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saintobio · 10 months ago

Text

sincerely yours. (12)

↳ gojou satoru/reader

when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.

genre. heavy angst, amnesia, modern au, 18+

tags/warnings. depression, mentions of cheating, trauma, implied suicide attempt, toxic relationships, illnesses

notes. 11k wc. finally. i wrote this with only one eye open so please don't mind the inconsistencies, i'm trying my best to tie any loose ends before we reach the ending. if the writing feels rushed, it’s bcos i’m just ready to wrap up this series ��

series masterlist -> episode thirteen

You thought everything that had happened last night was just a dream.

Because you had gotten used to the constant disappointments and vicissitudes of your life, sharing such domestic bliss with the person you loved had started to feel far-fetched for you. It had become an unachievable fantasy, a colorful delusion created by your mind to conceal the actual darkness of pain that surrounded it.

But as you opened your eyes that morning, the familiar warmth of a sleeping Satoru’s embrace was the reality you never saw coming. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the comfort of his arms around you, it all felt surreal—like a fragile dream teetering on the edge of shattering. You wondered if it would be okay to stay here for now. To forget about the rest of the damn world and remain in his arms, staring at his beautiful saintly face, listening to his slow and steady heartbeat.

When Satoru stirred from his sleep, you knew your daydream was over. But he was pulling you dangerously close with arms wrapped around your frame and his lips pressed against your forehead. He was only half-awake, it seemed. His long white lashes reminded you of Sachiro’s as you watched him mumble incoherent words from his sleep, something along the lines of, ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Akemi’.

That was your cue to pull yourself away from him. With guilt now coursing through your body, you sat up from bed and covered your naked body with the duvet. Akemi. You had completely abandoned the thought of Akemi last night, and now you were here in bed with ‘supposedly’ her man. As much as your heart was in bliss from last night’s events, the dark and cold reality was that you slept with a man who wasn’t yours. It was a principle you told yourself you would never cross, but everything concerning Satoru Gojou seemed to be bringing you to that.

“Satoru, hey.” Your voice almost came out as a plea as you shook his arm, your guilt eating at you with every minute that passed. “Wake up.”

His eyelashes fluttered as he struggled to open his eyes, blinded by the sunlight that gleamed through the window as he stretched his arms and looked at you. “Y/N?” he softly whispered, a hand tenderly placed on your back as he scooted closer. “What’s wrong?”

Slight disbelief blanketed your gaze. “You think this isn’t wrong?”

Satoru let out a sigh of exasperation, pulling his head back, and covering his eyes with a hand as if last night’s events played through his mind scene to scene. He was obviously caught in a mindwreck thinking about the girl he had just cheated on. “It shouldn’t be,” he mumbled, “But it feels like it.”

“So you do regret it,” you laughed at your own words, internally in pain.

“I didn’t say that.” He finally pulled himself back up, sitting as he pulled you towards him. “Y/N, if we really thought last night was wrong, we would have stopped after the first time.” He shook his head at the irony. “Look, it’s on me, alright? I put you in this situation.”

“And I allowed it,” you argued, “I allowed it, Satoru. It makes me feel dirty. I feel like, like I’m wrecking someone else’s home. It’s not me.”

Satoru held his breath, a look of hesitation dawning on his face as he realized that this wasn’t just a dream of his. It was pure and raw reality that he had made a mistake that he could never undo. While thinking it through, he rubbed his eyes and sat up, leaning against the headboard as he assessed the situation. Then, he looked at you, his expression softening as he spoke, “No, not your fault. It’s just complicated,” he insisted, “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who owes ‘Kemi an apology.”

Each time you heard her nickname from him was a punch to your gut. And each silent cuss that left his lips was an arrow to your heart. So you put it on yourself to accept his reaction. “It’s okay. You can be honest and say last night was a mistake.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t say that,” he replied quickly, reaching out to take your hand.

But you already stood up from the bed, clutching the duvet around your body like a shield against the encroaching chill. Your throat felt tight, and tears threatened to spill, but you fought to keep them at bay. Satoru’s gaze followed you with an expression of helplessness, as if he was struggling to bridge the gap between his rights and wrongs.

As you turned to face him, a knot of frustration and heartache tangled within you. “So, what now?” you asked, trying your hardest to keep your composure. “How are we gonna fix this, Satoru? How?”

Before he could answer, the door to the cabin suddenly burst open, and Akemi stood in the doorway with her eyes wide with shock and fury. The confrontation followed as soon as she caught you in a compromising position with Satoru, and the words she uttered next were ones you least expected from her.

“You’re a hypocrite! You’ve become the person you despised the most when you were married.”

“You’re no better than Sera! And that’s why you’re miserable, and you’ll forever be miserable! If this is your way of getting back at me..”

“Then jokes on you, because Satoru will never be faithful to you. He’ll keep cheating on you, just like he did now with me! You two belong in that cycle!”

You felt like an outsider in your own heartbreak, the confrontation intensifying as you tried to process the bitter truth in silence. All you could do was stand there and cry. Even Satoru’s attempts to placate Akemi were futile as her anger only seemed to grow. The more her eyes danced back and forth between you and her lover, the more she wanted to destroy everything in her path.

Satoru’s face was indiscernible from where you stood. “Akemi, please, just listen—”

Akemi, however, was already turning on her heel and storming back into her cabin while eliciting loud, muffled sobs. Your chest tightened with sorrow and shame. Complete, utter shame of doing this to another woman. How could you even correct a situation like this? How could you pick yourself back up after you just trampled on another woman’s feelings because of your actions?

Satoru, like you, hesitated on his next move, his eyes meeting yours with a look of anguish. “I need to talk to her, Y/N. I’ll be back.”

Without waiting for your response, he already bolted after her, leaving you alone in a quiet, pathetic state. The door slammed behind him, the sound reverberating through the cabin like thunder in a heavy storm.

You didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to face everyone, didn’t have the guts to even talk to Shoko and Suguru who now both have to deal with such scandals. You were too ashamed of yourself, as if your femininity had been stripped off its rights after you slept with the man you swore you would never get back with.

“I didn’t mean it,” you could only silently whisper your laments, pacing around your cabin while swallowing the weakness that tried to escape. “I hate this.”

The minutes dragged on, and each second stretched into an eternity as you waited for Satoru’s return. For now, you sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, wondering what excuse he was telling Akemi, and what actions he would do to try and calm her down. Did he kiss her, perhaps? Did he cup her face and tell her that you were nothing but a mistake? What was taking him so long? Or were they doing things to try and erase the same deeds you two did last night?

The cacophony of voices and commotion from outside the cabin grew louder, and your curiosity led you to open your door, meeting the eyes of one of the hotel staff who sent you a look full of judgment.

“Where’s…” you hesitated if she was the right person to ask, “Where’s Satoru? Would you know?”

“Oh, ma’am. He already left the hotel half an hour ago… with Miss Akemi.”

Her answer hit you hard like a truck on a highway. And your heart dropped as you realized who became The Fool in these deck of cards. Satoru had not only run off after Akemi, but had also left you behind without a word.

The room felt colder now, the once-intimate sanctuary you shared with your ex-husband now a prison of your own grief. Even the familiar warmth of the bed seemed like a distant memory as you approached it, your body trembling as you thought of how you were treated like a dirty rag, thrown away after being used over and over again.

With a soft, choked sob, you collapsed onto the bed, the duvet still a tangled mess from earlier. And your emotions, so tightly restrained, finally broke free. You pulled the blanket around you as if it could shield you from the crushing pain. The betrayal, the sense of being discarded for another—it all converged into a torrent of anguish. All you could do was cling to the duvet as if it were the only anchor in a stormy sea.

——

Returning home didn’t make the situation any better.

Although you tried to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be waiting on Satoru to contact you, you still found yourself checking your phone multiple times a day. Each second that passed without hearing from him was another stab to your heart. But it shouldn’t feel like that. It shouldn’t, not when Satoru clearly made his choice of choosing yet another woman over you.

Of course, you knew what you did was wrong. In everyone’s eyes, sleeping with someone else’s man was unforgivable. There was no excuse, no way to justify your actions. Even if some people might side with you, saying you owed no one loyalty, it didn’t change how you felt about the whole situation. And that was because you remembered all too well the pain of being cheated on, and letting another woman endure the same heartbreak and betrayal was a weight on your conscience that you couldn’t ignore.

Sighing, you turned to the left side of the bed and saw Sachiro sleeping peacefully, clutching his favorite starfish plushie in his tiny arms. The thought of losing your son was unbearable, especially when he was your only source of calm amid the chaos that surrounded you. Caring for him was your solace, and his innocent presence served as a band-aid for your wounded heart. The most heart-wrenching part of this was knowing you couldn’t even repay him for the stability he brought you. Sachiro deserved a complete family to enrich his life, yet you—as his own biological mother—were unable to give him that.

“Sleep tight, Sachi.” You lightly stroked his white hair before planting a soft kiss on his cheek. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

The past few weeks had been a blur of emotions, work, and parenting—with each day blending into the next like a tornado of dull colors. You still hadn’t heard from Satoru, but the days of waiting and checking your phone for any notification from him did gradually stop. The only thing that didn’t stop replaying in your head like a broken record was the cabin incident, the very night that drew all these overthinking in your mind and in your heart.

Returning to work did provide some distraction, but it didn’t take away the sting. It also didn’t help that your staff noticed the change in your demeanor, and how distracted you often were during your meetings and warehouse visits. Even Nobara was worried about how absentminded you had become, but you brushed off all their concerns with a forced smile. After all, staying at home would do you worse than being at work.

Now, you were back in your office, and the soft knock on the door cut you off from your trance. It was Yuki peeking through the small opening on your door, her usual professional demeanor softened by a concerned expression. “Hey, Y/N. Do you have a minute?” she asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

You nodded, trying to muster a smile. “Sure, Yuki. What’s up?”

“I wanted to check in on you,” she began, taking a seat opposite your desk, “If you need to extend your vacation, please, by all means, go ahead. It’s off-season, anyway. I’ll take care of everything here while you’re focusing on yourself.”

That wasn’t really a good idea. And you shouldn’t be slacking off work when this very fashion house you establish used to be your passion, not your job. Yet here you were, losing all the inspiration to even run a business. “I don’t know if I have the energy for anything else right now.”

“Well, if you’re too worried about leaving work,” Yuki continued, her tone shifting to a more business-like note, “the progress we’ve made with Hearte is looking really promising. The new collection is getting great feedback, and our upcoming showcase is shaping up well. We’re on track for a strong quarter.”

“All because of you, Yuki.” A spark of gratitude appeared on your face. “Thanks for the update. It’s good to know things are moving in the right direction.”

She then stood up and gave you a reassuring smile. “I’m here if you need anything, Y/N. But seriously, take some time for yourself. You deserve it.”

On that same evening, you came home to your father’s mansion, and the first thing that greeted you when you entered the foyer was Gen sitting by the living room. And needless to say, her expression was a mix of concern and frustration as if she had been waiting for you to return. You weren’t really in the mood to have some back-and-forths with her, but you also didn’t like how she dropped her phone on the table and crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing at you like she was a mother who could scold you like a child.

“I’m not even gonna say anything at this point, but did you really do it with him?” Gen’s voice was low, but the disappointment was palpable. You could feel it from a few meters away.

“What are you talking about?” you bit back, your already-terrible mood swings shifting into an unhealthy direction.

Gen responded by pointing at her phone, gesturing for you to take a look at whatever’s on it. Reluctantly, you grabbed the device, and as you were scrolling through the screen, you stumbled upon a blind item circulating on social media. The words were vague but pointed, hinting at a scandalous encounter between two ex-spouses, both of whom were well-known figures. Great. Your heart stopped as you realized that the article was very much about you and Gojou.

The online comments were brutal, not like you weren’t used to anonymous harassment anyway, but these ones were full of speculating and judging without knowing the full story. Everyone also seemed to be siding with “Ms. A” instead of you as though the person behind the article was clearly trying to paint you as the villain. It was written for the purpose of destroying your reputation rather than any regular exposé, and whoever wrote it was definitely someone who disliked you.

Your shoulders slumped as you scrolled through hate comment after hate comment, a seemingly endless vitriol for someone they didn’t even know, and avoided your sister’s gaze knowing full well that seeing her expression would only make you feel worse.

“Is it true?” your sister asked like there was even an ounce of chance that it was simply a rumor. Unfortunately, it was anything but.

Sliding her phone back on the coffee table, you drew in a deep breath. “I can’t undo it, Gen. It happened.”

“So, you did sleep with him? Am I hearing this right?” Gen sighed, rubbing her temples. “Do you have any idea what this could do to you? To Sachiro? People are ruthless, and now this blind item is all over the place and they’re targeting you like a punching bag!”

Your mouth felt heavy, as if it was weighed down by an invisible burden, making it difficult to form words or speak. And before you could think of a response, Ian became your temporary savior as he walked in with a calm but serious mien. “I’ve seen the post,” he said, holding up his phone. “It’s clearly defamatory, and we can take legal action. I’ll handle it.”

Even though Ian was a man of remarkable phlegm, you remained abashed, knowing that everyone’s feasting at the juicy rumor that you slept with your ex-husband. Yet, the only thing you could do was to put on a front. To save face. To act like someone you’re not. “Thank you, Ian. I’d appreciate that.”

Anticipating another lecture from Gen about Satoru, you began retreating to your room with your footsteps bouncing desperately on the grand staircase. This conversation was done. You just weren’t there to hear it anymore. However, as you climbed the stairs with a vacant mind, you could still hear your sister calling out to you.

“Y/N!” she called, her voice now tinged with concern. “I’m not going to give you a hard time. We can sort this issue out. Maturely.”

“I’m good.” Sorry, Gen. It was the anxious-avoidant side of you speaking. You didn’t want to discuss such a sensitive situation to anyone, even with your sister, because you weren’t ready to face all the negativity it would put you through. You were already dealing with enough, and going through yet another emotional turmoil might actually put you to your deathbed at this point.

So, for now, isolating yourself from the world was the best choice.

And as soon as you entered your room, you saw Sachiro’s nanny tucking him into bed. All your worries and self-destructive thoughts vanished in an instant the moment you looked at your son. It was like the heavens gave you your personal angel, a cute little cherub who brought nothing but light and happiness to your life. He was your sunshine, your shooting star, your bundle of joy. Nothing in this world could erase the pessimist in you than little Sachiro.

“I got it from here.” You thanked the nanny and asked her to close the door before quickly joining your son in bed, wrapping him in a warm, comforting hug—more for your own comfort than his.

“Mama?” he asked, his voice unusually raspy, and his chest rising and falling heavily. “I mwiss you, mama!”

You pressed your lips onto his forehead. “I miss you too, my baby. How was daycare today?”

He seemed to struggle to speak too, but Sachiro still did his best to recount his day while he was trying to catch air in between his sentences. “Teacher ask Sachi to go home, mama. Sachi is tired.”

“Baby, are you okay? Are you sick?” Now, your motherly instincts kicked in immediately. You could tell something was wrong, so you reached for a thermometer from the bedside drawer to check his temperature, and listened to his breathing at the same time. “What happened to Sachi? Do you want Mommy to take you to the hospital?”

Sachiro shook his head and gave you a sleepy smile. “No, mama. Sachi is just sweepy.”

When the thermometer beeped, you were relieved to see that his temperature was normal. “Are you having trouble breathing, my sweetheart?” You looked into his droopy eyes and gently placed your hand on his chest.

Once again, Sachiro shook his head. Maybe you were just overthinking. He often ran around the house or played in the bathtub before bed, which could explain why he seemed out of breath. It wasn’t the first time it happened.

“Okay, Sachi. Go to sleep now. Close your eyes, baby.”

“Night night, mama.”

For now, you turned off the night lamp, and headed to the bathroom in silent and careful steps. It was quiet enough indeed, but in your head was an awful noise you couldn’t escape. And stepping into the shower only increased the warfare in your mind, as it immediately brought images of Satoru and Akemi back in the cabin, the harsh comments from the article, and the lack of contact from your ex-husband which all overwhelmed you at once. By now, he would have already seen that article. Nanami or Miwa might have already alerted him about it. But the fact that he said nothing, the fact that he let the public scrutinize you, destroy you with such vile, hurtful words behind their screens brought you a kind of pain that you wouldn’t wish upon anyone else.

Because if it was Akemi in that position, he would have defended her in a heartbeat.

So in your silence, under the cascading water of the shower, you let the tears flow—its warmth distinguishable compared to the cold droplets falling on you. If only you had successfully drowned yourself that night at the lake. If only Satoru didn’t pull you back in, none of this would have happened.

That moment was deeply poignant to you, and you saw him in a new light you thought you would never see again because of the darkness of your past. Yet, with the events that followed your special moment, memories eventually turned into spite. Your sweet exchange twisted into something bitter. Looking back at that time when he kissed you at the lake now made you feel nauseous and hollow inside, with bile forming on your throat and threatening to be retched.

The most gut-wrenching part about this was the fact that there wasn’t anyone left who could rescue you from this abyss of heartache anymore.

——

There had been a sense of detachment in your emotions in the following days that passed, almost as though they belonged to a stranger inhabiting your body. Toji, the only person who comforted you at times like these, was no longer by your side to fulfill the warmth you once desperately sought, and now you were alone to face this cruel, mind-numbing battle all by yourself. It was you against the world. You against the entire populace inhabiting this living hell. And with that many enemies against one, how could you win?

It was quite funny, actually, that your humor took a surprising turn when you thought of how Sera must have felt when it was revealed to the public that she was Satoru’s mistress. The irony didn’t even stop at your thoughts alone, it manifested itself outside Hearte’s headquarters, wearing a pink puffer jacket and a white prairie skirt.

“Sera?” you blurted out her name in wonder, nonplussed as you got out of the car to approach her.

“Hey, Y/N.” She offered a casual smile while carrying an air of sophistication around her. That wasn’t the only thing that changed about Sera. Her hair was also shorter than the last you saw her, her face now sporting a more natural makeup, and her outfit a more modest yet classy choice. It was no longer the Sera who tried hard to fit in amongst the upper echelon of society, but a Sera who seemed to be satisfied at her current standing in life.

What an awkward encounter. Was her presence your hypocritical reminder for sleeping with Satoru behind Akemi’s back?

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

And she answered with, “I read about what happened. You know, the thing on the internet.” She took a moment to pause, probably trying to choose the right words to say to her previous adversary. Because in a way, you two weren’t exactly friends. And you were no longer rivals either. Satoru was the only common denominator here, and Sera proved her exact sentiments about him by saying, “I just wanted to let you know that I understand your side. It’s a tough situation.”

You looked at her, searching for any hint of insincerity, but found none. “You were once on my spot,” you pointed out and gauged whether or not she would take the bait. For all you know, she could be putting on an act. “I’m assuming you’re here to rub it in my face how much of a hypocrite I am.”

“No, that’s not it.” Sera was vehemently denying any malice on her intentions, and was instead trying to show you the sympathy of a woman who was once caught in the same predicament. “Look, I know it’s weird that I’m here out of all people. But the truth is, I just had to let you know that someone’s on your side. I’ve met the girl, okay? That… whoever she is. I don’t remember her name, and I hate having to pit two women against each other, but I’m telling you it’s about time you cut Satoru off your life. Completely. She doesn’t look like someone who’d easily let go. You’re just gonna suffer, Y/N.”

Perhaps three years was too far back in your life and that tables could turn in a direction that you didn’t expect, as you could recall fragments of memories from when your only dilemma was dealing with Satoru and Sera in your marriage. She used to be besotted with your ex-husband back then. But now, it wasn’t until you heard the way she spoke about him that you realized she must be harboring a grudge deeper than you had imagined. After all, he did ruin her life in ways you couldn’t imagine. And her advice, though unsolicited, made sense. Because you could understand where she was going with it. You could see the true intentions clearly conveyed by her face.

The only problem here was that you didn’t have it in your heart to agree with her. You were too much of an empathic person to be taking sides, even if the supposed villain in this painting was the ex-husband who, time and time again, hurt you. Your heart stubbornly cared for Satoru deep down, and your wifely instinct of defending him no matter how poorly he acted had always been there. No one could hate Satoru more than you did, that was true, but you also weren’t very accepting of hearing others describe him as this ruthless, cheating bastard.

That was the reason why talking to Gen had eventually exhausted you. Because no one knew the real Satoru Gojou behind his facade of an irresponsible and reckless husband.

“Now that you’re here…” The idea to redirect the conversation to another topic struck you, unwilling to engage in a conversation that pushed Satoru in a bad light. “Would you be interested in being a model for our upcoming campaign? We’re launching a new collection, and I think you’d be perfect.”

Sera’s eyes were an amalgam of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I mean… I’d love to, but why so sudden?”

“You have the face for it.” You shrugged, but still sent a smile her way. “Are you working right now? If not, this could open doors for you to be discovered by modeling agencies. I’m closely tied with them since I work in the fashion industry, so I can do a few calls if you want.”

“Hold on, I’m—” Sera touched her head, laughing as if she were dreaming this conversation. “Y/N, you’re doing too much here. I mean, I’d obviously love that, but wouldn’t it be awkward? People know me as your ex-husband’s mistress, and if they recognize me in Hearte ads, I’m sure as hell those fuck ass netizens won’t stop talking about it.”

She had a point, a very good point, but then again, your suggestion was only brought up because you had to change the topic. “Well, it’s just an offer to consider in the future.”

“And I appreciate you always extending a hand to help me even if I did you wrong in the past,” she said, feelings of shame lacing her voice. “I haven’t forgotten about what you did for my brother, that’s why I’m here. I’m not your enemy anymore, Y/N.”

Just then, the roaring engine of a classic red Ferrari pulled up to the curb, interrupting the unexpected conversation you were having with your ex-husband’s former mistress. The window rolled down to reveal a pink-haired man whom you recognized as Ryomen Sukuna, an up and coming tech mogul, that Toji had mentioned about many times before. His eyes were only on one woman alone, and it wasn’t you. “Ready to go, babe?”

Honestly, good for Sera. No wonder her aura had become different. They seemed to be in a stable committed relationship, something that you could only ever dream about. If karma was truly real, this was the perfect example for it.

In the back seat, you spotted a younger boy who looked exactly like Sukuna and, surprisingly, Megumi, the son of your ex-fiancé. Really? How many more people were you going to ‘coincidentally’ run into today?

“Hello, miss!” the other boy called out cheerfully, while Megumi offered a polite nod. You replied with a wave, feeling a small sense of normalcy in their innocent presence.

“I gotta get going, Y/N,” excused Sera, gesturing a civil goodbye.

But as she moved to get into the car, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A single glance at the screen made your heart drop. It was a call from the hospital.

“Hello?” you answered almost immediately, pressing the phone on your ears with a tight push.

“Ms. Y/N, this is the hospital. Your son, Sachiro Gojou, is in the ICU. We need you to come as soon as possible.”

Your stomach contracted into a tight ball as you stood rigid with terror. Then and there, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. “Wh-What do you mean he’s in the hospital?!” you managed to shout, swept by horripilation from the sudden news. “What happened to my son?! What’s—!”

Sera’s concerned gaze met yours as you desperately yelled into the phone, hyperventilating. Your trembling hand was threatening to drop the phone. “Y/N, is everything okay?”

“My son… I… he…,” you stammered, your voice shaky with fear and urgency. Your muscles locked in a momentary paralysis, eyes wide with astonishment, and surprise rendering you immobile. The thought of Sachiro in a critical state was about to make you faint, with the last bits of images you saw that afternoon were of Sera and her boyfriend rushing to catch you from completely falling to the ground.

——

Megumi didn’t know how to deliver the bad news.

He came home after Yuuji’s brother rushed you to the hospital, shocked by everything that happened in a span of a single day. His mind was aching from all the thinking he was doing; praying that little Sachiro will be fine, hoping that you would stay strong throughout, and lastly, wondering how he would break it to his dad that something terrible had happened.

His father wasn’t exactly the greatest man to tread this Earth, especially not after the drunken words he had ‘mistakenly’ uttered to you that night in Miami that resulted in your separation. Yes, Megumi knew every word and detail. His father told him everything just as a sober man would. Did you really think that the Toji Zen’in you knew would sputter that utter nonsense to you? That you had an empty soul. That he couldn’t be with someone like you. That you would forever be a placeholder to Megumi’s mother. Bullshit. None of those were true. His father told him that the reason he had to say those words, as piercing and trenchant as they may be, was because it was the only way he could free you from being caged in a relationship your heart didn’t genuinely want.

It was Toji’s last resort to hurt you with his words, hoping that you would wake up from your false fantasy and finally have a reason to leave a relationship with a man that wasn’t Satoru Gojou. If Megumi’s father wasn’t at the top of the list of Forbes’ richest men in Japan, he would have felt a great deal of inferiority complex over a younger man like Gojou. Not because of his looks and his riches, but because he had you. No matter what Satoru did, no matter how many times he hurt you, he was and would always be that man you wanted to be with.

Sighing, Megumi’s first task upon coming home was to check on his father’s room, only to find the dark room void of its owner. When he made his way down the grand staircase, he met an ill-spirited Naoya who was ranting to Mai about Sera flaunting Sukuna in front of his face. Megumi’s sigh was then followed by another. The drama in this house was relentless. He felt like he was exhaling endlessly, like a malfunctioning appliance.

“Where’s dad?” asked Megumi, directing her question to a more rational Maki.

The tall, green-haired girl gave him a knowing shrug. “You already know,” she said, “Drowning himself in alcohol down at the bar.”

As always.

Megumi jogged around the estate to eventually find his father at one of the wet bars near his home office. He was there, seated on a stool, his head drooping low with a glass of premium scotch in hand. How many glasses he’d had, Megumi could only hope the numbers weren't that high. But upon approaching his father, his presence was barely acknowledged as he sat on the stool next to him, suggesting that the grown man might be more inebriated than his son had expected.

“Dad,” spoke the Zen’in heir, “Dad, you good?”

Toji lifted his head up, three sheets to the wind, as a smile crept up on his scarred lips. “Son.”

“Let me take that.” Megumi grabbed a hold of the glass of scotch, sliding the strong liquor away from his father. “There’s something I ought to tell you.”

Toji stayed nonchalant, sitting upright and tapping his fingers on the counter. “What’s it about this time?” he asked. “I’ve told you, I can’t stop the elders from arranging your marriage unless you’re honest with me about someone you like. I know you have someone in mind, but you’re not saying who. Are you just shy?”

Megumi gave his father a look of exasperation. He’s rambling, he thought, frustrated with his father’s inebriated chattering. “It’s not about that. It’s about Y/N-san.”

The mention of your name was the only thing that made Toji's demeanor shift to one of genuine concern. “What happened?”

“Sachi’s in a critical condition,” the younger Zen’in went straight to the point, “Y/N-san went manic over it and fainted before we could get her to the hospital.”

Toji was quick to grab his coat and car keys, as if all the alcohol in his system had immediately evaporated. But before he could leave, Megumi caught his father’s arm and pulled him back.

“What?” said Toji, concern and urgency blanketing his gaze. “I need to be with her.”

“Do you really need to?” Megumi countered. “Dad, I know it’s not right for me to stop you in this crucial situation, but are you gonna do this every time she’s in trouble? Do you plan to do this forever? Do you plan to keep drowning yourself in alcohol thinking about her? We care for her like family, that’s true, but you and her aren’t a thing anymore. Your responsibilities in taking care of her should stop, too. You, yourself, said it’d be best if she stopped being reliant on you. Now, do yourself a favor and stop trying to be this pathetic superhero.”

The concern etching on Tojis’s face softened into a sense of realization, a sense of candidness that only someone as straightforward as his own son could evoke. Megumi had to, not because he didn’t care for you anymore, but because he had to ensure he wouldn’t lose his father over a relationship that had already ended. Toji was the only real family Megumi had left.

“Stay, dad,” he pleaded, “Please.”

Toji took a deep breath and released it in the same second. “Okay,” he softly said, ruffling his son’s hair. “I won’t leave.”

——

Why is it that you keep attracting things, places, and people that you disliked the most?

You hated hospitals, and you had spoken about it enough to make it clear how much you dreaded going to a place where your worst memories had taken root. Yet, the sterile environment seemed to beckon you, dragging you back with a new nightmare each time. It was beyond your worst fears that you would find yourself racing through the halls mere minutes after regaining consciousness, desperately trying to reach where your son was.

Please be okay. Please be okay.

Frantically, you scanned the corridors, searching for the ICU and hoping that what you had just heard was nothing more than a cruel illusion, that this was all just a nightmare. You weren’t a deeply devout person, but you did send prayers to every saint you could think of, hoping that Sachiro’s current state wasn’t in the median between life and death.

Because if you lost your son, then there was no point in living anymore. This life wouldn’t be worth enduring.

“Y/N!”

You weren’t the first one to arrive outside the pediatric ICU, with Gen and your father already being there moments before you came. You were struggling to breathe by the time you reached them, feeling your heart race with a thunderous beat. “Gen… Dad, what h-happened to him?” You couldn’t stop the weakness in your voice. “Tell me he’s fine, please. Please. My baby. If anything h-happens to him, I’m g-gonna die, Gen! I c-can’t h-have that!”

Gen quickly enveloped you in a tight embrace, trying to offer any form of comfort she could. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. Dad and I are just as shocked.” She held you closer, her voice trembling as she, too, was just as anxious as you. “Sachi refused to eat and complained about having a hard time breathing. He was so pale and his lips were blue. We knew we had to rush him to the hospital immediately.”

“Oh my God.” Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to stifle the uncontrollable cries that were escaping. The news of Sachiro developing cyanosis shattered your heart, and the crushing reality that you weren’t there to take care of him tore you apart. “My baby, no. No, no. H-He—”

“Y/N!”

Out of breath and also visibly shaken was the father of your son, Satoru, who came running to your side the moment his eyes landed on you. Behind him was his mother, clutching a rosary in her hand as both of them were seemingly shell-shocked in the same magnitude as you and your family were. Everyone cared for Sachiro’s well-being, everyone prayed for his safety, and the thought of losing an angel like your son was a soul-crushing thought that sent you slipping into a chasm of suffering.

“Wh-What happened to Sachi?” Satoru asked in desperation, his question raised to everyone in the vicinity—you, your family, the nurses. But no one could give him a decent answer. “Please, tell me my son’s alright. Tell me.”

You watched him walk in circles, raking his fingers through his hair as if he was seeking anything to hold onto. And you, feeling that magnet that pulled you closer to him, broke away from Gen’s embrace to look at your son’s father. “Satoru…”

“Y/N,” his voice cracked as he met your gaze, “Our son.” He stopped, ready to wrap you in a hug—a moment of solace you both desperately needed in this critical time. But just as he pulled you close in a fragile attempt to find comfort together, the door to the ICU swung open, abruptly ending the brief respite.

All of you immediately rushed over to the doctor, the sterile white walls and the distant hum of hospital machinery did nothing to calm the turmoil inside you.

“Doctor, how’s he?”

“How’s my grandson, doc?”

“Doc, my son, is he okay?”

“Is he stable, doc?”

“Doctor, how’s my son, please?” you asked, your body growing tense to the point of shaking.

The doctor took a deep breath, his expression serious amidst the fusillade of questions thrown at him. “We’re currently running a series of tests on the patient. We suspect Sachiro may have congenital heart disease, specifically a ventricular septal defect with associated pulmonary hypertension.”

No, it can’t be. It’s not possible! The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You struggled to process the information, your vision blurring with tears and your heart drumming a rapid staccato inside. You didn’t need to look at everyone to know that they all, for a moment, looked at you. “Heart disease? But… how? I didn’t think—”

“Can you explain more, doc? Please.” Gojou was desperate, his bright blue eyes now dull and severely clouded with a brewing storm. It was as if he was keeping himself from crying.

The doctor continued gently, “VSD is a condition where there’s a hole in the heart’s ventricular septum. It can lead to pulmonary hypertension, which means the blood pressure in the lungs is elevated. It’s a serious condition, but we’re doing everything we can to assess the extent and provide the best treatment.”

“N-No, oh God. My baby.” You felt your knees go weak, and you sank down against the wall, with more tears cascading down your cheeks like waterfall. The weight of the diagnosis was crushing, but the hardest part was realizing that this was something you had unknowingly passed on to Sachiro. The heart disease was inherited from you and had now manifested in your beloved son.

It’s my fault. It’s my fault!

The doctor placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll keep you updated as soon as we have more information. Please, try to stay calm, Y/N. It’s not best for your heart to panic right now. Sachiro is in good hands.”

You were unable to speak through the sobs that wracked your body. The hospital corridor felt endless, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt and helplessness that consumed you. You could feel all eyes on you, judging, harboring hatred, carrying deep-rooted resentment. You were torn apart by the knowledge that the very thing you had feared most was now a reality for your son.

“It’s… It’s my fault,” you sobbed, covering your face with your quivering hands, “This is all my fault. I gave it to Sachiro, I… I’m a terrible mother!”

Gen knelt beside you, her hands gripping your shoulders with a firm yet gentle touch. “Y/N, stop it. This is not your fault. You didn’t choose this for Sachiro.”

Your father, who had been pacing anxiously nearby, joined in. “Your sister’s right. You’re blaming yourself for something beyond your control. We’re all here for you. We’ll figure this out.”

But amidst your familial exchange, Satoru stood nearby, frozen and listless. His silence only added to the overwhelming distress. Was he also blaming you for what Sachiro was going through right now? Was he also angry at you for putting his son into this critical situation?

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the commotion—voice that was equally harsh and spiteful. It was Satoru’s mother, boring her fiery eyes into your skull as she opened her mouth. “That’s right! You’re self-aware, aren’t you?” she spat and stood rigidly, arms crossed defensively over her chest. “This is all your fault. You’re such an irresponsible mother! You can’t even take care of my grandson properly, and now you’ve passed your disease onto him!”

You looked up in shock, seeing Satoru’s mother standing there with a disdainful expression. The sting of her words felt like a knife twisting in your heart, because they were true. They were painful, yes, but they were true. And all you could do was lower yourself until you were sitting on your haunches, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

“Excuse me?!” Gen stood up, her eyes blazing with anger that came from the deepest pits of hell. “You’re unbelievable, Auntie. How dare you speak to my sister like that! You have no right to blame her for this. I hope to God it was you in the ICU right now instead of Sachiro!”

“You…!”

Satoru’s mother raised a hand to slap Gen, but your father stepped forward, his face a mix of disbelief and indignation. “This is despicable. How can you stand here and say such things to someone who’s already suffering? Weren’t you friends with my wife once?”

Satoru, who had been standing still, suddenly moved with a menacing calm. His face was hard as stone, and his eyes narrowed in anger. What was scarier was him approaching his mother with a threatening stance. “Are you really this pathetic, mother?” Satoru questioned with a cold, cutting tone. “Do you get off on making Y/N suffer? Do you think you’ve gotten away with slapping her behind my back? You don’t get to blame Y/N for anything. Any fucking thing!”

His mother’s eyes widened in shock, but she tried to defend herself at the ruthless stance her son was carrying. All of you were stunned at the realization of how Satoru resembled his cruel father at that moment. “B-But Satoru, my son—”

“Shut up!” Satoru cut her off, his voice harsh and unforgiving, before he threw his cold knuckles against the hard surface of the concrete wall. “I don’t want to see your face ever again! Don’t consider yourself my mother any longer, you witch. You’ve lost that privilege.”

This took a wild turn, and hearing the brutality of Satoru’s words was like a thunderclap in the tense atmosphere. His mother’s face turned pale, her mouth opening and closing in shock as she struggled to respond.

“Get out of here,” Satoru commanded, his voice uncaring towards her. “Leave, and don’t ever come back. You’re nobody to me now.”

With that, Satoru’s mother turned and fled, stumbling down the corridor as if she was the victim in this situation. However, the tension in the air began to dissipate as soon as she left, leaving you, Satoru, Gen, and your father in a heavy silence. Only your sniffles could be heard.

Even Gen, who was often hostile around your ex-husband, had remained quiet and composed after she watched him take such drastic measures to keep his mother away.

Everyone was silent. Pure, unbothered silence until Satoru’s phone began to buzz loudly, cutting through the stillness of the hallway. For a moment, he closed his eyes, then he fished his phone out of his pocket where you caught a glimpse of the caller ID.

Akemi.

——

The ICU only allowed short visits and one person at a time, so there was no need for everyone to stay the night. You were the parent, you were the one responsible for your son’s situation, so you insisted it was best for your dad and Gen to go home and get some rest. You didn’t mind watching over your son for the whole night, because coming home without him was the last thing you would do right now.

My precious angel.

Sachiro lay in the hospital bed, his small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The doctors had managed to stabilize him for now, and the sight of his heart monitor showing a stable rhythm was a small comfort amidst the chaos.

Still, you sat by his bedside, mindful of your timed visit as your hands gently held his tiny ones, feeling the warmth of his small fingers. You glanced down at the medical report on your other hand, trying to make sense of the complex terms and figures.

The words blurred together as your tears fell silently onto the paper. “I’m sorry, baby.” He didn’t deserve this. He’s just a baby. “Mommy’s very sorry.”

You tried to stay strong, putting on a brave face for your son, but inside, you were falling apart. It was impossible not to blame yourself over this, wishing you could do more than just be present around him. This was the comeuppance of your own actions after you focused on your own emotions for the past few weeks to the point of neglecting your son’s wellbeing. If you had been more present in his life, if you had been more observant, you would have easily noticed the signs. Now, you allowed Satoru to find a flaw in your duty as a mother, and he could cite this very event as evidence to get full custody of him. That is, if he were to ever consider taking your son away from you.

But in the first place, he should be the last person to do that, because where exactly was he now?

Your thoughts kept drifting back to the earlier scene, where he excused to answer Akemi’s call, and later that night told you he had to leave and “check something” urgently. He promised he’d be back before midnight, but where was he?

Resentment began to fester within you.

You had been very perceptive of Akemi’s feelings, apologetic in the way you supposedly betrayed her, but the fact that she was still scrambling for Satoru’s attention in the midst of your son’s hospitalization was something you could never forgive her for.

And as for Sachiro’s father, how could he prioritize another woman when his own son was in such a critical state? The confusion of his actions was overwhelming. It felt like a cruel deja vu that, at a time when you needed him the most, he was choosing to be elsewhere. You could accept it if it was a choice between you and another woman, but between his son and her? His behavior was unacceptable, disgusting even, and it only served to deepen your grudge against him.

You clenched your fists, trying to push away the surge of anger that threatened to consume you after seeing that the disparity in his actions felt like both a betrayal and a slap to the face. Your poor son. You stared at Sachiro’s peaceful face and stroked his cheek. How could Satoru be so indifferent to his own flesh and blood?

The room was silent except for the soft beeping of the heart monitor and your quiet sobs. The situation was almost too much to bear, and your resentment towards Gojou grew heavier by the second. Each minute felt like a lifetime, and the emptiness left by his absence was a constant reminder that yet again he chose another woman over his own family.

It’s okay. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. I won’t leave you, Sachi. For Sachiro’s sake, you needed to find the strength to carry on, to be the mother he needed in this moment of crisis and never again failing to be there for your only child.

At exactly 10:30 pm, the nurse came in and told you visiting hours were over. You complied.

At 11:00 pm, Ian paid you a quick visit and talked to the nurses, perhaps giving them reminders to look after you.

At 12:00 am, you were alone again. Seated at one of the benches outside the ICU—sleepless, starving, and nauseous.

At 2:00 am, you remained in your seat despite the sterile smell of antiseptic mingling with your own discomfort. The flickering fluorescent lights above did little to help you get some proper sleep. The cold air-conditioning alao made you shiver slightly, hugging your own body to try and give yourself some warmth.

At 4:00 am, you awakened from the noise of the movements beside you. Realizing you had fallen asleep, you looked up and saw Satoru taking a seat to your left. His coat was draped over his arm, and he offered it to you.

“Are you cold?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, but you could see the bags under his eyes suggesting the sleepless nights he’d had for the past few days. “You can use my coat.”

You took the coat, but as you caught a whiff of it, a familiar scent of Akemi’s perfume lingered. Rose Prick by Tom Ford. It was a scent you’d come to recognize after your years of being her best friend, and it made your stomach turn slightly. Without any hesitation, you handed the coat back to him. “No, thank you. I’m fine,” you replied, avoiding his gaze. Looking into his eyes was the last thing you would do.

And you knew Satoru was sighing, but didn’t press the issue. “The nurse mentioned you haven’t eaten today.” He pulled out a small bag of assorted fruits, placing it gently on the seat between you. You eyed the offerings, feeling a pang of hunger but also a strange aversion. “I bought some fruit. Is there anything you like?”

You took a deep breath and broke the silence with a hint of sarcasm. “You’re really good at this, huh?”

“At what?” was his immediate question, puzzled.

“Hitting two birds with one stone.”

“Y/N…”

“Stop trying to take care of me,” you interrupted, your tone sharper than intended. “ I don’t need it.”

“But—”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You can’t even be here for Sachi. You can’t even choose your son. He’s in a life and death situation and we’re still only receiving scraps of your attention.” It was the deep-seated grudge spilling out of you. “You’re so good at abandoning people, huh? Even though that’s what you hate the most. You’re so good at disappearing without even a text or call to check on me and our son. After that night at the cabin, you just…” you paused, realizing that you were opening too much of your heart to a man who didn’t deserve it. “Forget it. Just go home to Akemi. Live a happy life, build a family with her. Forget us. I don’t care. I’ll take care of Sachiro myself. I’ve done it for three years!”

“Y/N, I’m not trying to hurt you. I just…” Satoru fumbled for words, his somber blue eyes bearing the history of your shared heartbreak. It was as though the painful memories of your past were flooding his thoughts, seeking justification as to why he couldn’t pick you again this time. “I had to be there for her. She’s…”

You turned away before he could see your expression, because your heart was splintering at the thought of Satoru Gojou shattering it once more. As he always did. There seemed to be no end to this relentless heartbreak, as if any hope of a happy ever after with the man you loved would only return a pain that was a hundred times worse. Perhaps, this was destiny’s way of telling you that you and him weren’t meant to be. That any wishful thinking of being with Satoru again was only something that you could expect in another universe.

So, in your defense, you had to pull on a facade. A mask that you had to wear in the face of being the target of never-ending despair. “Satoru, I don’t want to talk about it,” you said firmly, concealing the raw ache in your voice with a smile. “And I don’t expect you to choose me every time. It’s okay. It’s happened before.”

“Can’t you see I’m hurting, too?” he asked, his voice breaking. Though you couldn’t see his face, the tremor in his voice revealed his struggle to hold back tears.

You couldn’t understand why he would be hurting with his decision. When faced with two crossroads, he always seemed to pick the path that led away from you. So instead of trying to comprehend his pain, you decided it was time to honor your own. For your sake. For Sachiro’s.

“Let’s just forget about that night,” you declared, wiping your eyes as you got up from your seat and prepared to walk away. “From this day forward, let’s pretend it never happened.”

——

Akemi’s apartment was dark when Satoru stepped inside.

And to be honest, the darkness was a relief. At least, she wouldn’t be able to see the lassitude etched on his face, not just from juggling his time between his son and her, but from the constant ache of hurting the person he loved.

Miscommunication is a couple’s greatest enemy, and the persistent disconnect between you two, coupled with the reluctance to clear things up, had worn Satoru down. He wanted to end this—the feeling of helplessness and the torment of seeing the woman he cared for caught in a labyrinth of despair.

The hospital visits to Sachiro alone had been a whirlwind of emotions and responsibilities, and this brief visit to Akemi felt like an unwelcome detour, but one he couldn’t avoid. Satoru knew his heart wanted to stay in the hospital with you, to wait for any updates on his son, to hold your hand and care for you, yet here he was, dragging his feet across the carpeted floors to approach Akemi.

“Hey.” She was sitting on the couch, looking frail but alert as if she had been desperately waiting on his arrival. She had recently started treatment for her stage 3 endometrial cancer, and Satoru could see the toll it was taking on her, physically and emotionally. He would be cruel to leave her hanging like this, to neglect her at her worst when she had been there by his side at his. Satoru had an unspoken accountability on her, because it wouldn’t be fair for him to just abandon her after she poured all her heart and soul into helping Gojou get back onto his own feet.

“Hey, ‘Kemi,” he said, his tone soft but distant. “Did you take your meds today?”

Akemi looked up at him, her eyes tired and heavy. “I did. I took them just like the doctor said. How’s Sachiro?”

Gojou’s expression tightened. “He’s holding steady at the moment.”

A heavy silence settled between them before Akemi broke the tension. “I’m glad he’s stable,” she said, quietly. “Are you okay?”

He nodded once, his mind already drifting back to the hospital. “Yeah. Listen, I need to head back soon. Nanami and Miwa will be alternating in looking after you from now on. They’ll make sure you’re okay while I’m dealing with Sachiro. I have to focus on my son.”

Akemi’s frail hand reached out to gently grip his arm, the other held her lower abdomen in pain. “Satoru, please don’t go just yet. Can’t you stay a little longer?”

Now’s not the time to feel guilty. It was either her or Sachiro. Her or his son. Gojou decided to pull his arm away gently, his gaze distant. “Sachiro needs me, Akemi. You know that.”

Akemi’s face fell, but she knew it would be ridiculous to argue over that. “No, I understand. I get that. I want you to focus on Sachi, too. I just wish—” Before she could finish, her voice faltered, and she looked up at him with a hesitant gaze. “Satoru, do you regret that I took you back even if you cheated on me?”

The question caught him off guard, and Satoru’s blue eyes narrowed as he processed her words. He had been so focused on his responsibilities and the immediate crisis that he hadn’t given much thought to their ‘relationship’. All he knew was when he showed up at her doorstep back at the cabin, he was only going to try and end things with her. He was only going to clarify the longstanding feelings you and him poured out to each other that night, which was why he ended up sleeping with his ex-wife. But because Akemi suffered at the time, because her pelvic pain worsened to the point of an emergency, he had to hold back and just take care of her in the weeks that passed. He was caged in this situation like a prisoner who was found guilty for the crimes he had committed.

Just be honest, Satoru. Disregard everything else and just be honest. Satoru believed it was about time he stood his ground no matter the consequences. “You can’t take me back if we’re not together, ‘Kemi,” he breathed out those words, reticent on hurting her with the truth. If she would lash out on him, throw a vase on his head, slam a book on his face—he wouldn’t mind. He was ready to accept all the violence he deserved from being an asshole. “You knew from the start that this, us, was only temporary. It was never supposed to be serious.”

Her expressions turned doleful. “Then, in that case, did you at least…” Tears welled up in her eyes as she she paused, “Did you at least love me?”

“I just… I never saw it that way, Akemi.” Satoru’s honesty would destroy her, but he didn’t want to keep on sending out false hopes. He had to be firm, and while he was grateful for everything she did for him, that doesn’t mean he owed her his life and loyalty. In the first place, he warned her that he wasn’t ready to be in a relationship. And God, he was far from ready to even settle down, yet Akemi constantly hinted at wanting to tie the knot with him. Again and again did she mention the thought of a wedding and a child and her own family.

Satoru wanted all those things too, but with another person in mind. He was only set on having those things with one woman.

Akemi’s face paled upon hearing his answer and the fact that he didn’t even bother to explain himself. “I see. I guess I needed to hear that.”

Gojou looked at her with a mix of regret and sympathy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you like this, I really do.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

It definitely wasn’t fine, but Satoru had to take her word for it as he got out from the couch and gave her a gentle pat on the head. “I have to go. Nanami will be here soon. Please make sure to follow the treatment plan and take care of yourself.”

Akemi nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “Alright. I’ll see him when he gets here.”

As Gojou turned to leave, he felt a pang of guilt twisting deep in his gut but pushed it aside. He was a father first before anything else. Sachiro would always be his first and foremost priority amongst everything else.

——

After leaving Akemi’s place, Satoru was driving his car into the evening air beyond the speed limit. And his mind was racing together with him as he thought of you, your son, and the myriad of emotions he was struggling to manage. He couldn’t wait to be home, not literally at his own place, but anywhere with you and his son was his definition of home.

It would be diabolical for him to run into your arms and yell, ‘I’m free! We can be together again!’ No, that would be cruel and disgusting. He respected Akemi just as he respected you. It was himself that he couldn’t respect, because he was the one responsible for the mess that he created. And adding Sachiro’s critical condition on top of the already festering wounds in your relationship? It truly was the manifestation of karma in his actions.

His footsteps bounced through the hospital corridors the moment he arrived, each impatient step was ready to see your face and tell you he would never leave you and Sachiro now. But as he neared the pediatric ICU, his eyes darted around, the sight of his ex-wife was nowhere to be found. And instinctively, his heart pounded in his chest, and a drum of panic seemed to warn him of a storm that was about to come. Something was off, and it scared him.

“Nurse,” he called out, his voice edged with urgency as he approached their station. “Where’s my wife? The boy’s mother?”

The nurse looked up, recognizing the infamous CEO’s face. “Uh, Mr. Gojou, she was heading to the rooftop, I think.”

“What?!” he unintentionally yelled at her face, “Why didn’t you guys keep an eye on her?”

“Sir, calm down. She’s probably going to get some fresh air.”

A cold chill ran down his spine. You were definitely not there for that.

Without another word, he sprinted towards the stairs, taking them two at a time instead of waiting at an elevator together with a group of people. He had to get to you as soon and as fast as he could without another second to waste. Although the climb felt endless, his mind racing with fear and dread was the push he needed to finally reach you.

And upon bursting through the door to the rooftop, he was met with the soft whisper of the evening wind and the heart-stopping sight of you standing perilously close to the edge.

“Y/N!” he called out, his voice breaking with desperation. “Don’t do this. Please, step back.”

You stood motionless, eyes fixed on the distant horizon, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of sorrow. “The world hates me, Satoru,” you whispered, the mellow tone of your voice carried away by the wind. “I’m a burden to everyone, even my own child. I-I just… I want to end it all.”

“No!” Satoru’s heart shattered at your words while he moved closer, his hands outstretched and careful not to startle or provoke you. He was dying to have you in his arms and keep you safe. “Y/N, please. Come back. What about Sachi? What about me? We need you. Sachiro needs you. I need you.”

What exactly made you go here? How did thoughts of ending yourself suddenly come into fruition? Was there something you discovered that brought you to this ultimatum? Gojou was desperate, utterly desperate, to hear what was running through your mind so that he could at least ease the burden that you were carrying all by yourself. He was once in the position where he wanted to commit too, and he knew the temptation that came with permanently escaping the cruelty of the world in just a single action.

“Y/N, please. Please, I’m begging. Come to me,” he rattled on in a suffocating whisper, the pleading in his voice was heavy, “Please. I love you. Only you.”

It was when you turned around that Gojou’s world collapsed, and the words you said after had shattered his entire universe.

They were still.

You.

And the wind.

“I’m pregnant,” you finally confessed, voice cracking as you looked at the faint tears that fell from Satoru’s eyes. “I don’t wanna have this baby.”

#series: sincerely yours #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojou satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo angst #gojo x reader

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kazekagevi · 10 months ago

Text

Bonds Beyond Words: If Eywa Wills It

PART ONE -- PART TWO -- PART THREE

Pairing: Aged-Up!Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Word Count: 5k

Tags: dark themes, but this chapter is actually very fluffy and silly, Lo'ak and Kiri and Spider becoming reader's besties, many attempts at comedy, eventual NSFW, aged-up! Neteyam (and Lo'ak, Spider, and Kiri), reader has PTSD, Neteyam dislikes humans (except for you), eventual jealous/possessive Neteyam, future Olo'eyktan! Neteyam, enemies-to-lovers, interspecies slow burn, angst, fluff, probably OOC, POV’s all over the place, forgive the inconsistencies.

Summary: You're not allowed to join the community until Jake Sully decides you're ready. Spider, Lo'ak, and Kiri teach you Na'vi.

A/N and Disclaimer: I tried my best to use some Navi language translators and the LearnNavi website to write this chapter, but there are bound to be language errors. I also know time works differently there. Sorry for all the inconsistencies!

This story contains explicit content and is only appropriate for audiences 18+. MDNI. Please do not repost my work.

The science shack isn’t so bad.

Your initiation begins after your first sleep that night. The next morning, Max and Norm put their research projects on hold to give you an actual, legitimate tour of the facility. The place is full of bells and whistles. Tiny buttons, translucent screens, and telecommunications. Technology is abundant; but your knowledge of how to use it is not.

“Here is the airlock control panel,” Max explains. He hovers his palm over a sensor—when it flashes sage green, the user interface appears. “Once you’re ready to interact with the community, we’ll scan your handprints and give you full clearance,” he futhers.

You’re helplessly eager. “Do you know when that will be?” you inquire.

Max presses the controller in the center of the panel. The glass door to the inner chamber slides open. You peek your head inside the airlock space—there are respirator masks for both humans and Na’vi, as well as a broom in the corner.

“I put that there,” Max says, referring to the broom. He’s stealthily ignoring your previous question. “Told Spider he needs to sweep after himself. He refuses to use the doormat outside. I think the only person who’s touched that broom has been me.”

You look at the ground. The floor of the airlock space isn’t as bad as you’d expect it to be. Admittedly, it’s filthy. There are mud stains of both human and Na’vi footprints on the vinyl floor. The size difference is jarring.

You have an idea. You smirk to yourself. “What if I cleaned this mess for him?” you offer. “I’ll sweep, then mop. I need to start pulling my weight, too.”

Max sighs. “What? So you can put on one of those masks and sneak out before the Olo'eyktan says you’re ready?”

Your expression sours. “You didn’t have to say it like that,” you reply. “I wasn’t going to sneak out,” you admit aloud. “I was going to accidentally open the front door or something with a mask conveniently in place. It’s not as deceitful that way.”

Max sighs again. “Well, I have no say in when you’re ready,” he confesses. “That decision is only Jake’s to make.”

You have no choice but to yield. Max taps the censor again. The airlock door falls shut into place.

---

It takes an entire day to simply show you how everything works. It takes two more for you to demonstrate you were paying attention and know how to use everything. The only intuitive mechanisms are the knobs to the showers and the dials on the washer and dryer.

Like in any society, the science shack has its own set of rules, regulations, and norms—quite literally, since Norm transfers between his human body and Avatar frequently. The showers are closed once every twenty-five days for necessary maintenance. Humans aren’t to leave when the Na’vi are sleeping or on significant Omatikaya holidays. Don’t talk to Max before he’s had his first coffee. Spider is supposed to sweep after himself in the airlock room. You can’t use Mia’s handleless mug, but you’re allowed to wash it if you’re extra careful.

By the end of the week, your head hurts.

You know the only way to become proficient in something, like speaking a new language or utilizing advanced technology, is to thrust yourself into it. Take the plunge—don’t fear it. Embrace the nosedive. Freefall.

So, after dinner on your seventh day, you get as close to doing that as possible. You sit on a small perch by a tiny window, nestled in a corner of the science shack. You’re hungry; for one, Norm’s cooking tastes much worse when you’re not famished, so you couldn’t force yourself to go back for seconds, let alone finish everything on your plate.

But also, you’re hungry for something else. Now that you’re safe from the RDA, you can actually consider doing what you came to Pandora to do all along. You can practically taste it.

You know Jake Sully is right. Life in the science shack is complicated enough, and you need adequate time to acclimate. But you’re starting to feel like you’re trapped.

The window allows you to see a slice of life at High Camp. You come here around the same time after a meal, just like clockwork. You haven’t seen Jake Sully since your conversation, but you’ve seen many others.

Just right now, you see a group of young women shuffle past, laughing and gossiping about who knows what. You see two kids, presumably siblings, one chasing after the other, before they’re stopped by one of the village’s elders. You see injured warriors limp towards the tsahìk’s tent. You see a woman in her homestead, weaving a basket. You feel nothing but sonder; the profound sensibility that these people are all living complex lives of their own, and you’re simply witnessing these complexities unfold right before your eyes.

You begin to recognize a few faces, like that of the shaman healer, otherwise known as the tsahìk. You also take note of which warriors visit her tent most frequently.

You routinely see a Na’vi female with short, straight jet-black hair. She tends to pass by the science shack every evening of every day, stare at the door, frown, then leave. On two occasions, your eyes met before she wandered off.

You’ve learned a few more common phrases, which Norm, Max, Spider and Mia teach you at meal times. Kaltxì is a standard greeting. Rutxe means please, and irayo means thank you. Ngafkeyk pefya? means ‘how are you?’

You also learned that the lines you recited to the Na’vi in the forest, Neteyam, were of a standard dialect. They weren’t incorrect, just slightly different from that of the Omatikaya’s. And, allegedly, your pronunciation was off.

In your extensive travels on Earth, you learned quickest when you immersed yourself in a new, unfamiliar environment. It was the rush—the thrill, the trepidation—that drove you to adapt. It was as just as you told Jake Sully: so I will.

Immersion is the only way. Norm knows this too; as an exceptional xenolinguist, he learned more from interacting with the Na’vi for a few weeks than he did from reading any book. He really understands. He wishes he had more time to help with your studies, but he must return to his work. His newest botany project is time sensitive.

As you sit by the window, you use an electronic tablet programmed with a basic flashcard feature to get yourself acquainted with the Na’vi language. It’s not particularly helpful, since spoken practice is more beneficial than anything written. You’ve been skimming some of Jake’s old journals, too. But at the time of their conception, he wrote only in English, and misspelled many Na’vi words and phrases.

The flashcards do nothing besides test your aptitude for memorization. It doesn’t help that your attention span is elsewhere, like you left it on a far, distant planet.

Everytime someone passes by the window in your peripheral vision, you have no choice but to look up and see who’s there. It’s usually another Na’vi face you’ve never seen before. You don’t realize it initially, but the more you turn your head, you’re helplessly aware that you’re looking for someone. It never is, but you’re hopeful it might be Neteyam—you still owe him for saving your life. You have an inkling however, that he’s probably avoiding this place for one reason or another. That very reason might just be yourself.

It’s obvious that this method of study is inefficient. You power off the tablet and continue people-watching with your knees tucked against your chest.

Any moment now, you know you’ll see that girl with shoulder-length hair. You want to know why she frowns, but you don’t know how to ask ‘what’s upsetting you?’ in Na’vi.

Now that you think about it, though, you’re unsure if that’s a wise idea. Even when you are allowed into the community, you know that you will have to keep a distance. Know your place. Although the humans and Na’vi residing here coexist in apparent harmony, you don’t want your presence to disrupt the peace.

There’s a quiet knock on the other side of the airlock door across the main room—it’s so faint you almost miss it.

When you sit up, you hear footsteps thudding against the vinyl flooring. You see Spider look around then over his shoulder as he approaches the door.

He begrudgingly places his hand over the scanner. He presses a button and the front of the airlock opens.

He quietly shouts something in Na’vi—skxawng. You’re not sure what this word means yet.

From your window perch, you can’t see what’s going on, but Kiri and Lo’ak enter the space through the main door. They each grab a respirator.

Spider continues to say things you don’t understand. From his tone of voice, he seems slightly agitated.

“You can’t be here,” Spider says to both of them in Na’vi. “Not until the new girl gets introduced to the community.”

Lo’ak takes a deep breath—the respirator in his hand looks so small. He’s almost as tall as his father now. As the years pass, Lo’ak just gets bigger and bigger. It makes him feel like Spider is shrinking.

“C’mon man,” Lo’ak says. “Let us in. We’ll only take a minute,” he adds, wearing a devious smirk on his face. “I uh, forgot something when I was here last?” he tries.

“Yeah, right,” Spider replies.

“Lo’ak, you’re not helping my case,” Kiri says, glaring at her older brother.

Lo’ak’s jaw drops. He scoffs at her. “You told me to come with you!”

“Yes, and it turns out you’re not helping!” Kiri hisses.

Spider groans. “Can you two just leave? I don’t want to get any flak for this.”

Kiri grits her teeth. She places both of her hands on the glass separating them. “Please, Spider. I haven’t seen Mom in forever,” she says. Her eyes water. “It hasn’t been this long since the time we lived in Awa'atlu… I miss her.”

The crease between Spider’s brows disappears. From what you can see, he looks apologetic. “Oeru txoa livu,” he says to Kiri. “But I’m not supposed to let anyone in besides your dad.”

Lo’ak’s expression falters. He looks at his feet. His ears fall flat. “You know, I haven’t seen Tsireya since we left Awa'atlu,” he says just loud enough for Spider and Kiri to hear.

Spider rubs his nose bridge. Kiri sighs and flicks his temple with her fingers. Once Lo’ak starts talking about Tsireya, he can’t stop.

While this interaction continues to transpire, you stand from your perch and tiptoe over. Your footsteps are padded by thick, cotton socks. You advance slowly, like you’re approaching a crime scene covered with caution tape.

“Lo’ak, go home and go to bed,” Kiri says, poking his chest. She then spins back around. “Spider, let me in, please.”

“I’m sorry, Kiri,” Spider replies. “You know I would if I could.”

Kiri places her hands on her hips. “You can, very easily, actually. Just press the button,” Kiri says. She points to the spot where she knows it is on the other side of the door. “It’s right there.”

Spider sighs. The crease in his brow returns when he realizes Lo’ak is suddenly smiling. “Why are you doing that?”

Lo’ak waves to you from the other side of the airlock. “Hi!” He greets you in English. “What’s your name?”

Spider jolts when he realizes you’re standing there right behind him.

Kiri gasps. Her eyes go wide—they practically sparkle when she’s excited. “I told you, I saw her!” she says to Lo’ak in Na’vi.

You smile at the male and female Na’vi before you. They seem so friendly, and the male Na’vi’s English sounds great. “Hello there,” you reply. You formally introduce yourself.

Spider presses a palm to his temple. He knows he’s going to get in trouble.

“It’s nice to meet you!” the female Na’vi says, also in English. “I’m called Kiri. And this is my older brother, Lo’ak.”

That’s his cue—Lo’ak waves again, flashing his vibrant smile.

Spider scoffs.

“My good brother here, Spider,” says Lo’ak, “this skxawng,” he adds, more quietly, “was about to let us inside.”

“I was not,” Spider protests.

“C’mon,” you say. Spider rolls his eyes—you’ve just met Lo’ak but he’s already infected you with whatever ailment he has that makes him the way that he is. At the same time, however, Spider knows it’s one of the best things about him.

“Why can’t we let them in?” you ask. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in five days.

“Exactly,” says Lo’ak. “Let us in,” he chants quietly.

“The door isn’t broken, is it?” you further, keeping a serious demeanor. “I’ll just check to make sure it works,” you tell Spider.

“Wait–”

The airlock’s inner chamber door opens, allowing Lo’ak and Kiri entry.

“Would you look at that,” you profess. “I know how the door works.”

Lo’ak chuckles as he strolls inside like he owns the place. Kiri rushes past the three of you, making a beeline for the large container in the middle of the main room. She presses her palms against the glass and whispers to the Avatar stuck inside. Your brows furrow in confusion.

“You were right,” Lo’ak mutters to Spider in English. “She is short, even for a human.”

Your jaw goes slack. A surprised chuckle falls from your lips. “If you call Spider skxawng, then what are you?” you can’t help but retort.

He grins. “If there was a clan of a hundred skxawng’s,” Lo’ak says, “they would have no choice but to make me their leader.”

You laugh again—harder than you were expecting to. This Na’vi might be an ass, but at least he’s got a sense of humor.

Spider groans again. “If you two knuckleheads stay, you have to keep it down,” he says.

Lo’ak puts his hands up, defensively.

“Can I ask what she’s doing over there?” you say aloud.

Kiri now has her face pressed against the glass. It fogs from her breath.

Spider and Lo’ak look at each other. Lo’ak rubs the back of his neck before speaking: “it’s a long story, but that’s the Avatar of Kiri’s biological mother. Kiri is my adoptive sister.” Lo’ak then hums to himself. “Maybe it’s not such a long story, after all.”

That’s why she looked so sad. She simply missed her Mom.

You blink once. “Oh, alright.” You nod, looking at Spider. “All of that information about Mia’s coffee mug was really important, but this,” you say, gesturing to the tube in the center of the room. “Not so much.”

Spider shrugs. “It’s important,” he says. “But, this is just commonplace for all of us.”

“She’s been doing this since we were kids,” Lo’ak reaffirms.

“Maybe we’re blind to it,” Spider offers. “It’s always there, so we can’t even see it if it’s right in front of us.”

Lo’ak simpers. “Well said.”

“Thank you,” says Spider. He grins.

They nod together and rub their chins like idiots. You assume this must be a regular thing for them.

“Skxawngs,” you say.

Of course, they both look your way, as though you’ve called them by their birth name.

“Did I use that properly?” you ask in English.

They nod. You sigh woefully.

Lo’ak practically snatches such low-hanging fruit: “What’s got you all blue?”

You can’t help but glare at him. “They say you don’t know a language unless you know how to properly insult someone,” you say. “But I don’t actually know any useful Na’vi, and I haven’t had a conversation with anyone. Half of the words I know are just insults!”

“Simmer down,” says Spider. “You learned plenty today,” he says.

“And, last I heard, you did have a conversation with someone,” Lo’ak mutters.

Spider crosses his arms over his bare chest and looks you in the eye. “We’ll do our best to teach you.”

“Then teach me,” you reply, glaring daggers his way.

Spider’s eyes narrow. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A couple of hours ago, you were enthusiastic. Now, you’re starting to get on his nerves.

Spider then looks over at Kiri, and makes an almost silent whistling noise. In response, Kiri’s ears twitch and she peeks over her shoulder.

“What the hell did you just say to her?” you demand.

“Oh, that?” Spider chuckles dryly. “I didn’t say anything, yet.”

“What is it?” Kiri calls back to him.

When Spider responds, he speaks entirely in Na’vi. When Kiri replies to him, she does the same. Spider then turns to you, speaks only in Na’vi again, then laughs. He says something else. Laughter erupts. Kiri and Lo’ak follow suit.

You have no choice to presume they’re talking shit about you in their native language.

In reality, they’re saying things that make no sense just to get you riled up. The first thing Spider told Kiri was “let’s pretend like we’re making fun of her. Keep going along with it until I say stop.”

Needless to say, they play their roles with great conviction, like actors on a stage. They fool you.

“You guys are dickheads! That’s enough.”

They finally stop when you fold your arms over your chest and start pouting; but they don’t stop laughing until Norm yells from down the hall to, in his words, ‘tone that shit down.’ When they’re caught, Spider purses his lips, and Kiri and Lo’ak takes deep breaths from their respirator masks in unison.

“You’re incredibly impatient,” Spider admits, lowering his voice. Lo’ak nods in agreement. You’re all sitting around the tube that holds Grace’s Avatar. Kiri traces small shapes on its surface with her lithe fingertips.

“And you three,” you say, pointing at each of them, “are a bunch of jesters.”

“No, you’re a jester,” says Lo’ak. He doesn’t even know what that word means, not in English anyway.

“That’s exactly what a jester would say.” You groan in frustration. “I am impatient, but you don’t have to say it so directly,” you reply. Your expression is downcast and dejected.

You want to learn the language. You want to be able to talk to people. You want to carry out conversations, and learn, and laugh, and cry. You want to become a phoenix, rising from the ashes of an otherwise hopeless situation. You’re here, you’re alive, yet you don’t feel that way. Not at all.

You don’t want to feel like an outsider. You don’t want to live life from a bird’s eye view, on your little perch by the tiny window. You don’t want to feel like a canary in a cage. You don’t want to feel like a fish in a large, technologically-advanced bowl. Or like a beetle in a glass jar with holes poked in the top. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want to be locked away in the science shack, just like how you were in the RDA’s basement.

Your eyes water. How could it be? Have you simply gone from one prison to another?

“You may be impatient, but I think you’ll fit in with us just fine,” Lo’ak interjects. He smiles genuinely. After a few moments, so do Spider and Kiri.

You wipe your eyes. Your face feels hot.

Kiri calls you by your first name, grasping hold of your attention. “Don’t worry. We’ll teach you to speak Na’vi, and you’ll be just like the rest of us,” she says affectionately.

“I don’t know about that,” Lo’ak mutters.

There’s a pregnant pause. You, Spider, and Kiri expect him to say that you’ll never be a true Na’vi, or something of the sort. You weren’t raised as such, like the three of them.

“She won’t grow another foot overnight,” Lo’ak says finally. He looks right at you with a shit-eating grin. “You’ll never be as tall as we are.”

“Well said,” Spider remarks.

---

Kiri and Lo’ak can’t stay for much longer—they have to sneak back to their tent before Jake Sully finds out what they’ve been up to.

“They won’t get in trouble if he finds out, right?”

You and Spider are the last two awake. You’re sitting at the kitchen table.

Spider waves his hand around nonchalantly. “They never do,” he says. There’s a brief pause. “Okay, sometimes Lo’ak does,” Spider adds. “But never Kiri or Tuk. You’ll meet her eventually. She’s the youngest sibling.”

“Alright, so there’s the three of them. Lo’ak, Kiri, and Tuk. And Neytiri is their mother, right?”

“Four of them,” Spider corrects you. “Neteyam is the oldest. One year older than Lo’ak.”

You blink. “Neteyam is the Olo'eyktan’s eldest son? The one who found me?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Spider retorts.

You glare at him. “Yes, that’s what you said, only a whole week late!” You whisper-shout at him. “Just like with Kiri’s biological mother.”

Spider throws his hands up. “I guess I thought someone already told you,” he says defensively. “You talked to Jake, right?”

“Right,” you reply. “But he didn’t mention anything about Neteyam being his son. Didn’t mention anything about his children actually.”

“With all that you went through with those fuckers, he may have thought it could be taken as insensitive,” Spider suggests.

You hum. Maybe, just maybe, Spider’s right.

“Kiri works in the tsahìk’s tent during the day. Lo’ak puts in the least amount of effort necessary to be considered one of the warriors,” Spider says. “He’s usually around, but oftentimes not. Either way, we will find time to help you learn Na’vi.”

“Is Neteyam one of the warriors?” you ask.

Spider nods. “These days, he’s become one of the best.”

Your thoughts drift back to when Neteyam found you. You were practically ambushed—he was so controlled, so swift with his movements. Spider’s words don’t surprise you.

“So, he’s busy all the time?”

Spider addresses you by name. “What are you getting at?”

“I still need to thank him,” you confide. “He can’t avoid me forever.”

Spider sighs. “He can try,” he mutters.

“So, he is avoiding me?” you ask. Your cheeks are turning red again.

“He’s…” Spider begins. He looks distraught. “He wasn’t always like this,” Spider says. “Neteyam and I are cool, but he never sets foot inside this place if he doesn’t have to. Ever since the Sully family returned from living with the Metkayina, the Reef People, he doesn’t get along with Norm and the others like Kiri and Lo’ak… He merely tolerates the scientists here.”

“You’re saying he hates humans,” you say bluntly.

“Hate is a strong word,” Spider replies. “But he has many reasons to dislike them…” Spider swallows. “To dislike our kind.”

The words fall from your lips: “you’re right.”

You begin to question whether or not you should follow through with thanking him for saving you. The interaction with Kiri and Lo’ak went so well—perhaps it gave you an ounce of hope, things might go smoothly with Neteyam too. He’s been on your mind constantly, replaying in your thoughts like a broken record. You’re certain there are other Na’vi who share similar sentiments. You have to be careful.

“Don’t think about it too hard,” says Spider. He stands from the table. “I’m going to sleep,” he says plainly. His footsteps fade as he walks to the barracks.

Spider’s sympathies do very little to ease your mind.

---

Spider kept his word. Kar is teach. Karyu is teacher, and Karyunay is apprentice teacher. Ayfo kar nga—they teach you.

In the days—and eventually, weeks—to come, you fall into a new routine.

You study Na’vi during the day-time hours. The science shack isn’t so bad. Sometimes, if he’s available, Norm works with you on your phonetics and grammar. But typically, it’s just you, your electronic tablet, and your perch by the windowsill.

When you learned other Earth languages in the past, it was easier to learn other languages in proximity to their language group with which you were familiar. Romance languages, such as Spanish, French, and Italian, bore many similarities. The same went for Germanic languages, and even some Sino-Tibetan languages.

Na’vi, however, is completely different from any language you’ve spoken, or even attempted to learn. But your dedication is unwavering.

Lo’ak and Kiri return to the science shack two days after your first encounter with them.

“Okay, Spider was right. At first, he was angry,” Kiri says. She takes a deep breath through her respirator. “But then, I suppose he thought about it more and decided it was a good idea after all.”

Jake Sully has given Lo’ak and Kiri his word of approval to help with your studies at nightfall, as long as they don’t slack off their usual duties.

“He thinks it’s a good ‘method of assimilation’ or some shit like that,” adds Lo’ak.

You nod. “He’s right,” you say.

“Yeah, whatever,” Lo’ak admits nonchalantly. “Sometimes.”

You all sit on the floor around Grace’s tube again.

“Well,” you clear your throat. “Today, I studied grammatical structure and simple, common vocabulary. Maybe we could start with-”

“Nga za‘u ftu peseng?” Spider asks. He’s asking ‘where do you come from?’

You blink. It takes a moment for the cogs in your brain to rotate. But in due time, you register his question.

“I come from Earth,” you reply in English.

“If you really want to learn,” Spider says, “you should reply in Na’vi.”

You should. The only issue is, you’re not sure how. But you have no choice but to give it a try.

You fail the first time. The second time, you almost get it right—close enough to where Kiri pries her eyes away from her mother to give you a look of encouragement and a thumbs up.

“You’re almost there,” says Lo’ak. He straightens his posture, no longer slouching against the glass tube. “But if you don’t want to sound like a baby learning their first words, you need to change up the word order. For myself, I would reply with ‘za‘u oe ftu Eywa’eveng.’ Which means in English, ‘I come from Pandora.’ Your reply, obviously, is going to be a little different.”

Lo’ak pauses, takes a breath from his respirator, then mimics your higher-pitched voice, speaking as you would reply in Na’vi.

His impression of you is already spot on. “I don’t sound like that!” you protest.

They all laugh, and you can’t help but join them.

For the rest of the evening, the three of them ask you simple questions in Na’vi. All you have to do is reply, also in Na’vi. The longer you go, the easier it gets. You build upon the scaffolding of your day-time studies, as well as every question and response before the next.

---

This continues for many nights.

During the days when you’re sitting by the window and Lo’ak and Kiri pop into frame, you instinctively smile and wave to them. They always reciprocate.

They don’t say it outwardly, but the two of them look forward to these evenings with you. They get to spend more time with Spider. And, although they’re both fluent in English, the practice benefits them, too. Plus, they’ve taken a liking to you as well.

“Who the hell are you waving at, skxawng?” Neteyam asks Lo’ak one day. They’re about to head off on their ikrans to train. Lo’ak needs to learn a new hand-to-hand technique. Neteyam is conveniently out of your line of sight.

“I’m waving to the new girl!” Lo’ak exclaims. He continues waving. He’s practically beaming.

Neteyam huffs.

“Her pronunciation is getting much better,” Lo’ak says. His arm falls to his side again. “But it honestly wasn’t bad to begin with,” he adds. “Do you think you were, perhaps, exaggerating?”

“No,” Neteyam answers curtly. He looks agitated—his ears twitch and his tail swishes wildly. “She’s a distraction." You're proving Neteyam's point. Lo'ak won't stop waving. Neteyam groans. "Hurry up, Lo'ak. We have things to do,” he says. When they were younger, Neteyam would’ve slapped Lo’ak’s bicep or grabbed him by the ends of his hair, but he’s a man now. He can’t show his impatience or impulsivity.

Lo'ak disappears from your vantage point.

---

It’s already been a month. Your diligent practice is starting to pay off.

You can hold very basic conversations in Na’vi. You’re learning more about the language and culture every day.

They don't want to feed your ego, but your teachers have discovered you're a fast, proficient learner.

“Syep means 'to trap.' It’s a verb,” Lo’ak explains to you in English. He’s lying on the floor with his legs propped up on a chair from the dining table. Suddenly, he swings his feet from the chair, and stands to his feet.

You don't want to feed any of their egos either, but they're all smarter than they think. Especially Lo'ak.

“Spider, peseng lu syeprel?” Lo’ak asks.

You’re unsure what a syeprel is, but you know he’s asking where it’s located.

“I think it’s in the supply closet, over there,” Spider replies in Na’vi.

“What’s a syeprel?” you ask, also in Na’vi.

“Take a guess!” Lo’ak calls from down the hall.

You hum. You switch back to English: “Well, it must be a particular type of trap? Like a mouse trap or something?”

Kiri hums too. “It does technically trap something,” she says after a few moments. “But you’re thinking too literally,” she adds with a smirk.

You scratch your head. You’re dumbfounded.

“A-ha!’ Lo’ak says triumphantly. “I’ve found it.”

“Found what?” you call.

“Ask nicely,” says Kiri. “In Na’vi.”

You try again. “Rutxe,” you say, slightly embarrassed. You do as you’re told, and ask in Na’vi.

Lo’ak returns. He’s holding an ancient piece of technology—an extremely old hand-held digital camera with a slightly scratched lens. “Say cheese!”

He snaps a photo of you, Spider, and Kiri lounging around on the floor. None of you were prepared.

Kiri sighs and glowers at him. “Lo’ak!”

Lo’ak chuckles. “Alright, alright. We’ll take another one.”

The four of you stand around Lo’ak, the camera operator. “Kiri, crouch down a little bit,” he says, directing your places. “Spider, lean closer to Kiri.” You hear Spider sigh.

Lo’ak then glances at you over his shoulder. “Stand on your toes, tawtute. Or else you won’t be in frame,” he chides you with a sly smile.

You do just that and smile for the syeprel. “You’re an ass, Lo’ak,” you say through your teeth.

“Smile, everyone!” he sings in Na’vi. Lo’ak spins the camera around to take a photo of everyone while operating it at the same time. He smiles and snaps another photo. The flash is momentarily blinding.

You break free from your pose. “So, a camera is called syeprel?”

“Yes, it is.” replies Lo’ak in Na’vi. “It traps a moment in time, doesn’t it? Rel means like an image, or a picture,” he adds in English.

It’s clicking. Your jaw goes slack. Spider can’t help but chuckle at your expression.

“Language learning is so cool,” you gawk.

“You sound just like Norm,” says Kiri.

“Whatever,” you say in Na’vi. You switch back to English again. “There are lots of animal names in English like that. Anteaters eat ants. Junebugs come out in the month of June to find mates. Grasshoppers hop around in the grass. Centipedes are named after their one hundred legs.”

“Now you really sound like Norm,” Kiri teases you. “Don’t start talking about plants too, or I’ll have to go home.”

“What about bed bugs?” asks Spider. “I've only heard of them from the others. Never seen them here. I’m assuming they would be found in your bed?”

You nod.

Kiri hums, thinking. “What about butterflies then?” she asks. “I know that butter comes from milk and milk comes from Earth cows, but could they make butter too?”

You scrunch your nose at the mere thought of butterfly butter. “I don’t think so.”

Lo’ak can hardly contain his laughter. “What about cockroaches?”

Kiri smacks his chest. Lo’ak half-groans, half-cackles. Kiri scolds him in Na'vi, but it's not long before she starts laughing too.

You and Spider follow suit. From down the hall, Norm calls for you four to keep it down again.

But you can’t stop. In fact, Norm’s complaints make it worse. Joyous laughter fills the room. You’re having the time of your life. For the second time since your escape, you think this must be heaven. You’re briefly reminded of your imprisonment—you remember the few times you laughed with your cellmates. You remember those slivers of euphoria.

You also remember that you’re safe now. The science shack isn’t so bad. Not with Spider, and Kiri, and Lo’ak, and even Norm, and Max, and Mia, and all the others.

You laugh until your ribs hurt. You laugh until tears well in your eyes.

---

A/N: This chapter was so fun to write! I hope you guys had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Again, please forgive any language inconsistencies.

Don't worry my darlings! Neteyam is going to be all over the next chapter. Believe in the slow burn!

And thanks again for all the kind comments, reblogs, and notes. You guys are awesome!

Taglist: @m1tsu-ki @promnightbinbaby

#avatar the way of water #avatar 2009 #neteyam x human reader #neteyam x reader #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x you #self insert #self insert fanfiction #x reader #neteyam sully x reader #atwow

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joannasteez · 11 months ago

Text

starship pain

pairing: cody rhodes x reader , cm punk x reader warning: explicit content (smut) minors pls dni. angst. emotional infidelity? loads of description!!! a lot of space related metaphors. authors note: lovely little request from @harmshake i hope i did your idea some justice. this takes place after mania. somethings are changed and switched around to fit my ideas. so it's a bit of an alternative universe from present kayfabe. the one flashback i have in this has a little red text noting when in the timeline of the year its set in!! word count: 14k tagging: @333creolelady @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae @coyotegirl-ramblings @luchorgasm @xbriexx @wanna-see-my-lease

...what gives a star it's character?...

temperature

color

mass

luminosity

size

...and with the display of such magnificent character, do stars not go about tirelessly with the work of inspiring awe? living wondrously bright amidst the deafening swallow of that deep void called space, so much so, that even with great distance, they exist bold enough to be witnessed. if so, then can we not be stars too? though not as great, can we not aspire, with terrible diligence, to be as breathtaking?...

and with the conclusion of wrestlemania forty, the philadelphia crowd erupts thunderous. earsplitting even. the american nightmare, cody rhodes, kneeling with tears at the heart of the ring. clutching the weight of the title belt. gold in hand, the newly crowned undisputed wwe universal champion. the hearts, minds, joys and displeasures of the people performing well to revolve in orbit around such star-like greatness.

"your moonsault needs a bit of work still". your father's voice coarse from age. his eyes unblinking. a perfectionist's stare. his penchant for over examination as lively as the sun. existing still even with the residual thrill of wrestlemania. "you're hesitating too much before you press off'.

you sigh. small enough that it goes incomprehensible. sipping at early afternoon coffee complimentary of the hotel. "it was just nerves pop", you give. because facing rhea ripley for the title, center stage in front of thousands was no easy feat. preparation took a back seat, amongst the lights and screams and hard bumps to the body. it was natural to have a seconds worth of overthought. "the match was fine'.

because it was fine. it was good. great even. two women telling a story with the violent bursting and clash of their bodies. loss be damned. it felt good to withstand the cold. to toil through limitation so fiercely. an easy break of a glass ceiling that worked well to loom above your head for some time. but your hall of fame of a father couldn't see pass the minor inconsistencies. a scrutinizer to the greatest degree.

"you should come by the gym soon. we can catch up. work through a few things together'".

catch up and work through meaning your body bouncing off a turn buckle till his satisfaction reached a good, sore, exhaustion. you pivot quickly at the thought of it. at the thought of drilling through moves and the terse cut of his voice.

you pick up your phone, hearing the shift of feet from across the hotel room. another sip of coffee that plays well over the soft closing of the bathroom door. because your father didn't need to know the details of your latest tryst. especially so soon after the events of the biggest sports entertainment night of the year. everything to him, that isn't the four sided ring, a distraction.

you smile. "doesn't sound like anything's wrong with my wrestling. sounds like you miss me".

he softens. blinks his eyes and lets his pride show through a small smile. "any father in their right mind would".

"so then say it".

"your moonsault is near flawless...", he gives. like relenting but not really. "...and i miss you".

the bedsheets ruffle behind you. your cue to end the moment before it has the chance to sour.

"we'll talk later", you give. "i have to go".

"alright. be good".

the face time call ends. gentle touching steps along the carpet of your hotel bedroom before you're slipping under puffy sheets. the philadelphia sun bursting beyond thin curtains to shape his face. blue eyes more sky than ocean under such bright warmth. his fingers quick to pull against your body. slipping up and over with a tender maneuvering till you lay against him like he seems to like. a drawn tune of a hum singing, your weight pressing in to comfort the sore, exhausted champion. his neck craning, rushing with movement to follow the run of your touch over his scalp and across the apple of his cheek. lips dipping into the heart of your palm.

"did i wake you?", you ask.

"no", cody gives. voice tired. "my phones been going crazy all morning".

your thumb caresses just beneath his bottom lip. soft and sweeping. "as expected. the price goes up when you're the champ. so does the attention".

"is that right?", tone suggestive. eyes a heavy linger along your lips.

you oblige him. a small sweet reward for all his tiresome effort. your lips, sweet and rich, tasting of coffee as they meet his. a tender meshing before they slip to slot passionate. his fingers curling into your hips. a venture to endear you, moaning lazy as his body forms deeper into the sheets. mouths parting only so his indulgences can lead him else where. wet, tongue led kisses along your pulse. hot breath and the dull graze of his teeth. surely overwrought still by the thrill of the night before. this morning version of him performing with a delirious high. his every touch sure and firm. the hands of a champion.

"how does it feel?"

a deep breath. weighing the question with silence. finding a home for his yet to be spoken thoughts in the dip of your neck. the part of his lips there producing a shiver up your spine.

"good. it feels good". the shine in his eyes threatening to wane. "scary. now i have to actually carry it. do some good with it".

you kiss him sweetly. a plant of reassurance. "you will". words kind as you roll on your side to face him. catching the beginnings of an etch in of adoration as he fails to look away from you. a semblance of something near unpleasant troubling your chest. like being under the weight of his gaze is too much to bare.

"thank you for being here".

"of course".

"i couldn't get to you properly last night. it all moved so fast after the match. one thing after the other".

you find yourself ruffling through his hair again. your own will, making to ingratiate your senses to him. like staining the skin to lay a good base for memory. "it's ok. m'here now", mouth on him. an urge that lives with imperfections, your tongue flicking soft, lapping over sweetly till it works away that ambivalent trouble in your belly. urges growing greater by the second till they form with an edge too defined to ignore. eager now, to feel him against skin. the way the mellow heat of him flares under your palm, melting the worry till it runs off into desire. this performance of a great gravitational pull.

regulating yourself to one drink for the night is a testier task than originally thought, but it works well enough. the celebratory buzz of the room filling in where the warmth of liquor doesn't. the philadelphia skyline sparkling the dark chill of the night as the closed in rooftop swells up to a comfortable fullness. wrestling stars at every corner. drinks in hand and simple, cheery conversation. the scene of it all, once a dream, talked of and imagined, now a reality as you maneuver amidst it all.

a firm take to your arm pulls you toward the secrecy of a corner. your lips failing to keep away from a pull up of excitement. heels clicking to keep the pace as you're rounded about a tall column and tucked away behind it. cody pressing in. a lazy little kiss against your mouth that tastes like his drink of choice. the glass clutched in his hand still, attempting not to spill it.

not so long after your intimate morning did you both part. post-mania obligations too much of a priority to ignore.

his free hand slips into the slit of your dress. fingers curling into your thigh. a silky brown number that matches his undone suit. his tie loose, his jacket gone and the vest unbuttoned. cheeks dusted a faint pink. his mouth pressing into your pulse. housing there to feel the warmth corralling under the skin.

and with only a few weeks of this relationship have you confirmed just how affectionate cody is. his every touch made to linger, his smile luminous and his words warm as they work tirelessly to sink into skin.

"you look", a kiss to your cheek. "absolutely beautiful angel", and another to your mouth.

you smile. lip tucking under your teeth. "thank you". fingers running to crease his shirt. pulling him closer. the curt shuffle of his shoes clicking forward as your back flushes up into the corner. your eyes sweeping over his mouth. reaching to lick in for a kiss that makes him groan. "you look good too". tasting the bitterness washing his tongue before going in for more. "very good", a purr of a moan floating in that makes his breath hitch before he's groaning soft. a mindless overworking of nerves you're sure. because the weeks with him thus far—albeit fresh—have been nothing short of a teasing game. heavy traveling and the looming possibility of a good passion not yet explored. that trouble in your belly shortening the full breath of your desires.

you break for air, remembering where you are. he downs the rest of his drink. clutching the glass still.

"you had a lot to drink?", you ask. wiping at his mouth with your thumb. licking at the residual bits of liquor.

his eyes trailing over your lips. unhurried to meet back at your eyes. "not too much. this was my last. m'tappin out early".

"good", you give. tugging at the undone part of his vest. keeping him flushed up against you so that the strength of his cologne steeps in. "cause i need you sober. we have unfinished business".

his free hand still finds itself making a home beyond the slit of your dress. kneading just where your thigh rounds out into the supple flesh of your bottom. a firm squeeze that's all possession. the action risky, but exhilaratingly so. his words toughing out with a groaning. "fuck the party then".

"no. enjoy it". slipping from under him slowly. "we'll have plenty of time later".

a final look of promise before you click away. deep tempering breaths that work to quell your own rise of desire. cheeks hot and your body beneath the delicate dress teeming with the memory of his touch. sensations comfortable enough that they leave you wanting. borderline desperate. but yes, what lives of the the draw, the pull of him, all a symptom of simple necessity. his everything sure enough to fall into. a security exacting to an almost bothersome degree. but maybe this full consumption isn't a bad thing, after past failures and flings too loose and undefined. shapeless, wordless things. maybe cody is what you need. your body tucking to lean into the wall that meets the end of the rooftop bar. "gin and tonic", you order.

soft clutching hands at your shoulder. you turn. bianca belair beaming with excited knowing eyes and a smirk. "you got blondie real red in the face", she starts. slipping up next to you. "no thoughts, just half of a three piece suit and a vibe".

you smile with her. feeling heat in your cheeks and a swirl in your belly. the intimacy of your relationship with cody no outright secret, but the confirmation of it never really reaching the great private sphere of your friends and friendly acquaintances. because it was business only yours and cody's to keep or share, but bianca is a good friend. closer than most. a former tag team partner. a nxt sister. and the playfulness of her curiosities were always as fun to indulge in as they were to hear.

"a real nasty vibe", you chuckle. "that man was trying to give ya'll a PLE from the corner. i had to slip away while i could".

"and i get it cause this brown and gold!?", her hand taking yours to spin you around. appraising the the beauty of your dress and accessories. her fingers dabbing up under an eye and sniffling with faux tears. "i taught you so well".

"you really did".

both of you laughing and sipping at your drinks.

"is it serious?", her tone shifting firm.

the question forcing you into a bout of consideration you've attempted to stray from on many occasions. but it's crucial nonetheless. a conclusion you'll have to come to regardless.

"i mean, i don't know". thumb rubbing against the chill of your glass. taking to a silent mull over. the past few weeks or so a whirlwind of affection. secret rendezvous' and late night calls. the tenderness of him working with an endless drive, even amongst the world of work set before the both of you. "we're slow burning it a bit but i think the end goal for him is to have something serious".

and your wording doesn't go unnoticed, not that you want it to. some part of you maybe looking to gain some much needed perspective. a nudge in the direction you feel is necessary. and she doesn't fail in delivering it. "you deserve something stable. the casual shit is cool but it's not forever".

you sigh. memory serving well of your former trysts with a different superstar. "i agreed on that being casual".

"you can agree to a lot when you think the dick is good". sipping at her drink. "he's here by the way".

and if you pretend not be be affected by the possibility of seeing him, of being seen by him, then doesn't that null the existence of the feeling all together? that twist in of nerves in your belly. residual things, like words and perhaps sentiments left to wander the void of space formally known as a very casual but fevered, undefined union of legs and lips. a deep passion left to succumb to the suffocating elements of space and time.

"i figured he'd be".

his name is a draw. of money, eyes and thoughts. his return causing this gravitational pull of the people, controversial or otherwise. a veteran in his own right. for him not to be seen at a celebration of the greatest night in their business would be confounded and weird.

"you good with all that though? i know it ended kinda all of a sudden".

from passion all the time to none at all. hour long drives and last minute flights. apartments and not so high floor hotel rooms. his name seemingly forever written into the slip and work of your tongue. free and casual but still working so sure in that space of passion that the feeling of being beholden to one another felt more truer by the day. living too sporadically—and maybe too unrestrained—still though, to last well enough on its own. because without the consistency of light, how is anything sure to grow? and then in came cody, prying away your attention with the ease and experience of a star born to evoke awe. his light pleasant and safe.

you shrug. "you live and learn, you move on. i'm good where i am".

bianca smiles. her arms a nice embrace. "as you should be. m'happy for you".

"thank you", you give. her warmth contagious. your body squeezing into the hug.

and when she's called away, montez drunkenly whisking his wife to another corner of the room, she parts with an apologetic smile. mouthing "sorry", as her sloshed to capacity of a husband drags her along with him. leaving you to live alone at the end of the bar, newly made acknowledgements of your relationship resting over you thickly. a tight take of adrenaline to your nerves. small sips of your drink working only to occupy your hands. unwilling to decipher the root of such a rush. fear or excitement. either way, the feeling of it drops your belly and leaves the tiny hairs everywhere to stand on end. because this has happened before, drawing too close to the power of a star too soon, burning amongst the void before the possibility of impact.

shoes click, approaching beside you. his cologne familiar. a scent made to intrigue. memory slipping in to harshen the roll over happening in your belly. of course he'd be here. the self proclaimed 'best in the world', the second city saint, the straight edged superstar. after some months of nothing, cm punk is alive and looking too well for you to stand.

you sip again. a cool lean up again the wall. eyes patient as they go about examining him whole. his doing just the same.

he looks good in a suit, much to your dismay.

"you clean up well", you give. meeting his eyes. standing firm against the heaviness of his gaze.

"so i've been told", slipping closer. his body leaning up against the bar to rest just as coolly as you have against the wall. a casual disposition so incredibly indicative of your times together. "you look beautiful. nothing new for you though".

"you're letting your grays grow out again".

"a new era, a new look". his palm smoothening over the salt and pepper patches of hair. a smile running through his lips. "you always did like them".

a fight to arrest the heat in your cheeks and old memories. "so what, this is about me?"

"such a smart girl", he chuckles. "i love it when you state the obvious".

you grin at his teasing. "i just had one of the most important nights of my life', shoving up against him playfully. "you can't be a dick to me".

"you did well by the way". a sincerity that makes something bloom over the skin. a jittered feeling you choose to ignore as he continues. "a nice bag of new little moves and tricks, it was good shit for your first mania. get rid of that moonsault though, it doesn't fit you".

you scoff. "oh cause you know what fits".

body bracing for impact just after such a wild take to flight. the words leaving before you can think them over. his shoulders shaking as he laughs.

"i've had the pleasure of knowing a time or two".

"oh fuck you punk".

"i mean...", dark earthy eyes sweeping over your lips. a lazy, patient journey over your body. a show of his appraisal. "...i don't know if you can. given your new boy toy and all".

"i'm bound to get a new toy if the old one breaks". not that cody is a toy. no. he's no play thing in the slightest. a sudden need to defend him in that right springing up till its thick in your mouth. stitching into words. his every intention appearing precise and laid bare. sweet gestures and impassioned words. his everything lingering long enough for you to notice. "it's a lot more serious than you think".

"so it seems", voice neutral, but appearing in his eyes to live, these little slivers of disappointment.

its something not meant to harp on for the sake of your own peace. but they try their damnedest to penetrate. working diligent. enough for the air to feel too warm and thick to breathe in. your barely touched drink a nuisance and the friendly crowd of the celebration too much to handle. and thank God for cody, your attention catching his motions for you. slipping through the crowd to head for the entry-exit doors. a make to leave as he catches your eyes to join him.

"i should...i should go-"

"that's a smart decision".

cody's tongue tastes like his drink of choice. room temperature whiskey. the lap of it lazy and patient, aiming to steep into the palate. his lips soft, twisting wet as they go about the work of ingratiating the senses. his hands following suit. a tight journey over the skin, heat flaring up in the wake of such an ardent touch. curling in to leave cratered impressions. his movements breathtaking, your body hoisted up in his arms before you're bouncing into the fluff of the bed. persistent fingers and his mouth ready, tongue dipping into where your body pliantly unfolds for him. your legs spreading with guidance. an exposure to the air that pulls a shiver through the body.

"so pretty", musing to himself. tongue slipping deep. warm and wet and earnest. groaning from a pleasure that comes with pleasure. your inner thighs suffering under the gripping weight of his touch. a steady hold that keeps you open for him. "been thinkin about this all day".

you hiss. touch filled with delirium. your belly overwrought and filling in hot. skin breaking away from the chilly philadelphia air. your hips testing their limits. a gentle swing up that catches against the rhythm of his mouth. a sweet suckle to your clit that shortens the air in your chest.

his thumb joins the fray. teases the messy drool of arousal pooling to drip lazy like. a dull circling at that broaches the possibility but nothing more. leaving you with the desire to be filled to the hilt. your pussy pulsing hard against his tongue. clenching about nothing, waiting impatient as he revels in his own play at giving pleasure.

"cody please", voice near broken. a sweet little plea.

he leaves you spread. watches your little performance of appeal. nails painted a color that leaves a beautiful contrast against your soft skin. slipping sweet at the bud of your clit. holding his eyes. enchantment and lust. the light of his desire bright enough that it reflects beautifully off your skin. curving its way up the body. paints itself warm over the work of your pleasure. melting in till its swirling heavy at the base of your belly. a sensation that grows easy. another groan erupting, surely from that clinging sensation you've bought to his tongue. pulsing and shivering. singing and moaning wispy for him. a full consumption that breaks the resolve you've built so easily. and when his thumb sinks into the fat of your clit, circling deep and persistent, you sink further into the sheets. a sharp "fuck", breaking into the air. your nerves unruly as they go in their frenzy.

your body drunk, senses beautifully askew. a quick to arrive release that speaks to his determination.

his mouth messy and slipping over your inner thighs. working to kiss your belly and through the valley of your breast. tongue peaking before it flattens over the perk of your nipples. an involuntary rut in your hips rushing up into him. the sensation like kindling for a fire.

you taste yourself. pulling your lips to his. the whiskey and that dangerous steep in of your own arousal. his hands nailed into the sheets. your own freeing him from his underwear. hot and hard in your hand. slipping him through slick arousal, to feel how awfully ready he is for you, before you're guiding him in with a desperate hand. head tipping into the bed as you feel the wet split as he goes. a hiss of enjoyment as he deepens, resting just over the end of you.

cody hums. diving his nose into the scent of your perfume. the stain of it at your neck arresting him. hips knocking in firm. deft and easy. working you open to take him.

your palms sweep over muscle. to layer over that already laid foundation of memory. his back taut and strong. nails clawing in as he fills you whole. your lips parting. breaths taken. belly coiling with the threat of release. and here the work of taking him in feels more than good. that troubling knot of ambivalence that once warred beneath the skin, trampled upon with a temporary defeat, as his hips work steadily.

"you feel so good", a moaning drawl of words.

an admission that slips its way to settling into thick air. performing well enough to saturate the room. and its true. cody feels good. amazing. his warmth gentle, and his everything near flawless.

the man wrapped in your arms, the reigning undisputed universal champion, is only near flawless. this, a thought that slips deep into your conscience. taking root aggressively so. but are stars not perfect in shape? bright and the enormity of them sensational. great enough in size that the draw of them from within performs well enough to gather equally at every side. a faultless sphere of a shape indeed. and has he not—in spite of your damning early morning sentiments—taken on that part of a stars character? wearing it warm and well. the wrestling world revolving to orbit his dazzling spectacle of victory amongst the mania. then what of it could be so wrong as to call him only near flawless and not flawless simply? the touch of his skin and the pull of his lips gracious even in hunger and looking to consume. a ready made heat not so dissimilar to a great star.

it's clear. so very fucking clear, amidst the slow creep in of the morning, as your phone vibrates with a call, just where the doubt reeks from.

'the best in the world' showing up as caller ID. because you never changed the name. because you never had the heart to leave him nameless even. slipping from the sheets, from the comfortable weight of cody's body. a fluffy robe over your skin as you slide the balcony doors of the hotel room open. answering his call.

those slivers of disappointment in his eyes from last night. performing well enough to disrupt your feelings. like the grand effects of a solar flare.

"have breakfast with me", he starts.

no preamble to give you room to deflect. a sigh heavy as it leaves you. his morning voice coarse and unfortunately satisfying. maybe you should've stayed in bed. wrapped yourself deeper beneath the sheets and the lay over of cody's body.

"we lose a little contact and you forget your manners. that's unfortunate".

he chuckles. "please?"

"that took a lot out of you huh?"

"not really". a dramatic little pause, because punk does have a flare for it. albeit in small doses, in his own way. and you can feel him smiling through the phone. can feel the change in tone just before he can give it. "begging is just usually more your thing than it is mine".

and the truth only hurts, vexes the nerve so, because it is the truth. because it has life. breathing and smiling with the sole objective of tethering itself ungraciously to every little thing you do.

"can you not?"

"you like it".

slivers of guilt. peering to look through the glass of the balcony door. cody still sleeping, peacefully unaware. but what is there to be guilty of? the past solely the past. this little phone call but a blip in time. a soundless action amidst the airless void of space.

"ok, m'sorry". he relents. receiving your silence in full. "i'll stop".

"i can't do breakfast. it wouldn't feel right".

"it's just coffee and a little chit chat".

lies. "i've never had just coffee with you...", memory serving right as the words grow heavy and thick. leaving the tongue less easy than you'd like them to. months of passioned tryst' and rendezvous, from city to city, before and not so long after his return to the company. "...it's always had some accompaniment to it".

he hums. "i know how to respect a boundary if that's what you're worried about".

slivers of guilt still. a pang in your chest. the cool morning philadelphia air doing nothing to lessen the heat in your cheeks. "the boundary isn't just for you", admission quick and terse. angered that it had to leave.

this slow to slip along silence. a lazy passing over before he's chuckling again. like the type of amusement you get after a small win. his voice is all raspy satisfaction. "i see", he gives.

"i'm sure whatever you want to say over coffee, you can just say over the phone right now".

"you gonna make me bare my soul over some fuckin radio waves?"

it'd all be a less ceremonious go of words. not so serious. as shapeless and uncategorized as the months were with him.

"you are notorious for saying things you probably shouldn't, so keep that in mind".

"old habits unfortunately die very hard sweetheart".

a chill creeping up the spine. riding in along the morning air. "it's almost eight a.m., it's not even a good time to be sharing all this...sentiment".

"then give me a time and place".

"i don't know punk, whenever you can get to a target closest to you", laughing a little. the rejection feeling sweet and easy as it leaves you. "they sell journals and diary's with matching pens. that's a good place to put all of your little feelings".

"ouch".

you stand. watching cody slowly make his way to the bathroom through the glass balcony window. your hand against the handle to slide it open. "i have to go". a quick throw of words before you end the call. pride slowly inching over the skin.

a successful deterrent.

the “archangels moonsault", a name coined by a collective of your fathers contemporaries. his performance of the golden triangle moonsault habitually flawless. appearing more angel than man as his body soared for some seconds. awe forever struck across the color of your eyes at such a spectacle, so much so, that you wished to live it. and so it went, a song and dance done many times before. the child of a legend attempting to step beyond that harrowing shadow in hopes of creating their own. the awe inspired, attempting now to inspire awe. like the cinematic feat of interstellar travel, viable only through the art of imagination. a play at the impossible, and nothing more. the perpetual falling short of a dangerous aspiration. nerves fraying at the seams and a deep plummeting of the heart. angst, a side effect of near flawlessness. starship pain.

"just keep workin at it", cody said once. watching your frustration after failing to perfect your fathers beloved moonsault. the precision of it lacking. your body insistent on underperformance. resentful of the air.

the encouragement working against its own intention. a bitterness rising to meet your tongue. but the near success of it grows palpable on your fingertips. nagging the nerve endings there so much that it forces into the skin a deep repetition. a cycle of the same thing for weeks on end—house shows, and training, and live events and training, and meet and greets and training, and merch signings and training, and interviews and training, and photoshoots and training—till the system grew faithful. and whichever cracks of free time expose themselves are quickly remedied with cody. because if all these distractions exists, then the time to decipher the bitterness growing on your tongue has no room to live. the ambivalence attempting to sneak in your belly once again, snuffed out by other things.

and friday night smackdown becomes an interesting state of affairs amidst your little world of moonsault turmoil. cody and punk both drafted, a feud storyline written up by creatives. the new undisputed champion versus the self proclaimed best in the world. a guarantee for money and ratings. which always means good business. your draft to smackdown a grounds for opportunity just the same. a fresh creative direction post-mania. but such good chances don't stop your body's war with itself. feeling the toil of the work, that faithful routine, and refusing to surrender from it's grudge. resentful of the air still.

but cody remains. his touch heated and sure. a sweet kiss to your skin in the privacy of a dressing room before your first match on the smackdown brand. the memory of his words sticking as you make to kiss him. 'just keep workin at it'. the rush of affection feeling odd.

"you okay?", his eyes searching. thumb swiping gentle, palm holding at your cheek.

"yeah", your body odd in it's skin. tempted to leave but feeling the need to stay. you grab his hand. a gentle squeeze of assurance. "i think it's just nerves".

"you been workin at it hard. it's gonna pay off", he gives. his smile small but bright still. a hand roaming gentle. soothing up your back.

but the second city saint was, is, never too far behind. posturing himself as the metaphorical rock, adamant on flushing you uncomfortably against a hard place. slivers of mischief in his stride and in coarse perfected words. the smackdown before backlash interesting to say the least. proving itself as the first domino. the main event of the night a strategic volley of words. the returned superstar and the undisputed champion. the knot tying itself about your belly barbarous as it works, watching them dig into each other with dramatic promises of destruction. the usual song and dance of a good promo. waiting for something terrible that affirms the odd abrupt spring ups of guilt and that bitterness refusing to leave your throat. everything of your romance, center stage and dazzling with bright lights for all the world to see. and when the words stop, the crowd jeering for who they hate and loud in delight for who they love, the air grows thick with the way it deafens.

rough thudding drops of their microphones before that faithful rushing in. fire in their eyes and a close size up of the competition. good drama for the crowd.

punk breaks with a laugh. similar in an amusement you've heard, felt before. like he's won a small victory. wholly fucking satisfied and happy about it. reaching to whisper something in cody's ear. words that penetrate more than they're supposed to. something a little less fire filled than anger striking bold along cody's expression. like a smoldering yet to come fully ablaze.

and it is said that for every star, there is a loss of mass in it's life time. a lessening of that gravitational pull. a change of character that threatens its awe.

his skin warm, but not as balmy. his kiss sweet but the comfort of it waning. the journey to seeing to its ease seeming more painful than letting it be. but the need to try breathes still. living bored and tired and thin, but alive nonetheless. the late hours between the end of the live show and his first official title defense quiet and terrible. all of his little bright smiles and tender touches gone. the beauty of the french hotel drained by this sudden standstill. blue eyes colder and distant. taken by the trouble of overthinking.

text message | outgoing: wtf did you say to him?

text message | the best in the world: what's my name saved as in your phone?

your fingers feel weak. tired and unable. the nerves there doing well in fraying at the seams. held hostage by a guilt that refuses to leave.

text message | the best in the world: i'm not really a write my feelings in journals kinda guy, you should know that. i want to see your pretty little face for a chat still. whenever you decide to stop avoiding me.

text message | outgoing: boundaries remember? or are the new gray hairs screwing your memory

text message | the best in the world: well i figure a little courtesy closure is in order before your boy gets his ass whipped on live television.

text message | outgoing: closure? can't really close a door that never existed can you?

a thick, curling cloud of steam rolls into the hotel bedroom from the open door of the shower. a silent invitation to join him—an olive branch living still in spite of his sudden brooding—that your body refuses to indulge. but the air does well in an attempt to suffocate you anyways. skin sweltering uncomfortably. or maybe it's just the ambivalence in your belly and the dull taste of something wrong on your tongue. frayed nerves and this half shaped desire to leave. all of these symptoms living as the summation of...of something that feels too harsh to speak to. your eyes take a steady read over the chain of messages. a once over that happens too many times to happen just once and yet there is no clarity of thought here.

closure? a type of reconciliation afforded to people once terribly impassioned. and yes, your times with him were fevered. fierce little meetings that left you craving more. but never did the attraction burn so much as to bring about such a heat, that lived closer to something like love than not, or whatever he seems to be feeling.

but there was that one time in albany. a confusing, charged little tryst. different from the others. his fingers curling in so deep then that he'd bruised your skin, like he was trying to remember you-

"so...", cody starts. a simple word edged with hesitation. bath towel wrapped about his waist as he pads out of the steam of the bathroom. skin wet and tantalizingly inviting. "...you and punk?" and finally it comes. the source of his brooding, his silence. that dejection of touch and affection.

your phone grows heavy in your hands. plops along the sheets like a weight. "old news", words ironed and pressed. dressed up in a surety, that if spoken with enough, can be believable. because the second city saint is old news.

his eyes are cold. a gray-blue snatched from the impending roll in of a storm. "feels pretty current", he sighs. turns to the table below the bedroom mirror. searching through a small bag of things. lotions and colognes and clothes and such. his perfect teeth spreading mirthless. "very current actually".

your body anchors to the bed, and curiosity an anchor in your body. inspires a refusal to move—to go to him, to ease the tension in his shoulders—as the sharp edges of it rip through till it holds deep enough.

"what'd he say to you?"

"nothing worth repeating...", hands rubbing about his face. a serum moisturizer. taking up small work as he finds and treads slow through words. tone like that of an interrogators though not nearly as violent. but the suspicion in him bothers to root well enough that it can't be hidden. can't be done away with easily. "just implying a bunch of... of shit. which is interesting because punks not that type of guy on the mic. if it needs to be said, he makes it plain..."

"its a work probably...". tone cool. indifferent. the sensation resting in your belly just the opposite. words spilling, living two fold. an attempt at persuasion overflowing so well that it performs for him and yourself just the same. "...ratings, clicks, views. it's drama for tv".

"well it feels pretty damn personal".

"and what?", you scoff. "winning mania wasn't?"

cody recedes. softens. because winning at mania was personal. business but very personal. the stakes of such a win clinging to the base of his emotions at every breath and turn till the belt rested in his hands. that much you could feel, drawing closer to him in those months—a sweet, innocent friendship born from this great host of similarities—till nearly every moment was spent with each other. his words and his thoughts and his touches becoming more intimate. affections as clear as the perfect beauty of his smile. and then comes the guilt, a drizzle against the air, like the first damning drops before the inevitable chaos of a down pour. your body lighter now. the will to leave him be, to wrestle with his feelings by his lonesome unanchored by the shame of doing so.

"am i being crazy about this?", he asks.

you move to him. crossing the exceptional size of the room to embrace him. arms encircling and your eyes gentle. his skin warm and comfortable. your body fighting itself still though, even amidst the vulnerability of him, battling back these slivers of a temptation to leave. "it's a mind game. don't let him win".

his hands venture. a smooth, sweeping take along your arms till they cradle your face. thumbs tender as they roll at the apple of your cheeks. "and us? this is it right? we're solid?"

your eyes flick to his lips in a means to inspire within yourself some true meaning of devotion. desire and fidelity. your mouth pressing sweetly to the seam of his as you pull him into a deeper embrace. words kept unsaid. buried alive before the work of a damning departure. your tongue soft and slipping gentle. wet and precious enough to elicit a moan. the tension in him waning as he goes, falling further into your show of affection. shoulders unburdened and the heat returning pleasantly to his skin. a performance that convinces only his hesitations and nothing of your own.

and that lack of conviction reigns over heavily. devastatingly so. failure thundering about your chest, slipping wild through the arms and legs, till it swims heavily about the head. ambivalence working ungracious in the body, like a storm of solar proportions. because cody had done well at backlash, performed greatly against the second city saint as they went head to head in their first of a best of three match.

but you—your knees buckling just after the press off for the archangels moonsault—do terribly. a harsh botch that leaves your feet to slip, head hitting against the ring before your body can be properly caught. a concussion that blurs your vision for the remainder of the match.

a number of horrible executions that follow, equilibrium disrupted, all amounting to a slow paced performance. your body resentful, spiteful now too.

this attempt at a diligent work of resting comfortably in the security of cody's everything, like a roaming out into the hostile environment of space. unprepared and certainly unfit for such an expedition of passion. a fast deterioration of desire and the weakening of a strength to see to its survival.

this longing for a good and whole and secure thing, a need pulsing your heart strong and persistent, now inverted, though working with the same vigor, to bring you under with a maddening sort of frailty. a self induced bout of muscle atrophy.

"a break", is what hunter is calling it. his words and eyes this odd, cold meshing of empathy and business. a command that lives without the room to resist and it stings even the strongest parts of your ego.

punishment by the ether, for aspiring to reach so far, with so much confidence, for something never meant to be had. because stars exist out of reach, with light years of distance, for a reason.

and the doctor gives a definitive "no" on flying back to the states. a futile joke to follow about getting much needed rest in the "city of love", which in full effect lurches your stomach into a fit so disgusting that it empties. that bile troubling itself in your belly, waiting for its call to action, finally revealing its putrid nature to be formidable and unrelenting. a symptom of the concussion they say, but you know, above all things medically sound, that this is just violent revenge inflicted upon the self. the body taunting the mind for its ill-purposed ambition. trying to fall into something comfortable and love-like with cody was, is, and would always be ill-purposed ambition.

the air of the suv heavy with that leather interior smell. rolling smooth and slow against the parisian streets on its way back to the hotel.

cody's finger playing along yours with a soothing caress. a patient concern brushing up the drained make of your face from his eyes. soft music living under the sound of his voice as he goes. "they'll probably clear you to fly in a few days. i can get someone to book a flight for you, and you can just… just be with me...", a gentle tone but living definitive. committing himself to your care. a security you'd always hoped to fully adore. "...and im not saying this like you're unfit to take care of yourself but i wanna help...", his blue eyes looking for a response and receiving much of nothing. a shallow head nod that keeps him rambling. "...i wanna—just let me do this for you. please?", his hand squeezing yours. a feather weight gesture. "let me take care of it, okay?"

you blink. eye lids heavy with exhaustion. a drained sensation that leaves you too undone for any proper recognition of feeling other than emptiness. your voice hoarse, the acid moving up violent enough that it stole away the fullness of it.

"i hear you cody".

the last words said to him before his departure from france in the morning.

an army of texts and calls heating your phone as the sun rose and rested amongst the clouds with a far comfortable distance. a reminder of terribly fated ambitions. water at your bedside that felt like heaven as it settled in and down the body.

five calls from bianca and encouragement texts of the "i love you" variety. one call from your father and a message that read more definitive than suggestive. "come home when you can", it said. and a text from him.

text message | the best in the world: heard hunter put you on a bit of a break. im here for you when you need me.

not if, but when. the confidence even amongst the sympathy, frustrating. an imagining of his cool, more sage than forest, green eyes screwed with pity. the thought of it beating a harsh heat pass skin into blood. rolling in amongst the red till it rushes to anger. a pounding in your skull and a light nausea rocketing the delicate lining of your belly. laid out along the length of a too beautiful parisian couch, your body forced to endure the harsh gravitational pull back down to earthly reality. for there could no longer be an ambitious voyage to that outer enormity, in search of bright, wonderful, comfortable lights. a star so secure in its character that you make no qualms with the threat of it burning your skin before even the reach of full impact. and truly how stupid and cowardly was it anyways? fearful of a different end so much as to suffer with something that just barely scratches the surface of fulfillment.

fearful of the ill-controlled, imperfect things so terribly that you looked upward in an escape to the stars.

and though albany, new york is not the perfect choice, it is the most suitable option for what you need. a quiet, reclusive setting that works well for all this wonderfully, amazing, burdensome introspection you've been forced to endure. truths roaming tirelessly about your skull as they look and wait with impatience to be fully actualized. and maybe—agreeing with his decisions against your better judgement and instinct—hunter was right. this "break", needed. a thing that could not be put off on the account of some bruised ego. countless little mishaps and slip ups in ring that had eventually led to a nasty botch during the biggest PLE since mania. the look of it not great for business or your health. but to hear it, to feel the full rejection of it, tears through you something fierce. a complete tattering of your pride till it remained undone in mangled pieces. raw and red and blood filled. and once the doctors give their clearance for you to fly, you leave france silently. without a word to anyone. bags and suitcases packed and ready. the flight to new york like a shipping over into uncharted territory.

because some truths had made themselves painfully aware already. did not wait for your slow foot drag of a realization. funneling up hot and disgusting with the bile from your empty stomach.

trying with cody was only a dream, forced and sculpted by your hands and a stubborn will, till it formed with jagged edges. the struggle to fit two unmatched puzzle pieces.

"your old man'll kill me if he knows you're up here with me and not training with him". a ghost of a laugh living along with the coarse age of his voice. jimmy "the butcher" cruz, a dear old friend of your fathers, and a hall of famer in his own right, sighing agreeably as he speaks over the phone. "but you're welcome any time kiddo. you like my own, y'know that? the gym is here whenever you need it to be".

"i appreciate you butch", you give. the slow ride to your hotel quiet and familiar.

"let me know if you need anything else".

"will do".

the call drops. a blow of air past your lips working well enough as it plays an odd tune of some mild mannered frustration. a soreness of spirit where the body breathes and functions well, systems and internal processes going on as they should but still there rests this adrift feeling. a weightless sensation. fatigue and an imbalance of any direct thought. confusion. symptoms of the concussion surely, which only do well in leaving you to exist in this dead space limbo. an auto pilot of movement. muscles remembering the weight of things. your suitcases and bags, and the heavy swing back of the hotel doors. memory bruised but alive. because you don't have an explanation for returning to albany. your foot stepping into the quaint beauty of the hotel room like aggressively lifting the unfinished heal of a scab. being here, in this place, like your body is taking the long, necessary journey back down to earth. hot on impact of the surface but ready to land.

your lips suffering under your teeth and your fingers tingling. a wistful air working about you, brushing up against your skin as a reminder of times past. here in this place with him, before the abrupt end of it all.

flashback - january 2024 - albany, new york

and it is said, by scientists and theologians alike, that before the creation of everything, there was nothing. whether the world came to be from a Godly "let there be", or this abrupt but explosive expansion across the cosmos, the truth remains here, that we exist not of our own casual volition. and so if this coming into being—a devastatingly beautiful ripple through that forever stretch of space—is as ornate in nature as it is said to be, then how is it that one can exist so unceremoniously with another? passion this slow, steady expansion like that of the universe. his name on your tongue and his grip nestled into delicate skin. eyes fashioned with colors to rival that of those painting the faraway galaxies and the breaths singing between coarse little moaning songs, a great imitation of the wind. surely these are bouts of madness, giving frivolous, near shapeless names, for such heavy performances of affection.

or maybe it isn't insanity. because don't we always give awful, insufficient names to things we hate. and even more terrible names to things we fear.

the apple state inn, a small time hotel in albany, new york, is not known for it's size or luxury. a just off the exit, two and a half, maybe three star rated establishment—google reviews and the website beg to differ with one another—with a scarce housekeeping staff and forever stale, day old coffee. always near empty vending machines and a just out of high school receptionist who doesn't know the difference between credit and debit and counts change like they're counting sheep. but the walls are thick and the privacy is immaculate. immaculate enough that it'd be more useful and cost effective to keep from printing do not disturb cards than not. because once the door closes behind him and that roll of his mini suitcase follows him in, you figure—with the way he's nearly suffocating you with his mouth—that he needs all the undisturbed time he can get.

the cloud over of steam and a stream of hot, prickly, shower water. your fingers sudsy as they comb through the slick, soaked ways of his hair. thumbs sweeping at his nape before the caress behind his ears. these tender little dotting ministrations that make him groan some. a dark, near weightless, trembling sort of song humming up his throat. tattooed fingers feeling stitched into the soft flesh of your hips as the water works to wash away the soapiness of his hair. his nose nudging into yours and the slight height of him leaving this impression about you that he's surrounding you some. working to consume. to prove with a wordless go of his everything that he's the best in the world.

that thick curl of heat and the prod of his hard dick against your leg don't help either. his tongue jutting against your lips—a little lick that you chase with enthusiasm—as he smooths it over his own. such a damn tease. your body alive and burning with a war of feelings. not so little sensations that burst at your neck and your mouth and your chest and the warmth pulsing between already wet legs. the proximity of him damning to whatever words you used before to name your current state of affairs. because this seems a little more than casual. a little too charged and full of breath and life to be just a fulfillment of those nagging, sultry, desperate, bodily desires. because it's never felt this impassioned before. this slow and meticulous. a strangulation about the heart that makes the muscle somehow pump harder, faster. like if it fights for life, for it's right to be as its always been, than maybe it can survive the domineer of whatever this is.

the soap dissolves from his hair, washing down into the drain. your fingers remaining still. running dull over his scalp. a deep caressing. an act living so well that it forms it's own memory in your fingers. the seam of his lips pecking at yours. tiny, lax, unhurried kisses that work like they have till the end of the expansion of the universe.

a laugh cuts up from your chest. like it's unsure it even wants to escape. a fear that it'll have to explain itself.

cool green eyes and a spark of diligence you've only seen him have when he's wrestling. "what?"

"nothing, it's just...", eyes failing to meet him. dim as they take to the littered ink all over his chest instead. "...this is strangely intimate no?" because it is. the usual air of your rendezvous' living with a more curt edge to it. an urgency of spirit. something great and simple and to the point. made and brought about from a deep mutual attraction, but for the pure sake of fulfillment.

and maybe your words, amounting to this cautioned little question, have put some distance between your bodies. like the air and nerve to say it leaves the both of you just a little more distant than seconds before. and it must have, because he's fastening himself to you. skin pressing hotly over skin, a slow mold, leaving you to shiver up against cool tiling. mouth still a sweet tease over yours. palm sweeping down and under to cup your thigh till it's hitching up into his palm and cinched to his waist. "i take last minute flights to nameless little, kinda three star hotels, to eagerly stick my dick in you...", his hips canting up. nudging at the sensitive bloom of your slit. lips at the curve of your ear. his breath hot and your skin shuddering. "...and i'm not knockin the hotels..", he chuckles. "...i'm just sayin. it's a bit of a journey to make it to you. this whole thing has been pretty intimate in a way for a while".

you take slim little nips at your lip. "does that bother you?"

an earnest moan escaping as he slots his lips along yours for a real kiss. the gentleness of it turning sharp as his teeth glide to pull your lip. "why would it?...", tongue led kisses. hands cradling him hostage. his mouth tasting like the sweets he indulges in before he meets you. "...our whole thing is a little informal but that doesn't mean we can't have a moment...", nipping a trail to your neck and kissing over the slights as he goes. breath at your pulse and the thick heat of him slotting and nudging still between your legs. "...or moments". his words these actors of persuasion. as if muddying the lines of a casual thing has ever been good for anyone foolish enough to do it.

"does it bother you?", he gives into your neck. fixing your hips to the wet wall as he grinds into them.

the air thick still. his hair fine under your fingers as they find a home there. your lips kissing his shoulder. dazed by the sensation of shared little whispers and the hard ride of him provoking your arousal to slip and your belly to roll with delicious quiver. "no", you hum. meeting his hips with a roll of your own. "i think it makes our thing more enjoyable". words shaky and a shitty contradiction to the inevitable.

because this thing, this flare of a sensation—soldering hot to melt your bones—is neither unceremonious or fleeting. it is that forever expansion, forming from nothing into something after the abrupt snap that wills it into being. a universe of a feeling housed in the fragility of skin, simple sweeping touches and the persistence of his eyes.

your body is this picturesque take to the sheets. his arms strong, a gentle carry before he's settling to slot between your legs. wrapped up in your thighs and his lips placing delicate. and no, not like the simplicity of it would work in a means to break you, but like the need for reverencing runs deep enough that it'd feel like sin to ignore it. and cm punk has never been a man of self-denial. his tongue curling against yours, sweet and patient. hums of moans and the warmth of him working in beautiful opposition to the cool sheets. his thumb soothing up your jaw, palm cradling your cheek, like he's keeping the angle of your lips just where he likes it to be. control living easy in him. pressing kisses in without the urgency of forethought.

and maybe the apple state inn deserves a five star rating. a review that speaks to the allure of low yellow lights and that natural smell of lavender stuck to the walls.

an embarrassing sort of greediness spills over. hips rocking clumsily to rush into the simple glide through of his fingers at your slit. a firm circling with his thumb but still sedated. a measured touch that nearly aches your teeth in anticipation. breaths short and brattish whimpers. your back curling, attempting to steer him to the tight throb of your entrance.

he's enjoying this. teeth nipping your lips with a small smile. nails digging at his arms in need. "please". a drawl of a whine.

a gentle, testy, shallow, slip into your pussy makes him groan. raw and unmoderated. your legs falling over the muscles of his thighs, spread for him as he dips and retracts. the lewd little sound of it hot to the ears. "don't rush my process", teeth gripping into your neck. tongue following to sooth.

you squeeze his arm. digging what exists of sharp nails into tattooed skin. impatience unruly. "fuck your process, i wanna-"

an emptiness. the dip of his lone finger gone, replaced with the swift swat of his hand at your slit. a gasp cutting up quick, your body jostling from the speed and the cruelty of it. nestling then in pleasure that rolls in after. his tongue still at your neck. remedying skin sure fated to bruise in the morning. your clit overly wet and throbbing and sliding messily along the idle way his finger just sits there. resting right over without a mind to do something useful. the second city saint, a bastard and a half.

his laugh breaks into your skin. a little wry and a little mean. like maybe he thinks you're too audacious. so vulnerable and desperate and still making demands. "you barely know what you want for breakfast sometimes...", he starts. forehead pressed into yours. his right hand playing through the easy slip of your folds and the other tight as they ball the sheets near your head. like all of his control is stored there. knuckle white tight and fighting to stay strong. "...so whatever shit you think you want, it's just you being impatient and greedy. i guess its that only child syndrome shit".

"fuck you", you cut. nudging your face against his. cheeks roughing over the gray of his beard. defiance rife.

"oh sweetheart", he sings. a drawl of a tenor voice that makes you shudder. makes your hands cling to him tighter. like your hold there could maybe cause it to wring out more of his voice and breath, warm and sweet over your body. "you got not the slightest idea how much you're gonna eat every letter of what your just said". kissing your mouth harder. tongue sweeping with a less gentler purpose. lips pulling and suckling and nearly suffocating. looking to savor the dirty taste of your words. touch taking an abrupt curl into your pussy. a steady wet stroke that rattles your body with an almost ugly moan. almost. "you been drivin me crazy since before i got on that flight...", tongue lapping at your yours. a stress of a moan working up as he seats his finger deeper. "...been thinking about touching you for days".

and you rush to meet the feed in of it. an upswing of your hips, urging him just that much deeper. praying for the feel of it along that sensitive little spot inside that makes your skin jitter and your breathing short. your hands cradling his face close. a tough hold in his hair as you suck his tongue. a lazy timeless go if it, nearly falling so well into it that you almost lose yourself.

"someone sounds a little obsessed", you give against his lips.

his eyes green but nearly black and piercing. forehead pressed to you still. "unfortunately yes". an almost whisper if not for the bass of it.

your heart hammering. fearful and exhilarated all the same.

and you can feel his mouth on yours still, moving and hot and dangerous even as your eyes close for some feen for reprieve. a break from the diligence of his own. but you can hear him, the pry the noise of him takes to flesh, like he's opening up and splitting your nerves at the seams. "want you to show me what you do when i'm gone...", kissing your lips sweetly. a second finger joining the first. burying deep to the knuckle and balancing with perfection the deftness it takes to numb your brain with bliss. clit nudging against the add of his thumb. sensitive and the sensation of it blooming it's way till it reaches your toes. "...wanna see how good you take care of yourself when i'm not with you'.

that lavender smell soaked into the walls filling your lungs. the tips of your fingers pressing his thumb in till it's flush up against the swell of your clit. control ill suited to your body as you groan in his mouth.

back curling in with another arch. nipples aching and needy and up against his chest.

your longing this breathy, moaning, call to action. his mouth quick with a salacious answer, finding your body there. a flat, wide, lick over the twist of it. deep in it's savoring. curling and flicking and smiling about the perk of it as he feels you cling wet to his fingers. the pad of his thumb touched by the throb in your clit and the tight press you lay over it. keeping him there as he drags long and steady through your pussy. a greedy moan of his bleeding into your skin as it leaves him, the ball of your nipple playing in his mouth before he's suckling with tongue and prying with his hot mouth. wringing up the pleasure till it's voicing pliant and needy for him. teetering a line of overindulgence where he forsakes control. breaths heavy and hungry as he moves on to the other. a similar treatment that forces your hips to buck. a harsh, abrupt spurring that slips him deeper. right there, nestling and stroking lewd still. "harder, baby", you gasp. clutching the sheets. control lost. sporadic ruts that feen for that touch again.

"there?", humming at your breast. fingers just a little more vicious. the sensation sweetening your blood as it heats.

throbs undulating your skin, like the rippling push of something that goes on to last forever. his thumb releasing to let your have at your own undoing. lips suffering under your teeth. eyes glazed and your head tipped into the sheets. chasing that bliss as it waits to unfurl all over.

"yes", gasping. a tiny, pleading soprano. small and aching as it leaves you. trembling soft under him, the beginning of it rocking into you slowly. "oh God, i-", labored breaths and groaning. your fingers running up sloppy at your clit and his mouth suckling still. fucking into you with a purpose you're sure that entails seeing you go mad. "i'm coming ".

he releases your nipple with a simple pop of his lips. returning to sweep his tongue through the awestruck expression of your mouth. a sloppy kiss. wet and meshing and a little mindless. pussy drooling still as it steeps and clings and throbs.

"not sure he'd love hearing you say that but i sure do", a frail kiss at the edge of your mouth. "say it again".

"i'm coming", you pant. short cuts of breath he presses his lips over.

a glint to his eyes. gaze cascading over. appraising the state of your unraveling. "and so pretty doing it too".

you hiss. body collecting with a short hitch, like it means to ease the landing of this brace-less thing. an effort made in vain as the violence of it takes you. his throat humming satisfied, and the work of his fingers going on still to brush up against that deeper, delicate, slip of skin in you that drives you crazy. a bright, pitchy, "fuck", flying off the tip of your tongue as you curl in and lose yourself. a wordless, world of a feeling. an inconceivable burst of color behind the eyes and your lungs fighting for those better takes of air. unruly and exposed. skin teeming with too much of a good thing. the bed dipping and un-dipping, the shift of him living just at the edges of your awareness. the taste of former words heavy and thick in your mouth, like he said they'd be. his fingers collecting your thighs to adjust the way they reveal the mess of you.

a trail of dainty kisses as he ventures low. a journey over flesh to mark his appearance. a quiver playing your nerves, his tongue slipping to lick long along the full bloom of your slit. messy and drunk, like the careless indulgence of a reward long awaited. drawling moans and the grip in your thighs meaner than any touch he's given you thus far. a drive of his tongue through where you pulse and drip. weak hands near dead, trying their hardest to ease him off. eyes recovering and lazy, watching him go greedy. another hiss through your teeth, one now that indulges. a little less than brutal hold in his hair that keeps him close. the end of an old pleasure making way for a new one. suckling your clit like he did other parts of skin. little bursts of pleasure breaking to the surface, your hips rutting to following the sensation blindly.

his quickness, a jarring little feat. feeding tongue into your mouth to share the taste of you. your thumbs over his cheeks and your thighs hiking over his hips. the hard heat of him grinding along till it's snug and laying at your slit.

and even the thought of him slipping in is enough to leave you shivering.

"how do you want me?"

"deep". a thoughtless answer. your tongue wetting your lips, aching for it. "just take it, take me. i-", desperate and thin feeling. "please", you stress.

his earlier words a little clearer. thoughts and imaginations disrupted, having been troubled by the thought of you. his diligence running vengeful.

and there is nothing exactly satiating about this, about the pace, the life of it, of this. heavy feeling as he makes to stretch you deep. filling to the hilt and nestled comfortably so. like perhaps he was always meant to be there. your throat singing, breathy and filling his mouth as he makes to kiss you. a softness to you, boneless and subdued. the slightest touches made into something bigger and greater. a hand held at your thigh, a smooth reach till its hooking under your knee and the other calm and patience, the thumb of it stroking your forehead.

"not much for being a selfish prick but i need you lookin at me", he rasps. cool green eyes just a bit warmer under the low lights. gentle and arresting. "so beautiful", like a whisper to himself. "i wanna see em when i'm coming in you", he gives. testing your devotion with a push of his hips.

something heavy and dismantled erupting in his chest. bass-y and coarse, breathing over your mouth. his lips making like they mean to kiss you but never fully getting to the completion of it. your thighs housing a sweet aching and your ears burning hot, pleasured by the noise of him. the way his body slowly conforms to being taken in. easy and patient and terrible for his nerves. "yeahhh", he drawls, like an agreement of some staggering pleasure made with the self. or maybe a noise of satisfaction made pure by completion.

whimpers stuttering and cut with short breaths. your eyes glassy and your throat gaining that bit of heaviness. softly trembling, and feeling crazy under the weight of his eyes. like such vulnerability would soon be your end. a quiet sob breaking free, fingers sinking into his skin for dear life. your pussy quivering desperate, clutching hot as he gives a slow, firm, slipping stroke, pressing in enough that it makes you whole.

terror delighting it self in your bones. pressure in the body heavy enough to make diamonds. a tear slipping tenderly, falling over your cheek, the trouble of another release gathering in your belly.

he kisses the wet streak along your face. lewd and hot and wet, pussy pulling at him softly to stay. an endearing path being made upon the skin, a light press of his lips everywhere. silent and filled with purpose.

it isn't enough to let go, to deny the self of a former ambition. solid ground must be met, a full impact made regardless of how unsavory the process is. this quiet, contemplative, stretch of time in albany, not so dissimilar to a travelers great return to earth. readjustments made to air and the gravity. a re-stabilization of things—your walking and your turning and your weight against the ropes of that faithful squared circle and your ego—because a concussion only made your body's resentment more of a hell to deal with. compromise, a great ordeal with the self, a testier thing to endure even. a month of falling away, deep into the recesses of a particularly dark shadow. a host of memory lanes and the diminishing of self importance. FOMO a real bitch and a half to deal with. the frustration buried beneath skin feeling more childlike than anything else, eyeing the others as they roam and enjoy, from the window of your injury styled detention. week after week, nestled at the back of a little less than dingy sports bar, watching your friends and colleagues perform at the greatest arena's and stadiums.

but the time away made for an easier reclamation, a confession you wouldn't speak well too aloud, lest it proved hunter's opinions right. your head clear of that horrible knock of an ache against your skull and the nausea more than minimal.

minimal, but not gone. a small swim of it rippling your belly. flowing against the slosh of ginger beer you've become friendly with since discovering the existence of 'porters dive bar'. an albany staple for the city's exuberant wrestling community. the spice of the ginger steeping your tongue and the fizz of the liquid rolling over to test the limits of your stomach. like the first weary steps of a travelers feet back on earth. a fear of failure but an eagerness of spirit regardless. the building back of strength and resistance. a well made sort of exposure therapy.

your phone pings. another one of his messages appearing. his televised win against cody at an arena in albany, working like a kindling for this abrasive flare styling his words. ego on fire and looking to consume.

text message | the best in the world: soon i'm gonna stop asking to see you and just show up unannounced. you know i'm close right? where are you?

text message | outgoing: porter's dive bar

and this here is the full impact. a hypersonic re-entry. soaring past atmospheric layers as the body is once again enveloped by earths gravity. reality styled with its many worldly limitations. rich colors and coarse ground and a pulling weight in your bones.

talking to him is that meeting of skin against solid ground. the unsavory process.

your phone pings again. fingers slipping against the screen to reveal who. dread coursing wild and unfettered. a quick washing in your blood that plunges the heart.

text message | cody r: can we meet sometime soon? to talk?

text message | outgoing: of course.

you owe him that much. an explanation—regardless of how terrible it will form on your tongue. bile and a lack of brilliance born from guilt.—of your faults and self misguided decisions. but it's all just another step. a heel toe to reclaim familiarity with the earth. building back the strength lost from that unruly lack of ambition, from that great deal of muscle atrophy.

the wooden chair opposite your booth seat scoots harshly against the floor. his entrance screeching your nerves to wake with a horrible sort of surprise. the cool green of his eyes hidden beneath the curl over of a ball cap brim. shoulders squared and wide and persistent. "you look good", he gives. sitting across from you. "refreshed".

you settle your phone down. a soft tremble in your fingers as you make to embrace one hand in the other. the feel of his gaze, like the easy thin slice of a razor over thick skin. a surgical opening that leaves you bare to eyes and air alike. useless to yourself and a short ways from uncomfortable. fighting against a painless pain, against that shameful, irritating weakness that comes with vulnerability. fears and slivers of frustration born from this ill-controlled performance. because cm punk, the best in the world, makes you vulnerable.

you take one of the two ginger beers off the table. sipping at the cool spice of it for some reprieve. "your first words are always about how i look".

"because i'm unfortunately very invested in your wellbeing".

"unfortunately?"

"s'not a whole lot of reciprocation on that front". words not minced. eyes trailing to look over the cold glass left untouched. his curiosities moving him to bring it closer. "what is this?"

"ginger beer". watching him sniff at the rim of the glass before he tests the taste. the spice of the ginger and the fizz delightful and cold sober. "reciprocation". the truth of it cutting across the air, to give something deep and sharp and exacting against whatever assumptions he's made amidst his resentments. because while your investments into his wellbeing weren't as vocal as his for yours, they still hold firm in some form of existence.

"where you been hiding out?"

"our little go to hotel".

he shifts the curl of the brim to reveal more of his eyes. in a manner that allows you to see them well enough. to get the gist of whatever mixture of emotions they take. a hardened sort of confusion styling them now as your answer sinks in. "why there?"

hesitation. like the stutter of your foot after a misstep. body afraid to fail, afraid to fall after that great coming back to earth. "not sure".

his nose flares. a fierce movement. and then his jaw. a chain reaction of many things. as if to curb the brunt of his anger. this overbear of a deep vexing, he pulls into the constraint of words. hard eyes and a harder tongue. "you got a real nasty habit of not saying the things you mean and i can really do without it".

but it was enough, too much even to admit such wrongdoings amidst the court of your own thoughts and imaginations. resentment housed by the body, less sore as the days venture on, but still aching in the skin. felt in the abruptness of harsh maneuvers. swimming knocks in the head and your balance disturbed. those disgusting dull bursts of nausea and a heaviness in your body. exhaustion from nothing. "...and what is it exactly that you want from me?"

"a little transparency", he grits. "some honesty".

"i was fine with cody...was on my way to something substantial even', you give. a corral of words you feel were truthful sometime ago. back when the ambition felt sure and not so unattainable. before muscle deep resentment and injury. "we fell away from each other naturally...", words more like a tool. these builders of persuasion. and God what horrible persuaders they were. everything falling off the tongue half made and shoddily voiced. "...but in true cm punk fashion, whenever you don't like something anymore you get pissy about it. threw a dirty little wrench into my relationship to screw me over".

his chair stresses against the floor. body pulling in closer. fury stored in the pull in of his brows. "you screwed yourself. threw yourself headfirst into bullshit because you're scared. called what we had a thing, because if you actually put a decent name to it then you'd have to admit how you feel about me, and how much that terrifies you...", his tone hushed and curt and piercing. "because cody is safe and easy and if he fails at making you happy, it's no real loss at all right? because you were never really in all the way anyways".

you feel thin. subdued and quite overwrought by all this exposure to him. "you had time to say something. why wait till when i'm with someone else?"

he sighs. settles into an answer like it's the hundredth time he's come to the conclusion of it. "spent since january trying to get rid of you and it didn't work for me, and you were on live tv botchin the hell out of everything, trying to get rid of me, so i don't think it really worked for you either...so here we are".

the air thick and the silence loud. the droning of the bar easing in to fill the space. a hard siphon of the energy by words and the confession of not so dead feelings. your ginger beers icy still and watered. a waitress comes, strutting up to your table.

"you guys need anything?"

"two more of these ginger beers please", punk gives. a small smile as she leaves.

his eyes the color of garden sage. softer now. flitting over your face with a renewed sense of diligence.

and it's more clear now than it's ever been. he isn't going anywhere.

your fingers curl, a slow coming together into your palm to ball. multi-purposed, squeezing to live a little in that familiar burst of an ache. bones and muscles flexing as the skin pulls some. a summation of weariness. knuckles breaking against the door to knock. a similar rhythm playing in your chest, because cody could be many things. sad. angry. vexed. indifferent. he could speak wild or terribly soft, but inspire another layer of guilt to lay at your skin just the same.

"just a second", he gives. bass in the voice and words slipping thick like over his tongue. in that way that he tries to cover some but can't help.

a shift in your leg, like the anxious pinch of a nerve. a jerk or maybe a pulling. you're not sure what it is, but it's asking to move. to leave. to maybe do this another time. "i can come back later if you want", shouting some over the regular drone of pre-live show buzz. one hand slipping away from the cool metal of the door handle and the other undoing from that ache of a fist. making to about face into the fray of crew members. but he must recognize your voice, even through the thickness of the door. must've settled himself enough in whatever emotions he's living in.

his voice rushing. like he can feel you falling away from this long overdue talk. "no no, come in. i'm good. come in".

your hand returns against the door handle. cool metal more like an icy burning. stepping into his dressing room like a re-entry into the world of him. his hair retouched to the roots, a cold blonde that pops his already sky blue eyes. his hands roughing with his wrestling boots. blinking up at you silently. mouth parted and slightly lost for words. like he'd maybe rehearsed everything and has now forgotten all the brilliance of it. a sigh leaving with that realization. like he'll have to forsake all the prearranged self made discussion and go about this a little less practiced. "you look well", he gives. with a nod. "the break did you some good".

"yeah", stepping in further. arms folded over. body overly aware of his appraisal. "that seems to be the consensus".

his throat clears, brows pulling together before they fall away quickly. this awkward abrupt movement that reveals the slow work of his thoughts. gears oiled and turning and trying out words before he says them. a farer cry from his in-ring persona, where he's suited and pristine and seemingly always ready. the little action of it making him more human to the eyes and less star-like. something you would have shrunk away from before out of fear that it would cause him some lackluster effect, now finding in its own imperfections, very endearing.

"was it something about me, or anything i ever did that kinda just-...?", his voice falling off. left to motion oddly between your bodies with his hands. miming a separation. like finishing the words, allowing them to live in the air, would cause them to be true.

"no! no, it was...", trying to find something not so terrible to soothe him with. stepping a little closer to him. arms unfolded. like the honesty begging to leave you for some time has now taken command of your body and it's functioning. "...i wasn't being honest about a lot of things with myself and it spilled over into what we had going on, and i'm really sorry about that".

and he nods. not like he's accepting of it all but like he gets it. like he's relating to you. eyes softer, made vulnerable by his own truth. "all the...all the asinine bullshit leading up to mania just...", his eyes rolling as he remembers the trouble of it. "...on top of already wanting the belt for personal reasons, it just drove me crazy. and i think in the midst of that, i leaned in on us a little harder than i should've. maybe more than i planned to". fingers scratching and curling up into his hair, going about aimlessly almost. giving himself something to do to remedy the weight of his words. "we have quite a bit in common so...the intimacy was good enough, it-it was easy to just hold on to. i think we were both faking it to make it".

your throat grows heavy, face warm with the well up of tears. relief meshing easy with the sadness of it all. the both of you willing to settle, if it meant being comfortable and not alone. a heartbreaking circumstance to force upon the self for sure.

"can i...?", your hands motioning for an embrace.

"of course, c'mere".

his arms warm and comforting as he takes you in. wrapped tightly, with a friendly sort of affection. an earnest touch, made not to linger in a performance of desire but to give solace. sniffling against his chest as he squeezes tightly.

"don't you start crying for real...", he jokes. "...cause then you're gonna make me cry".

you smile. slipping away from him gently. "well that don't take much so..."

his eyes roll. grabbing the outer jacket that completes his in-ring gear.

your fingers sweep under your eyes to rid of the wet streaks. shoulders less heavy and the dread in your chest no longer fighting to consume. making to leave his dressing room. "don't go easy on him either. i need him a little softened up".

"will do".

you make a full exit. slipping your phone from your pocket. his name under your thumb as you press against it. memory serving well, thinking of that sports bar in albany and all the empty glasses of ginger beer spread across the table. the vex about his face growing gentler as the night carried on. that line in the sand washed away, the boundary blurred and then made new into something with a better shaping. his cool, pale, sage eyes working like he wanted to remember that moment. like the satisfaction of having you in front of him again without any attempts to break away from him, was too good to simply be lost to time.

you click to call and wait for his answer. an impatience running in your fingers as you make to join the producers and tech operators at the staging area.

he answers. a simple, coarse, "yeah", that sweetens your ears.

"have breakfast with me tomorrow", you give. plain and a little demanding. "please?"

he hums. amusement in his voice like he's smiling.

"time and place sweetheart".

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joaosnovia · 3 months ago

Note

hector fort with a sassy/bossy girlfriend who is actually a sweetheart🥹 like yes she will make something out of nothing- but she also give the softest praise when she wants to?

❦ - my favourite player.

summary:: you’re hector’s sassy girlfriend (with kindness 😛)

warnings:: it’s like not a proper fic yk? it’s just a ton of scenarios but too long for headcannons idek atp

writers note:: IM SO INCONSISTENT W POSTING I NEED TO START POSTING THESE AS SSON AS IM DONE WRITING OMDS THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR HOURS.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if u wanna be added or removed

hector fort never really knew what hit him when he started dating you. you walked into his life like a storm, sharp tongue, quick comebacks, and a look that could cut through steel, but underneath that bossy, sassy exterior, you were the biggest softie he’d ever met.

he learned that early on. like the first time you two went out and he showed up three minutes late. three.

‘oh, so you thought i didn’t deserve punctuality?’ you’d said, arms crossed, hip cocked to the side. ‘is that what we’re doing now, fort?’

he scrambled with apologies, cheeks red, swearing traffic was worse than usual. you just sighed, looped your arm through his, and murmured, ‘relax, i’m messing with you. but you are paying for dessert. non-negotiable.’

he never minded paying, especially when you’d grin at him over your ice cream, that spark in your eyes softening just a bit. and god, when you’d say things like, ‘you’re lucky you’re cute,’ it did things to him he didn’t know how to explain.

but it wasn’t just the teasing. it was how you supported him, how you believed in him even when he didn’t believe in himself. after that match he’d been kicking himself over for days, missed shots, sloppy passes, you cornered him in his apartment, hands on your hips.

‘hector fort, if you don’t stop beating yourself up, i swear—’ you cut yourself off, softened. stepped closer and cupped his face, fingers warm against his skin. ‘baby, you played so well. everyone has off days. i’m proud of you.’

he melted. every damn time.

sometimes, you’d get worked up over the smallest things, like when your coffee order was wrong. ‘how hard is it to do two pumps of vanilla, not three? i’m not asking for rocket science.’ you’d huff, glance at him, and when you caught him grinning, you’d roll your eyes. ‘...whatever. wanna sip?’

he loved that you’d fight anyone and anything, but when it came to him? you handled him with care. your bossiness wasn’t mean, it was protective. you demanded respect for yourself, for him, for the people you cared about. you were fire and warmth all at once.

and hector? he’d never been happier to stand in the middle of that fire.

it was in the little things, too. the texts before his matches, ‘score a goal for me, baby. or don’t. you’re still my favorite.’ the way you’d pull him aside after a rough day and say, ‘c’mere, let me fix your hair. you look like you fought a tornado,’ fingers gentle as you smoothed back his curls.

but nothing compared to the quiet moments. like when you thought he was asleep, and you’d whisper, ‘love you, y’know? so much it’s stupid.’ like he didn’t hear you. like he didn’t tuck those words away, holding them close on the nights he missed you the most.

hector fort knew you were a lot. sassy, bossy, dramatic. but god, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. because beneath all that, you were his soft place to land. his person.

and if you wanted to make something out of nothing, throw a fit over a late pizza delivery or a movie starting five minutes past the showtime? fine. he’d let you. hell, he’d stand right beside you and complain too.

as long as, at the end of the day, he still got to be the one you smiled at like that. the one you whispered those soft, precious things to when you thought no one was listening.

because you, with all your fire and sass and sweetness, you were everything.

#football x reader #football one shot #football fluff #football x y/n #football x you #hector fort x you #hector fort x y/n #hector fort fluff #hector fort x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

compos mentis 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, chronic health issues, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a long court case, your mother stays attached to her lawyer, bringing even more contention into your life.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: hi!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“You don’t like it?” Andy asks as you sit silently before your plate.

You’re dizzy and a bit nauseous. Not having your oxygen is disorienting. You keep reaching for the tank that isn’t there, adjusting the nonexistent tube beneath your nose. You’re breathless and addled as you wonder if Dr. Kemp could be wrong. What if you pass out? What if something terrible happens?

“I’m... sorry,” you hang your head. “I’m trying but... not very hungry.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to eat if you can’t. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he assures you as he hovers his fork above his own plate. “I’m not like her.”

You nod as your bottom lip pokes out. Your flutter your lashes and rub your cheeks. The reminder of your mom unnerves you. She was as constant as the oxygen tank and now both are gone.

“You okay?” He sets his fork down gently.

You nod and gulp, tempering your breaths through your nose. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he gets up and moves to the seat next to you. “I know this is a lot. I know that neither of us were prepared for this but I want you to know that I will do my best to be there for you.”

You twine your fingers through each other in your lap and stare at them, “but... why?”

“Someone should,” he says, leaning toward you. “Look, I... I’ll be honest. I blame myself for letting this go this far. I suspected during the case. There were inconsistencies but... but I had a job to do. I did it, to your detriment even. I’m the one who’s sorry. I should’ve listened to my instinct.”

You frown, “but... my mom? You liked her, right? Aren’t you... upset?”

He shifts and sighs. He rubs his palms together as he faces the table. He plants his elbows on the wood and hides behind his fingers. He massages his forehead as he thinks. When he drops his hands, his expression is drawn and his complexion pale.

“Like I said, I was suspicious. I only... only stayed with your mom so I could keep an eye on you. You seemed lonely and lost. I know it’s not my place but I was concerned. And there was no one else looking after you. No one else who would care,” he sniffs and looks at you directly. You peek up and mash your hands together. “Your mom was very deliberate in keeping people away from you, wasn’t she?”

You shrug. You never thought about it. Your mom is the one who took you to the doctors, who did everything to get you better, to make sure she got you the right treatment. Or...

“It’s a lot. You don’t need to figure it all out right now,” he assures you. “And I don’t want you to rush yourself. Steve will be back tomorrow, he can give us more information about your condition, about what needs to be done.”

You rock then stop yourself. You cross your arms and shrink your stature. You look at your plate.

“It’s been a long day. I’ll pack the food up for later. How about you take a hot bath? It will help,” he suggests.

“Um, no, I think I’ll just lay down,” you murmur.

“You should wash up. We did a lot of running around, didn’t we?” He sits back and grips the edge of the table. “I’ll get a towel and something you can wear.”

You stare at him and bring your hand up to your nose, wiggling them fruitlessly as there is no tube to toy with. You purse your lips in disappointment.

“Thank you. I’m... sorry.”

“Please, no more apologies,” he reaches and gently squeezes your arm. “Whatever you need,” he brushes up and down your sleeve, “you tell me, okay?”

You sniffle and nod, looking at the wall as you chew your lip. You feel more lost than ever. Without the air, without your mother. It might not have been a perfect life but it was familiar. All of this is new and scary and confusing. You don’t know what’s real, what to believe.

“Alright,” he retracts his touch and stands, “let’s get you sorted.”

🩶

Dr. Hawe stands at Dr. Kemp’s shoulder. You watch them both, nervous as you sit on the medical bed. Andy sits to the side, his leg jiggling anxiously. You feel his nerves from where you are. Maybe you should’ve have said yes when he offered to wait outside.

“I have to apologise. I suppose I can expect a malpractice case myself,” Hawe says. “I never meant anything but to help. She exhibited all the symptoms and I made the diagnosis with good intent.”

“Unfortunately, these things can be very similar. There’s a lot of overlap between genuine issues and oxygen toxicity. We could still be wrong but given observation so far, it’s more likely the latter.” Kemp returns.

You look between them, confused.

“Miss,” Hawes steps forward, “do you need me to explain?”

You nod. “Should I have my oxygen? Did I do bad?”

He frowns, “no. I... I was wrong. All those other doctors were right. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’ll take some time for you to recover. Being at elevated oxygen levels for so long can have detrimental effects. It will take a bit to know if any damage has been done to your lung tissue. Unfortunately, in trying to fix a problem I thought was there, I may have made it worse.”

“But that’s impossible. I... I...” You take deep breaths but find no hitch. You don’t understand.

“So, it was all lies?” Andy asks.

Kemp nods and angles toward him. “Looks like. Munchausen by proxy. Not common but most common between a parent and child.”

“Munch-- munch--” you try to repeat it. You heard about that on that show about the girl in the wheelchair. Well, she didn’t really need it. “But... my mom...”

Andy sits silently and presses a bent knuckle to his mouth. His face is tense with anger. The doctors share a look.

“This is bad,” Andy drops his hand. “I’m a public prosecutor. I took this to court.”

“And I made the diagnosis. I wrote the scripts,” Hawes says.

“What does that mean? What’s going on?” You swing your legs.

They all look at you. Andy sits back and Hawes lowers his head. Kemp steps forward.

“Well, both of them could lose their licenses. That’s what. If at least, their reputations will be ruined.” He explains. “That is if anyone finds out. It could mean more legal action.”

“Legal...? Oh, another case?”

Andy nods and Hawes toys with his stethoscope.

“But I... I can’t do it again.” You say. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have to,” Kemp girds. “But it means your mom won’t face any justice. Nothing. She did this to you.” He moves closer, “do you understand that you weren’t sick but she may have made you sick?”

You search his face as your heart races. The room shrinks around you and your vision tilts. You gulp as your mouth grows acidic. You moan and fan yourself, then wave him away as you bend over the edge. You can’t help the revolt of stomach bile that spews from you and lands on the floor.

“No,” you brace your head and rock, gagging again, but you have nothing to come up. Your breakfast was as appetizing as dinner the night before. “No, no, no. My mom... she wouldn’t...”

Your insides contort and your skull throbs. Your breath picks up as you continue to babble. It can’t be real. You are sick. You know you are. You missed classes, you missed prom, you missed graduation. That’s not a lie.

You heave and shudder as you stay bent over your lap. You feel a warmth on your back as you begin to shake. Your head swirls and your skin scalds. You drone senselessly.

“Shhh, hey, you’re alright,” the distant voice speaks to you through the rising haze.

The colours and sounds blend together behind the wall of your tears. Your body is moving but you’re not the one controlling it. You have no power. You have nothing.

“...get her laying down...”

“...careful...”

“...just to calm her. She’ll hurt herself...”

The words fade and your eyes roll back as a tide of heat overwhelms you, flowing through your veins and rising to the surface. As the warmth fills your head, you sink down into the abyss. Your anguish follows you, gnawing at your heart as you drown in your grief. Of what you had and never did.

🩶

You can't tell when you wake up. The world is so dull that you may as well be unconscious. You stare at the ceiling, too drained to care about where you are or how you go there.

The room is dim but for the lamp near your bedside. You should be cozy. The blanket is soft, the pillow cushy, but none of it can comfort you. There is nothing that can change what she did. Nothing that can undo what's done. Or give you back those squandered years.

It's over. Not just her lies but your life. There's no restarting. There's no fixing this. You might not be sick the way your mom said you were but there has to be something wrong with your head if you believed her.

What do you have left? What did you ever have at all?

You sniff as your eyes itch. You're not going to cry. It'll all be easier if you just don't feel anything.

There's a shift somewhere in the haze. A figure sits up near the foot of the bed. You squint as Andy combs his fingers through his hair, straightening in the rigid wooden chair from the dining room.

"Sweetheart," he stands stiffly. "You're awake. There's water."

He comes to the side the bed and gestures to the glass there. Your head lolls over. You close your eyes.

"I can get you something else. Tea?"

You don't react. You want to be left alone. All you feel is shame. He knows how stupid you are. He knew all along.

“Honey,” he carefully sits on the edge. He touches your cheek, then your forehead. “Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”

Your eyes roll and your lashes flutter. As much as you long to drift back into nothingness, your head is throbbing. You turn your face away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he brings his hand to yours. “I really am. I should have done something sooner.”

You don’t answer him. Again. What can you say?

He sighs and draws away. He turns to face the wall and leans his elbows on his knees. He holds his head as he hunches over.

Silence rises around you, rippling like the air around a raging fire. Stolid to the point of suffocation. There’s a tremble that isn’t within you. And something more.

You move your head back to see Andy. He sniffles and wipes his nose with one hand as his other keeps his head up. He mops his cheek as he cries. You watch him, surprised and almost curious.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “I’m ashamed. I’m... horrible.” He pushes his hand up into his hair again as he sits up. He stares at the wall, the brims of his eyes reddened. “I can take you to the courthouse. You can tell the DA everything. I’ll resign.”

You gulp. Why would he do all that? It’s not his fault your mom did what she did. Or that you let her.

You push yourself up weakly, quivering as you keep your hands flat on the mattress. “Andy,” you murmur. “I... I don’t want to tell the DA.” You sway slightly and he looks at you. “I don’t want to tell anyone. It’s too embarrassing.”

His eyes search you and his brows furrow, “are you sure?” You nod and hang your head. He gently touches your arm, “sweetie, you need to lay down.” He helps you recline. “Just relax. I know this is so hard. Actually, I don’t know. How could I?”

You let your lashes droop and hug yourself loosely. You exhale heavily. You reach below your throat absently and find no tube there. That’s right. You don’t need it.

“Thank you,” you utter.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #compos mentis #defending jacob

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certaimromance · 5 months ago

Text

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Chasing Ghosts.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Everything in your life is finally under control and almost perfect, but somehow chasing the ghost of Aaron Hotchner is still an obsession.

Words: 1,9k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. angst WITHOUT a happy ending. hotch being an absent father figure. so much angst (yes, again). temporarily located after he leaves the FBI. same reader as in "tall child" but several years after that. so inspired by “like him” by tyler, the creator and all the edits with the song that I see. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This idea came to me out of the blue because I, too, feel abandoned when I start watching the episodes after Hotch leaves<///3.

The quiet hum of the BAU filled the air, the same familiar rhythm of paperwork being shuffled, pens scratching against files, and the faint sound of voices from down the hall. The office you were in—Emily’s office now—still carried faint echoes of what it used to be. The desk was different, the decor had shifted, but the weight of the space hadn’t changed. It was still steeped in years of hard decisions, late-night strategizing, and memories that lingered even when the man who made them had gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

You sighed as you sifted through a stack of reports, scanning them for inconsistencies. It wasn’t even your responsibility—you were just helping out, filling a gap as the team caught up on their endless backlog. You’d been in this office countless times since Aaron had left, but it still felt strange. Like you didn’t quite belong. Like you were stepping on sacred ground that no longer had a place for you.

Being here without him was like being in a different place.

You’d been trying not to think about it, about how long it had been since he left. A year now, maybe more. You weren’t counting. Or so you told yourself for mental health. But in moments like this, standing in what used to be his space, surrounded by the echoes of his presence, it was impossible not to feel the sting of his absence.

You didn’t blame him for leaving—not entirely. Jack deserved his father, a life of peace away from the chaos of the FBI. You’d even admired his courage for walking away from something he’d dedicated his life to…You knew you would never do something like that; he was brave. But nothing of that softened the sharp edge of hurt that had been lodged in your chest ever since the day he said goodbye by a stupid piece of paper.

The truth was, he hadn’t just left the Bureau and all the atrocities that this entailed. He’d left you.

Your eyes flicked toward the desk, now Prentiss’s, and for a moment, your fingers brushed its edge. It was ridiculous how something as simple as the grain of the wood could bring back a flood of memories—of late nights, terse discussions, and the way his voice would take on that steady, commanding tone that somehow made you feel both safe and seen. The way he scolded you when you did things against protocol, the way he almost smiled when he thought you didn't notice, and most of all, the way he left overnight.

A soft knock at the door snapped you back to the present. You looked up, startled, to see Rossi leaning casually against the doorframe. His sharp eyes seemed to take in everything—the reports, your posture, the way your hand still rested on the edge of the desk, as though anchoring you to something unseen.

“Working hard, or hardly working?” he quipped, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You mustered a weak smile. “Just helping Emily with the backlog. Thought I’d clear some of this off her plate.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting around the room. It lingered on the desk, the walls, and the chair before settling back on you. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something knowing—that made your stomach twist.

“You’re in here a lot,” David observed, his tone casual but laced with something deeper.

More than a lot for someone who was supposed to stop doing it on the advice of her therapist.

Because you don’t need to keep hiding you in work. Your life was good now, or so you kept telling yourself. You had settled into your role on the team, earned the respect of your colleagues, and built a rhythm that felt steady, even fulfilling. You went home to a warm apartment that didn’t feel so empty anymore, filled with little things that made you smile: books on the coffee table, cozy blankets, a half-dead plant you kept forgetting to water. You even start to have casual dates sometimes to open your heart to the world.

“Just helping,” you repeated, more curtly than you really intended.

“Hmm.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the desk. “You know, you’ve always been a terrible liar.”

“What?” you asked, your tone, again, sharper than you intended. The defenses around you were activating automatically.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk on his lips betrayed him. “Nothing. Just…noticing things.”

Your jaw tightened. Working with profilers meant every word, every movement, was analyzed. You hated it so much in these moments.

“What?” You demanded, unable to keep the irritation from your voice.

He tilted his head, studying you with that maddening patience of his. “You make the same expressions he used to.”

No. No. No.

Do not mention him. Don't make even the slightest reference to him. Don't think about him. Don’t.

The air seemed to leave the room. Your heart clenched, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. “What are you talking about?” you asked, though you knew. Of course, you knew.

“The furrowed brow when you’re deep in thought,” he said, his voice softer now. “The way you purse your lips when you’re frustrated but trying to hide it. And now, in this desk…you’ve always been like him. Always will be.”

You’re just like him? You look like him?

A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Great. I’ve picked up his bad habits too.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Rossi said gently, his voice softer now. “It just means he left a mark.”

You turned away, pretending to focus on the files in front of you, but the words hit harder than you wanted to admit. Of course, Hotch had left a mark. How could he not? He’d been your anchor, your mentor, your constant—even when you were at odds. And then he’d left. He’d walked away from the BAU and from you as if you were disposable.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “He’s gone.”

Rossi didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “Still angry at him?”

The question hit you like a gut punch, and for a moment, you couldn’t respond. Your hands tightened into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as if the physical discomfort could drown out the storm in your chest. “I’m not angry,” you said, the words escaping your lips faster than your brain could catch them.

It was much more complex than that. Your feeling was more akin to disappointment than anger or rage because you knew you could never hate him.

David didn’t press further, instead leaning more comfortably against the desk, as if he had all the time in the world. “You know he wanted a life for Jack,” he countered, his voice measured. “You can’t blame him for that.”

“I’m not blaming him,” you said, though it felt like a lie even as you spoke it. “But I don’t get why he had to leave everything.” you snapped, the sharpness of your voice startling even yourself. You turned away, staring hard at the stack of files, though the words on the pages blurred into meaningless lines. “He could’ve stayed in touch. But he didn’t.”

Zero calls, zero messages, zero signs that at least you mattered to him.

Rossi sighed, his expression softening with something like sympathy. “Aaron’s always been good at one thing: convincing himself that distance is the best way to protect the people he cares about.”

You looked away, the weight of his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. It didn’t make it hurt your heart any less. Nothing could ever dispel the pain, nothing but the embrace of the same person who provoked it.

There was a long pause before he spoke again, his tone lighter, almost teasing. “You know, there’s a way to settle this.”

You frowned, glancing up at him. “What are you talking about?”

Without a word, Rossi reached into his pocket. The sound of his hand brushing against the fabric of his jacket broke the tension like a crack of thunder in the stillness. He pulled out a small card and held it between two fingers, his expression unreadable as he extended it toward you.

“What’s this?” you asked, the words coming out more hesitant than you wanted.

“His number,” he said simply. “It changed.”

Your eyes dropped to the card, to the string of numbers printed neatly on its surface. For a moment, all you could do was stare. It felt like the weight of the entire room had shifted onto that tiny slip of paper. Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to grab it, yet rooted to the spot.

“I’m not calling him,” you said, though your grip on the card betrayed your uncertainty.

David smiled knowingly, as if he’d already won. “I didn’t say you had to. But if you ever want to talk to him, you’ve got the number.”

You shook your head. “No. If he wanted to talk to me, he would’ve called. He hasn’t.”

“Maybe he thinks you don’t want to hear from him,” Rossi countered. “Maybe he’s giving you space.”

“Space?” you repeated, the word bitter on your tongue. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Abandoning people?”

“He didn’t abandon you,” Rossi countered firmly, though there was no edge in his tone, only understanding. “He left because he had to. For Jack. For himself. And maybe—just maybe—he thought you were strong enough to handle it.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and you turned away, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. You hated how much they affected you, how much he still affected you. “Well, he was wrong,” you muttered, the words barely audible.

Rossi didn’t argue, didn’t press. “You don’t have to use it,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “But if you do, maybe you’ll figure out that he didn’t leave you. He just…left.”

With that, he stepped back and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing softly down the hallway until they disappeared altogether, leaving you alone in the thick, suffocating silence.

Your eyes fell back to the card on the desk. It seemed out of place there, too bright and clean against the chaos of papers and reports. You stared at it as if it might leap off the desk and demand an answer. But it just sat there, motionless, yet somehow unbearably loud.

Your grip tightened, the edges of the card biting into your palm. And then, with a sharp, decisive motion, you tore it in half. The sound was quick, final, like the snap of a cord that had been fraying for far too long. You tore it again, and again, the pieces falling to the desk in a jagged, fragmented pile. Each rip felt like releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, like reclaiming some small measure of control over the chaos he’d left behind.

When the pieces were no more than scraps, you gathered them up and marched to the trash can. You dropped them in, the fragments fluttering down like ashes from a fire long extinguished. You stared at them for a moment, your chest heaving, your emotions still raw but now dulled by the act of destruction.

Turning back to the desk, you sank into the chair, forcing your focus onto the reports in front of you. The room still felt heavy, the ghost of his presence lingering in the corners, but you pushed it aside. There was work to do. There was always work to do.

And after all, you were just like him.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch angst #thomas gibson #father figure!hotch x bau!reader

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fazyrich · 4 months ago

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Tags: Sylus x reader, Caleb x reader(?), teasing, fighting, slightly playful Sylus, random encounter, kinda proofread?. This is my first attempt of writing 😬😬. So ignore my inconsistent writings *sobs*

You/MC, Sylus, Caleb

Going to an event with Sylus as an apology for accusing him about your family house explosion 💥.

___

While walking around during the party with Sylus, your hand slotted firmly on his left arm, you just stumble upon Caleb. It turned out the event was just another gathering for the usual shady dealings—no surprise they had invited the Colonel as well. His gaze locks onto yours instantly.

You could see his eyes widened in surprise, and feel them rake upon your body. Tightly wrapped with a maroon silk gown, slitted at your left thigh, successfuly showing off your long legs. The look was further complemented with a pair of louboutins.

On the other hand, Sylus could sense how your hand slightly gripped his arm a little too hard. Understanding that something or someone is making you feel nervous.

"Mr Sylus, I rarely see you around lately", the older gentleman in front of Caleb greets them. Judging from their positions, They must have been talking with each other.

"Ah, Mr Charles, it has been a while," Sylus replied. Nodding slightly to the elderly gentleman before resting his gaze to Caleb. Sensing the stare, Mr Charles quickly exclaimed

"Oh this is Caleb, a junior of mine from the Aviation team,"

"Pleased to meet you..Mr.Caleb", Sylus said, extending his hand. Caleb glanced at it for a second before gripping it firmly.

"Same here," he replied shortly, tightening his grip as he spoke. Not noticing the cold response, Mr Charles nodded to me as they released the handshake.

"Never seen you out with a partner before, May I ask who she is?"

"Oh, she's my.. fiancée," Sylus replied. Hearing this both Caleb and I turned to Sylus, eyes widening in shock. What the hell, he never says that before?!

"Hah! Congratulations Mr. Sylus. You two make quite the pair", the elderly man said with a chuckle as he praised us.

Caleb, however was still in shock, his fist tight as his knuckles turned white. How could his pips-..No, no, this must be a part of her mission or something. It's better to play along

Following Mr. Charles, Caleb gathered himself and flashed his usual million watt smile " I agree Mr. Charles, they do look perfect for each other,"

His eyes stray from Sylus and only rest on my face, I could feel the raging emotion he is shooting me behind those gentle pairs of amethysts.

"Thank you for the kind words, gentlemen. Don't mind her- she's albeit a little tired from the honeymoon," Sylus claims, his eyes twinkled with amusement. Meanwhile, Caleb's left eye involuntarily twitched at the statement.

Okay now, that's enough. I tried to subtly pinch his side, a signal for him to stop the storytelling however sometimes I forgot that this man is well built. The only thing I'm doing is tugging his jacket.

Sylus immediately leans down, " What was that, sweetie?," Half of his build covering the vision of those two men from me. I glared at him for a second. "Stop teasing," I whispered in his ear.

"No can do, kitten. I'm always worried about you," he states. His hand softly tucks a strand behind my ear.

"By the way, Mr. Sylus. If you don't mind, would you like to discuss a potential business venture? My junior here would like to share some of his insights," the elderly man spoke, gesturing towards the other side of the hall.

You mean a new illegal business? And of course the fleet is involved. I sighed

Straightening up , Sylus turns to me, his eyes alone gauging my reaction. I smiled and patted his chest

"You should go, honey. I think I'm going to get more drinks," I forced a polite smile toward the two men.

"Very well , don't overdo yourself sweetie or I'll need to carry you back to the car again," he teased. His hand caresses my face again before resting on the brooch he gave me. Which now had beend tinkered into a hair ornament.

I saw him silently mouthing something to me before he turned and walked away

"Be careful"

I watched the three of them leave before walking in the opposite direction. Approaching the table decorated with miniature snacks and various alcoholic drinks, I picked a tall glass of white wine.

The event replaying in my head. Sheesh, that was delightful haha. This was supposed to be a casual event.

Why is Caleb here for fuck's sake. I sighed before sipping the wine

I wonder if Caleb is pissed or worried about me? Glancing up at the huge analog clock hanging by the wall. I noted, Half an hour past midnight. My body tensed

This night is not going to end any sooner huh. More like, it just started.

---

Hours drifted by as if time had lost all meaning.

By the time I reached my third glass of wine, there was still no sign of Sylus anywhere in the hall. Damn it! Did he ditch me or something? I clicked my tongue in frustration.

Deciding that the need for fresh air is overwhelming, I walked around the hall searching for an empty space to rest. Complaints continued to leave me until I reached a quiet balcony on the furthest part of the hall.

Perfect, none of those creepy party attendants is here. I gleefully rejoiced for the personal space

Walking forward, I leaned against the balcony, the crisp night air wrapping around me like a silent embrace.

"Ughh where did Sylus go, I wanna leave this shitty place," I whined loudly while looking up into the starry skies.

"You’re leaving already?"

The unexpected voice makes me flinch slightly and my grip on the railing tightened.

I hesitantly glanced over my shoulder. Oh no. Just my luck. The one person I was trying to avoid.

I forced a casual smile. "Oh, hi. Uh... Mr. Caleb, right?". Did I stuttered too much?

"Cut it out, pips. It’s just us here, I made sure of it," Caleb said, stepping beside me.

He hesitated for a moment, as if debating something in his mind, before his sharp gaze rested on me.

"Is this another one of your missions?" His tone was calm, but there was an edge to it.

"Didn’t know that one of a hunter's responsibility includes being an escort." He tilted his head slightly, the faint glow of the stars barely reveal his face.

"That's none of your concern. Besides, why the heck a respected figure like you attending a flashy event like this, Colonel ? " I huffed, turning away, unwilling to meet his gaze.

Before I could take another breath, his hand gripped my shoulder, firm and unyielding, forcing me to face him once more.

"To be honest, I don't care as long as you're safe, pips. But do you know who that man is? Did you really accept a job without any research beforehand ? How careless are you??," His eyes locked onto mine, searching intently for even the slightest hint of an answer.

Did he seriously believe this was a mission? This idiot—. I pushed off his grip and stepped back, putting some distance between us both.

"What the fuck Caleb?!, I told you it's none of your business ?," I snapped, running a hand through my hair. Before he could reply, I pressed on.

"Yes, I know exactly who he is, and No, this is not a mission. I’m here of my own free will," I said firmly, letting the words settle between us.

After a brief pause, I continued with shaky breath, my tone heavy with challenge. "Didn’t the Fleet already know I was in the N109 zone? What do you think happened there, Caleb?".

The question struck Caleb like lightning, I could see various emotions cross his face before settling into one, Anger.

"You know who he is and you still out here with him?? Are you INSANE, pips?! Do you know how dangerous he is?!," the strings of questions edged with anger makes me flinch again.

"And what the fuck do you mean, 'what happened there?', What are you trying to imply ?," Caleb cursed, taking a step forward before stopping. He hesitates before continuing.

"He kills people for a living, for fuck's sake," he grumbles, frustation clearly displayed on his features.

"And you don't?," I laughed, the question hanging in the air. It silenced him beyond words.

Caleb was stunned at my accusation, watching him staggering back slowly makes me feel guilty for saying that.

Despite your anger, you realize Caleb is just worried about you. Gravely worried. Who are you kidding? The memories of those few days you guys spent together in Skyhaven should have made that clear, yet it still takes you by surprise.

Sometimes it hits you how Caleb, your Caleb, always make sure you are within his sight. Even back when you were kids.

Afterall, he is still Caleb. One of the few people I care for and -...the few that deeply cares about me. Looking down, I sighed.

"Look, it's fine Caleb. I'm fine, me and him, we are..- acquittances...at best. Well, he didn't..- exactly do anything bad to me," I shrugged hesitantly.

Well he did kindap and restrained me for what? three days?, but hey everyone make mistakes right? Haha

"How exactly do you want me to believe that? Do you even have evidence?," Caleb snorts, still not trusting the poor explanation.

"What if the man himself, vouch for that?," a familiar, silky voice responds.

Finally

Sylus walked right in between the both of us. He looked at Caleb for a second before turning to me.

"Are you okay, sweetie? You look exhausted,"

"I'm..-fine, just tired. You did leave me alone for hours, jerk,"

"You know how business works, it takes a long time to process but I'm done now," Sylus chuckled, stepping to my side facing the other man.

"If you don't believe her, I can asure you that she's fine and this outing of ours? Just a payback for the accusation she threw at me initially," Sylus explains, staring right into Caleb's face.

"Accu-sations ?," Caleb was taken aback. What type of accusation that fueled her to confront a highly wanted criminal?

"Uhhh, about tha-,"

"She accused me of killing you and your grandma I believe, her resolve was so strong she succeded in shooting me," Sylus smirks as if the explanation was some kind of a joke.

It was silent for a minute before Caleb speaks

"Pips, you..- you did that for me and gran?.. -For us?," the anger has left Caleb by now. He couldn't believe what he just heard, his pips trying to deliver justice for him but at the wrong address it seems.

She did it for me? For me and grandma? Caleb was touched but the fact that she was putting her life on a thread just to meet this man still bothers him.

Noticing Caleb had eased up after the explanation, you seized the moment to strengthen Sylus's explanation, " Yeah, I did - anddd one thing let to another. So now we're like business partners , just helping each other out,"

Sylus raised his eyebrow at my not-so-true claims but I nudged his side a little hard, hinting him to play along. He smirks. This man!

"If that’s all, I think you should head back inside. Mr. Caleb, your senior was looking for you just as we wrapped up our business discussion."

Caleb stiffened, he quickly glanced at his watch. Crap, had he really been gone this long?

Caleb sighed, "Fine, I’ll let it go... For Now. But you still owe me a proper explanation, Pips," he paused before shooting a pointed look . "I’ll call you later. And you—" Caleb’s sharp gaze landed on Sylus. "Take care of her, got it? If so much as a single hair is out of place, I will—"

"Yes I understand mother hen, now shoo. Get back to work," my hand gesturing towards the door. Caleb clicked his tounge at me, taking one last look, and he finally left.

Not even a few seconds later

"So, I make a living by killing people, huh? That’s crude," Sylus remarked as soon as Caleb was out of sight.

"Oh shut up Sylus, just take me back home neoww," I groaned impatiently.

"As you wish, kitten," he chuckled.

***

So yeah everyone, sorry for the wait 🙏🏻. I had to ask my friend to help me construct some of the sentences and dialogues, hehe.

This is my version of the ending, I'm not sure if this is angsty or dramatic but hopefully this is up to your taste. Thanks again for your kind words and of course, anyone want to write an alternate ending of this. Please do 😝🙌🏻 (especially smut)

I was thinking of writing another prompt on 'what if Caleb actually held the fake funeral of us' 🤔 but I have my finals next week 😩😩( wish me luck 🤞🏻😀). See you when I see you, xoxo

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #caleb x reader #lads caleb x reader #lads sylus x reader #lnds caleb #lnds sylus #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader

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leonkennedybreedingkink · 6 months ago

Text

EVERYBODY KNOWS

drug dealer!leon kennedy x reader

tags: dubcon (reader is a little high when y’all fuck), toxic relationship, drugs, implied/referenced cheating. frankly it’s inconsistent but this has been burning a hole thru my drafts. sorry for the discourse btw. title from everybody knows by leonard cohen.

Stay away from him, everyone said. He’s bad news, he spends more time counting money and sniffing and smoking than he does fucking or answering your texts.

Unlike him, you’re a good dog, you come when he calls (most times). He learned the hard way that you like to keep a normal bedtime after having to fuck his fist two months in a row, poor man.

We’ll get one thing straight: he’s not yours, you’re not his.

Frankly, Leon pisses you off most times. He doesn’t do shit, he just goes to the mall to hang out when he’s not selling drugs, not that those two intersect.

He learned that you’re not easily cowed the hard way too, after you called him a stupid fuck because he didn’t like that you came over wearing sweatpants all the time. He’s not yours, you’re not his, and Leon’s smarter than he portrays himself because he toned it down after that.

You think that if you two ever got in a fight, you’d win because he’d let you and he’d told you he doesn’t hit girls.

It’s not like he has a bridge in New York to sell you, just weed or coke or whatever benzos he can get his hands on, so you generally trust that he says what he means.

He’s not slick either, not with the way you sometimes catch him looking at you or how he seeks you out in a crowd, but neither of you are looking for commitment, at least, that’s what he says.

Leon’s not so bad when he’s high, but it depends on what he’s on, in his opinion. Coke makes him too hyper, weed makes him feel too sluggish, why not mix it and get the best of the both worlds? He thinks you’re uptight, just a little, that’s why he invites you to do a little speedball with him.

You’re always down to try anything twice, so you shrug, watching slim and clumsy fingers put together the weed and coke before he passes it to you and you try it.

It’s not half bad, actually. You’re calm, but alert. You see why he mixes the two—up until you feel like you’re melting through the couch, slumping against it and groaning softly.

Leon built up a tolerance, watching you try to get your bearings as he sits straight on the couch, thick thighs spread and rubbing your ankle. “Poor baby.” He muses, tracing a thumbnail on the notch of your ankle bone.

You say nothing in response, scrubbing a palm over your face and checking your pulse because you can be a little paranoid at the end of the day.

Leon tuts, reaching over and pulling your hand away from your neck. “Jesus, you’re fine. I got narcan on me, anyway.”

Not like he’d call the cops, he has more than enough product to be thrown under the jail without a trial or anything.

You swipe at his hand irritatedly, brows furrowing like an angry kitten. Leon rolls his eyes, tugging you closer with the hand on your ankle and rubbing your shin. You groan as the room swims, shutting your eyes to fight the vertigo. “Stay with me, babydoll. You’re fine.”

You scoff. “Excuse me for being a novice to speedballing. Only time I’ve seen it is Breaking Bad.”

Of course. Leon finds himself smiling anyway, patting your knee. Your cotton shorts rode up when he pulled you over, exposing the dark green and white stripes of your underwear, Leon’s eyes stick to the sight and he swallows, mouth feeling dry and too wet at the same time.

You don’t protest when he gently maneuvers you into all fours, knees digging divots into the upholstery and shaky elbows holding you up. Leon shoves one hand up your shirt and pushes down his sweatpants with the other.

What a lucky day to be commando.

Leon sighs when he pushes in, pulling a pink lower lip between his teeth to muffle himself. It’s not like he has roommates, but he’s still shy about being noisy, especially around you. You seem to like it, but still.

You shudder, perky ass tucking in and back rounding out. Jesus, he’s not even all the way in yet and you’re acting up. He tuts, gently coaxing your back to straighten out with a hand on the curve of it pressing down. He thinks he hears your back crack. “That’s it, that’s my baby.”

You seem to dislike that, because you make a displeased groan. Doesn’t matter, your cunt speaks for you with the way you squeeze around him.

Leon counts to ten so this doesn’t end too early, God, that’s lame. He presses down again when your back fights to round up, his other hand on the nape of your neck pushing your top half down a little more.

You fight to stay upright, but the coke and weed made you a little too uncoordinated, your hand slipping off the couch and your other braced beneath you, left arm bent at an awkward angle.

Leon draws back with a soft hiss, the hand on your nape shifting to the curve of your waist. “Sorry, baby.”

He chortles quietly when you smack him in the thigh with a flail of your hand, rolling his hips to hear your muffled moan into the upholstery.

When your head turns, he sees a thin string of drool connecting your mouth to his couch, a little puddle beneath the corner.

He’s sure you’re a little too high to enjoy this as he thrusts steadily, an orgasm licking up his spine slowly. All the times you two have fucked, it’s been bombs, fireworks. Coke refined into crack. Head high, versus the little body high of right now.

He pushes up your baggy shirt, hands roaming slowly up and down the shape of you. He doesn’t even realize he’s speaking until he watches your eyes blink open. “You’re so—fuck, shit—you’re so fuckin’ sexy.”

You, in the speedball haze, recognize that he’s just blabbering because he’s pussy drunk. Again, common occurrence. Even so, you’re a little flattered.

He reaches down, fumbling with your slick clit and kissing the nape of your neck. Painted toes curl into the upholstery as your brows furrow, groaning gutturally, almost inaudible as you squeeze around him.

Leon curses and bites your shoulder as he comes, whimpering into your shirt and skin. He pulls out and lays back, catching his breath as you roll to the side.

See? He can be sweet, he gets up and cleans you gently, then the stain on the couch.

God, Leon’s pissing you off lately. He should have some damn respect for the woman he empties his balls into, and yet. You’re this close to just cutting and running as you angrily put on makeup in his bathroom.

Seriously, he forgets himself. Asking you who that man is in your phone (none of his fucking business), telling you not to wear that see-through top he first met you in, telling you what you can and can’t do, who you can’t and can’t fuck.

“It’s not like we’re together, Leon.” You tell him as you lean into the mirror, winging up your eyeliner pen. Fuck, you did that wrong. You grab a q-tip, stick it in your mouth, and use that to clean up the line.

You watch through the mirror as Leon rolls his eyes. “You know that we are, though. The only one I’m fucking lately is you.”

You scoff, cleaning up one eye and doing the other. “Maybe you should find some other bitches to put in your roster. Shit, maybe you should have a roster.”

Leon’s shoulders straighten, that little barb making its mark. “Don’t fucking say that.” Leon snaps, stepping a little closer and leaning against the wall, corded arms folding across his chest.

You snort and say nothing, focusing on getting your eyeliner even. Sisters, not twins.

“Don’t snort as if something’s fucking funny. It’s not.” Leon comes a little closer, arms unfolding.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” You goad, straightening up and capping the eyeliner pen. “Pussy.”

Your temple smacks into the wall and your vision wavers. You groan, one hand moving to clutch your head before Leon shoves you down, elbow and hip smacking on the tile. “You fucking bitch.” He hisses, crouching down. “See what you do to me?”

God, doesn’t that sound familiar, that’s his favorite line when you’re flirting with him in public and he puts your hand over his nonexistent bulge.

“Look at what you make me into.” He smacks you across the face hard enough to bring tears to your eyes. Leon grabs your jaw, hands shaking with rage. “Is this what you wanted? Happy, now?” He shakes you a little bit after the first question, pupils blown wide as he sneers down at you.

When you shake your head, your eyeliner and mascara smeared, he lets go, getting up and hauling you to your feet.

Leon sits you on the closed toilet lid, leaving and grabbing you an ice pack from the fridge. He holds it to your temple and watches a bruise bloom on your shoulder, sickeningly satisfied when you lean into him, one hand clutching his wrist.

“You ever put your fucking hands on me again, I’ll put you in the ground.”

Leon chuckles quietly, patting your cheek a little harder than usual. “Not if I do it first.”

You think he loves you the way a bruise loves a peach.

#mine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you

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twistedwonderlandshenanigans · 1 year ago

Text

All My Scars

The stories behind one of the scars each of the twst cast has SOME ARE WAY ANGSTIER THAN OTHERS OKAY please read the tw and the tags, and like the stuff in brackets under characters names that have them for a heads up...what Specifically their section covers

TW: SH, abuse, Bad Parents (specified in the reading), references to alcoholism, implied SA survivor, and some OOC stuff bc I like making Cater cry sorry PROCEED WITH CAUTION FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, apologies for inconsistencies

IF YOU DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ. Here's my masterlist to some fluffier stuff if you still want to check out my writing. Thank you!

I'll be doing a fluffier version of this some other time, like dumbest childhood injuries they had or something, so if this ain't for you, please hold! --------------------------------------------------------------------

"How did you get your scar(s)?"

Heartslaybul

Riddle The question caught him off guard. He glanced down at his hand where your thumb ran over the small indentations on the skin between his thumb and pointer finger, a small smile kicking up the corner of his mouth.

"That was Che'nya. When we were kids." You looked at him, your silence prompting him to continue.

He smiled a little more, gently pulling his hand from yours to look at the scars left there, laughing softly, though a bit pained.

"I wasn't prepared to receive very much physical affection, but Che'nya couldn't really help himself. He said if hugs were off the table, he just wanted to nibble." He chuckles softly "Of course he didn't give me much of a warning, though Trey tried to stop him before he bit me. It was a shock at the time, but both of them explained it was an expression of affection...I confirmed it later on in an article on the behaviours of beastmen. Trey was used to getting bites from Che'nya, but usually with less pent up energy. Nonetheless, he helped me take care of it before I had to return home."

His brow furrowed a bit as he sighed.

"Of course, my mother noticed eventually, the divots on my hand. It was the first and only time I ever outright lied to her - lies of omission aside. I know she didn't believe me when I told her it was just me being clumsy with my pencil, but I suppose it was a tender mercy she didn't have time to deal with me that day." He looked at the divots a little longer, a particular softness in his expression.

"They're the only scars I have. I find it rather ironic that the only imperfection I carry in my mother's eyes...is the lasting impression that there is at least one person who cares for me more than she has ever been capable of."

His smile was sad, but he tried to keep things light as he looked at you. "That is not an invitation to try and bite me as well. I know full well you care for me...because you've helped the scars nobody can see, fade."

Trey

"Which ones?" He chuckles softly, pausing his kneading as he held out his arms for you to look over the various marks he had, before he pointed at one, taking matters into his own hand. "My youngest brother likes this one for some reason. He thinks the texture is different and kinda just rubs my arm when he's calming himself down."

He turned his arm so his elbow was pointing out a little bit so he could look at his forearm, pointing to a bigger scar. "This was a burn from bumping against the edge of the oven while trying to take out a tray of cookies in a rush."

He turned his arm yet again, showing off another one. "This one was from me trying to reheat baked potato leftovers. I put butter on it and threw it in the microwave, but I almost dropped the bowl when I took it out and had the bright idea to try and catch it. Splashed hot butter up my arm." He chuckled again, using his shoulder to bump up his glasses. "I have a few from Che'nya as well. Some from my siblings. Some from baking. But they make for good stories should I ever need something to share."

Cater (Heads up for the abusive parent HC's regarding using kids for media Clout) <- you can read by clicking the link

He looks startled, like he's just seen a ghost before trying to laugh it off.

"I uh...oooh sevens don't tell me you saw me eat dirt like two days ago while I was skateboarding! I swear normally I'm better than that, I just- I didn't scar, just a scrape and nothing more, swear! It's sweet you're concerned though."

You gave him a bit of a sad look, before sighing, looking away awkwardly, knowing there was no...delicate way to tell him what you wanted to.

"Look, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but the last time I was babysitting Cheka I...saw what he was watching on his tablet and um...well I unsubscribed him from the channel but there were some videos on there that-"

"Stop."

Cater was hugging himself, balled up as tightly as he could get on the opposite side of the couch, his hair shrouding his face somewhat. He was taking shallow, rapid breaths, and while you wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort him, you didn't think he would respond well to touch at the moment.

"How much did you see?" His voice was as demanding as he could get it from inside of his little shell.

You cleared your throat a bit. "I didn't go digging into any of the videos, won't watch any if you don't want me to...it was just some of the thumbnails that...worried me that you...might have more than emotional scars to work through..."

You moved slowly to kneel on the floor next to Cater, offering your hand should he want to take it. "I'm sorry, there were better ways for me t-"

"You're right." He sobbed softly, looking out at you, nothing but pain on his face as he tried to hold in another sob, taking your hand in his, and moving it to gently run over his outer forearm.

"I c-cover them up um...a-all the time, it's second nature now but.." he takes a few moments to try and catch his breath.

"These ones were all from the same damned prank video...mom..covered the floor in dish soap in the kitchen...I was like...four, I still loved cookies, so when she said there were some, I came running in...slid and crashed into the oven...."

He sniffled and rubbed at his eyes with his free arm. "I remember watching the doctor pluck glass out from me and my mom was outside the room....just...yelling at my dad..."

He waved his hand over his forearm, letting the faded scars come to light beneath his concealer, trusting you to keep this a secret. His eyes still held unshed tears as he looked away from his arms, and from you.

"And the worst part? That video went viral. People thought it was funny. So of course mom went and did more and more prank videos, even if some people made it popular for the wrong reasons, there was still attention and validation there for her efforts, so it didn't matter. If I was crying, it was cute for me to...fuss, because I was- am the youngest, and nothing I felt really mattered. It was- I just-....I like being who I am now...most of the time...because nobody...nobody sees beyond what I want them to see...er...most people now I guess..." He gave you a bit of a bashful smile, clearly upset and conflicted still, before his face fell again and he gently tugged his hand from yours.

"Just give me a few minutes and everything will be okay again. Promise."

Deuce (with the HC he's deaf/HoH)

He kinda just sighed deeply at your question, shooting you a bit of an unimpressed look.

"I mean you could take a guess where I got most of'm and probably hit the nail on the head." He huffed, rubbing the back of his neck a bit, his eyes drifting to the side awkwardly as he wracked his brain for a scar story that wouldn't dredge up memories he'd rather forget.

"I mean the scar story my mom tells her coworkers about..." He cringes a tiny bit at the idea of relaying the story the same way his mother does, but sighed anyways.

"I was young, like really young, maybe two or three. It was before I was used to my hearing aids, so I didn't have them in at the time. She had just turned a little to greet one of our neighbours who had come out to say hello, only to hear ungodly squawking, followed by giggles...I didn't know the bird I'd managed to grab was giving me a heads up it didn't like being grabbed, besides it's struggling...long story short, it bit me pretty good." He blushed a bit and pointed to a relatively small scar on his cheek. "I don't even know what kind of bird it was. I just know what happened because it was something my mom talked about a lot."

Ace (TW for alcoholic father/abuse/manipulation)

"Mmh?" he sounded rather uninterested. It was a fair question, given the amount of time the two of you hung out, it wasn't like you wouldn't notice the jagged scar on his neck to his collarbone.

He shrugged, trying to play off how uncomfortable the memory was. "Just somethin' that happened when I was a kid."

Your unspoken questions bothered him more than he thought they would, rocking to sit up properly and look at you a little pissy.

"Look, I'm over it, so I'll tell you but I don't want a damn reaction or pity, okay? I was nine, my brother had just gotten his admission letter into NRC, and my dad was drunk off his ass. Threatened my brother with the cost of my life if he quit his job and stopped being his beer fund- not that it was much of a threat, it was a glass bottle or some shit he'd shattered and held to my neck. That was the night my brother made arrangements for me to live with his friends families so he could still come here without making me walk on eggshells around my dad. He still won't tell me if he kept paying the bastard's beer money or not, but my dad's in rehab now, and I don't ever gotta go back to him by myself again. I can just visit my brother now he's got his own place, even if he's got a roommate. So now you know." He got up from the couch, shaking out his hands a bit.

"Now, I'm gonna make some breakfast and I'm using your materials. Ain't no way I'm trekking back to Heartslaybul just for breakfast."

Savanaclaw

Leona

"Don't remember" He stretched on his bed, yawning. "Same shit I told Ruggie. It doesn't affect me now, so what's the point in remembering it? Can't hold on to every dusty memory."

"Aren't scars a symbol of nobility to those from Sunset Savannah?"

You could practically feel the discomfort rolling off of Leona in waves as he turned his back to you more.

"....yeah, they can be..." he sighed, feeling the weight of your next question mounting. "Just chalk it up to some stupid royal tradition that should have been abolished years ago. You don't have to believe it, but I'm done talking now."

Ruggie (Hyena Hierarchy shit ig?)

"Eh?" His ears flick playfully as he snickers. "They ain't a big deal. Growin' up some of the girls would play a little rough, 'nd now I mainly take care of the rugrats they like to chew and bite on anything they can get their little teeth into, not limited to ears and tail."

His ear flicks again and he holds his hands out. "And I mean, my hands ain't scarred but I don't have fingerprints cuz my grandma taught me how to do the hot food flip, you know what I mean." He snickers. "But y'know, just cuz they don't hurt anymore, doesn't mean I won't take a little extra cuddles or pets if you're gonna offer."

Jack

He scratched the back of his head a bit. "You noticed it??" He seemed a little awkward, and now that the fact had fully settled that the only scar he had was the small one on his upper lip, you could kind of understand why.

You nod a bit and he sighs, his hand dropping from behind his head and looking off to the side, a little bit embarrassed.

"It was a frog." He cringed a bit at his wording and at the eyes he felt from you, and he knew you were trying to hold back laughter.

"I- my bigger cousin was showing me a frog he caught and it jumped on my face. I didn't have full awareness of ah...my capabilities and...where my claws were in relation to my face... ended up hurting myself in the process of getting it off of me. I don't remember much else after that....just that I don't...love frogs..." He admitted a little shyly, tail tucked slightly, and clearly embarrassed.

Octavinelle

Azul

He looks at you rather unimpressed, then gestures to the tweels.

"They think I'm a chew toy. They would be the reason for any and ALL of my scars, as I've never been in any other danger where scarring would be an issue."

Jade

The question seems to hit him harder than you expected. Jade was normally hard to read, but his discomfort was apparent with your question. He gave you a practiced, but strained smile.

"The story behind my scars are not something I share willingly with anyone. I will be taking my leave." (but you can read the story here >:D)

Floyd (partial nudity?? but it's just Floyd showing off the scars he has all along his legs enthusiastically)

"Aha! I got a whole buncha scars shrimpy, which ones are ya curious 'bout?" He flopped down next to to you, and took his shirt off, showing off scars on his back.

"Oh didya see the ones on my legs durin' basketball practice?" He tried to pull up his school uniform pant leg, to no avail. He huffed and just slid his pants off, leaving him in his boxers as he showed off the scars all along his legs.

He beamed "It's a helluva lot harder t'see em when I'm in my mer form, blend right in with my scales, but my human body?? I look sick!! And there ain't too many humans who can boast 'bout havin' scars from a shark attack or a tussle with a barracuda! I got a whole buncha stories I could tellya if ya think you can stomach'em-" He snickers.

Scarabia

Kalim

"Ahah....I..I've got a scar?? Where?" For some reason he seemed a little panicked, looking over his arms anxiously. "No, no I shouldn't have any scars I um- I- just-"

His behaviour made you a little worried, so you moved to take his hands in yours, trying to steady him, but he pulled away from you, looking at you rather frantically.

"Just tell me where! I....I can- I'm alright, promise, but I don't have any scars!"

I'm realizing I have an obsession, here's another story

Jamil

"I mean I have a few minor scars on my hands from when I first started learning to cook." You watched his practiced movements as he chopped vegetables at a quick pace, sliding them off the cutting board as necessary to make more room for himself.

"Though I suppose with how intently you watch me work it's not a stretch to assume you noticed them." He gives you a bit of a knowing smirk, before pausing for a moment, and flexing his wrist to show a small scar on the back of his hand.

"That one was from taking care of Najma. She was just learning how to walk and wandered out of my fathers sight. My mother was taking care of something inside the palace, so as soon as I noticed she wasn't toddling around us, my father and I began searching for her. She ended up somehow getting herself wedged between....seven, I can't even remember. I remember putting both hands in, and pulling one one out with a cockroach on it, and the other struggling to pull Najma out until my dad was able to assist." He shook his head and sighed. "I cut myself on the wood around her, needed a couple stitches after....but she was all good, save for a mouthful of sand she had stuffed into her mouth." he chuckled softly.

"But if I have any other scars...you'll have to wait longer for those stories."

Pomefiore

Vil (SA Survivor vaguely implied)

"I do not know what you are referring to potato. I don't have so much as single blemish on my skin."

You met his eyes in the mirror, a silent questioning match ensuing between the two of you. You broke eye contact first, leaving him satisfied as he took a deep breath.

"There is nothing inherently wrong with scars. But the ones I have don't deserve any more thought, the person who inflicted them are no longer a part of my life, and never will be again. It's been over seven years, I know that there isn't a cell on me that has not been replaced by a new one."

He met your eyes back in the mirror. "Never bring this topic up again, unless you require assistance with your own scars."

Rook

"Hm? I've taken great care to cover them all up, mon trickster. Since coming to Pomefiore and being under Vil's supervision, most of my scars have faded to a point they are barely identifiable." He smiled softly at you.

"Though if you've noticed one or two, I assure you the story is lackluster." Despite his casual appearance, Rook seemed to be on..even higher alert than usual, as in you could actually pick up on the tension coming off of him. Despite this, your curiousity got the better of you.

"How can they be lackluster? Aren't most of them from archery or animals?"

Rook met your eyes with a rather cold expression, and regardless of stature, made it feel like he was looking down on you.

"No."

His glare lasted a beat longer, before he beamed, "Ah, it's best I get going. I bid you good day."

Epel (got top surgery over the summer)

"WHATCHYA MEAN HOW'D I GET MA SCARS?!" He has a wide grin on his face, hiking his shirt up.

"I AIN'T GOT NO TITS NO MORE!" He sets his shirt back down, a shit-eating smile on his face. "It was about damn time y'know! Lookit how flat ma ches- look at the scars!! Ain't they cool lookin?? Make me look MANLY an' strong, earlier Sebek done asked who I fought nd I just told'm it was my femin-feminini-.....it ain't funny now, but his face sure was!"

Ignihyde

Idia (TW for SH scars)

The ends of his hair went almost clear, and he looked rather deflated. "....cats. Stray cats. Used to pick them up without trying to bribe them first..." he mumbled, pulling at his sleeve a little more to try and cover them up, before trying to flash you a smile, though he was clearly uncomfortable and upset, so it only lasted a moment before he turned completely away from you.

The silence was heavy between the two of you, knowing the truth was more than the consequences of an angry cat.

He hugged himself more, still away from you.

"I don't do it anymore...Ortho is here now..to ah...remind me to do better...even if he doesn't know about it, his presence is enough."

Ortho

"Scar??" He tilted his head and giggled a little bit. "I don't really get those. When I get scratches Idia helps me buff them out. Why, do you see one?"

He ran a diagnostics test, trying to answer his own question, but came up empty, now trying to look over himself manually for any sort of disfiguration, only to look at you more confused and a little amused.

"What are you talking about?"

Diasomnia

Malleus

He had to hide a slight pout at your question. "Fae do not scar, not easily..."

He could see the way your eyes shifted between his face and his ear, before he sighed. "However...when I was much younger, I was prone to fits of anger, often scaring and sometimes harming the guards that were too slow to react around me." A tiny smile started to form as he thought about it more.

"Besides the initial pain when his weapon brushed past me, the guards face of terror was enough to make me giggle, despite the blood that dripped from the tiny incision." His hand came up to gently hold his ear between two of his fingers, rubbing over the small scar along the edge of it.

"I told him if he agreed to play with me I wouldn't tell my grandmother what he'd done. In a way, he was one of my first friends..but the news inevitably made it's way through the chain of command, and he was soon replaced by another heartless, soulless guard...they were all like that you know....so afraid of me, as a Draconia, to even extend the hand of friendship to a child."

Lilia

"Kheeheehee I've not got a single one, not anymore! I've had more than enough time for all the memories of my glory days fade like the scars that would have told the stories. Besides, having any visible scars would put a damper on my absolutely adorable face!" He batted his eyelashes, resting his cheeks on the 'v' shape his hands made.

Silver

"How did I get my scars?" He repeated, then looked thoughtful for a moment. "I don't have many...ah." He pulled his pant leg up gently and revealed a somewhat...suspicious looking scar on his calf.

"When I was younger, Sebek's yelling wasn't always enough to wake me up. He got fed up and bit me. He was successful in waking me up, so I have a few other scars similar to that one from when we were kids, but when he was about ten he had to stop. It was too much and he had poor control over his bite force."

He touched the side of his face pensively. "Though I was outside a lot as a child too. I'm sure I've got more scars and marks than I've cared to count. But Fa- Lilia was always attentive during our sparing sessions, so I've never received a scar from a blade."

Sebek

He huffed, an annoyed sounding bellow leaving him as he crossed his arms and turned his face away from you.

"I have not had the opportunity to receive a scar but-"

"The opportunity?"

His face flushed a bit, and he looked a little grumpy, "SILENCE, do not interrupt me human. Of course you wouldn't understand! My grandfather has battle scars still, they're a symbol of his bravery and valiance in Briar Valley! If I should ever have the OPPORTUNITY to receive a scar by blade, I would like to have one that matches his."

Extra

Che'nya

"Eh?? Well why'dya wanna knyow?" He chuckles, sitting crisscross against nothing, upside down in front of you.

"I was just curious- you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

He just giggles more, wiping one hand over half his face, evidently using magic to get rid of concealer on that side of his face.

"It's nyat a big deal, all I've got are acne scars and the result of me just pickin' at myah skin." He grinned, pouting playfully and making a peace sign. "'m still absolutely adorrrrrrrrrrrrable though, makeup just is more tolerable than putting lotion on and reminds me not to pick at it." He purred through his own compliment, before using his hand to use magic and put the concealer back on.

Jack Hearts-Trappola (same TW as Ace, only it's implied here, not outright)

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Don't ask Ace that question, kay? It'll put'm in a funk for the rest of the day even if he denies it." He moved to pour himself a glass off coffee, aware you were still waiting for an answer. He took a sip before looking back to you, and answering best he could.

"The scars I have were mostly caused by glass. Once I got into the entertainment industry, I took up soldering and welding so I've got a few pretty bad burns myself from slag or poor PPE, but I had fun doin' it. So no harm no foul." He grinned, the same wide, shit-eating grin that matched his younger brother's expression so closely, it was uncanny.

Falena

His laugh filled the room, boisterous and light. "Ah, you noticed them?" He had all sorts of scars along his arms, in sets of two or three, headed in the same direction.

"Thank you. Here, scars are a testament to one's nobility, strength and perseverance. I received many from Leona when we used to spar, he was always quick on his feet and caught me off guard many times." He chuckled again. "I was never the best at fighting, but it was an important skill to develop should I ever need to defend my son...and if my wife isn't around to exact her fury." His wife gave him a light, playful shove, making him laugh in response as well.

Najma

"Okay if I tell you, you can't tell Jamil or my parents okay?? Don't go snitching me out." She pulled you up to her room, and to her window, sliding it open to a palm tree just outside.

She pointed down at a ridge on the tree, and then pulled up the cuff of her pants and pointed to a scar from the middle of her calf up to her knee. "That fucking tree bit me when I was just trying to go meet up with some of my girls. Do you know how quiet I had to be so my mom and dad didn't catch on??"

Neige (HC he uses mobility aids (forearm crutches + wheelchair when necessary) when not in public eye)

He laughed softly, settling back into his wheelchair and pulling his leg up across the other one, pointing to a small scar over the front of his ankle.

"I got it when I was really young. I was trying to run away from someone who was chasing me, I don't remember if it was tag or not, but probably! I ended up getting a deeper cut than I thought I did when I tripped over one of those concrete barriers they use for cars. It was already falling apart, so the I guess it was moreso the mix inside the concrete that got me?? I don't remember. I do remember getting ice cream after though." He giggled. "I think I was on my way to a photoshoot. I'll have to see if Vil remembers."

Rollo (vague religious themes, SH, never ask me to write for this man again)

He had a band around his wrist, as if he had a bracelet that had turned into one massive scar. It wasn't entirely unreasonable for you to ask, and now that you knew of his brother, there was no reason to really keep it to himself now.

He sighed, holding his wrist out to you rather disdainfully.

"It's a reminder. Every time I look at it, I can imagine the pain my dear brother was in as fire and magic consumed him. I burnt myself for weeks in the same place so as to remind myself repeatedly what my failure has caused. It serves as a reminder what hell will feel like should I never repent of my sins, or fail in correcting the path so many have fallen to. Magic is no god of mine. I will not let it dictate when life is lost or gained. Not in my life. Not in anyone's if things were to go my way...but I'll show them the right way eventually."

His eyes slid over to you.

"You agree, don't you? You'll walk down the righteous path with me and preach the truth to everyone until they join us too."

--------------------------------------------------------

Free me from my mental prison dear god why do I do this to myself at the worst times of day/night.

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chexxycheol · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 1. Still Further Away || 13 Forget-Me-Nots

Seventeen x Reader

title 13 Forget-Me-Nots or 13 Eternal Loves

synopsis You couldn't wait for your 20th birthday to finally reveal the one person you'd spend the rest of your life with. Well the 13 people you'd spend the rest of your life with. Or that story where reader has 13 soulmates, who happen to be idol group seventeen

genre Fluff, Angst, Romance

tags Soulmate!au, Idol! seventeen x Non-idol! reader, OT13 x Reader, Seventeen x Reader.

warnings Anxiety, Mature language, Inconsistent upload schedule, Reader is gender neutral but sometimes certain depictions lean feminine.

⚘ author constructive criticism is welcomed and my asks are open for feedback! this story is a work of fiction and should be separated from reality. thank you and enjoy!

—chery

wc 1.1k

《 previous || masterlist || next chapter 》

2022

“Well, good morning, Lix” you answer your usual afternoon phone call with your best friend, who was just waking up. This became a ritual the both of you started once he moved to Korea, Felix would wake up and call you to talk about your day while he gets ready for his day.

“Good morning, squirt. What’s on today’s agenda?” You hear him moving around on his end of the phone, most likely getting out of bed “I just finished my afternoon lecture, and I'm heading towards my usual cafe to start my homework so far, I have two papers and one reading to do, I’m finished with classes for the day since my 3 pm professor canceled today’s class” you list off absentmindedly walking towards the cafe you frequent.

Entering the cafe, you order a simple hot tea and a small pastry to snack on while listening to Felix map out his busy schedule for the day “I forgot to mention, we have an upcoming concert here in Korea, and I wanted you to attend! I’m flying my family out here to attend, and they asked if you were coming, my sisters miss you and always ask when they’re gonna see you again.” You can hear the excitement in his voice; you haven’t seen him in a year.

Last time, you weren’t able to attend due to finals, but you promised the next time around you would go. Felix continues “It’s during your spring break, please, please, please! My members want to meet you in person, and they’re excited to meet my best friend after I've talked about you so much and you’ve met them over the phone” Felix rambles on.

Sighing not wanting to disappoint him “I don’t know, Lix. Tickets to Korea are gonna be expensive during that time and-” he cuts you off before you can continue your ramble “Who said you were paying for your flight here?” the silence on your end telling Felix he won this battle.

Realizing your spring break was in a week, you begin to scold him for bringing this up so suddenly with this trip being sooner than you expected. “Lee Felix! We talk on the phone every day and only now you bring this up?” he begins apologizing before he has to end the phone call.

After checking your calendar you send him a text ‘I finish my last final next Tuesday, I can leave once I finish it or any day after that’ he replies quickly letting you know he’ll send the flight information in a few days.

Taking a deep breath you pull out your computer and open it, before turning it on you catch a reflection of your soulmate tattoo peaking out from under your lazily zipped jacket. You begin to think about your soulmates, your 13 soulmates.

It’s been a week and you’ve been counting down the days till you’re on a plane to Korea to see Felix and his bandmates. Your bags are packed and ready to go, your flight is a few hours after your final.

Glancing at the clock in your dorm noticing the time is 12:13, almost 30 minutes before your last final, then you’re on a plane headed towards Korea. Grabbing your backpack and starting your walk toward the music hall, you have no idea why you decided to pick up learning music composition. Probably because you have a deep love for music, and you’re glad you became friends with Felix’s bandmates, specifically Chan and Changbin. They might’ve helped you one too many times with homework and studying for finals, though Changbin and you talked more than studying.

Stepping into the room you shoot a quick text to Felix letting him know you’re taking your last final and you’ll call him once you get out. He replies with words of encouragement before you turn off your phone and find a seat.

Later in the day, Mingyu receives a text from Changbin ‘Hey, wanna squeeze in a gym sesh before I have rehearsal later?’ Mingyu replies with a thumbs-up emoji before grabbing his gym bag and heading towards the gym in between the JYP and HYBE buildings.

Arriving at the gym, finding Changbin and another one of his members stretching they greet each other before starting their sets, occasionally talking in between.

Changbin turns to Chan asking “Did you hear from Y/N? They had their music final today, and they fly in today” Chan puts down the heavy dumbbells before replying “I would have to ask Felix, He said their flight was at 4 in the afternoon their time, which is in the morning for us and considering it’s 3 in the afternoon for us, they should be arriving in the next few hours” Chan thinks and pulls his phone out to text Felix, walking a bit away to do so.

“Felix found his soulmate?” Mingyu asks casually having finished his set, drinking water before Changbin looks at him and replies “No, Y/N is Felix's friend, they talk every day and they are coming to Korea to watch our concert” Changbin laughs before continuing “Both of them haven’t found their soulmates” Chan comes back letting Changbin know they have to leave soon to get ready for dinner with everyone’s family in celebration of everyone coming to Seoul for the concert.

While saying their goodbyes, Changbin catches a glimpse of Mingyu’s soulmate tattoo in the mirror. It’s so familiar and Changbin can’t put his finger on where he’s seen it before, he lets his curiosity get the best of him asking the taller man “Is that you’re soulmate tattoo?” Mingyu looks at it in the mirror smiling before answering the younger “Oh yeah, it’s a forget-me-not, it symbolizes eternal love” Mingyu’s smile falters a little, Chan notices patting him on the back “You’ll find them soon, don’t worry man” Chan smiles at the taller man as they walk out of the gym. Mingyu slips on his jacket quickly covering his arms. “Your soulmate mark seems so familiar, like I’ve seen it before” Changbin blurts out “You’ve probably seen the flower, they’re pretty common” Mingyu brushes it off, not wanting to continue the subject.

Chan changes the subject “If you or any of your members would like to come to our show, let me know beforehand and I'll get you a ticket” Mingyu nods before bidding his goodbyes walking in the opposite direction of the two.

Changbin stares at Mingyu’s figure walking away trying to figure out why his soulmate tattoo had a familiarity, Chan turns towards Changbin with a knowing look in his eyes “I know” was all he said as they walked away.

#seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfic #scoups x reader #jeonghan x reader #joshua x reader #jun x reader #hoshi x reader #wonwoo x reader #woozi x reader #the8 x reader #mingyu x reader #dk x reader #seungkwan x reader #vernon x reader #dino x reader #ot13 x reader #soulmate!au

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the-daydreaming-show · 5 months ago

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(2.) Embracing Illusions.

SUMMARY: After realizing that the alliance won't happend, you decide to take a new approach to what's left of you visit, while Feyre decides it's time for you to have a serious talk.

Or.

Where you and Feyre get too carried away by what could have been, and yo ignore what you know will be, just to live in an illusion a little longer.

NOTE: Thanks to all the interactions so far in the story and to the new members of the tag list, I hope you enjoy the story and that you like where we are going. So, this chapter is VERY long, and it was even longer, so I had to redesign it and split it in two, sorry for any inconsistencies you may find in it.

As always, English is not my first language so sorry for spelling mistakes and mistakes of the type, any comment on it is welcome if it is respectful. I am always trying to get comfortable and improve my writing in this language.

I hope you like it, let me know in the comments your opinions. XOXO Ella

Memories/Thoughts in italics Dragon Language in bold italics

Previus Part: (1.) THREADS OF TIME.

AO3 / Story Masterlist

"The past is a ghost that haunts us, and the future is an illusion that tempts us." – Anonymous

The exit from Hewn City was silent, which was chilling. The massive stone city was so quiet as you and Rhysand walked through it that you were sure nothing happy could happen in such a quiet place. It didn’t help that Azriel’s footsteps, who walked behind the two of you, made almost no echo at all, so the only sounds were those of Rhysand’s black boots and your own brown ones stepping on the marble.

You tried to shake off the tension in your shoulders but felt like your effort was in vain. All tension vanished, however, when you reached the massive city gates. There, the three of you were met with a massive black, scaly mass looming over the entrance, blocking it entirely. The figure was so tall that the sun shone down on you, casting light all the way a few feet behind you inside the city. You sighed in frustration, resting your hands on your waist.

“Hey, Balerion,” you yelled irritably, “what do you expect us to do? Climb your fat ass up to the sun?”

The dragon just growled loudly, clearly annoyed at the interruption of his comfortable nap on the gate. You let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl in response, and the beast sighed smugly.

“This little shit,” you muttered indignantly.

“When Feyre said he was spoiled, I didn’t think it was possible to spoil a creature like that,” Rhysand remarked, looking at Balerion with amusement as the dragon blocked the way.

“I promise, it wasn’t on purpose,” you hissed at him before stepping forward.

With both hands, you reached for the beast, which was nothing more than a huge shadow in the doorway, and pushed him away, not even applying much force. Balerion, dramatic and childish as ever, threw himself forward, spinning away from the door and whining as if he had been gravely wounded in battle.

“I barely touched you,” you defended yourself, blinking as your eyes adjusted to the sunlight.

“He acts like a puppy,” Azriel commented in surprise behind you, his steps almost as silent as before.

“More often than not,” you replied absentmindedly, taking a moment to breathe in the fresh air.

The open sky stretched above you, the woods the only thing breaking through the horizon. You took a breath and sighed in relief as Balerion sighed and settled into position, preparing for flight.

“I’ve heard he’s enjoyed the mountains,” Rhysand commented. You hadn’t noticed he had come to stand beside you. You looked at his profile and the way his eyes seemed to sparkle, like a starry sky.

You thought of Ragnar, your Captain of Ships, whom you had first met during your years as a courtesan. You didn’t know why you were comparing them, as they couldn’t be more different. But you remembered the way the captain’s sea-blue eyes seemed to hold the waves of the ocean, and you felt sorry for him. Perhaps he could have gotten used to Rhysand if there was something familiar about him, but you knew there would be no balance, and it would never happen.

“Yes. He had never seen mountains or forests like those before; he seems to like them too much,” you answered as you took your gloves out of your belt and began putting them on. “The bay is beautiful, no doubt, but there isn’t much variety in fauna and flora—just sand on sand and the occasional stray camel.”

You continued putting on your gloves in silence.

“If that’s the case, Balerion and you are welcome in the mountains whenever you need a distraction from the camels,” Rhysand said, his comment disguised as a joke. It made you look directly at him.

You thought about it for a moment. Are there mountains to visit in the Spring Court? you wondered mentally, your tone laced with danger. You couldn’t tell if he had heard your thought with his mind-reading abilities because you were already walking toward the dragon. However, you caught a smile forming on his face out of the corner of your eye as you walked away.

That interaction stayed with you as you carried on with your life—during the flight back to the House of Wind and the dinner where you informed your court of the situation in the Nightmare Court.

The truth was already on the table: the alliance with the Night Court would not happen. They had nothing to offer your cause. One way or another, you would leave this court without ever seeing Feyre or Rhysand again. There was nothing else to be done about the alliance. Whatever he did or didn’t do now couldn’t change anything.

Feyre was fine, which had been your concern for years, and she no longer needed you. But it didn't change anything if, for your own peace of mind, you let yourself see her life and make sure that Rhysand really was the man you thought he was.

Ever since Feyre met Balerion and you had that talk, she had tried to spend more time with you, just as her court had tried to be less hostile toward you and your people—somewhat less aggressive toward the unknown presence you represented. They were still vigilant and clearly not letting their guard down, but you had reached some sort of agreement on how to treat each other. It seemed like the rest of them had absorbed Feyre's try-hard mentality.

In contrast, the way your people behaved hadn’t changed much.

Armin still had the same frown on his face as always, watching whenever he could like a guard dog. Mayhem wouldn’t let you walk alone or without knowing where you were going at all times. And Luka still drew his symbols and protections on the soles of your feet every morning to ensure they had some sense of security when they let you walk through those enemy lands with nothing but your riding clothes. You didn’t carry a dagger anywhere—something they always complained about, but that didn’t change because of your decision.

Morrigan was the only thing that seemed constant. As the main person in charge of negotiations between the Court and the Bay, she hadn’t changed the way she looked at or interacted with everyone. The only difference was that she was less politically correct at times now.

“Don’t you have any clothes other than riding clothes?” Morrigan made a point of asking that every morning she met with the Bay court for breakfast, and this morning was no different. Her tone of mock concern over your fashion choices made you smile. “Really, there’s no way you’d wear that much leather in the Bay too—you’d die of heatstroke.”

“I have heat resistance,” you explained as you adjusted your gloves on your hip belt, securing them in place as you joined her in the hallway leading to the main dining room. “And you’d be surprised how quickly the temperature drops when you’re flying on a dragon. You’d think they’d keep you warm, but no—you freeze up there.”

Armin was already eating his breakfast at the table, as always waiting for you to arrive—diligent and unnecessary. You went to his side to sit down, and Morrigan, to your bewilderment, sat in the seat next to yours, sticking close to you.

Armin and you shared a look. It was a casual act, more casual than the blonde had ever behaved up to that point—lacking the etiquette that characterized the rest of the seating arrangements during shared meals before.

“Even when they spit fire?” Morrigan asked, arranging a napkin on her lap over her silk pants and taking a couple of pastries for her plate.

“Balerion is so big now that the heat barely reaches me when he spits. When he was younger, it was more stifling,” you explained as you poured yourself some tea. “The ash, on the other hand, does reach me and is more bothersome than any temperature.”

“We could get you some sunglasses to help with that,” Morrigan commented, laughing at the idea as she poured her own tea.

“I tried when we settled in the Bay,” you explained, adding sugar to your cup.

“We barely got her to keep the saddles and harnesses on. Good luck trying to put anything else on her,” Armin muttered bitterly, still offended by the lack of safety measures you had agreed to forego when riding your dragon. Morrigan looked at you curiously as she unwrapped her muffin.

“More safety for me means more weight. More weight means less mobility and control, which defeats the purpose of safety if I can’t handle the dragon properly,” you explained casually. “My council has been trying to get me to wear armor or some sort of protection while riding ever since we settled in the Bay. It’s a thorn in Armin’s side that he just can’t let go of. It’s annoying.”

Armin kicked you under the table and scolded you with his gaze, to which you pouted dramatically and rubbed the bruised area. Morrigan laughed softly.

You laughed too, but your smile faded when you saw the way Armin looked at you, even after the laughter died down and the room fell into silence. A sweet warning, born of affection itself: Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t get attached. You swallowed hard as the three of you finished breakfast without further incident, Morrigan occasionally making conversation with you, though your responses lacked complexity.

I'm not going to get attached, you told yourself. I’ll just make sure things are as they seem, and that’s it. Nothing more.

Feyre found you in the afternoon on the plain outside Velaris with Balerion, just as she had a few weeks before the trip to the mountains and the Court of Nightmares, during your first conversation. You hadn’t expected her to show up that day, but you smiled nonetheless when you saw her approach, and she smiled back. She was dressed in leather from head to toe, boots included, in what you assumed was some kind of training outfit.

“He’s been closer to the city lately,” she noted as she approached, gently stroking Balerion’s snout. The beast murmured contentedly, almost like a cat. “The first few days, we barely saw him fly—just the other two.”

“Yeah. I think the excitement of the forest and mountains has worn off a bit. Soon, he’ll start complaining that he wants to go back to the volcanoes or the Bay,” you replied casually, adjusting your gloves as you started putting one on. Feyre noticed.

“Are you going for a flight?” she asked, her tone light, though her hand paused mid-caress, still resting on the dragon.

“Yeah. I don’t want him complaining about ‘why don’t we fly’ and ‘why don’t we go home’ at the same time. There’s a limit to how much dragon whimsy I can take at once,” you said with a smirk, tugging the fingers of your left glove into place.

Balerion shifted, blowing a gust of hot air directly into your face with a force that nearly sent him sitting on his haunches. Feyre looked a little startled.

“Tch. I spoil you too much,” you muttered, rolling your eyes at the dragon’s attitude. You finished adjusting the glove silently.

It wasn’t until you moved to put on the other glove that you realized Feyre had stepped away, her expression tinged with a wariness that had faded weeks ago but now seemed to have returned as she regarded the dragon.

“Dragons like to play rough, and unfortunately, I’ve taught this one to play rough more than anything. He won’t hurt me—or anyone else, for that matter—don’t worry,” you assured her calmly as you put on the other glove. But Feyre still watched Balerion warily and looked at you with genuine concern.

“What if you lose control of him?” she asked, and you almost laughed. Of course, most people thought that riding Balerion was like riding a horse—a bond that could get out of control because, at the end of the day, the animal was just that: an animal. You could only think of one way to help her understand the truth.

You fastened the glove around your wrist and spoke to her.

“Come,” you said, gently taking her wrist and guiding her cautiously around Balerion’s wings.

You let go of her hand as you moved behind the beast’s wings. When you reached his massive torso, hidden from the world by those colossal wings, you motioned for her to come closer. Feyre hesitated but walked towards you.

As you watched her approach, you paused, considering whether or not you should proceed. You reminded yourself of the promise you had made after the visit to the Court of Nightmares. What you were about to do might feel intrusive; it could make her uncomfortable or seem like you were stepping out of line—and those were the last things you wanted. But at the same time, you weren’t doing anything wrong.

On one hand, you were simply reassuring the High Lady of the safety of her city, addressing her concerns about your dragons. On the other, you were sharing something deeply personal, revealing a part of yourself that was new, allowing your oldest friend to see a side of you that no one else ever had.

Balance was an illusion, but you took advantage of that illusion while it lasted.

When Feyre stood in front of you and took your hand, you gently stretched out her fingers with your thumb so she could show you her palm, and you guided her hand to rest on your chest, so she could feel your breathing and your heartbeat. Then you placed her other hand on Balerion's scales. You motioned for her to listen with your finger and rested your hand next to hers. And you breathed deeply.

Feyre listened to the way your breathing evened out so naturally that she could swear they were just one breath. You heard your hearts coordinate until they were one, the same way your breathing did. And you felt Balerion shift in place, accommodating himself under your touch, and you moved in place instinctively, mimicking his muscle movements.

“He and I, we are one.” You explained, and she didn’t look at you as you spoke, she was focused on listening to the way you both reacted, and you could feel her unintentionally press her hand tighter against your chest, as if she wanted to make sure she heard and felt correctly. “It’s not a matter of control, we are connected in body and soul. There is no reason or way for him to do something that doesn’t match what we both want. Nor can I do something that would make him lose control.” You took her wrist just as gently as you did before, and slowly pulled her hand away from your chest, before finishing your speech, “Your city is safe, you and Rhysand have my words, and my soul as your guarantee of that.”

She looks at you with a frown at that last sentence.

“I wasn’t worried about the city,” Feyre admitted, taking a step back, looking at him sadly, as if the fact that she had thought that hurt her

Immediately, you tried to escape the situation, walking past her and stepping onto Balerion’s wing, aiming to reach the mount on his back. But before you could make it to the beast’s torso, Feyre called out to you. You turned to face her, catching a glint in her eyes.

“This whole connection thing means it’s safe for you to take another person with you. Right?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

You were reminded of the first summer you spent in the woods together. One morning, you came to her with an apple. You still remembered how her face had lit up—she had told you that apples were her favorite as a child.

You’d told her you got them from a tree deep in the woods, a place you wouldn’t dare let her go—or go yourself—unless death by wild beasts suddenly became an acceptable way to die by your standards. That summer, she kept asking when you could get her another one, and every so often, you did. It took Feyre two more summers to realize there was no apple tree growing in those woods.

The truth was, you had stolen the apples from a merchant’s house, one that supplied them to the nobles in the area. They had so many that no one noticed a dozen or two missing now and then. You had started doing this because you’d heard apples were good for a child’s growth, and you’d bring a few to your mother so she could make purée for Rue.

When Feyre asked you for apples during that first summer—when she was still dangerously thin for her already young and small frame—her gaze would light up in such a way that you couldn’t help but get her more whenever you could.

That same excited, radiant gaze now adorned Feyre’s face as she asked if the pair of you could fly together.

“It does, indeed,” you said with a sigh. Nothing more needed to be said.

You jumped up from where you were on the wing to give part of your harness to Feyre. You returned to the ground and removed the section of your harness that went around your waist, leaving you with the straps that went around your thighs. You handed them to her silently and watched as she arranged the chains and leather over her own suit. The use of the harnesses contrasted with the crispness of Feyre’s garment. When she finished, she looked at you expectantly.

As you silently analyzed the harnesses, you approached her, almost nose to nose. You lifted the harness higher over her hips, adjusting it to better fit her waist, and made slight adjustments at the sides before releasing the main belt that was tied to the saddle.

“Okay,” you whispered without looking at her. “Follow me and step where I step.”

She sighed and followed you silently, stepping as you instructed on your dragon’s wing, one step at a time until you were on the beast’s torso. You walked along its back to the area where the neck joined the spine, where the bones curved upward like a camel’s hump, and there sat the saddle. It wasn’t much different from the one used on horses, but it had chains to help guide the dragon and many hooks where the beast’s harnesses were attached. The curve was a natural part of the dragon; it was where the fire would accumulate when it listened, and it was ideally suited for the saddle.

“You go first,” you instructed Feyre, who had no problem sitting on the back of the saddle, leaving room in front for you. When she was seated, you adjusted the harness hooks to securely fasten her to the saddle, giving a final tug to the harness belt and suddenly tightening it around her ribs. Feyre was surprised by the sudden loss of air this caused.

“Sorry,” you apologized softly. You were so used to this process that you forgot what it was like to do it for the first time. “If we spin too much, they come loose, and I don’t want to risk you falling off a cliff. It’ll get more comfortable once we move around more.”

“It’s okay,” Feyre assured you in a whisper.

You sat down in front of her in silence, settling your feet into the stirrups and hooking your own harness to the saddle.

“Put your boots under mine,” Feyre complied without question, letting out a murmur when she realized they fit perfectly. “They’re really just to make it easier for me to move around when handling the straps; they have no real use for handling the dragon. But I don’t want you kicking Balerion in the air. As big as this beast is, he doesn’t bend as smoothly as he did when he was young, and he doesn’t need distractions.” You scoffed, signaling that they were now secure, and Balerion growled at your comment as he began to rise, poking his head out of the grass first, offended but obedient.

“If you want to hold onto something—” Feyre clung to either side of your waist, not hugging you but fisting your clothes and belt. “—behind you, the saddle has handles in case you want something firmer.”

You didn’t wait for a response, and Balerion rose up onto his legs and wings, causing them to shake. Feyre let out a whimper, hugging you with one hand around your waist and grabbing the handle behind her with the other. You laughed, about to ask her if her husband had never taken her flying, but you cleared your throat at the memory that maybe you weren’t supposed to know that, and they couldn’t reveal how much your cut knew about hers.

“Takeoff and landing are the most jarring. Move with him as best you can. It helps,” you explained over your shoulder as Balerion stood on two legs, sitting upright and causing them to slide to the end of the seat. Your sword was now inevitably stuck to Feyre’s chest, with not even air able to pass between the two of them. Fey, moving more slowly, hugged you around the waist with both hands, crossing her fingers in front of you.

It makes more strategic sense for her to hold onto you instead of the handles in this position, so you didn’t give it much thought. You avoided thinking about the closeness that loomed dangerously over your back.

Focus on the flight, you told yourself while tightening your hands on the reins of the dragon.

Balerion began to flap his wings. The beast beneath them both lifted off the ground a few feet with a flap of its wings, then more with another, and even more until they were flying above the trees, balanced on the saddle. A few seconds later, after Balerion had been hovering over the city, you pulled on the reins so that you moved forward in the seat, away from Feyre.

It took a minute or less for the two of you to be within arm’s length of touching the clouds, and once there, you looked over your shoulder. You had expected to see Feyre upset or afraid from the experience, based on the way she still clung to your waist even though the flight had become calm. But, looking at her, Feyre had her arm outstretched. She let the fluffiness of the clouds pass through her fingers and looked at her fingers, now damp from the contact when she finished.

“I’ve traveled through them with Rhys, but I’ve never taken the time to touch one,” she admitted when she noticed you watching her.

Balerion let out a roar of delight at the height and the air hitting his gigantic snout. Feyre wrapped her arm around your waist, looking down at her city and resting her chin on your shoulder absentmindedly. You let out a sigh that she noticed immediately.

“I wanted to talk,” she finally admitted into your ear, causing your hands to sweat beneath your gloves and goosebumps to form under the long sleeves of your riding habit. “I thought it would be easier for you up here. And for me too, if I'm honest.”

Up here, no one hears or sees, so you can tell me anything here, was what Feyre was saying.

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat. There was no conversation you would enjoy that required these conditions to happen. You looked at the reins in your hands, noting how the metal and worn leather contrasted with the leather and fabric of your new gloves, part of the outfit made just for this trip, just like Feyre’s suit—perfect and crisp—against the harness you wore every day.

You sighed and gave an order to Balerion in his language. Feyre sighed shakily against your neck and took her arms off your hips. You silently untied the harness on your legs and turned around to face Feyre in your seat, passing the reins over your head and letting them hug your waist. Hearing Armin's voice in the back of your mind, you hooked one of the harnesses on your thighs to the saddle again and crossed your other leg to hold it against you.

You stayed silent, and both of you looked at each other, for the first time truly absorbing what you were now. You admired the stars in Feyre's eyes, her half-up hair longer than you had ever seen it, and her pointed ears, which were the most distinctive feature about her you had ever noticed. She was surely the most beautiful being that had ever walked the world, without a doubt. She always had been.

She looked back at you.

(Feyre admired your eyes. They now had flashes of silver and light in them, like gemstones peeking out from beneath your natural color. The platinum blonde hair that fell in braids and a ponytail behind your neck cascaded loosely below your waist, different from the hair you used to keep short in your youth. The shape of your face had changed since then, and now your cheeks weren’t flushed like they used to be.

She didn’t know what it was, but she could smell and see that you were different. Everything about you was, just as she was.)

Her eyes scanned you silently until a detail at the line where your hair began made her eyebrows rise.

“Your roots,” Feyre pointed out, as if relieved, briefly admiring the baby hairs at her temple. “It’s your color that grows, not the blonde.”

“It is. My hair doesn’t burn; it just takes on this look in the heat. I don't really like it, but it seems to be part of the image I have now. I had all my hair like that when I conquered and liberated. So I keep it in public or on important occasions,” you explained, playing with the zipper of one of your gloves without looking at her.

As you did so, you looked down at Feyre’s hand, letting your gaze fall on the tattoo covering it. She offered it readily, wanting to show you something new about her, just as you had done when explaining your hair color to her. You took her hand in yours gently, feeling regret that you didn’t have your fingers free to feel it, but you still ran the leather over the ink in the open palm facing you.

Feyre lifted her other hand and played with the baby locks she’d been staring at, pulling them out of their place where they curled over her forehead and between her fingers, making it easier to see the tiny roots of your natural color that lay on your scalp.

You weren’t sure how long it had been there, but soon Feyre was braiding the center ponytail over her shoulder while your thumb remained over the mountain with three stars staring back at you.

As if you wanted to hide the sun with one hand, you mocked yourself.

“I told you everything in my letters, not because it was part of the plan, but because when I started writing to you, I realized that I wanted to tell you everything. It was like vomiting with letters; it had never happened to me before.” She laughed at herself, lowering her hand to her lap.

It is true, the first letter that had arrived at the Bay from her was a parchment envelope filled with pages and pages of her writing, with only your name on the front of the envelope indicating the recipient. But even before reading it, your hand had trembled when you tried to take it from Luka because it smelled like Feyre, as if she had left everything of herself on those pages and traveled to you.

“You have very nice handwriting. Elegant,” you told her, smiling mockingly. Feyre just rolled her eyes, and you both laughed a little at that. “I was almost tempted to put the letter in a painting; those strokes were so pretty. You are quite an artist, even in writing, Fey.”

“Yours was also very beautifully written,” she told you sincerely, and you felt bad, looking down in shame. She realized what that string meant. “Oh.”

You hadn’t written the answer to that letter or any of the ones that followed. Her disappointed sigh broke your heart, and you quickly tried to ease her pain.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write to you myself, but my handwriting is genuinely a mess, even after years of education. Luka would have killed me if I had handled my letters with foreign forces in my scribbles, as he calls them. But it was me; I told him everything that was written,” you explained quickly, looking into her eyes again.

Silence.

“You didn’t say much in those letters; that kind of disappointed me,” she said again, moving her hand under your thumb to hold your hand inside hers.

“If I’m being honest—” you tried to start.

“Yes, be so. Please.”

Tell me everything; I don't mind. Tell me, please. She said to you with her eyes, like when she asked you to teach her more and more in the forests years ago.

“I wanted to answer you in person the moment I finished reading. But given my history of going places with my dragons and taking over governments, my court was worried that it would be taken as an act of war on my part, just by seeing me fly through your clouds.” You admitted, feeling the heat on your cheeks, which was something unusual for you, given your lack of sensitivity to temperature after the volcano.

Feyre looked at you, stupefied. (You had wanted to go find her, she thought. As soon as you received and read her letter, you were going to present yourself at her court to see her, but you had been prevented from doing so.)

“They also didn’t think that I would be seen as property in the eyes of your husband, who I have heard is quite devoted and protective, especially with your son still so young. Well, in the long run, it was better that I didn’t do that; it would have caused you a disaster.” You smiled at him, bitterness hidden in your throat, but he only looked at you seriously.

“I would have received you. Rhys would have understood, and he would have welcomed you… It was an option we were prepared for, if it had happened.” He explained, looking into your eyes, leaving no room for doubt about the truth of his words.

You imagined yourself running out of your residence in the Bay in your pajamas and robe, racing to Balerion and soaring through the skies without a harness, sleeplessly skimming the continent, flying over the Night Court at dusk and landing hard on the beach. You imagined yourself running frantically toward the streets where people were screaming and moving away from the beaches, searching the crowd for a familiar face. Until you saw her, approaching you in her own clothes, looking surprised but relieved. You imagined how you both walked and then ran to each other, hugging and clinging to one another as soon as you were close enough to touch with your fingertips. The screams and chaos around you would have disappeared as you held each other, almost breaking her ribs in the embrace. “You’re here,” Feyre would have whispered. “Yes, I’m here, Fey,” you would have replied in the same way. Balerion would have let out a roar in the distance.

You were silent for a moment, as if watching over what didn’t happen.

“Rhys would have made some comment about a dragon stealthily landing on his lands, but beyond that, he knows everything just like you do.”

You nodded absentmindedly, and you should have given her the impression that you didn’t believe him.

You didn’t. If the situation were the other way around, you would have certainly made more than a couple of comments; it would have been the most logical thing to do. But that was enough to sparked a surprising need to defend her mate in Feyre, and so she did.

“He’s good,” she pointed out. You looked at her without moving your head and asked her a question in the same tone.

“Do you think I wouldn’t have come here immediately if I had detected that he was nothing but divine with you in that letter?”

Do you think I wouldn't have burned this place to the ground and take you out of here if I weren't sure that he loves you more than himself? You almost asked her, but you closed your mouth, not wanting to add more and say too much.

(Feyre imagined something too. She imagined the day Tamlin had locked her away, envisioning that instead of Morrigan's arms lifting her up, you appeared in the sky. She imagined Balerion covering the manor like a cloud and the screams of the guards as you burned it down when htey got in your way, before descending into the courtyard in front of where she was huddled. She imagined you stepping into the midst of her power without fear, burning away the barriers she had put up in her panic so easy as if they were spiderwebs in your path. You would speak to her, and the sound of your voice, which she had missed so much, would slowly draw her out of her state, undoing her panic attack with each word and gently calling her back to reality.

She wouldn't know how you had gotten there or how you had known she needed help, but you would have offered your hand, and she wouldn't hesitate. “You won’t be coming back here, Fey,” you would have assured her, but she would have followed you without hesitation, even if she hadn’t wanted to. You wouldn't say anything, letting her save herself again, just like when they were children.

You would tell her softly in the midst of the chaos how to clime Balerion, who would crush all the roses in the garden when he landed, and before anyone could find out what was happening, you would make her rise into the air, taking her away from there to a destination she didn't know but trusted would be safe.)

“No, I don’t think so,” Feyre admitted softly, releasing the tension that had risen in her shoulders.

(She made a moment of silence, for what it could have been.)

She let out a heavy sigh and looked at you again. You knew the part you weren’t sure you were ready for was coming, but you let her say it anyway.

“I tried to get your father to tell me what he did with you for years after you disappeared. That morning, I went to look for you like always, and your father told me you’d left early, then slammed the door in my face. I thought he meant you were in the woods, so I went and looked everywhere for you. I tried everything I knew, everything you taught me, to find a trace of you, and there was nothing. Not long after that day, I went back to tell your father I hadn’t found you and saw you paying the doctor for medicine for the baby and your mother.”

The admission confirmed a part of your story you hadn’t seen but had suspected. You knew your father had sold you and your sister for the money he needed to keep the baby alive with medicine they couldn’t otherwise get.

“I went into the woods alone after that, but every morning I passed by your house. When they opened the door, I asked, and when they didn’t, I came back at night to try again. Even when the child—” Feyre stopped dead in her tracks, and you looked at her, a lump in your throat. But you shook your head, giving her permission to say it all.

“When the child died, I kept asking, even when your mother disappeared, but the whole town saw your father bury her in the yard with the rope still around her neck. The bastard had the decency to look sorry he was born. One day, I went to knock on the door before I went out into the woods; it was slammed open by me, and the place was deserted. There was nothing inside the cabin or outside, as if no one had ever been there. He left, and I felt like I lost you for the second time.”

“Fey, there was nothing you could do. Knowing isn’t going to change that,” you told her, partly to comfort her and partly to beg her not to make you say more.

“But I want to know, because you haven’t told me, and I feel like it’s more to protect me than you.” She took a breath to continue speaking urgently and determinedly: “It may have been years, but I know you better than anyone else could. That afternoon, you did the same thing to me as you do now.”

That afternoon. The day before they sold you to your sister. The last time you had seen each other.

That day, after spending the morning on a quick hunt to prepare for the cold months like every year, you and Feyre walked through the village back to your homes after selling the last of your remaining furs. Feyre was on your right, both of you with your arms entwined as you walked, the older girl’s pockets jingling with the coins she carried.

It had been a normal day. Unremarkable. Feyre wouldn’t remember anything particular about the day, only that last exchange before she didn’t see you for almost a decade.

“I really think we should go deeper into the forest,” Feyre had insisted, rolling her eyes at your stubbornness.

“Sure,” you exclaimed sarcastically as you walked down a more deserted street, away from the bustling market of the village. “That way, we can be kidnapped by some dark, ill-tempered fae lord and become his sex slaves for the rest of our lives. We won’t have to hunt anymore, so that seems like a good deal.”

“Oh, come on,” Feyre exclaimed playfully, hugging your arm. “Don’t tell me you actually believe those stories!”

“I guess I’m not taking any chances. And neither are you, my Fey,” you replied casually, tapping her nose to tease her a little in return. Feyre rolled her eyes.

That was what you had always called her. You used to tell her that you liked the nickname you had given her upon your first meeting because it sounded fair, and Feyre was fair in everything she did.

And Feyre liked it because it sounded like she was your faith, the most sacred and believed-in thing in that world. In a way, she had been projecting, because you had become her faith when you found her in the woods. You had given a stressed and hopeless eleven-year-old girl food, knowledge, and the strength to survive.

And yet, that day, she hadn’t even given you a hug when she dropped you off at the door. She had just wiped it away and poked you in the ribs playfully. Her last contact with you.

“Don’t let a fairy kidnap you while I’m not watching, my Fey,” she had told you, which had earned you that elbow. “Hey, I’m just saying that if it happens, I’ll complain for the rest of your life if I have to go all the way to Prythian to get you out.”

She had smiled mischievously, her pre-teen features shining with mischief.

“At least it would be fun,” she had teased one last time. After that, she had turned away, and you hadn’t looked at each other again. She hadn’t even looked over her shoulder or said goodbye properly. Nothing.

You were simply not there, as if when she had turned around that day, you had disappeared.

“You dodged my rebuke like you always did. You didn’t listen to me about going further into the woods—”

“Because it wasn’t necessary, Fey.”

“I know it wasn’t necessary,” the admission left her breathing heavily. You left her angry and gave her the silence she needed. “That day, when I gave you the idea, as bad as it was. That day, you knew something would happen; we both knew your father would do something, but you still didn’t say anything and pushed me away all day. I told you to go further into the woods because I knew you would wake up, and I thought you would say something. I wanted to help you like you had helped me; I wanted you to lean on me and see that I could handle myself. But you didn’t, because I was a child. But I’m not anymore.”

Feyre had her hands balled into fists on her lap. You looked up at the sky, avoiding her gaze and thinking of what to say.

She was right; as children, you had always put up this wall between you. You were the eldest, after all, and you saw her as that light in your life that deserved protection. You couldn't burden her with your problems; you were afraid to dim her light, but looking at her now, you knew that maybe nothing you said would extinguish that light.

Your Fey was a grown woman. She had gone through more without you than with you, and she had come out victorious. You had no right to protect her from anything, and she asked you to lean on her the way she wanted you to when you were children. Now you could, she asked you.

But you didn't know how. The only person who had never supported you like that was Ragnar. Your ship captain had been a famous pirate and one of your first private clients, one of those you always had. When you made your name as a courtesan, to the point of choosing your clients, he was one of the first to have his VIP pass to visit you whenever he was in the cigar. He had unwittingly turned you into the Pirates' Bride, with his fascinating stories that made you feel like you were outside the walls of the brothel where you were enslaved, even if only for a few hours.

But even he only knew one side of you; the weight you carried for him was nothing compared to the weight Feyre wanted him to share with her.

Feyre was fair. She had given you all of herself when she was just a child, allowing you to see her at her most vulnerable and building on part of what made her who she was today. She had given you her trust, and she wanted you to share your weight with her now, even if just a little, to balance the relationship that fate had left unfinished to mature for many years.

You began to think of what to say to her, but the first thing that came to mind was Rue—the blood covering her neck and your hands, her cold and lifeless face, the people running around you in terror knowing the guard was coming. The hole in your chest anchored you in that place, even though you had time, and they asked you to run away from what you had done in revenge for the life that had been taken from your little sister, who lay dead in your arms.

You shook your head sharply, pushing those memories out of your mind, causing your head to ache from the abrupt movement.

You couldn't. You didn't want to—or couldn't—do that to your mind now; that emptiness would consume you.

Feyre’s hand reached for yours, interrupting your little crisis. You looked at her and saw the concern in her eyes. She was no longer tense or angry or frustrated. She even seemed sorry for pushing you so far.

“I owe you,” she said, sounding frustrated now, and you looked at her in surprise. “Those years, you kept me alive in the forest, and even when you were gone, everything you taught me helped me survive. Even away, you are as much the cause of all this as I am. I want to know everything. I want us to be one again, like we were in the forest.”

You moved her hand over yours and then rubbed your eyes too hard, almost causing pain to your eyelids. You stayed silent, unable to look at anything but the stars in her hands, which became the only thing on your mind.

You wanted to tell her that when the rebellion at the volcanoes failed and you decided it was better to throw yourself into the lava than to live another day, you jumped into the lava, yearning for death, only to emerge from it spitting it out. You felt your bones moving and your skin covering you, as if suddenly your own existence was too much for your mind. You thought of her.

When you understood the dragons and the power they gave you, you thought of going back for her, of looking for her. You just wanted to go home.

You didn’t. You didn't think you had the words yet, and even if you did, you knew it would be too much to say, because you would have to tell her things you had understood on that island that no longer made sense to articulate.

She whispered your name, begging you to give her something.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—” You cleared your throat and let go of her hand. You ran your hands over your thighs, trying to get the sweat off, but you still had your gloves on, and you looked around for comfort as you found the words to say. “Fey, I promise I’ll tell you that story someday, but I can’t today. I don’t know if I can when this visit is over, but I promise I’ll try. I genuinely can’t right now, and I don’t know when I will be able to.”

Feyre squeezed your hand when your voice broke, and you looked up at her, expecting a sad smile, but it was no longer desperate or disappointed.

Liar. That’s what you were. You had just told her lies.

“That’s enough,” you whispered in comfort.

Liar. Just get it over with and tell her you don’t plan on a tomorrow for the two of you.

You didn’t, of course. You stayed in that deep illusion you had created around the two of you. When you arrived at the House of Wind, you helped Feyre get the harnesses off, and you both walked toward the house when you decided to tell her at least one truth.

“I know your boy’s birthday is coming up, or it was; I don’t know the exact date,” you admitted as you watched Balerion walk away into the mountains. “I hope it’s not out of line, but I bought him something. It seemed rude not to bring something. But I was told it could be misconstrued, politically speaking—”

“It’s not out of line,” Feyre cut you off gently and gave you the brightest smile you had received in years.

Next Part: (3.) DREAMS MADE HEAVY.

TAG LIST: @pinksmellslikelove @saltedcoffeescotch @raisam @asweetblueberry2 @kabekusa @throneofsapphics @makayla2036789 @jojodojo02 @kooterz

#acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #feyre archeron x reader #rhysand x reader #feysand x reader #poly!feysand x reader #feyre archeron #rhysand #acotar fic #feysand #friends to lovers #strangers to lovers #second chance love #fated mates #mates #dragons

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thedarkmistress16 · 4 months ago

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A/N: The last two parts were mostly finished so thats why this chapter and future ones are gonna take longer to pump out btw. sorry in advance!

my schedule is still kinda inconsistent, lol. and i got sick, but I luckily kicked procrastination and writer's block in the ass to finally pump this chapter out! it's been too long, sorry for the wait! this one's longer so settle tf in chat.

Stalker!Yandere!Tony Stark x Fem!Reader- To Steal and Dote On (Same tags as prev. apply, plus: Camera stalking, Watching without consent, Listening without consent, Recording without consent, Tampering with private property, Tony the delusions of grandeur extraordinaire, Tony having perverted thoughts of Reader, Pepper's having none of Tony's antics, Tony and Pepper interacting like siblings? probably Ooc there sorry)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

Chapter 3: Give and Take

(source is unavailable; gif is not mine I promise.)

Taglist: (if anyone wants to be added for this fic just let me know!)

——————————————————————————————————

There’s another package.

You falter mid-step, keys loosely dangling from your finger. They lightly jingle as they continue to sway with the remaining momentum and ring together from impact.

It’s the only sound accompanying your thoughts as you stare at the wrapped present sitting in front of your door.

You almost feel like you’re sent back in time repeating the events of yesterday, but… no. This one is different.

A basket, not a box.

Decorated with all the bells and whistles, unlike the unassuming box of chocolates. Gift filler and bows galore wrapped securely in cellophane.

There is one similarity that mocks you: a thick cardstock folded in half, your own name staring at you in black ink.

And just like last time, there’s a message.

“Some more for you to try, (Name). The best of the best. Hope you like them. —Your knight in rose-gold armor ❤️💛”

Peeking through the contents basket for the first time, you saw various boxes stuffed inside with different signage and decals that hinted at something familiar.

…

More suspicious chocolate?

From the same sender?

Your head swivels back and forth, analyzing the halls on the off chance that whoever dropped this off was still lurking closeby to gauge your reaction.

No dice.

An exasperated exhale leaves your lips as you turn back to the basket.

Reluctantly, you haul the thing inside.

Unwrapping it leaves you more befuddled.

It's a slew of chocolate brands you've never heard of, and all from different countries. Each has their own origins with confectionery detailed in fluffy and exaggerated scribbles, too. You take a wild guess and figure they’re in the caliber of high-end decadence.

Despite your unease at the quantity, you highly doubt all this chocolate is poisoned.

So, at least your admirer doesn't want you dead.

Still, it is an excessive amount to go through, so you suppose the first step would be figuring out the ones you do like.

You limit yourself in testing the most basic flavor you can surmise out of the assortment; one brown morsel per box to test the brands in an effort of fairness and avoiding sugar-induced nausea.

Just like that first time.

Cut to you leaning against your kitchen counter swigging a glass of water with two piles of opened chocolate boxes on the granite surface of your counter, littered with crumpled up wrappers next to you.

Moving the glass from your lips, you breathe out a sigh as your eyes fall upon the last unopened one of the bunch. Scooting it closer with one hand as the other sets down the water, you peel open the packaging with practiced ease. Plucking out the blandest one you need to test, you pop the last chocolate in your mouth and chew.

Oh…

…

Oh?

You blink. Then blink again. Your tongue moves around, drawing out more of that taste as your hand lifts the accompanying chocolate guide card to your face. Upon re-reading the flavor profile of the confection it is that you're savoring, you realize you don't want to spit this out.

It's good.

It's really good.

Which is surprising, considering the rest of the chocolates were subpar or duds, at best. Gazing the said piles of opened treats over, you figure you'd share them with your coworker tomorrow, pawning off what you could to her and dumping or rationing out the rest as you discreetly keep the one good box to yourself.

This was given to you as a gift, after all.

There'd be no harm in that— in keeping just one… right?

——————————————————————————————————

To say (Friend name) was over the moon when you showed her your newfound chocolate stash the next day at work would be a gross understatement. She was practically fawning over them to the point of unhealthy infatuation. She had then briefly explained that she recognized them in a previous business trip she took, and something about the brands being the best of the best, alongside mention of another trip she was taking soon.

You had honestly stopped listening to the details at that point, her excitement over something that was disconcerting for you severely dampened your mood enough to confide in her about the first gift.

Judging by her initial reaction when you walked in today, you had a dreaded feeling that you would know how she would take your impromptu therapy session, and it went over about as well as you expected. Yet it didn't hinder the intensity of your emotions at her response any less.

“So… what’s the problem?”

You sigh, completely at your wit's end after explaining your dilemma in full a second time now and she still didn’t get it. (Friend name) was more content with sampling the morsels of cacao, sugar, and milk to really pay your worries any mind. Or at least with the level of severity that you did, anyway.

“Look,” you hear her roll closer with her chair as you busy yourself with planting your face onto the surface of your desk, your arms encircling your head as a cushion. “You’re getting gifts from this mysterious admirer, right?” You silently nod your head, still not looking up at her. “Right. And you don’t know why this person likes you?” She further questions through audible chewing, though it sounds more like a statement she's telling herself.

The air around the two of you falls silent for a moment.

“And you still don’t want them?”

At that, you groan aloud, muffled by your arms.

“Hey, all I’m saying is don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! If this person hasn’t threatened you at all, then what’s the real harm? And besides, it’s not like you can really do anything other than leave a report.” The comment hits you like a jab in your side, a sudden sharp sting of cold-hard reality dousing your brain cells. It unfortunately made sense, as much as you hated to admit it.

A shuffling sound of plastic can be heard as her fingers dive for another treat.

“Still, I mean if you don't want them…” She playfully ventures, gazing at your pitiful form, “I can always take any excess gifts off your hands.” Another groan escapes your lips as she laughs heartily at your expense.

You’re almost envious of how your friend is taking this all in stride before you remember that she isn’t experiencing this first-hand. Feeling the unease and caution that swirl in your gut with the first gift that was untampered yet clearly not meant for you. Not knowing who it's from and why it was happening to you, only to receive more even after trashing it.

Or maybe she's only saying this because gift receiving is her desired love language.

Regardless, your friend is clearly of no help in hindering this behavior. And despite her assurance of the harmlessness of it all, this mystery is eating you up alive.

Another miniscule part of you darkly recognizes that this all can become sinister in the blink of an eye.

You had to try something, you just don’t have any clue where this all begins.

And not only that, but…

It’s just— there’s just no way all of this stuff is for you.

——————————————————————————————————

“Seriously, (Friend name), this is ridiculous.”

Tony's ears perk up when he hears your voice through the surveillance feed of your apartment he's had opened in the background as he looks over schematics. Now, however, his full attention is on you as he spins his rolling chair for a front-row view.

“Silent lockdown, J.” The billionaire mutters, his eyes scrutinizing you through the camera as you flit about the kitchen and living space. You're on the phone as you carry a bouquet of flowers under the crux of your arm, almost like an infant.

The ones Tony sent over on his lunch break earlier today.

A pleased smile spreads across his face as you place your cellular device down and hold the tall glass in the sink, running the tap into the vase.

You want to keep them alive, he realizes with soft eyes.

“Oh, come on girl, it can't be that bad.” The call’s on speaker now, he notes, as he can hear your friend, her tone full of light teasing. It's too high pitched to sound anything short of shrill and it has the man cringing, vaguely reminding him of his past conquests. “Whatcha get this time?”

“Flowers,” you mutter. A dejected sigh falls from your lips that has Tony's heart feel a tiny bit heavier and his eyebrows furrow. Did you not like them? Were you not a woman who cared for flowers, then? That wasn't a problem, he could fix that. Tony’s eyes cut to another monitor, pulling up a document and using his finger to cross out the word in a bullet-pointed list. He peers back to observe your fingers gently stroking the leaves and the action has the stalker thinking about how soft your skin is. Your cinched expression, however, draws the man's focus as he peers at you, a plethora of inquiries running through his mind.

“What's wrong sweetheart?” Tony ventures in a hushed tone, as if whispering to you yet no one at the same time.

“I just don't understand. Why me?” Tony entertains the notion that you had just heard and answered him for a fleeting second.

“Uh, why not you, (Y/N)?” While the implication that you're dumb in her grating tone irks him, he can't help but agree with your friend’s statement.

“I mean, what did I do to deserve this?” You sound exhausted and saddened as you gingerly place the gift in question onto the countertop of your kitchen. As you run a hand through your hair, Tony's gaze falls down your body, humming at your cute business ensemble of a button-up dress shirt, knee-length skirt, and heels. He licks his lips as he spots a tiny slit cut into the fabric of your skirt that subtly gives him more of your leg to see. He runs his hands over his jeans, briefly acknowledging how clammy they are as he thickly swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth.

Could he get you to work for him?

Move into the tower out of convenience for your job and his spying?

Have you wear the same outfits?

…

More provocative ones?

…

Nothing at all?

“Are you still pouting about this? Girl.” Your friend deadpans unsexily, popping Tony out of his daydreaming. “And are you seriously asking why you don’t deserve flowers?” Your head shakes, and the way your hair flows with the movement has the man mesmerized again.

“I don't even know who would bother going through the trouble of—”

“You are more than worth the trouble, (Y/N).” (Friend name)’s tone is softer now, as if trying to be encouraging. “And it sounds to me like your little crush thinks so, too.” She sing-songs as your face burns, absolutely speechless. Then you’re indignant, chastising your friend as she giggles in the background.

Tony loves every second of witnessing your reaction, unexpectedly laughing from the sheer delight he’s feeling. (Friend name) took the words right out of his mouth. He mulls the thought over for a moment, then concludes that as long as your friend continuously acts as his wingwoman unknowingly from the sidelines, he could tolerate her presence in your life.

For now at least, until she does something to hurt you.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to further clarify her oh-so helpful sentiment…

As he stares at you, something else clicks in the brunette’s mind and he starts swiping and tapping away at the other screen again; this time perusing a new website for a little number he can't wait to see you in.

——————————————————————————————————

After the mysterious second chocolate bundle was sent to your door, many other random care packages were sent your way.

Coffee and tea pods and packets.

Sample meats and cheeses.

Party-sized chips and cookie packs.

Soaps, perfumes, and lotions.

The gifts kept coming with no sign of stopping. It feels like you're being pushed out of your own apartment by whoever’s responsible for sending them. It’s been driving you up the wall so much that you took advantage of the absurd amount of deliveries to exercise your best efforts into unearthing some answers.

All potential leads you followed resulted in absolutely nothing to show for. Anyone you could think of in close proximity to the occurrences— neighbors, landlord, the post office— were all of no help. No one in your apartment knew of or saw anyone dropping off these packages at your door. Nor did the establishments care to tell you who ordered the deliveries in the first place; it was “private information that couldn’t be released,” apparently.

That’s when you finally decided to report the incidents to law enforcement.

The only thing the police were good for was filing a report to build a case. But even without looking at the officers’ faces, you knew that what you provided wouldn’t lead to anything substantial. You barely had a complaint, really. You were just lucky they decided to humor you with opening a case instead of immediately shutting you down.

Luckily, you still had the notes that came with the gifts to hand over, proving they were meant for you and were referencing the deliveries.

Unluckily, it only helped to prove that someone had taken a shine to you; and because the contents were all printed out with a typed font, you couldn’t prove that it wasn’t just yourself who set this all up to cry wolf for attention.

Yes, that was a real speculation the officers had to your story.

Their assumptions confused you at first, but the more you thought about it on the walk home, the more peeved you got.

If this weirdo admirer wasn’t doing this to you in the first place, you wouldn’t have to deal with all this nonsense.

Pouting all the way back to your apartment, your emotions immediately turn to displeasure as your vision recognizes the slew of things piled up at your doorstep. You surmise that many of these were delivered as you were out just now, causing a pit to form in your stomach.

The clacking of shoes echo down the hall, and your head tilts up to notice a man walking in your direction. It’s an older gentleman; the hair on his head and chin are greyed out and he sports a long sleeve shirt and fleece vest combo in green, blue, and brown plaid. His dress slacks are devoid of wrinkles and are of a toffee color just like his loafers. The closer he approaches, the easier you can spot the round, thin wire spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.

Compared to the neighborhood you resided in, the male was completely out of place— which was expected of him considering that’s who he was as your landlord.

He looks at the pile of stuff at your door before halting. He makes eye contact with you and nods, which you return in kind.

“Miss (Last name), I trust all is well?” Like with every question he poses, it comes out as a gruff statement or observation.

“Yes, Mr. Garrett, I’ve been fine.”

His attention noticeably shifts to analyze the stack of gifts once more and you shift your weight from side to side uncomfortably.

“Have you solved your little problem yet?” You know he’s essentially asking you if you’ll bother him again— his words— after questioning him on the matter a few days ago. Mr. Garrett claimed to be very irked by your insinuation that he was somehow responsible— you said nothing of the sort— and for you to kindly leave him out of your trouble. You had to end the call abruptly before you became more infuriated and did something you couldn’t take back, like yelling at him and unceremoniously granting yourself a one-way ticket to the streets. After that unpleasant exchange, you weren’t too keen on probing your landlord on the subject again.

“I already went to the police.” You announce resolutely, squaring your shoulders to steadily meet his eyes. “They’ll handle it now.”

“Good.” He curtly responds, turning to walk past you now. “Rent’s due in a few days.”

You nod in acknowledgement, reminding yourself to travel to the bank to pull the necessary cash out and place the money in an envelope, as your landlord preferred to do things the old-fashioned way “to ensure his tenants actually paid him.” Perhaps he was fooled one too many times in his youth to allow anyone an inch of leniency.

Mr. Garrett stops mid-step, turning to brazenly stare at your doorstep for the third time before locking eyes with you. “Don’t leave them there too long. A pileup like that is considered a fire hazard and I will have to fine you for it if it's not moved.” It takes a good chunk of your willpower to keep your frustrations at bay.

“Yes Mr. Garrett.”

He departs without so much as another word, and it isn’t until he turns the corner that you release the breath you’ve been holding in. You glare at the offending packages, cursing whoever they were for causing you this much of a headache.

Reluctantly, and despite your overwhelming desire to be petty and leave the gifts there, you begrudgingly bring them inside your unit and start opening and organizing the products like you had just gone grocery shopping.

You falter, almost dropping the box of coffee in your hands when a realization hits you.

This will help you save money, wouldn’t it..?

If you accepted these gifts?

You adamantly shake your head, placing the coffee where it belongs in your kitchen.

The last thing you need to do is encourage this behavior, no matter how convenient it makes your life in certain aspects.

When you finish putting everything away, you move into your living area and pick up the remote for your T.V. You thumb the power button and start walking back toward your kitchen to fetch yourself a snack. The familiar noise of the television powering up is cut abruptly short as a loud, electrical popping noise startles you before your unit falls silent.

Swiveling on your heel to turn back toward your T.V., you quickly discover that it had just decided to short out on you if the still-black screen was anything to go by. “Aw, hell. There goes my vegging out for the night,” you casually muse to yourself as you power the device down and place the remote back on your living room table.

Ultimately shrugging off your ruined plans, you really don’t have the energy to get worked up over something like this. You didn’t use the thing that much anyway, and when you did it was once in a blue moon for an indulgent night of nostalgia films. You could always watch them on your laptop or phone if you needed to.

You then resign yourself to start getting ready for bed, hoping that tomorrow will be a better day.

——————————————————————————————————

Watching over the recording of your little technical mishap last night was a wonderful reason for Tony busy himself in your space again in the heroic effort to repair your modest electrical box for you, free of charge.

And, well— Tony Stark was nothing if not an opportunist.

And possibly, a glutton for adrenaline-induced activities.

Because why else would he make another trip to your apartment so soon with the intent of modifying things in your unit when you could arrive home at any time instead of sending you a new smart T.V.?

Not because he wanted a chance to survey you in your element a lot closer than his cameras would allow at a safe distance.

Or for him to selfishly indulge in your natural scent lingering in your space and pretend he was a welcomed guest.

Definitely not Tony Stark of all people, and surely not because he was an antique restoring, sentimental man at heart.

Of course not.

But he digresses.

Dismantling and understanding the issue your television had was a fairly quick feat, repairing it even less so.

He then got a better understanding of your personal tastes as he rifled through your cabinets for the items he sent. He also took notes of the shopping reminders magnetized on your fridge for preferred products he wasn’t privy to before.

The only problem that came with finishing both tasks was figuring out what other excuse he could use to linger in your apartment without feeling more like a creeper than he already was. Tony had quickly decided to meander and poke around to find more unaware issues his mechanical prowess could easily solve.

He soon found himself half-under the pipes of your kitchen sink, various tools scattered around his body as he eliminated a pesky leak and improved the water pressure for your faucet.

Then he was tinkering with the electrical wiring in your lights.

And later, when he thought there was absolutely nothing else to do, he almost exited your apartment via the front door like he was actually supposed to be there. Tony recoiled quickly, fractals of icy fear nipping at his heart, and quickly turned on his heel to finally leave your apartment.

Maybe for good this time.

His brain, however, was bugging him about how horribly the doorknob jiggled in his hand, like it was about to fall off if given a good tug.

How easy it would be for someone to…

Tony’s face cinched together as his hands curled into fists, his nails biting uncomfortably into his skin as he fought with himself to continue walking.

He did, just in the wrong direction.

That is how the man ended up kneeling at your front door that had to be slightly ajar to be tinkered with, opened toolbox at his side while he played with the locking mechanism.

It was akin to a mantra as he continuously told himself he had to do this for your own general safety and not out of his own selfish need to deter any foul players from stealing you away from him. Reassuring himself that he was doing this because he was a superhero in Gold-Titanium armor looking out for a New York civilian in a shady neighborhood. That he was Tony Stark who did what he does best: taking precautions and countermeasures to avoid future complications.

Not because he wanted you all to himself.

“Sir,” Tony's A.I. drawls abruptly, too loudly for the covert operation he was attempting right now.

“Not now, Jarv, I'm almost done here.” The man chides to the robotic voice under his breath, frustrated over how long it’s taking to fix your finicky lock. His hand fumbles with the tool in his hand, and the billionaire grumbles before huffing in irritation. Thanks to his A.I., Tony’s concentration broke and caused his grip to slip and almost nick the metal handle of your doorknob. He's not too sure that little detail would go unnoticed, and leaving evidence like that is the last thing he needs to worry about right now.

“Sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. insists, and Tony grits his teeth as he wipes an arm across his sweaty forehead. “(Y/N)’s heat signature is rapidly approaching.”

The man freezes in place, his blood running cold.

Then his ears distinctly catch distant footfalls thumping against a hardwood floor, accompanied by a muffled speaker.

“Yeah, (Friend name), I’ll be free this weekend.”

“Shit!” Tony hisses, flinging himself away from your door like it burned him and his hands fly around to throw his supplies back in his toolbox at the speed of light. He all but sprints toward your window, hastily fiddling with the rusty latch. In his panicked state, he almost doesn’t contemplate how long it’ll take for him to climb up to the roof, and urgently commands J.A.R.V.I.S. to bring his suit down, now.

When your window finally unlocks, Tony uses all his strength to lift the frame and shimmy out in one fluid motion. He has to turn back and let the glass slide down gently with both hands, but then he hears a familiar whir behind him. Tony pivots himself in one fluid motion to lunge toward the peeled-open metal casing of Iron Man hovering just past your building's metal staircase.

He bursts off in flight when his body's fully concealed, soaring dangerously fast into the sky. Tony almost can't think when he's breathing this hard, yet his mind's in overdrive. It's a perpetual cycle that burns his lungs, quickly leading to tunnel-vision that is all-too similar to another experience.

Then he reaches the roof of Stark Tower, touching down on the landing pad. Mechanical arms help open up the metal armor as he walks further down the platform and Tony feels he can finally start breathing properly again, gulping in fresh air like water for his dehydrated lungs.

“Where have you been, Tony? I've been looking for you everywhere!” Pepper, clad in white and black business attire, speeds toward her boss with a binder and manilla folder clutched to her chest.

Releasing a shaky breath, Tony’s mask retracts and his head turns to grin dazzlingly at his secretary despite feeling accosted.

“Pep! I didn't know you were capable of missing me that much.”

She rolls her eyes at his double-edged-ness. “I think you’re confusing me with the world in that statement.”

Tony heaves a sigh when he’s out of his suit and the action draws his assistant’s eyes back toward him. Pepper gives the man a once-over and wrinkles her nose.

“You look awful. Where were you?” She presses tersely, and Tony's face falters. “I can't even count how many meetings have to be rescheduled, and that's if those prospects aren't lost now. You can't go AWOL like that without telling someone, Tony. I almost called Rhodney.”

“Ouch,” he remarks, striding over to the closest couch. “Straight to business as always, huh, Pep?” There is no verbal response as Tony plops himself down onto the cushions, letting his body start to relax. “It was nothing, just a little charity work. Some fixer-upper stuff.”

Pepper raises a brow.

“Okay,” Tony relents, his hands raised in a surrender motion before dropping, his brain calming down and beginning to think coherently again. “It wasn't exactly charity; more like a favor for a friend. I was repairing some things of theirs, and had to bring my tools with me since they’re not very mechanical-savvy.” It was the closest he would get to telling the truth, as unintentional as it was to reveal. But knowing Pepper Potts, she would poke until the answer was satisfactory or she got tired of his deflecting. If he went with the latter option today, she'd come back to the topic with a vengeance. And after the close call he had, the last thing he wanted was Pepper digging into this matter and being a thorn in his side over it. “Oh yeah,” He continues, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with his hand for a moment. “While you’re over there doing nothing but lecturing me, could you be a doll and bring over that toolbox I mentioned?”

Silence ensues, falling over the pair.

Curiously, Tony opens his eyes to find a frown souring her pretty face— a detail Tony's about to comment upon when she speaks up.

“What toolbox?” She bluntly states, staring him down with an unreadable expression.

Tony freezes before twisting his torso to look around where he last was, and—

…

Oh.

…

Fuck.

——————————————————————————————————

This is bad, clearly.

The person sending this stuff hasn’t made themselves known and there’s been nothing more substantial you could submit to the police, either.

But it’s not as alarming as using your address as a drug delivery hotspot or something. And you checked them again— your cards had no outrageous or suspicious charges on them, so that info was safe. It was only your home address that was being utilized without your consent.

As far as you were aware, at least.

You shiver at the unspoken thought.

Bottom line, this could’ve been a lot worse.

You looked over at your doorstep, spotting another package greeting you from your long day at work as it lies there innocently.

But it doesn’t mean you want this to continue happening either, you solemnly think to yourself. Lifting the object up and clutching it against your chest with one arm, the other searches for the distinct ring of jagged metal in your purse.

Fishing out your keys successfully, you select your apartment key and hold it out in preparation as you continue to focus your gaze onto the cardboard box, peering at your name scrawled on top of the attached parchment. Stepping forward, you blindly thrust your arm out and feel the door impact the metal tool in your hand before it yawns in protest.

Your eyes shoot up and your breath stops.

You realized with growing panic that it had— indeed, gotten worse.

Someone broke into your apartment.

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#moi writing #tony stark x reader #yandere tony stark #yandere tony stark x reader #not me writing this in my bed during sick recovery as my lungs scream to die yknow as you do haha #as opposed to the last installments mdb did not directly influence this one #this was written in silence more than anything lol i think music distracts me too much to write actually

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