctly and wanting to kill Cheong-hee for his transgressions, “what do you mean by that, Yewon?”

“I mean, he had a girlfriend all along, it's just that his mother did not approve of her very much,” I say, shrugging, “so he went along with her and dated me, but he found out she was pregnant, so I broke it off.”

My mother looks like she’s turning over my words in her mind, “so, you are telling me, that boy went along with whatever his mother said, and dated you for three years—”

“Three years, six months, and five days,” I mutter underneath my breath.

“—and never, not once, did he have the decency to admit to you, or your family, that he had a steady girlfriend on the side?” She’s seething now, but not at me, “I need to sue him. What the hell did he think would happen?”

“He’s not worth much to be sued over,” I take a seat across from her, “I took a look at his taxes last year, he has more debt than he has assets.”

“So, no to suing, I think,” she shrugs, “did you see the woman he was with?”

“She was in the bed with him, actually,” I cringe, and my mother cringes, because it is never very comfortable to be talking about anyone’s sexual activities with your mother, let alone your ex-fiance’s, “and I think she knew who I was. At least she seemed to know me.”

“She probably went along with the whole thing just to appease that buffoon of a boy,” my mother says, “and you wasted all those years on him, just to find out you were the second woman all along. What a family.”

“Well, I did not waste time on him,” I make a face, “he was my boyfriend, not my whole life.”

My mother stares at me, and it’s the same kind of stare that I have been at the receiving end of, so often, the one that says, are you sure that is the case? “I mean,” I hurry to do damage control, “I was disappointed, really. And angry at being deceived. But that was it. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” My mother repeats, although she does not look like she believes me at all, “very well, then. Your father is terribly upset over this.”

“Wait, Father is upset?” I stand up, “don’t tell me he’s gotten sick again, the doctor told him to not be in stressful situations—”

My mother raises a hand to silence me, “I’ll worry about your father, not you. Have you thought of a second plan?”

“Second plan?” I make a face, “mother, it’s not like I put a down payment on a house or something. I didn’t even have concrete wedding plans with the man. I do not need a second plan.”

“You do realise, you’ve got about thirty different parties to attend for the upcoming election season?”

I groan. Of course they were going to bring that up. “My brother-in-law is the politician, not my sister. She’s a judge. I don’t even need to bring a plus one to those events. I’ll be fine.”

My mother levels a stare. I sigh. Of course I have to bring a date to those events. Everyone does, and apparently, everyone in my sister’s circle knew about the fact that I was dating and almost engaged to a man. They just didn’t know who. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I’ll come up with a proper cover story. Don’t worry, I’m not going to advertise the breakup to the whole nation,” My mother says, standing up from the couch, “but make sure you’re prepared for any questions that might go your way.”

“From nosy aunties?”

“They’re richer than we can ever imagine being,” my mother scolds, but she’s smiling, “but yes, nosy aunties.”

“What if I just get a date?” I say suddenly, fully aware of how desperate I am, “look, no one knows who Cheong-hee is, right? I did not bring him to any parties or dinners. I’ll just get someone else to come along with me, and it’ll be fine.”

“Never mind, you’re going to a hospital.”

“Mother!” I squawk, “ugh, fine, I’ll just tell them I’m broken up or something like that.”

“Yeah, better stick to the truth. You are a terrible liar,” and with that, Prosecutor Kim is out of my office, leaving me behind in my stupid little chair and a stupid cup of coffee in my hands.

The next fundraising dinner for my brother-in-law was in a week, and it would take a miracle for me to get a date by then. Now, everyone is going to ask me why I did not have a fiance on my arm, and I’ll have to play the role of the dumped woman, drawing a sharp contrast to my sister and her perfect family and perfect life, while all I chased was money and professional goals. Not even a corporate lawyer or a prosecutor—that's what they said behind my back, she’s just a family lawyer. Why does she behave like that, then? In comparison to my father, the law professor, my mother, the prosecutor, and my sister, the judge, all my achievements seemed paltry. I should at least get someone to show off if I wanted to be considered to be on the same level as them.

—

The rest of the day goes by in the same manner. I take a look at multiple depositions, advise three clients, and sour the general mood of the office with my scowls. At one point, my secretary comes up to me and asks if I am on my period. If so, she could get me painkillers to help with the pain and discomfort. I dismiss her with a wave of my hand. If my headache could be magicked away with painkillers, I would be the first in line. No, instead of painkillers, I’m stuck rifling through depositions long past nine in the evening, long after everyone else has gone home for the night. I refuse to order food, hoping the growing hunger in my stomach provides sufficient motivation to be done with my work as soon as possible.

It is eleven at night when my phone rings, with a call from Minghao. I picked it up on the second ring, “Hello, Choi Yewon.”

“Still at the office?” Minghao’s tone seems bored almost, but nonetheless, concerned for my health and sanity, “this much overworking cannot be good for the heart, Yewon.”

“I have not had my dinner yet, so save the lecturing until then,” I mutter, “how was the photoshoot?”

“Fortunately, she said yes to the concepts and did not ask me to change everything and begin from scratch,” he sighs, “I swear, if she had told me to make one single correction, I would have been on the news for murder in the second degree by now.”

“Careful, Minghao, I’m not a criminal lawyer,” I sigh, “hey, do you mind getting me food?”

—

“Refresh my memory,” Minghao says, about half an hour later, picking up a piece of chicken, “your mother came to your office? Prosecutor Kim?”

“She did,” I mutter, “wanted to know why the hell did she get to hear about my engagement failing from Cheong-hee’s mother, and not from me.”

“Sheesh,” He grimaces, “not the best decision, to keep her in the dark. What was she like?”

“Surprisingly nice about the whole thing,” I reply, still struggling to understand this action of my mother. “She said she wanted to sue him and his family.”

“He went into debt because of crypto. He asked you for money last year. What money does he even have?” Minghao says.

“Precisely why I cannot even sue him,” I shrug, “he’s not worth anything at all.”

“What else did she say?”

“She was worried about all the comments I would get,” I reply after a beat, “because of the upcoming fundraisers.”

Minghao drops the piece of chicken he has been holding, and I know what he realises—reputation is key. Even as the terrible child, the constant disappointment, I was expected to live up to some expectations, no matter how lowered they were for my own benefit. And for those standards, being without a fiance, especially when I had told everyone about the existence of one, was a mistake. A mistake that might as well cost my brother-in-law his political career. Minghao nods, and I mimic the gesture. There needs to be a fiance, or at the very least, someone who will serve their purpose on my arm.

“You need a boyfriend,” Minghao finishes my thoughts, nodding gravely, “or at least a date.”

“My mother thought the idea was preposterous,” I grimace, “but the thing is, I need to have a date on my arm. If I don’t, then people start talking about me. And I need people to not talk about me as much as possible.”

“Did Prosecutor Kim think the idea was ridiculous?”

“Half of it is because the idea itself was so preposterous she did not think it was feasible,” I reply, “I mean, getting a boyfriend in a week? Who does that? Even if I paid someone, they wouldn’t.”

“Yewon.”

“And look, I know how long it took for me to even like Cheong-Hee enough to go on a date with him of my own volition,” my hands are shaking now, “it will be difficult to get even a singular date, much less someone willing to put up with my family’s expectations and their status.”

“Breathe, Yewon,” Minghao is holding my hands now, his face close to mine, breathing loud enough to distract me, “concentrate on the breathing, Yewon, in and out.”

“Shut up,” I smack him with a pillow, “I can take care of myself this much.”

“Does not look like it,” He grins, but leans back anyway, “so, do you have any particular qualities you’re looking for?”

“In a relationship?” I ask, “you know the list, right?”

“Yeah, the 시발 놈 list,” Minghao sighs, “you do realise how stupid the name is?”

“Yes, and it has the list of my preferred traits in a romantic partner, so I’m not changing it,” I grumble, “and they’re not even outrageous demands, you know. What am I asking for?”

Minghao sighs, before counting my conditions off the top of his head, “the man has to have a good job, must be good with housework, must be compatible with my family, must be respectful of my personal space—you think there are men who actually fit all these demands?”

“I’m merely asking of them whatever they ask of me,” I shrug, “nothing more than what will be expected of me, if I were to pursue a relationship with them. I’m expected to be the perfect wife, the perfect girlfriend, with a perfect career and family. Why can’t I expect the same of the person I am going to be shackled to for the rest of my life?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Minghao groans, “don’t say shackled like you’re going to be forced to spend your life with the guy. You have a degree of choice in the person you live with.”

I stare at him, “Minghao, I really don’t think you are the person who should be lecturing me about my dating life and activities.”

“At least I’ve managed to get some in the past decade, unlike you.”

“Hey!” I sat up indignantly, “Take that back!”

Minghao takes a look at my face, no doubt sporting the angriest expression it can muster, and dissolves into laughter. I stare at him, my best friend of twelve years, six months, and ten days, who’s currently laughing himself sick on my office sofa. He’s been through it all—watched me move through university and law school and then struggle to prepare for the bar. He’s been a part of my family too; Prosecutor Kim loves him, and even Professor Choi approves of him enough to let me continue being my friend. He rarely approves of my relationships. My sister and my brother-in-law also love him, the award-winning photographer Xu Minghao who was somehow best friends with their disappointing little sister. Minghao was… perfect.

“Minghao,” I say, grinning, “Xu Minghao.”

He looks up, and immediately goes on the defensive, “Yewon, whatever you are thinking, don’t do it.”

“I haven’t even told you what I am thinking about!”

“The last time you made that face at me, we spent the night in jail,” Minghao warns. “Don’t even think about it.”

“It was not my fault!”

“Why the hell did we end up in jail in the first place? Because you took us there! You got me into trouble!”

“Look,” I raise my hands, “this is not going to land you in jail. It’s a small favour, really. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing too bad for you to be worrying over, just a little ruse that I need you to partake in.”

“Ruse—” Minghao’s face turns white as a sheet when he realises exactly what I mean, “no, Yewon. You cannot be thinking about that. I refuse.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” I make a face, “it’s a perfectly fine proposition, a great one, even. You get proper exposure and expand your social circle, and I get to throw nosy aunties off of my back for once in my life.”

“So you want me to pretend to be your fake boyfriend?” Minghao sputters. “Do you not see how ridiculous this sounds? And do you think we can fool the Professor and the Prosecutor? They’re going to see through this little ruse as soon as we come up with it.”

“They won’t,” I grin, “because they like you too much. If I told them I was dating you, they’d likely welcome it with open arms, or give you a lecture about not dating women like me. I know them.”

Minghao frowns, “why do you speak like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like your entire family hates you or something like that. You’re going into every situation with the preconceived notion that people will hate you.”

“Look, Minghao, we can think about psychoanalysing me later, okay?” I grin, “focus on the goal in front of us right now, yeah? You need to get more exposure, and I need to get people to think I still have a boyfriend, and I have not managed to scare him off, as I usually do.”

“I don’t need exposure,” Minghao makes a face, “unless you forgot, I am one of the few people in Korea who won both the Higashikawa Prize and the China International Press Photo Contest. I don’t need the exposure.”

“And even though you’ve gotten the awards, you’re still doing bridal photography for favours,” I scowl. “Do you know how much money these people have? They have more money than is entirely necessary for anyone to live on, and the funny thing is, they think it’s their birthright to own obscene amounts of wealth.”

“You are not exactly poor, you know.”

“We’re working class.” I reply, saying the words working class like it's a slur, which it might as well be, given how many times I have heard the same phrase being uttered in galas, you’re working class, Choi Yewon, no matter how much money you make, you’ll always be working class.

“How is owning a house in the middle of Seoul considered working class?”

“These people do not work!” I exclaim, too loudly, “Minghao, these people do not work. They wake up, go golfing, then go out to lunch, golf again, go shopping, and then go out to dinner. These people are people of leisure, like some obscure Victorian-era relic. They’re not spending days in the office like my parents or my sister and her husband;. they are people of leisure. So yes. I would argue you need to make those connections, and milk them for as much money as you can.”

“Isn’t that extortion?”

“I prefer the term ‘due compensation’,” I grin, “and yeah, getting you to pretend to be my boyfriend is not exactly the most moral of acts, but it’s only a hundred days to the election, and I need the focus to be entirely on my brother-in-law. Do you know how much money his opponents have invested in the election?”

“I can imagine,” Minghao says dryly, and sighs, “only for a hundred days?”

“A hundred days, and then we can break up peacefully.”

“Wait, can we still remain friends after we’ve broken up?” He asks, “or is that a bit too much?”

“We’ll be like Americans, you know. They stay friends even after divorcing.”

“So, this fake break-up will involve what?” Minghao asks, wary, “are you going to swindle me again?”

“I will not land you in jail, Xu Minghao,” I say, irritated, “you can even cuss me out in public or whatever, if you want. After the breakup, that is.”

“You know very well I would not do that,” He groans, then holds my hands, “you know what? Why the hell not. At least I’ll get money out of this.”

“Done,” I grin, shaking his hand vigorously, “Xu Minghao, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

#ro: writings #keopihausnet #thediamondlifenetwork #svthub #xu minghao #minghao x reader #hao x reader #svt imagines #svt x reader #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #seventeen comedy

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tayswizzlez · 2 days ago

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roman reigns x oc - love me like i'm not made of stone, chapter one: control

title: love me like i'm not made of stone (ao3) pairing: roman reigns x oc (maria marie) summary: maria marie was once called the future of wwe but now she's been sidelined playing valet to her boyfriend, ace spade. when ace's obsession with roman reigns leads to him doing something drastic both maria and roman's worlds may never be the same. rating: 18+, minors DNI warnings: language, violence, eventual smut (including light kink and bdsm), possible other warnings to be added. other things: slow burn, angst, eventual happily ever after chapter: 1/? - control word count: 6287

other stuff: disclaimer | masterlist (coming soon) | playlist | about me

notes: i've had the idea for this fic since i played wwe 2k22 because apparently i'm incapable of making caws without giving them extensive backstories. idk how this one really happened, i just kept pairing up maria and roman for tag matches and… there they were. then i stopped playing and took a break from watching wrestling but when i got 2k25 (my first game since) i had to make maria again and well… this is a result of that?

this is also my first time writing for anything wwe related so hopefully everything is ic. also this fic is 100% kayfabe (it's still real to me dammit!). i've done my best to be as canon compliant as possible but i've had to change some things to better suit this story. this takes place after roman defeats lesner (bc i really just don't want to include him at all lol) and at the height of the bloodline's power. i've changed around some of the rosters just to work better plotwise and because i'm biased and and want to write about the wrestlers i like and slander those i don't jk.

also i'll expand on this at some point but maria is half maori (a tribute to a friend). she is also in her early 30s. images of her were created by me in 2k games.

i honestly don't even know if i really like this chapter because my brain keeps wanting to focus on the later plot so i really just pushed this out so i could get to it but i hope it's somewhat enjoyable??

if you'd like to be added to an update tag list let me know!

i'm bigger than my body i'm colder than this home i'm meaner than my demons i'm bigger than these bones - control, halsey

Once they chanted her name.

Now she was lucky if it ended up on a WhatCulture “Top Ten Wrestlers WWE fumbled” list. Maria Marie one of the longest reigning NXT Women’s Champions reduced to being valet for the mid-card talent that was Ace Spade. Her boyfriend. Ace had promised her it would only be for a few months, just until he could find his footing on the main roster when they both got called up at the same time.

That had been over a year ago.

She kept telling herself things would change, that all Ace needed was one good match. A match that would put him over, a match that would help him find his footing and he would finally have his place on the roster. But deep down Maria knew that this wasn’t going to happen. During their time in NXT Maria had always been the better wrestler. She was better on the mic. She was a natural. She had lived and breathed wrestling for as long as she could remember. As a child she would stay up late to record every show on VHS and she would watch them over and over until the tape was so worn it wouldn’t work anymore. She’d memorize every move, she’d look for any tells of what a wrestler’s next move might be. She had lied about her age so she could join a wrestling club and once they had found out she was younger they ended up letting her stay because they had seen her potential. She was an expert tactician who wasn’t afraid to do high flying moves and take risks. What she had lacked in physical strength she made up for by being calm, collected and calculating in the ring.

And Ace… was Ace. He had never had a title in NXT. He was more of a loudmouth than he was a wrestler, which had only gotten worse when they had both signed to Smackdown. And it didn’t help that he was often an annoying loudmouth. He would talk a big game but never really could back it up. He always walked the line of being the type of guy the fans loved to hate or hated to hate. He was usually thrown into matches with guys at the top of the power rankings, probably to pad those wins out for them. The few matches he had won he had never won clean. But that never stopped him from talking like he was one of the biggest names in the industry.

For the most part Maria would go along with it. Because she loved him or she had at some point. In the last few months in particular Ace had been single minded in his obsession with Roman Reigns. Even at home, on the days they were away from the ring, Roman and The Bloodline was one of the only things Ace talked about. It was like he wasn’t capable of thinking about anything else anymore. Maria had learned to tune him out. She’d nod, give a “mmhmm” or some other sort of ambiguous noise that could be seen as agreement or disapproval. Ace was far to focused on himself to really even notice if Maria was listening or not.

Now was one of those times. It was just before Smackdown went live. Maria and Ace were in one of the locker rooms. Ace had been pacing back and forth, cocky as ever going on about how The Bloodline really weren’t all that great. Maria was styling her hair in the mirror. She looked immaculate. She always did. She put her hair up in an intricate style with braids woven in. Her makeup was perfect - red lips, cats eye liner and just a hint of glitter on her skin. Her clothes were perfectly tailored, skin tight pants, a sleeveless top that showed off her toned arms. She looked good. Really good.

Her eyes shift to Ace’s reflection in the mirror, he’s still ranting. Bleached blonde hair, pushed back with an 80s style bandana, like he was a Motley Crue reject. His gear a mix of garish colours and patterns that somehow for him just made sense. His long entrance jacket thrown haphazardly over the bench. He had a match against Butch tonight and Maria would be there ringside, cheering him on as usual.

“Babe, have you been listening to me?” Ace says suddenly, looking up and meeting Maria’s eyes in the mirror.

“Yeah, of course,” Maria turns to face him, leaning back against the sink.

“I need you with me on this. I can’t do this without you,” he says.

“You know I’m with you,” Maria says. How can he even question her on that, after all the sacrifices she’s made for him. It makes her chest ache whenever he talks like this. It was like no matter what she did, it would never be enough.

“It doesn’t feel like it sometimes,” Ace huffs, almost like a child. “I just need you behind me on this. No one has been able to stand up to Roman so far and I just can’t help but think the guy who can actually do it is me.”

Maria doesn’t reply right away. It seemed almost laughable for Ace to think that he could actually compare to Roman and be the one to make his empire fall. Roman was the best in WWE for a reason, he had an entire Bloodline behind him. He had beaten the best of the best, there was no one left to challenge his power. How could Ace possibly think he could do anything that?

“Babe!” Ace snaps, looking annoyed. “Just think of it. Who better to take on Roman Reigns than me?!”

“Uh, yeah,” Maria forces a smile.

“No one has the brains or charisma that I have,” Ace starts pacing, seemingly oblivious to Maria’s fake smile. “And I’m tired of having to just bow down to whatever they want. Who the hell does he think he is? He’s not special.”

Maria honestly didn’t really have many thoughts about Roman and The Bloodline. She admired him as a wrestler, there were many of his matches she watched over and over. Looking at his moves, looking at how calculated he was. How would act completely cold but there were sparks of real emotion there. Emotions he clearly didn’t want anyone else to see. She didn’t think much of that though - the emotional state of the Tribal Chief wasn’t really her concern.

She had enough trouble acknowledging her own.

A member of the backstage crew sticks her head in the locker room. “Ten minute warning,” she says, before slipping away.

“Ahhh,” Ace grins and rubs his hands together. “Who am I fighting tonight?”

“Butch,” Maria replies.

“Which one was he again?” Ace asks as he swings on his long coat with a flourish. “Doesn’t matter. My name is the only one worth remembering.”

It was impressive how someone with such a bad match record could have such a gigantic ego.

“Shall we,” Ace’s grin morphs into something that for a moment is a little bit softer. It was the smile that had first got Maria’s attention when they were in NXT. It used to give her butterflies now she didn’t feel much of anything about it. He extends his arm to her.

Maria takes it and they start to leave the locker room until Ace gives her a once over. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Hmm,” Maria’s brow furrows. “What?”

Ace frowns and gestures at her arm. “Seriously? No wonder I lose matches, you can’t even remember my lucky charm.”

It takes Maria a second to realize she’s not wearing her armband. It had been something she had done when they had first started dating in NXT. It was supposed to be a one time thing for the NXT Heatwave PLE but Ace had liked it so much Maria had kept it up. She’d take scraps of fabric from his gear and fashion them into arm bands to wear for herself. Even when Ace wasn’t there or it didn’t go with what she was wearing she’d have one on. At one point she had made one from her own gear for him but he said that arm bands made it hard for him to flex and do certain moves. She had just brushed it off. Like she did a lot of things with him.

“Oh, shit,” she sighs. “I must have dropped it, you go ahead. I’ll meet you in gorilla.”

Ace scowls. “Be quick. I need my girl with me during my entrance.”

Despite the scowl he gives Maria a quick peck on the cheek before he leaves the locker room. As soon as he’s gone Maria exhales. For a few moments she just lets herself enjoy the quiet, even though she can still hear the bustle of the show outside. She missed that. She missed being a part of that. She had lived to go out there and do matches in NXT. She looked forward to touring and doing house shows more than she did holidays. And she missed it. So much.

But she told herself being there for Ace was the right thing. He had been the one who had helped her through her concussion recovery a few years ago. He had doted on her, looked after her, got her everything she needed. She could still see the look on his face for her first match back - he had been so scared. He kept asking her if she was really ready, telling her how concerned he was it was too soon.

Sometimes a deep and dark ugly part of herself couldn’t help but think Ace was only so concerned because her coming back from injury meant the spotlight would be on her again. But she couldn’t allow herself to think like that. It was too much. Besides what sort of boyfriend wouldn’t have been worried. He was the one who needed her now and she needed to be there for him.

“Five minutes!” she hears a stage hand yell out in the hall.

Maria breaks away from her thoughts, cursing under her breath as she goes back to her bag. She knows she didn’t drop the arm band, she had forgotten it. Normally it was second nature to put it on, one of the first things she did to get ready but now it was more of a chore. She pulls it out of her bag and quickly puts it on. She gives herself one last look in the mirror, forces a smile at her reflection before she leaves for gorilla. *****

That night’s Smackdown show hadn’t been that interesting - as usual. Roman Reigns had watched it from The Bloodline locker room, with Paul Heyman over his shoulder. It felt pointless sometimes but he needed to keep an eye on things. He needed to keep an eye on his show. As usual nothing of note happened. There was that one guy with the bad dye job running his mouth again but Roman didn’t take him seriously. There was no reason too. He didn’t have the skill. He wasn’t even skilled enough to lace Roman’s boots.

It was late by the time he and Heyman were finally leaving the arena. Even after the show there were things to take care of. The halls were dark, most of the other wrestlers had left and it was only crew taking things down for the night.

Roman walked ahead, while Heyman was behind on the phone talking to someone in the WWE offices.

“What my Tribal Chief wants, my Tribal Chief gets,” Heyman says into the phone. “Why is that so difficult to understand?”

Roman rolls his eyes a little as he keeps walking. From down the hall he can hear the sounds of someone in the gym. The crew always set up makeshift gyms at each arena. A place for wrestlers to warm up before matches. This surprises him, normally he was the last one to eave after each show. Curiosity got the better of him and he turns towards the gym - Heyman follows without question still on the phone.

He need to know who was still here, he had to know everything that happened on his show.

The lights of the gym were low, there was even a few crew taking down some of the equipment. In the makeshift ring was one person, the sleek ponytail making her unmistakable.

Maria Marie, the girlfriend or valet or whatever she was of that annoying jobber who had been so obsessed with him. She moved around the ring with ease, her movements so fluid and natural it was almost hypnotizing to watch. It almost made Roman want to charge into that ring and demand to know why she had just been following her useless boyfriend for so long. It was obvious just from watching her like this she had more talent in a finger than he had in his entire body.

Roman understands then why her boyfriend had pushed her into that role. If Maria was on the main roster she would outshine him. It was already impossible to take him seriously but if she was on the card he wouldn’t even be an afterthought, he’d barely even be a footnote. And he can’t help but stare at her as she continues, completely unaware of his presence.

“Ah, Maria Marie,” Heyman’s voice comes from over Roman’s shoulder, he still had his phone pressed to his ear. “One of the longest reining NXT Women’s Champions, once said to be one of the best technical wrestlers of this generation.”

Roman doesn’t say anything. He just keeps watching.

“Now she’s a valet to Ace Spade,” Heyman continues. “A shame she lost her fight, my Tribal Chief. She could have been one of the best- no, I will not go on hold again I am the Wiseman of the Tribal Chief…”

Heyman’s voice gets more annoyed as he goes back to talking to whoever on the phone, he walks away from the gym. Roman stays watching Maria, his brow furrowed.

“She hasn’t lost anything,” he mutters under his breath before he too, turns and walks away. *****

ONE WEEK LATER…

Maria was heading to catering. Ace had been ranting more than usual today and she needed a break. She told him she needed a tea to make sure her voice was ready to cheer him on ring side, which was good enough excuse for him. She was just outside of catering when she pauses, hesitating, she can hear Charlotte Flair and Lacey Evans talking and laughing.

“Did you see Spade’s latest Instagram post?” Lacey laughs. “Who does he think he is? Thinkin’ he can actually step up with the Tribal Chief.”

Maria freezes, then stays behind the vending machine. The two women don’t see her.

“I don’t know who’s more pathetic, him or his girlfriend,” Charlotte replies, voice full of disdain.

Lacey laughs again. “Gosh, she’s so pathetic. Can you imagine givin’ up your career for someone like him? As a woman it’s insultin’ Sets feminism back, yanno?”

“She wasn’t even that good anyways,” Charlotte replies. “Her not being in the ring isn’t a huge loss.”

“True. That girl is all look and no substance. I mean who even is she other than the valet of the most obnoxious and deluded man in the industry. What does that make her? She probably slept with someone to get her title in NXT.”

Maria’s stomach clenches but she stays hidden, unable to move. She had never really spoken to Charlotte or Lacey but hearing the venom in their voices was catching her off guard. Normally she didn’t care what other people thought of her. But something about their tone stings.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Charlotte replies. “If she’s fucking Ace Spade, she’s clearly willing to fuck anyone.”

“Desperation, nasty.”

They laugh. Maria’s hands ball into fists, her manicured nails dig into her palms. Then out of the corner of her eye she sees someone walk past her into catering, Charlotte and Lacey immediately go silent and it’s like the air has shifted. It’s somehow… colder. Maria tilts her head out just enough to see who it was and her eyes widen.

Roman Reigns.

Charlotte and Lacey both stare at him for a moment as he crosses over to the catering table. Lacey combs her fingers through her hair and then puts on her most flirtatious smile.

“Well hello there, Tribal Chief,” she coos. Charlotte rolls her eyes.

Roman says nothing, he doesn’t even look at Charlotte or Lacey. Maria stays where she was, watching. For a few tense moments Roman just looks at the catering table, then he takes a bottle of water and without a word or a look to the women watching him he turns to leave. Lacey watches with a look of disappointment, Charlotte mostly looks unimpressed.

Realizing he’s about to walk past her again Maria steps back a bit, hoping it won’t look like she had been watching the whole thing. As Roman walks by he doesn’t stop but for a moment he looks at her and their eyes meet. Something unreadable flickers in his steely gaze. It roots Maria on the spot. She doesn’t know what it is about that look but it does something to her. But before she can even figure it out, Roman is looking away and walking towards The Bloodline dressing room.

“That was weird, right?” she hears Charlotte’s voice again. “He has his own catering, why come here?”

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t mind acknowledging him,” Lacey says, meaning obvious.

“Now who’s pathetic?” Charlotte scoffs.

Maria turns, going the opposite way of Roman. She can’t listen to them anymore. Her mind feels like a mess. She usually had a thick skin but something about how they were talking about her really made her feel bad today. The fact they were so dismissive of her. She knows it has been a long time since she stepped into the ring but it didn’t change everything she had accomplished before that. Once she would have gone into catering and chewed the two of them out for talking about her like that. But now it didn’t feel like there was much point. They had clearly already made up their minds about her. And it wasn’t like she could even challenge them to a match to show them how good she was.

She heads back to Ace’s locker room. He wasn’t set to have a proper match tonight but he insisted that they still had to be there. She’s almost at the locker room when she stops, further down the hall she can see Ace talking to… Seth Rollins? Maria’s brow furrows. She didn’t even know Ace and Seth knew each other. And from the way they were talking it was like they didn’t want anyone to hear. After a few moments the two of them laugh and Seth claps Ace on the shoulder before walking away, a huge smirk on his face. As he passes Maria he smiles at her.

“Ready for the show?” he asks.

Maria’s brow furrows. Seth doesn’t wait for an answer as he continues to stride down the hall. Maria watches for a moment before she looks back at Ace who was now in front of her.

“What was that about?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” Ace says, sounding unphased as he picks invisible lint off his coat.

“I just… didn’t know you and Seth were… friends?”

Ace didn’t really have many friends in the company, mostly because he would run his mouth too often no one really wanted anything to do with him.

“He was just giving me a pep talk,” Ace replies. “Game recognizing game. He believes in me, unlike some people.”

Maria knows that was meant as a dig at her and she sighs. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you, I-”

“Really? Because you sure act like you don’t believe in me.”

“Ace that’s not…”

“You don’t think I can beat Roman Reigns.”

“I just want you to be realistic, you can’t just demand a match and expect to win.”

Ace shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

Maria sighs, deciding it was best to try and change the subject. “So, I’ve been thinking… I want to get in the ring again.”

“What?!” Ace’s eyes narrow.

“I miss wrestling, Ace,” Maria continues. “It’s been a year…”

“And what am I supposed to do? Huh?!” Ace snaps. “I need you in my corner.”

“I am in your corner!”

“No, you’re thinking of yourself again. How can you be so selfish after everything I’ve done for you. You promised me you’d support me.”

“If you really loved me you’d do this for me,” Ace says, snidely. “And you’ll do it with that smile that makes the whole world melt.”

Maria feels like she’s had ice dumped on her. She wants to scream. But she doesn’t. Instead she bottles all of it up. Like she always does. She doesn’t think she can do this much longer.

“Ace I-”

The Bloodline music starts up int he arena then, echoing in the hallways.

“Are you with me or not?” Ace glares at her.

She doesn’t know what to say, she barely knows what to think. Her emotions feel like a mess right now.

“…yeah,” she shrugs.

“Good, we’re a package deal baby,” Ace grins. “I promise you’ll get your turn again but timing is everything.”

He extends his arm to her, she takes it, automatically, and they head down the hall. *****

“Ladies and gentleman, my name is Paul Heyman. And I serve as the special counsel… to the reigning, defending, undisputed Tribal Chief - ROMAAAN REEIGNS”

The crowd roars. The Bloodline stands in the ring. Roman in the centre, title around his waist, with Jimmy and Jey flanking him. Heyman stands nearby, holding Roman’s other title - mic in hand.

Roman then extends his own hand and Heyman obediently hands over the mic with a little bow.

“ACKNOWLEDGE ME!” Roman yells into the mic.

The crowd goes wild yet again, some cheering, others jeering and booing. And Roman waits, soaking all of it in as if daring every person there to disobey him.

“Every week, I walk out here and it’s the same story,” Roman begins his promo, voice dripping with the type of smugness you could only earn. “I smash them. I stack them. I pin them. And then I fly home with my titles… and my legacy still intact.”

He begins to pace a little in the ring. Heyman in the background utters “yes you do my Tribal Chief.” Jimmy and Jey are all smirks.

“The truth is, there’s nobody left. I’ve beaten them all. Every challenger, every so-called superstar who thought that they were on my level.”

The crowd reacts, some booing, some yelling out names of other superstars.

“Nobody can beat you my Tribal Chief,” Heyman says.

Roman smirks. “Now, I keep hearing about this guy. Keeps buzzing around, flapping his mouth backstage, calling my name like he’s earned it.” Roman raises his hand close by his head and makes a gesture like there is a fly buzzing around him, because that’s all this guy was to him. A fly. A bug. Waiting to be squashed.

He then pauses, tilting his head. “What’s his name again, Wiseman?”

“Ace… Ace something, my Tribal Chief. Like a playing card,” Heyman supplies with feigned confusion.

“Right, that guy,” Roman says mockingly. “Couldn’t remember, he hasn’t done anything worth remembering.”

The Usos start laughing, meanwhile the crowd is now eating it up.

“What type of name is that, Uce?” Jey sniggers behind Roman.

“A bad porn star or failed magician,” Jimmy replies.

“Oh, he’s a failed something,” Roman agrees, smirking right into the camera. *****

“He’s taunting me,” Ace growls. “That motherfucker is actually taunting me.”

He was standing in gorilla with Maria and he was fuming. Maria had never seen Ace like this before. Even the veins on his head looked like they might pop.

“That’s just…” Maria puts a hand on Ace’s arm, trying to calm him down. “It’s just what he does. Don’t take it personally.”

“Don’t tell me how to take it!” Ace snaps at her, wrenching his arm back. “I’ve had enough of his bullshit. He thinks he runs this company. Well, it’s about time someone stands up to him. And that someone is going to be me. He doesn’t remember me?! I’m about to make sure he never forgets me!”

“Ace-”

Maria reaches out to grab him again but it’s too late Ace has already ripped a microphone out of the hand of a stage hand and is storming towards the ramp.

“PLAY MY MUSIC!” he yells at the crew.

Maria stares after him.

“Oh, fuck…” she mutters before quickly hurrying after him.

Ace’s music hits as he storms down the ramp, the crowd is shocked. In the ring Roman looks bored he looks at the Usos and Heyman and gestures towards Ace as if to say ‘this guy.’ The Usos meanwhile are already jeering at Ace as he continues to storm down into the ring.

A few moments later Maria is behind Ace, trying to get him to calm down but Ace pays no attention to her. Her climbs into the ring and immediately get into Roman’s face.

Roman’s eyes narrow a fraction as he looks down at Ace, who did he think he was to get so close to him.

“You think you’ve beaten everyone, huh?!” Ace yells into the mic. “You haven’t beaten me. I want a match. You and me, Roman!”

The Usos crack up. Even Heyman starts laughing. Then the crowd does too. After a few beats, Roman smirks a little.

“You want a match? With me?” he looks at Heyman. “Hey Wiseman, is this guy serious?”

“He’s delusional, my Tribal Chief,” Heyman replies. “He’s not fit to lace your boots.”

“FIGHT ME!” Ace yells.

Roman turns back to Ace, still laughing. “What for? There is no challenge in facing you. No title. What do you have that I could possibly want?”

Ace is still fuming. Maria slides into the ring then and goes to him, she puts a hand on his forearm.

“Come on,” she says quietly. “Let’s just-”

Ace wrenches away so hard it causes Maria to stumble a step, which in turn makes Roman’s eyes narrow. He looks directly at her and that same feeling from when their eyes met earlier comes back to her.

“If I were gonna fight someone in this ring… It’d be her,” he gestures to Maria before looking back at Ace. “At least she could keep up. But instead of standing on her own, she’s stuck carrying your dead weight. You got called up and you couldn’t handle the truth, that your girl has and always has been better than you.”

Maria is staring at Roman with wide eyes. The crowd was popping. And then she could hear it, it wasn’t loud but she could hear some fans doing one of her old NXT chants. It made her feel dizzy.

Ace was still fuming but a part of him was starting to panic. He doesn’t look at Maria, he’s not even thinking about her in this moment, not really. His obsession with Roman has never been as intense as it is now.

“Maybe I’ll step into the ring with her anyways,” Roman says mockingly. Show her what it’s like to stand next to a real man. Someone who isn’t afraid of her success or skill.”

The vein in Ace’s head starts throbbing again. “You want her so bad?! Huh?! Is that what you want?” he’s snarling. “You want a prize?! Is that what it’s gonna take for you to fight me?!”

Roman’s eyes narrow but before he can reply Ace continues.

“You and me. A match. You beat me and she’s yours.”

“WHAT?!” Maria’s eyes widen.

For a moment it's silent, like the entire arena needed a second to process what Ace just said. And then it explodes. The crowd goes crazy, the Usos are yelling at Ace, even Heyman is talking but Roman just stares. His eyes cold. His expression deadly. All of Ace’s bravado fades in that moment.

“You really just did that?” Roman says coldly. “You just offered your girlfriend like she’s a… prize?”

Disgust is evident Roman’s face, he wants to punch Ace. He takes a step closer, his voice darker.

“You don’t deserve to be in this ring with me. You don’t deserve to be in any type of ring. But I’ll make an example out of you anyways. You want a match? You’ll get your match.”

With that Roman steps away from him, he doesn’t look at Maria as he exits the ring. Ace stands there, still fuming. Jimmy and Jey go to follow Roman, purposely they both bang their shoulders against Ace on the way out. Heyman then leaves too. Maria is breathing hard she turns to Ace, eyes narrowed.

“Ace what the-”

He doesn’t even look at her. Instead he rolls out of the ring and storms off leaving Maria alone in the ring. Alone with the crowd still going crazy, some cheering, some jeering and booing. She can’t her her chant anymore, maybe she had been imagining it.

In that moment even though she’s surrounded by the bright lights, tens of thousands of fans and the ring she loves so much she has never felt so alone. *****

SMACKDOWN COMMENTARY DESK MICHAEL COLE: (shocked) Did he… did Ace Space just offer his girlfriend as a prize? COREY GRAVES: (flat) He sure did, Cole. I can’t believe I just watched that happen. Real classy move. Nothing screams future Hall of Famer like offering off your girlfriend like a trophy. What is wrong with him? COLE: I’m speechless. That was- GRAVES: (cutting in) Desperate. Embarrassing. And honestly pathetic. What sort of man does that? Especially, to the woman who put her career on hold to support him?! I’m disgusted Cole. Maria doesn’t deserve this. COLE: Maria Marie is a former NXT Women’s Champion, and one of the best technical wrestlers of her generation. She’s not a pawn, not a prop. Certainly not a prize to be wagered. GRAVES: (fuming) Say what you will about the Tribal Chief, but even he looked disgusted. COLE: I just don’t know how to process this. We’ve seen wagers in matches before but something about this one… puts a really bad taste in my mouth. GRAVES: As it should Cole. We always knew Ace Spade was a loudmouth but tonight he proved the exact type of man he really is. He’s not just delusional, he’s desperate. He’s a terrible human being and I personally I can’t wait to see the Tribal Chief punch that smirk right off his face. COLE: If I was Ace Spade, I’d start praying. No way this ends well for him. GRAVES: I don’t know who he should be afraid of more. Roman Reigns? Or Maria. Because if she ever gets her hands on him… he’s not walking out of that ring. *****

It was late. The show had ended hours ago. Maria had no idea where Ace was and at the moment she didn’t really care. She was back in the gym, using the punching bag. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess right now and she had no idea how to even begin to process them. So she used her fists instead. Normally she was so controlled, her punches always landing exactly where she intended but tonight thy were harder, faster, almost erratic. Her fists were slamming into the bag like it was something cruel. Like it was an amalgamation of the last year.

“I don’t know who’s more pathetic, him or his girlfriend.” “How can you be so selfish after everything I’ve done for you.” “If you really loved me you’d do this for me.” “If she’s fucking Ace Spade, she’s clearly willing to fuck anyone.” “You and me. A match. You beat me and she’s yours.”

The words play over and over in her mind and she can’t stop punching. Because if she stops then she needs to think and she can’t do that right now. If she thinks she’ll fall apart.

She hits the bag again.

And again.

Her shoulders burned. Her arms were starting to tremble. She can feel sweat dripping down her skin. She’s punching like her life depending on it.

She can’t stop. Stopping means unravelling. And she can’t do that. She refuses to do that. Not now. Not over Ace. Even if a tiny part of her wants to. Needs to more than anything else.

And then she can’t hold back anymore, she screams. Raw, ragged, guttural. With all the strength she has left she throws one final punch.

The chain snaps. The heavy bag hits the floor like dead weight. The sound echoing off the walls and down the hall and it feels so oppressively loud Maria almost wants to put her trembling hands over her ears. Instead she staggers back, gasping for breath. She stars down at the falling bag. She still doesn’t cry. It was like her body was betraying her by refusing to allow her that release.

And then she collapses on the mat, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. She was just… done. *****

Roman saw the whole thing. Everyone else had left. Even Heyman was long gone. But Roman had stayed late tonight, he wasn’t really sure why. Maybe a part of him had hoped he’d see her again in the gym. Or maybe he just liked it when the halls were empty and quiet, the lights dimmed. He was getting ready to leave when he heard the sound of the bag being used and he knew.

It was Maria.

He couldn’t help but follow the sound. Once again he stands in the shadows and watches her. Even now her pony tail was perfect, it didn’t even look like her makeup had smudged. But there were fractures in her control. It was like she was finally unravelling and he couldn’t look away or move.When she screamed and fell to the mat he still didn’t move. He remembered Heyman’s words from the other night, saying what a shame it was that Maria had given up. Roman saw it then but it’s clear as day to him now. This wasn’t a woman who had given up. The fight was still there but she had been buried under someone else’s story. And despite himself, Roman can’t help but think how beautiful she looks in this moment.

And then mentally he’s scolding himself for thinking that. He was the Tribal Chief, this woman was just another wrestler. Other than asserting his dominance there was really no reason to think about her at all. He was about to step back and leave her when a side door creaks open and of all people Shotzi Blackheart walks in.

“Knew I’d find you here,” Shotzi says, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder as she makes her way over to Maria who was still on the ground. She glances at the punching bag. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Maria says nothing.

Shotzi seems unphased and dropped the duffel to the ground and then flops down next to Maria, laying next to her like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like they had done this dozens of times.

“You’re sleeping over tonight. No arguing,” she says.

Maria says nothing.

“Company policy,” Shotzi continues, her tone casual like she was talking about the weather. “Damage WWE property, get put under a 24-hour emotional surveillance watch.”

“That’s not a thing,” Maria croaks.

“It is so a thing. How do you think Miz and Maryse started dating.”

Maria huffs a little at that, almost a laugh. For a few moments they just lay there next to each other on the floor. Shotzi didn’t ask Maria if she was okay, she didn’t need too - she knew. Asking would just be insulting. After a few moments, Maria extends a shaking hand over to Shotzi, who’s own hand meets her halfway. Their fingers intertwine. Maria’s hands stop shaking.

Roman can’t look away. These two women looked like the came from different worlds, different planets even. Shotzi was chaos incarnate, tattoos, piercings and a wildness that couldn’t be tamed. Maria was perfected control, elegant with an air of elegance to her. They could not be more different. But it looked like they had been friends forever. His jaw tics a little, this made him feel something and he wasn’t sure he liked it. So he slinks back into the shadows to leave. *****

After few more moments, Shotzi helps Maria to her feet. She grabs the duffel bag which was full of Maria’s things and slings an arm around her friends shoulders.

“You know, just say the word and I bet we can get the whole locker room to beat the shit out of him,” she grins. “Sami was practically vibrating and K.O. never needs a reason, he’d do it just for fun.”

“Can we get noodles first?”

“Fuck yes!” Shotzi’s grin turns into a smirk.

Shotzi guides Maria towards the door but then Maria stops, out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw something. She turns towards one of the dark hallways, brow furrowed.

“You good?” Shotzi asks.

“Yeah I thought I just… saw someone,” Maria says softly.

Shotzi looks in that direction. “It’s probably just the crew waiting for you to leave so they can do take down.”

“Yeah,” Maria takes a deep breath. “You’re probably right.”

Then she follows Shotzi out the door.

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x oc #wwe fanfiction #wwe fic #wwe oc #wwe original character #fic: love me like i’m not made of stone #wrestling fic #wrestling fanfiction #oc: maria marie #roman x maria #!my fic #!mine #and now that i posted this i need to go hide #because i am never happy with my writing

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the---hermit · 16 hours ago

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mid year book freakout tag 2025

I have seen a few posts on my dash of people doing this tag and I thought it would be fun to also use this tag to reflect on my reading so far this year. I know I have read a little over 40 books since the beginning of the year but I have not really reflected on favourites, or anything else. My reading has been a bit chaotic lately so I feel like this might be fun. I should also mention that I have reread a few books, and I will try not to count them for these questions, because of course rereads are often favourites that I just go back to every so often.

Best book you have read so far in 2025

I am not sure which book I have read so far I would put in first place. One honorable mention is surely Magellano - Il Primo Viaggio Intorno Al Mondo by David Salomoni. I had to read this non fiction book for the exam I took last week and it was incredible. Super interesting and accessible history book on the first circumnavigation of the globe done by Magellan. The author's writing was so good, I really want to read more stuff by him. I have also read a few other grat non fiction books, but I won't list them all. Instead I should mention the fact that I have read the entire Hunger Games series (including the two prequels) and loved them. I had not read them when they first came out, and then always put off reading them because I usually don't like YA. Then some beloved friends told me that I simply had to read them, and I had an incredible time. I am a big fan of dystopic novels so I am glad I finally gave them a chance!

Best sequel you have read so far in 2025

I should probably mention again the Hunger Games series for this question. It's basically the only series I have read. I did read the Emily Wilde's series by Heather Fawcett, but despite loving the first book and enjoying the second I had to dnf the third and final novel because I found it way too slow and repetitive. So I don't feel it would count at all. I don't know it I can cosider it a sequel but I read the latest book of the "Le Cose Spiegate Bene" by Il Post. It's a collection of non fiction books made up of short articles about a chosen topic, and the goal is to explain said subject in a approachable way giving the readers a base knowledge on the topics. It's one of the coolest projects in recent Italian publishing in my opinion, and I very much look forward to reading more of these books. Last year I read their book about gender, where they talked about trans and genderqueer experiences in a great way, whereas this year I read their book on bodies called Corpi Speciali. It was so intersting and fun and I learned so much!

New release you haven't read yet but want to

I am once again going to mention an Italian non fiction series, and this time the book is called Mostrologia Applicata by Barbascura X. I have read all the books in this series of fun scientific journals. The goal is to make learning about science and nature in a fun and approachable way, and they have also tried to focus on topic people tend to avoid, like sex and reproduction. This new book in particular talks about monsters. I believe there's a mix of articles that try to look at a more historical/folklore side of monsters, as well as the natural inspiration for monsters, and many other things that I cannot wait to learn about as soon as I will pick the book up. It's definitely going to be my next read once I am done with the non ficition book I am currently reading.

Most anticipated release for the second half of the year

I have to admit I am not great at remembering about new releases, but if I am not mistaken there should be a new T. Kingfisher horror book coming out in the second half of the year, as well as a new Andrew Josepeh White book. I am also keeping an eye out for the new R.F Kuang book! I will probably forget about half of these and struggle to get my hands on a copy once the time comes out, I am terrible with new releases lmao.

Biggest disappointment

Where should I begin? I have read so many disappointing books this year. But since I don't want to make this post even longer than it is I will just mention a couple. Of course I have to mention both Elektra by Jennifer Saint and Clytemnestra by Costanza Casati. Anyone who knows me knows how angry and frustrated I got at both these books. I have so many complaints I wouldn't even know where to start. I could have saved the money. I will also mention a recent disappointment which is Never Flinch by Stephen King, I thankfully just listened to the audiobook so I didn't spend any money on it because I would have been pissed. I won't get into details since it's such a new release, but there were too many things I read as transphobic and it's honestly embarassing we are getting that this year, as if there wasn't enough hate towards trans people. And I am sure it went over a lot of casual reader's heads, but I could not unsee it.

Biggest surprise

I could once again mention Magellano by David Salomoni since I was not expecting to fall in love with a book I was given in an academic setting. Or The Hunger Games because as I mentioned previously I usually despise YA. But I will focus on another book I got quite randomly and ended up enjoying way more than I thought. When Among Crows by Veronica Roth. I have not read her other books and I have no interest in it. I was drawn it by the cover and at the time I needed short book, and I have not regretted getting it at all. I normally don't love urban fantasy, but this was so well done. I loved the folkloric inspiration, the worldbuilding was great for such a short book, and I am pretty sure I read it in one or two sittings at best. I really had a good time with it. I am not sure I will read the sequel because I think it worked well as a stand alone, but I am not opposed to it.

New favourite author (debut or new to you)

I have enjoyed a lot of books this year but I wouldn't say I have found any new favourite authors.

Newest fictional crush

I don't really have fictional crushes ngl. If I really have to pick one out of the new books I read this year I might go with Sandokan from The Tigers Of Mompracem by Emilio Salgari. Pretty safe choice since he is a very cool pirate with a story that is so incredibly anti colonialistic for a book written in 1900. But again I don't really have real fictional crushes.

Newest favourite character

The books I have enjoyed this year were books i mainly enjoyed for thier plot so I didn't focus a lot on characters. I can't really think of any character that has stayed with me as much as characters from previous books I have read.

Book that made you cry

I have actually almost cried multiple times while reading The Huger Games series as well as the latest prequel Sunrise On The Reaping. I have not fully sobbed, but a few tears were there.

Book that made you happy

Gender Is over by Isa Borrelli, it's a non fiction book about genderqueerness and in particularly it focuses on non binary people, as the author is non binary themselves. The author is Italian. We were much need more books like this here, and it gave me a lot of joy to read words written in my language by someone who shares part of my personal experience. And it made me happy to see them so ready to fight for people to know what being non binary means, and to fight for our rights. The book wasn't necessarily joyful but it gave me joy to finally see a book like this in a local bookshop, and it was very well written imo.

Favourite book to film adaptation

I have not watched any new movies since the start of the year so I cannot answer this question jsjdghkdsj.

Most beautiful book you have bought this year so far

Cover-wise the prettiest books I have got this year are The Hunger Games trilogy and The Ballad Of Songbirds And Snakes. I got a very pretty box set that I love so much. I have also got a couple of graphic novels that are worth mentioning because the illustrations were stunning. The Lord Of The Flies graphic novel adaptation done by Aimèe de Jongh was incredible. Definitely one of my favourite graphic novel adaptions.

What books you need to read before the end of the year?

I am trying to follow my instincts this year, I want to read what I am in the mood for when I am in the mood for it, which means I don't really have a tbr. Ideally I'd like to read all the books I buy during the year. At the moment I am almost caught up I believe I have only 3 new fully unread books. With this being said a book I would really love to read this year is Copound Fracture by Andrew Joseph White. I had started it at the beginning of the year and ended up pausing it because it was too emotionally heavy for me to properly enjoy at the time. Hopefully this summer I will be in a better mental space to enjoy what I believe is going to be an amazing book.

Tagging: @selkiestudies, @mal-studyblr, @upside-down-uni, @la-galaxie-langblr @just-a-cup-of-anxietea and @lady-wimsey also anyone who sees this on their dash and wants to do this, pretend I tagged you and have fun!

#i have not reread this after typing so i have a feeling there will be A LOT of typos #sorry not sorry #i am dumb and my brain is soup but you can get what I mean even if i fucked up some words i believe in you <3 #book tag #mid year book freakout #2025 book tag #bookblr #booklr #tags #books #book recs #the---hermit

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indecisive-capricorn · 17 hours ago

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drabble - arranged husband! gojo satoru who teleported you to italy when he found out you never tried spaghetti bolognese before.

a/n: if any of you want to be tagged in the next fic or a long fic of a drabble, then just comment. i'll immediately put you in the tag list. So, if you want to be in the taglist for the long fic of this drabble, just comment. this happens after the arranged marriage, part two isn't out yet. blame it on my new discovery of black butler. tempted to write for the fandom. the second part of the arranged marriage gojo fic will come in two to three days. also, feel free to correct me if i'm mistaken with the translation. i don't speak italian, and used google translate for it.

masterlists & requests: before you go, have a glass of wine or better yet, recommend a good bottle. any kind of message is always a delight.

—

“Wait. You’ve never had spaghetti bolognese?”

You were taken aback at how loud Satoru’s voice was in the silence of your shared room, blinking up from your seat.

“I wasn’t allowed to eat Western food growing up,” you mumbled, a little embarrassed. “Mother said it was too greasy. Unrefined.”

Satoru stared at you, blinking once. Twice. Then, with zero hesitation, he clapped his hands together and grinned.

“Okay. Grab a coat.”

“…What?”

“You’re about to become a criminal.”

You didn’t even have time to ask what that meant before his hand wrapped around your wrist and space bent in a flash of cursed energy.

The next thing you knew, you were standing under the soft golden lights of a quiet alleyway in Bologna, Italy. The air was rich with tomato, garlic, and the sound of jazz from a street corner café.

Your mouth opened, but Satoru was already tugging you along to the café. “If you’re going to have spaghetti bolognese, you’re going to have the real one. No more of this starved of joy because of tradition nonsense.”

The moment you stepped into the small restaurant tucked between cobbled streets, Gojo didn’t even glance at the menu.

“Un piatto di spaghetti alla bolognese, grazie,” he told the server in surprisingly smooth Italian, flashing his signature grin.

You blinked at him. “Do you always order like that?”

“Only when it’s important,” he said, giving you a look that made your chest feel too full.

Soon enough, the plate was placed in front of you. Rich, steaming spaghetti bolognese, the scent of slow-cooked tomatoes and herbs rising in the warm air.

You stared at it like it was forbidden magic.

“I’m pretty sure my mother would faint if she saw me right now,” you murmured, hands folded neatly on your lap, unsure if you were even allowed to pick up the fork.

Across the table, Gojo rested his chin in his hand, sunglasses pushed up into his white hair, eyes crinkled with amusement. “Good thing she’s not here,” he said. “And also, I don’t really care what she’d think.”

You gave him a look.

“I married you, not your mother,” he added, gently nudging the fork toward you. “And if your childhood was strict enough to ban pasta, then we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Your fingers curled around the fork slowly.

“Go on,” he said, voice softening, “just try it.”

And you did.

One bite. One tiny taste. Your eyes widened as flavor hit your tongue. It was comforting and warm in a way you hadn’t known you were missing.

“See?” Gojo grinned, leaning back like he hadn’t just bent time and space to get you here. He watched as you practically devoured the pasta. “Freedom tastes better with good food.”

You chuckled quietly, but genuinely, and for once, it didn’t feel like something you had to apologize for.

—

Translations:

“Un piatto di spaghetti alla bolognese, grazie,” = “ A plate of spaghetti bolognese, thank you,”

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usoppssketchbook · 4 months ago

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My (Optimistic) Predictions for Elbaf

Elbaf has three main focus characters/arc movers in a similar fashion to W7/EL (Usopp, probably Robin, and…?)

Usopp Hammer Become Real (Mjolnir)

Mjolnir is a weapon that ate a devil fruit

Usopp learns more about his dad but doesn't get to catch up with him until a later arc

Usopp’s artistic talents will come in handy with the sun stone painter things

reevaluate the ending of water 7

Loki will be Usopp’s opponent in the big battle, not Luffy’s (or at the very least he’ll have some role in taking him down)

Usopp’s tendency to inspire and rally people(s) with big truth revealing speeches will be a major turning point

Somebody notices Usopp’s storytelling is practically prophetic; turns out Usopp unlocked an uncommon form of observation haki

(heck he’s smart and creative let him do funny unusual things with all the types of haki)

Nami unlocks conqueror’s haki

Either Nami or Usopp temporarily becomes a giant (thanks to the owl or whatever Scopper did)

#usopp #i wrote down some of these ideas when i was half asleep #so on my list is a barely legible “strawhats have Voltron moment”#and i have no idea what it means #but just in case im putting it here in the tags #this post has been sitting in my drafts for weeks but I want to get it out before the next chapter bc I have a feeling #things are going to kick into gear soon #one piece spoilers #I really don’t know what was up w that one scribbled thought (Thriller Bark style stacking to make one giant powerful being?)#speaking of thriller bark how about revisiting that always negative thing #i know a lot of the strawhat character plots got dropped by the wayside post timeskip #but I want to address that (and maybe canonically connect that feeling to the ending of water 7)

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inevitablestars · 10 months ago

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Fic authors self rec!

thank you sm for the tag @pretentiouswreckingball

When you get tagged, post your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love

(summaries below, me rambling in the tags)

bite the hand | wolfstar, nonbinary sirius, exes to lovers | 120k

It’s them and Remus, it’s always going to be them and Remus. Nothing can break that. Except for themselves. Which evidently they are very good at doing… So hope is what they cling to. More than love, more than history, more than anything. - or - Sirius and Remus have gotten into a cycle of breaking up and making up, except this time is going to be different.

i regret you all the time | jegulus, death eater james | 80k

What happens when James falls for Regulus and his friends lose their trust in him?

take care of you and yours | jegulus, wolfstar, dorlily, sirius centric | currently 100k soon to be 200k

Sirius plans a fun summer at the lake with all of their friends, but it doesn't go quite to plan. Friends become more, hatred becomes love, and people unravel until there is nothing left.

the stars that bind us | jegulus, wolfstar, black family centric | currently 99k dont ask how long it will be

Regulus is an author of four, soon to be five, books all written under a pen name. They tell the stories of each of his cousins, brother, and himself, and how they left home and each other. He has done his best to keep them from finding out about his books, but what happens when they do? How do the five of them fit back together after so many years?

you had to go (i know, i know, i know) | black brothers | 3.6k

He saw it coming. At least there’s that, right? At least Sirius told him before he left. At least Regulus got to say goodbye to his brother.

no pressure tagging: @calamitoustide @itsjaywalkers @magswrite @starsworth @aurorboros @galaxostars @sugarsnappeases @quillkiller <333333

#fic: bite the hand #fic: i regret you all the time #fic: the stars that bind us #fic: take care of you and yours #fic: you had to go i know i know i know #tag game #okay this was easy but also fun i love these fics so much #bite the hand has favorite child syndrome i love her so bad nothing will ever beat her #tstbu has magnum opus written all over it that is a BEAST but i love her... even if it takes me three years to write her #i prommy im going back to her soon at least by december!!! and she is my main focus next year #tcoyay is my baby and i want to get back to her to finish the last few chapters soon #iryatt ... death eater james is famous TO ME #and then picking a fifth was hard and is only a one shot but i do think about this one quite a bit #okay this is me microdosing posting about my fics again <3 #also if the other one shot im writing right now on top of my big bang fic was done i would 100000% be putting that on the list #it doesnt exist yet #but #to know me is to hate me #you are famous in my head and my head only #anyway going to shut up now #linds writes

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a-really-cool-blog-name · 9 months ago

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Did somebody ask for adventure forward head canons that may or may not interfere with the actual canon because I haven't played the games in a while?

No? Screw you, you're getting them anyway.

Warning ⚠️ I am cringe, but I am free so I feel like that makes up for it.

VERY LONG LIKE INCREDIBLY LONG YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED DO NOT CLICK THAT SEE MORE BUTTON UNLESS YOU WANT TO READ ADVENTURE FORWARD HEAD CANNONS YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Also I say head cannons but like halfway through I derail into my AU of what crown of shadows and vein reveal would be like so I still think it's really interesting but I'm very biased.

("I hate celesteal!" I say, before making a bunch of head cannons around him.) I really like celesteal as a character I hate him as a person but I really love him as a character

Do not expect this to be arranged well it will not be. This is not chronological this is not even like grouping a character altogether this is really messy, I'm just getting all my ideas out.

The two different canceled sequels are both different timelines (that I may or may not make crossover in my head) and I have different ideas for how each of them would go so I will refer to them as crown of shadows (COS) and Vain revival (VR) to specify when it is only for one of the versions.

Anshine and Stratosfear are happily married.

I don't know if this is cannon or not but Sheldon definitely made Miobot. And also accidentally made him sentient, oops, sure hope that doesn't come back causing both of you to get forcefully ascended to a higher existence.

Celesteal admire humans a lot mostly because he can't figure out where they keep coming from (he does not know how reproduction works) and he can't figure out how to make one.

VR! The shard saver is his closest attempt to a human looking mostly correct but having the little quirk of her having pink blood and also thinking it is normal for a person to not remember the first 15 years of their life (She does not know she is not human at first) The shard savior is also the only one of his creations that he considers to be his child.

It took Celesteal a couple hundred years to figure out how to make a sentient being at that point he was kind of already cuckoo bananas.

Yawgate was one of his earlier creations and often accompanied him to where he needed to go because Yawgate does the portaling.

The pure points did not learn how to speak English properly they were just imbued with that knowledge shortly after they were made. Unfortunately they are all British because of this. (Celesteal thinks that accent is the most quote on quote "cool" and therefore he speaks in it)

Celesteal refers to everyone using they/them most of the time because he does not know how genders work at all.

The first Star Savior is a 39-year-old closeted gay man named Stefan. (I accidentally stole that name from a fanfiction like 2 years ago, oops)

Mason is a 40-year-old and is also a closeted gay man. The main reason he became the mayor is because his father was the mayor and his father is now dead. The hat wears is his father's. He is also really tired of the may or may not jokes, yes he has heard it before it lost its funny factor since he was a child and heard it from people saying that to his father. Stefan doesn't think it's lost it's funny factor and still makes those jokes.

Mason and Stefan are childhood best friends and may or may not (Haha get it) have feelings for each other. Unfortunately, that issue won't be resolved for another 300 years. (Talk about a slow burn)

The second Star savior is a 28-year-old man named Nicholas (I also stole that name from the same fanfiction I read 2 years ago accidentally, oops) who has served in the military. His only remaining family members are his aunt, who he has a rough relationship with and his cousin who he has a fine relationship with, but he hasn't talked to since before he joined the military.

Anshine is really bad at naming things like "if he had a Dalmatian he would name it spot" type of bad at naming things.

Stratosfear for a brief period of time forgot his own strength because he didn't really have to do stuff like opening jars when he had to play the role of the star steeler and he's kind of been trapped for 300 years so not a lot of time to get used to how strong you are with objects and stuff.

Stratosfear is immune to poison and venom because he himself can make poisonous stuff if he really wanted to. He can also make red metal into any shape he wants, he just thinks scorpions are cool and so has a bunch of metal shapes in the shape of the scorpion tail, that is one of the very few things he got to choose for himself in that time loop.

Evon has somehow managed to in all her years of being a cashier, which is two, meet every single pre-point and not realize it. Evon goes by Eve. Whett is Eve's boss. Whett and Randall are friends.

Eve lives with her roommate Rose who has very obvious feelings for her and Eve is oblivious. (Would really be a shame if something were to happen to Eve which caused Rose to never be able to properly tell her her feelings, ha. On a completely unrelated note Rose is actually one of Nick's ancestors so maybe that's a good thing because he literally wouldn't exist if they were together oops. This just in, woman (me) who can't handle tragedy made another tragedy.)

Umbra may or may not be in a cult?? It's really unclear to an outsider if it's a cult or just a really dedicated group of people to studying the Moon. She does have powers from this because I think that's cool.

If Cynosura had a nickel for every time he has been brutally transformed he would have two nickels which isn't a lot but it's weird that it's happened twice.

He got cursed by a weird gem thing that was in his backyard when he was like twelve. Given the fact that he's already cursed he can't be cursed again so he goes out looking for those items to stop anyone else from being cursed. (Yes, he has ice powers I thought it would be cool for his pre point to also have them, shut up.)

Cynosura and Umbra used to be friends before Cynosura's cursing and then became penpals because they couldn't see each other in person they recently have started talking in person again. I feel it is important to mention that Umbra literally couldn't care less that he was cursed, she's more mad he didn't talk to her in person for that whole time. (They're like in their thirties I don't know the exact ages)

(Wow sure hope Umbra doesn't see something she's not supposed to see and go to run off to tell him and drag him down with her to be higher being of existence forcefully accidentally because she couldn't keep it to herself) (also Celesteal gets Cynosura pointified Midway through talking about how they probably shouldn't know this and how one of them might get hurt because he quote unquote "thought it would be really funny" Umbra tried to punch him in the face, to little success.)

Despair is an orphan and is also distinctly not human. (He's not exactly sure how to say what he is in English so he just goes with what everybody else calls him, a demon.) he also chose that name when he was an edgy teenager, his friends call him Dee because it's kind of hard to take the name Despair seriously. Despair still finds the name cool even though he is going to be twenty soon.

Cynosura offered him a place to stay shortly after he lost his parents at like 10ish. He takes up this offer randomly and then randomly leaves. They consider each other to kind of be like Uncle and nephew.

Eve, Despair, and Laoin are all friends.

Laoin is part dragon because I think that's cool.

Funny random thing I thought of, Laoin is friends with Trussy (I don't like that name that much I kind of want to change it but I don't know to what) who is friends with Sheldon And Laoin is also friends with Despair who is friends with Cynosura so when Cynosura needed house repairs once Despair mentioned that to Laoin who mentioned it to Trussy who then paired up with Sheldon to help fix Cynosura house while not knowing him directly at all.

Ixol gets pointified last and only gets pointified because his entire friend group mysteriously disappeared and he managed to -in his grief- figure out almost everything he had a board with red string across it and everything he was like one pin away from figuring out the identity of Stratosfear, I am serious. He figured out that the points probably where his friends because it's a little suspicious that each time one of his friends disappears there's a new guy with their exact personality who doesn't remember their past, this happened to him like four times. Cyalm when he realized what Despair had figured out was shocked and really impressed because he proceeded to do that and then never do anything like that ever again.

Yawgate is not supposed to let the pure points into other pure points dimensions but he does it anyway behind Celesteal's back because he feels really bad that they wouldn't be able to see each other any other way. (Celestial doesn't really care that much, he knows Yawgates doing it he just feels like it's not worth his time to stop it. Yawgate doesn't know that Celesteal knows about that) Only reason he didn't visit Stratosfear for that whole time is because Celestial specifically blocked off that pocket dimension.

Morword is surprisingly optimistic for seeing an infinite number of alternative timelines that the future could go into many of which includes people she cares about dying. But she chooses to specifically not think about that.

Pasless is one of the only people who knows about the infinite amount of timelines cause unlike the rest of them there is only one him and he is just split apart infinitely, he does a surprisingly good job at keeping the different parts of him separate and not letting anyone else know that he is constantly doing that. He talks to Morword about it occasionally though. Morword doesn't let him know how much it bothers her that those infinite number of timelines that she sees do actually happen in a different timeline.

That whole speech Morword and Pasless gave about how "you control the future but can someone else control the past and if so would we know" was incredibly pre-planned, they practice that for like a month straight once Morword saw that someone was going to see them.

(Yes, I am a sucker for them considering themselves siblings, how did you know?)

Stratosfear has PTSD.

The Red x did not have a name he consistently went by until someone else decided to name him (I want the first star savior to name him but I am not sure if that directly goes against the canon) and then once he realized he could change his name he went ballistic with changing his name. Like, come on he did it thrice.

Blueband is one of the few humans the Red x personally likes blueband is very loyal to the Red x and as a reward for his good behavior he gets to be pointified and keep his memories (he's the red guy who tried and failed to guard the elemental points) he's a little upset that he can't wear his hat anymore due to the horns. When blue bands pointified form I forgot his name and I don't care enough to look it up see stratosfear he exclusively refers to him as the star stealer, this annoys Stratosfear greatly.

VR! The shard savior is a 20 year old (or at least she thinks she is) named Charlotte (hooray I didn't steal that name form that fanfiction I read 2 years ago) who, as previously established, thinks it is completely normal to not remember the first 15 years of your life and is Celesteal's favorite creation. (She does not know this)

VR! Verfection (Yes, he is a pointified version of the second Star saver, he has lost all of his memories.) is best friends with the Voxier. (Their friendship is the poster child for extrovert adopts introvert) Verfection is one of the very few people that Voxier actually cares about and makes them actually want to exist and not return to the nothingness he (supposedly) came from.

VR! Verfection and Charlie freaking hate each other.

COS! Arrolin and Ixol freaking die. And on a completely unrelated note Compale loses one of his legs. (They're not supposed to be able to lose those but voixer managed to anyway) You see the joke is that it's not unrelated Ixol dies so Compale won't, haha. (This just in woman (me) who, once again, can't handle tragedies has made another tragedy.)

Still COS! Ixol also had the ability to see ghosts and was able to see Arrolin's ghost she was happy about this, Ixol was not. Ixol could always see ghosts, he just thinks he's really lost at this time, he already knew he was probably insane this was just the tipping point for him to actually realize it. Once Ixol is dead he also becomes a ghost and realizes he probably should have told the others before he kicked the bucket.

Also COS! geez I have a lot of head cannons for COS! Said crown of shadows is a corrupting force that corrupts the user and when in a room with only one person will attempt to attach itself to said person's head. Voixer would have without the crown of shadows never tried to actually kill the points just try to figure out a method to go back to the void it's only the crown of shadows that gave him the idea of killing the characters in the story to also kill himself to end the story. Not that the rest of the points will ever know this except for Nicholas.

You know what I'm just going to tell you when it's not COS! Anymore okay?: Oopsie Daisy, Nick, you killed the guy who the crown was on and you were the only person in the room, guess what the crown is going to try to do. That's right! Force itself on your head. So Nick any actively crumbling building thing starts getting pointified, uh-oh. Luckily for him he's in an actively crumbling building (a sentence that has probably been said exactly once) and the rubble knocks the crown of his head, (Yay!) it also cuts off his arm (Not yay!) because he is not fully point yet and he does not get the neat ability to regrow his limbs until after one of his limb is already gone.

He wakes up surprisingly okay for just being under a crumbling building, he's also a point now and actively missing an arm and there's also this evil crown trying to get on his head so in his panic he tries it to stuff it in his bag, this somehow works in stopping it.

A little meme based off of that:

He's going to go by verfection now because he feels a little weird in breaking tradition of choosing a new name when you become a point. He also got the ability to see ghosts, get haunted by your dead friends, idiot. Surprisingly this is good for Verfection's mental health because that means he can't completely isolate himself. Voixer doesn't directly haunt him because he feels a little still messed up in the head and also feels guilt, a lot of guilt, and shame, quite a bit of shame.

Verfection just went back to living at his house because he didn't tell anyone where he lived. Verfection is not doing well because even though he got the crown off soon enough that he didn't go completely mad he still isn't doing great mentally and feels a lot of guilt because he got the memories of Voixer and now feels like he killed someone who didn't deserve it. He's mostly just trying to keep the crown safe to stop anyone else from getting it put on their heads. Surprisingly putting it in a bag still is working. Just for safe measures he locked it in a specific room that no one is meant to go into as well as putting it in a safe in said room. He still has not told his friends he's alive because he feels a lot of guilt and a lot of emotions right now.

Also Signol just loses her memory again, don't worry she'll get it all back when they managed to figure out how symbol breaking works in the crown of shadows timeline which I haven't figured out how they're going to figure that out but I know they will figure it out.

FINALLY WE'RE DONE WITH CROWN OF SHADOWS FOR NOW

VR! Verfection was actually a scrapped idea that Celesteal had he scrapped it because he thought it was too similar to the first star savior's fate. However those scrapped ideas came out whenever the world started literally breaking.

None of them know how points work (except celesteal for obvious reasons) exactly they mostly got it figured out but sometimes they'll just figure out something completely new about how they work for instance,

Okay after this point I'm just going to specify when the vein reveal section is done: There would be a boss fight between Stratosfear and Anshine in which they would fuse and then not figure out how to defuse until after they were uncorrupted. After Celesteal was brought back he revealed but that's just a thing they can do and I've always been able to do he just never mentioned it before.

Despite the fact that Yawgate is on the side of "we need to bring celesteal back or else the world will literally end", it is important to know he is one of celesteal's top five biggest haters. Probably being biggest hater number two or three. He was often threatened with being erased from existence by him and over time him threatening to do that to people that you love and actually doing it at least once causes you to dislike a person over time.

In the final fight of "we shouldn't bring back an evil dictator who literally locked up a guy for 300 years cause he thought it'd be funny I guess" vs "okay but we literally need to bring him back or else the world will literally end we hate him too" Verfection accidentally cuts Charlie's arm off which simultaneously makes Verfection's symbol break due to the intensity of it all and causes Charlie to realize that she is indeed not human because her arm is bleeding pink and is shattering into shards that are actively rebuilding themselves in front of her. All of the same time celesteal is actively getting remade from the shards collected.

Celesteal did not intend to come back after being killed he did not think that the world would just shatter into pieces, he thought it would be more like a crown of shadows if anything. When he does come back he's like "Oh. Oh. I messed up didn't I? I made a miscalculation somewhere... :D Hiiiii Charlie! <3 My favorite creation! How are you doing? Oh, you've grown so much! What are they feeding you around here?" And everyone's just kind of standing there like "what".

ALRIGHT I THINK THAT'S THE END OF IT

I definitely forgot some of my head cannons (I have a lot) but this post is getting so like incredibly long I think I'm good with ending it here.

Ending notes:

"Why do half of the pre points know each other? It's not very realis-"

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫 I don't care. And they all live in pretty close vicinity just because that's easier for me. And by pretty close I mean no one is more than like a city away.

"Where are the elemental points? You barely mentioned them."

Shut up they're still there I just forgot their names and I don't have a lot of ideas for them all I know is blue bands pointified form I forgot his name was supposed to be guarding them, he failed at guarding them. They all want the crown of shadows because it is immensely powerful even though it's a corrupting Force I don't know what happens next I haven't thought about them nearly as much as the others.

I also have several au's including the previously established vein reveal and crown of shadows au's I explained above and several others including "pathetic loser villain OC makes Nicholas have a bad time" (ASK ME ABOUT HIM PLEASE) and "what if Verfection was a pure point" and other various ideas.

#Guys I'm being dragged back into this fandom because of pointtober help me #Man it's so embarrassing when I have to bring up my OCS for the star savers because #Like 2 years ago I read a fanfiction very early into the fandom and those names from that fanfiction stuck with me #I changed their personalities I think but the names are the same from that dang fanfiction #The shard savior name is different though I just made a new girl up #Putting all of your ideas out is really fun I think I'm going to update my iteration of the TMNT list because my ideas have changed #Significantly for my version of the turtles #I am making an adventure forward video and it will come out soon I have a couple more drawings to make #a rare original post #Long post #Adventure forward #Adventure forward 2 #Af2 #Adventure forward headcanons #Do I want to tag all of the characters individually? Probably not. But I think I'll do some of them that I have the most head cannons for #Celesteal #Cyalm #cyalm af2 #stratosfear #star savior #second star savior #Shard savior #Af:cos #Adventure forward: crown of shadows #Adventure forward vein reveal #Afvr #headcanon #Verfection #Voixer

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gachaparadise · 2 years ago

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ahhh the Penacony leaks are really coming in now.

*chuckles* I'm in danger.

#i keep going back and forth about if i'm skipping Ratio. I was 100% going for him but now. looking at whats coming #I like Sunday and Robin and Boothill and Gallagher and Misha and Aventurine and DUKE INFERNO?!?#okay. i just saw that Aventurine might be sustain unit. i NEED one of those so bad.#my accounts gonna be completely fucked if i don't get a good support sometime soon. so like. that moves him WAY up my priorities list #and moves Ratio down :( still dunno exactly what he does waiting for official release to make final decisions #but. if he's really an imaginary dps. i might... *dies a little bit* skip him #i just!!! i have DH!!! i WANT to use DH! he's my favourite character in the damn game!#and >_> is Ratio going to have story relevance? i thought Argenti would get more then just a companion quest but he hasn't #and that kinda... bums me out? i like the meet a character THEN roll for them not the other way around. i like character who matter plotwis #A!NY!WAY! putting that aside. i might just go for the 50/50 and take what i get. just to smooth out my pity if nothing else #i don't have most of the standard pool so chances are *knocks on wood* i'll have something new to work with #and like we are getting an absolute BARRAGE of hard skip banners coming up after him.#i do not care for these women at all. extremely mid designs i SLEEP #(except for the judge she fucks but. jades are tight right now honey im sorry!!)#so. i've got a little but of time to save afterwards #post: misc #game: honkai sr #these tags are long and disjointed but its *checks clock* almost 2:30 am so. i'm a bit. you know.#i could save this draft for tomorrow and edit into something resembling a human's train of thought instead of word vomit but #i kinda wanna capture the moment. this is how i saw the leaks. the essence of desperation of a f2p. aahhh gacha my beloved.

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sheliesshattered · 2 months ago

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I can't believe it's somehow Friday already, and I haven't posted yet about Sunday's May the Fourth Star Wars Nite at Disneyland. After my last post about my Batuu Bounding projects a little over a week ago, I finished sewing the clasps onto my vest, gave it one last press, and called it done. I'm so pleased with how the vest turned out, with the improved fit and length over the first version, and I'm glad I didn't have to cut any corners to get it done in time.

With the vest finished on Thursday afternoon, that gave me a little bit of time to work on some of the accessories I wanted to add to the outfit: a remake of my kyber crystal necklace:

And a matched pair of magnetically-attached lapel communicator badge greeblies:

I did a lot of reading up on lapel greeblies and communicator badges that appear in official Star Wars media, as well as looked around a bunch of fan-made ones. Most fan-made ones are 3D printed these days, but I don't have access to a 3D printer, so I rounded up some craft foam and a bit of plastic from an egg carton that had a cool texture, and checked my aging paint supply to see what colors I could make work. Lapel greeblies seen in Star Wars are almost always silver metal colors, with red, yellow, and blue accent colors, so I stuck with those.

I used some of the leatherworking tools I bought when making my belt to punch holes in some thinner craft foam, to make something that looks like a speaker grill. It's not perfect, but I'm really pleased with how these turned out, especially for a first attempt at making a Star Wars greeblie.

Sadly the one thing I did mess up was the polarity of one of the magnets I used (out of the 16 I glued on, four each on the interior and exterior portion of each greeblie), which I didn't discover until we were just about to walk out the door to head to Disneyland. Without enough time to glue it back on the right way, I just peeled the magnet off and left one upper corner without a magnet at all -- and at some point in the night, it snagged on something and fell off without either of us noticing. But the other one did survive the night (and is now being used as a fridge magnet lol), and we did manage to get this one photo of me wearing the greeblie on my vest:

I debated bringing my lightsaber and carrying bag again this year, but in the end I'm glad I did, as I was able to take it out and spin it around a few times throughout the night (including getting to jam out to the Modal Nodes at the end of the night). Besides that, we spent the evening eating yummy themed food, people watching (so many people in costume!) and riding a few rides.

Having now gotten to wear my Samæni Ray outfit to Disney on three very different days -- a random Tuesday in February for my birthday, a weekday Star Wars Nite in April last year, and Sunday May the Fourth Star Wars Nite this year -- Jack and I had some interesting discussions comparing and contrasting each of our Batuu trips.

This year's Star Wars Nite was much busier than last year, and I heard that the May the Fourth night was the only one that sold out. The costuming from other attendees was an order of magnitude better than last year, so we got to do more people watching, but the trade off was that the lines for everything were a lot longer. We did have a few moments of being in Batuu and not having anyone in our direct line of sight that wasn't in costume, which was particularly cool.

But at the same time, there's something really special about going to Galaxy's Edge on a slow day in the park and being the only ones Batuu Bounding. We got a lot more personal attention from Cast Members and were able to take our time since we stayed in that one area of the park all day long. The night we went for my birthday didn't have fireworks or a projection show, but that's the one thing I might want to try to schedule around if we were to do this again in the future.

As for future trips, we don't currently have anything planned, and I think we might be on a cooldown for Disney trips in general for a bit. It looks like the next Star Wars Celebration, in 2027, will be in Los Angeles, and if we were somehow able to go to that, I could see breaking out this outfit again (along with some more traditional cosplay), but other than that I think I may just try to incorporate some of the pieces into my wardrobe when I'm feeling particularly Star Wars-y.

And as for next sewing projects, once I cleaned up the mess I'd left on my craft table with all the last minute greeblie work, I got straight into drafting patterns for the next few things I want to sew. I've got one, maybe two more patterns I want to draft before I shift gears into actually sewing, but I'll make a post about each of those projects as they start to come together.

#my sewing #Batuu Bounding #Star Wars Nite #Star Wars Nite 2025 #Batuu vest #greeblies #Samæni Ray #Samaeni Ray #2025 mood #gonna add this in the tags just so I can stumble across it later:#at the end of the night we got one last snack and found an empty place along the Rivers of America to wait for the Modal Nodes to come by #their last scheduled appearance was at 12:30am and when we got there the (non-Star Wars) live band was just wrapping up their final set too #and the last song the live band played was the Cantina song typically associated with the Modal Nodes #by that point I had been walking around and carrying my two bags for about 6 hours and my shoulders were tight and sore #and since we found a little empty spot right next to the Mark Twain/Columbia boarding area with an empty bench and everything #I decided to take off my bags and my hooded wrap and power up my lightsaber #and stand there doing all my flow arts moves to the Cantina song #which was fun and helped my shoulders a TON #then that song ended and I put my saber away figuring that the Modal Nodes would be coming out momentarily and then we'd want to head home #and basically as soon as I got my lightsaber put away the music started up again for the Modal Nodes #Jack had finished the last of his late night snack so he got up to jam to the music with me #and after about 3 seconds we realized that we could do our (limited) swing dance moves to the Cantina song #so we stood there in that little empty corner right beside the river swing dancing to the Cantina song for a couple of minutes #but did in fact remember to stop dancing and turn and watch the Modal Nodes go by lol #just such a clear crisp memory in my head and one of the highlights of the entire evening #we probably looked like goofballs but I'm okay with that lol #we'll add that to the list of places we've danced in Disney #which include the library in Tower of Terror when we had it completely to ourselves one time #and various times in Adventureland when something like Moonlight Serenade comes on the Jungle Cruise radio #all such good memories

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that-one-girl2020 · 9 days ago

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Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader Pt. 2

A/N: Okay, by popular demand, I decided to make this into a series so after this one, I’ll have at least four or five more parts to this series as it follows the movie events. I also tagged those that asked for part 2/asked to be tagged. Thank you guys for your support!

TW: Not much, just insecurity and a little bit of self deprecating thoughts really

Word Count: 2,097

Part 1 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7

SPOILERS FOR KPDH

“Great, (Y/n), you’re home!” Zoey cheered as soon as you came through the door, tackling you in a hug as you were trying to toe your shoes off.

You chuckled, managing to juggle the groceries so you could pat her back with one hand.

“(Y/n), where were you, we were waiting!” Mira grouched impatiently, her and Rumi joining you and Zoey in the entryway.

“Only for a little bit though, Mira, chill.”

You made an awkward face, “Uh, I was waiting for you guys to text me that you were done and you never—“

“Oh, (Y/n), you’ll never guess what we saw earlier!” Zoey interrupted you, taking the grocery bags from you to see what snacks you had gotten.

“Oh my gosh, you won’t,” Rumi agreed, looking at you with wide eyes.

“What?” You asked curiously, putting the groceries away as the other three separated out the snacks and junk food to take a mental list of what was there.

“Some demons,” Mira spat the word with a snarl, “decided to come after our fans by making a boy band.”

Oh that sounded too familiar to you. You froze. And then did your best to act natural. “Oh, whatttttt?” Okay stop, your voice is too high. You cleared your throat. “Really?”

None of the girls seemed to notice.

“Yeah, we’re gonna kill them tonight,” Rumi tells you. “So that means we gotta get battle ready. So, will youuuu…?”

You roll your eyes, “Yes, I’ll set out your battle outfits and make some dinner and bring it down to you guys,” You smiled indulgently at them.

“Yes! You’re the best (Y/n)!” Zoey cheered, pumping her arms in the air and throwing them around you. “And you’ll…?”

“Make you guys your pregame ramyeon? Yes, I’ll boil some water and bring it down with dinner so you can heat it while you eat.”

Rumi and Mira joined in the feral food cheering as the three made their way to the elevator.

“Yes!”

“Thank you, (Y/n), you’re the best!”

“Thank you, best sister ever in the entire universe!”

Sigh. Same routine as usual. They always took a few hours to get battle ready so you decided to go get their battle outfits down from the closet and make sure all the accessories and pieces were in place. And also set out some makeup and nail polishes that would suit their complexions and preferences while complimenting the black leather style.

After that, you started making dinner. Sometimes you felt more like an unappreciated housewife than the sister of an idol.

“Let’s go kill these guys.”

And, also like usual, you grabbed your backpack of first aid supplies and followed after them like a groupie.

To be honest, you really didn’t want to be doing this. They seemed nice back at their performance! They were just performing, singing their cute little soda pop song! And they were so nice to you too! Well… they were very flirty and that might have been because you were part of their target audience as a girl. But it was still very flattering!

Shaking your head, you remembered what they had said at the end of their performance, they were going on ‘Play Games With Us!’ right? You could probably watch it on your phone.

You struggled not to burst out laughing as the video streamed, they were all in baby high chairs with bibs with their names on them, in a hot sauce drinking competition! Baby was happily kicking his feet but everyone else looked like they were dying!

“(Y/n), come on!” A whisper-shout came from up ahead, they were holding the studio door open.

“Coming!” You shoved your phone in your pocket and jogged into the studio to join them. The four of you crouched in the sidelines of the studio, out of sight of the audience. And wow, it was even funnier to see in person.

“Once they come off the stage, we’ll jump down for the attack, and these boys’ll be…”

“Done, done, done,” the three snickered with gremlin smiles, sneaking away to get higher ground. Rumi turned to you as if she forgot you were there, “Oh, (Y/n), stay here out of sight or outside the studio, just in case. Okay?” She left.

“Yeah, okay…” It wasn’t like you couldn’t fight, you went through all the same training as Mira, Zoey, and Rumi. But the three often treated you like a helpless maiden when you went with them for demon hunts.

You turned your attention back to the stage, crouching in the shadows behind the backdrop of the set as one by one, the boys dropped out of the spicy challenge until it was just one of the hosts and Baby.

“It’s a dead heat between my handsome co-host and Baby Saja!” Baby was still sipping away at his bottle of hot sauce like it was just milk, content as can be. “Can our host catch up?”

Nope. He was red in the face and his eyes were crying. He gave up with a pop and a cry of, “So spicy! So spicy!”

The man collapsed forward. “No he can’t! Baby Saja is the winner!”

Baby pulled the empty bottle from his mouth with a pop, a nonchalant, almost bored look on his face, “Goo goo, ga ga.”

You had to slap a hand over your face to keep from laughing. ‘Oh my gosh! Spice KINGGGG! Iconic.’ In some way, that was hot in a way more than the spice itself. It was almost dorky in some way. It was… humanizing to see the so-called demon boys like this as they cheered for their maknae.

The segment was coming to an end and the host was starting to say the goodbyes when Jinu took the mic. You froze like a rabbit as he suddenly introduced Huntr/x as some surprise guests, a spotlight shining on the girls who peaked over the top of the set. You slapped a hand on your face, ‘girlssssss… how can you be so obvious…?’

It was really unfortunate when the leather of their outfits didn’t agree with the slide, making a slow, screeching descent as the crowd groaned. You and the boys had matching grimaces of second hand embarrassment on your faces…

And then they were trying to wrap it up and the Saja Boys were playing the bigger people by being respectful and humble, bowing to the girls, “It was truly an honor to share the stage with you.”

Seeing the positive reaction of the crowd, the girls tried to outdo them by bowing lower, “Oh no, the honor is ours.”

And then it turned into a bowing competition. You couldn’t help but widen your eyes at the boys, ‘These men were basically folded in half!!! Wow. Demon boys are really flexible…’ You slapped your face at the mental implications of that thought. And in the realization of the view you had of the boys from this angle. Wow…

Distracted by your mental embarrassment, you didn’t realize the curtains were closing and the boys were making their escape until a hand slapped over your mouth and arms were carrying you away.

Looking up, you saw that it was Romance, who gave you a sly smirk and a charming wink, “Hello there, sweetheart~” he cooed.

“Nice to see you again~” Jinu cooed as well, a mischievous grin.

‘WAIT! Did this mean they remembered you from earlier?! And was that Baby on Mystery’s back…?’

That kind of attention could go straight to a girl's head if she let it. Or her heart…

And now she was in some bath house. A men’s bathhouse to be specific. Absolutely done with your current situation, you couldn’t help but go limp in Romance’s arms, staring up at the ceiling of the bathhouse flatly. Why is this your life? Being kidnapped by hot demon boys?

“Awww, don’t worry pretty girl, we’ll give you back to your sister in a minute,” Jinu teased with a smirk as the boys took their positions for a dramatic encounter with Huntr/x. You couldn’t help but blush at the cute pet name. He called you pretttyyyyyyy…

And then the girls arrived.

Yadda yadda, followed them into the bathhouse, yadda yadda, simps for Abby’s abs, yadda yadda, stealing fans, clever evil snark, battle.

“Oh, don’t forget to protect your sister, too!” Jinu yelled and nodded at Romance, and then you were being thrown in the air towards a group of water demons.

‘Did this jerk really just throw you!?’

“Hey!” You twisted, landing on your feet and using the momentum to spin and launch yourself back at the boys, ducking and twisting easily between reaching demon limbs, “I am not. A. DAMSEL!”

Abs kinda shrieked in surprise, which was adorkable, and the boys took off while the girls with actual weapons started killing water demons. Jinu almost slipped on a puddle while making his dramatic exit which was also adorkable but now wasn’t the time for giggling at cute, evil boy antics.

Jinu was gremlin laughing cheerfully as you ran after them, your sister joining you in the chase and quickly overtaking you, slashing at Jinu. The two ended up detouring into a room in their fight and you kept going after the other four.

“I knew idol fans were crazy but I didn’t think it was this bad!” Abby called back to you with a smirk and you growled, your frustration giving you a burst of speed.

You leapt and ended up tackling Baby, causing Mystery to stop and come back with a protective snarl.

“I am not a psycho fan! I’m just trying to do my part!”

You twisted, having to let go of Baby as Mystery made a grab for you with his clawed hands. “And we’re just doing ours,” Romance was apparently joining the fight. It may have been a mistake going after the maknae of the group, it always drove the protective instincts of the rest of the group up the wall…

Leaping, twisting, kicking, punching, it was all you could do to protect yourself and try to keep them from running away until the other girls could catch up with the actual fire power.

“Do you own any shirts that actually fit or do you always shop two sizes too small?!” You couldn’t help but ask Abby as his abs flashed you before you kicked them.

“If it bothers you so much then stop looking, babe!” He smirks, twisting around Baby as the maknae swiped at you.

“Less flirting, more fighting,” the maknae drawled lazily. Your face flushed. From anger or being flustered, who knew. You knew…

“Not flirting!” You denied strongly, ducking under a high kick from Romance before jumping over a low swipe of the legs from Mystery.

“Awww, but I didn’t get a chance to flirt with her,” Romance whined. The four started moving faster, working more in synchrony as you struggled to keep up with all four of them at once.

You yelped when Abby and Mystery’s nails caught in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, the soft fabric tearing easily to reveal your arms. Panicked, you looked down and yeah. There they were. Your patterns. Your ugly, disgusting, demonic pattern.

When you were little, you used to use markers to color the space between them and make doodles on your skin out of the jagged lines until Aunt Celine caught you and berated you. She disciplined you so badly that you never even thought of doing it again.

And now they were on display. In front of four demons no less.

You hugged your arms, trying in vain to cover them, looking up at them. Their fight stances had loosened in surprise, their eyes darting across your arms to take in the darkening lines.

“Demon pattern…?”

You took a step back, terrified. They’ll tell Jinu and then they’ll tell Mira and Zoey and then the world and no one will ever accept you again. Mira and Zoey may accept Rumi as a fellow huntress but you? You who doesn’t matter? You who can only help with clothes and visuals? They’ll kill you in a second.

Having to pick between running and hiding or staying and keeping them from escaping?

You chose to run. Run back to the apartment by yourself to hide your skin.

And you didn’t notice how a foot took a step after you, a hand half raised to reach out to you, a lingering unreadable look as eyes followed you, a mouth partially opened to call after you.

Four demon boys left to question what just happened.

Outtake:

Huntr/x: “Can you believe it?! A demon boy band?!

You: “Yeah, it sounds like a good concept.”

Huntr/x: “… What…?”

You: “Yeah, hot demon guys coming for your soul? Fans are rabid for that kind of dark mystery. They’d sell their soul in an instant.”

Huntr/x: “…”

Tag List:

@brights-place @cultish-corner @enerofairy @mama-m1na @shynotded @shadowmoonlight0604 @omgsuperstarg @itmechaosartist @reni502 @chin-chii @akariis4snowball @gremlinartstudio

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spikedfearn · 2 months ago

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As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

#for the sub!remmick nation #sainted by spit #1300 years of celibacy destroyed by (1) act of service #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #jack o'connell

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