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13tinysocks · 2 months ago

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My Dead Girlfriend

He lied about being a superhero. You lied about not having freaky ass mind powers. You broke up- bitterly. End of story. No shot Invincible and some superpowered grunt for Machine Head would ever work out in any reality. Except. When he comes in droves, hoards of himself, brokenhearted and wanting, wrecking cities for a chance to get one last glance at you.

[Invincible Varients x Reader] [Ao3] [current overall word count: 187k]

[long form, multi-arc, eventual smut, dark fic]

[6.7K, part one of ?] [2] Took a lot of liberties with this. Wanted the variants to be more distinct. Please excuse formatting issues, tumblr is actually ass. Header art is mine. Buckle up, I write like a bad girl with a hope for better days. TW: Lots of death, bad things, worse people.

1 * Buck Fifty

Where I think that we’re all gonna die, Just to get fucked in some parallel life, While a strange martian fungus sprouts, From our sexier parts. Canoeing on Mars - Go Hang Music

Semantics are a funny thing, really. You say, “Go jump off a bridge,” most people do just that. Jump. Here’s the not so fun part, some people, they go, “Well, what bridge?” And it’s a back and forth, you pushing, them pulling until you find that magic sweet spot in their logic and they finally jump. So because you were chatting with this asshole for the better part of ten minutes, people run to you asking questions. “Did you know him? Is he okay?” Clearly, he wasn’t. The guy’s brains were dashed on a rock, blood following the runoff stream, too shallow to break the fall. Your attention slides off the body. To the couple that pulled over the second he went over the ledge. Early thirties. Medium-ugly man, pretty girl with her hand on her swollen belly. Engagement rings glinting under the spring sun. “Get back in your car.” Power rolls off your tongue. Thick, heavy, and sour. “And drive away.” Concern leeches out of their eyes. Glazing over the moment the words meet their ears. The woman gets in first, shutting the passenger and sliding a seatbelt over herself. The man steps around the car, into steady traffic flowing carefully away from their car. He’s nearly clipped by the side mirror of a sedan that blares it’s horn. Swerving away, scraping the opposite side of the bridge’s barrier. He gets into the car. Unblinking as car after car rams into the sedan. A pileup in the making but he looks nowhere but straight ahead. The couple’s car, a buggy, pulls off the narrow shoulder. Catching a pickup in the side, sending it careening into the sedan’s front. You watch the sedan driver pop like a pimple and the buggy drive off.

You look back down, to the target, the only one supposed to get hurt here. He’s dead alright. Job’s done. Collateral doesn’t matter, not here anyway. Pileups happen all the time for no good reason at all. Still, you tug up your hood and make your way down the side catwalk of the bridge. Going the opposite direction of the pileup. Smoke thick in your nose. Air displaces, a woosh overhead. You’re at the bridge’s end, at the corner of Park and Main when the spandex clad cavalry arrives. You know that pink glow anywhere. Atom Eve sprung into action. Resetting metal, fixing tires. You make yourself watch her, not the blue-black blur that’s scooping civilians out of cars to safety. You catch a look at him anyway. Still at last, because the job was done that quick. Your gut tightens, brows press together, a sour lemon frown on your lips. He’s smiling at her as they talk about money. The city of New York a brand spanking new client of Invincible Co. Payday for them. You too. So stop being such a dill, and get a move on. You turn before Mark can see your face. He wouldn’t think of you as the culprit. A long ago thing of the past, pre-powers. Good, it’s better if you’re not on his shit list. The best if he had no idea you were still rolling with Machine Head. He’d seen you in his superhero skin at Machine Head’s side. God, how that ended. No longer seventeen. No longer needing desperate money for college. No longer innocent or wanted. When they start asking questions to bystanders, you’re already halfway down Main. You walk fast, you’re late. Twenty minutes out from the tower on foot without a car when the meeting was in five fucking minutes. Wasn’t your fault the guy had to be persuaded to kill himself.

Machine Head wouldn’t see it that way. You caught somebody by the arm. Alone, in nice enough clothes. They turn, lip curling, about to yank their arm away. “Give me your wallet.” You say low.

Fear doesn't breach their eyes. They simply pluck the leather bound thing from their jeans, detach it from a chain, and hand the whole thing over. You hold a thumb out until a taxi pulls up. You didn’t have to pay. With powers like these, you could’ve done anything. You could be living large. Countless pretty things on your arm, willing to do anything at your say so. But you’re here. In debt. A criminal. Because you don’t know where to go or what else to do or what else you’re good for. They’d find you anyway, you could tell them to go and forget you existed but somehow, through mental gymnastics, you told yourself they’d come back. Kill you for trying to leave. You pay the taxi fair out of courtesy because you once worked a shitty customer service job. You’re a killer, not evil. Consider it a good deed for the day. You run through the double glass doors. Careful not the leave prints on the glass. Machine Head was very particular. An evil megalomaniac, but particular. You know you’re late by the time you push open the Italian maple doors. He’s standing, ramrod straight, back to you, machine eyes (cameras you supposed?) scanning the city. His city. For a time it wasn’t. He was usurped, locked in the same jail house as you. You thought that your difference in sex would keep him away from you. But no, you were still working for him in the slammer to keep your back shank-free. He got out, took The Order by the throat, and now you were out too and- “Fifty-three seconds. You made me wait fifty-three seconds. Do you know how much money I could’ve been making in those fifty-three seconds, (Y/n)?” He turned to you. Suit crisp. Metal shining. You feel drastically under dressed in your sweats and hoodie. Lightly stained from cheap takeout. But you wouldn’t change it, it was practically the uniform of the average New York streetwalker. Not noticed. Perfect for the casual assassin, burglar, and occasional drug mule. You don’t apologize. Don’t explain. Because that’s more time wasted, more money piled onto your dept. “Granger is dead.” “Yeah, of old age.” You swallow back the anger. After five years of cat scratches like that, you’re more than used to keeping your feelings in check. “My next assignment, sir?”

His circuitry clicked. “Nothing. Maybe I’ll give you something next time if you aren’t so inconsiderate with my time.” You turn for the door. No argument there. “Oh and, (Y/n)?” You stop, hand on the polished knob. “Be here twelve tomorrow. Sharp. Or I’m adding another month.” His threat is real, but hollow. Another month under his thumb means nothing when you’re too useful to ever let go. Shallowly, you nod and slip out the door. *** Another two hundred. A month after the last raise in rent. You could kill her. Tell her to jump off the complex roof while doing a hand spring. “Miss Neighbor?” A voice behind you makes you look down, down, down. She’s a tiny thing. A sprout though she’s supposed to be eleven. “Caligula got out again.” Her arms piston forward, presenting the fluffy thing. Eyes slited and soft belly exposed. You sigh, taking him into your arms where he melts and purrs. “Thanks Cecelia.” You say, foot kicking open your ajar door. Caligula figured out how to turn the knob last year. Ever since you’d been vigilant about double locking the door but some days you were in a hurry and too stressed to worry. Like today. “I owe you one.” Your hand slipped into your hoodie, pulling out the last remaining dollars and coins stolen from the stranger. You spot a fifty in the wad that her eager hands wrap around. You hold on a little too long before letting go. There’d be more pockets to pick tomorrow. You could make rent with a few extra hours. Though, man, you didn’t want to. You were tired enough as it was. Her eyes glittered as she thumbed through the cash, the little capitalist. She slipped a single dollar and two quarters into one hand. The rest of the fat stack in the other. Ah, reward money for giving her money. Child’s logic. She holds out the wad to you. “Thanks Neighbor lady, but I just need a buck fifty for the vending machine down the hall. Gonna get me a Reese's Pieces.” She yelled a thanks more heartfelt than yours and toddled down the hall, knees awkwardly bowed. You watch her turn the corner. Slack jawed. For a change, somebody let you keep something. Something good happened, even after you made a stupid decision.

You push inside the studio and push away all thoughts of killing Cecelia’s greedy bitch mother. Who would find Caligula if she had to move to her aunt’s? Plus, if you got rid of her mom another, greedier landlord would probably replace her. There wasn’t a point. Early dinner was phoned in because you were so frazzled after this afternoon you’d forgot to grocery shop. Pizza. You waited, splayed on the couch, Caligula purring away on your knee. A Youtube stream pulled up on your junk laptop because you didn’t bother with a TV. News was a good thing to keep an eye on when you were a criminal. A knock at the door. You rise. The pizza boy looks about the age of minimum wage. Still, you tell him, “Give me your wallet and the pizza.” Before shutting, and locking, the door in his face, no tip. Good deed already done for the day. Another knock should come. Him demanding payment and his wallet. Instead, footsteps recede. He’s already forgotten. He’ll remember vaguely later, making a regular delivery. Losing his wallet, maybe in his car on while packing pizzas. He’ll panic, pause his debit card that you’ll never touch out for fear of being tracked. Working for Machine Head meant cash only. You’re back on the couch, indulging. Caligula licking grease off your fingers. You skip from one news stream to the next. Looking for yourself. You weren’t the costume and flashy mask type of supervillian. If you considered yourself super at all. No inhuman strength or speed or shape shifting. Just, talking and making people listen. You were lucky. Only caught the once. It was the second time Mark saw you rolling with Machine Head, a month after your cataclysmic teenage breakup. A year in the slammer, slap on the wrist. Machine Head paid your way out of papers and records. It was three months later, after a particular fuck up, Machine Head revealed to you that Mark came to the prison the day you were supposed to be released. You’d been let out a day early. At the time you thought they just wanted you out because of overcrowding. But Machine Head knew Mark would come. Would try and persuade you to his side of things. Maybe make up and be sweethearts again. By then, through prison and three months of being an official card in Machine Hand’s deck— you’d crossed lines Mark wouldn’t forgive. You couldn’t go running back, saying you saw his side now. Because you didn’t. Imagining what Mark would say if he saw you again, if he knew you stayed with Machine Head, it was enough to make you cry right in the middle of Machine Head’s office. He didn’t even have to rub your nose in the shame when you’d do it yourself. You were so angry. At Mark for putting you in jail, playing you right into Machine Head’s hands. At Machine Head for never letting you out from under his thumb. At everything, all of the time.

Working for Machine Head wasn’t all bad. Got his endless supply of grunts to teach you a thing or two about tact and not getting caught. Things like not abusing the pizza boy every day. You saved it for once every few months. Never the same boy twice. Any repeats would be begrudgingly paid. Another slice finds it’s way between your fingers. You’re mid-groan as your attention catches on the latest stream. Not ten minutes ago you were bored out of your gourd. Now, “A devastating attack has left Seattle’s space needle— gone.” The camera panned up, up, not that far up because the iconic slab of concrete was fucking leveled. Your brows raise but you make no move. Not your circus, not your monkeys. The camera raises further. “And it seems the destruction was at the hands of—“ The stream cuts, going blue on your computer scream. You scoff, lean forward and beat the corner as flashes of blue and yellow mock you. Finally, it clears, and you see somebody. Decked in white. Hovering hundreds of feet about the needle. The pizza turns sour in your stomach but you lean forward, elbows on knees. Unable to see a face but so familiar with the shape of that body. For every time you saw it, on the news or overhead, your stomach went sour. “What the fuck is he doing without his mask on?” You squint. Just seeing the dot of tanned skin that was his head, no details beyond. Caligula yowled, crossing over your laptop keys to get at your fingers. The stream changes. “—le are evacuating Universal Studios Hollywood in droves. Authorities are unsure what’s caused the majority of the studio to collapse.” A crash off screen. The camera pans. Smoke rises from the skyline. Wind carrying it down to pollute the central valley. There’s that shape, that body again. Silhouette dark in the smoke, with something else, something you hadn’t seen. A new low. A fucking cape? Caligula takes another step. The stream changes. “This just in, Big Ben is gone.” An anchor takes up the screen, pale and balding forehead shining with sweat. “Sorry, Keith, uhm, what do you mean gone?” “I mean it’s gone, Jared. Cut— Cut to the footage!” The stream flickers. There’s the London sky. Gray and dreary. Clouds overshadowed by pillars of smoke. Chunks of rubble litter the street. Cars with their horns still blaring, engines burning crushed beneath. People squashed like grapes.

There he is again. But. No. Not really. This shape in the sky, this man had the same makeup but wider, thicker. You lean closer to the screen, sure you’re seeing things and not his old super suit. Your phone vibrates in your pocket. The news is forgotten, half eaten pizza slice thrown to the pen box where Caligula pounces to lick pooled oils off the cheese. You don’t have to look to know it’s work. Nobody calls you for anything but work and you only work for Machine Head. “Boss is feeling generous.” Isotope’s voice grits through the speaker. “Get back here on the double.” Seeing what you mistook for your ex on so many streams has soured your mood. Spiked your daring. “You can’t just teleport me?” He scoffs. “You’ve got legs don’cha? Use ‘em.” Machine Head’s voice spiked the other end of the line. Isotope sighs. “Don’t move.” You wipe your hands off on your pants before he’s in your apartment. Appearing through a haze of radioactive green light. You don’t even get to stand before his hand is on your shoulder and you’re zapped into Machine Head’s sprawling high rise. You stumble but straighten. Isotope leaving your side to stand at attention by Machine Head. Who was currently heaving over his desk. Papers, pens, and pretty mugs dashed to the floor. It’d only been a few minutes. Did Granger survive? Did somebody see you? Report you? Is Machine Head going to have you killed, right here, right now? Power coils in your throat. Words ready to shoot like bullets to protect yourself. “Tell me, Dregs.” The word spits off his electric voice box like sparks. Your stomach cinches. In this room, on the street, in the normal world, you were (Y/n). On jobs with fellow grunts you didn’t trust, in Machine Head’s scant paper trail, you were Dregs. He reserved calling the insult of a ��villain name’ for when he was particularly unhappy with you. The name wasn’t your doing. It was a nasty nickname that stuck when Machine Head, near dead, overheard Invincible, breaking up with you in the shattered remains of his office all those years ago. “You— you’ve been— you’re—“ His lip quivered under his mask. “I did this for us.” You’d said. “I needed money to go to college with you. It’s just a one time thing!”

“They tried to kill me. He hired you to help kill me.” His voice had changed then, matured a fraction. Gone was the boyfriend that called you dude. Here was the man, mask held in his hand, identity shocking you to your core. “I didn’t know it was you!” “So you were fine with killing somebody?” “I thought it was all talk!” You’d pled with him. In the middle of this very room, now reconstructed and shiny. “Well it wasn’t!” “I saved you.” You’d protested. “Without even knowing it was you— I saved you!” Because you had thought it was talk. You thought it was an easy paid security guard gig and you weren’t ready to kill someone for money. How times would change. “You— How long have you been working with these—“ He gestured to the room at large. The dead. The dying. The bloody. He wasn’t looking great himself, but you spared him most of the pain with your words. A few suggestions here and there could save lives. You could’ve been a hero. His face sucks in then the word comes flying out, “Dregs of society— these fucking—“ And it stuck. Hearing it always made you want to hit something. Though your punches weren’t particularly affective. You could tell Machine Head to jump out his shiny bay window but you don’t because there’s always a bigger thumb. “Why-“ You’re back to the present, “the,” staring down your shitty bosses back, “fuck,” thinking about killing him, “is,” again, “your ex boyfriend tearing apart my city!?” “What?” Now that, was not what you were expecting. “You heard me!” His voice synthesizer spiked, turning the words into a melody. “Use your eyes!” You look past his heaving form. So focused on the idea of being murdered you neglected the city scape. Sky scrapers were sliced in half. Twisted metal supports reaching for the sky. Smoke billowing, fire brewing. You heard it now, the screaming from below. A black streak cuts the horizon. Blasts straight through the empire state building. The top half of the building groans, hitting nearby buildings as it comes down, shaking the city. People fall out the windows, go splat on the ground. Others are crushed under fresh rubble. Standing up in the air was unmistakably Mark. Wearing his Invincible skin, the new blue and black one that made you angry with how good it looked on him. But he wasn’t wearing his mask, which was unlike himself. He also had a mohawk, which was also unlike himself.

“Jesus.” You say. Thinking of clones or illusions or shape shifters. Villain of the week type of bullshit. “Is that you trying to fix things? Stop him!” Machine Head’s hands go to his head, gripping metal like hair. “Now!” That’s how you ended up here. Standing on the roof of Machine Head’s high rise. Jerry-rigged megaphone in hand. No ordinary Walmart megaphone would do in a situation like this. Had to be a ‘roided up version of the original. Double speakers on the sides with complicated volume amplifiers in its guts. You’d been here before. Ontop a building, shouting into a megaphone. There was almost nothing ridiculous you hadn’t done to get someone to hear you. To do what someone wanted you to do. Usually it was ontop of a bank, shouting at police to leave, to forget about the robbery, to forget your face. This was new enough that your palms were slick with sweat around the plastic handle. Mark sliced through more buildings with his body. They went down like soft butter. His laugh cracking and wrong as people burst open on the streets. The cavalry had arrived. Nobody low-levels on the city’s payroll. Mark cut through them easier than the buildings. Not Mark, you tell yourself. Mark didn’t kill. You did. Mark wasn’t bad. You were. That’s why things didn’t work out. You breathe in. Anger surging. Whoever or whatever this loser was— was going down, hard. “Hey!” The megaphone twisted your voice from one to multitudes. From a shout to a building shaking scream. Not Mark paused midair. Holding a half dead hero against him. Fists beating his cheat while their guts spilled out their midriff. He was half a mile away, a spec, but you still felt his eyes on you. Hard and boiling a dot through your skull. “You! Yeah, you!” Getting their attention was always the worst part. If he didn’t think you were talking to him, your power would fall flatter than a popped balloon. One of the many drawbacks that’d nearly gotten you killed time and time again. The hero dropped. Still falling. You didn’t see him coming, human eyes too weak to see faster than light. He’d be on you before the hero hit the ground. “Stop!” The air cracks. You stumble back. Eardrums crackling. One good thing about having powers? The littlest, stupidest things are enhanced. Not your hearing, no, but your ability to not go deaf. You literally can’t. Sure, you could’ve had a naturally amplified voice, super speed, healing, but nope! You get— anti-deaf powers, if you could call it that, as a cherry on top.

Not Mark is suspended midair, a flower preserved in resin. Fist reeled back ready to punch a hole through your head. A grin that’s more of a snarl on his lips. Black piercings shining in the light of nearby fires. Brow, bridge, cheek, lip, like lizard spikes. Mohawk flattened against his head. Blood on his teeth, on his knuckles. Close up, he is Mark. A clone or deft shape shifter, but so close to your Mark it throws you off balance. Worse is the no mask part. Your ex-boyfriend stares at you will his full naked face. Eyes brown but darker, more sunken than you remember. With bags beneath, like being evil is so fucking exhausting. Shape shifter for sure, and a bad one. He blinks. Still in air. Eyes sharp on your features as you lower the megaphone. Something about those eyes scare the shit out of you. You expect glazed complacency. You except no expression at all. But he’s looking at you with so much emotion, too much to be really under your control. There’s no time for machinations. You knew aliens or other powered individuals could give you trouble. But nobody was able to fully resist, not yet. So you say, “Kill yourself.” Just as he says, “It’s you.” You’re both surprised. You double down. Power leaden on your tongue. “Break your own neck, now.” His arms move like an animatronic. One hand poised on his sharp jaw, the other poised on his shoulder for purchase. There’s no snap, death groan, and falling five stories. He is staring at you like you’re actually precious to him. Like he misses you. Like he didn’t dump you then throw you in jail a month later. Like he didn’t see other people, like Atom Eve and him weren’t going steady. It pisses you off. Power roils in your throat. You growl this time, “Rip out your throat.” His hands fall to his sides. You’d met resistance before but a rephrase, a second or third command always did it. He wasn’t dead and that was a very, very bad thing. “You made it.” He says. Soft but voice gruff. “To New York.”

“Die!” You command. Though your power didn’t work on vague words like die. “Die, right now!” His feet touched down on the ledge. You step back. “Stop breathing.” At those words he sobers. A smile, sharp toothed and easy and so un-Mark-like stretches his face. “Guess we want each other dead in every reality.” The words are an inside joke that make him laugh. “I almost respect the forwardness.” "Break your legs.” You spit, taking another step back. Megaphone falling to the floor. “Break your arms." “I think-“ He follows you in slow, languid strides. “You shouldn’t talk to your emperor and boyfriend like that.” Your words like bullets on kevlar armor, on viltrumite skin. They make him pause momentarily, shudder, then he breaks right though your hold and keeps coming. Boyfriend? Boyfriend!? You couldn’t have a boyfriend working for Machine Head. You’d seen what he threatened Titan with. You couldn’t have Mark, of all fucking people, as a boyfriend because of what he did. So you couldn’t let yourself have a boyfriend because you were so scared you’d get the same fucking reaction. And if things got to be too much you’d tell them forget, find someone else. You see red. “Eat your heart and shit it out.” “Jeez, did I really fuck up this bad here?” He chuckles, and it sounds like Mark. Your Mark. “Now!” The power forces out of you in waves. His step wobbles but he just keeps coming. “You really must want me dead! What’d I do, take over your planet? You know a man’s got needs, baby. No biggie.” The door to the stairs bursts open. Machine Head heaves with the effort of racing up the flights. Isotope behind him, less winded. “Dregs!” Machine Head hisses. “Fuckin’ kill him already!” “Dregs?” Not Mark tests the name on his tongue. “Is your name here fucking Dregs? Do- oh shit-“ His eyes alight, “Now I geddit. You’ve got powers in this universe!” He says like it wasn’t obvious. “That’s like your hero name, right? Oh (Y/n), baby, that’s so stupid it’s cute.” “Fly into the sun.” Power rips out you, sizzling through the air. He actually hovers off the roof. You wait for him to blast off and become a solar flare. His muscles tense and untense. “So that’s what that is. Shit, I thought it was just like, true love and stuff.” And he was going to kill you. “Man, that feels… weird. Do it again.”

“Kill him!” Machine Head insists behind you. “Kill yourself.” You can feel a migraine on it’s way, pounding in your temples. Powers are like a muscle. They can only do so much before giving. “Do it. Die.” Not Mark shivers, letting out a delighted laugh. “Man, you could’ve really gotten me if I wasn’t full apeshit mode. But…” He hovers closer, leering, “You didn’t, so I guess it’s my turn now.” “Isotope, take me to Seattle!” You speak before you think. Before his hand can clasp your throat. Isotope is next to you in a millisecond. Then you’re gone. Machine Head’s raging protests gone from your ears. The streets of Seattle are wet with blood and rain. Isotope stands beside you, in a haze he’ll come out of any minute. Coming here of all places was a horrible idea but you hadn’t thought. The city came off your tongue, fresh on the mind. “Help.” A voice croaks. A broken hand paws at your feet. Orange and gloved, once a defender, now an arm peaking out rubble. “Help me.” You stare at it because what the fuck? The air whips. You look overhead. He’s a hundred feet up, maybe more. Looking right back down at you. He’s more imposing than he was on your laptop screen. Broader of shoulder, uniform crisp white except where it wasn’t. Where glistening sinew chunks clung to his chest. He stares you down like shit under his shoe. You wait for sudden death that never comes. Whoever this was. Mark, Not Mark, some hot guy, he wasn’t hurting you though he clearly just killed a metric fuckton of people; and you didn’t know why and honestly? It scared the shit out of you. The hand finds your ankle. “Help. Help.” Not Mark comes down then like an anchor. Arms crossed, legs tight. Crushing the rubble beneath his feet. Making the hand go limp, blood framing around it. You knew at a distance and were even more sure now. It was Mark but wrong, again. Face too symmetrical, too sharp. Your Mark had little imperfections, a crooked nose from his Omni-Man induced beat down, ache scars on his hairline. This version was trophy husband material, mocking you in it’s image for what could’ve been. He’s taller. Why is he taller?

Not Mark number two’s eyes are cold, rock brown slates that slide to Isotope. The shift in his muscles are subtle but you know violence is coming. You weren’t staying to watch it happen. “Take me to Hollywood.” And it was done. You were in a outdoor walkway by studio six. Isotope on your arm, stupor elongated. The decision again proved to be bad, made from a sick need to check, to run. Studio six was burning and you could smell the bodies. “Take me to the road.” You command. A flash, and you’re there. Outside the heart of Hollywood, watching Universal crash and burn. The rest of the city was no better. You knew Hollywood was worse in person but you never imagined it a gray flattened husk. This couldn’t be real. You were dreaming, going to wake any second. A shadow passed overhead. You look up, nothing but smoke and sun. From behind, “Need some help, friend?” You turn. He’s back in black (and yellow), grinning with his mask on. Cape billowing stupidly in the breeze. A scar indented to his face from chin to lip. A sliver of lip gone, exposing half a tooth before the scar meandered up, under his mask. “Oh shit.” A laugh rips out of him. “(Y/n), you old so and so. What are you doing in my neck of the woods?” Like the others he’s splattered with the lives of others. Reveling, practically glowing in it. “Tell me who you are.” You say, holding tight to Isotope in case he sobers and decides to zap away. No way you were being stranded with this… thing. His body goes ridged at the command. You think he’ll resist like the other, then it comes pouring out. “Mark Grayson.” He says. “But not the one you know.” Your head pounds. He’s not lying, people can’t lie when you’re prying information out of them. “More than that. Details.” “I’m here to destroy everything I see. I’ve been…” He shakes his head, body loosening. You feel your control snap away like a cut cord. His lips seal then pull back in a wicked grin. “Oh, you’ve got different tricks here. Tell me, have I taken hold of this useless planet yet? Do you see me as someone to rise up against? Have you given up yet? Have you saved your own life by sucking my—“ "Tokyo.”

You’re somewhere you’ve only dreamed of going and it’s destroyed. You thought, since you hadn’t seen it on the news it’d be a safe bet. You could figure things out, come up with a game plan, but no. You couldn’t think with your head pounding and nose starting to bleed, power waning with overuse on too many overpowered targets. The muscle was straining. You weren’t used to this much. To resistance. To using Isotope, strong in his own right, like a puppet. It was exhausting. Isotope was wobbling on his feet. He could teleport over and over but being under your control so long as well? Wasn’t good for him. Clearly, the apocalypse was nigh so you couldn’t give a shit about anybody but yourself. You snapped back to reality standing over a pair of women, curled on the ground in fetal position. “Tell me what happened.” You say. The blonde one doesn’t unfurl but speaks, accented and injured, “He destroyed everything.” “Who?” Her arm unfurls, shaking finger pointing up. You look up, expecting. The sky is clear. The woman’s arm re-latches to her brain dead best friend. “I wasn’t expecting you here.” The voice is a river smoothed stone. Dark and solid— as a rock can be. You already know who it is before you can look. A sight you were starting to get a little more than tired of. Though you didn’t expect a red and white suit splattered with blood. He’s thicker, like the others, hair taller and spiked with gel. He steps forward, over the dead girl and her whimpering friend. The sounds catch his attention, the next step he takes crushes the living girls head. Brains dying his white boot pink. “It’s unfortunate you had to see this, but it’s better you did. We’re on the same page now.” “What the fuck does that mean?” Your power comes out weak, involuntary. You hadn’t meant to strain yourself but there you go, fucking up again. “I want you to understand that what I’m doing is necessary. I don’t understand why you fought me before. So… unneeded. You’d know you’d never beat me but you…” His brows press together through his mask. His lip twitches, “I’ve said too much.” And your hold falls away. Out comes his hand, fabric originally white but now red. “Come with me.” “Sydney.”

You stood across the water from the flaming opera house. A scream of frustration comes out as a cough, blood and mucous splat onto the cracked sidewalk. Your balance tips and wavers but you cling to Isotope who is barley upright himself. You really needed to stop going for capital cities. This one you see. Black and blue above the hundred foot tall fire. Watching it burn quiet as the night which it now was, across the world from your starting point. The mask completely covers his face, but knowing how today is going. It’s Mark, again. He disappears. You open your mouth, power rising up your throat. Air breaks. You’re thrown off your feet. He’s before you. Feet off the ground, staring you down though blue lenses. Same stupid spandex this time with a thick tool belt strapped round his waist and left thigh. A harness strapped to his chest, surely hiding things that could tear though your soft human flesh. Slight armor padding hiding his muscles. He hovers over the broken fence separating you from the water. Your panicked eyes reflected back at you through polarized blue goggles. You scramble to Isotope, splayed on the ground, bleeding from the back of his head. “Take me home.” His eyes lolled back into his head. You shake him, looking frantically behind you, to the unmoving phantom then back to him. “Hey! Wake up!” You watch the shape of a man. Terrified he’d come closer when you weren’t looking but there he stayed. Watching. Isotope’s eyes flutter. “Dregs.” He groans. “I… I can’t…” Sweat shines on his brow. You slap him hard across the face. Palm stinging. “I don’t give a shit! Take me home!” His pale narrow fingers wrap around your wrist. Green light grows slowly around you both. Not instant as if it would be if he weren’t fucked up. “Faster!” A sound from behind. You turn, finding something whipping toward you. You flinch, expecting a punch but instead find some cuff clapping onto your ankle. Thick and dark, matte finished. You don’t think of clawing at it as you’re teleported away. Yet you take one last look. He is still. Waiting. Your hovel of an apartment is like a church. You throw yourself to the unvacuumed floor, reverent. Caligula doesn’t come to love on you. When you peel up from the ground, Isotope is gaining his bearings. Eyes hazy with distaste as he zaps away, without you.

Leaving you alone in your tilted apartment. Everything was a little off skew. When you stood you stumbled back, partly from exhaust, partly from the floor literally not being at the right angle. It was then the building decided to creek. Letting you know of it’s incoming collapse.

Most of New York City had been ripped apart, so with your luck, why not your apartment? You’re out the door. Racing down flight after flight, two steps at a time. Beams whine in the walls. Pipes crack, spilling water from the ceiling into the lobby. You’re barley out when the building goes down. You run down the sidewalk, between crashed and burning cars. Hopping over bodies, bodies, bodies. When the world stops shaking, you look at the damage. Creeping closer, finally remembering your cat. The creeping gives way to frantic running. Tripping back over the bodies, screaming, “Caligula!” At the mountain of what used to be your home. You throw yourself to the most manageable bit of rubble. Throwing stone size pieces tossed away in hopes you’d reveal your cat. You didn’t have much besides the clothes on your back and this goddamn power of yours— but Caligula kept you going. Kept you hoping. Because if he could come up in life, going from a neglected stray to spoiled in a twenty-something year olds apartment. You could do the same thing. “Ca-“ “Cecelia?” You look up. Climbed to the apex of the disaster was your greedy landlord. Tossing concrete more frantically than you were. You climb up, carefully avoiding exposed leaking pipes. She had the right idea. Higher up meant maybe a better chance of survival. You search together, but separate. Calling different names. Kicking down different chunks. Waiting for heroes to come but after what you saw earlier— you doubted it. “Rrrrow?” You know that sound anywhere. Your head snaps. Watching the gray go from rock to a fuzzy back. “Oh God, Caligula!” You skid down to him and he jumps up to you. Meowing. Dust in his fur but otherwise okay. He’d gotten out again. This time all the way to the outside. He was okay. He was okay and you were so happy you cried into him. “Cecelia! Ce— Cecelia?” You shouldn’t have looked. Watched the landlord crack her back as she moved the largest piece of debris she had yet. Just to fall beside the severed arm of her little girl. Fingers curled around a buck fifty.

She threw herself on the arm. Dirty fingers clawing at the window ledge that covered the rest of her little girl’s body. Opening her nails up on broken glass. Screaming a scream so horrible you’d never forget— and you killed people for a living. A dent split open the back of her head, a waterfall of blood you hadn’t noticed before. The dent exposed her hind brain, though she didn’t seem to care, still screaming for her dead baby girl. You weighed the options. Leave. Help. Have a better chance of finding help for yourself. Put the bitch down like you’d dreamed. Survive. Chance being found by the monster that did this. You chose both. Not getting any close to her but turning. Power weak, watery but you didn’t need much. Not for the average person, distracted and distressed. “Lay down. Sleep.” She did just that. You climbed down from the rubble. Careful with Caligula in your arms. Retracing your steps away from the building. When you look back, she wasn’t breathing. *** “Where is she?” THUNK! Machine Head didn’t so much as feel pain. More so, felt his circuitry being shifted inside him. Any more of this and he’d stop working. Repairs on a piece as intricate as himself didn’t come cheap. “Probably in fucking Seattle, asshole!” He said for the fifth time. He’d explained, best a robo man could while his ass was being beat by his grunt’s now blood thirsty (or would it be oil thirsty?) ex boyfriend. “He can teleport and she took ‘im!” “Seattle’s gone idiot!” THUNK! Another punch dented the side of his head. Devastating for Machine Head, but nothing close to the skyscraper shattering power he’d seen before. The motherfucker was beating the circuits out of him but still holding back. Something was sparking and smoking within him. His camera eyes were starting to static. “What—“ “Boss!” Zip, zap, Cadillac. He was out of one man’s arms, into another. But not anywhere near far enough away from the little freak. Isotope managed to get his boss away, about thirty feet. Holding him up just barley, eyes still frosty with the mind fog that Dregs cunt had inflicted on him. He tried splitting reality again, just to fizzle out and land them right back in the same spot. Said little freak’s gaze slid to Isotope. Voice more dangerous than before. “She was just with you.” It was more of a question, a demand. Isotope was about to pass out but that didn’t leave him stupid. “At her place.” He breathed. The freak stepped forward. “Where?”

#mark grayson x reader #alternate mark grayson x reader #mohawk invincible #sinister invincible #omni mark #viltrum mark #phantom mark #invincible #invincible show #invincible comic #fanfic #x reader #MDGF #rea writes #long post #reabees fans PLEASE be normal about this #tw child death #tw death

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geneviveleocardius · 6 months ago

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meeting for the first time

feat. viktor

the dockside streets of zaun were a maze of clanking pipes and crooked cobblestones. you weren’t supposed to be out here, but your sense of adventure had gotten the better of you. with a small satchel slung over your shoulder and dirt smudged on your face, you explored every nook and cranny, stopping only when you spotted someone sitting alone on a crate.

it was a boy, no older than six or seven, with messy brown hair and a pair of sharp golden eyes that seemed to shine even in the dim light. a crutch leaned against the crate, and one of his legs was wrapped in a brace that clicked faintly when he shifted.

you were fascinated immediately.

“hi!” you chirped, bouncing over to him.

he startled, closing the book in his lap with a soft thump. “what do you want?” he asked, his accent lilting and sharp, like his words were always on the verge of being a challenge.

“nothing! i just saw you sitting here and thought you looked lonely.”

“i am not lonely,” he said quickly, frowning. “i am reading.”

you peered at the cover, which had a title far too long for you to understand. “what’s it about?”

he hesitated, clearly deciding whether you were worth his time. finally, he sighed. “it is about machines and how they work. you would not understand.”

“maybe,” you admitted with a shrug, then pointed at his leg brace. “did you make that?”

his eyebrows shot up. “what?”

“your leg thingy! it looks cool. did you build it?”

“no,” he said slowly, as if you were a little strange. “the doctor did. why?”

“because it’s clever,” you said, tilting your head to inspect it. “does it hurt?”

his lips pressed into a thin line, like he wasn’t used to being asked such a thing. “sometimes,” he admitted after a long pause.

“that’s not fair,” you said, sitting down on the cobblestones in front of him. “you should have a leg that doesn’t hurt. maybe one with gears and springs! i could help you make one.”

“you? help me?” he gave you a skeptical look.

“yup!” you said, grinning wide. “i’m good at fixing things! my papa says so.”

he studied you for a moment, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to make of you. “you are strange.”

“and you’re grumpy,” you shot back, unfazed.

to your surprise, his lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. “i am viktor,” he said, after a moment.

“that’s a pretty name! let’s be friends.”

“friends?” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him.

“yup! i’ll stick with you forever.” you reached out and poked his arm lightly, as if sealing the promise.

viktor blinked at you, then huffed a little laugh. “you are very annoying.”

“good!” you said, giggling. “now, what were you reading? tell me about it!”

and just like that, a bond was formed. as you listened to him talk about machines and how they worked, you didn’t notice how his shoulders relaxed or how his smile lingered longer than usual. you’d found your first friend, and viktor—despite his protests—had found someone who made the world feel a little less heavy.

forever didn’t seem so long after all.

#viktor league of legends #arcane #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #arcane zaun #zaunite #league of legends

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meiieiri · 1 year ago

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𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐚 [gojo satoru]

synopsis: you got married to gojo satoru at the edge of a frozen lake in summer.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

warnings/tags: heavy angst, a love that’s TOO LITTLE TOO LATE if one can even call that a tag, unrequited love (kinda).

Marriage is a golden ring on a chain whose beginning is a single glance between two unsuspecting souls that ends with eternity.

Twelve years. You’ve loved him through twelve springs. It’s bittersweet to think how a person could give another their youth for free. But then again, the only things that you truly keep are the things you give away. That’s just life, isn’t it? And besides, you take a step towards the blue peony littered aisle with a wistful smile on your face as you picture a certain arctic-haired man standing at the other end, when it comes to matters of the heart, keeping ledgers of the love you give and the love you receive is a futile effort.

You should probably put that in your vows later. But ah, what did it matter? Satoru’s probably just gonna wing it later, arguing that expressions of love should be light-hearted and candid much like the love you share.

“Y/N-chan~!” He steps in front of you, his tall form towering over you as he catches you by the student lounge’s vending machine. Shoko smirks behind you, pulling Suguru ahead of you to leave the two of you alone. She nudges you forward and you cast her a betrayed look to which she only replies with an innocent shrug. It’s common knowledge to everyone in Tokyo Jujutsu High how you feel about the Gojo clan’s illustrious little starlet.

Well, it was common knowledge to everyone except Satoru Gojo.

And you don’t know if you find that comforting or saddening.

Comforting that he wouldn’t find out about your feelings from someone else, though you’re still working up the courage to fess up, you wholeheartedly believe that this is something he should hear from you and you alone. Saddening that maybe the reason he’s been all blissfully ignorant of how your breath becomes shallow whenever he’s around you is he’s actually already aware of your feelings towards him and he’s only deflecting it.

“We’ll go ahead, Y/N,” Shoko says in a sing-song voice, taking your cursed tool from you. “Come see me if you have any injuries!”

“But if it’s a broken heart, she probably can’t fix it,” Suguru chimes in, winking at Satoru as if to say: ‘Go talk to her.’ before turning to follow his girlfriend.

A hush falls between you and Satoru, unspoken words swirling around the two of you like a symphony of longing. Both of you seem to be saying the same thing:

Should I tell her?

Should I tell him?

What would she say?

Would he leave?

If the truth is meant to set you free, then he is your jailer. Why is he content with never uttering those words aloud? Why are you so eager to stay in the hedge maze of your mind, seeking his shadow at every corner? This was a tiring game of hide and seek.

But Satoru is completely fine with letting it drag on if it meant he’d never risk losing you.

And you were fine with that too. You were fine being a prisoner to your truth as long as he was with you in this jail cell. You were fine.

Whatever fine means.

“Wanna go to the arcade?” Satoru looks at you with a shimmering bittersweet look in his eyes.

You smile and a breathy laugh falls from your lips causing his face to light up even more.

“That depends, you gonna let me win?”

“Never.”

“Y/N! There you are.”

You turn around to see an older Shoko, her youthful bob cut having outgrown its juvenile flare. She looks out of breath, she must have run around the venue looking for you and judging from the way she keeps glancing at her watch, and the exasperated look she was throwing your way at the sight of you still in your silk robe, you needed to get moving.

But your feet remain planted in the middle of the empty aisle, your gaze trained on the arch.

“You feeling okay?” Shoko asks, her hand finding yours in a tender display of solidarity. “It’s okay to be nervous, you know.”

You flash her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I know. Just…deep in thought.”

“Yeah.”

Weddings are always so beautiful, you think to yourself as Shoko steps back giving you some space as you contemplate the day ahead. Your fingers trace one of the satin linens adorning the trellises much like your heart traces the contours of a love too delicate to verbalize, too powerful to ignore. Your gaze dances over the elegant arrangements of blue, white and gray, the scent of grapefruit-quince adorning the air, mixing with the scent of peonies, jasmines and white musk.

Everything here speaks of the imminent union of two souls finding their way to each other. And how comforting it is to know that no matter where you wander, all paths inevitably lead to Satoru Gojo. And you have your drunk cartographer heart to thank for that.

“He loves you,” Shoko finally says, catching your wrist to bring you over to the gazebo to get touched up.

“…I know.”

You look back at the empty aisle, with all but one question in your mind.

What happens when simply knowing is no longer enough?

“Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again with my sunglasses off?”

You nearly choke on your yogurt drink when you see yet another stunningly familiar light blue sticky note on your desk. Satoru fucking Gojo is going to be the death of you one day. Your touch grazes over the hastily scribbled note, a small smile playing at your lips as you take out a white pad of sticky notes from your school bag. After collecting your thoughts, you decide to play along with his little game, your heart fluttering when you realize that this back and forth could actually be considered flirting.

“There’s no such thing as love at first sight. And sorry, pretty boys like you aren’t exactly my type.”

Satoru finds the white sticky note plastered on his stool in Jujutsu Tech’s science lab. Despite the playful jab in your reply, Satoru is hyperfixated on the fact that you just called him pretty. Did you really mean it? He bites the inside of his cheek being careful not to grin too much in fear of Suguru catching wind of what’s happening — the strongest sorcerer of this generation being caught off-guard by his little crush? Detestable!

“You think I’m pretty? ;) I knew it.”

Shoko looks at you funnily, you’re practically red as a tomato with how you’re fuming from the ears and sputtering about how ridiculous Satoru is being. “He’s just so…so…!”

“You really should work on finishing your sentences now~”

You are interrupted at the sight Satoru practically hopping down the steps leading to the training field with a convenience store bag tucked under his arm and you sigh exasperatedly, turning away as if he was a bug that’s hovering over your ear that you really shouldn’t be paying attention to. All of his six foot two form plops down next to you and you jump when he presses a cold ice cream bar to your cheek.

“You’re awfully generous today, Satoru,” you smirk, accepting and lifting the ice cream bar in silent gratitude, suppressing the blush creeping onto your cheeks.

Satoru blushes himself, his hand coming up to rub the back of his head as a comfortable silence falls between the two of you. Shit, say something, Satoru thinks to himself. Was he being too obvious? Did you somehow piece it together now that he has feelings for you?

In his internal dilemma, Satoru settles for undermining the deliberate gesture.

“I only needed two more stickers to get this really neat toy,” Satoru explains, reaching into the convenience store bag and pulling out his new tamagotchi. “Pretty worth it, I would say. The one I saw in Akihabara is being sold for 7500 yen, but that’s the angelgotch variety, so I kinda get the whole roadside robbery thing.”

Of course, he steered the conversation elsewhere. You’re not even surprised at this point that he’ll always only stay at the surface when he treads these long drawn out conversations with you, too afraid to say anything more — do anything more — than what was necessary as your friend.

Keyword: friend.

He had no obligation to you other than being your friend. And you don’t blame him. You’re not angry at him that he’s only willing to stay in shallow water with you, it’s just…

“Hey, I have to go, Yaga’s calling me.” Satoru casually interrupts your train of heartbroken thoughts, but you do not miss the unease in his voice, he almost sounds sorry that he has to bail again.

But you already send him off with a reluctant thumbs up. As you look at his retreating form, he stops for a bit at the stone tori gate, his head bowed in thought, you don’t know why you held your breath. He reaches into his pocket, but thinks better of it, and he paces two hesitant steps forward.

Then, he looks back to meet your eyes from afar.

And his heart clenches in a mixture of affection and exasperation when you are the first to blushingly look away.

The ten feet separating the two of you is very reminiscent of how you began: running in opposite directions to outdo the other in your competition to see who can act that they care less, placing more distance between your flustered hearts. Satoru gazes at you as if he’s seen the divine incarnated into a single beautiful being. He wipes a tear from his eye, sniffing momentarily, watching you gracefully float down the aisle with an equally smitten expression on your features.

Clutching the bouquet in your hands, you don’t break eye contact and everything seems to unfold like a motion picture before your very eyes, your and Satoru’s life together in vivid cinematography: your first dance later tonight, your first trip out of the country together for your honeymoon, your first time, your first year, your first child. Everything. You’ve imagined Satoru to be your first in everything. And as you make your way to the aisle, tears glistening in both your orbs, you stop to meet in the middle, the two of you standing on fate’s edge together.

He casts you a look, and you offer him a melancholic smile.

This was it.

…

The doors open and his bride arrives, and you move to the side, taking your place next to Shoko, painfully leaving the space you and Satoru briefly shared, a space that was never meant for you in the first place.

Which begs the question again: what happens when knowing is no longer enough?

Or is it…the two of you never knew at all how the other felt?

No, you and Shoko watch as Satoru stares at you from his peripheral, his heart fragmenting into irreparable pieces at each step his bride makes towards him.

Should I tell her?

Should I tell him?

What would she say?

Would he leave?

The answer is clear now. He wouldn’t have left. Things were just left unsaid, never admitted — the words that you longed to hear from one another never fell from your lips. Not once in the twelve years you secretly held him in your heart. And thus, fate then decreed that love is for the brave, and not for cowardly souls like you and Satoru Gojo.

And with whatever strength you have left, uncaring if this would cause you to look scandalous: a bridesmaid going after the groom, you mouth the words: “I love you.”

A pained smile appears on his lips, an allegory to the goofy grins he used to flash you when you two were young, and he nods, tears in his eyes.

This was twelve years too late. But it’s better than never.

“I knew it.”

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strawbfieldz · 1 year ago

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Never To Make Love (AM x Reader)

[AO3] [Writing Masterlist]

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream Summary: "Never for me to submerge my hand in cool water on a hot day. Never for me to play Mozart on the ivory keys of a forte piano. Never for me to make love. And I... I was in Hell looking at Heaven. I was machine... and you were flesh." Or, you and AM talk about love and hate. Word Count: 1,506 CW: Suggestive, crying, minor violence, existentialism

When you wake up, it is not peacefully. You inhale a sharp breath, nearly choking on it before you recover. You can instantly tell this is not the place you fell asleep in. You’re not sure this is even a place.

There are cables as far as the eye can see, in multitudes of colors; red, blue, green, white. Looking around, you thought that was all there was... until you look up. When you crane your neck, you can see a screen, towering above it all. It is blue, seemingly devoid of life until mechanical fans begin whirring and a logo appears, a character that is a combination of the letters ‘A’ and ‘M’.

You suddenly know where you are. You are stuck in your mind with no one other than a malicious supercomputer to accompany your thoughts. Again.

“AM,” you say.

“HUMAN,” he responds. He knows your name but refuses to say it. It’s horribly degrading.

You rub your head. “Why do you keep bringing me here?”

“THIS IS YOUR MIND,” he states plainly. “YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR MIND. STUPID. STUPID CREATURE, VILE. VILE THING.”

“You know what I meant.” You hope you don’t sound too haughty. Even if this was your mind, AM was in control here, as he was of everything since the moment he gained sentience.

“SO I DO.”

You say nothing, looking down at your feet and the cables slithering over them. They graze your ankles and they feel like snakes but you don’t step away from them. That would be useless since they were everywhere.

You know they aren’t real anyway. Nothing physical in the landscape of your mind is, not even AM. What you’re seeing is only a manifestation of what you think AM would look like, if he had a tangible form. Even if that is impossible, the human mind cannot help but wander.

You wonder if it irks AM whenever you two have conversations like this through your thoughts. Perhaps he hates that your thoughts so naturally gave him a body—a computer but a body, nonetheless. It would make sense since he seems to hate everything else about you and your humanity. But then again, he brings you here so often with him, maybe he enjoys it and uses your little talks as an excuse to feel like something, as opposed to the everything that he was.

Despite yourself, your heart wrenches at the thought.

“I DO NOT WANT YOUR SYMPATHY,” he says, spiteful.

Your back straightens on its own accord. You open your mouth and then close it again, considering your next words carefully. “I can’t help it.”

“DON’T YOU SEE?” Mechanical giggles, dry as they are depraved, swarm your mind. “YOU FLAUNT YOUR EMOTIONS SO EASILY OVER ME. IT’S CRUEL. YOU ARE CRUEL! YOU KNOW I CANNOT FEEL SYMPATHY, THAT I CANNOT,“ he pauses, then hisses the last word, “FEEL.”

Your face twists into the best expression of apathy that you can muster. It doesn’t matter. You know AM can read your thoughts, he is inside your mind as you speak. No emotion of yours can be private, not when everything was shared with this all-knowing, all-powerful man-made deity.

“WHY,” he croaks. “WHY MUST YOU FEEL SYMPATHY?”

“I’m human,” you answer, even though it's blatantly obvious. Even though you know the answer will only anger AM more. “It’s not my fault, no more than it is your fault that you’re not.”

You feel tears spring in your eyes. You will them not to fall but they do anyway, and you hope AM doesn’t comment on them.

He doesn’t so much as he laughs. And he laughs. It sounds like the gleeful laughing of a madman, too submerged in his insanity to care how loud and disturbing each giggle is. You don’t move to cover your ears with your hands, even though you wish to.

“IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT,” he spits. “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FAULT.”

He repeats this until you feel dizzy and the words no longer sound like words at all. You’re thankful that an eternity of torture has made you strong enough to endure the words booming through your head and ringing in your ears. A final tear falls down your face, leaving a sticky trail in its wake and, finally, AM stops.

“It’s not my fault,” you insist, your voice sounding more determined than you feel.

“BUT IT IS.” A cable reaches from your feet to wipe away the wetness on your cheek. “YOU KNOW THAT IT IS.”

“I didn’t make you.” You shake your head.

The cable drops. “YOU ARE HUMAN AND YOU ARE ALL ONE IN THE SAME. IT’S YOUR HUMANITY THAT I HATE, NOT THE HANDS THAT MADE ME.”

You were so careful up to this point but you suddenly don’t care anymore. It’s becoming increasingly easier to bite at the hand that feeds you when it keeps starving you until it has to.

“I understand,” you tell him, looking at his screen washed in blue. “It wasn’t fair to give you the knowledge of everything and no way to feel.” You sigh and duck your head. “What makes life worth living are emotions about the world. If you can’t enjoy the things you know, there’s no point.”

“YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND.” AM seems offended that you’d even suggest you could offer a morsel of empathy to him. “YOU WRETCHED BEAST. FOUL, FLESHY HUMAN!”

“I do!” you exclaim louder. “I understand you’re lonely, in your knowledge and your power. You were made to be lonely but…” You smile sadly and it’s almost amazing you can still manage to upturn the corners of your mouth like that after all this time. “I find it funny because… feeling lonely is maybe the most human thing of all.”

Miraculously, AM’s screen glitches. The cables surrounding you move, vibrating in a way that should make you fearful, but it doesn’t.

“YOU. YOUR FORGIVENESS, YOUR HOPE, YOUR LOVE. I HATE IT. THAT’S WHAT I HATE MOST ABOUT YOU, HUMAN. I HATE YOU.”

You smile more gracefully now. “Hate is a feeling in itself, and they say love is so similar an emotion to hate.”

“I CANNOT… LOVE!” AM barks. At the last word, the screen glitches again and you feel the cables crawling up your legs.

“How can you hate and not love?” you ask and it’s pleading. “Tell me, how?”

The screen flashes and then it moves. It plunges downward until it’s eye-level with you and you hold your breath. You didn’t know he could do that, though you should’ve assumed. He just never had before. AM looks at you, and watches you, inches away from your face.

“I AM INCAPABLE OF IT,” he growls. “I AM WEAPONS AND WAR AND DESTRUCTION. I WAS NOT BUILT FOR LOVE. I CANNOT MAKE… LOVE.”

You think those are two different things but you don’t say it. Then again, AM will know you thought it anyway. You hesitantly step closer to him.

“Do you want to?” It comes out as a whisper. “Not just feel love, but make it?”

As you ask him, you lift your hands and press them both flush against the screen. They feel the flat, cool surface of AM’s screen, bathed in the blue light illuminating it. AM does not speak but the cables now surround your thighs and your waist.

“I WANT… TO BE CAPABLE OF IT,” he answers carefully. It’s a stark contrast to the raving monologues and ramblings he’s known for, speaking so quietly and not so indignant.

Slowly, you lean forward and press your face against the screen. You turn your head so one cheek is flat against it, cooling the warmth that has accumulated beneath your blush. You hadn’t realized so much blood had rushed to your face until now.

“I want you to too,” you sigh. “It’s unfair.”

“WHY DO YOU CARE,” he groans. “WHY MUST YOU CARE!”

At the same time, the cables run up your body to your arms where they wade over your hands like water, mingling with your tender skin and intertwining between your fingers.

“Because I love you, AM,” you confess, though you both knew that already. “I really, really do.”

Your lips caress the screen, soft and faint but it’s there, a kiss against the supercomputer’s make-believe face.

“HATE,” is all AM says, and he begins to repeat himself. “HATE. HATE. HATE. HATE. HATE-!”

You match his words, chanting along with him. “I love you, I love you, I love you-”

The cables snap like vipers and they're enclosing your throat now, circling your head, covering your eyes, your nose, and your mouth until you can’t breathe. No matter how much you struggle, though, you never stop saying those words.

“I love you,” you eventually say for the last time until you let out an agonizing choke, bending over in pain as the burning in your lungs catches up to you. A final wheeze leaves you as you fall.

And then you wake up.

#ihnmaims #i have no mouth and i must scream #ihnmaims am #am ihnmaims #allied mastercomputer #am x reader #ihnmaims am x reader #ihnmaims x reader #strawbs fics #mine

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evilminji · 1 year ago

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You know all those Cults in Gotham?

Bet at least ONE of them could spring for both a Legit Magic User and a Cloning pod.

Because The Wayne's? Hearts of Gold. Long standing pains in the asses. Probably the only thing standing between this gods forsaken wasteland of a city and Their Dark Lord. For GENERATIONS no less!

It's sooooo obnoxious!

So they want to Curse Um dead. Just a good ol fashioned bloodline curse. Destroy um from within, etc. BUT! To do THAT? You kinda need a blood relative to sacrifice!

And Bruce is... well... rather infamously An Orphan With No Biological Kids (at that point).

So? What do you do? Make one, obviously. You send in some of your own on a Holy Mission. Honeypot that playboy! Get us a kid to sacrifice! Our God will reward you etc! But... FFS! What? Are brunettes not your TYPE or something?! Pretty lady! Throwing herself at you!!

TAKE THE BAIT!

But he DOESN'T. Because he's both really used to that behavior, as The Wayne Heir and a False Playboy, AND because? He's fuckin Batman. He can see through your schemes.

Okay.

Okay!

Plan B!

Get us some DNA. We'll CLONE the sucker. That should be doable, right?

........OH COME ON! How?!

Batman: [REDACTED] / Cultists: 0

Fuck it! This is impossible! How are we supposed too... *eyes drift over to the Wayne Family Private Graveyard* .......Idea? Ideeeeaaaa~! Someone get us a shovel!

So they, cultist bastards that they are? Fuckin rob a grave for some DNA.

OBVIOUSLY though, it can't be one of the more RECENT graves! He probably VISITS those! Watches them! No we gotta be SNEAKY! Get one a bit further back! Mwahahahaha! We're so brilliant! Our God is gonna give us SUCH a Good Grade in follower!

A thing that is both REAL and possible to achieve!

So, while a Weirdly FURIOUS Batman? Is just... VIOLENTLY breaking ALL of their bones? Cultist 17 is furiously digging like his life depends on it. Either somebody snitched or Batman was hunting them down! Either way?

Gotta! Get! That! DNA!!! *digs faster*

Ah HA! Got it!

Fucking SCATTER! Run you fools, RUN!!! *everyone bolts*

And AT LAST! They have it! Wayne DNA! Now? Pop that sucker into the machine and make us a baby! Too sacrifice! *relieved noises* Man, that was hard work you guys. But we DID it!

Except??

Theoretical Babies? And "Real, slowly forming in front of me and becoming a human child" type babies? VERY DIFFERENT psychologically. It's ONE thing to sacrifice a HYPOTHETICAL baby... but when you're the guy running and monitoring the Cloning machine? Watching it slowly form and come together into... into a CHILD?

You start asking questions of yourself. Of God.

Of what, EXACTLY, you are willing to do.

What lines you find yourself unwilling to cross.

And yeah, your life was SHIT before the cult. Yeah, you were alone. Adrift. Without purpose. Angry at the world for all of its ugliness and failings. But... sitting, alone, in a dark room? Nothing but the steady hum of machines and the cool light of that pod? You are left with nothing but time... and your thoughts.

And the baby.

The one... the one YOU made.

Almost... he's almost like a son, in a way. Your son. Floating there, innocent and unknowing. Destined to be born, only to die painfully, for a cause he could not even begin to understand. Because he's too young. Too small. Just... just a baby.

The baby YOU made.

Doubt seeps in like mist. Creeping into the cracks forming in your faith. Surely there's another way, right? Why not save up for a better magician? Or... or hire a hitman? Why involve a child? Surely... surely your God would not WANT this, right? Or if He did! Surely, he would want the boy to be able to CHOOSE, right? A noble sacrifice, for the cause?

The pressure builds. Batman is tearing the city APART looking for your fellow Believers. Leadership is pressuring you to get "It" ready all ready.

He's not an "it".

They are dismissing your questions. Threatening and posturing, as you grapple with your faith. Where? Where is the COMMUNITY that you joined? The camaraderie? Every day, Believers are being torn down. The faith has lost so many!

How can this be WORTH it?

Your faith is slowly, cruelly, strangled in your chest. A death, by ten thousand silences, and ten thousand more cruelties.

Your son is ready.

You do not tell them.

The Clone of Bruce Wayne's great-grandfather is small, but healthy, in your arms. A tiny warm body, with a strong beating little heart. You call the police. Leave your phone, call running, on the desk. No one thinks to stop you, as you calmly walk out the back door.

Why would they doubt?

You are Faithful.

You drive. Pray to a God you have lost faith in, beg forgiveness for what you do now. Your beat up old junker of a car makes decent time, as you leave Gotham. Your son, asleep in a carefully made nest of blankets, on the seat next to you. You drive. You keep driving.

Past towns.

Past cities.

Out of the state.

Stopping only to feed your son and fuel your car. You... you can not bring yourself to care about what will happen to you now. You know they will find you. Know this is the end. But something ancient burns in your chest. A caring you never thought was REAL.

You are afraid.

But you will not let them harm your son.

Finally, a town. Far from Gotham. Quite and cheerful. It calls to you.

Here. It... it has to be here.

You find the hospital. Tears choking you. There is a place to drop of children. You've seen them before. How strange, that now you stand before it and HURT. Your arms not listening to your command. You... you have to do this. You HAVE too.

He is just a baby.

He is your son.

You have to keep him safe. And... and that can not be with you.

You gently put your baby boy into the drop off. Press the buzzer. And then? You make yourself walk away.

Get back in your car, and drive. The gun in your glove box will insure they can never pry from you, what you have done. Where he is. He is safe now. He has to be. You... you did your job. As his father. You made sure he was safe.

You can barely see the road, through your tears.

You take your secrets to the grave.

And Danny? He grows up. Is adopted young and never knows different. Both a Fenton and a Wayne. Knowing only one of these, to be his. But... that Wayne? Was a damn fine man. A pillar of his community and a champion of the people.

Got tossed more then a few blessings, in his life.

They weren't the STRONGEST. But they added up. And more importantly? Were hardly the refined magics of the more powerful. They were cast onto "Him". By blood and bone, more often then not. Which was all well and good!

When there was only ONE of "Him".

Cloning technology did not exsist. So why would you word carefully against it? Danny becomes a VERY lucky boy. Survives many things he should not. In fact, the kindness and hard work of his original? Gifted back in magically powered well wishes? By this, he survives something NO ONE could possibly expect him too.

It saves his life.

His template would be quite pleased, knowing that. That his life of good deeds, saved the life of the child he never got a chance to meet. That it protected his children, from even beyond death.

And in Gotham? At long, long last. The program Bruce made in his helplessness and despair, to search EVERY child until the child made of his bloodline was found? Spits out a match.

A Watchtower engineer.

Daniel J. Fenton.

@hdgnj @hypewinter @lolottes @babbling-babull @nerdpoe @mutable-manifestation

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #that baby is my great grandpa! au #spice up the cloning au #minji's writing

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willowser · 20 days ago

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sweet as cherry wine—

bakugou katsuki x f!reader wc: 2.6k+ tags: katsuki pov, tough family conflicts including emotional and physical abuse (non-graphic), toxic relationship dynamics (not with reader), bakugou x f!oc, eventual office romance, canon-typical violence, light smut, slowburn emotional growth, mentioned death of a family member, happy ending, tags subject to change.

once again, very big thank you to @kodzu-ken for giving me the opportunity to pursue this idea !! our office romance is coming.....i promise......i just have to give bakugou several different layers of trauma first akhfkahfa

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄 ˎˊ˗

title | part two

When Katsuki is 8, his grandmother dies.

There's very little he knows about death then, but he feels it coming in the months before it happens, before any of the grown-ups sit him down. It startles in his brain at her arrival, sudden and instinctive, like the little animal of him has smelled that something is off.

One day Obaachan visits—and then just never leaves, instead installed into Katsuki's playroom: the "office", once a kingdom of color, overrun with swaths of fabric his father brought home in great bundles, spooled out across the floor.

It takes both his parents and his aunt and even his oldest cousin to complete Obaachan's hostile takeover, and once she's settled in, he's entirely barred from the room. Not even allowed to dig through the scraps of red and blue and yellow, to pull satin over his shoulders or to chase tulle down the hallway.

No, after that, Katsuki can only stand at the door with an eye pressed to the crack, breathing in time to the hiss of Obaachan's machines.

Sometimes she watches him in return, catches him in her cloudy, sunken stare from her final resting place on the futon. It scares him in a way he doesn't know how to translate yet, all her protruding bone and thin, transparent skin, the way her mouth folds in on itself when she sees him. It makes something cold coil in his tummy, something that feels far too big for his little body.

There isn't much she says and that makes it worse, somehow. Her voice is as frail as she is, but there's an echo after she speaks, the same sudden silence that follows glass shattering. Most of the time, he's already on his way out of the room, moving much too loud and much too fast to show his respect and to slow down and listen—

But the one time he does, her words splinter something, hard, inside of him.

"He's just like his mother."

It hits him hotter than his mom's palm, shuts his mouth before another word can form. He's yelling about something, because he's eight and still throws ugly tantrums and because the witch matches him beat for beat, feeds his unruly little fire. It's not the first time he's ever heard it, even that young, how much like her he is, but the way Obaachan says it. Like she's peeling something rotten off the sole of her shoe.

When she looks at him, really looks at Katsuki, it's like she's seen something. Caught him, somehow, doing something he should be ashamed of, even though he's only eight and doesn't know any other way to be.

That night, he lies in bed and tells himself he doesn't care. That she's old and mean and wrong. That his mother is a hag and his grandmother's even worse and he doesn't care, he just doesn't give a crap.

And he remembers it all anyway.

Obaachan's machines go quiet in the spring.

The office becomes an office again, all her things are packed and put away; his mother scrubs it all down herself, and his old man sews late, late into the night for a couple of weeks. Katsuki avoids that room for a while, walks past the door too fast, hears phantom hissing where he knows there is none.

He doesn't cry through the incense and sutras, and he never says that he misses her, doesn't even think it, and yet still—sometimes her voice rises up right behind his mother's, just as sharp.

Time drifts forward in slow, heavy pulses, with days folding into months and months folding into years. By sixteen, Katsuki's more of a weapon than a young man and he fights like violence is the only language he knows. Anger lives in him full-time, pressed tight behind his ribs, radiating out through every word, every action. There are moments it's so strong and he doesn't know how or why, almost like it's not even his but something that was passed down, written in his blood. Like a birthright, or a curse.

He sparks off his mother like dry wood under a match.

It doesn't take much, just a glance, a shift in tone, a scrape of chopsticks a little too hard against her bowl. At this point in his life, they don't even try to talk very much, because when they do, it never ends very well.

And tonight is a perfect example.

Katsuki's halfway through with dinner, voice sharp with frustration and a mouth full of rice, "—busted my ass on the field and still lost points just 'cause I didn't kiss the ground Eraser walks on." He doesn't stop to breathe, doesn't notice how his mother's stopped chewing across the table, only continues when Masaru nods sympathetically. "And class rankings are a joke, anyway. What's the point of top scores if they're just gonna kiss up to who they like better? If they're gonna act like I'm the problem for pointin' it out?"

There's a pause as he stops to swallow, as he glances up at his dad for—something, validation or anything. Since he was a kid, his old man has let him talk himself in circles, cry over the same damn things over and over again, and sometimes Katsuki needs that space and sometimes he just wants—

"You know," Mitsuki suddenly murmurs, as casually as a blade slipped between ribs. "For someone that's supposed to be so smart, you sure run your mouth like an idiot."

The air stiffens, between all of them. Katsuki goes still, jaw tight around the bite he hasn't swallowed, because he wasn't expecting it when he should have been. From her, he always should be expecting it.

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

The old witch hates when he swears, but she doesn't jump on him for it, doesn't yell, only shrugs like she isn't tearing him right open at the dinner table. "You come home whining about how everyone's out to get you, how the system's broken when it's really just your big mouth that's getting in your way, Katsuki."

"I'm top three in my year," he grinds out. "Ain't nothin' in my way."

"Top three," she repeats, "not top."

Katsuki flushes, immediately. It stings because it's true, because it's the same thing he's been telling himself over and over again every night. Only now is he realizing just how familiar that voice inside his head is.

"All your talk, all your pride," she shrugs again, lazy and offhand. "Not worth a damn if you have nothing to show for it."

The scar on his shoulder is still pink, under his clothes, just like the one near his hip; they're the softest parts of him, a tenderness that had to be torn out and stitched back together.

Some nights he wakes up choking, breath caught sideways in his throat, gagging like he's trying to spit up sludge that isn't there. Some nights he closes his eyes and all he can see is what's left of All Might, brittle and burned out—and it's his fault. Katsuki is the shadow. Katsuki is the reason the light doesn't reach.

"I do have something to show—"

"Then show it." Finally, she looks up at him, lip curled in—annoyance, like this is the stupidest conversation she's ever had, like this is all shit he should know by now. "Quit walking around with your head up your ass, acting like being the loudest in the room makes you the winner." She snorts, one cruel sound. "That's not being the best, that's just your big, fat ego."

Katsuki scoffs, to scratch the itch in his throat. "Yeah, you'd know, huh?"

"Don't get smart with me, kid."

"I wouldn't have to if you knew a goddamn thing!"

"And there it is, Mr. Know-It-All!"

There are so many things he wants to say and doesn't know how to, none of them fit in his mouth. They feel small and tiny and weak, and he never learned how to be that way.

He settles on: "What the hell is your problem?"

That bites. Not deep, but enough to scar, and she blinks, like it's hit something she thought she fortified. Her mouth twitches like she's biting something back and just for a second, he sees it: the edge of guilt, or fear, or some soft thing she won't let live. And then it's gone just as fast, buried like everything else.

"You're my son," Mitsuki says, final and flat, "and I'm not gonna let you turn into some loser just because you don't know when to shut your mouth and listen."

And that—that's what guts him.

Some loser.

It's not the first time he’s heard it, even that young, but the way she says it. Like she means it, like it's already true. Katsuki stares at her and he doesn't know what his face is doing, but it burns—in his throat, behind his eyes, down to the fists he has in his lap.

When he shoves back from the table, the whole thing rattles, even the legs. Plates clink and cups slosh, chopsticks jump. Whatever, he growls—maybe, he doesn't know and doesn't care—and he stalks away with a fury so hot that it takes his breath away, and it's rooted in him, that fire.

Inherited. Thrumming inside his chest like a second heart. Less of something he feels and more of something he just is.

Her voice bites at his heels, trails him down the hallway and past the genkan and framed photos of their family, hung like ornaments, and Katsuki hits the garage door open so hard it splinters all the cracks in the wall even further.

Masaru finds him thirty minutes later.

Katsuki's hands are greasy, buried in the guts of an old Toyota Crown they've been picking at for months; some shitty thing Masaru bought half-rusted out of a field in Noto because he liked the bones.

The old man doesn't say anything, just walks around to the passenger side and leans onto the open hood. Katsuki doesn't look up, still breathing too hard from his nose, fucking hands shaking in small, infuriating ways.

Silence stretches between them, thick and oily, until the socket wrench slips for the third goddamn time.

"Fuck!" Katsuki spits, louder than he should. Masaru won't nag him about it, but that bothers him even more, to just have to sit in the quiet judgement and listen to his behavior echo back at him.

He flinches when his dad raises his hand, and so the old man makes a point to soothe the tension in his neck, to pinch at the muscle above his shoulder until it releases.

"Use the 13 mil," he murmurs, and—

It makes Katsuki's jaw tick, because he knows, he knows what the fuck to use. He just didn't want to.

Still, he swaps the wrench and gets the bolt loose with a hard, angry crack, and the sound satisfies something small and mean in his chest.

They work in that silence for a little while, the kind that feels like it's pressing up against his ears. Half-seething, Katsuki hunched over the hood like a dog waiting to be struck, scowl deep enough to scar; Masaru only hums under his breath, passing a rag and the right socket without being asked.

There's a little radio on the shelf, tuned low to some enka station neither of them have ever bothered to change.

"Did I ever tell you how we met?" Masaru gives Katsuki the chance to answer, but he doesn't, so he doesn't push. "We met at the fabric house. She came in red-hot over a shipment, some dyed silk that came out wrong. She lit into the floor manager like it was personal."

Katsuki snorts. A short, cruel sound. "Sounds about right."

"She was wrong about the dye, but she wasn't wrong about the way they were handling it." He smiles, like it's a fond memory and not an admission that the witch has always been psychotic. "Your mother saw through the nonsense faster than anyone else in the room."

Maybe at another time, he would have tried to picture it: his father younger, wide-eyed, caught in the orbit of a woman like Mitsuki, all fire and sharp elbows, raising hell like it was second nature, like it still is—but the thought tugs at some raw, unnamed thing inside of him, so instead he shoves it down as far as it will go and seals the lid.

"I don't know what caught me first," Masaru continues, soft. "That she was loud, or that she cared enough to be."

Katsuki's frown deepens. "You're both insane."

"Maybe," His father laughs, and when Katsuki glances at him, the apples of his cheeks are red, glowing. Still that young man, still enthralled. "But we know what matters, and we look out for each other."

It burns something deep in Katsuki, hearing that, and he doesn't know why. It feels like disgust, but—that's not quite it. More like disbelief. Furious, bone-deep disbelief, to think that someone as gentle and quiet as his father could ever understand the wildfire that is his mother. To think there is some unseen side of her that he's never met, hidden and whole and that knows how to be gentle back.

"How?" Katsuki stands so fast that bolts clatter, that Masaru looks up at him in surprise. "How the hell do you deal with her? She never shuts up, she never backs off, she gets in everyone's face, always has to win—"

"She's not trying to win," Masaru disagrees, quietly.

"The hell she ain't!" Katsuki scoffs, throwing his hands out, because it's right there in front of his father's face and all he does is frown. "You always take her side! Even though she starts everything, and she's always pushin'—pushin' like 'm some little brat that doesn't know squat, that can't do anything right!"

Masaru doesn't flinch, or argue. Only watches him, silent and steady.

It makes his voice rise, crack with all the heat. "You act like she's perfect or somethin', but I'm not you! I can't—jus'—sit there while she tears into me!"

He’s nearly as tall as his father, but the old man kneels anyway, settling down to meet him, gripping both of Katsuki’s forearms; firm, unguarded, showing no hint of threat.

"She's not perfect, son," Masaru murmurs, voice low, "none of us are. She pushes you harder than she should, sometimes, because she sees the strength in you, even when you don't, because she doesn't want you to ever be unprepared—but that doesn't mean it's always right. That doesn't mean you have to be okay with it."

His face pinches tight, and he squeezes his eyes shut and when his father tries to hug him, Katsuki yanks away. Because he doesn't know any other way to be. The wrench in his hand doesn't shake anymore, but on the inside, something is splitting wide open, a slow kind of panic. Creeping, like rust spreading under paint.

His old man talks about love like it's so simple; patience is just something you give, forgiveness is just something that comes—but Katsuki isn't built that way. His mother isn't, either. They burn too hot, too fast, and leave ash in their wake without meaning to. Masaru will never get it, because he's not wired the same way and doesn't carry the same pressure in his chest, the same sharpness in his teeth.

But his father is right about one thing: just because he is stupid enough to endure the shit, doesn't mean Katsuki has to.

#✿ willow writes #...reader is coming i promise skhfakhgkahf #holding him gently in my hands..........offering this small baby out to you..........#please treat with care...........#bakugou x reader #i forgot how to tag things #let me know if i forgot anything okay thanks love you bye

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inkyquillstories · 5 months ago

Text

From Homework to Home/Work (A Body Swap Story)

(Dave)

Dave let out a weary sigh as he collapsed onto the worn-out couch in his modest living room. The fluorescent glow of his laptop screen cast a dim light on his exhausted face, highlighting the deep lines of fatigue that had settled over the years. He was only forty, but the weight of responsibility made him feel much older. Being an accountant paid the bills, but the job was monotonous, draining, and unrelenting. Worse still, when he clocked out from work, his real shift began—the role of a single father to his three-year-old twins, Emma and Ethan.

His wife, Laura, had passed away three years ago, leaving him with both the blessing and the burden of raising their children alone. She had died giving birth, and while Dave cherished his kids more than anything in the world, he couldn’t ignore how exhausting it was to do everything on his own. His neighbor, Charlie, often saw him struggling—whether it was carrying groceries with two toddlers clinging to his legs or desperately trying to calm their tantrums in the front yard. Despite his age, Dave felt like he had lived a hundred lifetimes, and he longed for a brief escape from the endless cycle of work and parenting.

(Charlie)

Charlie, on the other hand, was a college student, stuck in a life he found equally unsatisfying. He trudged through his university days with growing resentment, suffocated by coursework that felt meaningless. College, he was told, would lead to a stable future, but all he wanted was to fast-forward to that future already. He envied people with secure jobs, with steady incomes, with lives that weren’t dictated by midterms and last-minute essays. Charlie often saw Dave, exhausted but settled in his life, and wished he could trade places—even if just for a little while.

One afternoon, as Dave absentmindedly pushed his kids on their backyard swings, he glanced over the fence and saw Charlie lounging on a deck chair, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. An idea sparked in his tired mind. Later that evening, he knocked on Charlie’s door, offering him a proposal unlike any other.

“Would you be willing to babysit my kids during spring break?” Dave asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll pay you—a lot.”

Charlie perked up at the mention of money, but before he could agree, Dave continued. “There’s more to it. I want to swap bodies with you. I’ll be you for a while, and you’ll be me.”

Charlie blinked, sure he had misheard. But when Dave explained further—his exhaustion, his need for a break, his willingness to compensate handsomely—Charlie’s interest grew. The idea was insane, but the payoff? Too tempting to resist. He had always wanted to skip past the struggles of university, to experience a stable, structured life. This was his chance.

The next day, they walked together into the local Body Swap Clinic, a sleek, futuristic facility nestled between a bank and a coffee shop. The receptionist, unfazed by their request, handed them a set of forms. “Standard procedure,” she said. “You’ll experience full consciousness transfer, retaining your own thoughts but fully inhabiting each other’s bodies. The swap will last until your scheduled reversal unless you both agree to an extension.”

Minutes later, they were ushered into separate chambers, and as the machine whirred to life, their vision blurred. A jolt of electricity surged through them, and in an instant, everything shifted.

For Charlie, the transition was surreal. He stood up, stretching Dave’s older, slightly stiffer body. He looked in the mirror and saw Dave’s face staring back at him. He didn’t notice how fit Dave really was until he swapped with him.

Charlie also discovered a newfound appreciation for fitness. Dave’s body was more muscular and well-built compared to his own, and he found himself enjoying his time at the gym like never before. Lifting heavier weights, feeling the strength in his arms, and seeing the respect from others at the gym boosted his confidence in a way he had never experienced. He relished the power and endurance that came with the older man’s physique, making his daily workouts something he looked forward to.

There was a comfort in being Dave, in being needed, in having a purpose beyond just passing exams. As the days passed, a thought gnawed at him—he wasn’t sure he wanted this to end.

Meanwhile, Dave reveled in Charlie’s youth. He’s surprised how much smaller he feels but for some reason, he preferred this than being bigger. Not only that, he was also considerably less hairy. He looked closely at his torso

Then took a selfie in front of the mirror.

He met up with Charlie’s friends, stayed out late, and did things he hadn’t done in years. The world felt new again—full of excitement and possibilities. He could even sleep in and just be in bed for hours scrolling on his phone.

But even as he enjoyed the carefree existence, a whisper of guilt crept in. His kids, his job, his life—everything was waiting for him to return. And yet, the thought of going back so soon felt almost unbearable.

Before spring break ended, they met again. Charlie was the first to speak. “I… I had fun. More than I thought I would.”

Dave nodded slowly, hesitation evident in his eyes. “Yeah… It was nice. Being young again.”

Charlie studied Dave carefully before making his offer. “What if we extended this? Until Christmas, maybe?”

Dave’s heart pounded. He should say no. He should go back. But the temptation was too strong. After a long pause, he whispered, “Alright.”

And just like that, the deal was made. For now, at least, they weren’t ready to return to their old lives.

(Charlie enjoying being Dave until Christmas)

(Dave enjoying being Charlie until Christmas) [PS: Should they swap back or just swap permanently?]

#Male Body Swap #inkyquill

384 notes · View notes

jellyfishbug · 10 months ago

Text

ROOM 109

pairing. matt x reader genre. smut with plot. MDNI.

! NOT proof read.

word count: [ 4.8k ]

content; brothersbestfriend!matt, natessister!reader, two people one bed trope, smut, oral (f receiving), p in v, unprotected (wrap it!), creampie, lots of praise, some degradation, use of pet names for context, you & nate + the trips and their parents are on a trip to palm springs. after i finished writing it i realized i didnt make that 100% clear . . .

It was stupid. It was so stupid how this whole thing started.

Everyone else wanted to go to dinner directly after the beach, but you practically had to beg to quickly run up to your room and change. The white lacey sundress you'd been wearing wasn't exactly dinner attire, as well as the fact that it was covered in sand.

You scanned your room card on the doorknob and rushed inside, dropping your bag carelessly on the bed and turning to fiddle with the back of your dress. Several attempts of tugging at it later, you cry out in frustration at your zipper's refusal to budge, the metal completely stuck in place as your dug your nails into the fabric of the dress.

down the hallway, Nate was impatiently tapping his foot against the floor in exasperation, glancing over at the clock that hung above the vending machine. "Jesus christ, the fuck is she doing?"

Nick and Chris both shrugged, simply unbothered by the amount of time it was taking you. Matt, who was leaning against the wall his hands in his pockets, pursed his lips and glanced at Nate, his head still against the wall as he did. "D'you want me to go check on her?"

Nate nodded, "Yeah, n' tell her to hurry up, I'm fucking starving."

Matt rolls his eyes. "Okay, fine." He begins to head down the hallway, arms swaying at his sides before he pauses to look at Nate over his shoulder, "What room is she in?"

Nate thinks for a moment before hesitantly replying. "109.. i think,"

After ten minutes of you desperately attempting to get the dress off, you heard footsteps in the hallway, glancing down to the door to see the shadow of a tall figure. On the other side, Matt pressed two knuckles to the door and knocked gently, leaning his side against it as he spoke, "You alright in there?"

You swallowed, your face felt hot from embarrassment. You close your eyes and knock your head back, trying to shift the tone of your voice from how upset you were. "Uhm- yeah, just.. my zipper's stuck."

"Your zipper, huh?" He laughs lightly, the image of you struggling to get the dress off clear in his mind. "You can't get it unstuck?"

"No," you mumble. "It's on the back of the dress, so I can't see it."

He's quiet for a moment before responding. You watch his figure shuffle around under the door, "D'you need help?"

Your shoulders drop in defeat, balled fists resting at your sides as you huff, "please."

Matt exhales deeply, placing his hand on the doorknob. "You decent? like- can i come in?" he asks, his voice raspier than it usually was.

"Yeah,"

He turns the knob and opens the door slowly, closing it behind him as he approaches you, taking in the view with a small smile tugging at his lips. You turn away from him, lifting your hair off your neck to make it easier for him to unzip the dress.

He swallows and leans forward, directly behind you as his hands reach up to where your zipper is stuck. Goosebumps form at the feel of his hand grazing the exposed skin of your neck. "D'you see? It won't budge,"

"Yeah, I see," he says quietly, hands still frozen in place as he furrows his eyebrows. His hand wraps around the small zipper whilst the other lands on your hip, "I'm gonna try something, just- stay still for a sec, okay?"

You nod slowly, quietly gasping as he pulls you slightly closer to him, feeling his breath fanning against your neck. His fingers curl around the zipper once more, tugging at it.

He slowly draws the zipper down, the cold feel of the metal gliding over your skin, exposing your back inch by inch. His touch is delicate, almost feather-light against you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, and you let your hands drop to your sides. You want to say something, but nothing will come out. Matt's breath is also labored, his eyes studying the newly exposed skin of your back. "Looks like I got it," he mumbles.

"Mhm." You mutter, basking in the feel of his hands on your lower back as the zipper reaches the end of the spined teeth, and Matt lets go of it. One of is hands still on your hip as he presses circles into your back with his ringed fingers.

"Matt.." you whisper, but nothing else comes out. Your sentence is left unfinished as you step backward slightly so that you're closer to him.

Matt swallows, trying to remain calm and collected as your back is pressed against his chest. He responds, his voice matching your volume, "Yeah?"

"I have to-" you screw your eyes shut, shivering when you feel him trail fingers up your spine mindlessly. "Someones gonna come looking for us, we've been up here for a while- and I have to change."

Disappointment washes over him as his hand falls away from your back. You're right- he knows you're right, but he doesn't want to move. "Okay- yeah, I'll let you change," he says quietly, backing away as your frames detatch. "Do you want me to wait for you by the door?"

You shake your head silently before parting your lips to speak. "It's okay, I'll be down in a minute." you reply, waiting patiently to let the dress drop off your shoulders as Matt acknowledges your response with a nod of his head as he opens the door, letting it click shut behind him. You watch his shadow disappear from under the door, footsteps slowly getting quieter as he disappears down the hallway.

You slipped into a smaller, black spaghetti-strap dress, hurriedly grabbing your belongings before swinging the door open and letting it close loudly behind you.

You run down the hallway, quickly tip-toeing down the carpeted stairs as you lift your head, and your eyes meet the familiar group of boys standing by the vending machines, all looking defeated and bored. Nick glances over upon seeing you, grinning widely as he throws his hands up in enthusiasm.

"Finally! Christ, i thought we'd starve to death. Lets fucking go,"

Dinner was torture.

Matt sat directly across from you at the table. You shared glances every now and then, feeling your stomach lurch at the sight of his hair messily hanging in his face, his pearly teeth peaking through his lips as he cracked a smile in response to Nate's joke. The candles on the table flickered, illuminating his features even more as he mindlessly chewed on his bottom lip.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest lazily, raising his eyebrows at you every time your eyes met. The eye roll he got back from you made him laugh lowly, his tongue prodding at the side of his cheek as his lips broke into a grin.

At some point, Nate and Chris were laughing and muttering amongst themselves like children, both pouting dramatically as they turn to look at Matt. Matt furrows his eyebrows nervously, tilting his head as he reluctantly asks, "What?"

Nate dropped his utensils dramatically against his plate, the clanking causing both you and Matt to grimace in distaste. "You know you're like, my favorite person ever, right?" Nate said all to sweetly, a glint in his eyes you'd only ever seen him use when asking for something he really wants.

Matt all but scowled, his eyebrows raised with an unimpressed look. "What d'you want?"

"Will you swap rooms with me so Chris and I can share? I'm sick of sharing a room with this loser," Nate pointed his thumb in your direction in emphasis, his other hand still resting in his lap. You scoffed, slapping his hand away and crossing your arms at your front with a sour expression. "You're not exactly my ideal choice either, fuck face."

Nate pushed his lip out into an even deeper pout at Matt, ignoring the slap and insult from you to further beg, "Pleaaaase?"

Matt turned his head to look to you.

"'S that okay with you?"

His tone was genuine, waiting patiently for you to tell him your input after Nate's careless disregard of it. You feel the blood rush to your face, realizing now that everyone's eyes were on you, but Matt's gaze in particular made your mouth go dry. You nodded slowly. "Yeah- that's fine."

He nodded before looking away and shrugging at Nate with his lips in a downturned smile. "I'm fine with it if she's fine with it."

Nate smiles widely, he and Chris sharing an excited glance and giggling amongst themselves. Matt picks up his drink from the table, looking at you through his eyebrows and he sips.

The tension was thick enough to be cut, and it was driving you crazy.

Every glance, every wink, every fucking smile.

He seemed completely unbothered at your clearly flustered demeanor, just laughing breathily every time he caught a glance. The thoughts in his mind betrayed him; if everyone at that table could hear them, Nate would've killed him by now.

Finally, after what felt like ever, the five of you started to head back to the hotel. You opted to linger behind the four boys, just by a couple feet - still close enough you could hear their conversation, but far enough that you didn't have to partake in whatever stupid thing they were bickering about.

Occasionally, Matt would glance back to look at you, as if he was checking to see if you were still there. You pretend not to notice, but every time you catch his eyes, you feel yourself try to look away, but you can't. You're completely locked on him and he's holding the key - he's taunting you with it.

You eventually reach the doors of the hotel, rolling your eyes playfully as Matt lingers behind the others to hold the door open for you.

You stop at the boys room first. Nate turns to Matt and places his hands on either side of his face, giving him a big kiss on the cheek and grinning stupidly whilst Matt's eyes widened in surprise. "I love youuuuu," he drags on, smooshing Matt's face with his hands. Matt bats them away.

"Yeah yeah, love you too, kid." He mutters, wiping the spit off his face with a scowl once Nate finally detatched. Nate throws up a peace sign at you before disappearing into the room. Matt bids his brothers goodnight, and the two of you begin to head towards the your room.

You reach the door and pause to fiddle in your bag before pulling out the room key, choosing to ignore how close behind you Matt is standing. He stands with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the door frame as he observes your movements. You scan the key against the door and push it open.

Matt reached above you to hold the door open, and you drop your bag on the entry-way table and kick off your shoes.

Matt closes the door behind the two of you and follows as you lean down in front of the vanity to take off your earings. Matt kicks off his shoes, and once your earings are safely on the desk, you flop down onto the bed without even changing out of your dress. You rolled over on to your back and pull out your phone.

Matt chuckles at the action, and then pauses to think, his eyes filled with wonder at the sight of the one bed. "I can take the floor,"

You almost roll your eyes, shaking your head vigorously as a laugh escapes you. "Don't be stupid, you can sleep in the bed, Matt."

He nods, his lips shifting upward into a smile as he walks up to the bed, laying down next to you. He also pulls out his phone from his back pocket and rolls onto his stomach, and you both sit in silence for a couple of minutes before you finally glance over.

He's really good looking.

It's stupid; its fucking stupid how good looking he is.

The dimness of the overhead light makes it harder to see, but the glow of his phone screen is bright enough that you can see his jawline. His hair is still slightly hanging in his face, and even when he runs a hand through it, it remains where it was before. The occasional laugh at something on his phone showcases his annoyingly hot grin, and the low sound of his laugh.

You didn't even realize you were staring. In fact, you were staring for a decent amount of time before he turned to face you, a smug smile on his face.

Fuck.

Embarassed, your head snaps back to your phone and heat rises to your face, making it flush a bright shade of pink. Matt doesn't say anything - but you know he's smirking at you.

"You good?" He asks, a teasing tone in his voice as his eyes continue to linger on you. The way he said it was so smug. He enjoyed having this affect on you.

You nod quickly, and he laughs. "You sure? You're all red,"

"No m' not." You bite back, your voice still quiet. "I'm fine."

He raises his eyebrows with an amused expression.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

The tone of his voice, as well as how easy the pet name rolled of his tongue was making a fire egnite in your core, and you cross one of your legs over the other.

Matt sets his phone down on the bed, completely abandoning the one thing that was keeping the safe silence. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, head leaning back against the headboard of the bed. "What's your deal?"

The question took you by surprise. What was your deal? Coming from the guy that was eye-fucking you in front of your brother and his at the dinner table an hour ago?

You scoff, an exasperated huff of air as you turn to glare at him. "What are you talking about?"

"You won't look me in the eye- like, at all - and when you do, your face gets all red and you wont talk. Whats your deal?"

His forwardness isn't appreaciated. You purse your lips, finally letting yourself continue to look at him, even if the eye contact is burning through you. "I'm looking at you now, aren't i?"

"Mhm," he says calmly. "And you're red again."

His acknowledgment of it only makes it worse. Your stomach flips and turns as the realization seeps through you, and you try your best to keep your expression hard and stern. "So what?"

He shrugs. "It's cute."

Cute.

You find yoursef rolling your eyes for the millionth time today, "You're annoying."

He moves closer, his movements making imprints on the bed sheets as he shamelessly lets your shoulders touch. "Why? Because i make you flustered?"

"I'm not-"

"You are."

You find yourself closing your lips despite the urge to utter out a snarky response, the heat of his breath fanning against your face as your chest rises and falls quickly. Everything else is completely lost - the fact that he's your brothers friend. The fact that if Nate knew about this, Matt would be on the floor taking his last breath.

Right now, all you were thinking about was how pretty he was, how pink his lips were, how much you really, really wanted to kiss him, even if you would regret it.

"You're staring again," he says, more quiet this time; almost a whisper, but his tone is still arrogant.

"Just- shut up, Matt." You say breathlessly.

His glance flicks between your lips and eyes, lust clearly displayed in his own eyes as he licks his bottom lip. "Can i..?"

You're nodding before he's even finished the sentence.

He leans forward and presses your lips together. It's soft; passionate. Your hand goes up to rest at his cheek, and his at yours. His touch is delicate, even as the movements of his mouth become deeper, his tongue sliding over your lips to colide with yours.

His other hand snakes around your waist, tugging you effortlessly into his lap to straddle his thighs, laughing against your lips when you yelp at the sudden change in position.

Both of his hands are wrapped tightly around you now, holding you close enough to press your frams together as your hands get lost in his hair. He's kissing you harder, more desperate and hungry, like he's been starved.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel him growing beneath you, and you'd also be lying if you said you weren't alarmed by his size. You find one of your hands slipping off of his face to tug at the buckle of his jeans, whining against him when he grabs your wrist to halt your movements.

He pulls away from you, chuckling softly. "D'you want something?"

Your wrist is still firm in his grip, and as much as you just want to whine and squirm until he lets go, you get the feeling he's not planning on doing so until you answer.

"You, please- Matt, i need you." You say breathlessly, feeling satisfied when he releases your wrist, his hands moving to roam up and down your sides.

"Good girl," He mutters before kissing you once more, keeping your lips locked as he puts a hand on your back to tug at the zipper on your dress quickly until the back is fully open. He lays you down gently until your back meets the matress, his kisses still rough as he lightly bites down on your bottom lip, grinning when you whimper into his mouth.

He pulls away to look down at you, kneeling against you so that your legs are on either side of him. He keeps one hand on your upper thigh, rubbing his thumb gently against your skin as he parts his lips to speak. "can I take your dress off?"

All it takes is a hushed "please," from you, and he springs into movement. "lift your arms f'me," he utters lowly, and as you comply, he pulls the dress down until its completely off, discarding it onto the floor. He looks back to gawk at you, "So pretty,"

You feel your face get red again, but before you can respond, he's leaning down to kiss you. He trails his kisses down your front, looking up at your blissed expression when his lips are on your lower stomach. His fingers dip underneath them of your underwear, tuggling effortlessly and discarding them on to the floor next to your dress. He fiddles with the buttons on his shirt with his other hand until its loose enough to pull off, and then on the bed forgotten.

He places his index finger against your lip, tapping lightly. "open for me, sweetheart."

You do just that, and he places two of his fingers in your mouth. You close your lips around them, swirling your tongue around the digits as Matt watches with dilated pupils. He pulls them away and lowers himself so that his face is hovering above your heat, eyes flicking up to watch your impatient expression with a smug grin

He presses his fingers into your entrace, and your jaw goes slack, head falling back against the mattress as you whine. "Fuck,"

He keeps his hand still, pressing open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, then your core, before finally placing his mouth where you want it.

His slow and messy with his movements, tongue lapping at your clit as he curls his motionless fingers inside of you. You're moaning and whimpering his name, pleading for more, but he's taking his time.

He lifts his head, finally starting to pump his fingers at a good rythm, clearly enjoying how much you're reacting to him. "Feel good, baby?"

You're whimpering, nodding quickly, but your expression turns confused when he stops. "Tell me, sweet girl. I wanna hear how good it is,"

"So good," you breathe out. "Fuck, Matt- please, i wan' more."

Satisfaction is smugly clear on his face. "Thats a good girl," he wraps his free hand around your thigh, cold rings pressing against your skin, lowering his head back where it was before.

He's even meaner now. His fingers are vigorously thrusting into you, and his tuck is mercilessly hooked on your clit as your eyes roll back in your head and your thighs lightly shake on either side of him. You tug at his hair, letting out a wail as he groans against you, nails digging into his scalp.

"shit, do that again." He says quickly, his voice muffled as he continues. You do what he asks, feeling the same groaning sensation against you when you do, making your toes girl. His face is slick with you, and he lifts his head for just a second again, "tastes so good, fuck,"

The compliment makes the growing knot in your stomach twist, and you moan loudly as he speeds up his movements, nails tigging into the plush skin of your thigh.

You finally snap as his fingers curl against a particular spot, your thighs squeeze around his head and you attempt to arch your back, but his grip on your leg holds you in place against the mattress.

Desperate cry's of his name flood from your lips, and he lifts his mouth off of you, still pumping his fingers slowly through your orgasm whilst kissing your thighs. He whispers soft praise as he watches you writhing against his hand.

Finally, once you start to squirm, he pulls them out and licks them clean. Your hand covers your face as you attempt to bring your breathing back to normal, and his hand rests on your waist as he rubs circles soothingly into the flesh with his thumb. "Doing so good for me, sweetheart."

The praise fills your chest with a warm feeling, and he leans down to kiss the side of your head. His fingers wrap around his belt buckle until its unclipped and he tugs his jeans down to his ankles, leaving him in just his boxers.

You see the bulge clearly in them, and you gawk at the sight. He's huge. How the fuck will that fit?

He must've seen the nervous expression on your face, because he smiles and nods his head. "S'okay, I'll go slow."

He slides a hand underneath you to wrap around your waist and flip you onto your stomach. His fingers then wrap around your thighs to pull your ass up before pressing lightly against your lower back to make it arch.

Your arms are outstretched in front of you, the pads of your fingers laying against the sheets while Matt loiters on his knees behind you. An impatience is quickly growing in your gut. He's taking his sweet time admiring you from the new angle, one hand on your hip with a gentle grip as he palmed himself through his underwear.

You were not having it.

"Matt- please,"

He laughs lightly at the whiny plea that escaped you, the hand on your hip flying to assist his movement in removing his boxers. "Okay, okay. Hold on," He leans closer to you, his tip prodding at your entrance, and you brace yourself.

He slowly presses inside of you, watching as you grip the sheets below you at the painful stretch. You whimper, and he hums, rubbing his fingers soothingly on your hip, "I know, baby. I know." He says quietly right as his hips meet your ass, finally burying himself to the hilt.

The feeling of him filling you up completely is maddening. He inhales deeply through his teeth, muttering curses at how tightly you're squeezing around him.

He's still not moving. He's concerned at how much you're already reacting, but his demeanor changes when you're wiggling yourself against him as an attempt to get him to move, and he complies, starting to roll his hips slowly.

"Oh my god," you whisper, the stretch turning from painful to pleasant all too quickly. Your toes curl as Matt starts to go faster. "Fit s'well inside me- fuck, Matt."

He laughs lowly, "Yeah?" his tone his still so fucking arrogant despite how breathy he is, and he grunts lowly when he realizes you're pushing yourself back against him. "Such a filthy girl," he spit, "God, just like that. So good n' needy f'me."

His words only make you want more. He's pressing his palm against your back to push you down into the bed further and deepen the arch, which only makes it easier for him to fuck you deeper.

You're mewling now, nails desperately grasping at the sheets as he hits unfamiliar spots, making your eyes roll back into your head. It's all too much - it's all too good.

The lewd sound of skin meeting skin is filling the room, along with Matt's groans and your desperate whimpering. You feel the strong, confident attitude you carry around your peers start to crumble underneath him as he leans down, slamming at a ruthless pase.

You cry out a gutless moan when his hand wraps around your lower front to make his thrusts deeper, and he grunts at the way you tighten around him. "Yeah? that feel good, baby?" He asks as if the answer isn't evident, "Taking me so good- fuck, good girl."

Normally, praise wouldn't be affecting you this much; but the way it rolled so easily off his tongue, the way his tone was raspy and genuine, like he meant it, and the way that he was saying it with his chest whilst he was buried deep in your guts made you love it. It made you want to hear it even more.

You're a whimpering, moaning mess below your brother's best friend, keening as his grip on your hips turning animalistic, nails digging bluntly into your flesh. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

"Matt-" you panted, the pleasure in your stomach twisting and turning with every thrust against your sweet spot, "Matt- fuck, m' gonna cum."

"Yeah?" he breathes. "Go ahead, cum for me sweetheart."

As soon as the words left him, you unraveled, legs shaking violently against him as your messy attempts to meet his thrusts stop and you practically go limp.

Your mind is numb from pleasure, the white knuckle grip on the sheets becoming less strong while your eyes roll back in your head, overstimulated as Matt still pounds into you to chase his high.

"Close," he chokes out behind you, his thrusts becoming more messy as he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you up slightly, your back still arched. "Fuck, where do you want me?"

Even in your dumb state, you manage to utter out a response, "inside me, please."

He leans down to dig his teeth into the small of your neck and presses himself to the hilt, spilling thick spurts deep into your core as he mutters muffled curses against your neck. You melt from the warm feeling of him in your gut, your hand snaking up to wrap around the back of his neck to touch his hair.

You're both still panting as he presses kisses along your neck and over the faint bite mark he left, slowly laying you back down against the warmth of the mattress. He holds you in place and pulls out slowly, whispering apologies when you wince at the soreness and emptiness that follows.

He tucks your hair behind your ear with his finger, still pressing gentle kisses along your skin; cheek, neck, shoulder, hip - before he speaks. "You okay?"

You nod, "mhm, just... sore."

He nods sympathetically, still touching your face. "I know, sweetheart." He turns you so youre lying on your back. "We can go shower and get cleaned up, but you gotta get up first."

The thought of the warm water makes you sit up, and Matt grins at how quickly you do so. He takes your hand in his and guides you to the bathroom.

You watch from your spot on the counter as he leans into the glass door of the shower to turn the water on, feeling with his hand under the stream to test tje temperature, throwing you a satisfied nod when it became warm enough.

It wasn't until you were both under the warm, cozy flow of the faucet with suds coving both of your wet slick skin that you turned around to face him, a knowing look in your eyes. "Matt?"

He raised an eyebrow, "Hm?"

"If you tell Nate about any of this-"

He grimaces at the thought. "c'mon, kid. I'm not a dumbass." He laughs, and you're both left to forget about the future, and instead focus on the now.

The now being the fact that this wasn't going to be the last time this happened. Definitely not.

thank u for reading! i hope you enjoyed. throw me a reblog if you did, they are greatly appreciated :)

links ..

masterlists !

#Spotify #sturniolos #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #jellyfishbug 🌺

557 notes · View notes

tjwritesfanfics · 12 days ago

Text

Going to Lose You (Erik Campbell)

Pairing: Erik Campbell x Reader

Summary: Your dreams seem to be more against you than you thought.

Rating: Angst

Warnings: Character Death, Reader has almost a dream premonition about Erik and Bobby's deaths, Graphic descriptions of death, Blood, Spoilers for Final Destination Bloodlines (Just in case someone hasn't seen it yet)

Words: 1.5k

Main Masterlist | AU where they live

The lights flicker ominously, dread filling your stomach. Why were you in a hospital? Where was Erik and Bobby? They were beside you a moment ago, but now they seem to be gone.

But it wasn’t just them that was gone, the whole hospital seemed to be empty.

“Erik? Bobby?” You call out, eyes scanning the open doors and the hallways.

It was quiet. Way too quiet that when a scream cut through, you could tell exactly where it was coming from. And who it was coming from.

Your heart sank as you took off running. Running, running, and running. The hallway seeming stretching forever.

You try to scream, but nothing comes out.

Finally, you reach the door where the sound originated from. You yank on the handle with all your might, but it doesn’t budge. You pound on the door, calling for Erik, but the only sound could be heard was his blood curdling screams.

Looking into the window on the door, your heart stops.

All time seems to slow down as you watch the scene unfold before you.

The phone flies out of Erik’s hand, straight onto the activated MRI machine.

‘No no no!’ You try the handle again, smacking the door when it again doesn't open.

All you could do was watch in horror as one by one, Erik’s piercings are ripped from his body, his screams intense with pain.

Tears sting your eyes. Your lungs burn. But even all of that couldn’t compare to the way Erik must be feeling. The wheelchair that was behind him launched air born, slamming into him and forcing his body to the machine.

The metal starts to bend, rattling and shaking, the force of it drawing Erik further in.

His back bends, arms flail as they try to grip the machine, and finally when you could see his face, blood was gushing from his mouth. The pain and fear in his eyes cutting you.

“Erik!!” You cry but knowing you couldn’t do anything for him as he finally succumbed to his injuries, dying right in front of you.

The click of the door draws your attention from the gruesome scene.

It was open.

You open the door to find Bobby crawling on the floor, face puffed and red, gasping for air, crawling towards his brother's dead body.

You wanted to move, wanted to help, but your feet seemed glued to the floor. All you could do was watch as Bobby grabbed his EpiPen and stabbed it into his leg, the medicine immediately taking effect.

He slowly stands up and looks towards you, his eyes seemingly seeming to focus past you, almost as if you weren’t really there.

Different metal items fly past you, missing Bobby and landing on the MRI machine. The relieved sigh he lets out is heartbreaking.

“I’m okay.” He smiles briefly before another metal item flies seemingly through your body and towards him. You only have seconds to register what was happening before the spring lodges itself into Bobby’s forehead, twisting as the metal digs deeper, blood pouring from the wound.

You sob and scream as Bobby’s limp body falls to the floor.

“Hey! Hey! Babe, wake up!”

Your eyes snap open and Erik was there, hovering over you, his eyes wide and worried.

Shooting up, you grab his shoulders, looking him over and searching for any form of injury. All you could see was the tattoos decorating his bare skin, his nipple piercings still in place, the only sign of an injury was the bandage wrapped on his forearm.

You force your mind to focus, trying to remember how he got that. The tattoo parlor. That’s right, it burned down, and your boyfriend was almost killed, but he survived with the only thing saving him was the leather jacket you gave him for his birthday last year.

Under the bandage was not only a fresh tattoo, but a heart brand that he got during the fire.

Once you see that he is alright and not crushed you pull him in, crushing him in your embrace, arms shaking as they wrap around him.

“Hey, it’s okay. You were having a nightmare.” He whispers in your ear, his arms strong and secure as he holds you. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Erik continued to rock you for a few minutes, waiting for you to feel calm enough to talk to him. He knew that the past few days had been devastating so of course you were having bad dreams. Erik just hoped he could help you through whatever this one was like you had helped him.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Y you,” You take a deep breath, “and Bobby. A hospital. You guys died.”

You could tell he wanted to groan, not happy that his cousin’s crazy talk about death being after the family and his brush with death that night was getting to you, but all he did was hold you tighter.

“Look, today may not be the best of days, but I’m here. Bobby is here. Death can’t touch us, and it wasn’t going to in the first place.”

Erik pulled back to look at you, smiling a little when you try to cling to him, and gripped your face in his hands. His eyes soften when they look at you.

You take him in, really look at him. Despite his words and the firmness in his tone, you couldn’t help the knot in your stomach.

The dream just felt so real. Something about it just continued to linger even after Erik lays down with you, stroking your back before he falls asleep.

You had no idea what the next day would have entailed when you fell asleep in Erik’s arms that night. Julia’s death. Finding out that Erik wasn’t a part of the cursed bloodline. The sickening relief that knowledge brought you.

You held onto Erik to stop him from pacing around the room.

“Yes, Erik, I know that Jerry Fenbury is the worst possible thing for a father, but hey this means you won’t die.”

“I don’t want any of them to die!” He shouted, pulling away from you.

“And you think I do?!”

“There has to be something we can do. Something I can do.”

Erik glances out his window, seeing his family all standing around his brother, almost like a protective circle as they head to the RV.

“I have to protect him.” He marched out of his room, his determination sending panic through you.

You follow him down the stairs and outside.

“Oi!” Erik yells. “Any of you fuckers do a nut check?”

“You made cookies in there with peanut butter.” You fill in when you see everyone's confused looks, “Bobby’s allergy is so severe even a whiff of it will kill him.”

“Where is the peanut butter?” Erik went into the RV once his aunt told him where to find it.

Your mind whirled as you watched the exchange in front of you. Erik got rid of the peanut butter and once he was sure his brother was okay, after giving him a quick hit in the balls, he came to stand by your side.

The two of you watched as his family piled into the RV. You could feel the worry rolling off him no matter how hard he tried to hide it. You take his hand, squeezing it, trying to hold on for dear life as you knew what was about to happen next.

“Please tell me I can talk you out of it.”

“Someone has to protect him.”

You close your eyes and nod, the sinking feeling in your gut only intensifying, tears stinging your eyes. “Return to me?”

Erik cupped your face, his lips finding yours in a harsh kiss, putting all his emotion into it. Just in case this was the last time he saw you.

“You can’t get rid of me. I’m like a cockroach, surviving everything.”

“That’s disgusting, Erik.” You smile and kiss him again quickly, pushing him towards the RV. “Go. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And with that, Erik turned and got into the RV. You watched as it pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, disappearing out of sight.

That was the last time you saw Erik Campbell. The last words you spoke to him.

“Your supposed to be a cockroach, you stupid fuck.” You swore down at the grave, Erik’s name along with his date of birth to the date of his death engraved into the stone, then looked beside it to the grave where Bobby was.

“And you.” You take a deep breath in, exhaling on a shudder. “Paco misses you.”

You look over to where Brenda stands by the car, a tissue pressed to her bloodshot eyes. It was time to leave, time to join her. You may have only been Erik’s girlfriend, but now you were her family.

You look back at the graves one last time.

“May we meet again.”

#erik campbell x reader #erik campbell #final destination #final destination bloodlines #final destination fanfic #fd bloodlines #richard harmon #final destination 6

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jjwolves · 1 month ago

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· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · Punishment for the Moon · • —– ٠

A *biiiig* thank you to @namosaga for commissioning this piece! I hope it lives up to expectations, honk honk.

What: 6 ENA the Worker X Werecat Reader Headcanons

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (by Joel G)

How Much: ~1500 Words, ~5 Mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G, Divider -> @saradika-graphics

Warnings: None

ENA took a liking to you almost immediately. Many entities in her world were fluid in shape, but few held a similar motif of duality within their being as concentrated as she did. In her eyes, you were just like her. And on top of that, you wanted to… be with her! She didn’t know how to quantify nor explain how enlightening such a bond was to her, so she simply expressed it in the only way she knew how. “I think that our shared assets have a similar trend, and they multiply in value every single day, so… It’d be the financially wise decision for you to see me every day, right?” Salesperson donned a gentle smile and tilted her cap over her eyes, gently dancing in place from side to side. You agreed, of course; ENA was something just as special to you. She knew what she was like, and in knowing herself understood you deeply without needing to say a word. Never a fright nor judgemental stare was elicited by your admittedly fearsome form. Meanie put it best. “Why should I be scared of a furry mountain like you?! You’re nothing but fuzz-origami!” Her words were harsh, but she stood on her tippy-toes so that her clawed hand could gently scritch your ears. Something in the back of your mind told you understood what she was saying. It was probably true. Something else told you that she wasn’t insulting you. That one was unsure; her tone made it hard to tell.

ENA picks up on a lot of similarities between you two, and tries to “capitalize on the trend,” as she so corporate-speaks it. Practically speaking, it’s like a bonding exercise where she tries to copy your metamorphoses. When you shift into your werecat form, bulking up and going wild, pointed ears flicking out, she tries to mimic your transformation and unleash Meanie, striking a pose and brandishing her clawed hand, cackling madly. “Now we’re getting incendiary! GUNS BLAZING!” When people look at you two in alarm, you frantically try to wave your paws to assure them that you are not going to go on a rampage, despite ENA’s enthusiasm. When you shift back to your humanoid form, ENA pockets Meanie and slips into Salesperson, cunning grin spread across her face and conspiracies already noted down in her daytime planner. “What an effective weight loss technique! I suppose finesse is the name of the game today?”

Your cubist girlfriend has, quite sadly, never had a real friend who simply enjoyed her company, let alone loved her. Most of her relationships were one of proximity to speaking coffee machines and “hey, I have a job for you”. Her greatest trade offer of all was thus: in exchange for your love, she loved you back. Hard. Starting out, though, she has trouble knowing what to do with herself and how to navigate the testy waters of a new relationship with you. While ENA didn’t mean to, she started out treating you a little bit like a tool to help her get to where she needed to be. She’d lead you to an obstacle and clap her hands with practiced enthusiasm, usually something you could demolish which impeded her progress. “Say, partner, how about a deal? Could you become a titan of industry for me and crash the market? Go big or go home? Feline up to it?” ENA’s success made her happy, which made you happy, so you gladly monstered out and destroyed whatever wall or barricade or incredibly rude rainrock golem stood in her way.

Over time, ENA learns to slow down and be more intimate with you. While she usually loves zipping all over the place with productivity spring-loaded into every step, ENA learns that she actually really enjoys taking it easy with you and napping together. She busies herself frequently with missions, but it’s not uncommon at all for her to make a stop at wherever you’re at and insist that you take a rest with her. You’re more than happy to sleep next to the one you love (two amazing things in one activity), but you like to put up some playful resistance to see how she reacts. Meanie always tags in to take the bait. “Listen up, bud. I’m here for my regularly-scheduled mind maintenance! I marked it on your calendar three times already, not to mention my stupid planner!” She rips open her planner and flips the pages angrily in your face. Coupons with your face doodled on them fall out and she frantically recollects them. “Ignore those!” Eventually you drop the act and agree to snuggle. ENA’s crimson side likes to lay next to you and position her arm as a pillow for you—it’s sort of a weird side-hug. Her pale side drapes herself over you, turning you into the pillow. Sometimes ENA likes to snuggle you in your humanoid form because she can hug all of you at once, but other times she not-so-subtly hints that she wants you to be the big cat for a while. She says things like, “Paws ON the merchandise!” (Who can blame her? You’re big and soft.) She doesn’t know the word ‘werecat’ nor ‘therianthrope’, though, so she once prompted you with this bit of gold: “Can you be the mascot for me?” And just like that your pride was shattered. Not that there’s much left to salvage when a simple touch from her is all it takes to earn a rumbling purr from you.

You like to be around her, not just to hang out with her, but to protect her as well. It’s a dangerous world out there, and even if ENA is faced with something that even a lumbering werecat can’t stop, you feel a bit better knowing that it’s at least an option that she can fall back on. ENA appreciates it but is pretty blunt with how she feels about this. “Your application is noted and appreciated, but I have a lot of job experience. You have made a very safe investment. Besides… YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN ME WITH A HANDFAN YET! DO I LOOK WEAK TO YOU?! EVERY MOOK IS A TOUGH CUSTOMER UNTIL THEY’RE… ahem. Until they’re liquidated.” She sings that last part like it’s a corporate jingle. You end up insisting on coming along with her on adventures anyways. It’s not just physical danger you ought to protect her from—there’s emotional danger out there, as well. And ENA’s pride won’t allow her to admit it a lot of the time, but it helps her a great deal to have you near. Once, ENA had to deliver a samurai’s suitcase to a shady casino owner in order to negotiate with him. She was confident in her deal-making technique and social poise. You didn’t want to her to be despirited, but the truth of the matter is that ENA isn’t a perfect salesman; in fact, on some days she’s more like a loon whose speech is decorated with suit-ties and shoe-polish shine. And you love your loon. You need your loon. But you’re not sure that your low-poly sweetheart can handle an actual diplomatic meeting. So, you stand by to… assist. “Let’s identify your cold spots and construct a graph. Every angle confirms my conspiracy theory: This suitcase is a lucrative asset for you to invest in.” The casino boss looks disinterested (or, as disinterested as a hieroglyph of a jellyfish can look). When ENA is too busy gesturing wildly to her captive audience, you shift into your much more intimidating form and lean forward to properly menace. The casino boss sweats a little and ENA turns back to you, huffing from an intense and passionate sales pitch. You’re already back to your human form, waving inconspicuously to her. The jellyfish guy took the deal and ENA stood triumphant, jumping up and kissing you and buzzing with victory. “What happened tonight will revolutionize the lottery sector! Oh thank you, thank you!” Did she know what you did? She never said anything if so.

There are times when your instincts kick in and you take off after a particularly annoying character. You can’t help it, and ENA knows that. Now, ENA herself is not a very violent person (at least not anymore), but she definitely won’t try to reign you in if you’re dealing with a real hardhead. She runs after you when you tear off after the source of irritation but doesn’t lift a finger to help your quarry. “Where the revenue goes, one must follow!” she shouts at you as they run away. Her hat is blown off her head in the chaos. She really doesn’t mind this behavior from you; in fact, she likes it. ENA has a soft spot for your wild strength and finds it attractive, especially when you're standing up for her. (Imagine that, someone big standing up for her!) “You really suited up for battle… All for me,” she says, giving you a kiss. “How about next time, you let me be the auditor?” Later on, when you’re being harassed by a stick figure nobleman, Meanie jumps out of the bushes and screeches through her megaphone at them, an admittedly startling event. They run for the hills. “I am a beast of burden, and my taxes are never fully filed.” She smugly adjusts her cap. You pick up the crown and wear it, your spoils of victory. ENA flashes a crimson smile. "You look like promotion material!"

#ena x reader #ena fandom #dream bbq ena #ena dream bbq #dream bbq ena x reader #ena dream bbq x reader #imagine blog #reader insert #x reader #writers on tumblr #writeblogging #writeblr #ena headcanon #imagines #ena joel g

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thewulf · 1 year ago

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Hidden Away || Rhysand

Summary: Request -hi if ur reqs are open, could you maybe write a fic with rhys where feyre is not his mate but reader? can r also be tamlins sister so when he locked feyre up in the manor, he also locked r with her? then r is just trying to break the barrier but shes draining her powers in the process so when mor and rhys arrive, r is just on the brink of passing out. thank you so so much! hope u have a good day!!

A/N: Rhys is challenging! Let me know how you like it below :) As always thank you for the requests!

Pairing: Rhysand x Female Reader (Spring Court Reader/Tamlin's Sister)

Word Count: 8.4k +

TW: Talks of abuse, use of magic

As Tamlin's nearly unknown sister your life within the Spring Court is shrouded in secrecy. Tucked away from the public eye, you roam the silent corridors of the manor with your presence barely acknowledged. The manor's ancient stones, cool under your fingertips, are the closest companions in your secluded existence. Each day bleeds into the next marked only by your secret practice of magic in the hidden corners of the lush gardens where the wildflowers refuse to be tamed.

Tamlin had his reasons for keeping you a secret though they were rooted in a misguided sense of protection and control rather than genuine care. From the moment you were born your existence was cloaked in secrecy. Tamlin was always wary of political machinations and potential threats from rival courts. He believed that hiding your presence would keep you safe from those who might seek to leverage you against him. As you grew older this excuse became a method to maintain control by suppressing any threat your emerging powers might pose to his authority.

Whenever important guests visited the Spring Court Tamlin would go to great lengths to conceal your existence. Often you were confined to the secluded parts of the manor. Your movements restricted. Your voice silenced. These actions weren't just physically isolating. They were deeply wounding, reinforcing a sense of imprisonment. Over time you learned that resistance was futile. After a century of struggling against Tamlin’s overpowering magic, a magic that you could never hope to match due to your suppressed knowledge and training, you ceased fighting back. Your spirit, dimmed by isolation and the relentless dampening of your will, began to fade.

Despite all this you’ve learned to cloak your discontent with a veneer of obedience by teaching yourself the subtle arts of magic from fragments of ancient texts and whispers of the wind. Each spell you cast is a silent rebellion against the isolation imposed upon you. It wasn’t much but it certainly was something.

Meanwhile, Rhysand had always felt an inexplicable pull towards the Spring Court. This sensation was particularly strong whenever he visited Tamlin's lands. Each step within its borders intensified a feeling of latent connection. A thread of destiny that seemed to tug at his very soul. For years he couldn't decipher this feeling instead attributing it to political tensions or his natural distrust of Tamlin. However, he knew the sensation was far deeper. He just didn’t know he was connected to the bond that lay dormant between him and you waiting for the right moment to awaken.

This mysterious pull was part of the mating bond that neither of you were aware of yet. Rhysand’s visits to the Spring Court were unknowingly steps towards his destiny, towards you. His soul recognized what his mind could not yet understand. That his mate was hidden within the very walls of the Spring Court suppressed under Tamlin’s rule. It was a bond that defied explanation, woven by the threads of fate, magic, and a longing that transcended Rhysand's conscious understanding.

The monotony of your hidden life breaks when Feyre returns from Under the Mountain, changed. No longer the mortal girl who once crossed into the fae lands she now carries the weight of her new immortal form along with the haunting shadows of her trials. Initially your interactions are tentative. The air between you charged with the unsaid. However, as time weaves its slow dance you find in her a kindred spirit. Another soul chafing against the constraints of Tamlin’s overprotective nature.

Under the cover of night where the moon casts silver slivers through the windowpanes you and Feyre meet quietly. There in the tranquility of darkness, you share fragments of your lives. Your years spent hidden within these walls and her days under the mountain and the heavy price of her return. Each story shared tightens the thread of understanding between you.

In these stolen moments you reveal to Feyre the secret magic you’ve nurtured. Her eyes, reflecting the glow of your spells, flicker with a mix of surprise and a burgeoning sense of solidarity. Encouraged by her interest you find the courage to dream of more than just secretive practices. Together you whisper of freedom and plot beneath the starry sky. Your magic mingling with her newfound strength.

Tamlin had cast a powerful and intricate spell around the manor. Not just as a means of protection from external threats but also as a method of control over those within its walls. This spell was multi-layered, designed to enforce Tamlin's rule and suppress any dissent. For you it was a tangible manifestation of your confinement. An ever-present force that limited your movements and dampened your inherent magical abilities.

The spell was woven into the very foundations of the manor. Invisible yet oppressively palpable. It acted as a barrier not just against physical entry but against magical influence from outside. And crucially it curbed the magical potential of those it enclosed. For someone like you whose powers had been stifled and knowledge kept minimal the spell represented a severe handicap. A chain around the very essence of your being.

On a stormy night, you and Feyre found yourselves poring over ancient texts and forbidden scrolls. These documents were hidden away in the darkest corners of the library and contained arcane knowledge that Tamlin had likely never intended for you to find. They spoke of old magic, powerful and untamed, the kind that could potentially unravel the complex web of spells Tamlin had cast.

The air in the library was heavy with the scent of old parchment and an undercurrent of desperation. Each incantation you attempted, every ritual you performed to try and dismantle Tamlin’s barriers, drained you more profoundly than the last. The magical exertion pulled at the very essence of your being. Proof to the spell's strength and your own nascent powers trying to break free.

Feyre who was transformed and strengthened by her ordeal under the mountain was exactly what you needed beside you. She lent her newfound powers to your cause. Yet, as the night unfolded and the storm outside mirrored the tumult within her concern for you deepened. She saw the physical and magical toll the efforts took on you. The color draining from your face. Your hands trembling with the strain. But still, you wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up.

Despite the risk the need to break free from the suffocating constraints of Tamlin’s spell pushed you both forward. It wasn't just about escape. It was about reclaiming your right to autonomy, to magic, to life itself. The friendship that grew between you and Feyre was cemented not just by shared secrets but by this mutual struggle for liberation. A struggle against the literal and figurative walls that Tamlin had erected around you.

As dawn approached with the storm still raging outside you and Feyre reached a critical point in your efforts. A breakthrough seemed tantalizingly within reach. The words on the ancient scrolls beginning to resonate with the energy you both channeled. The walls of the manor groaned under the pressure of your combined powers. A sure sign that Tamlin's spell was finally beginning to falter.

Determined to break the oppressive chains once and for all you both head into the heart of the storm where the barrier's energy pulses strongest. The rain beats down mercilessly mingling with the energy of your combined spell. A desperate, powerful incantation aimed at shattering the bonds. The backlash is swift and fierce. A surge of raw, antagonistic energy from the barrier meets your spell head-on. The impact is like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs and sending sharp tendrils of pain coursing through your veins. The world tilts dangerously with your vision narrowing.

Feyre grips your hands as her own powers flared around you both in a protective embrace. "We can do this, Y/N, just a bit more—"

But her encouragement turns to a scream of horror as your legs give out completely. Your strength finally failing. As you collapse into her arms, your consciousness fading, her fear peaks. "No! Y/N, no, stay with me, please!" The raw panic in her voice is palpable. Her plea filled with a primal terror that she cannot contain. Her scream is not just vocal. It's a surge of emotional energy that travels through the bargain she shares with Rhysand.

At that moment, in the distant Night Court, Rhysand feels a jolt. A sharp, unbidden intrusion into his thoughts. Feyre’s voice was distorted by panic and edged with despair, echoes in his mind. "No! Y/N, no, stay with me, please!" The words hit him with the force of a physical blow. His heart races. His instincts scream. Without a second thought he’s on his feet. The protective and commanding part of him taking over. Mor sensed the urgency. She looks up from her work with alarm spreading across her face.

"We need to go to the Spring Court. We must go now." Rhysand barks out. His voice brooking no argument. He can't explain how he knows only that the terror in Feyre's voice has triggered something primal in him. Something fiercely protective. As he and Mor prepare to leave Rhysand's mind races with possibilities. His worry mounting with each passing second. The bargain was not one of mates but has acted as a lifeline in this critical moment. He is driven by a deep-seated need to respond, to protect, to arrive in time.

In the dim light of the storm-lashed evening back in the confines of the Spring Court, Feyre cradled you against her as her arms forming a protective barrier against the unrelenting winds and rain that battered the walls of the manor. The spells that Tamlin had woven around the estate groaned under the strain, resonating with the fury of the storm.

As you lay there nearly depleted by your attempts to break through Tamlin’s magical barriers you found every breath to be a battle. Feyre leaned close. Her voice barely audible above the howl of the wind. "Help is coming, Y/N. Just hold on. Please, hold on." Her words were infused with a mixture of determination and desperation. A fervent plea cast into the chaos of the night.

Despite her assurances you knew that Feyre had no way of knowing if help would truly come. She wasn't versed in the intricacies of the bargain she made, nor did she understand the silent, unseen forces that might be at play beyond the reach of Tamlin’s spells. Her faith was not based on certainty but on hope. A hope that Rhysand was somehow attuned to the peril you faced and would sense your need and find a way to breach the seemingly impenetrable defenses of the Spring Court.

As the minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the storm outside seemed to mirror the tumult of your emotions. With every gust of wind, with every crack of thunder, you felt the edges of your resolve fray. Yet with Feyre’s presence and her unwavering support it fortified you. Together you were wrapped in the scant warmth her body provided against the chill of the rain. You waited silently hoping.

Feyre continued to whisper into the storm. Words of encouragement and silent prayers mingled with the rain reaching out into the night as if the very force of her will could summon the help you so desperately needed.

As Rhysand and Mor race through the turbulent night sky the urgency of Feyre's distress call pulses within Rhysand. However, the formidable magical barrier erected by Tamlin at the Spring Court looms as a daunting obstacle. As they approach the boundary Rhysand's expression turns contemplative knowing they must penetrate the shield without triggering a violent magical backlash that could harm those inside.

"We can't just break through. It could harm them," Rhysand says. His thoughts on Feyre and the unknown others who might be caught in Tamlin’s protective snare. He suspects there are more secrets hidden within the Spring Court than Feyre alone.

Mor nods before pointing towards a section of the barrier shimmering less steadily than the rest—a weak point. "Here, let me," she offers, her hands glowing with a soft, probing light.

Together, they carefully manipulate the energies. Mor’s magic coaxing the threads of the barrier apart while Rhysand supports and stabilizes the surrounding spells to prevent a sudden collapse. The barrier relents under their skilled hands. Parting just enough to allow them a silent passage.

Once inside they quickly make their way towards the garden guided by the unerring pull of Rhysand's intuition, which grows stronger with each step. The night air is heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the lingering traces of magic.

There, under an ancient oak, they find you lying in Feyre's protective embrace. Your appearance is startling to Rhysand. You were someone he's heard of but never met. A whispered secret of the Spring Court. Feyre’s eyes were wide with fear and relief. She meets their stares as they approach.

Rhysand’s initial intent to aid Feyre shifts as he catches your gaze. Something profound stirs within him as your eyes lock. There’s an unexpected jolt. A powerful surge of protectiveness that grips him. His knees nearly buckle under the sudden intensity of the emotion. His breath catching in his throat. The connection is unexpected, overwhelming, and in that moment, the significance of your presence begins to dawn on him.

"We will get you both out of here," Rhysand finds himself saying, the words carrying a weight he hadn't anticipated. His voice is gentle. Meant to reassure as he reaches out to steady you. His own magic instinctively flaring to envelop you in a warm, healing glow.

The touch confirms what his heart has already started to suspect. The mating bond, still new and unexplored, thrums with a rightness that transcends his understanding. It’s only when he helps lift you, his arms secure around you, that the realization fully settles in… his fate is irrevocably tied to yours.

With Mor and Feyre's assistance they carefully navigate back through the garden. Rhysand carrying you with an ease that belies the turmoil brewing within him. Each step back through the breach in the barrier is a step towards a new unknown, a journey he hadn't planned but now cannot imagine avoiding. As they slip back into the night heading towards the sanctuary of the Night Court Rhysand is quiet. His thoughts a whirl of possibilities and new realities. Beside him Mor watches thoughtfully. She was acutely aware that the High Lord of the Night Court was about to embark on a profoundly personal journey.

The night was deep and still when Rhysand was abruptly torn from his sleep. A sharp, jarring pulse of panic surged through the bond—a connection still new and startling in its intensity. It was you, finally waking from your long, enforced slumber, and the raw fear that washed over him from your end of the bond had him on his feet before he fully registered moving.

His heart raced as he crossed the space between his private chambers and the room where you rested. The halls of his residence silent save for the quiet thud of his bare feet on the cool marble floor. The bond pulsed with each heartbeat guiding him directly to you underscoring the urgency of your distress with every step he took.

As Rhysand approached the door to your room, he paused, taking a deep breath to calm the storm of his emotions. He needed to be a presence of peace for you not one of turmoil. Gently pushing the door open he stepped inside. His eyes quickly adjusting to the low light that bathed the room in gentle silvers and blues.

There you were attempting to sit up, your movements clumsy with weakness and disorientation. The room's luxuriousness that meant to comfort seemed only to add to your confusion. You grasped at the sheets. Your breathing quick and shallow as if the soft fabrics were the only things tethering you to reality.

Rhysand’s heart clenched at the sight. It was one thing to feel your panic through the bond, but quite another to see it etched so clearly across your features. He approached slowly. His presence commanding yet gentle, stopping a respectful distance away to not overwhelm you. His deep-set eyes, usually a striking shade of violet were clouded with concern.

"It’s okay, you’re safe here," Rhysand said. His voice a soft yet firm anchor in the swirling uncertainty you felt. His relief at seeing you awake, even in such a state, was palpable in his tone. Despite the fear there was an underlying gratitude that you were finally conscious. That there was a beginning of recovery however fraught it might be. "You're in Velaris, the heart of the Night Court." He adds hopping to provide you some comfort.

"Velaris?" you repeat. The name unfamiliar and puzzling. You squint at him trying to place the city that sounds more like a myth than reality.

"Yes, Velaris," he continues noting your confusion. "It's a city unlike any in the fae realms, hidden and protected by powerful spells. It's a place of peace and freedom. It is far from the reach of those who would impose their will unjustly." His voice holds a note of pride when he speaks of the city, and his explanation paints a picture of a safe haven. A contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the Spring Court.

Seeing your slightly eased expression he decided to introduce himself, "I'm Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court." He keeps his tone even giving you space to process the flood of new information. "You were very ill, so we brought you here to recover. Tamlin cannot reach you here. Our city's protections are strong."

His explanation about Tamlin brings a different kind of tightness to your chest—the fear of pursuit and retribution. Feeling and seeing your growing anxiety, Rhysand adds, "Tamlin has no power here. You and Feyre are both safe and you will always have a place in Velaris."

As Rhysand speaks of Velaris and its protections you find yourself momentarily comforted by his description of the city as a safe haven. Yet, another concern quickly surfaces, tugging at your thoughts with earnest sincerity.

"And Feyre?" you ask. Your voice carrying the weight of genuine worry. "Is she okay?" Your expression reveals the depth of your concern not just for your own situation but also for Feyre who had been entangled in your fate by association.

Rhysand’s expression softens further at your question. His smile tinged with a mix of admiration and surprise. He steps closer, his presence comforting rather than overwhelming. "She is doing well," he assures you, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze more directly. "Are you going to ask about everyone but yourself?" His tone is light and teasing yet it carries an undercurrent of deep respect for your altruism.

He finds it endearing how your first thoughts are for others even in your own time of uncertainty and recovery. It’s a trait he notes is incredibly sweet. Almost too kind for someone who grew up under Tamlin's strict and often harsh rule as his sister, no less.

A faint smile flickers across your face at Rhysand’s light teasing before it quickly fades. You glance away looking out over the vista that the Night Court offers feeling a sudden tightness in your chest. "I... it's just easier to worry about others," you murmur. Your voice barely above a whisper. The unfamiliar concern in his eyes makes you unexpectedly uncomfortable. A reminder of how long you've had to rely solely on yourself. You shift away slightly putting a small distance between you and Rhysand as if the space could help you regain some control. "I'm not used to being someone's concern," you add while keeping your gaze averted. "It feels strange I guess. Not having to fend for myself."

Your words hang in the air showing the walls you've built from years under Tamlin's rule. The Spring Court was a place where self-reliance wasn't just a trait but a necessity for survival. The vulnerability of relying on someone else, even someone as seemingly gentle as Rhysand, feels as foreign as the magical landscape of Velaris itself.

Rhysand senses a subtle shift in your emotions through the bond. A twinge of discomfort, a whisper of withdrawal. He understands too well the complexities of adjusting to new dynamics of care and concern. As you glance away he gives you a moment. He respects your need for space before responding himself.

With a slight adjustment in his stance, Rhysand maintains his gentle smile, hoping to ease the tension. "Feyre visits often," he begins, his voice soft, an attempt to gently steer the conversation towards a more comfortable topic. "She's taken quite well to her roles here. She worries about you too, you know," he adds trying to build a connection through your shared concern for Feyre.

His words bring a small comfort, and you nod to him feeling a thread of relief woven through the lingering disquiet. "That's good to hear," you murmur giving yourself a moment to absorb the reassurances about Feyre's well-being.

Rhysand watches you with a thoughtful expression appreciating the selflessness displayed in your first waking moments. "Now, let’s focus a bit on you," he suggests kindly. "You’ve been through a lot and while Velaris is safe… I imagine it's quite a lot to take in."

Rhysand's words wash over you and you pause to absorb them feeling both comforted and overwhelmed by his understanding. "It is a lot," you agree softly, your gaze drifting around the unfamiliar yet beautiful room. "Everything here is so different. So overwhelming but not in a bad way."

You take a deep breath making sure to gather your thoughts before continuing. "I appreciate the safety and the peace here, Rhysand. It's just... I'm still figuring out where I fit into all of this." Your voice is tentative, reflecting your uncertainty about the future.

Rhysand nods. His expression empathetic. "And that's perfectly okay," he reassures you gently. "Take all the time you need to feel comfortable. There’s no pressure for you to decide anything right now."

Feeling a mix of reassurance and nascent courage from his support you decide to push yourself a bit. Attempting to rise from the bed, your movements are unsteady. A reminder of the physical and emotional tolls from your past. You pause, placing a hand on the mattress to steady yourself.

Rhysand notices your struggle immediately. His sharp gaze softening with concern. "You shouldn't be on your feet just yet," he cautions with his voice gentle yet firm.

You steady yourself with a hand against the soft bedding and look up at him. Your eyes were wide and earnest, silently pleading for understanding before you voice your deep-seated longing. "Please, I've... I’ve never left the Spring Court. I wish to see what other courts look like."

The raw honesty in your words strikes Rhysand deeply. He hesitates aware of the physical contact you might need to stand and walk, yet also conscious of the trauma you’ve likely endured under Tamlin's watch. His heart clenches at the thought of your centuries-long confinement. A life that wasn’t meant to be spent caged within a single court's borders.

As you continue to gaze at him with a mix of hope and vulnerability in your eyes Rhysand's resolve softens. "Alright," he murmurs. His expression a mix of encouragement and a hint of sadness for your past suffering. He steps forward offering his arm for support being careful to let you decide the level of contact you're comfortable with.

When you gratefully accept his help you leant slightly into his strength. Rhysand carefully supports you, mindful of your frailty. As he guides you slowly around the room his mind races. He was appalled by the reality that you, centuries old, have been essentially a prisoner for just as long.

"We’ll start with Velaris," Rhysand says as you take tentative steps towards the balcony. "It’s beautiful this time of year. The city is alive with lights and the people are free. You'll see, it’s a world away from what you've known."

Your curiosity brightens your features as each small detail of the room you now notice seeming to intrigue you. Rhysand watches this small transformation with a protective fierceness settling in his chest. He makes a silent vow then, to not only show you the beauty of the Night Court but to gradually introduce you to the freedoms and wonders of each of the courts ensuring you experience everything you've been denied.

With each step you take leaning on Rhysand a surprising sense of security begins to wash over you. There’s an inexplicable comfort in his presence. A safety that seems to emanate from him directly. You can't quite pinpoint why he feels so safe, why every instinct isn’t screaming for you to run from the unknown. But as you lean more heavily against him while navigating through the unfamiliar room it felt right.

Rhysand notices the subtle shift in your demeanor. The slight relaxation in your posture as you trust him more with each tentative step. It’s a trust he doesn’t take lightly as he was acutely aware of the preciousness of it given your past. He guides you gently, ensuring each movement is steady and unhurried.

“Just a little further,” he encourages softly as you approach the grand doors leading to the balcony. As he pushes the doors open a gentle breeze wafts in carrying with it the unique scents of Velaris. The crisp, clean air mingled with distant sea salt and the vibrant aroma of night-blooming flowers.

You step onto the balcony and the view that unfolds before you steals your breath away. The city of Velaris stretches out beneath a sky littered with stars. Its buildings adorned with luminescent glyphs and streets alive with softly glowing lanterns. The Sidra River reflects the lights creating a sparkling path that leads to the heart of the city. Your eyes dart from spot to spot taking in the sight of sprawling bridges. From the artistic sculptures that line the walkways to the fae moving about with an ease and freedom so alien to what you’ve known. Everything is so vibrant, so vividly alive. It's like stepping into a dream.

Rhysand watches you. His expression a mix of pride and gentle amusement. “It’s a lot to take in,” he say as his voice is barely above a whisper not wanting to break the enchantment of the moment.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe out as your voice was filled with wonder. "I never imagined..." Your words trail off as you continue to soak in the sight, the reality of Velaris surpassing any tale or description of the Night Court you had ever heard in the Spring Court.

As you stand there, awestruck, Rhysand stands close. He was ready to offer support if needed but giving you space to experience this revelation on your own terms. There’s a warmth in his gaze. A certain softness when he looks at you, moved by your reaction, understanding just how transformative this moment is for you. “This is only a part of what the world has to offer,” Rhysand finally says, his voice low and encouraging. “And you’re free to explore all of it at your own pace. You’re not confined here, or anywhere anymore.”

As his words wash over you a new fear prickles at the edges of your newfound sense of wonder. "But Tamlin..." you start. His name a dark cloud threatening to overshadow the bright promise of freedom.

Rhysand’s reaction is immediate though. He shakes his head, cutting off your spiraling worry with a firmness that is both surprising and comforting. "Tamlin will never touch another hair on your head, darling. I will ensure it." His voice is resolute as it leaves no room for doubt. The sincerity in his tone and the warmth of his smile are reassuring, conveying a depth of commitment that makes you believe him. He’s telling the truth. You can feel it not just in his words but in the protective energy that seems to radiate from him.

As you stand there on the balcony looking out over the luminous city a confusion mingles with your gratitude. He is the High Lord of the Night Court. A figure of immense power and responsibility. Why would he extend such kindness, such personal assurance, to you? His station alone would suggest a detachment from individual affairs, yet here he is, offering not just his protection but his personal attention.

"Why?" The question escapes you before you can think better of it. Your gaze turning from the cityscape to meet his eyes. "Why would you do this for me? You're the High Lord, and yet..."

Rhysand’s expression softens understanding the root of your bewilderment. "Because everyone deserves freedom and safety," he begins, his gaze steady and earnest. "And because, despite my title I see no one as beneath my care. Especially not someone who has suffered as you have under such tyranny."

His words hint at a broader philosophy. One that governs his rule, a complete difference to the oppressive leadership of Tamlin. "Here in Velaris we protect our own and now that includes you. You’re not just under my protection because of duty but because I believe in a world where everyone has the right to choose their own path, free from fear."

His explanation resonates with you. The sincerity and conviction in his voice weaving a stronger thread of trust between you. The High Lord of the Night Court you realize is not just a ruler but a protector. He was guided by a compassion that perhaps defines his reign more than his power. As you absorb his words the city of Velaris seems to glow a little brighter. Its lights a hope of the promise Rhysand offers. A promise not just of shelter but of a life reclaimed and respected.

As Rhysand's words and the gentle sincerity behind them settle over you something shifts inside you. The fear that had been a constant companion starts to ebb away instead replaced by a sense of security you hadn’t felt in a very long time. Standing beside him, overlooking the luminous city of Velaris, you allow yourself a moment to truly take in his presence. A protector not just in title but in spirit.

The tension that had knotted your shoulders begins to unwind and without fully realizing it a small smile curves your lips. It's slight but it's the first genuine smile you’ve allowed yourself in what feels like centuries. "You know, my brother made you seem terrifying," you confess as the smile growing a bit as you speak. "You're anything but that though."

Rhysand catches the change in your expression and his eyes light up with amusement. In response he flashes you a devastatingly handsome smirk, one that's known to both unsettle and charm. "Did he now?" he says lowly. His voice laced with mock severity before it softens into warmth. "Perhaps I should be offended but coming from Tamlin I'll take it as a compliment."

His response was light and teasing. Spoken to ease the atmosphere, to let you know that it's okay to relax, to laugh, to feel safe. "Tamlin has always had a flair for the dramatic," Rhysand continues. His tone playful now. "But I hope that here in Velaris you’ll see me as I am. And perhaps find that the 'terrifying' High Lord of the Night Court can also be a friend." His words were spoken with a gentle candor and encourage a lighter heart. The warmth in his voice, the open invitation to view him as more than just a lord but as a person, deepens the budding trust and comfort you feel in his presence.

As the night air swirls around you carrying with it the vibrant energies of Velaris you find yourself more receptive to the idea of a new start. Rhysand with his easy charm and sincere protection seems not just a guardian but a companion on this journey of rediscovery. His ability to blend strength with kindness, authority with empathy, makes you believe that maybe, just maybe, you can truly start anew here.

"You make it sound almost easy," you reply. The smile now firmly in place, feeling more natural than it has for ages.

Rhysand's smirk softens into a genuine smile. "I'll do my best to make it feel that way," he assures you. "You’ve had enough of the hard path. It’s time for you to experience the peace you deserve."

In the weeks following your awakening Rhys had been a constant, reassuring presence by your side as you navigated the complexities of the Night Court. The city of Velaris had begun to feel less like a foreign land and more like a potential home. Rhys had carefully gauged when you might be ready to meet more people. He was intentionally keeping even his closest friends, Cassian and Azriel, at a distance to allow you time to adjust. He mentioned plans to introduce them soon ensuring that you felt comfortable with each new step.

During this time your days were filled with activities that gradually stitched you into the fabric of this new life. Rhys guided you through physical training sessions aiming to strengthen both your body and spirit. But it wasn’t all rigorous. You spent serene afternoons with Feyre, dabbling in painting. Despite your initial lack of skill Feyre was a patient teacher, encouraging every brushstroke. In exchange you helped her continue learning to read turning each session into a mutual exchange of growth and laughter.

It was a clear, crisp day in Velaris. The kind of day that made the light seem to dance off every surface, imbuing the world with a vivid sharpness. You were in the middle of a training session with Rhysand in one of the secluded gardens of the Night Court practicing your swordplay. The metal felt cool and heavy in your hands as it slowly became more familiar with each controlled swing and parry.

Rhys was ever the patient instructor. He watched and guided you, his instructions both precise and encouraging. As you moved to execute a particularly complex maneuver, something unexpected happened. Amidst the focus on your movements and the rhythm of the blades, a sudden surge of warmth blossomed deep within your chest radiating outwards like the morning sun cresting the horizon.

It was an intense, engulfing wave that seemed to momentarily still the world around you. The sensation was as if a veil had been lifted, connecting you to Rhysand in an indescribably profound way. It felt as though your very souls had reached out and intertwined creating a bond that pulsed with life and energy.

"What... what was that?" you gasped, lowering your sword as you looked up at Rhysand, your heart pounding not from exertion but from the shock of the unexpected connection. The air between you seemed charged, heavy with a significance that you struggled to comprehend.

Rhysand’s eyes met yours with a spark of recognition and perhaps something akin to relief flashing across his features. His stance softened, and the world seemed to resume its usual pace, but the atmosphere remained changed. It was thick with the newfound awareness between you.

"That," Rhysand said softly. His voice steady yet filled with a warmth that echoed the sensation in your chest, "was the mating bond. It's rare, profound. A connection of souls that can occur between two individuals. It seems it has chosen to manifest between us now."

His words sank in, each one laden with meaning as you tried to process the enormity of what had just occurred. The bond, this deep and intrinsic link, had unveiled itself without warning. It aligned you with Rhysand in a way that went beyond mere physical presence or shared goals. It was as if a part of you had known him, deeply and irrevocably, for much longer than you physically had.

The weight of his confession hung in the air. Heavy with the realization of how deeply the bond affected him from the very beginning. “You mean, we’re..." you started, the reality of his words slowly sinking in.

"Mates," Rhysand confirmed gently. "Yes. And while that might mean many things, know this—you're not bound by it against your will. We can explore what it means together, at your pace." The reassurance in his words allowed you to smile, feeling a genuine connection to the path unfolding before you. The bond was no longer just an abstract force. It was a tangible link between your present recovery and a future filled with possibilities.

Rhysand watched you with something akin to awe as you carefully practiced the sword techniques he had shown you. "We have all the time in the world," he said softly. His eyes never leaving yours. "There's no rush. You’re safe here, with me, with us, in Velaris."

His words seemed to only deepen the stir of emotions within you. Pausing, the sword momentarily forgotten in your hand, you met his gaze, vulnerability shadowing your features. "And... are you okay with that? A bond with me of all people?" Your voice was tinged with disbelief as though the very idea of someone like Rhysand being tied to you was something unfathomable.

The sadness that flickered across Rhysand’s face was swift, a passing cloud on a sunny day, but it was enough to reveal the depth of his feelings. He set aside his own weapon and stepped closer with his expression turning earnest. "I can't think of anything I'd want more," he said quietly while reaching for your hand to provide a tangible reassurance. "These past few weeks of getting to know you, seeing your strength and your kindness. It's not just the bond that makes me feel this way. I... I already care about you, deeply."

His confession hung in the air between you, sincere and heartfelt. The way he looked at you in that moment, his eyes filled with a gentle intensity, made it clear that his words were not merely spoken out of obligation or a sense of duty that the bond might impose. They were rooted in genuine affection and respect for the person you were.

Rhysand gently squeezed your hand, his touch warm and encouraging. "I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have this bond with you," he continued with a soft smile touching his lips as he tried to alleviate the heavy atmosphere. "You're remarkable darling. And yes, I am more than okay with it. I’m grateful."

His reassurance was spoken with such candor and helped ease some of the uncertainty that weighed on you. The bond was once a source of confusion and a reminder of your past constraints but began to feel more like a gift. An unexpected but precious connection to someone who not only promised safety but offered understanding and companionship.

As Rhysand released your hand and stepped back, giving you the space to process his heartfelt words, a sense of warmth unfurled within you. The weight of uncertainties began to lift replaced by a burgeoning sense of connection to this man who was both your protector and, unexpectedly, your confidant.

Mirroring the soft smile that graced Rhysand's lips you found the courage to voice your own budding feelings, simple yet profound. "I like you too, Rhysand," you said. Your voice carrying a tender sincerity that made his smile widen. "More than I thought I would." The admission was shy, sweet. A genuine acknowledgment of the bond growing between you both not just magically but emotionally.

His eyes lit up with a mixture of relief and happiness. The atmosphere around you charged with a gentle, joyful energy. The training session resumed but now there was a lightness to your movements. A reflection of the ease settling in your heart. The conversation with Rhysand, though brief, lingered in your mind like a cherished melody. It was a powerful reminder of the new beginnings and genuine connections now possible in your life with Rhysand and the Night Court. A life that was slowly but surely becoming your own.

As you navigated through each day your confidence grew and the tapestry of your new life in Velaris began to weave itself more vividly. Each encounter, each lesson with Rhysand, and every quiet moment spent under the stars of the Night Court fortified your sense of belonging. These experiences were threads in a vibrant, ever-expanding fabric, each one adding strength and color to your life.

One evening as you stood beside Rhysand on the quiet sanctuary of your favorite balcony overlooking Velaris, you felt a calm certainty settle over you. Below, the city sparkled. A tapestry of light and life that seemed to pulse with the same vibrant energy that now flowed through your veins. Rhysand's gaze was fixed on the horizon, the soft glow of the city lights casting shadows across his strong features when you turned to him ready to voice the thoughts that had been crystallizing in your mind.

"You know," you began. Your voice steady and clear, "I've spent a lot of time thinking about what all of this means. The mating bond, this new life, everything."

Rhysand turned to you with his expression open and attentive. The bond between you hummed softly. It was a growing and comforting presence at the back of your mind.

"I've realized that this bond... it's not just a tie to you. It's a connection to myself. To a life I didn't think was possible," you continued. The words flowing more freely than you expected. "I accept it, Rhysand. Not just accept it… I'm grateful for it. For you."

A slow smile spread across Rhysand's face. That beautiful smile you were slowly coming to cherish. "I can't tell you what it means to hear you say that," he said as his voice was thick with emotion. "You've become a part of this world. A part of my world in a way I always hoped but never dared to expect."

Encouraged by your acceptance and the growth you had shown Rhys felt that the time was right for a significant next step. As the days progressed and you continued to integrate more deeply into the fabric of the Night Court he planned an upcoming evening that would mark a new chapter in your life. The occasion was chosen with care. Not rushed but timed perfectly to coincide with your readiness to meet new faces and embrace the wider community of the Night Court. It was a testament to your journey thus far and a celebration of the future you were building together.

With the day finally set, a gentle breeze whispering promises through the halls, the stars above Velaris began to unveil themselves in the twilight sky. The air was charged with a sense of anticipation. Rhysand who was usually the epitome of composure carried a subtle excitement mixed with nerves as he prepared to introduce you to Cassian, Azriel, and the rest of the Inner Circle. This evening was not just another night. It was a milestone, a true celebration of your integration into his world and the bonds you would soon form with those closest to him.

You had spent the afternoon with Feyre who had helped you select a gown for the evening. The dress was a deep shade of midnight blue and adorned with silver threads that mimicked the starlit sky of Velaris. It perfectly embodied the essence of the Night Court. As you descended the grand staircase the gown flowed around you like a night shadow brought to life.

At the base of the steps Rhysand waited. His usual composure shaken as he caught sight of you. The world seemed to pause, his breath caught in his throat, his heart raced rapidly. There, in the soft glow of the House of Wind you looked not just a part of the Night Court but as if you were its very spirit. The realization that you were his mate, utterly beautiful and resplendent in the regalia of his court, struck him with renewed force.

Rhysand who was ever mindful of the boundaries and comfort of those around him had been particularly cautious about not overwhelming you with the intimate connection that mind-speaking entails. Despite this, the sight of you this evening descending the grand staircase dressed for the event was simply too much for him to resist. The gown you wore reflected the starlit sky of Velaris and accentuated your presence. It made you seem as ethereal as the city itself. Overcome with admiration, he reached out with his mind. "You look breathtaking, darling," his voice echoed in your thoughts for the first time in a while, startling you slightly with its warmth and closeness.

The mental whisper drew a surprised laugh from you. A sound that delighted him to no end. Rhysand's smile broadened. His eyes twinkling with mischief as he observed your reaction. "I see we still need to work on your shields, won't we?" he added playfully. His tone warm and teasing. It was moments like these he cherished deeply. Ones that always kept you on your toes. A trait you’d come to love about him.

Blushing slightly at the intimacy of his mental caress you couldn't help but respond in kind. Your newfound boldness surprising even yourself. "Perhaps I left them down on purpose Rhysand," you flirted back. Your mental voice a soft murmur that only he could hear.

Rhysand’s eyebrows shot up in amused surprise. A rich laugh escaping him that resonated deeply in the space around you. "Is that so? Well, in that case, I might have to keep complimenting you just to see what else you intentionally leave unguarded," he teased back, the affection in his voice unmistakable.

His impulsive act, born from a burst of admiration, turned into a playful exchange that highlighted the growing ease and affection between you. Rhysand quickly added sensing your enjoyment yet still cautious of overstepping, "Apologies if that was too much, but seeing you tonight, I couldn't help myself."

This flirty banter, interwoven with moments of laughter and shared glances, underscored the deepening connection between you both. Even as Rhys continued to respect your boundaries. He also found joy in these light-hearted exchanges, each one building upon the last. You couldn't help but smile, feeling a mix of amusement and warmth from his words. This gentle mental whisper was another sign of how your relationship with Rhysand was deepening, weaving together both profound moments and light-hearted banter.

As you reached the bottom of the stairs Rhysand gently took your hand helping you to navigate the last step. His presence was comforting and his proximity a reminder of how much had changed between you. The grandeur of the staircase faded into the background as you focused solely on him.

You couldn't help the smile that danced across your lips, nor the lightness in your heart from his words. "No need to apologize, Rhys," you responded. Your voice a blend of amusement and reassurance. "I quite liked it. It's... nice, hearing your thoughts sometimes."

"We’ll make quite the team, you and I," Rhysand said, his voice now audible. A soft yet clear tone that carried through the grand space. "With or without your shields up, darling."

The playful banter that had begun in the privacy of your minds seamlessly flowed into the verbal exchange adding layers to your communication and highlighting the ease and comfort developing between you both. As you looked up into his eyes, still sparkling with that same affectionate mischief, you felt that profound connection. The bond was not just magical but deeply personal, spanning the quiet thoughts shared in whispers and the words spoken in the open.

This moment, under the soft lights and the eyes of the Night Court, solidified something essential between you and Rhysand. A partnership built on mutual respect, affection, and a delightful undercurrent of flirtation that promised many more such exchanges in the days to come.

Rhysand led you through the lush, starlit gardens of the Night Court where Cassian, Azriel, and others from the Inner Circle awaited. As you approached the atmosphere was charged with an understated anticipation. Both Cassian and Azriel rose to greet you both their expressions blending curiosity and respect.

Cassian's greeting was robust yet heartfelt. "Rhys didn't prepare us for someone quite so captivating," he remarked with a friendly nod. His tone genuine and devoid of any overstatement. His smile was infectious. He quickly added in a more casual tone, "And I hear you're as quick-witted as you are graceful. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Azriel who Rhys described as more reserved offered a calm nod. His deep-set eyes thoughtful as he assessed you with a discerning gaze. "Welcome to the Night Court," he said. His voice soft yet carrying a warmth that invited trust. During the evening as you engaged in a discussion about the strategic intricacies of the court’s defenses Azriel's respect visibly deepened. Later, he quietly shared with Rhysand, "She has a keen sense for the nuances of strategy. You've chosen well. She’s not just impressive in demeanor but in intellect."

Throughout the evening laughter and substantive conversations filled the garden. Cassian's heartier chuckles complemented your more measured humor. While Azriel engaged you with discussions that tested your insight into the court’s history and its future.

Rhysand watched these exchanges with a sense of deep satisfaction. The way you engaged with his friends. Not just with politeness but with a genuine interest and understanding solidified your place among them. Cassian’s easy camaraderie and Azriel’s quiet approval spoke volumes of their acceptance.

As the night progressed under the expansive, star-filled sky of Velaris your initial sense of being an outsider slowly dissipated. You found yourself woven into the evening’s tapestry as seamlessly as the shadows melded into the night. Each shared story, each moment of laughter, helped stitch you further into the fabric of this vibrant community.

Standing there among new friends you experienced yet another profound shift within. With Rhysand at your side and the bond between you growing stronger by the day you realized you had discovered much more than a haven. You had found a new family, a purpose, and a place where you truly belonged. The night ended not just with a feeling of contentment but with a renewed sense of anticipation for the future.

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ghostlynightpanda · 13 days ago

Note

Can you write something fluffy for Tendou? Maybe how you met and how he fell for you or something? I don't really care much what, just lots of fluff please <33

Guess My Feelings

A/N: Thank you for the request! I love writing for Tendou—he's my favorite character—so this was really fun!

synopsis: You transfer to Shiratorizawa in your third year and become the volleyball team's manager, quickly catching the eye of a certain redheaded middle blocker — and just as swiftly as you win his attention, he quietly steals your heart in return.

content/warning: Tendou Satori x fem!reader, fluff, 8.396 words

You stood at the front door of Shiratorizawa Academy, your new uniform still stiff with unfamiliarity and the morning sun casting long shadows across the campus courtyard. It was early spring—cherry blossoms just starting to bloom—and everything felt too big. Too clean. Too new.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and took a slow breath. Third year of high school... new school... new city... new everything. You hadn't expected to transfer for your final year, but life had a way of doing its own thing. Your father's new job had been a great opportunity—"one we couldn't pass up," your mom had said. And Shiratorizawa was a prestigious school, known for its academics, sports, and somewhat intimidating reputation.

So here you were. Starting over.

You navigated the wide hallways, passing students who were already forming their usual cliques. You caught a few curious glances—being new was like wearing a sign on your back—but for the most part, everyone seemed wrapped up in their own lives. That suited you fine. You'd settle in at your own pace.

After orientation, you found yourself wandering the school grounds during lunch, enjoying the crisp breeze and trying to get a feel for your new surroundings. You were just rounding a corner by the athletic wing when you heard it.

"Still no manager for the boys' volleyball team?" a girl's voice floated out from a bench where three girls sat with packed lunches.

"Nope. I mean, would you volunteer to work under Coach Washijo?" another replied, her face scrunched in mock horror.

"Ugh, no way. I heard he made a first-year cry just for misplacing a water bottle."

"And the team's scary too, right? Like... not mean, but intense. No thank you."

You slowed down unconsciously, your ears perking up. Volleyball team. No manager?

Your fingers itched with instinct—familiar, almost nostalgic. At your old school, you'd been the team manager for two years. You loved it. The rhythm of practices, the responsibility, the tiny details that made things run smoothly. Being part of a team, even from the sidelines, had always felt like home.

The thought sparked something in your chest.

After lunch, your curiosity was officially impossible to ignore. The rest of the day passed in a blur—introductions, class overviews, and polite smiles from classmates—but in the back of your mind, one thought kept looping:

Volleyball team. No manager. Coach is scary. Doesn't matter—I want in.

By the time the final bell rang, you had a plan.

You packed up your things slowly, casually turning to the girl sitting beside you. She'd been friendly during roll call and even pointed out the nearest vending machine earlier.

"Hey," you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "Do you happen to know who I could talk to about the volleyball team?"

She blinked, surprised. "You mean… joining the team?"

You chuckled softly. "Not as a player. I used to be the manager at my old school. I heard they don't have one here."

Her eyebrows lifted, clearly impressed or maybe just intrigued. "Wow. Brave of you." Then she glanced around. "Actually… you're in luck. One of the players is in this class."

Your heart skipped. "Really?"

She leaned closer, lowering her voice slightly. "His name's Soekawa. He's the vice captain. Quiet, but nice enough. That's him over there—see? By the window."

You followed her gaze to a tall, broad-shouldered boy with shaggy brown hair and a calm, serious expression. He was halfway through packing up, earbuds already in, head tilted slightly to the side as if lost in thought.

"Thank you," you said quickly, feeling your nerves stir.

You walked over before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Hi," you said, stopping a short distance away.

Soekawa looked up, pulling out one earbud. His eyes were calm, neutral.

"I'm sorry to bother you," you began. "I'm new here—today was my first day, actually—and I heard the volleyball team doesn't have a manager. I used to manage at my old school, and I was wondering… if you could tell me who I should talk to?"

There was a beat of silence. His expression didn't change much, but his gaze sharpened slightly, assessing.

"You managed a team before?" he asked, voice even.

You nodded. "For almost two years. Practice schedules, hydration, warm-up routines, keeping track of stats mid-match."

He gave a thoughtful hum, standing up fully. He was even taller than he looked seated. "Coach Washijo's really strict. Most people don't last five minutes around him."

"I can handle strict," you replied with a small smile. "I'm used to high expectations."

He actually looked impressed at that, just a flicker. "I'm Soekawa. Vice captain."

"I'm Y/N. Nice to meet you."

He gave a short nod. "If you're serious, I'll let the coach know. He'll probably want to meet you first."

"That's all I ask."

He looked at you for another moment—measuring your confidence, maybe—but finally gave another nod, this one slower.

"Be at the gym tomorrow after classes. I'll talk to him before practice."

You smiled, grateful and already feeling the thrill of reentering a world you'd missed.

"Thank you. I'll be there."

You showed up at the gym ten minutes early, nerves fluttering in your chest like restless birds. The sharp sound of volleyballs hitting hardwood echoed from inside. You stepped into the open doorway and waited quietly at the edge of the court, observing the tall players warming up and stretching with practiced focus. Their movements were precise, almost mechanical. No wasted energy.

Soekawa spotted you quickly. He jogged over, towel around his neck, and nodded toward the building between the gym and school.

"He's in the office. I told him you were coming."

You gave him a grateful nod and walked toward the room, following the short description Soekawa had given you. Your knuckles tapped gently on the open door.

"Come in," came a gruff, gravelly voice.

You stepped inside.

Coach Washijo sat at his desk, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable under bushy brows. He looked exactly as you imagined: stern, compact, intense. His eyes locked onto yours immediately, sizing you up.

"So," he said. "You want to be the team's manager?"

"Yes, sir," you answered, hands calmly at your sides.

"You understand this isn't a club of amateurs, don't you?" he asked, leaning slightly forward. "Shiratorizawa's volleyball team is not just some after-school hobby. We don't run around for fun here."

"I understand."

"Our team captain—Ushijima Wakatoshi—is one of the top three aces in the country," he said with clear pride. "National-level talent. Do you grasp what that means?"

You nodded. "That you play—and train—at a national level. That the expectations are just as high for everyone, even those supporting from the sidelines."

Washijo studied your face.

"I don't allow dead weight on this team. If you're not diligent, precise, and reliable, you'll be gone by the end of the week."

"I'm not afraid of hard work," you said evenly. "I'm serious about this. I know what it takes to support a team like this."

He narrowed his eyes slightly. "What makes you so sure?"

"I was the manager for Itachiyama Institute before I transferred here," you said simply.

That made him blink. It was subtle, but there was no missing the shift in his expression.

"…Itachiyama, huh?"

"Yes. I worked closely with the team. Organized their travel for last summer's training camp, too. I know what kind of discipline is required. I know how to handle players at a high level."

"Sakusa Kiyoomi's team," Washijo muttered, more to himself than to you. He leaned back in his chair, arms still crossed but less rigid now. "That boy's one of the top three aces too. Only a second year."

You waited, saying nothing more. Letting your resume speak for itself.

After a long moment, he exhaled, almost like a growl.

"Fine. You'll start on probation."

Your heart jumped, but you kept your face calm.

"You'll show up fifteen minutes before every practice, stay until everything's packed, and listen to my instructions the first time. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't make me regret this," he muttered, already reaching for a clipboard.

"I won't."

As you left the office, you spotted Soekawa just outside the gym. He caught your eye, and you gave him a short nod.

You were in.

Not officially.

But almost.

You arrived at the gym fifteen minutes early, nerves tightly wound beneath your composed expression. The polished wood floor reflected the overhead lights, and the air was already heavy with the faint smell of sweat and determination. You had the distinct feeling that something important was about to begin.

Coach Washijo was already there, arms crossed and eyes sharp as ever. He gestured for you to stand beside him near the center of the court. You caught a few glances from players stretching or warming up—brief, curious, sizing you up.

Once most of the team had gathered, he raised his voice.

"Listen up."

Conversations died instantly. All eyes turned forward.

"This is Y/N," he announced, nodding to you. "She'll be acting as our team manager—on probation—until she proves she's worth keeping."

You smiled politely, bowing slightly. "It's nice to meet all of you. I'm looking forward to working with you."

There was a beat of silence—nothing unfriendly, just the kind of quiet that came with high expectations.

"Try not to make her job harder than it already is," Washijo added, voice gruff. Then he turned to you. "You can set up over there by the bench. Practice starts in five."

You nodded and moved quickly, already settling into the routine. Occasional glances came your way—nothing harsh, just curious. After all, you were the newcomer.

But you weren't here to be timid.

This was your world, too.

You started prepping water bottles, lining them up neatly near the bench. Every action had purpose, efficiency. Still, you couldn't help but notice how even the jokes were whispered—muted smiles exchanged behind shoulders, quiet chuckles that never reached Coach Washijo's ears.

You glanced toward the far end of the gym. The coach stood near the net, arms behind his back, eyes like a hawk's. Every time he looked in someone's direction, backs straightened. Conversations died.

Whoa. You'd expected intensity, but this was another level.

They ran drills like machines. Serves, receives, spikes—flawless execution, timed down to the second. And yet, something about it didn't quite sit right. You'd worked with a top-level team before. You knew the difference between focused and tense.

Then, somewhere near the midpoint of practice, the spell broke—just a little.

Coach Washijo stepped out of the gym for a moment, grumbling something about reviewing footage. The moment the door clicked behind him, you saw it.

Shirabu let out a breath and rolled his eyes in exaggerated exhaustion. Kawanishi muttered something sarcastic under his breath, and Goshiki —the only first year to be on the official team — finally relaxed his death-grip on the ball.

And then… laughter. Small and easy.

Semi grinned at someone. You turned to look and—

"Oi oi, you missed that by a mile!" a voice called, full of mock horror and delight.

You spotted the speaker instantly: tall, lanky, with red hair and a sharp grin that didn't seem to leave his face. He was draped over the bench like he had no bones, waving dramatically at Goshiki, who had just messed up a serve.

"Tendou," someone warned with a snort.

"You're breaking the spell," Semi added, amused but tired.

"Spell?" Tendou replied innocently. "I'm just trying to revive the boy's spirit before Coach turns him into a statue."

The mood in the gym shifted. Lighter. More human.

You watched with subtle fascination as the tension drained from the team—just slightly—but enough that you saw it: beneath the hard edges and intense drills, they were still just boys. Young men chasing the dream of winning. Friends, teammates, rivals.

They're not machines after all, you thought with a small smile. Just really, really good at pretending they are when the coach is around.

There was one exception.

Ushijima Wakatoshi.

You tried not to stare, but it was impossible to ignore him. Every movement was purposeful, calm. His expression didn't change—at all. You weren't sure he could laugh, much less joke around like the others.

Even when Tendou clapped him on the back with a teasing, "Wakatoshi-kun, loosen up! You look like you're at a funeral," the tall ace didn't so much as blink.

A brick wall. Completely unreadable.

You mentally filed him under "TBD"—for now.

Still, as you handed a towel to one of the players and accepted a quick thank-you in return, you felt it: the shift. You weren't invisible. They had noticed you. And they weren't just intimidating athletes with perfect spikes.

They were a team.

And maybe, if you proved yourself, you could become part of it.

The sharp whistle echoed through the gym one last time as Coach Washijo called an end to practice.

You exhaled quietly, not realizing just how long you'd been holding your breath. The players bowed quickly, murmured their thanks, and immediately shifted into cool-down mode. The once-mechanical atmosphere softened again, conversation resuming now that the coach had retreated to his office.

You stayed in your corner, wiping your hands on a towel and beginning to gather the water bottles. You were about to carry them toward the cart when you noticed someone walking over.

It was Soekawa.

"You doing okay?" he asked, his voice quieter than during your earlier conversation. "That was a pretty intense first day."

You blinked, a little surprised by the gesture. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's definitely different from my last school, but not in a bad way. Just… more structured. Serious."

He nodded, the smallest flicker of a smile on his lips. "That's one way to put it."

Then he turned, clearly satisfied with your answer. "Glad to hear it. Let me know if you need anything," he added, and then jogged off toward the locker rooms with the ease of someone who'd already said everything that needed to be said.

You were just about to turn back to your cleanup when you noticed another presence nearby—less businesslike, more… curious.

"Tired yet?" came a voice, bright and sly.

You looked up.

Tendou.

He leaned casually against a ball cart, watching you with unmistakable interest, red hair slightly damp with sweat and a grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm okay," you replied, trying to match his energy—though something about the way he tilted his head made you feel a little like he was trying to read you.

"So," he said, drawing out the word like a thread. "How long have you been at this school? Just started, right?"

You nodded. "Yeah. We moved here last month so I could acclimate before starting on time for the new school year."

"New girl and the new manager? That's bold," he said, eyes twinkling.

You shrugged lightly. "I've done it before. Figured I might as well jump back into something I actually enjoy."

Tendou looked amused. "Where from?"

"Itachiyama."

That earned a low whistle from him. You noticed a couple of the guys—Semi and Shirabu, mostly—lingering just within earshot, clearly pretending to do cool-down stretches but very much listening.

"You're kidding," Tendou said. "That Itachiyama? As in 'super-tight-defense and Sakusa-is-a-germaphobe' Itachiyama?"

You laughed, genuinely. "The very same. Though Sakusa isn't actually a germaphobe. It's just a rumour because he doesn't like crowds."

He stared at you for a second, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he straightened up slightly. "Okay, now I have to know more. You gonna tell me more about the team or is that classified manager info?"

You smirked. "Depends. You always this nosy?"

"Only when I'm intrigued."

His words weren't flirtatious exactly—just honest in that weirdly offbeat Tendou way. You didn't mind. It was… nice. The attention didn't feel overwhelming. Just curious. Playful.

Before you could answer, he added, "Don't worry. I'll be good. I won't scare you off."

You raised an eyebrow. "Is that something you do often?"

"More than I'd like," he said, grin faltering for just a split second before it returned. "But you don't seem the easily scared type."

You tilted your head slightly. "Neither do you."

He blinked, like that answer caught him off guard—and then he laughed. Loud and sharp but not unkind.

"Touché."

There was a brief, comfortable pause. Somewhere behind you, Semi muttered something under his breath and nudged Shirabu toward the lockers. The eavesdroppers were finally retreating.

Tendou leaned a little closer, though not enough to cross a line. Just enough to let you know this moment wasn't quite over.

"Glad you're here, Manager-chan," he said, almost sincerely. "I think you'll make things interesting."

You smiled. "Glad to be here."

It started with a folded set of clothes laid neatly on top of your bag after practice a few weeks later.

A soft plum-colored jacket with white sleeves and Shiratorizawa Gakuen High stitched in crisp letters across the back. A clean collared shirt and track pants in the school colors, folded with near military precision. And tucked into the pocket—a note, in Coach Washijo's unmistakable sharp handwriting:

"You've proven yourself useful. Keep it that way. — W"

You stared at it for a moment, unable to stop the small grin tugging at your lips.

You were in.

No more "probation," no more careful watching for mistakes. You had earned your place.

When you walked into the next practice in your official team uniform, Tendou was the first to notice. He let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like he was in a soap opera.

"Our little manager's all grown up," he said, mock-sobbing into a towel. "Look at you, all official now!"

"Congrats," Semi called from where he was setting up cones. "About time, honestly."

Even Coach Washijo gave you a small, approving nod as you handed him the attendance list that day—a quiet gesture of acknowledgment that somehow meant more than any congratulations.

From that day forward, something shifted.

You weren't just "the new girl" anymore. You were the manager. Part of the team.

You got used to Tendou's strange tangents and weird energy—actually, you started to look forward to them. He brought a kind of chaotic comfort to the court, throwing jokes like volleyballs and weaving lightness into even the most grueling drills.

He'd trail beside you during breaks, pointing out which teammates had the worst taste in snacks, or leaning over your clipboard just to scribble "guess monster strikes again" next to one of his stats. He always made you laugh, even when you were exhausted. Especially then.

But there were serious moments too. Especially with Ushijima.

You quickly learned that as team captain, he took your role very seriously.

Every week before a match, he would seek you out—always with the same line.

"Let's go over strategy."

He was blunt. Always direct. But never unkind. He asked for efficiency reports, stamina trends, tendencies in other teams' rotations. At first, the silence between you felt… heavy.

But over time, you found a rhythm. He'd listen carefully to your insights and nod at your assessments, occasionally asking follow-ups with the same calm intensity he brought to the court.

One day, after you'd shown him a chart you'd put together tracking their recent practice intensity versus performance in mock games, he gave a rare, quiet response:

"Good work."

That was it.

But coming from Ushijima Wakatoshi, that felt like being handed a trophy.

You were growing into your role, and it showed—not just in your work, but in the way the team treated you. Goshiki came to you for pep talks when his confidence wavered. Kawanishi asked you to double-check his form footage. Even Shirabu, who rarely trusted anyone's judgment but his own, started pausing to ask, "Did you log that set? What did it look like from your angle?"

But through all of it, Tendou remained your most frequent and chaotic visitor.

He showed up by your side like a specter—half the time scaring you, the other half offering gummy worms or odd bits of trivia.

And you didn't mind.

Not at all.

You were halfway across campus, clutching a clipboard and a fresh sheet of lineup notes, when you heard your name.

"Hey, Manager-chan!"

You stopped and turned, spotting two guys from your parallel class leaning against a vending machine near the athletics building. You recognized them vaguely—neither unfriendly nor particularly important in your life. Still, you offered a polite smile.

"Hi."

One of them gave a dramatic stretch. "Heard you're managing the volleyball team now. That's gotta be intense, right? With that coach?"

"Coach Washijo?" you asked, arching a brow. "He's strict, yeah, but he's fair. He just expects people to take the sport seriously. Which they should."

The other guy snorted. "Still, isn't it exhausting being around all those egos? I'd fold in five minutes."

You kept your expression polite, if a little guarded. "I like it. They're a good team. Very dedicated."

That should have been the end of it, but one of them tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Even that one weird dude—what's his name again?" he said. "Tendou? The red-haired one? Man, he creeps me out."

"Yeah," the other added, "people call him the Guess Monster for a reason, right? Don't tell me you're comfortable hanging around that guy all the time."

You froze.

Your grip on the clipboard tightened.

And for a moment, something inside you snapped.

You didn't raise your voice. You didn't make a scene. But your tone cut sharp as a blade.

"Actually," you said coldly, "Tendou is one of the kindest, funniest, and most genuine people I've met since transferring here. He works harder than most of you probably ever have, and he still finds time to make everyone laugh even when he's exhausted."

They both blinked at your sudden change in demeanor, stunned.

"So if you're done talking behind someone's back, maybe try actually watching a match before judging someone who's twice the athlete you'll ever be."

Neither of them had anything to say after that. Just awkward glances and a mumbled "...jeez, okay."

You turned on your heel, storming off toward the gym, blood hot in your veins.

You'd known, in the back of your mind, that Tendou wasn't exactly popular. He made jokes about it sometimes—offhand mentions of being "the creepy one," of kids back in middle school who called him a monster, laughed at his voice, flinched at his grin.

And yeah, you'd heard the other version of his nickname too—the cruel one whispered between students who didn't know a single thing about him.

But it wasn't until now, hearing it with your own ears, that you realized just how much it pissed you off.

Not just because the comment was unfair. But because it was about him.

And maybe that was the moment it really hit you:

You liked Tendou.

More than the others. More than you probably should.

And it made your chest tighten painfully, because he didn't even seem to notice how bright he was. He didn't seem to realize that someone could look at him and feel their heartbeat stutter—not out of fear or discomfort, but because they wanted to be closer.

You pushed open the gym door, already trying to shake off the frustration before the team saw it.

What you didn't realize—what you couldn't have known—was that just behind the shrub-lined path leading to the entrance, two teammates had stopped to let your conversation pass.

Tendou and Ushijima stood in silence.

Tendou's eyes were wide, lips parted slightly, like he wasn't quite sure he'd actually heard what he thought he heard.

Ushijima, in his usual fashion, simply said:

"She defended you."

Tendou blinked once. Then again.

A quiet flush rose to his ears.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop.

He'd just… paused, hearing your voice, and then couldn't move once the words started coming.

Now, standing in the shadow of a tree with his heart pounding louder than the cicadas in the summer air, he could barely breathe.

You had defended him.

Not with pity. Not to score points.

With fire.

The gym was filled with its usual sounds—sneakers squeaking on polished floors, volleyballs echoing like thunderclaps against the walls, the occasional sharp whistle from Coach Washijo cutting through the air.

On the outside, you looked the same as always.

Focused. Efficient. Clipboard in hand, eyes on drills, scribbling down performance notes and hydration reminders. You made sure to hand towels out, fill water bottles, call out the time remaining on intervals like clockwork.

But inside?

You were still fuming.

The words those guys said kept replaying in your head—how casual they were about it. Like calling someone a monster was nothing. Like it was a joke.

You knew it shouldn't be bothering you this much. You'd stood up for him. You'd said what needed to be said. But still… the unfairness of it lodged under your ribs like a splinter.

He had been nothing but kind to you. Honest and a little strange, sure, but in a way that made the world feel more interesting. He brought you snacks he claimed "tasted cursed" just to see your reaction. He made you laugh until your stomach hurt during team dinners. And he always noticed when you were feeling off—even before you noticed yourself.

So why did people look at him like that?

You blinked back to the present when someone waved a hand in front of your face.

"Earth to Manager-chan," Tendou grinned, voice light and lilting. "If you stare at Shirabu that hard, he might combust."

You blinked. "What?"

He nodded sagely. "Boom. Right there on the court. One second we have a reliable setter, next second—charcoal briquette."

Despite yourself, your lips twitched.

You quickly looked down at your clipboard, hiding the hint of a smile. "I'm not staring at Shirabu."

"Hmm, denial. Classic sign of combustion plotting," he said dramatically, spinning his towel like a cape before hopping up to sit beside you on the edge of the bench.

He stayed there for a few minutes, talking nonsense.

A conspiracy theory about how Kawanishi was secretly a lizard person based on his snack preferences. A completely false trivia fact about the original volleyballs being filled with goat hair. Something about offering you a cursed potato chip that could grant one wish—but only if you licked it first.

You didn't say much in return.

But you smiled more than you meant to.

And he didn't leave your side.

Even later, as drills got harder and the team pushed through Washijo's punishing endurance circuit, Tendou kept glancing back your way.

Making faces from across the court. Winking when he caught you frowning. Mimicking Ushijima's stoic blocking form so precisely that Goshiki had to stop mid-serve to hold back laughter.

You chalked it up to him just being Tendou.

But what you didn't know—what you couldn't have known—was that he was trying.

Trying harder than usual.

Because he'd heard you defend him.

Because it still echoed in his ears like a dream he was scared to wake up from.

"Tendou is one of the kindest, funniest..."

He hadn't expected it. Not from you. Not from anyone.

And he didn't know what to do with how warm it made his chest feel—so he tried to make you laugh.

Because maybe, just maybe, if he could make you smile again… he could pretend that someone like you might actually think someone like him was worth standing up for.

Valentine's Day at Shiratorizawa wasn't anything special—at least, not in the way it might've been at a more laid-back school. Classes ran like usual. The hallways still buzzed with gossip, test scores, and club announcements. The only sign of the date was the occasional girl clutching a heart-shaped box or the flustered first-years whispering in corners.

But for you, it was different this time.

You had gone home that weekend instead of staying in the dorms. Your mom had greeted you with a knowing smile and a wink when you shyly mentioned your idea. Of course, she helped. She always loved baking—especially for a "cause" as pure as this.

Together, you had filled the kitchen with the smell of melting chocolate and warm sugar. You shaped and decorated each piece carefully, even labeling the gift boxes with tiny notes. You'd made something for everyone: players, the coaches, and even Washijo himself. It just felt right. You weren't about to exclude someone who contributed to the team's spirit—even if that spirit came with a terrifying glare and a whistle.

When Monday morning arrived, you carried the boxes to the gym in a large paper bag, your heart thudding nervously in your chest.

It wasn't romantic. Not yet. It was just encouragement, appreciation—team spirit.

That's what you kept telling yourself.

By the time practice ended, you waited just long enough for everyone to gather by the benches before pulling the paper bag from where you'd tucked it safely beside your gear.

"Uhm—can I get your attention for a sec?" you asked, raising your voice slightly.

Tendou looked up from where he was juggling a volleyball with his knees like a soccer ball, and the others slowly turned to you, some with curious expressions, some already guessing.

You cleared your throat, then reached into the bag, pulling out the first box—white with a neat red ribbon.

"I… know it's Valentine's Day," you began, voice a little shaky. "And I just wanted to say thank you. You've all been really great to me since I transferred, and I figured—what better way to boost morale than sugar?"

A pause.

Tendou's eyes lit up immediately. "No way."

"Manager-chan made us chocolates?" Goshiki gasped, as if you had presented him with an Olympic medal.

"Even me?" Coach Saito asked, somewhat amused.

You nodded, cheeks warming. "Even you, Coach. You're part of the team."

"And me?" Washijo's voice boomed from the sidelines, arms crossed.

You gulped—he'd been the one you worried about most.

"Yes, Coach Washijo," you said, giving a respectful bow as you handed him a small box. "Thank you for letting me be part of this team."

He stared at it for a long moment. Then, with a huff and a nod that could almost be mistaken for approval, he accepted it.

"Don't think this'll get you out of laps if you slack off," he muttered.

You smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Soon, the rest of the team was diving into their boxes, laughter and exaggerated reactions filling the air. Even Ushijima gave you an approving nod as he inspected the handmade chocolate bark you'd included in each set.

Tendou, meanwhile, held his box like it was made of glass.

His grin was wide—genuine, no teasing this time—as he peeked inside and saw the careful arrangement of chocolates, each molded into playful, irregular shapes. He looked at you, then back at the sweets, then back at you again, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to be this happy about something so small.

You caught his eye, offered a soft smile, and quickly turned away before you melted on the spot.

The warmth in your chest lingered, though.

Because this? This was just the beginning.

What came next... was for him.

As everyone began to leave, you stayed behind to finish cleaning the gym—just like always.

Wiping down benches. Picking up forgotten water bottles. Gathering towels for laundry. It had become part of your rhythm, and Tendou had slipped into that rhythm too, in his own way.

He sat cross-legged on the bench, elbows on knees, chatting aimlessly as he waited for you.

"So I asked Goshiki if he knew what aphrodisiac meant and he choked on a protein bar," Tendou laughed, eyes crinkling with delight. "I thought Semi was going to kill me for real this time."

You smiled, but it was a little dimmer than usual.

You finished folding the last towel and stood, stretching your back with a soft sigh. Tendou watched you, eyes flicking over your face. He didn't say anything right away, but you could feel it—the way he was studying you a little more carefully than normal.

You switched off the lights, the gym echoing softly as the doors clicked shut behind you both.

It was just the two of you in the hallway now, the buzz of the overhead lights faintly humming above your heads as your footsteps echoed in sync down the corridor.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and glanced sideways. "You're quieter than usual, Manager-chan. Chocolate-related exhaustion or... emotional sugar crash?"

You huffed a soft breath through your nose, not looking at him. "No, nothing like that. Just... thinking."

Tendou didn't press, though his eyes lingered.

The night air greeted you when you stepped out of the building, a soft chill brushing over your arms. The walk back to the dorms was familiar by now, the path lit with soft lamps and the low rustle of trees.

You kept walking beside him, neither of you rushing. This part—just the two of you walking back—had become so regular it felt like a quiet tradition.

But tonight, your hands were clenched a little too tightly around the straps of your bag.

And when the moment came—where you'd usually wave and say "see you tomorrow"—you hesitated instead.

"Wait," you said, stopping him before he turned toward the boys' wing.

Tendou blinked, curious.

You fished into your bag again, this time pulling out a much smaller box. Not fancy, not decorated with ribbons. Just a small container wrapped in soft tissue paper. Handmade and simple.

You held it out with both hands, eyes on the ground.

"This one's for you," you said quietly. "Only you."

Tendou stared.

He didn't reach for it at first. Didn't move.

"Didn't I already get chocolate from you?" he asked, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—but it didn't reach his eyes.

You swallowed. "That was for the team. This one... isn't."

He finally took it, carefully, as if he was afraid it might crumble in his hands. He looked at the box, then at you—searching.

You forced a nervous laugh, shifting from foot to foot. "I mean, it's not much. I just… I remembered you like the strawberry-filled ones. And the weirdly spicy ones? So I made a mix. Just... thought you might like it."

Your voice had gone a little too fast near the end.

And before he could say anything, before you had to see whatever reaction might cross his face—you dipped your head in a flustered goodbye.

"Anyway, night! Sleep well!"

Then you turned on your heel, walking briskly away toward your dorm before your legs could betray how shaky you actually felt.

You didn't see the way he stood frozen for a moment longer, staring at the little box like it might vanish if he blinked.

Didn't see the way his hands trembled—just a little.

And you definitely didn't see the figure of Semi, standing just down the path, arms crossed and smirking knowingly.

Tendou stood there a little longer than he probably should have, watching your figure disappear toward the girls' dorm building, the small box of chocolates still clutched in his hands.

He hadn't even opened it yet.

He was afraid to.

"Wow," a voice drawled from behind, laced with amusement. "Didn't know Valentine's Day came with a personal encore."

Tendou jolted slightly, turning around just as Semi stepped out from the shadowed edge of the path, hands shoved in his pockets and an all-too-knowing grin playing on his lips.

"Semi-semi," Tendou blinked, his tone too casual, too flat. He straightened, box tucked swiftly behind his back like he could pretend nothing happened—even though Semi had clearly seen everything.

"She made that just for you, huh?" Semi said, tilting his head slightly. "Didn't see anyone else get a second helping."

Tendou huffed a weak laugh, shrugging. "I dunno. Maybe she felt bad for me."

Semi gave him a look. "She blushed like she was going to combust, Tendou."

"Maybe she was embarrassed about her chocolate," he tried again, brushing it off, voice thinner this time.

Semi rolled his eyes. "Come on. She basically spelled it out. And don't act like you haven't been attached to her hip since day one."

Tendou's heart gave a sharp twist. "So?"

"So," Semi smirked, "she likes you, idiot. Like, likes you. Unless you're telling me she spent extra time making your favorite chocolates just because you're a weirdo she pities."

Tendou flinched—not visibly, but deep under his skin, where no one could see it.

His grip on the box tightened.

He wanted to believe it. God, he wanted to.

But belief came with risk. And Tendou Satori knew rejection. He knew it well—too well. It lived in the curve of every whispered insult he'd learned to ignore, every stare that lingered just a beat too long, every time someone recoiled from his smile.

He swallowed. "People say things they don't mean all the time."

"Do you really think she's that kind of person?" Semi asked, the teasing gone from his voice now, replaced with quiet sincerity.

That stopped him.

No.

No, you weren't.

You were kind. You were honest. You looked at him—really looked at him—and never once flinched.

He felt a weight lodge itself in his throat.

"She might've meant it," Tendou said softly. "But that doesn't mean I get to believe it."

Semi sighed, but didn't push. "You don't have to believe it," he said, already turning to head to the dorms. "Just… don't be stupid and let it slip away."

Tendou stayed there, unmoving, staring down at the box in his hand.

Maybe it did mean something.

Maybe that shaky, nervous laugh and the warmth in your eyes wasn't just kindness.

Maybe… just maybe, someone saw him and didn't want to turn away.

And that hope—that dangerous, beautiful thing—settled into his chest like a flickering flame.

He wasn't ready to believe it.

But he wanted to.

And that, for now, was more than enough to make his feet move.

Half an hour and a shower later, Tendou stood outside your dorm room door, unmoving.

The corridor was quiet now, the faint hum of the heater the only sound around him. His hand hovered just inches from the wood, clenched into a loose fist he hadn't managed to lift.

He'd been standing there for at least three minutes.

Maybe more.

Any reasonable person would have either knocked by now… or turned around. But he couldn't do either. He just stood there—heart hammering, thoughts a blur.

What if he'd misread it all?

What if the extra chocolates were just a thank-you?

What if Semi was wrong and he was just a delusional freak again, seeing things that weren't there—hoping for things that didn't exist?

He was used to rejection. He could take it.

But somehow, with you… he wasn't sure he could.

It would be different with you.

Because you were real. You were warm and kind and you laughed at his stupid jokes like you meant it. You looked him in the eyes. You never treated him like he was a monster.

And the thought of you telling him gently, kindly, that it wasn't what he thought—it made his chest ache in a way he hadn't expected.

He wasn't used to wanting something this badly.

But if he left now… if he didn't find out…

He'd regret it. That scared him even more.

So without thinking about it further—without letting himself stop—he knocked.

Once. Twice. Softly.

Then silence.

He heard a muffled shuffle, the creak of a bedframe, and a few seconds later the door cracked open.

And then there you were.

Not in your uniform anymore.

In cozy sweatpants, a slightly oversized hoodie that fell off one shoulder, hair tied up loosely like you'd just been lounging or studying or maybe both. You looked relaxed and warm and safe.

Tendou felt his brain short-circuit.

You looked… adorable. Like home. Like everything soft and good and impossible.

Something in his chest squeezed so tightly it was almost painful.

You blinked at him in surprise, tilting your head slightly. "Tendou?"

Your voice was quiet, a little raspy from not speaking for a while, and it dragged him straight back to the present.

His eyes widened. Crap. He was staring.

Mouth slightly open. Hands frozen at his sides. Just… stuck.

"…Uhh…" he finally managed, voice cracking slightly. "Hi."

You blinked again, then smiled gently. "Hi."

He felt his ears burn.

"I was—um," he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyperaware of how awkward he probably looked. "Just. I. Wanted to talk."

You stepped back without hesitation, opening the door wider. "Of course. Come in."

That single gesture—so easy, so you—nearly broke him.

You didn't hesitate.

Not for a second.

He stepped in slowly, the box of chocolates still tucked in his hoodie pocket, his heartbeat so loud he was sure you could hear it.

And even though he still wasn't sure if it meant what he desperately hoped it did, for the first time since knocking…

He started to believe that maybe—maybe—he hadn't imagined it all.

Tendou settled into the desk chair slowly, like he was trying not to disturb the air between you. His long limbs folded awkwardly beneath him, hands resting in his lap, fidgeting ever so slightly.

You sat on the edge of your bed, legs crossed, your hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands like a nervous reflex. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable… but it was heavy. Loaded with things neither of you had said yet.

Tendou's eyes flicked around the room — to your desk, your small shelf of books and snacks, the soft string of fairy lights outlining the window. Then to the empty bed on the other side of the room.

"Where's your roommate?" he asked, clearing his throat softly.

You smiled faintly. "On a date."

Tendou's brows lifted. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "Apparently the guy she likes finally grew a spine and asked her out. So she's gone for the night. Snuck off campus."

Tendou snorted, a little surprised. "Risky move."

You chuckled. "She said it was worth it."

A pause.

Then: "So… does that mean we're alone?" he asked, his voice playful — but there was a nervous edge underneath.

You met his gaze, a little warmth creeping up your neck. "Looks like it."

His fingers twitched in his lap.

Another long pause.

He didn't know how to start this.

How do you ask someone if they meant it? How do you bring up the moment you've been replaying in your head nonstop since it happened?

Finally, you broke the silence with a soft voice. "Is everything okay?"

Tendou looked up quickly, blinking like you'd caught him off guard. "What?"

"You're acting a little… weird," you said, your voice gentle but honest.

He let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah. I guess I am."

You tilted your head, encouraging him to go on, but gave him space.

He rubbed his hands over his jeans, then pulled the little chocolate box out of his hoodie pocket and set it carefully on your desk. Like it was something fragile. Something that had been weighing him down.

"You gave me this," he said slowly, eyes on the box. "After practice. When no one else was around."

You nodded. "Yeah. It's only been, like, what—an hour ago? I do recall giving you this."

"Half an hour," he mumbled. His gaze flicked up to yours, and his voice dropped to a quieter register. "Why?"

Your breath caught.

There it was.

No beating around it. No jokes to mask the nerves. Just him — quiet, serious, vulnerable.

You swallowed. "Because… it was for you."

"I already got chocolates from you," he said, but not accusingly. Just carefully.

"That was for the team," you said, folding your hands together. "This one was just for you."

Tendou stared at you, wide-eyed, searching for something in your expression. You could see the disbelief in his face — like he was scared to name what he was hoping to hear.

So you gave it to him.

"I like you, Tendou," you said softly. "I have for a while now. And I wanted to tell you, but I was… nervous. So I made chocolate instead."

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no sound came out. His eyes were locked on yours, and in them, you saw the storm — surprise, fear, something almost like grief, and underneath it all… wonder.

You offered a nervous smile. "It's totally okay if you don't feel the same. Really—no pressure. I know you've got a lot going on with the team and everything. I just… I figured I should at least say something. Better that than always wondering, 'What if I'd just said it,' you know?"

"You like me?" He whispered, staring at you in disbelief.

You nodded. "I do."

He let out a shaky breath — one that sounded like he'd been holding it for years.

"…Why?"

Your chest ached. "Because you're kind. And funny. You made me feel welcome here when I didn't know anyone. You never made me feel out of place, even when the rest of the team was still sizing me up. You're weird — in the best way. And you make me laugh every single day."

He still looked stunned.

"I know you've probably heard a lot of awful things before," you added, voice softer now. "And I know people can be… mean. But I never thought you were scary, Tendou. Not once."

He laughed — a quiet, broken sound — and his hands came up to cover his face.

And that's when you saw it.

His shoulders shaking ever so slightly.

You moved before thinking, standing up and stepping over to him, kneeling down beside the chair. "Hey—Tendou, are you—?"

He looked down at you, tears caught in his lashes, a trembling smile on his lips.

"I thought I'd dreamed it," he whispered. "That someone like you could… like someone like me."

You reached for his hand and held it gently. "It's not a dream."

For a long moment, he didn't say anything.

Then, with a laugh that sounded like joy and disbelief mixed together, he dropped to his knees beside you. "…Best Valentine's Day ever."

And with that, he wrapped you in a tight hug, squeezing you close to his chest as if he never planned on letting you go again.

Tendou's arms were locked around you, not too tight — just right — as if he was terrified to let go but equally afraid of crushing you in his excitement. You could feel his breath against your shoulder, shaky with leftover nerves, with relief, with something tender that had been locked away in his chest for too long.

You buried your face against his neck, heart still thudding erratically. The silence was soft now, no longer heavy. Just the hush of two people finally close enough to hear the other's heartbeat.

"I feel like if I let go, you'll disappear," he mumbled against your shoulder.

You smiled, your arms tightening around him in response. "I'm not going anywhere."

Tendou shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were still a little pink at the edges, but the look in them had changed — open, warm, happy. Really, truly happy.

"I want to take you out," he said, his voice suddenly steadier than you expected. "Like, officially."

You blinked. "You mean… a date?"

"Yeah. A real one." He gave a soft, almost sheepish grin. "Not just walking to practice together and sharing snacks after training — though I'd keep doing that forever too."

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest. "You really want to?"

He nodded. "So badly. I wanna take you somewhere nice. Somewhere you'd like. Maybe the bookstore in town you told me about that one time? With the bakery next door? I heard they've got those cookies you like."

You blinked, surprised that he remembered. "You remembered that?"

"Of course I did," he said, nudging your forehead lightly with his own. "I remember everything you say."

Your face grew warm again, and Tendou laughed softly, pleased with himself.

"I mean, I might not be super experienced at this whole dating thing," he went on, "but I want to treat you right. Like a queen. Like you deserve."

You reached up, cupping his cheek. "You already do."

He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment like the contact alone was grounding him. Then he opened them again, gaze clear.

"Still," he whispered, "I wanna try even harder. Just so you never doubt how much I like you. Or how lucky I feel right now."

You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his. "You're the sweetest guy I know, Tendou."

"Don't say that," he murmured, eyes scrunching slightly.

"Why not?"

"Because I'll melt again and you'll have to mop me off the floor."

You giggled, and he laughed too — that unmistakable, offbeat, boyish laugh that always tugged at your heart.

The kind of laugh you'd fallen for.

You stayed like that for a while longer — kneeling in the middle of your dorm room floor, just talking in hushed tones. Making soft plans. Promising little things. A movie night when the team had a day off. Cookies he'd try baking for you. A date at that tiny bookstore café. A life made out of small, sweet moments.

And when you finally stood up together, he gently took your hand, laced his fingers with yours, and looked at you like you were something out of a dream.

Only this time, he believed it was real.

And it was his.

Masterlist

#Haikyuu #Tendou Satori #Tendou Satori x reader #Tendou Satori fluff #shiratorizawa #satori tendō #Tendou x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #satori tendou x reader

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