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jazziejax · 24 hours ago

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𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Adonis Creed x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - A quiet visit to a legendary gym turns into something much louder than expected.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Violence, Strong Language, Adult Themes, Mentions of Grief/Loss

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I said I wanted to write one so I did…sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes!!!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 9,134+

No matter where she looked, it was all consuming her. On her phone, there was countless of headlines.

“Tennis Diva or Just Competitive? Chantal “Fury” Figueroa Blows Up Again on Court!”

“Foul Mouth, Fast Hands: Fury’s Fiery Win Over Davenport Sparks Controversy”

“Fury’s Blaze of Glory or Blaze of Shame?—Tennis’s Most Explosive Star Under Fire Once More!”

“Amy Davenport Says She Felt ‘Unsafe’ On the Court with Chantal Figueroa”

“Chantal Figueroa Accused of Cheating, Trash-Talking, and ‘Unsportsmanlike Behavior’”

She clicked on her television, and there were pictures of her face on the news as they painted her out to be some monster.

On ESPN. “She’s electric, no doubt. But there’s a difference between passion and outright aggression, and Fury? She crossed it.”

On The View. “Look, I love Chantal, but she’s gotta rein it in. You can’t scream at the ump, curse out a ball girl, and still expect sympathy!”

Even Amy Davenport post match interview. She sat so demurely, dressed in a baby blue get up, gleaming under studio lights in the conference room. “She’s talented, I’ll give her that. But talent isn’t everything. You have to have grace. You have to have sportsmanship. I didn’t feel safe out there. I mean—she called me a ‘prissy bitch with no footwork’ in the middle of a serve!” Then there was a muted clip of Chantal on the court, mouth clearly forming ‘Are you new to fucking walking?’ Amy then let out a soft laugh. “I’m worried for her. That kind of temper? It’ll end her career.”

And then before she could even think about it, the remote control was out of her hand and a picture frame had been broken on the other side of the room. The sound of the television was faint, but it felt like it was blaring in her mind. She sat back against leather couch, chest heaving up and down in anger as she sat in the deafening silence after the shattering glass.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

Next thing she knew after her angered waned, were studio lights that were too bright, too white, and too artificial to feel anything like a fair conversation rather an interrogation, gleaned down on her.

Chantal sat center stage, perched on a sterile white couch in ESPN’s New York studio, the makeup crew long gone, her glossy lips lined, her signature slicked-back ponytail broadcast-ready and her heels dug into the floor like stakes in the ground. She wore a light blue top that, a traditional Asian pattering on it, with black slacks.

Tashi stood just off-camera, arms folded, watching like a hawk with her mouth in a thin, unreadable, line. Her manager, Quentin, flitted between texts and pacing, whispering too-late reassurances.

“This is good press.” He’d said on the car ride over. “A reset. A rebrand. Let people see the real you.” Be explained, sort of rambling off to himself as he stressed over the woman’s image. “You go in there, keep your cool, answer with grace. Make them regret ever doubting you.”

Chantal had looked out the window the whole ride, jaw clenched. “They’ll see what they want to see and damn way.” And that was pretty much all she said back then, just gave a sharp nod and was silent the rest of the way.

Now, she regretted even showing up.

It wasn’t long before the hosts flanked her like opponents on either side. Marcus Dean on her right—a former football player now turned talking head who liked to stir the pot for likes. Loud, smug, always the first to turn heat into headlines. And on her left, Dana Mallory—sharp, polished, and known for her thinly-veiled contempt toward athletes who didn’t play by rules set in place by anyone but themselves. She was cold, pristine. Known for interviews that tore reputations limb from limb behind soft tones and weaponized words, and loved controversial male athletes.

The show went live. Theme music. Camera pans. Intro banter.

Then the two hosts turned to her—smiling like snakes.

Dana tossed her blonde bob over her shoulder as she crossed her legs and smiled without warmth. “Chantal, thank you for being here. After everything that’s happened this past week, the world has a lot of questions.” The pale woman began.

“Yeah, it’s been a week.” The woman answered back in a sort of dull tone with a polite smile on her lips.

Dana gave a brittle laugh. “Yes, and I think the world is eager to hear from you directly��especially after your behavior during and after the Davenport match.”

Chantal raised a brow. “You mean my win?”

Dana’s smile widened, fake as gold foil. “I mean, let’s call it what it is. Some say you’re the most talented player the game’s seen in years. Others… say your temper might end your career before you reach your prime. That you’re heated. Hostile. Many people said that your supposed win looked more like a meltdown than a victory.”

Chantal’s fingers twitched. “Funny. When McEnroe did it, it was called passion by many.”

“Oh, so we’re playing the double standard card already?” Marcus chuckled, leaned back in his chair as he adjusted his gold watch, the silver contrasting against his brown skin. “Come on, Fury.”

“My name’s Chantal.”

“You shouted at the ump, smashed a racquet, refused to shake Amy’s hand. That’s not exactly sportsmanship.”

“I shook her hand. It just wasn’t fake.” Chantal said finely, brows beginning to furrow as lies began to spew from the man’s mouth, though the racquet smashing was true.

“Some would call it aggressive,” Dana said smoothly. “Especially when Amy came forward saying she felt… intimidated by you. Unsafe, even.”

Chantal sat back, looking over at the woman as if she just said something stupid. “Because I told her to stop making excuses? I’m not the one to put up with the dramatics, that’s for other people to deal with if it’s such an issue and then it comes to me.”

Dana’s smile widened, razor-thin. “You’ve been fined three times this season for on-court outbursts, suspended once, and now you’re being investigated by the WTA. Doesn’t that suggest a pattern?”

Chantal’s fingers twitched as a smirk graced her lips, one out of catching the woman in her lie. “First of all, I have never been suspended. Not once in my entire career. And this “investigation”, if you can even call it that. It was more so a meeting, it only opened up due to this entire debacle started by Davenport. So, no, I don’t think it suggests a pattern, I think it suggests the rules bend differently when you don’t come in a dainty form and a losing streak.” She shrugged, and she could feel the hard stares from her couch and manager as she answered the questions. But Chantal was never the one to lie when it came to questions, and she wasn’t going to start now that people felt reheated by it.

Marcus chuckled. “So now the system’s the villain?”

“You tell me.” She demanded the man. “When Novak screams at line judges, he’s ‘fired up.’ When I do it, I’m a ‘danger to the sport.’ Some may find that amusing.” It was silent for a moment, the two hosts either moving the reactions they were getting from her or simply stunned, but Chantal used that time to continue.

“I won the Davenport match.” She interrupted sharply. “I didn’t cheat. I didn’t hurt anybody. I talked trash—just like Amy did. You can see it when we shake hands before the match. Difference is, I didn’t go cry to a microphone afterwards, I talked back.” She spat.

Dana’s eyes glittered. She’d gotten blood in the water.

“But Amy said she felt unsafe.”

“And I felt undermined.”

“Because someone finally called out your behavior?”

Quentin shifted uncomfortably while Tashi’s jaw tightened. She bit on her lips, her stare hard as she watched from behind the cameras.

Chantal tilted her head, slow and deliberate. “What behavior are we talking about?” She questioned, turning her face up. “Me speaking up? Me refusing to smile pretty and take the hits? Or me winning when I’m not “supposed to”?” She questioned.

Dana blinked, licking her lips as she whistled herself in her seat, causing Marcus leaned forward to add onto the questions. “You don’t think your attitude’s part of the problem?”

“My attitude is why I’m still here. My attitude is why I win, and why I won that match. And I’m not apologizing for being intense in a sport that demands it. Y’all like the fire and the fury until a Black woman’s holding the match.”

A few producers backstage froze and there were soft gasps throughout the studio. Dana’s brow arched as if she was offended at such a claim while Marcus smirked. “Whew. You hear that, Twitter?” He grinned, looking at the cameras. Chantal looked over at him with a hard stature before simply scoffing and lightly shaking her head.

Dana’s voice dropped lower as it turned honeyed and sharp. “You know, I spoke to a few former coaches of yours. They described you as ‘difficult,’ ‘combative,’ and ‘emotionally volatile.’ Would you say that’s fair?”

The camera zoomed in on Chantal’s face as she blinked, aiding as she took in the question. “I’d say most of my former coaches couldn’t keep up with me. And the rest wanted to coach a puppet, not a player. It’s why I now have someone more my speed, the Tashi Duncan.” She explained.

Dana tilted her head. “Or maybe they just wanted someone coachable. Someone who didn’t see every correction as an attack.” She rebutted. “And Tashi Duncan has had her fair share of issues in her own career. Do you really think she’s the best for you right now?”

Marcus whistled low before Chantal could even answer, amusement clear on his face. “Whew. See, that’s the issue right there. People are rooting for you, Chantal—but you make it hard.” He said, faking a sympathetic tone.

Chantal laughed, sharp and humorless as she just became tried of even being there. “No, you’re rooting for a version of me that doesn’t exist. The quiet, grateful, humble little phenom. But I’m not here to bow down or beg. I’m here to win and I’ve been doing it since I was sixteen.”

Dana arched a brow. “Even if you burn every bridge on the way there?”

“I don’t need your bridges. I’ve got a racquet and a forehand. That’s all I need for this game, that’s all there ever was.”

There was a small moment of silence, as if evening in the tense air was trying to digest what she truly said. “Sounds lonely.” Dana murmured.

And something snapped in Chantal’s throat. “You think I care what sounds lonely? You think I want to sit here and play PR puppet because Amy Davenport cried on a mic? I’m not here to fix your image of me. I’m not here to make people comfortable.”

“Do you ever worry that this—this fuse, this refusal to own your part—is going to keep making you the villain in everyone else’s highlight reel?”

There it was. The bait. That villain word.

And for one long, boiling second, Chantal didn’t breathe.

It was dead air.

Producers flinched behind the camera. Tashi tensed as she pursed her lips and braced for the worse as Quentin let out a low groan.

Then she spoke. “I’d rather be the villain than the victim.”

Dana smiled like she’d just landed the final blow, the studio still enclosed in slice as she straightened her cards against the glass table top. “Thanks for your time, Chantal.”

Chantal didn’t respond. She stood up, ripped the mic off her shirt, and walked off without another word.

Then it cut to commercial.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

The studio doors hadn’t even finished swinging shut behind her when the first flash went off. Paparazzi crowded the sidewalk like a pack of hungry dogs. Some wore press badges. Most didn’t. All of them shouted.

“CHANTAL, IS IT TRUE YOU THREATENED AMY DAVENPORT?”

“IS ESPN GOING TO BAN YOU?”

“IS IT TRUE THAT YOU’RE BEING INVESTIGATED BY THE WTA?”

Then a man with a Canon camera lunged toward her as she was about to enter the black SUV. “ARE YOU ON STEROIDS?!”

She pushed past them, her stride clipped and narrow. The way she furrowed her brow at that behind her sunglasses was visible to the cameras, her face counting into one of disgust and anger at the claim. Tashi and Quentin tried to flank her, but it was no use—there were too many. Too loud. Too vicious.

Another voice screamed, “SHE’S GOT ANGER ISSUES! IT HAS TO BE ON STEROIDS.“

Then came the flash. A blinding one. Inches from her face.

She stopped. “Back up.” She hissed, poring a finger that the man. But he didn’t move. She could feel the heat behind her eyes, the pounding in her throat. Her pulse buzzed like a live wire as the sounds behind her became mudded and overwhelming but the flashes kept hitting her and the camera moved closer—far too close.

And then—

She pushed.

A firm, instinctive shove to the chest as she pushed the camera from her face with her other hand, not hard enough to knock him down but enough to make him stumble back two feet.

A dozen shutters clicked.

The moment was captured. Frozen. Ruined.

She turned and disappeared into the black SUV waiting at the curb, slamming the door behind her.

Inside, Quentin swore under his breath. Tashi didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, her voice low.

“Now it’s gonna get worse.”

All while Chantal sat, leaned back into the seat with slightly irregular breathing, her head beginning to hurt as her eyes trained outside at the passing city of New York.

The moment floods every social platform. Clips circulate not just from the shove—but from the ESPN interview.

“I’m not here to make people comfortable.”

“I don’t need your bridges.”

“I’m not here to fix your image of me.”

Hashtags trend. Memes explode. People choose sides.

Amy Davenport posts an Instagram story the next morning, nothing but a black screen with white words.

“I just want the game to feel safe again.” And the media eats it up.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

Chantal sits alone in her hotel room. No lights. No sound. Just a quiet rage, eating her from the inside.

She only blinks before she’s on the court, breathing heavy as the sun beamed down on her. The only sound she could hear before her breathing was the soothing sound of bird chirping. She absolutely loved that. It was rare in the big city of New York, but it was a gem to hear in New Rochelle. She whiffed before moving to the locker room, that reeked of sweat, disinfectant, and tension. Chantal sat still, her fist pressed against the cold metal bench, her racquet still clenched in the other hand like a weapon.

Her long-sleeved black Nike top clung to her, streaked with red clay and rage. Her curls were pulled back into a tightly-wound ponytail, strands falling out like they, too, were sick of containment.

Tashi stood in the doorway, arms crossed, chewing gum with a tense jaw.“You’re not gonna break your racket, are you?” Tashi asked, voice casual, one brow raised.

Chantal cut her eyes to the woman, a sharp and deadly look in her eyes as she steadied her breathing. “Funny.” She deadpanned.

And Tashi smirked. “Davenport’s been playin’ the media like a fiddle since she was twelve.” She begun, knowing what the woman was pissed and overthinking this situation everyone she got quiet. She’s been pissed about it for days now. “Let her. You won. That’s all that should matter.”

Chantal let out a sigh as she dropped the racquet. It clanged against the tiled floor. “But it doesn’t.” She said. “All anyone’s talking about is how I yelled. How I stomped. How I said something mean. Who gives a fuck?!”

“You called her a lousy bitch.”

“She is!” Chantal yelled, standing up from her seat, fire in her eyes as she looked at the woman. “She’s a lousy bitch who’s been getting away with micro aggression for far too fucking long. Every time we shake hands, it’s always some stupid and sick ass comment. The bitch is lousy and that’s why when we make it the championships. Dumb broad can’t even make it to Wimbledon.” She grumbled

And Tashi laughed once, sharp and short, slightly amused by her comments.

“Look, you want to be great, right?” Tashi moved closer, her coach’s eyes scanning Chantal. “Then we need to work on your mental game. The power’s there. But the fuse is short. You gotta figure out why.”

Chantal looked up. “You offering therapy or something? Cause I’m not doing it.”

“No.” Tashi said, grabbing her bag. “But I know something that might help. A place out in Las Angeles. I know something about pressure, and I know some people who can relate as well. Especially to you. And I think you need a vacation retreat before Wimbledon.”

Chantal paused briefly, blinking as she looked down at her hands in thought. Her mind flashed between everything that’s been going on, from her matches to the Amy drama, to the ESPN clips, to the new steroids accusations to simply not having a single soul in her fucking corner. Maybe she needed a break, maybe she needed sometime to…do nothing. Anything to take her mind off what’s been going on…or something besides tennis.

I’ll never do something besides tennis. She quickly thought.

She then let out a sharp sigh before stiffly nodding her head. “Yeah.”

“What?” Tashi asked. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Chantal said, picking up her racquet before rising. “I’ll go to L.A.”

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬

The sun in L.A. was a different. Almost artificial and arrogant. To Chantal at least.

It shined with no blocking buildings as it just dared you to look at it head on. Even the breeze had a bite. Everything about the city felt too loud, too glossy, too teeth-whitened and crystal-infused. And fake. And this is coming from a woman from now gentrified Harlem.

But she couldn’t deny how beautiful the city was. And he shared admitting that.

She stepped out of the car, aviators pulled low on her nose, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. A week ago she was elbowing cameras in midtown traffic. Now she was standing outside a modern California home nestled somewhere between Bel Air and some other city. She actually wasn’t even quite sure if she was in Bel-Air honestly, that’s just the only place she knows.

The home was nice, tall with nice architecture and beautiful greenery. A bit bougie in a way, but one that Chantal like. It looked very homey. The birds chirped, just like in New Rochelle, but these ones sounded like they’d ate healthier with how loud they were, and how many she saw pass across the sky.

“Kill me now.” She muttered, slamming the car door behind her.

Tashi was already waiting inside the foyer of the home, dressed in leggings and an athletic shirt, sipping something green through a bamboo straw. “Welcome to The Resting Ground.” She grinned, all fake serenity as she held her arms out to gesture to the home. “Your chakras are gonna love it here or whatever.”

“I don’t know what that is.”Chantal told her in a deadpan, standing stiff as her eyes drifted over the cozy looking home that looked quite lived in. But she knew this couldn’t be Tashi’s home, so whose was it.

Tashi just let out an awkward laugh before clapping her hands. “Right.” She mumbled. “Well come on. You’ll like it once you stop being allergic to peace.” She said, gesturing the woman between the set of stairs that split into two grand stair cases on the opposite sides of the foyer.

Chantal followed her through the place though hone, it still had that pseudo retreat feeling—zen garden table, koi pond in a fountain outside. The house seemed empty save the two women. And as Chantal followed the woman through the home, passing the kitchen, she was confused on what she was even doing here anymore.

“So, whose house is this.” She said, cutting right to it.

“One of mine.” Tashi said, only sparing her a single glance over her shoulder as she responded. Chantal just raised a brow at that but nodded. She then faced outside, seeing nothing but a nice green yard with a pond in the back.

“No court?” She asked, tearing her eyes away from the patio doors just when they cut off and the women entered a hall.

“Nope.” Tashi sighed. “Cause that’s not what this home is for. Trust me, I learned relaxation the hard way.” She mumbled.

And now Chantal hated all of it.

They got to the room in the hall, to her right but not far from the kitchen. It was a sun-drenched room with floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the perfect view of the back yard. There was a large bed in the center of the room, with nice dark wood detailing as the base and bead board, with matching nightstands. Which there was a tray of fresh fruit sitting on, like an apology of sorts.

Chantal threw her bag on the floor and stood stiffly in the middle of the room, like the floor was lava. “Let me guess, there’s no gym either?” She asked, moving over and picking up a piece of pineapple, tossing it back.

“No, there isn’t. Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

She whipped her head around. “So what the hell am I supposed to do here?”

“Not punch someone.” Tashi replied, peeling a slice of mango from the tray and popping it into her mouth. “You’ll be here alone, but I’ll come by and take you out to experience some calming things. Maybe meet some more people like you. Athletes. High performers. Folks who’ve been through the wringer. But for now? Just… rest. Try to. Find a hobby, sit with your woke thoughts and not cloud your mind by working out.” She explained.

Chantal stared out the window. Trees swayed in the wind. A butterfly floated by. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

“What if I don’t know how to relax?” She asked, and Tashi glanced at her when she caught how soft her tone was, it was gentle. Like she was…scared, almost.

“Then you’ll learn.” Tashi said gently. “You’re not here to win anything, Chantal. You’re here to learn how to stay in the game without letting it eat you alive.”

Chantal didn’t respond. She just nodded once, slowly, like she’d just been handed something she wasn’t sure she could hold.

Tashi left with a light pat on her shoulder, telling her ahead had to get back home and coach Art. And then she was alone.

Alone with quiet. With herself. With too many thoughts. With nothing to fight.

She sat on the edge of the bed for ten minutes before standing up again. Paced. Looked through the closet. Turned on the shower. Turned it off.

She finally settled on the balcony, knees pulled to her chest, watching the sun melt behind the hills. It was stupid how perfect the sky looked.

Still, for the first time in days, she let herself breathe. Not the kind she used for control. But a kind of…relief?

A hummingbird darted past her head. And surprisingly, she didn’t flinch. Not even once.

But trust, this calm didn’t last long.

The quiet, against all odds, had started to settle around her like a weighted blanket. Chantal remained on the balcony well after the sky blushed itself into twilight, until the soft hues dimmed into a navy blue curtain speckled with stars she rarely saw back home. A plane blinked across the sky. The wind cooled. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t pulling her hoodie over her head or checking her phone for the next match, meeting, or press circuit.

Eventually, the fatigue she’d been ignoring for weeks—months even—caught up to her. She didn’t cry or make a scene. She simply peeled herself off the balcony chair, brushed her teeth in the cozy bathroom, and climbed into bed like someone giving in rather than surrendering.

To her surprise, she slept, and she slept well.

So when her alarm pierced the morning at 6:00 a.m. sharp, she was already stirring.

No snooze button. No groan. No delay.

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes, swung her legs over the bed, and stood with the same silent command she brought to the court. Her hands moved automatically, reaching for the stretch band tucked inside her duffle, tying her braids tighter as she padded to the bathroom. Her joints popped. Her face looked less tired.

Though she was in a different home, she fell into routine like any other time.

She started with stretches, slow but intentional, letting each vertebra crackle back to life. Then bodyweight circuits. Squats, planks, push-ups, all in the middle of the room while the sunlight poured in from the linen curtains she pulled back earlier. The sports bra she slept in stuck to her skin by the end of it, her breath even but measured. She flowed through the movements like choreography. It kept her mind quiet.

Next came breakfast, and she used the things available within the home. Oats with flaxseed and almond milk, topped with banana slices and chia seeds. She found everything she needed in the kitchen, her brow slightly raised at how well-stocked it was for a place supposedly about “rest.” Coffee with three creamers and four sugar cubes and a protein shake on standby. She ate standing up, scrolling through her phone, and the first thing she did was check her emails.

There were a few from her manager, some promo requests, one PR notice reminding her of an event she’d since skipped out on. She fired back quick responses between spoonfuls, paused only to rotate her shoulder.

Then she showered, and came out of the bathroom dressed in black leggings, cropped white tank, and a black hoodie covering her form. Her blue duffel bag was back over her shoulder. Her braids braided into one at the back of her head, edges laid. Phone charged. Water bottle filled.

She was out the door before 7:15.

And that’s when it hit her.

She stood on the porch, blinking at the serene, unfamiliar neighborhood. No honking horns, no bustling sidewalks, no traffic noise. No corner bodega. No subway station. Just sunshine, kids laughing and sprinklers running.

No gym in sight

And also no car.

Her brows pulled together in disbelief as she turned in place, then back toward the house with an annoyed sigh escaping her lips.

“This is ridiculous.” She grumbled, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. When she stepped back inside, ready to text Tashi something foul, she caught a glint of silver in the entryway. A keyring, hanging on a hook near the door.

Attached to it, a folded note in Tashi’s slanted script:

“Figured I couldn’t leave you stranded. Though I was going to. - T”

Chantal snorted in amusement. “Yeah, whatever.” She grumbled, balling the paper up and tossing it.

She grabbed the keys without hesitation and followed the logical next step, which was the garage. The motion sensor lights flickered on as the door rose slowly, revealing what had to be some kind of sick joke.

A pastel yellow Volkswagen Beetle sat parked squarely in the middle.

Chantal just stared at it, blinking once.

Then twice.

Then she muttered. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” In a small hiss. This was far change from her sleek black Porsche.

It looked like something a sorority girl in Malibu would drive. Round edges on it’s vintage body. Like it belonged in some feel-good teen movie about summer and surfboards and an endless supply of ice cream.

Her lips parted in a dry, unimpressed scoff. But still, she hit the unlock button, and the lights blinked in reply, customized with hearts on them. This caused her to furrow her brows more, wondering whose car this really belonged to, because no way was it Tashi Donaldsons.

Chantal opened the door, ducked into the Beetle, tossed her bag in the passenger seat, and sat there for a second.

Then she pulled her phone out and typed “nearest gym” into her GPS. A handful of results populated. She picked furthest one and hit Go.

With a low grumble, the car sputtered to life. “Don’t stall on me.” She warned it like it was an opponent.

Then Chantal Figeruoa—New York-born, Bronx-trained, nationally ranked tennis star—backed the pastel yellow Volkswagen Beetle out of the garage like she’d done it every day of her life, pulled out onto the unfamiliar California road, and followed the calm voice of her GPS toward somewhere she could finally sweat again.

She drove to a Planet Fitness, parking in the lot. But as she stepped out, her eyes caught a mural across the street—a painting of the infamous Apollo Creed on the side of a building. And she immediately knew what it was, and it hit her like a punch to the chest. It was the Delphi Boxing Academy. The sight stirred something in her. Even though she was parked at the Planet Fitness, she didn’t even think before she walked across the street to the boxing gym. It called to her in a way she couldn’t explain.

The gym door creaked open, letting in a sliver of midday sun—and her.

She stepped inside, looking around in slight shock as her eyes moved across the gym. The sound of grunts and hits echoed throughout the place, people making hit after heat over the sound of rap music coming from the speakers. The familiar scent of sweat, leather, and chalk hit her all at once, oddly comforting, like stepping into a memory. She moved toward the front desk, where a young man—couldn’t have been more than nineteen—looked up from his phone. His face froze.

“Hi,” She said, a small smile and a polite tone. “I was wondering if I could get a day pass? I’ll, uh, I’ll pay whatever you need.” She shrugged, feeling a bit awkward being in a place like this again. The kid blinked hard, his jaw tightening as he registered who she was. He tried—truly tried—to play it cool, but the awe leaked through the cracks in his expression. “Uh… nah. You’re good. On the house.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, unsure. “You sure?”

He nodded, grinning a little too wide now. “Yeah. It’s cool. Really.” He nodded.

She murmured a soft thank you with a sort of bashful smile and stepped past the counter, feeling his eyes trail her as she walked deeper into the gym. That always happened—people staring, recognizing her, whispers. She never got used to it.

She was awkward. That’s what she truly was, and it’s what people used to call her when they saw her in public. The people from her neighborhood. Even Mando used to say it to her. Now she was standoffish. Aggressive. But the truth was far more simple. She was just a girl once—thrust into a spotlight she never asked for, alone and scared, and she wore that cold demeanor as armor. It was survival for a world that she knew was gonna chew her up and spit her out.

She made her way towards of the corners of the gym, where the lighting was a bit brighter since she was next to the large floor to ceiling windows. The position gave her a clean view of the ring, where two women were sparring with quick hands and tighter footwork. She watched them for a moment, appreciating the rhythm, the discipline, and the grit it took to show up and give everything.

She dropped her duffel bag onto the floor and sat beside it, stretching her legs and cracking her knuckles. Her eyes drifted toward the heavy bag hanging nearby. For a moment, she just stared. It had been nearly fifteen years. Fifteen years since Armando passed. Since she had last thrown a punch with purpose.

And now, here she was.

In a place they had talked about visiting together. A place where Apollo Creed himself once trained.

She stood and moved toward the bag, shaking out her arms. Her hoodie came off slowly, revealing toned arms and a tank that clung to her frame. No gloves. No wraps. Just her bare fists. She stood in front of the sandbag, drew in a breath, and let loose.

The first few punches were rusty—more force than form. But then came rhythm. Sharp jab. Another. Left hook. Right cross. The sound of her fists slamming against the bag echoed through the space like gunshots. Her breath grew heavier. Her body moved faster. Every hit carried something—anger, grief, longing, the ache of time lost.

She didn’t notice the people watching, not at first. She didn’t hear the slow hush of the gym as others paused to look. She didn’t feel the weight of the eyes until her chest heaved too hard, and her focus slipped for half a second. She stepped back, letting her hands fall. Sweat beaded along her brow as she reached for her duffel, pulling out a bottle of water.

She twisted the cap and was about to drink—

And then she saw half the gym was looking. Watching her.

They looked away quickly when she stared back—heads turned, eyes dropped, everyone pretending they weren’t caught. So, she took a long sip of her water, unbothered on the outside, but her pulse still quick, from the hitting and the unwanted eyes.

That’s when he approached. A tall man in his about his fifties, thin build with a beard peppered with gray. His walk had a natural authority to it—like someone who’d spent years on the floor, reading fighters the way others read books. “Name’s Duke.” He said, holding out a hand. “I run things around here.” Chantal let out a huff before she reached and shook his hand. Firm grip. No smile.

“You hit like someone who’s been doing this in for a while.” He said. “Got good form, too. You want some gloves?”

She hesitated. A flicker of something in her eyes—nostalgia, maybe. Or pain.

“Nah,…Nah, I think I’m good.” She said. Her voice trailed off, and she seemed to want to say more the way her mouth opened, but she just shook her head again and looked down.

He nodded at that. “Alright. How about just some wraps then? Least you won’t tear your knuckles up.” He suggested.

She didn’t answer right away, looking down at her raw, reddened hands. She clenched her hands, her knuckles on the verge of tearing as her skin thinned and her blood rushed to the surface. Then, finally, she reasoned with a small nod. “Wraps are fine.” She said, looking up at him.

Duke nodded before he walked off to grab them, and she exhaled, flexing her fingers slowly. It had started as a visit. Just a place to remember the man she lost long ago. Duke then returned with a roll of fresh wraps in hand, nodding for her to sit on the bench nearby. She dropped down, stretching her arms out as he knelt in front of her, unrolling the fabric with a casual ease that came from years of practice. “You’re heavy with the hands.” He said as he started wrapping her right hand, careful not to pull too tight across the knuckles. “Gotta say, you hit like someone who used to do this for real.”

She didn’t say anything at first, just watched his hands move. Efficient. Steady. “I was good once, I guess.” She finally muttered with a lazy shrug. At least, that’s what he used to say. She thought.

Duke chuckled under his breath, glancing up at her. “Yeah. But I know boxings not your thing.” He stated. “I’ve seen you before.” He added. Chantal’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t stop him. “Thought you might.” She mumbled. He nodded, focusing back on her wrist, though he caught sign of how tense she’d became. “Didn’t mean to make it weird. Just—lotta folks come in here trying to prove something. You walk in and nearly knock the bag off the chain, no gloves, no warm-up. Impressive. Got the heart of someone remembering a lot.”

She gave a quiet snort, but it wasn’t unkind. “Something like that.”

He moved to her left hand, checking the spacing between her fingers before looping the wrap again. “So what brings you in today? Felt like hitting somethin’ or someone call you in?” He asked.

Her eyes flicked toward the massive mural of Apollo Creed painted on the gym’s window. “The mural, actually. I was parked at a Planet Fitness across the street. Saw that painting and… couldn’t ignore it.” She said softly, causing Duke to nod thoughtfully. “That’s how we get most people.” He said with a small smile. “Apollo’s still pulling them in, even years after. Gym’s been here a minute. You ever train here before?”

“No. Always..wanted to.” She hesitated. “Someone I knew—he wanted to bring me here. Mentor, long time ago.”

Duke glanced up at her again, something softer in his expression now. “Sounds like he was important.”

Chantal nodded, her eyes distant. “He taught me how to fight. How to survive.” Silence settled between them for a moment as Duke finished the last loop and secured the wrap.

“Well,” He said, giving her hand a light pat as he rose to his feet, “You’re wrapped and ready. Should hold up fine if you go at that bag the way you were earlier.” He said, giving the air some lady jab, causing Chantal to let out a small chuckle. She then flexed her fingers experimentally, nodding once in approval.

“Thanks.” She said quietly as she stood up from the bench.

“Anytime. And hey—if you feel like sparring, or if you want a trainer while you’re here, let me know. No pressure.”

She gave him a faint smile, small but real. “I might.” And her response let him know that she was just like that, short and simple answers to pretty much anything he had to say. She was naturally guarded. Duke smiled back at her. “No rush. This place’ll be here when you’re ready to decide.”

And with that, he left her alone with her thoughts, nothing but her and the bag.

Chantal let out a long sigh as she slipped her headphones back over her ears, the booming hum of bass surging into her bloodstream like a familiar drug before 50 cents voice came through. She returned to the bag without another word, rolling her shoulders loose before stepping into her stance. With her hands freshly wrapped, she moved with more purpose now—her jabs crisp, her footwork light and coiled, like a spring constantly threatening to snap. She danced around the bag like a pro, ducking and weaving, throwing uppercuts at shadows only she could see, landing clean three-piece combos like muscle memory had never left her.

She was in the zone. Locked in. Each hit a purge. Each hiss of breath through her clenched teeth a release. Every strike whispered of the lessons Armando Fuentes has taught her. Of The Bronx, of long nights with nothing but a jump rope and cold gym lights. She didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t even notice she was being watched.

But someone was.

In the ring, Sandra Alvarez—five-time world champion, undefeated, and cocky as ever—was barking at her sparring partner, who’d just taken a knee.

“Get up!” Sandra snapped, frustration boiling off her. “You’re weak! I don’t need this! I need a challenge, not a fucking warm-up!”

Her coach tried to say something, but she waved him off and turned at the sharp sound of fists and hisses echoing from the back of the gym. That’s when she saw her.

Chantal, in black leggings and a fitted tee, moving like the bag had personally offended her. Her technique was tight. Controlled. Angry. Powerful.

Sandra smirked.

“Aye!” She shouted, her voice slicing through the heavy air and silencing the gym in one instant.

Chantal halted, panting slightly as she pulled her headphones down to her neck, slightly frightened by the loud noise that cut through the gym. Her brows furrowed when she saw the woman pointing at her from the ring. She didn’t like being yelled at, especially not mid-round.

“Yeah?” She replied, wary, her voice clipped and a little awkward. All eyes were suddenly on her, and her fingers tightened on the wraps at her sides.

Sandra tilted her head, cocky smile widening. “What’s your name?”

The woman blinked, her eyes moving to the other that lingered in the building, now eyeing the twos “Chantal.” She said, lowering her fists.

“Yeah, I know,” Sandra replied with a nod , eyes still glued to her. There was something smug behind the statement, like she was waiting for a reaction. Chantal didn’t give her one. She simply rolled her eyes and went to put her headphones back on, uninterested in whatever performance Sandra was looking to start.

But Sandra wasn’t finished.

“Wanna spar?”

A hush rippled through the gym. Some people went back to training, but others stayed watching—Duke among them, leaning slightly forward now with interest. Even an older man from Sandra’s team, someone recognizable from TV, was squinting toward the back.

Chantal blinked, taken aback. She shook her head, quick and dismissive.

“Nah. I’m not a boxer.”

Sandra didn’t skip a beat. “I didn’t ask you that,” She shot back. “I asked if you wanted to spar.”

“And I said no.” Chantal snapped, her temper flickering at the edges. She was tired of the attention, the sudden challenge, the performance of it all.

Sandra scoffed and turned toward her corner, laughing with her coach and sparring partner. Then, just loud enough to carry, she muttered, “La perra tiene miedo.” They chuckled, assuming Chantal had tuned them out.

But she hadn’t.

The moment the words left Sandra’s mouth, Chantal froze. Her headphones never made it to her ears. Her jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed as rage began to simmer up her spine. “What the fuck did you just say?” She asked, loud and sharp, ripping the headphones fully off and tossing them onto her bag.

The gym quieted again, the one that went back to their training pausing to look back at the commotion.

Sandra turned slowly, eyebrow raised, but didn’t respond fast enough for Chantal. She didn’t wait for her to respond before she marched toward the ring, venom in her voice, switching fluently into Spanish now. “¿Qué carajo dijiste de mí? ¿Ah? Repítelo, perra.”

Sandra and her crew stiffened, but said nothing. Sandra’s face flickered with surprise before she pulled on her smirk again. “You better watch who the fuck you’re talking to.” She shot down from the edge of the ring, leaning on the ropes.

“No, you better watch your fucking mouth. I don’t fucking know you.” Chantal spat.

The heat between them intensified, voices rising with every second. They spoke over each other now, Spanish and English blending into a furious mess. Chantal’s fists were balled, her shoulders squared like she was ready to climb through the ropes, and Sandra leaned forward as if daring her to do it.

Before Sandra could even step down from the ring, Duke stepped in, moving away from the conversation he was having with the other Creed boxer.

“Alright—Alright!” He barked, stepping between them with his hands raised. “That’s enough!”

He turned to Chantal first. “Look, I know she talks slick, but this ain’t the place for it, alright?”

“She called me a bitch.” Chantal growled, her hard stare moving to the man now. “You better get her.”

“And you looked ready to fight about it—which I get.” He said quickly, cutting a look toward Sandra. “But no fights outside the ring. Y’all wanna settle this? Then do it with gloves. Otherwise, cut the noise.”

Sandra threw up her hands mockingly. “I said spar. She said no. Guess she is scared.”

Chantal’s nostrils flared as Duke gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t give into unless you plan on handling it.” He said low enough for only her to hear.

Chantal frowned as she huffed out of anger. She then glanced around and he was right. Pairs of eyes lingered on her, some amused, some stunned, others just curious. Even the bag she’d been working on seemed to pulse with the tension still radiating off her.

Chantal let out a sharp exhale through her nose, jaw tight.

“What’s it gonna be?” Duke asked, voice low but firm. Chantal didn’t answer right away—not with words, anyway. Her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth could’ve cracked. Her nostrils flared with every breath, each inhale hotter than the last. And her glare was almost loud. Loud enough to shake something loose in the gym’s atmosphere.

“Run it.” She hissed, her gaze locked on Sandra, who was now grinning down at her from inside the ring like a lion already tasting blood.

Duke gave her a long look. Not quite disapproval, but close—more like the reluctant resignation of a man who’d just agreed to light a match near gasoline. Still, he nodded, turning on his heel to get her corner ready.

Sandra was already peeling off her hoodie, bouncing in place as her coach tightened her gloves and handed her a mouthguard. She looked excited. Eager. Like she hadn’t had real competition in months.

While Duke moved to grab gear for Chantal, a voice came from behind him.

“Yo, D,” Adonis called out, making his way over with furrowed brows. “Are you sure about this?”

Duke didn’t look up. “Yeah, I’m sure. Sandra needs a fight.”

Adonis glanced toward the ring, then to Chantal, who was tightening her own gloves without a hint of hesitation before moving to get them paid up. “And you think this is it?” He asked, subtly gesturing at her, his tone low and unsure. Chantal didn’t react outwardly to the slight jab. Maybe because she didn’t blame him. She was a stranger—one who just stormed into their gym and challenged their top fighter out of pure spite. But it didn’t matter to her. She was angry. And nothing else existed outside of that.

“I mean—this is reckless, man.” He continued.

Duke didn’t even look up, didn’t pause in his movements as he taped her other hand. “Yeah, you would know, wouldn’t you?” He said dryly, voice hard-edged.

Adonis frowned. “Duke.”

“Adonis,” Duke fired back without missing a beat, finally standing to face him. They stared at each other for a long second. Not aggressive, but there was something tense and unspoken between them, a kind of mutual challenge layered beneath years of trust and respect. Neither one of them moved, as if deciding whether to press it or let it die.

Chantal, fed up with the testosterone-fueled standoff, scoffed loudly and shoved past both of them without a word. Her shoulder clipped Adonis’s arm as she walked by, but she didn’t apologize.

She had a ring to climb into.

With a practiced hop, Chantal pulled herself through the ropes and into the ring. The moment her feet hit the mat, something inside her shifted. The gear, the weight of the gloves, the feeling of the canvas beneath her soles—it all came rushing back like muscle memory waking from a long nap.

She started bouncing on her toes, loosening up her shoulders as her body fell into rhythm. She slapped her gloves together and hissed short breaths between her teeth as she threw jabs at the air, working up momentum like she was stoking a fire. Her eyes stayed on Sandra across the ring, but her focus was inward. That familiar flood of adrenaline was back, and it was delicious.

The gym watched in hushed anticipation.

“Aye!”

The shout snapped her head down toward the ropes. Adonis was standing just below, holding a padded vest in one hand.

“At least put this on.” He said, not unkindly. His eyes were serious, but there was no trace of the earlier doubt in his voice. Chantal’s jaw ticked. For a second, she didn’t move. Just stared at him, letting the weight of her glare settle.

Then, with a sharp exhale, she slid back out of the ring.

Adonis met her halfway, pulling the vest over her head and strapping it tight across her back. His hands moved with focus, quick and efficient. And though he was clearly trying to stay professional, Chantal’s eyes never left his face—sharp, unreadable, almost daring him to look up. When he finally did, their eyes locked for a second. Just a second. But it was enough for something to pass between them—respect, maybe, or understanding. It didn’t linger long.

Chantal pulled away and slid back into the ring without another word. Though she couldn’t help but to think about how good he looked,

The crowd in the gym seemed to lean in as she rolled her shoulders, fists clenched and ready. She smacked her gloves together again before.

Then the bell rang.

Not an official one—just the sharp clang of Duke’s whistle echoing across the gym like the start of a war. The entire room tensed. All eyes locked on the ring as Chantal and Sandra stepped forward from opposite corners, gloves raised, shoulders tight, heads low. There was no friendly touch of gloves, no nod of respect. This wasn’t sport. It was a grudge match.

From the jump, Sandra made her experience known. Her guard was solid, elbows tight, and her footwork steady and grounded. Her movements were calculated—compact hooks, efficient slips, sharp uppercuts that came with professional precision. But Chantal was lightning. Unpredictable. Her fists moved like flickers of flame, and her body flowed with a rhythm not taught but earned. Something one can only be born with, or started young,

The first official hit came from Sandra—a tight left hook that caught Chantal’s temple. It sent her stumbling half a step, and the gym gasped.

“¡Vamos, Sandra!” Her coach shouted from the corner. “¡Enséñale quién manda!” Come on, Sandra! Show her who’s boss!

But Chantal only grinned, blood rising like heat beneath her skin. Her rebuttal came fast—a one-two combo that rocked Sandra’s jaw and gut, forcing her backward.

“She fast.” Adonis muttered under his breath, arm folded tightly as he watched from ringside.

“Yeah.” Duke replied, eyes never leaving the ring. “And mad.”

Sandra threw a looping overhand right, but Chantal ducked, slid inside, and landed a jab clean to the ribs.

“Is that all you got?” Chantal barked.

Sandra answered with a grunt that spit some blood through her mouth guard and a punch to the mouth that snapped Chantal’s head back.

“¡Te voy a tumbar, perra!” Sandra snarled. I’m gonna knock you down, bitch!

“You can try.” Chantal spat through her mouthguard, tasting the metallic liquid her mouth. “But you better swing harder than that, mama.” She taunted. The gym roared with each exchange. The air was electric, thick with sweat, adrenaline, and mounting tension. Sandra’s corner yelled commands, rapid-fire in Spanish, while Duke’s voice boomed over everyone else’s. “Guard up, Chantal! Don’t admire your work!” He yelled.

Adonis leaned closer to the ropes, eyes wide. “Watch the left! She’s loading it!”

But Chantal didn’t need to be told anything. She was already shifting her weight, bobbing just out of reach, her eyes sharp and predatory. Her counters came quicker now—three jabs in a row, each one tagging Sandra’s face with vicious precision. Left cheek. Chin. Nose. The sound of leather hitting flesh echoed like gunfire in the gym.

Sandra’s steps began to falter.

Chantal’s feet never stopped moving. Light but rooted, springy but deadly. She ducked a wild haymaker and punished the woman with another barrage—jab, jab, hook, jab—all to the face.

“¡Cúbrete, Sandra! ¡La cara!” Her coach screamed. Cover your face!

But it was too late. Chantal was relentless now, her gloves dancing like knives across Sandra. “You tired already?” She taunted, voice rising over the noise. “I thought you was bad, huh? ¡Pensé que no podía pelear!” I thought I couldn’t fight!

Sandra staggered back, clutching at her busted lip, face red and wet. Blood smeared along her glove.

“Get up!” Chantal screamed, bouncing on the balls of her feet, circling like a lion. Her eyes blazed, fists twitching. “Get up!” The gym fell into stunned silence as Sandra slowly rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove. She squared her stance again, fists up, breathing heavy.

“Alright, come on then, bitch—” Sandra started, but she never fully finished.

Chantal snapped forward and delivered a straight shot to the face—clean, fast, and full of fury. Sandra’s head whipped back as her body flung into the ropes, collapsing like a ragdoll. The impact sent a shock through the gym.

“And stay down.” Chantal hissed through her teeth, chest heaving.

Sandra groaned on the mat, face twisted in pain. Her coach vaulted onto the apron, shouting, “¡Mierda! ¡Esto es una locura!” Shit! This is insane! Others in her corner erupted in fury.

“You let that animal in the ring?!” One shouted at Duke, voice shrill.

“Y’all crazy for letting this happen!” Another yelled, pointing fingers. “She ain’t even licensed, Duke!”

But Chantal didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She spat her mouthguard into her glove and dropped her arms, walking to the ropes with a searing glare. Her teeth clamped down on the tape at her wrists as she tore it free with furious yanks, ripping her gloves off as she eased out of the ring. The vest hit the matted floor with a thud as she tossed it aside, chest still rising and falling like she’d run through fire.

Duke took a step toward her as she moved to leave. “Chantal—”

Adonis followed. “Yo, hold up—”

But she was already gone. She brushed past both men without a glance, her fists clenched tight by her sides. No one in the gym tried to stop her. No one dared. Most were too focused on the beating she’d just delivered. She made it to her side of the gym, grabbed her bag with one hand, and slung it over her shoulder with the other. Her body moved like a storm—tight, unyielding, vibrating with leftover heat. Duke called after her. Adonis too. But Chantal didn’t even slow down.

The front door of the gym closed shut behind her as she marched out into the street, her car parked across from the building. Still breathless. Still burning.

But for the first time all day—Chantal felt alive.

@j0joworld @vile-harlot @inkdrippeddreams @imsohappyilovekbop @bbymuthaaa @healthenature @susanhill

#adonis creed x black!reader #adonis creed x reader #adonis creed #adonis #michael b jordan x black reader #michealbjordan x reader #michealbjordan fanfic #michael b jordan x reader #micheal b jordan #michaelbjordan #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan #creed 3 #creed

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cellophaine · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter I: En Avant

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: Fluff.

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: The first chapter is finally here!! I'm very excited to bring this new series to you. It's what I've been thinking about for a few months now. It came to me while I was still working on A Languor Spell, and now I can give it my full attention. Thank you for your patience! I hope you will enjoy the first chapter!

P/S: This is my first time writing in present tense, so if there's any mistake please let me know so I can fix it!

Disclaimer: I'm not a professional ballet dancer. I'm an adult beginner, and I've been taking classes consistently for over a year now. I just want to say that the series isn't written with the experience of a professional ballerina, but with my love for the art and the extensive research that I've done and will continue to do. I don't choose to write the Reader as a ballerina because of the aesthetic, but because I think there are so many things to explore in the original story that I've come up with, with the Reader being in the industry.

GIF Source: @/petertingle-yipyip

There has always been an emptiness residing within the frame of your body. In the absence of your old life, it has grown expeditiously. It carves into your body and makes a home in the forefront of your mind. On worse days, you feel as if anyone can see at first glance, how incomplete of a person you are. On better days, like today, you can hide it well, even from your closest friend. But right now, sitting in a dimly lit bar across from the friend you have known since you moved to this city at 18, you feel the person you're supposed to be has taken your anatomy apart. You're disembodied, scattered, and fractional.

Jo notices your silence and reaches over the table, laying her hand atop yours.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

Jo’s proposal. How can you not think about it? It has never left your mind ever since she mentioned it. Her newly acquired gym could be a place for you to get back to dancing in complete privacy. And you won’t have to pay a dime.

“I spruced up the place a little bit and will be adding more equipment. I can get whatever you need so it can be a proper space for you to practice.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Jo casts a sympathetic look at you, her voice careful.

“How’s your foot?”

You flex and point the right foot under the table, recalling the phantom pain that was your consistent companion for the most part of last year.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Are you still seeing Amy?”

“Of course. She’d bite my head off if I missed our appointment.”

You share a knowing chuckle, knowing Amy's personality. You know her through Jo, and they dated briefly in college. The two stayed friends afterward. After leaving Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre, your physical health was left to your own management. Your gaps of knowledge were filled in by Amy, a physical therapist who stepped in and offered her help voluntarily when Jo mentioned your situation. You still meet biweekly at her practice in Harlem, and the three of you hang out from time to time.

“Come to my gym.”

She hastily continues once she sees the decline perches on your pressed lips.

“It’s free.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. You’ll have to get a barre, and the flooring might not be suitable–“

“I don’t care about the cost. I just want to do this for you. Let someone do a nice thing for you every once in a while.”

You meet her eyes, resisting her act of kindness with silence. You know how to pick your battles, and this is the one you have lost from the start, judging by Jo's stern gaze. You sigh.

“I’ll think about it.”

A victory smile graces her lips.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Jo leans into the table, her hand reaching for yours.

“I want to see you dance on the stage again. You’re a beautiful ballerina, and I know this is not the end for you.”

You know she means well, but her words feel like claws, sinking their sharp ends into your heart. You haven't danced since the injury, and a part of you knows that you might never dance as well as you once did. The best version of you had lived that life to its fullest potential, the life of endless classes and rehearsals, soldout shows, ending many nights and seasons to the deafening cheers from the audience. Your current self is only a shadow, living a partial existence and mourning the past as time passes and your grasp on it weakens.

You want the endless optimism Jo seems to possess. She’s always so assertive in everything she does. From her university days pursuing a bachelor's degree in sports science to her boxing competition days to buying a gym, she has a sense of self-assurance that carries her throughout the years you've known her ever since you became roommates when you first moved to New York. And you admire that about her endlessly. Her goals might vary, but her passion for them never wavers. Her faith in you seems to share the same sentiment.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, hoping your face doesn't betray your true thoughts. Jo squeezes your hand and lets go. She checks her wristwatch, and with a silent glance, you understand that she has to leave. Jo meets you as you stand up from your side of the booth, drawing you into a crushing hug.

“Will you be okay here?”

She pulls back. You smile and pat her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. Just want to finish my drink.”

She takes a step backward as she waves.

“Good luck tomorrow!”

You raise your hand in response and watch her tall and brawny frame vanish through the door. You drop your arm, but you don't sit down. Taking a discreet glance at the bar, your heart rate spikes ever so slightly at the sight of the stranger you noticed earlier when you bought the drinks.

As you waited for your drinks, he came in and settled for a spot at the bar. The lady whose name you learned earlier, Josie, greeted him, asking where his friends were, so you assumed he was a regular. He was good-looking, you admitted before finding yourself staring at him. You averted your gaze, but couldn't help taking in other details. The folded cane rested on the bar top as Josie slid a glass of amber liquid in front of him. The scarred knuckles as he brought it to his lush lips. The suit was pristine for the most part except for the minimal wrinkles from the day's wear and the loosened tie. The red-tinted glasses perched on his pronounced nose, under the tousled sweep of dark hair. The soft smile brightened his handsome face as the other bartender told him something, which you had to tear your eyes away from when Josie placed the drinks in front of you. You thanked her and headed back to your table, feeling a touch of disappointment in your throat.

There is no denying that you want to approach him. But your nerves intervene with all the questions. What if he rejected you? What if he thought you were a creep for approaching him? What if he just wanted to be left alone? He has been sitting by the bar by himself ever since he came in, you notice. You'd ask if you could join him, and possibly buy him a drink if he was up for it. If he said no, that'd be fine. You would respect his wish and leave him alone. You have a feeling you'd regret it if you didn't at least try.

You gulp down your drink for a little liquid courage and make your way over to the bar. Your heart rate accelerates the closer you get to him, but you are determined to get over the little hurdle. You stop within a conversational distance and use your best composed voice.

“Hi, may I join you?”

He turns in his seat and gives you a friendly smile.

“Of course not. Please do.”

The high chair is a comfortable and respectful distance away from his, but still close enough for a private conversation. The stranger has angled his body toward you, and his openness eases the knot in your stomach. At this distance, you can see that he is even more handsome up close. Heat seeps into your cheeks at the full comprehension of his handsomeness up close. The neon signs around help shape the shadows and highlights that are already there in his features. The strong jawline and defined nose blend in harmony with the soft hair and luscious lips. You find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from his moving lips, and only a brief moment later you realize he has asked for your name.

You tell him and laugh nervously, blaming the lively ambience around you. He humours you with a chuckle of his own and reciprocates.

"Matt. Nice to meet you."

“Nice to meet you.”

He reaches out with a hand, and you grab it. Your heart beats a little faster at the feel of his hand, warm and a little rough. You pull away first, conscious of the coldness of your hand. You eye his almost empty glass.

“Would you like another drink?”

“If that makes you stay with me for the rest of the evening, I’d love one.”

Charming. You allow an amused and breathy chuckle to escape, and order another fill of your drinks. When Josie turns away to make them, Matt asks.

“What are we celebrating tonight?”

You think about it for a moment.

“This is not really a celebration since I haven’t gotten the job yet.”

“When is the interview?”

“It's … tomorrow.”

His brows raise above the glasses.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little bit. It’s been a while since my last normal job.”

“What were you doing before?”

Josie puts down the drinks in front of you.

“I’m a– I was a ballerina.”

“Was?”

You run a finger over the cool and smooth edge of the glass, taking a moment to tell a stranger about one of your worst shame.

“I haven’t danced professionally in over a year."

“May I ask why?"

The edge of his lips settles into a neutral line. No pity, just a willingness to listen. It is exactly what you need.

“Yes, but it's just … complicated.”

“How so?”

The old life that you once lived feels so out of your grasp now. Besides the occasional flareups, most mornings, you get up with minimal or no degree of soreness or pain, and you fear that signals the end of your life as a ballerina.

Retirement in your late twenties wasn't something you thought of when you were 18, fresh out of high school with an offer letter from Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre. Moving from a small, sylvan town to a big, lively city like New York was a dream come true. You got to live out the life your younger self used to dream about. How wonderful it was. Dancing on the big stage before the bright stage lights in front of the audience. The early classes, late stage calls, costume fittings, and demanding rehearsals leading up to the shows were all worth it. Because when you got to dance, it was just you and the music. Your body knew the techniques, learned the steps and how to master them. You bent music with your carefully crafted movements and turned the piece into your own interpretation. You worked hard on your craft and artistic abilities, and you thought that it paid off with your promotion from corps de ballet to the first soloist assembly after six years.

But for Matt's sake, you don't go into any of that.

“Well … being a principal dancer in my old company is a great honour since we're– they're much smaller than the American Ballet Theatre, New York City Ballet, etc … There were, and still are, only two dancers in that role. They were Christine and Guilherme. Christine'd been with the company since the early days. Many people came to the shows to see her dance. She and Guilherme brought in so many loyal audiences and sponsors over the years. So you can imagine what a big deal it was when Christine decided to retire."

He nods, his understanding and inclination to follow the story are apparent.

"Roger, the artistic director, wanted to appoint a first soloist, which is just a step below principal, to take over in her place. I was a soloist, and I was Christine's understudy for a few years until her retirement. I performed when she couldn't, when she needed to reserve her strength for important shows, on top of the roles I had to prepare and perform in those productions. So I thought it was my opportunity to get that promotion, you know? I always brought my best to work, and I pushed myself even harder that season to prove that I have what it takes to be a principal dancer. I was in and out of classes, rehearsals, and performances every day for over three months. On the days we had two shows a day, oftentimes I'd have to perform in both so Christine could have a break."

Matt listens intently, following your words with an attentiveness that you find endearing.

“In the final week of Sleeping Beauty, I had this pain along my heel. But I ignored it and pushed through out of fear that they would dismiss me. At that point, they already had a favourite. One of the directors even told me that I should quit while I was ahead and that I should be happy staying as a soloist."

You swallow the lump in your throat and go on.

"I couldn't take my bow that night, because as soon as my part was done and I went behind the stage, I passed out. It turned out I got an Achilles rupture.

“I had the surgery and was in a boot for a while. I was so desperate to show them my dedication and how good I was by going back to the studio just the day after they allowed me to go without the boot. And I made the injury worse. I was admitted for a partial rupture a week later.”

You thought you could do it. Bearing and hiding the pain so you would stand out as the best selection for the new principal dancer. Yet, all of that hard work didn’t matter in the end. It never mattered the moment Claudia Mavis signed a contract with Lady Liberty.

“In the hospital, Roger told me that he decided to promote Claudia, even though by that point she had been with the company for only one season. Then, I found out that Claudia left her previous company because they wouldn’t promote her. But here's the funniest part. After class one day, Claudia told me that they offered her a new contract two weeks before my accident. So I never had the chance in the first place."

You chuckle bitterly, remembering the tightness of your chest when you found out.

"They announced Christine's replacement at the last show of the season. Roger expected me to continue my duties as a soloist and an understudy for Claudia. But I just … couldn't do it. So I quit.”

“I’m sure when you come back to it, you will still be amazing.”

You don't even try to hide the disbelieving and playful scoff that escapes.

“You're just flattering me.”

There's not a trace of that cocky confidence of a man who thinks he just scores big with a woman because of a throwaway, vague statement he thinks will please her.

“I mean it. I enjoy music and dance performances in a way most can’t. When I really pay attention, I can hear … movements. The rhythm of someone’s feet striking the ground in time with the music when done right is beautiful. The way you talk about ballet shows me how much you truly care for the art. Like you live and breathe it.”

You tug on your bottom lip with your teeth in quiet contemplation before answering him.

“I did. It was a big part of my life.”

“It still can be.”

You let out a noncommittal hum.

"We'll see."

You took sips of your respective drinks, allowing the moment to reset itself. But Matt isn't quite done with the questions. You give him the go-ahead.

"Why ballet?"

“I just love the duality of it. We're supposed to look graceful and effortless while our blisters have blisters, our toes are bleeding, our legs are cramping. We have to dance through all of that and much worse. I like the pain sometimes. It means that I’m doing it right.”

“I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”

The quip takes you by surprise, but you quickly recover.

"Huh. I usually don't reveal that information to anyone until I'm ready to sleep with them."

Matt's tongue licks at his bottom lip, amused by your response.

"Maybe we are just that compatible."

Maybe it is the alcohol that makes you a little lightheaded, but the conversation has taken on a flirty turn, and you lean into each other's space, sharing a bashful, quiet laugh.

The person who took the seat next to yours when you were in the middle of your story bumps into you from behind, pushing you further into Matt's space. They apologize, and you tell them it's fine. The bar top has grown a little more crowded with new visitors. You think about what you could do to make some space when Matt reaches out and pulls your chair closer, so close that your knees touch. The contact is minimal, yet insistent, and you can't help the heat that races to your skin and the wild rhythms of your heart. Even your internal self admits that was the hottest thing Matt has done so far.

You clear your thoughts, focusing on the man sitting so much closer to you now.

“I'm so sorry. I feel like I've been talking about myself for the past hour.”

“No, don't stop. I like it. You have a beautiful voice.”

If he kept this going, you would need to check yourself for a fever. You clear your throat.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer. My partners and I have our own practice here in Hell's Kitchen.”

“Wow, that's amazing. What do you specialize in?”

“A little bit of everything. We started out representing people who can’t afford the legal service. Pro bono work basically. We still do that, but we have been getting more clients who can pay for our services.”

“Hm. It makes perfect sense. I can see that about you. The good guy.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“You know the right questions to ask. You got me talking about myself for … way too long. And your face …”

You trail off. Almost two drinks have worked their magic on your unabashed honesty.

“My face?”

His plush lips lift in a curious smile.

“Yeah, your face. You made me feel … safe and welcome so I could tell my story. Your face stayed neutral when I went on and on about it. No pity or judgment. You looked like you really cared about me, or my case.”

“I do care about you. And for the record, I appreciate every detail you gave me.”

You know that he might say this just to please you, but his earnestness says otherwise.

“Thank you. I needed that. Not many people care about me, especially after my fallout with the company.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It never was.”

Matt puts a hand on yours on the bar top. You stared at his scarred knuckles, your heart beating along the seam of your body with a slight increase in rhythm. Your hand itched to weave itself into his, to lay flat against the warmth of his palm. As if your body has thrown caution to the wind and wants to do just exactly what it wants to, your pointer finger moves involuntarily. He pulls his hand back, an apology on his lips.

“I’m sorry–“

“No, don’t.”

You reach out with the other hand and keep Matt there. You run your thumb over his knuckles as if to soothe him, to tell him that this is okay. You want this. The additional contact exhilarates you, as you haven't felt another’s touch that isn't from Jo or Amy in a long time. Dating has always been the last thing on your mind, especially in the past year. But right here, right now, being with Matt is easy. There is no pressure. No hindrance. Even though you've met only for two hours, Matt has listened to you. He takes a soft and shaky breath, and your eyes follow the way his chest slightly expands.

Your pointer finger traces the raised edges of his scars, and he lets you. The air seems to thin as your pulse drums a frantic beat under your skin.

“Do you beat people up in your client’s honour?”

“Only those who deserve it.”

You chuckle, and you lean into him as if you can't help yourself. The world has gone quiet around you, and the only thing left on your mind is to have his lips on yours. Your voice is only a breath above a whisper, and you're afraid Matt might miss it entirely amongst the loud voices of others.

“Can I kiss you?’’

He releases a sharp exhale as if he has been waiting for you to utter those words all evening.

“Please.”

You lean in, carefully, slowly. His lips slightly part in an open invitation, and you meet in the middle. The touch is gentle, soft tissues overlap in slow, indulgent caresses. Simple, yet it invokes a craving in you. The need for him to be even closer, the yearning to find out the taste of him. Matt touches your jaw, and draws you in closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself go. Eager, perching on the territory of desperation as the pressure on your lips grows more insistently. You're entangled in an exhilarating chase, circling around each other like you simply can't resist the pull that's been there since the moment you sat down. Matt silently asks for entry at the seam of your lips, and you respond in kind. His tongue strokes yours and suddenly, there is a new kind of invisible vapour that you're breathing in. It's overwhelming, yet not enough at the same time. You can taste the bitterness of the whisky that makes you wince on normal occasions, but on Matt's tongue, it's addictive and inexplicably irresistible. His air runs wild in your lungs, warming your body from the inside, awakening your nerves.

You break away at the sound of a teasing whistle clearly directed at you, reminding you of where you are. Matt’s face is flushed red, and you want to see how far down the colour goes under the suit and tie he's wearing. His hand is still on your jaw, gently caressing the line like he doesn't want to let go. And you don't want to let him go either.

“Can we go back to your place?”

The question rolls off your tongue, and he nods immediately, a little breathlessly. You stand up from your chairs at the same time. Matt reaches for his coat that is on the back of the chair. You shrug your own on and avert your gaze when Matt subtly adjusts his slacks. You put the bills down for your drinks, shutting Matt down when he objects to the idea. His hand find yours when you offer it to him, and you walk into the brisk air together.

The walk back didn't take too long. Matt held your hand the whole time, and the small gesture made your insides flutter. He lets you go when you reach his apartment. The unit number 6A has almost faded into the dark door. He unlocks the door and tells you where the light switch is. You turn it on, and place your coat in his awaiting palm. You follow him further into the apartment and take in the space.

“Who did you kill to get this place?”

Matt chuckles, discarding his tie with one hand.

“No killing involved. The neon sign out there is enough to chase people away.”

Your gaze falls on the giant, blinking advertisement outside the window.

“Nothing a few blackout curtains won't fix.”

He drapes the black tie on the back of the couch as you turn to the other side of the apartment.

“Do those stairs lead to the rooftop?”

“Yes, they do.”

You keep your back to him.

"Do you go up there often?"

"From time to time."

"This is … wow."

You're not sure why you're stalling. You pretend to look around as you try to brush off a nagging feeling that has settled in the pit of your stomach. Just the nerves, you think. You're out of practice, that's all.

So you clear your throat and say.

“Is your bedroom behind that bigger sliding door?”

He nods. You feel a little out of place, so you gravitate towards him, a familiar presence in a strange space. Matt lets you come to him, giving you all the control. You lean in and attach your lips to his, allowing it to follow the natural progression as it did back at Josie's. Your legs tangle and stumble towards the bedroom, your lips never too far away from one another. You think you might hit the closed door, but before that can happen, Matt pulls you flush against his body with one hand and uses the other to slide the door open in one smooth, practiced move. You pull away when you need to catch your breath.

“May I …”

You touch the side of his glasses. After a quiet moment, he gives you permission to take them, and you do. Slowly, and with the utmost care you can manage, you set them on the bedside table. His eyes are closed when you straighten. You caress his cheek, feeling the way his features form together. Your touch is soothing, and you hope he can feel the patience you offer to him. There is no rush, no pressure. After a long moment, Matt opens his eyes, and you take them in. You can see how he tries to meet your eyes in his own way. The shade of hazel is shrouded by the low light and the occasional shutter of his eyelids.

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

You raise slightly on your tiptoes and kiss his eyelids, feeling his lashes fluttering softly. He waits for you to return to him, and seeks out your lips in a delicate manner.

You fall onto the bed together. Matt braces himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. You pull his head down to yours, kissing and nibbling on the stretch of stubble along his jaw. His soft groans of approval encourage the other hand to travel downward, pulling on the white dress shirt. Once it's free from the slacks, you weave your hand inside and run your palm along the expanse of his torso. The dips and raises of his well-defined abs are warm under your palm, and the sensation stokes the molten liquid that's nestling deep inside you. You feel the feverish need edging over that part of you that you want to ignore.

The gradual pullback doesn't feel like a rejection at first, but merely an invitation to follow. So you do, your hands work to unbutton his shirt. But Matt slows you down to a stop, holding your hands to his lips and placing kisses on your palms. You blink, still snarled in the haze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Confronted. The only word that can describe accurately how you're feeling.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your heart …”

His hand trails from your collarbone to your chest where your heart resides within in a way that feels strangely intimate and not at all invasive. You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was beating. It's pounding. You are more nervous about this than you thought.

“… is beating quite fast. Are you nervous?”

You're safe. It's an innate feeling, and while you can't explain it, you know lying to Matt serves no purpose here. He seems to have a way to read you without using his sight.

“Yes, a little bit. I haven’t done this before. Sleeping with a stranger, I mean.”

“I see. We don’t have to do this.”

You raise yourself on your elbows.

“No, I wanted to go back here, with you. I want this.”

“But it doesn’t mean you owe me anything. If you change your mind for whatever reason, I'm okay with that as well."

Matt presses a kiss to your forehead.

"We can always try this again at another time.”

Guilt claws at you, urging you to do anything to please him.

“I’m sorry. I gave you the wrong signal.”

“Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for.”

He tries to find your hand, and you offer it to him. He gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“I had a good time with a beautiful woman, then I got to kiss her, all in one night, and that's enough.”

You guffaw, throwing your head back at the blatant flirt.

“You don’t even know how I look like.”

“No, I don’t. But I have my own way to tell. You sound beautiful.”

An idea materializes in your mind, and you give in to it. You bring his hand to your face, trailing along the side of your face. He gets the hint and begins his own exploration of your features. The way he takes his time, following the slopes of your face, his touch gentle, ghosting over your skin. He stops at your lips and soothes his thumb over the kiss-swollen flesh. You sigh softly. He gives you one last kiss, his tenderness makes your heart soar.

“Would you like something comfortable to sleep in?”

“I'm fine with anything you have.”

Matt finds his closet and pulls out a grey sweatshirt. He tells you where the bathroom is, and you take the folded shirt with you. You clean yourself up with water before stripping down to your underwear. You put the soft material over your body. It smells like him, and soft, just like him. You come out of the washroom and see his bare back for a split second before he pulls the shirt down. He has changed into a pair of grey sweatpants and a black shirt that hugs his chest and biceps beautifully.

You stand by his bed, not sure where you can come in despite the two of you ruffling the sheets not even ten minutes ago. Matt chooses for you, settling on the space facing the window, leaving you the side which is closer to the sliding door. His sheets are silky soft, and you feel yourself sinking right into them. You turn to face Matt, touching his shoulder. He faces you fully, his eyes settling on a point on the lower part of your face.

“Thank you.”

You whisper.

“Thank me by staying for breakfast.”

“Why breakfast?”

“I can't send you off to your interview on an empty stomach, can I? It's the least I can do.”

A rueful smile graces your lips.

“I can’t wait.”

You fell asleep with ease. At one point during the night, you could feel Matt detach himself from you, and out of a vague desperation that you couldn't process, you held tighter onto him involuntarily. At that, he stopped moving, and you felt a soothing pattern trailing over your head, luring you back to sleep again. His warmth carried you through the few hours that you slept.

It's a little past 4 AM when you wake, and find Matt still sleeping peacefully. Torn, but you come to accept that leaving is for the best. You get out of bed gently, thankful that the wooden floor didn't make a noise. You take his sweatshirt off and fold it, putting it on top of the pillow that you slept on. After putting on the clothes from the night before, you leave with much regret in your heart.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

For updates, please follow @cellophaine-archives

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alyxmasfr · 2 months ago

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Here's Amy's design for my au, I was gonna have more to go with this but I got some other stuff that need to be done. Anyways apologies for any spelling errors I was rushing to write it all down :'[

#amy rose #amy the hedgehog #vanilla the rabbit #cream the rabbit #there are spelling errors my bad #wild west au #mix between wild west and monsters #sonic the hedgehog #super sonic #saloon owner Amy #sonic 06 mention

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haveyouseenthisskeleton · 4 months ago

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UNDERTALE ASK BLOG - PRESENTATION (2024 UPDATE)

Hello! I’m Myfanwi, 27 years old and adoptive parent of two chinchillas, Thor and Mjöllnir. I have ADHD and I'm currently struggling to have my autism diagnosis.

I’m a French writer (she/they, I don’t care), so my English might be weird sometimes, but I’ll do my best. I’m currently looking for a job in France, and failing it a lot.

I started this blog on February 3rd 2021, and we're still here and active. I'm taking Undertale (canon and AU) headcanon requests from people and answering them with my characters.

The askbox is always open so don't hesitate to participate!

I also write Undertale French fanfiction here and here.

1 - You can ask whatever you want, except heavy sexual things. If I'm not comfortable with an ask, I will say it. You can send as many asks as you want. The askbox is always open, I don't close it.

2 - I’m ok with angst and touchy subjects. I’m also very very LGBT+ friendly (I’m aroace and enby btw).

3 - I don’t do match-ups except during some rare events. I don't do RP interactions (= answering people asking things to the characters directly), only headcanons (= writing things ABOUT the characters).

4 - Please, select a maximum of 12 characters per ask. The character list is right under this section. By default, if not mentioned, I’ll go with the main skeletons: Undertale, Underfell, Underswap, Horrortale, Swapfell & Fellswap Gold Sans & Papyrus.

5 - You can ask for interactions between several of my characters too, even if they are from different alternative universes. For convenience, they are magically all living in the same world. You can have more info right here [The link is coming soon, I'm reworking on it].

6 - I'm fine with personal questions and asks about my fanfictions too!

7 - Fanarts and fanfiction are welcome. Don't hesitate to tag me so I can reblog your art!

8 - If you find a spelling mistake, don't hesitate to point it out. I prefer these comments on recent posts, as I have more than 2000 posts on my blog and can't physically review them all.

Click on a name to get more info about the character!

If there's no link attached to a character's name, please refer to this old post for a small description. The character sheets are currently being rewritten, but it takes time.

Undertale : Sans, Papyrus, Toriel, Asgore, Undyne, Alphys, Frisk (Adult), Chara (Adult), Mettaton, Gaster, Grillby, Muffet, Burgerpants, Asriel, Flowey, Gerson.

Underfell: Sans (Red), Papyrus (Edge), Undyne (Storm), Alphys (Amy), Grillby (Ash)

Underswap: Sans (Blue), Papyrus (Honey), Undyne (Abigail), Alphys (Savage)

Horrortale: Sans (Oak), Papyrus (Willow), Toriel (Old Lady), Grillby (Ember)

Horrorswap: Sans (Nugget), Papyrus (Pumpkin)

Horrorfell: Sans (Copper), Papyrus (Chief)

Horrorswapfell: Sans (Bear), Papyrus (Tiger)

Swapfell: Sans (Nox), Papyrus (Rus)

Fellswap Gold: Sans (Wine), Papyrus (Coffee)

Outertale: Sans (Moon), Papyrus (Sun)

Dancetale: Sans (Rambo), Papyrus (Salsa)

Dancefell: Sans (Rumba), Papyrus (Tango)

Farmtale: Sans (Sam), Papyrus (Ben)

Mafiatale: Sans (Demon), Papyrus (Creeper)

Mafiafell: Sans (Fang), Papyrus (Torpedo)

Other skeletons: Ink, Error, Disbelief!Papyrus (Delta), Dustale!Sans (Dune) - Killer!Sans (Killer)

HELPFUL LINKS

Characters birthdays

Characters pets

MASTERPOSTS

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39

FANFICTIONS

Completed - The Doppelganger [Underfell & Horrortale] | Out of the closet [Undertale] | 7 a.m. in the neighborhood [Undertale]

In progress - Horrortale: Rotten Apple [Horrortale] | What is best for humankind [Undertale prequel] | No weakness [Underfell] | Remember the good days [Undertale] | A heart in a cage [Undertale]

#masterpost #pinned post #undertale ask blog #undertale asks #undertale imagines #undertale headcanons #undertale #undertale au #undertale ao3 #undertale fanfictions #myfanwi talks

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ghosty-zero · 18 days ago

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Sonadow one shot number #12: Makeup

{This one is kinda short, I just wanted to write something about Shadow wearing makeup, hope you still like it}

When people say Shadow the Hedgehog, they all relatively thought the same thing: a lone hedgehog who was always looking for his past, always on the move, always with someone or something on his heels, and always being so painfully stoic and antisocial to the point of insanity.

While all that wasn't too far fetched, Sonic's thoughts were a little...different.

'Chest fluff....kinda wanna pet it...red highlights look good on him...hmmm...black is his color...his quills are so soft looking...looks good in those shoes...wonder if his boots are comfortable...eyeliner...is that makeup?

Sonic had always wanted to prove, for some reason, that Shadow did in fact wear makeup. Rouge would always claim she never did it for him but Sonic was always convinced otherwise.

After all, Shadow looked really good in it. The blue hedgehog had to stop himself from smiling or laughing when Shadow would go into a battle with a clean, smooth, and well-defined face only to come out with the faintest hint of eyeliner running down his cheeks and smudges under his eyes. Obviously, Shadow would deny every thing and call Sonic an idiot for even suggesting such a thing, but Sonic knew better.

But now, this was different. As Shadow stood there with a pensive look on his face as he stared at the floor, Sonic began to think. He looked good before, but now, he looked beautiful.

The black hedgehog wore a white dress shirt that was open at the collar and had a black vest over it. Amy was throwing a party for...a reason Sonic forgot and Shadow was forced to go. Rouge took him shopping for something to wear since Shadow was in need of new clothes and the two managed to get him something he could actually wear and look good in.

Sonic wasn't even sure if he was breathing anymore. Shadow looked so amazingly stunning, and Sonic hadn't even seen his lower half yet.

Shadow glanced over to Sonic, who quickly looked away and tried to hide his blush. He didn't know why he was blushing. Maybe it was because he couldn't help but stare at Shadow or the fact that he was so close to the hedgehog he secretly loved.

Was 'loved' too strong a word?

The two hedgehogs stood in silence before Sonic asked, "What's wrong?"

Shadow looked up at him before glancing down at his feet. "I don't know what to do."

Sonic raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"This party...I've never been to one like this before."

"What do you mean?"

"Must I spell everything out for you? I've never been to a party like this! I don't know what to do, how to act, what to wear!"

"I can see what you're wearing, and you look great."

Shadow blushed and looked away.

"What's wrong?"

"I just...I don't want to make a fool of myself."

"Nah, you're the antisocial loner, you won't make a fool of yourself, bud."

"Don't call me that. And besides, I still have no idea what to do at this type of event. I don't even know how to dance."

Sonic smirked. "Then let me teach you."

"You know how to dance?"

"Duh, I'm Sonic the Hedgehog, I know everything."

Shadow rolled his eyes.

Sonic put his hand on Shadow's waist and held his other hand in his. "I shall lead, my dearest rosebud~"

Shadow narrowed his eyes. "Don't ever call me that."

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I mistaken? Did you want to be called my beautiful princess?"

"Shut up."

"Alright then, I'll just call you my sweet little cherry blossom~"

"I swear to chaos, hedgehog-"

"Kidding, kidding. But seriously, just let me lead, alright?"

Shadow huffed before relaxing slightly. Sonic began to hum and slowly began to move.

The black hedgehog tried not to step on his partner's feet as he tried to keep up with Sonic's humming. He stumbled and cursed under his breath every time he stepped on Sonic's foot, but the blue hedgehog only chuckled and told him it was okay.

Sonic spun the other around and pulled him closer.

Shadow glanced up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Spinning you. What, never been spun before?"

"No. Why would I?"

Sonic shrugged. "Fair enough. You're too stiff." He wiggled Shadow's arms.

"It's hard to dance when someone's trying to dislocate my shoulders."

"Well, if you were more relaxed, it wouldn't hurt so much."

"Oh really? Why don't you show me how relaxed you are?"

"Alright, I will." Sonic took hold of Shadow's hands again and gently swung them back and forth. Shadow looked hardly entertained as Sonic hummed and did a little dance in place. He tried to pull his hands away, but Sonic didn't let go. He spun the other hedgehog around, causing him to stumble backwards into Sonic's arms.

"Should I be learning something from this? Or are you just trying to humiliate me?"

"Why do you always think the worst of me?"

"You've given me plenty of reasons to believe that you'd like to make a fool of me."

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm trying to help you relax. You need to learn how to have fun once in a while."

Shadow scoffed. "I know how to have fun."

"Prove it."

"How shall I even prove such a thing to you?"

Sonic smiled and held out his hand. "Just follow my lead."

Shadow hesitantly took his hand and allowed himself to be led outside into the night air.

"You ever danced under the stars before?"

"Can't say I have."

Sonic smiled. "Well, now you can." He placed one hand on Shadow's hip and held his hand with the other. Shadow looked prepared to bite him at any second. "Relax. Let me lead you."

"I've been doing that all night."

"Yes, but now you'll really feel the rhythm in your bones."

Shadow rolled his eyes. "If you say so."

Sonic began to hum a tune as he moved, causing Shadow to look up at him in confusion. The blue hedgehog merely smiled and spun Shadow around, making him gasp. Sonic laughed before twirling him again.

The black hedgehog stumbled for a moment before regaining his balance.

"See? You're getting the hang of it already."

Shadow glanced away. "This is stupid. We

should just go inside."

"What? Not having fun?"

"No, I am."

"Well then, what's the problem?"

"I'm afraid I might step on your feet again."

"So? I can take it. Now come on, loosen up!" Sonic spun him around again before dipping him down.

Shadow gasped in surprise before glaring up at Sonic. "Sonic!"

Sonic only chuckled and lifted him back up. "You know you love me."

"Loathe would fit better." Shadow said as he adjusted his shirt.

Sonic rolled his eyes. "Such a grouchy boy."

"I cannot dance, Sonic, but perhaps...if I were to try this..." Shadow activated his air shoes, the little rockets bursting to life. He hovered a few inches off the ground, moving gracefully.

Sonic watched him move with wide eyes, amazed at the elegance of his movements. "You look amazing."

Shadow blushed and looked away. "Gross...I skate all the time, how is this any different?"

"Because I can actually see you now. I mean, skating is cool and all, but this? This is beautiful."

Shadow rolled his eyes, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"Hey, Shads? You're a really good dancer."

"Thank you."

"And you know what else?"

"What?"

"I totally know you wear eyeliner."

At this, Shadow actually released a chuckle as he skated a slow circle around Sonic, the rockets on his shoes humming quietly.

"Shut up."

"Nope, you are totally wearing makeup, I'm calling it now."

Shadow smirked. "What makes you so sure?"

"Oh, come on. Who has that perfect shade of red eyeshadow, man? Nobody."

Shadow grinned, knowing full well what Sonic was talking about, but he loved the game too much. "My, Sonic, I haven't a clue what you are talking about~"

Sonic narrowed his eyes. "Don't act so innocent, I know you're not."

Shadow chuckled and shrugged. "Whatever you say, Sonic."

Sonic glared at him. "You think I don't know what I'm talking about?"

"Maybe." Shadow leaned forward, his face inches away from Sonic's. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Uh...well, first I'd...um...and then I...uh...well, I...I uh...um...well, uh...I-I uh...uh..." Sonic stuttered, blushing bright red as Shadow watched him with a smirk.

"Oh, Sonic, you're such a bad liar~" Shadow leaned even closer, his nose brushing against Sonic's.

The blue hedgehog blinked before taking the plunge, closing the gap between their mouths and kissing the other. Shadow tensed, nearly faltering in his skating before regaining his composure. His eyes fluttered shut as he kissed back, keeping his hands behind his back.

Sonic broke away, panting softly. "I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"No apologies necessary, Sonic." Shadow said as he skated slow, graceful circles around Sonic. "I must admit, I didn't think you'd be that forward."

Sonic smiled shyly. "So...does this mean you like me, too?"

"Perhaps." Shadow smirked, leaning forward to whisper into Sonic's ear. "But I do enjoy a game of cat and mouse. So I'm going to make this hard for you. You're the type to go after what he wants, however, you will have to work for it. Earn my trust, and maybe you'll find something special at the end."

Sonic stood frozen as Shadow flicked off his air shoes and headed inside, leaving the blue hedgehog alone to ponder over what he just said.

I was teaching him how to dance...and now...this escalated quickly. He wants a hard to get game? I can play along.

He walked back inside, determined to get Shadow to love him.

And to learn his makeup routine, because seriously, how did he get his eyes so perfect?

#sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonadow #sonic fandom #oneshot #short story #wattpad #wattpad writer #writing #cute

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skaruresonic · 7 months ago

Text

Once more I must cite sources because folks assume you'll take their "nuh-uh" as a sufficient counterargument.

While there's no "official" count, the general consensus is that there are roughly 50 or more errors within the Encyclospeedia. Greeny has documented some of them, as well as CrystalMaiden77:

Sonic Encyclospeedia Errors: by CrystalMaiden77 on DeviantArt

These are purely factual errors. That's not counting the various formatting, spelling, and grammatical errors:

---

"The other writers don't currently have any way to ask for questions reliably" - Sonic Team regularly answer fan questions on Twitter, including Shiro Maekawa.

Dr. Crusher, Did you saw Shiro Maekawa response to someone... (tumblr.com)

"Silver has always been polite" - That is Flynn's own personal interpretation. And it's wrong.

Writings From A Field of Roses — Our monthly live show on YouTube, usually on the... (tumblr.com)

---

We've been having this long, drawn-out debate for years because there are many, many layers of inaccuracy, strawman, and ego-flexing going on, but I'll just drop this link to give you a crash-course on the broad strokes:

Encyclopedia Sonnica, ✂️ "Go read something else" (tumblr.com)

---

"ST have been using mandated material to govern Shadow as this edgelord over every writer in the past 14 fucking years" - Sonic Reddit invented the concept of Shadow mandates in response to Shadow's poor portrayal in IDW 19, which spread through fandom-wide games of telephone. There's no concrete proof they exist. Nor did Shadow-specific mandates seem to exist before issue 19.

The reason why IDW Shadow acts weird : r/SonicTheHedgehog (reddit.com) Behold, the reason everyone believes the fictitious... – @skaruresonic on Tumblr

The likelier explanation for why IDW!Shadow is a poor portrayal but Dark Beginnings is not is that Flynn receives more feedback on Shadow because he doesn't understand the character.

IDW Sonic "FAQ" - Google Docs

---

"Claimed games aren't strong enough when?"

Here:

---

If "98%" of references are "impossible to find," why are players complaining about the reference overload in Frontiers' message boards?

The constant attempts to reference past lore is kinda obnoxious. - Sonic Frontiers (gamespot.com)

Not to mention he straight-up plagiarized entire lyrics to a song from a fan band and did not credit them, just as a "reference":

Just in case you thought Ian Flynn putting song lyrics in dialogue was just a Sonic thing. : r/TwoBestFriendsPlay (reddit.com)

But you’re still standing here — Man, Flynn really hates #Playthegames, huh? What... (tumblr.com)

---

You're right, he doesn't hate Amy; he simply described her as "all over the place" and not-so-subtly put her and several other prominent girl characters down, calling Blaze the "singular kick-butt female character" among them, in order to imply his OC Tangle was going to fulfill a role none of them could.

His words. Not mine.

Game Informer Interview With Ian Flynn (lastminutecontinue.com)

---

“This is how Sonic is, by SEGA, and this is me basically spelling it out, for anyone who hasn’t quite figured it out to this point.” - Flynn

But you’re still standing here — “This is how Sonic is, by SEGA, and this is me... (tumblr.com)

---

Encyclopedia Sonnica, I was looking at some posts about Archie sonic,... (tumblr.com)

---

"He likes Team Hooligan? That's a problem now?"

It is if he's heavily implying his own fanon is games canon in a lore book that people pay for when it's not.

---

Lol the projection is strong in this one.

If he is a credible source on the basis that he, quote, is a "fan" of the series, then he should know something as basic how Chaos Control works within the context of the game in which the move debuted. You can't pick and choose. Either he's a credible source or he's not.

How Chaos Control works is not particularly obscure knowledge that only The Elitest of Sonic fans have.

The whole "Ian isn't an encyclopedia of perfect knowledge guys, come on" thing becomes especially ironic considering how vehemently you insisted the Encyclospeedia has no errors in it just because You Said So(tm).

Sure, Jan. Whatever you say.

---

"There are completely fair and respectful critiques of Ian Flynn out there that deserve to be heard and taken in. I am not saying his works are perfect and cannot be critiqued. This is just not how you do it lol."

I don't believe you.

Considering you lot go absolutely bananas whenever people contradict Flynn in any way, shape, or form, no matter how neutral the delivery or how heavily it comes attached with sources and screenshots...

...No. I don't believe you when you say you'll allow for "fair criticism," if there even is such a thing to you guys. Everything is considered "disgusting" and "mindless" hate to you, and this entire counterthread is proof of that. You literally opened your thread describing Greeny's points as evidence of a "disgusting" bias. Well, here I am, shoving the sources in your face. Look at them.

Oh, you'll "allow" the existence of opinions you hate, but only if you personally deem them acceptable enough? How very authoritarian gracious of you.

I have seen, with my own two eyes, someone complain that it's our fault that no one can bring up "reasonable criticism" without getting hounded anyway, as if the conclusion one ought to draw from that is Haters Suck(tm) and not that the call has always come from inside the house.

The harsh truth of the matter is this: people are not going to want to bring up any flavor of criticism around you. Ever. Especially not when you descend like a pack of hellhounds and stalk, threaten, and harass over the slightest disagreement.

People hide behind anons and have decided to confine Sonic discussion to private Discords because of the overreactions of people like you, who cannot grapple with reality and instead choose to project all that hate onto someone stating facts.

#long post #save #why are we the only ones documenting this stuff half the time #should not have to write friggin' mla-formatted essays just to not be dismissed as mindless haters but here we are #anyway you want sources? here you go :>

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slocumjoe · 2 years ago

Note

I'm writing fo4 fanfic and I don't remember what nicknames the companions call you. Do you remember any of them? I know Piper calls you Blue.

Your best bet is to pour over the wiki dialogue page and find the actual, in-text answers. I know of romantic pet names, like sunshine from Hancock, and babe from Preston, but as for anything else...no idea.

Danse calls you soldier either way, as Piper does with Blue, Codsworth calls f!sole Mum, but m!sole is just Sir or Mister. Curie has Madam or Monsieur(however the fuck its spelled), and calls a romanced sole my love and, presumably, French terms of endearment like. Mon Amie? Mon cher? Mon amor? I don't know French that well.

I think Nick uses partner? Gage uses Boss, obviously.

Pretty sure thats the extent of pet names.

If that doesn't appease you, again, I recommend just trying the wiki. There might be one or two things I've forgotten. I'm pretty sure Curie uses the most, but Piper has the most note-worthy pet name with Blue.

#asks

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sonic-takeover · 1 month ago

Note

hi my curious ass is BACK after literally 10 minutes I'm SO SORRY 💔

but I was catching up on the LORE (to be read in game theorist MatPat's voice) and.

SONADOW‼️🎉🎉

Im fr tweaking out in my bedroom at 2 am because of this blog I'VE BEEN HERE TEN MINUTES AND I LOVE IT ‼️‼️

so bc my brain is holding ten thousand billion thoughts at once (shocker), and Im a little lost on the story, can I get a quick recap on the sonadow situation orrr???

yet again, hate to pester, excited to be answered!!(≧∇≦)b

Happy to have you here! Don't be afraid to send asks! Okay so it's a bit crazy, but here's the story:

Sonic and Shadow were friends/rivals at the beginning. People started asking them how they feel about each other, but they were both in deeeeep deep denial. Eventually, Sonic talked about how much Shadow means to him and Rouge got a screenshot of that message. There was a whole fiasco of them losing the phone and trying to get it to Shadow as it passed from one person to the next, but when Shadow got to it, he thought it was platonic. Amy saw everything going on and got jealous, attacking Shadow. Sonic saved him and rejected Amy for good. Amy took her time healing her heartbreak while Metal Sonic made his intentions clear and waited for her to be ready to date. Meanwhile, Shadow and Sonic stayed in the depths of denial even in the face of being forced to share a room and a bed in the bigass house. They grew more and more comfortable with each other (even cuddling to sleep) but still didn't know their feelings went both ways. An anon left an Eggman brand body swapping ray on their floor and they swapped bodies and broke the ray by accident. They tried to hide the switch, but it wasn't easy. They were found out pretty quickly and Tails started trying to repair the ray. The two of them started bonding by doing each other's makeup and racing indoors, and on the last night of their switch, Sonic (in Shadow's body) sang I Hear a Symphony for shadow specifically during karaoke, publicly serenading him. He reached out his hand and Shadow almost took it, but plot twist! Tails got kidnapped by Eggman when going to him for help repairing the ray. The group all went to save him and during that mission, they fought a robot which zapped Shadow in the chest with a laser. Sonic used the almost-fixed ray to swap them back and broke it again. Now Sonic was injured and Shadow had to nurse him back to health, but now he had finally accepted his feelings for Shadow. He started flirting with him, which Shadow dismissed as him being delirious from the pain of his injury. Eventually, they decided it was a good idea to write each other love letters explaining their true feelings. Unfortunately, Shadow writes in cursive and Sonic has both terrible handwriting and terrible spelling when not using autocorrect, so neither of them could read or understand the letters. They both thought it was a rejection letter, which caused even more confusion. Rouge told Sonic that Shadow liked him back, and Amy read Shadow's letter so Sonic since she could read cursive. Everyone went to find the chaos emeralds, since Sonic now had a plan to confess to him. Once gathered, he went super with Shadow and took him to the moon, where they watched the sky, slow danced, and finally kissed as the sun rose over the Earth. Now they're official boyfriends with three kitten children (Flash, Freeze, and Firefly), but there are still some secrets lurking in their pasts.. things they're not sure they feel ready to share.

Whew! I'm gonna check that for typos later. But that's Sonadow so far! Hope this helps!

-Mod

#ask blog #sonic ask blog #ask #sonic #recap #sonadow #shadow #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #mod answers #mod

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ingravinoveritas · 2 months ago

Note

Dearest Amy, your blog brings me so much joy, I simply had to tell you. To see someone else appreciating the love Michael and David so clearly have for each other …noticing everything that is said, unsaid, shown, not shown… to read the spine tingling stories you write… your nuanced and empathetic discussions … we’re all so lucky to share in it. I’m a silent observer because I prefer to remain anonymous but it would be remiss of me to not let you know how much I appreciate you and the time you dedicate to this little corner.

I hope, regardless of how much ever hate or criticism you may get, that there are so many of us who absolutely adore all that you do and your glittering personality (glittering because it absolutely makes my day whenever I peruse your blog)

You’re amazing and you make my life better, just know that. Endless love.

Oh, Anon. When I tell you that I got genuinely emotional reading this...truly, I don't even know where to start. My experience in this fandom over the past several months has on occasion felt like drowning, so this message is like coming to the surface for a breath of desperately needed fresh air.

GO and Michael/David came into my life in 2019, at a time when things in my previous fandom had become indescribably awful. The show and Michael and David were/continue to be such a source of inspiration and joy for me, and are the reason I've met so many lovely people and forged so many meaningful friendships. Michael and David helped me so much with getting through lockdown and the pandemic as well, and they are also what got me back into writing fanfic by sparking back a creativity that I thought was gone after a years'-long dry spell.

So the fact that you see me, that you get where I am coming from without me needing to explain myself over and over, and appreciate what I am doing and chose to send this message letting me know that means the absolute world. Thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart... ❤️

#anonymous #reply post #personal post #i remember in high school the kids who bullied me would tear pictures of my favorite band out of my locker door while laughing #and i'd go home and print the same pictures out and hang them up again the next day #which i think mirrors my approach to fandom now #that when something means a lot to me i hold on to it #and keep my little 'corner' going even when others try to tear it down #people can be awful sometimes #but then people can be wonderful too #this was such a nice surprise #thank you all you lovely people for being here #fandom woes #discourse

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huramuna · 1 year ago

Text

wine red, tears gold - chapter 7, end.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

previous chapter | next

this is the end! i know i said 2 more chapters after the last, but i really couldn't stretch this into two without losing -- it is hopefully a good ending and does justice for both lyanna and aegon. only one song choice for this chapter as i feel like it encapsulates their relationship to a tee and i've been waiting to use it. even if it isn't you type of music, i'd really recommend reading the lyrics to see what i mean! thank you for following along on this journey with me, this was my first time writing aegon and again, i hope i've done him justice. i enjoyed exploring his complex character immensely and i hope you all enjoyed reading him. enjoy. ❤️ please feel free to leave any aegon requests in my inbox, this won't be the last time i write him, i promise!

word count: 2.7k

please follow & turn on notifs for @huramuna-fics for my fic postings.

content: smut (specifics below cut), canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn, infidelity, child loss

one day the only butterflies left will be in your chest as you march towards your death - bring me the horizon & amy lee

warnings: p in v

There were few things Lyanna really preferred about King’s Landing over Storm’s End– it smelled of shit and was riddled with vipers, whereas Storm’s End was full of boarish, thick skulled men with blades in place of their brains, less akin to use diplomacy to settle matters but rather their axes.

King’s Landing diplomacy was the same in a way, except without axes and with barbed tongues, dripping venom behind each carefully placed word. It was a task in itself to keep sane with the amount of people who tried to get something from her– kissing her hands, sending her beautiful dresses, exotic fruits and honeyed words.

‘Sign this, your grace.’

‘May I possibly have this, your grace.’

‘In exchange, your grace, please, provide us this.’

It was tiring. Soul suckingly so. Some days she felt akin to a lemon with its juices sucked out, nothing left but the skin and seeds and pulp, rotting in the sun. But, she supposed, there was one thing she did like about King’s Landing.

The sun.

It was resplendent here, unyielding in its warmth and caress over the gentle waves of the bay, orange and yellow tinge lighting up the horizon. She awoke in the morn, scantily clad, walking to her open balcony– but not quite walking out onto the landing– and basking in the sun like a fat cat, moving with the sun as it made its journey over the sky.

Sometimes Aegon was there, too, following along at her heels like a lost puppy. It was the norm nowadays, over eleven moons since her miscarriage, since Aegon’s confession, since his will to turn over a new leaf. Where Lyanna went, Aegon followed. She held him like a child each night, and they would curl into one another– but they had yet to couple since the miscarriage, both of them maintaining a dry spell for the better part of a year.

It was a test, in a way, for Aegon. He had denounced spirits and whores and all manner of sinful things, hardly gracing his own chambers anymore, preferring Lyanna’s. But, Aegon was a creature of habit, and always needed something to have, to obsess over as his own. Lyanna was part of that thing, but she kept him at an arm’s length emotionally, partaking in only the need for closeness with him in their bed, skin to skin– but never anything beyond it. Soft caresses, arms held together, one tucked into the other. They didn’t exchange many words during these times, only gentle sighs and hums of contentment, or nudges of discomfort if one’s elbow was poking into the other’s ribs.

The other thing Aegon had succumbed to was food– he replaced his daily intake of alcohol with food, and filled out quite nicely in turn. Before, he’d been a scrawny thing, the bulk of his daily caloric intake being just alcohol, and the calories burned off in succession with his rigorous trips to the brothel. But now, he ate three meals, each of them with Lyanna, except for breakfast. Breakfast was still reserved only for Alicent, Lyanna and Jaehaera– Aegon would eat in solitude quickly and wait outside of Alicent’s solar, waiting for Lyanna. Where he had shown ribs before, he had gained some mass, filling in his clothes.

Lyanna quite liked him this way, soft and plush– he was nice to lay upon.

She knew that he still had needs, as a man, and the time he’d gone without a woman, only using his own fist for pleasure, was certainly long. She was proud of him, in a way, that he overcame his baser instincts to try and better himself.

But, she felt guilty as well. He would try to make advances, of course, a gentle touch to her bare thigh, a kiss to her neck, an accidental brush to her nipple– all ways that were increasingly enticing for her. She just wasn’t ready, and she made him know that and respect it.

This usually ended in him sulking to the privy with his tail between his legs, more likely than not to take himself in his fist.

And so it was, for those months. But a whole year passed since Aeron’s passing– the winds were changing.

–

“The council meeting is adjourned, unless anyone has anything to say otherwise.” Lyanna spoke, adjusting her rings absentmindedly.

Otto Hightower spoke up, clearing his throat. His hair had gone gray in the year’s time, and he was getting on in age– the war in previous years had taken its toll on every surviving member of the family in their own ways, and Otto had been the most adept at hiding it, until it became too much to hide. The previous week, he had been walking the corridors at an ungodly hour, looking for Helaena. His mind was turning against him. “The matter… of succession, your grace. The king should name his heir sooner than later, little Jaehaerys is nearing ten years of age, and is unbetrothed. Mayhaps… we should propose a betrothal to Rhaenyra’s daughter, Visenya.”

The council looked at Otto, their eyes wide. No one breathed, nor said a word; they didn’t know how to deal with such a thing, as Otto was usually the one who dealt with it– his mind, once as sharp as a whip, was now a dulled leather belt.

Lyanna glanced at Aegon nervously, who sat up in his chair at the mention of Jaehaerys. “Grandsire,” he began, “That is… a splendid idea. I shall send a raven on the morrow to Rhaenyra upon Dragonstone.”

Otto, in his addled wits, had become fond of Aegon. The old man smiled, nodding. “Good, my boy. Very good. I have no more contestment– I do believe it’s high noon, Aemond and Ser Cole will be in the training yard, so I must depart.”

Lyanna frowned, watching as Otto left. In a way, she felt him losing his mind was a fitting punishment for his culpability in the war. And yet, it pained her to see him so… lost. Like a kite with no strings, floating upon the breeze until it inevitably hits the ground.

As Otto left, one of the other lords spoke up. “The Hand… does bring a good point, your grace. The matter of succession is still undecided. The… tragedy of the first babe leaves the realm waiting.”

Lyanna opened her mouth to speak, but Aegon cut her off, leaning forward in his chair. His hair had grown much longer now, past his shoulders in white curls, moving with him as he steepled his hands on the table. “The first babe has a name, Lord Wylde. Aeron, is his name, and you shall address my son as such when speaking of him,” he snapped. “The queen is still recovering from the traumatic ordeal of his birth, and we shall give her the time that she needs. Anyone who speaks a word more of succession shall lose their tongue. My patience for this council’s schemes has ran out. Consider this the only warning.” Aegon pushed off from his chair, snatching his Sunfyre colored ball and stashing it in his pocket. “Council dismissed.”

Lyanna watched as the lords rushed out of the room hurriedly, each one bowing their head in subservience to the King and Queen. Soon enough, it was just the two of them left. She didn’t speak a word, watching as Aegon paced, his hand twitching. He glanced at Lyanna a few times before walking to her and pulling out her chair. “My lady,” he muttered, his voice somewhat faraway.

She straightened out her dress, standing up. “Thank you,” she responded, looking up at him. His face was much clearer now, not addled by dark circles under his eyes, nor the constant blush of intoxication. But his eyes themselves were still tired, still haunted. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, reaching out her hand to grasp his. “For dispatching Lord Wylde.”

Aegon huffed, squeezing his wife’s hand. “I wish they would give it up– as if this whole situation wasn’t the cause of the war in the first place. Blind fucking idiots,” he grumbled, a calloused thumb wafting over her palm. In lieu of going to the brothels, he often would take out Sunfyre for flights, sometimes up to three or four times a day, his hands calloused and blistered from climbing up and down the saddle.

Lyanna inspected his hand, delicate finger tracing over the blisters– some fresh. “You must wear gloves, Aegon,” she chastised softly, “Your hands have become so rough.”

“I don’t like gloves, you know that,” he snorted. “They ruin the experience, can’t reach out and touch my boy’s scales, really feel them, with gloves on, now can I?”

Rolling her eyes, she dropped Aegon’s hand from her own. “I suppose not,” she contended, leaning back against the council table. She looked him up and down, her heart still feeling a bit tender from how gallantly he came to Aeron’s defense. The sun shined from the open balcony windows, illuminating his longer curls, and the rubies upon the Conqueror’s crown. His figure was solid, casting a shadow that could only be described as kingly. Lyanna blinked profusely, feeling a long locked away sensation bubble in her stomach, a heat coming to her face.

“What?” he asked, staring right at her. He had become so attuned to her, as they practically were fused to the hip at every waking moment.

“N-nothing,” she murmured, looking away. If he looked into her eyes, he would see exactly what she was feeling. Desire.

He stepped forward, a hand under her chin as he tipped her head up to face him. Their gazes locked and it only took a moment for him to flash her that dazzling, aggravating, lovely smile. “Do you like my hands soft?”

“... yes.”

His calloused palm rested completely under her jaw now, thumb and forefinger encapsulating her as he tried to eke out the secret she was hiding. “Why is that?”

“Aegon– don’t tease me.” she mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but upon his face.

“I’m not teasing, merely asking,” he got closer, the smug aura bleeding off of him like a sickly perfume. “Why so bashful, my queen?”

She felt her heart in her throat at their close proximity. They were close at night, even closer than this, but the energy charged around them was… different. It was something that they hadn’t experienced in a long time. Her mind went to how rough their last time had been together, how he fucked her like he hated her, like he hated himself– she didn’t want that now. She wanted… something different. She had to take control now and reel him in, if this was truly going to happen. “You’re teasing,” Lyanna hummed, the mood shifting as she leaned forward, grasping him by the collar of his doublet and pulling him to her. Her knee rested upon his clothed crotch in a testing manner. “Or, am I?”

His entire demeanor changed then, his hand falling from her jaw to rest on her arm. His hunched shoulders slumped as he pressed into her knee, his arousal becoming quite clear. “Y-you are,” he whispered, “my queen.” Aegon’s lip pouted slightly.

Pulling him downward then, their lips met for the first time in almost a year. It wasn’t aggressive or dominant like before– it was slow and meticulous, as if they were getting used to one another again. He tasted like orange, which he had been snacking on before the meeting. She tasted like lavender tea… it was all so familiar, yet distant. Lyanna’s idea of control slowly faded as they both surrendered to one another, tongues tasting and dancing as if they had all of the time in the world. They were both at each other’s mercy, both gentle as they undressed each other– as much as they could in the council room, anyhow. Lyanna unbuckled his trousers, sliding them down and grabbing a handful of his bottom, which was fleshy and pert now. His hands pulled down her bodice and squeezed at her breasts softly, rolling a nipple between his middle and forefinger.

It didn’t take much time for Aegon to ruck up her skirts and sink himself into her, slowly. Their mouths parted, still ghosting over one another as they drank in moans and whimpers as he bottomed out. It was still a tight squeeze and a wonderfully intense stretch. They didn’t need to speak, they didn’t want to– both were enjoying one another’s noises; Aegon’s heavy panting, coupled with Lyanna’s breathy moans into his ear.

They found solace and comfort, truly, for the first time in their marriage. It wasn’t fucking out of duty, nor jealousy, nor hatred. It was… love. It was because they wanted to, because they both wanted one another.

Because they both loved each other.

They’d never said it before, but the inkling of it had begun a few months before. Lyanna’s heart clenched as she stared into Aegon’s eyes, wide and violet, so full of devotion as he thrusted into her. It was on the precipice of both of their tongues– something that would change everything.

“I love you,” Lyanna whispered.

“I love you,” Aegon responded.

It wasn’t a perfect relationship by any means, and was difficult at best. They could never fix each other’s scars, never mend the broken, never resurrect the dead– but, in that moment, as they truly made love for the first time, it became more bearable.

Isn’t that all that anyone could ask for?

–

Another two years in Westeros passed. The sun was still shining brightly over the horizon, pouring through the glass windows atop the throne room. Hundreds were gathered in the masses from all over the continent.

Otto had stepped down as Hand and taken a backseat to politics– he wasn’t in the present at all any longer, muttering of the past and beyond, and stayed near his daughter in a wheeled chair, blanket over his legs.

Alicent had trimmed her hair short and stopped wearing green, rather, matching Lyanna’s choices of gold and white.

Jaehaera stood next to her father, dressed in blue and white, like her mother always wore.

Aegon didn’t sit on the throne, but stood in front of it, hand on the small of Lyanna’s back.

Lyanna pressed close to Aegon and Jaehaera, holding a babbling one year old upon her hip with one arm. A son– named Rhaenor, who had a head of white curls, and deep brown eyes. Her other hand was caressed on her stomach, which was swollen once again with child.

“I’d like to thank you all for gathering here today,” Aegon started, his voice booming through the throne room, silencing any chatter. “There has been some speculation on when the queen and I would formally name our heir. I won’t keep the realm waiting any longer. I, Aegon of House Targaryen, second of my name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm– formally name my heir,” he paused for a moment, ever basking in the moment. “Jaehaera Targaryen will succeed me as the ruler of the realm.”

There were whispers in the crowd but they were once again silenced. “We shall not repeat the errors of the past. My word and decree now is just and binding, not to be rescinded. My son, Rhaenor, will not succeed me, nor any other sons or children of mine. Jaehaera Targaryen is my heir.”

–

Jaehaera Targaryen succeeded Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, after he abdicated the crown at age sixty-two, focusing on helping dragons make a return after the near decimation of them from the Dance. He, with the help of his son Rhaenor, hatched five dragon eggs upon the Dragonmount, saving them from near extinction.

Aegon passed in his sleep at age eighty-five, surrounded by his five children and dozen grandchildren, as well as his fiercely loyal wife, Lyanna.

Lyanna passed one moon after Aegon.

Her dreams became real– she was young again, toes dipped in the pond with Aeron next to her, and Aegon next to him.

A few more figures approached from the darkness near the edges of the pond, white haired and violet eyed.

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