#and all the well-wishes and personal notes

[starsoverbrooklyn]

Very informal, obnoxious, and messy annotations below... (all love, promise) 💚

“It’ll be fine by morning–” he starts to argue with you, but you’re already walking away from him, exiting the room to retrieve a first-aid kit kept in one of the shared bathrooms just down the hallway. Though you can’t currently see him, you have no doubt that he is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at you. 

I love that this feels so him. I’m a full supporter of the theory that Bucky and Steve both lack the sense for self-care and burdening with what can heal—regardless of it being broken. Ah! & then your sprinkle of his personality? 5-star Michelin.

“What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you?” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a smirk as he inspects the cover of the book. 

🫵Witch!! I shouldn’t be able to PICTURE this rn—insane work.

Natasha, Sharon, and Wanda wave at you from where they lounge next to the bonfire, Steve and Sam are engaged in an intense game of beer pong (which Sam seems to be doing impressively well at, considering one arm is still in a cast and sling), Clint and Bruce are playing cornhole - everyone is here, though you don’t see the one person you came for.

This is the content I live for—everyone on this earth and living their best lives. I love the rest of this scene so much—ugh. And the wrapping paper?! Cait. I’m dramatic but I’m sending you my hospital bill bc i feel the love for this piece building & i’m going to have to go through another heartbreak of finishing it again.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, earnest smile. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you. I'm going to start reading them–” 

Omg, he’s whipped. and i love it.

“Ivanov just arrived,” Bucky's voice murmurs next to your ear as he walks up behind you, snapping you out of your self-doubt induced trance. His left hand, disguised using nano-tech to look like a human, flesh hand, comes to rest against the small of your back and his right hand extends the drink that he retrieved for you from the bar. 

This gives congressman Bucky & I’m losing my mind. Him knowing the drink is such an attractive detail, ugh. 

“Dance with me,” Bucky interrupts, his eyes locked on something on the opposite side of the room.

My breath trembled a bit like he actually cut me off. You’re compiling so many rich tropes into one piece and mixing it with your ability to just create an immersive reading experience… It’s giving am I reading or watching a movie?

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, beginning to massage his thumb over the skin of your hand in languid, circular motions.

Time for me to indulge a little on my top love language. You did this push and pull with her anxiety and his soothing so naturally. People often mistake WOA as someone who needs to be constantly assured, and though there are people who do—the truth and assurance in his words, with a note of him highlighting her past things worth praising? I seriously love how beautifully you’ve touched on all of these love languages.

And then the fucking—

“And remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

I get this is a huge talking point with this piece, but it was such a subtle affirmation that he cares about what she shares with him—and gosh, I wish I could rave day & night about how amazing you did with this.

“I fully anticipate him trying,” he answers as he puts the car in reverse and peels out of the nearly vacant parking lot. “But I promised you a potentially gut-rotting meal, and I'm going to keep that promise.” 

I’m a skeptic of shifting, but if I wasn’t, this would go on my script. This gives ‘I’d stop the world and melt with you’, which is the epitome of quality time. Beautiful.

“I'm just saying, Katniss is kind of oblivious,” Bucky shrugs with a mouthful of fried cheese. “It's obvious that Peeta was never just pretending to be in love with her.”

This parallel is paralleling. (Don’t hate me, I’ve never read the books, but this is the reason I’m going to).

“Why were you trying to play pool at ten years old?” he chuckles, gathering up all of the balls and placing them inside the triangular rack in the center of the table.

Ugh, adorable. Give him to me, Cait. Just let me copy him from your brain and paste him irl. And the touch about the cootie-phobic crush just puts the icing over the cavity just before things take a turn……

But you don't miss the way his expression darkens ever so slightly and his eyes sweep up your figure before moving to stand behind you, propping his own cue stick up against the table.

CAIT, LADIES AND GENTS. Made Bucky flip like the switch he so desperately is. 

“With how fast your heart is beating right now, I don't think I would have to do something as cheesy as that to make a move.”

I… have to read the rest of this portion in solitude… I shall return.

As soon as his mouth makes contact with your center, you’re lacing your fingers through his short, soft locks and tugging on them.

Screaming!!

You bring your other hand to remove the ring from your finger, planning to tuck it into a cup holder for safekeeping while you use your hands on him. “Leave it on,” he breaks the thick silence when he realizes what you're doing. “Want you to keep wearing it.” 

CRYING!!! THROWING UP!!!!!!!!!!!! UNFORGIVABLE. 

He snorts, breaking into laughter beneath you. “A second date, then,” he concedes. “I would love to take you on a second date.”

*SLAMS CREDIT CARD ON TABLE A BILLION TIMES* ADD TO CART. ADD TO CART. ADD TO CART. BUY. BUY IMMEDIATELY. BUY POSTHASTE. FULL-fucking circle, baby. This is what we were WAITING FOR!!!!!!

Cait—I do not expect you to read all of this. Just know that I had so much fun reading it this time around (as I’d previously wished I could read it for the first time again)—and it felt just like the first. I’m reading as part of self-improvement for my imagination, and I hope you know this will always be in my top favorites of things I’ve read that made me feel. Thank you for writing it, and sharing on this platform. May your pillows and covers always be just the right temperature for the season. I’ll definitely be back for more 💚 -rrinnie

love language

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 6.6k

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

“remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

warnings/tags: smut, oral, unprotected sex, mentions of blood, wound care, brief uses of alcohol, anxiety and self-doubt, language, reader is afab, avenger!reader, fluffier than what i typically write, undercover mission, friends to lovers!!! 18+ only

Acts of Service

“Exciting Friday night?” Your head snaps up at the masculine voice. You nearly slosh hot tea on both yourself and the pages of the book that lay open in your lap. You're surprised to see him - as far as you were aware, Bucky and Sam were in Munich. You didn't think they were supposed to be back in the country for another two days.

“Something like that,” you answer, regaining your composure as you bring the mug to your lips. “What are you doing back so early? Did recon go okay?”

Bucky lets out a long sigh as he plops down into the recliner, adjacent to where you're curled up on the sofa in the compound’s communal living room. His eyelids look heavier than normal, with dark circles underneath that aren't typically present. You place your cup of tea on the end table next to you and close the book before angling your body towards him, giving him your undivided attention.

“It was a shit-show,” he answers bluntly, voice laced with defeat. “HYDRA had the drop on us from the minute we entered Germany. What was supposed to be us just gathering intel turned into an ambush. One minute, it was just the two of us in an old warehouse, and then the next..” he trails off, eyes locked on one of the buttons of his tactical pants that he’s fidgeting with. “We’re lucky to have made it out. Sam was taken to med-bay as soon as we got back. Broken arm and collarbone, dislocated shoulder, possibly a few fractured ribs..” he lists off the injuries.

“Jesus,” you cringe, a death grip on the book in your hands as you listen to him summarize the mission. “Looks like you came out pretty unscathed in comparison.” You glance him over from head to toe, relieved to see no visible wounds or bruises.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, sitting forward and pulling the collar of his black t-shirt over to expose his right shoulder. Your eyes bulge when you see the obvious knife wound that the fabric had been concealing. “Not completely unscathed.”

“Holy shit, Bucky, why didn’t you go get this stitched up?” You stand up quickly, your book falling forgotten to the floor as you step closer to him to inspect the cut. There’s dried blood covering the surrounding skin of his chest and shoulder, with fresh blood still seeping from the opening of the wound. Even with the luxury of the Quinjet, a direct flight from Germany to New York is at least eight hours, who knows how long the cut had been steadily oozing–

“The bleeding has slacked off for the most part at this point,” he tries to assure you, attempting to cover the wound back up with his shirt. His shirt that, upon closer inspection, is thoroughly soaked through with blood. You all but smack his hand away so that you can continue to inspect the cut.

“It’s too deep,” you shake your head. “It needs stitches.”

“It’ll be fine by morning–” he starts to argue with you, but you’re already walking away from him, exiting the room to retrieve a first-aid kit kept in one of the shared bathrooms just down the hallway. Though you can’t currently see him, you have no doubt that he is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at you.

Before returning to the living room, you stop by the kitchen and grab a cold can of Blue Moon to help take the edge off. Upon reentering the living room, you find that he’s hunched over where he sits in the recliner, leaning forward to grab your book from where it had fallen on the rug.

“What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you?” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a smirk as he inspects the cover of the book.

“The Hunger Games,” you answer simply as you place the first-aid kit on the couch and hold out the beer to him. He accepts the drink, a small, surprised smile appearing on his face.

“Shirt,” you instruct a second later, turning to him with a warm, wet rag that you intend to clean some of the dried blood off with. Surprisingly, he obliges your request, placing both the beer and the book in his lap to pull the bloodied fabric over his head.

“And what exactly is The Hunger Games about?” he asks, looking up at you through his thick lashes before turning his attention back to the book in his lap. He flips it over, skimming the words on the back cover.

“The Hunger Games,” you begin as you delicately swipe the damp washcloth across the dirty skin around his wound, watching as the material turns from white to pink as it collects the old blood. “Are dystopian fiction novels. The books get their title from an annual event in which a boy and a girl, ranging from the ages of twelve to eighteen, from twelve different districts are selected by name-drawing to compete in a fight to the death. Twenty-four go into an arena, one comes out.”

“Sheesh,” Bucky grimaces and pops the tab to the beer. You turn away from him, placing the soiled washcloth on the table next to him before retrieving some disinfectant from the kit. “And what’s the point in having a bunch of children kill each other?”

“Punishment and control,” you shrug, pouring some of the clear liquid on a large gauze pad until it’s soaked. He gives you a vague nod, signaling he’s ready for you to clean the wound. You dab the drenched cotton along the opening of the wound, wincing more visibly than Bucky does himself. “The districts where the children are reaped from have had uprisings against the nation’s Capitol in the past. The games are to punish them, as well as to remind them what power the Capitol holds.”

Bucky’s brows furrow together, contemplating your words. You make the initial incision for his stitches and he lets out a grunt of discomfort. “Sorry,” you mumble, concentrating on the stitchwork.

“So what happens?” He asks after a few moments of silence, obviously trying to distract himself from the needle going in and out of his tender flesh as he sips on the amber colored liquid. “The group of kids rebel and take down the Capitol?”

“You’re not too far off,” you chuckle lightly. “I guess you’ll just have to read them for yourself to find out.”

“I suppose I will,” he says, eyeing your needlework from the corner of his eye. “Will you let me borrow your copies when I finish The Lord of the Rings?”

“You’re reading The Lord of the Rings?” you fail at hiding your tone of surprise, more focused on finishing suturing his cut.

“Don’t act so shocked,” he feigns insult. “I read when I have the free time to do so.” He turns his head towards you for the first time since you began stitching, causing you to realize just how close his face is to your own. You push down the fluttery feeling in the pit of your stomach at the close proximity, clearing your throat as you turn to grab a pair of small medical scissors. You clip the thread before backing away from him.

“That should hold you together well enough until your supernatural super-soldier healing abilities take care of it while you sleep.”

He stands from his position in the recliner, holding out your book to you. “Thank you,” he tells you sincerely. “For the stitches, and the beer.”

“Of course,” you say as you take your book back from him. “Don’t want you getting blood all over the compound.”

“I think I’m gonna go check on Sam,” he sighs. “I’ll let you get back to your reading.”

“Get some rest!” you demand as he retreats to the hallway.

“Yes ma’am,” he calls without looking back, his Brooklyn drawl making an appearance.

For the rest of the night, you try to focus on your book and not the way you felt when his plush pink lips and cerulean blue eyes were just inches from your face.

Receiving Gifts

One week later

Punctuality has never been your strong-suit, but you didn’t expect to be the very last person to arrive at Bucky’s birthday party - get together, as he insists on calling it, since he feels silly having a birthday party at over one hundred years old. However, as you’re approaching the pavilion at the compound’s lake, you see that all of your friends are already mingling comfortably.

Natasha, Sharon, and Wanda wave at you from where they lounge next to the bonfire, Steve and Sam are engaged in an intense game of beer pong (which Sam seems to be doing impressively well at, considering one arm is still in a cast and sling), Clint and Bruce are playing cornhole - everyone is here, though you don’t see the one person you came for.

You make your way over to a picnic table closer to the lake that has been dedicated to presents so that you can add yours to the pile. You had ordered the gift a week ago, the same night that you had stitched up Bucky’s shoulder wound, and it arrived just in time - in today's mail, only an hour ago.

Hence the reason you are the last to arrive with a shittily-wrapped present in hand.

“Is that Avengers wrapping paper?” You whirl around at the amused voice to see Bucky walking towards you.

“That it is,” you confirm. “You and I aren't featured, though. Just the OGs,” you shrug, staring down at the cartoon depictions of Steve and the others.

“I was starting to wonder if you weren't going to come.” He says lightheartedly, nodding in the direction of everyone else.

“Your present didn't get delivered until the last minute,” you explain, giving the box-shaped object in your hand a shake. “Didn't want to show up empty handed.”

“You didn't have to get me a gift at all,” he says reassuringly, but eyes the present curiously. “But since you almost missed my party over it, I should open it right away.” He holds his hands out expectantly, almost childlike.

You roll your eyes, handing over the poorly packaged present. You had never been the best at gift-wrapping, usually preferring to reuse bags.

“I did not almost miss your party. It's just now eight o'clock,” you defend yourself, staring at the sun that's just starting to set over the lake's horizon, painting the New York sky in hues of orange and purple.

He smirks, walking past you to place the present on the table. You watch as he rips the wrapping paper away unceremoniously, until the gift is revealed.

“I know you had asked to borrow my copies,” you begin, suddenly feeling nervous as you watch him look over the box set of the first edition of The Hunger Games trilogy. “But my copies are old, and tattered, and have been annotated to shit, so.. I thought maybe you'd like your own,” you shrug nonchalantly.

He studies the box, pulling out the first book and glancing it over with a look you can't quite decipher. There's a faint hint of rose on his cheeks, and the lines around his eyes crinkle when he turns his head to look at you.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, earnest smile. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you. I'm going to start reading them–”

“This pizza is getting cold!” You hear Sam's voice bellow from under the pavilion a few yards away. “I'm about to dig in with or without the birthday boy.”

You exhale through your nose, a half laugh, half sigh and look at Bucky expectantly. “Pretty sure you're the only birthday boy here.”

“I guess that's my cue,” he sighs as he places the books with the rest of his unopened gifts. “Thanks again, really. It's my favorite gift,” he adds with a sly grin as he begins to walk towards Sam and the table of pizza boxes.

“You haven't even opened the others yet,” you point out, following in his steps.

“Don’t need to open any of the others to know that yours is my favorite.”

Words of Affirmation

Two weeks later

Overstimulated. That's the best word to describe the way you're currently feeling.

Nervous, uncomfortable, irritable, a little hungry, even - any of those words would suffice, too. But with the way the velvet fabric of your dress hugs your hips too tightly, the way that the conversation of the drunk party guests roars in your ears, and the way that the heels of your feet already burn in your platform wedges so early in the evening, you think overstimulated sums up your current state the best.

You fidget with the extravagant ring that adorns your left ring finger, twisting it back and forth and rubbing the pad of your right thumb across the oval-shaped stone.

You aren't even supposed to be here, your brain keeps reminding you. It was supposed to be Natasha. Natasha, who has a boatload of undercover operations experience. But then she had to come down with the flu. Natasha, who never gets sick with anything more than a head cold, bedridden with the flu the day before a highly anticipated undercover mission that you are now taking her place in.

It's not that you hadn't been part of an undercover operation before - you had. You just hadn't been part of any undercover operation that required you to pose as someone's wife before.

Definitely not Bucky's wife.

The two of you had just arrived at the party no more than thirty minutes ago and you had spent the entirety of that time thinking that you wouldn't be able to make this believable; that everyone would see how anxious and awkward you feel and just know - just know that you weren't meant to be here and that it's abundantly clear that you and Bucky aren't actually together.

“Ivanov just arrived,” Bucky's voice murmurs next to your ear as he walks up behind you, snapping you out of your self-doubt induced trance. His left hand, disguised using nano-tech to look like a human, flesh hand, comes to rest against the small of your back and his right hand extends the drink that he retrieved for you from the bar.

“How'd you know I like lemon drops?” You ask, instantly recognizing the pale yellow liquid in the martini glass.

“I'm your husband. It's part of my job to know your go-to cocktail,” he smirks, looking at you in a way that almost makes you believe his words. “Besides, I'd know your drink of choice anyway. You always order a lemon drop.”

You clear your throat, breaking his stare by checking out the fellow attendees and event staff filtering through the ballroom. You slowly sip the sour liquid, trying to focus on the burn of the vodka and not the heat radiating across the skin of your back from him simply resting his fingers against the material of your dress.

“So where's Ivanov?” you break the tension. The illegal arms dealer that you'd been assigned to spy on was nowhere to be seen.

“He should be showing his face any minute now,” Bucky answers, a hint of displeasure in his voice. “I overheard some men at the bar saying he had just arrived in a three million dollar Bugatti with his twenty year old girlfriend.” You visibly cringe at the numbers. Ivanov had to be approaching senior citizen status at this point.

“Can't say that I'd expect anything else from him,” you sigh, attempting to wipe the disgust from your features. “What’s our game plan from here? Hover close by him and listen in on conversations–”

“Dance with me,” Bucky interrupts, his eyes locked on something on the opposite side of the room. You follow his gaze, realizing that Ivanov has entered with his exceptionally youthful girlfriend on his arm. Bucky extends his own arm to you, which you accept after tossing back the last sip of your drink and setting the empty glass on a table behind you.

He guides you to the center of the dance floor where several other couples are swaying to classical piano music. Ivanov mingles with a small group of questionable looking men just a few feet behind you, where Bucky is able to keep an eye on him.

He places one hand on your waist, using the other to hold one of yours in his own as he begins to slowly sway both of you to the rhythm of the music. Your free hand rests on the back of his neck, where you nervously twirl a tuft of his hair between your perfectly manicured fingers (you tried not to take too much offense to Sharon rushing you to the first salon she could find yesterday to help you look the part).

Bucky huffs a low laugh before using his grip on your hip to tug you closer to him, closing an awkward amount of space that separates your chest from his.

“If we want this to be believable, you’re gonna have to act like you kind of like me,” he murmurs lowly so that no one near you overhears. His face is just inches from yours - the scent of sandalwood from his aftershave and spearmint from his mouthwash is dizzying. Add in the fact that the lemon drop you had just quickly downed was heavy on the vodka, it’s a miracle that you’re still standing upright in these ridiculous heels that Sharon had picked out for you.

“I do like you,” you huff, your cheeks warming. “Not liking you isn’t the problem.” His gaze shifts away from where Ivanov stands a few yards behind you and down to your face.

“What is the problem then?”

You stare at his hand that holds yours, your eyes fixated on the brilliant diamond of your faux wedding ring. “For starters, I don’t really know how to slow dance,” you half-mumble. As if on cue, your left ankle shifts ever so slightly in your shoe, causing you to wobble. Bucky tightens his grasp on both your waist and hand to help steady you. He cackles - loudly enough for an old lady walking by to give him a side-eye.

“I think it’s pretty unlikely that our cover gets blown because you’re a little unsteady,” he whispers reassuringly. It does little to ease the lump of anxiety that has settled in your gut.

“It’s not just my lack of dancing experience,” you retort. “It’s all of this. I’m a bit out of my element here and I can’t help but feel like Natasha would have been able to do a much better–”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, beginning to massage his thumb over the skin of your hand in languid, circular motions. You can’t decide if it’s the effects of the alcohol coursing through your veins or if it’s just the fact that it’s him, but it feels as though there’s a continuous trail of hot sparks everywhere his skin touches yours. “You've got this. If anyone’s got this, it's you. You've handled missions far more daunting than this with ease, right?”

You finally shift your eyes to meet his gaze. His deep blue eyes bore into yours with utmost sincerity. You give him a small nod of agreement and a tight-lipped, uncertain smile.

He leans in closer so that his mouth hovers just next to your ear, his warm breath raising goosebumps down the expanse of your neck and shoulders.

“And remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

The slow, gentle swaying motions you'd been forcing your body to perform come to a sudden halt. You look at Bucky as if he's grown a second head. He’s looking at you with a shit-eating grin spread from ear to ear.

“Did you just quote Peeta Mellark?”

“I finished up the first book yesterday,” he shrugs as if his words hadn't just made your heart skip several beats. “Now let's get this job over with so we can go discuss the book in detail over some greasy diner food, yeah?”

Quality Time

The mere thought of getting the fuck out of that giant estate and away from Ivanov and the other countless skeevy party-goers to gorge on greasy diner food was more than enough motivation to get you through the duration of the mission.

Of course, it helped that Ivanov is a lightweight drunk with no concept of volume control. After a couple drinks, he handed the location of his next illegal arms deal to you and Bucky on a silver platter - without ever even noticing the two of you dancing just feet away from him.

“I'm sending the audio recording over to you right now,” Bucky says as he types on his cell phone. The two of you are currently in a drugstore parking lot half an hour away from the estate, sitting in the Audi SUV that you'd been given for this evening’s mission.

“Got it,” Sam’s voice booms through the car’s Bluetooth speakers a second later. “You guys did great back there. Go ahead and get back to the compound for debriefing.”

Your eyes flash to the time on the vehicle's touchscreen display - 10:06 pm. You can feel your stomach churning from hunger and your skin itching to get out of the restrictive velvet fabric, the last thing you wanted to do at this hour was go to a fucking debriefing.

“About that..” Bucky starts, noticing your disappointed expression and tense posture. “Debriefing is going to have to wait until the morning.”

“We should really get any details while they are still fresh–”

“What’s that? Sam? Sorry, you're breaking up, can't understand what you're–”

Bucky's flesh finger touches a button on the digital display screen and the call disconnects before he finishes his sentence.

“You know he's going to call back any second, right?” You ask after a moment of loaded silence. Bucky says nothing at first. You watch as he powers off his phone, and then grabs yours from its location in the center cup holder and powers it off, as well.

“I fully anticipate him trying,” he answers as he puts the car in reverse and peels out of the nearly vacant parking lot. “But I promised you a potentially gut-rotting meal, and I'm going to keep that promise.”

Half an hour later, you and Bucky sit opposite each other in a cozy, corner booth of the only open diner in a five mile radius. It's half diner, half arcade, and the two of you are some of the only people here save for the teenage couple making out next to the jukebox in the gaming area. You both look out of place - him in his black satin suit and you in your burgundy colored dress with the thigh-slit, but you're too relieved to be eating to care.

He's already scarfed down a fried chicken sandwich and is rapidly making his way through a pile of mozzarella sticks. You're eating a fat stack of blueberry pancakes and the best loaded hash browns that you think you've ever had.

Breakfast foods hit different at eleven o'clock at night.

“I'm just saying, Katniss is kind of oblivious,” Bucky shrugs with a mouthful of fried cheese. “It's obvious that Peeta was never just pretending to be in love with her.”

“That's a big assumption coming from someone who hasn't even started the second book yet,” you say as you fork a bite of pancake into your mouth.

He throws his hands up in mock defense, covering his now empty plate up with a dirty napkin.

“You're not wrong though,” you admit. “She did miss a lot of signs, and she's not always the most reliable narrator.”

He responds with a small hum as he watches you finish your pancakes with a soft smile that shows his laugh lines and the dimple of his left cheek.

His smile turns to something more curious as the young couple who had been making out in the arcade room earlier dashes past your booth and out the back door of the restaurant.

“What is it?” You ask, pushing your empty plate towards the center of the table.

“The game room is free now,” he states, as if it's obvious. “Now I can kick your ass in air hockey.”

And kick your ass in air hockey he does. And skee ball, and Dance Dance revolution.

“Please don't tell Natasha that you beat me at Dance Dance Revolution,” you beg him as you pick up your high heels that you had discarded for the game. “She'll never let me live that one down. In fact, if anyone asks, it was a dead tie for all of these games.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he chuckles, approaching the pool table in the center of the room and leaning against the edge. “As long as you win this game of pool.”

“No, nope, absolutely not,” you freeze where you're standing, crossing your arms over your chest. “If I couldn't beat you at air hockey then I don't stand a chance of beating you at pool.”

He ignores you, instead turning to choose two cue sticks from the selection on the back wall. He tosses one to you from several feet away, which you instinctively drop your shoes to the floor to catch.

“I haven't even tried to play pool since I was maybe ten years old,” you whine.

“Why were you trying to play pool at ten years old?” he chuckles, gathering up all of the balls and placing them inside the triangular rack in the center of the table.

“It was at a birthday party,” you admit. “I pretended to know what I was doing to impress a boy that I had a crush on.”

“And how did that go for you?” He removes the triangle-shaped container from around the balls and begins to line up his shot.

“Well, I haven't tried to play pool since then,” you begin, taking a seat on the edge of the table and turning your head to watch him. He pulls the cue stick back and quickly stabs it forward, breaking the balls apart and sending them rolling in various directions across the felt table. “And Kyle from my fourth grade class thought that I had cooties, so, you tell me how you think that went for me.”

“Sounds like it was Kyle's loss.” You watch as he walks to one of the table's pockets to look inside. “I've got stripes,” he states, looking at you with an expectant smile.

You exhale a dramatic sigh, hopping off the edge of the table and turning around to position your stick in front of the cue ball.

“Fine,” you relent, looking up at him from where you're leaning over across the table. “But you're not allowed to laugh at me when you realize I wasn't lying about having no experience at this.”

“Scout's honor,” he swears and you can tell by his smile and reddened cheeks that he’s already trying to contain his laughter.

Feeling extra nervous due to the way you can physically feel him watching you, you take an embarrassing amount of time working up the courage to propel the tip of the cue stick towards a solid purple colored ball.

It travels a foot or so across the green felt material of the table and comes to a stop just inches away from a corner pocket.

“Damn it,” you sigh under your breath.

“That wasn't too bad, actually,” he says, not even trying to conceal his tone of surprise as he walks over to where you're standing. “You just need to change your stance a little and hit the ball a bit harder.”

“So, do basically everything differently, then?”

“I can help you, if you want,” he offers with a smug grin.

“Hm,” you bite your lip as you pretend to contemplate the proposition. “Okay,” you accept with a shrug. “But this better not be an attempt to pull a cliche “pretend to help her with pool as an excuse to make a move” kind of move.” You're fully joking - you know Bucky well enough to know he wouldn't make such a corny, obvious move with anyone - and you definitely wouldn't expect him to do so with you.

But you don't miss the way his expression darkens ever so slightly and his eyes sweep up your figure before moving to stand behind you, propping his own cue stick up against the table.

The front of your thighs brush up against the edge of the table and Bucky’s arms enclose you on either side - his hands coming to rest next to each of your legs on the table's edge, as close as they can be to you without actually touching.

Your breath hitches in your throat when the silky material of his suit brushes against your bare shoulders, the sensation causing you to go deadly still as you await his next move.

“With how fast your heart is beating right now, I don't think I would have to do something as cheesy as that to make a move.” He murmurs, his mouth close enough to the exposed skin of your neck that you can feel the heat of his breath. It's an automatic response, the way your head tilts back into his touch. You start to pull away, start to feel embarrassed, start to tell him just how wrong he is, when he brings a flesh finger to the ball of your shoulder and trails his index finger down the skin of your arm, eliciting a surge of goosebumps in its wake.

This physical reaction doesn't go unnoticed by him, either. He hums a small laugh, inching closer to you so that his body presses against your ass.

“In fact,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I think that if I wanted to, I could have you bent over this table for me without having to resort to anything like that.”

If his chest wasn't pinning you between him and the pool table, you probably would have fallen over. The air in the arcade feels a sudden ten degrees warmer and you swear you can hear your blood pumping in your ears - things that unfortunately can't be blamed on the effects of the martini that had dissipated from your system hours ago.

No, it's all him. His closeness, his warmth, his voice, his scent. Just him.

“If you wanted to, yeah?” You question, your voice an octave higher than you ideally would have liked. “That makes it sound like you don't want to. But the bulge I'm feeling from your pants makes it seem like you do want to. Kinda sending me mixed signals here.” You rut back against him for good measure.

He hisses next to your ear, his hands snapping to your hips, effectively stilling you beneath him. His fingers dig into the flesh around your hip bones, the pressure somewhere perfectly between uncomfortable and pleasurable.

“Here? Bent over this table?” he tuts, his lips grazing the skin next to the shoulder strap of your dress. “Where a couple of unsuspecting teenagers could walk in for a game of skee ball at any second?” He lets out a low laugh, the sound vibrating against your back.

“No, I don't think so,” he continues. “Not when we've got a brand new Audi with a spacious backseat and highly tinted windows just outside this building.”

Physical Touch

If someone had asked you six hours ago if you thought there was a chance you would be ending this night by having sex with Bucky Barnes, you would have said no.

But if someone had asked you if you thought there was a chance you would be having sex with Bucky Barnes in the backseat of a car in a diner-arcade combo parking lot, you would have said fuck no.

You would have been wrong on both accounts. And with the way that he's nipping and sucking up the insides of your thighs, you're pretty fucking okay with that.

Your dress is bunched up around your waist, your panties discarded on the floor of the car. You're laying as comfortably as you can across the backseat with Bucky nestled snuggly between your legs. It's a tight fit, and the stagnant air inside the Audi is balmy, but you'll be damned if you interrupt this to turn the AC on. The only light inside the vehicle is from the glow of the full moon that illuminates the sky, and the giant neon green diner sign a few yards away from where you're parked.

He's not wasting any time - it's well past midnight at this point and considering the fact that Bucky turned your cell phones off hours ago, you're surprised that Sam hasn't traced the location of the vehicle and sent search and rescue already.

As soon as his mouth makes contact with your center, you’re lacing your fingers through his short, soft locks and tugging on them. You grind your pussy against his face, meeting his fervent motions with your own. He locks his lips around your clit before pulling away with an obscene, wet pop that echoes through the cab of the car.

He reaches one hand up to your shoulders while keeping his lips on you, quickly tugging down the spaghetti straps of your dress and then pawing at the fabric covering your chest to free your tits.

At the same time that he plunges his tongue inside you, he rolls a nipple between two of his cool, metal digits, yearning a sharp yelp from you. He releases his grip and then palms your breast in his hand, continuing to work your folds with his lips and tongue.

You don't know if it's the fact that it's been a ridiculous amount of time since you so much as kissed someone or the fact that Bucky eats pussy like he's starving, but you're approaching your climax insanely fast.

You clench your thighs around his ears and push your hips upwards, the friction building that warm tension in your lower belly that comes spilling over when he lets out a guttural moan across your core.

You cum against his face, feeling your juices drip down the insides of your thighs - there's a pesky voice in the back of your head telling you that you're going to have to pay to have this car detailed before giving it back.

He sits up, his back resting against the middle of the leather seat. He unbuttons and unzips his suit pants, raising off the seat just enough to tug them down to mid-thigh along with his boxers. You're still coming down from your orgasm when he's pulling you up from the seat and into a sitting position.

You tuck your legs underneath you so that you're propped up on your knees on the seat directly next to him. Bucky pumps himself in his hand as you lean over, gathering all of the saliva in your mouth and letting it slide between your lips and over the head of his cock.

You push his hand away to replace it with your own, using your spit as lubrication as you stroke him up and down. He throws his head back against the headrest, looking up at the roof of the car as he brings his hand around the curve of your ass, flesh hand finding your pussy that's still throbbing from how hard he had made you cum.

You can feel the smooth band of the engagement ring that you'd been wearing all evening repeatedly caress a large vein on the side of his dick - you remove your hand from him, causing him to snap his head back down to look at you. You bring your other hand to remove the ring from your finger, planning to tuck it into a cup holder for safekeeping while you use your hands on him.

“Leave it on,” he breaks the thick silence when he realizes what you're doing. “Want you to keep wearing it.”

You push the ring back down on your finger, his command sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. You're extending your hand back to his cock when he cuts you off, pulling you to him and across his lap.

You straddle him, his erection locked between your pussy lips and his lower belly. You move forwards, and then backwards - earning another deep groan from him as you coat the underbelly of his cock in your juices. You grind up and down against him several times, until you're feeling impossibly empty and can't take the feeling of not having him inside you any longer.

You lift yourself up on the balls of your feet, high enough for him to guide himself to your entrance. He teases your hole with his head - or at least tries to, before you're sinking yourself down onto his length. You go still for a moment when he's fully inside you, giving you both time to adjust to the new, overwhelming sensation of each other.

You begin to ride him, slowly at first - he stretches you blissfully sweet and soon you're picking up the pace, your ass bouncing off of his thighs with each comedown.

He places a hand on the back of your neck, pulling your face down to his in a sloppy, searing kiss. It hits you that he's inside you raw right now, and you're just now kissing. You taste yourself on him, warm and salty sweet. He sweeps his tongue along your bottom lip and you open up for him, letting him explore your mouth from the perfect angle that he's at beneath you.

He continues to kiss you but removes his hand from the back of your neck, moving both of them to cup your ass. He begins to meet your movements with his own, thrusting himself upwards so that his cock is ramming into that sweet spot of your cervix and sending you towards a second climax.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” you moan into his mouth, breaking the kiss for air. Your encouragement spurs him on, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Your legs turn to jelly beneath you, but he's got you - he holds you up by your ass cheeks and leans forward to take one of your nipples in his warm mouth.

It's enough to send you over the edge again. Your orgasm builds, heat exploding through your abdomen as his movements grow erratic and he spills into you from below.

He stills beneath you when you're both spent, your chest heaving against his. You make no effort to remove yourself from him, and he seems more than happy to keep you right where you are - his arms locking around your waist and pulling you close to him.

“I guess now would be as good of a time as any to ask you if you'd like to go on a date with me sometime?”

“Go on a date with you sometime?” You lean back, looking down with him with the limited amount of moonlight and neon lighting that breaks through the tinted windows. “We dressed up real nice, slow danced, spied on a bad guy, ate greasy diner food, played arcade games, and you're inside me as we speak. I think it's safe to say we're currently on a date.”

He snorts, breaking into laughter beneath you. “A second date, then,” he concedes. “I would love to take you on a second date.”

♡♡♡♡♡

thank you for reading!!! kind of nervous to put this one out there tbh, i've been working on it off and on for weeks but i love how it turned out and i hope you all do too. as always comments and reblogs are very appreciated 💕

it's nice to have a friend

moth to a flame

oil & water

[sugarwarachan]

hot for teacher

chapter three previous

pairing: shouta aizawa x f!reader

synopsis: You’re not expecting your day to fall to pieces at 8:21 a.m., but life hasn’t really been going your way lately. A string of lackluster dates, followed by two dead vibrators (with missing cords!), and the only outlet left for your mounting sexual frustration—the smut blog you diligently update—has been discovered by the one person you never wanted to find it: fellow teacher Shouta Aizawa. Who might just be the inspiration behind most of the fantasies you post about.

chapter cws: just enough plot to keep the porn coming, hizashi and rumi being super obvious in their meddling, Shouta ‘talks you through it’ Aizawa, more dirty talk than is perhaps necessary, the filthiest fingering scene i've ever written, soft degradation, ("good little whore" 🤭) d/s elements but never explicitly stated

word count: 3k

andy's notes: AHHHHHH i know this is late thank you all for waiting so patiently!! AIZAWA IS DOWN SO BAD I AM GOING INSANE

Rays of sunlight dance across Shouta’s face as his alarm clock blares. Scrubbing a hand over one eye, he hits the clock and rolls over, burying his face into the pillow.

Holy fuck. 

He’s imagined you before. Knew you would look gorgeous spread out for him on any surface, but the reality of watching you cum, your mouth hanging open in that soft o, brow furrowed tight... He rolls his hips into the mattress in memory. Jesus Christ. If he’s not careful, he’ll have to rub one out before he can even start the day.

Shouta grabs his phone in an attempt to distract himself and immediately regrets it when he sees the text notification on the screen.

Hiz(ass)hi: signed us up for something!!!

He groans and presses call. It’s always better to find out exactly what his best friend's up to as soon as possible. 

“What did you do?” he asks as soon as he picks up.

Hizashi doesn’t miss a beat. “Check your email yet?”

“I appreciate what little work-life balance I have.”

“Well," Hizashi coughs, "then you might not entirely love the surprise I’ve got in store for you, but it involves a certain you-know-whoooooo.”

“Fucking hell.” Shouta swings out of bed and passes a hand through his hair, nerves shooting through his stomach. “I’m serious, did you do something weird?”

He logs into his email, half-listening to Hizashi's explanation that he volunteered them both as chaperones for the upcoming debate team competition and texted you straight after.

“Perfect opportunity to spend some more time together,” Hizashi sing-songs, just as Shouta clocks your 7:35 a.m. reply.

Count me in!

An image of you tucked into his side erupts in his head, hair tousled from sleep and sex, tired smile on your face. 

“You good, man?” Hizashi asks when Shouta lets the line stay silent. 

Hasn’t he been wanting this exactly? A chance to get to know you more?

Shouta heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, I’m good. Just really wish you’d sat next to someone else in high school.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be sure to include me in your wedding vows.”

Shouta huffs a laugh and clicks off the phone.

He doesn’t know much about the debate team, except that he can hear Bakugou and Midoriya arguing from clear down the hall. Toshinori acts as the team’s usual advisor, but he’s been in and out of the hospital lately.

He imagines the last thing that man needs is accompanying a rowdy group of teenagers on an overnight trip.

He scans the remaining names. Todoroki, Jiro, and Yaoyorozu should behave themselves, at least.

Shouta: How many of us are going?

Hiz(ass)hi: 4. You, me, Rumi, and Y/N. See you tomorrow, sucker!

Shouta isn’t good in relationships.

That’s what he’s always told himself, but it’s not entirely true. He’s simply more deliberate, more exacting in what he wants than the typical person. He sees no point in dating frivolously.

Which is probably why he spent so much time deciding how to approach you.

When Hizashi came to him with his suspicions about your blog, Shouta gave himself an ultimatum.

One story. One glimpse into your head.

It wouldn’t be fair to you to form an opinion based on words alone; words he hasn’t yet confirmed aren’t simply fantasy.  But the minute he reads the story, it unlocks a hunger in him that can’t be smothered.

He knows in his bones that it’s you. The intonation, the cadence; he can hear the way you talk to Rumi, the way you speak to the students.

And you’re fantasizing about someone taking care of you and fucking you stupid in ways he’s only considered in his head.

He never stood a chance.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a last-minute, hastily-put-together trip will result in at least one disaster.

The minibus slowly rolling to a stop along a country road is precisely such an event.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Shouta murmurs under his breath, resisting the urge to bang his hands in frustration on the steering wheel.

You peek over his shoulder. 

“Did we seriously run out of gas?”

He barely hears you; you smell like jasmine and vanilla, and if he’s not careful, he’ll turn around and haul you into his lap in front of everyone on this bus. 

Rumi laughs uproariously, rousing the students from their slumber. Jiro glares at her. “You had one job, Yamada, and you couldn’t manage filling up the tank?”

“It was full when we left, wasn’t it?” he shouts back at her.

Shouto, ever-dependable, is already typing into his phone. “There’s an inn up the road.”

Midoriya folds his body over the seat to get a look at the screen. “Oh! Do you think it’s close enough to this one temple I’ve been reading about?”

“Oi!” Bakugou barks, sweatshirt laid across his face. “Could we prioritize where to sleep and not whatever nerdy-ass thing you want to do?”

“Enough!” Aizawa bites out. “Watch your mouth, Bakugou, you’re still representing the school out here. All of you, go with Yamada and Usagiyama and book us rooms for the night. Y/N and I will stay here with the luggage.”

He ignores Hizashi’s smirk over your head.

“Some luck we have,” you say, digging a toe into the dirt as the two of you watch the group disappear into the fading light. “Do you imagine they’ll have enough rooms?”

For the sake of his sanity, they fucking will.

But as Shouta looks down the road at Hizashi’s retreating form, he knows for a fact that he sent the wrong pair of people ahead to deal with room arrangements.

Hizashi and Rumi return in a borrowed car and a slapped-together reason for the teachers sleeping co-ed that nearly makes him want to punch Yamada in the head. 

“You want to catch up on One Piece together,” is all you say, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

As you and Shouta pile into the back of the car, you nudge him with a shoulder. “Glad to know they’re both as subtle as a brick to the face.”

He nudges you back, not caring that he’s being just as subtle as his two conniving friends.

The backseat is small, and he’s by no means a small man. Even without the bumps in the road that keep jostling you close to him, you’re already practically in his lap. Excited anticipation sets loose in his belly. 

It’s been forever since he’s felt like this. Perhaps never, if he’s being honest. And by the time everyone is settled in for the night, he’s desperate to be alone with you.

“I hope you're clear that I’m not mad about this,” you say as soon as he shuts the door and faces the reality that it’s going to be very difficult fucking you in a way that doesn’t wake up the entire inn. 

He takes in your face and smiles. “Not mad about this, either.”

“Should we talk about, like, ground rules?”

He likes how direct you are, but he also knows that a part of you is asking to stall.

“I’m no expert, but the color system works for me if it works for you.”

You nod, foot tapping an anxious rhythm into the carpet. 

“Nothing has to happen. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” You smile softly, but there’s heat curling in the back of your eyes. “But I wanna feel what I felt the other night again. With you.”

He breathes out through his nose, and you grin like the little cocktease you are. 

Seriously, can he soundproof these rooms?

“You didn’t happen to bring that pleated skirt of yours, did you?"

 Your laugh is like honey. “I did happen to bring it. Should I wear it?”

“Please.”

“Got it, sir.”

The memory of your preferred words when you’ve acted out plays through his head as he suggests that you both wash up for the night. 

When you come back warm and soft from the bath, hair curling slightly at your temple, you stop straight in your tracks. 

Your eyes drop to his sweatpants and linger there.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart.”

“Sorry.” You smile sheepishly. “I was, umm. Noticing.”

His dick jumps.

“You are really big.” You’re suddenly in front of him, one hand on his chest, the other trailing down his belly. “You know, I think I’ve been wet since last night.”

Shouta’s not entirely sure what sound he makes.

“Yeah, baby?” He hitches your thigh up. “Been a little needy for me?”

You whimper your answer, faltering in your exploration of his happy trail as he rubs the pad of his fingers along your creamy slit. Your underwear is soaked through.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind a little. Like I can’t get enough.” 

“I can tell. You’re shakin’ just from this.” He pulls your panties to the side and sucks in a breath. “Oh, sweetheart. This little cunt of yours is practically drooling.”

Ignoring your little squeak, he scoops you in his arms and carries you to the bed, folding your legs on either side of his thighs. 

“Have you ever been this wet for someone else?” He doesn’t know where the question comes from, when the possession grabs hold. He cups your pussy, one hand tight on your waist. 

“No, never,” you breathe out, rolling your pelvis forward into the heel of his hand, and then you frown, bottom lip jutting out in what he knows is embarrassment. “I’ve never even cum while being fingered.” You lean forward, resting your arms around his neck. “I always thought there was something wrong with me.”

Oh.

He stills. “You trust me, sweetheart?”

You nod, a mixture of eagerness and apprehension that makes his chest squeeze. 

“Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for good?”

You wave a hand. “Yes, yes, I know all that.”

He raises a brow, but decides he can address your tone later. One problem at a time. 

“Lay over my lap, y/n.” 

You arrange yourself accordingly, brushing your tits against his thigh as you do so. His palm twitches. 

“We’re gonna have a little lesson, sweetheart.” He caresses the back of your thighs. Your breath hitches. “Spread your knees wider, there you go. Lift your ass up for me, too, can you do that?”

Before he gives you time to think, he flips the fabric of your skirt over your hips and lands a crack on your ass. You squeal, fingers tight in the bedsheets.

“oh my fuck oh my fuck, harder,” you keen, thrusting your ass back at his palm.

Shouta bites down on his lip hard just to maintain some semblance of reason.

You’re fucking made for him.

“Did you say there was something wrong with you?”

Another smack makes the meat of your ass jiggle. You muffle the sound you make in the sheets beneath you and Shouta frowns.

“Nah ah, baby.” He lifts your chin up. “Let me hear you, huh? Can already tell you like being punished.”

“But our students might hear us, Shou,” you say, squirming in his lap. The nickname steals his breath. “I don’t want to be embarrassed like that.”

“Like that?” He raises an eyebrow and laughs softly when you rebury your face into the mattress. “We'll talk about that later, huh? But you’re right. Good thinking, sweetheart.”

Even that simple amount of praise makes your eyes glaze over. He doesn’t know if you fully understand how long he’s wanted someone to place their trust in him like this

“Grab the pillow, and use that to help stay quiet,” he directs you. “No one but me will hear you this time, okay?”

“Thank you.” You twist on your forearms to smile at him. “I know we do a lot of stopping and starting. Thanks for being cool about that, too.”

He has no idea what kind of scumbags have mistreated you before, but he’s happy to erase their influence on you however he can.

“Stopping and starting is par for the course.” He motions for you to sit up. “Should have done this first anyway.”

Shouta’s never been one to wax poetic, but the moment he presses his mouth to yours, he’s a goner. Your hands tangle in his hair and tug, demanding greater access. He grants it, grinning like a fool while you lick your way into his mouth.

“Stop smiling.” You pull away with a mock huff, but you’re smiling, too, and you don’t look annoyed in the slightest. “It makes it hard to kiss you.”

“We were in the middle of something.”

Your eyes gleam. “Are you gonna spank me again?”

He pulls you to him as a chuckle rumbles out of his chest. He cradles the back of your head and caresses the slim bit of skin exposed above your skirt. “Eager?”

You sigh and press your face into his neck. “Very.”

“Take your clothes off, then, and get back on my lap. Keep the skirt on.”

Shouta flips up the fabric again, massaging the exposed skin when you wriggle. The tips of his fingers brush dangerously close to your slit, and you drop your hips to chase the sensation.

“Ass up, sweetheart.” He jiggles his leg under you. “And answer my question.”

“Yes, yes.” A spark of irritation colors your tone. “I said there was something wrong with me.”

“Still believe that?” He finally touches you, knuckles sliding through your gummy folds, savoring the way your back bows at his touch. You’re soaking and trembling from this alone. “Your thighs are wet, honey. I’m pretty sure you’ll cum around my finger the second I slip it in.”

“Oh god.” Your voice is a reedy little gasp, high with embarrassment. 

He sees the mirror across from you on the wall, and an idea sparks. Rearranging you on his lap, he spreads your legs wide and grabs your chin, directing your gaze to where your cunt drools arousal all over his lap. 

“There’s nothing wrong with this slutty pussy of mine, is there, baby?”

The hitch in your breath is reward enough. A slow smile spreads across his face as you shake your head.

“That’s exactly right, honey. Nothing wrong with my girl.” 

He teases your hole with the tip of his fingers. You shudder in his arms, keeping your eyes locked on his in the mirror.

“You think I don’t like seeing how good I’m makin’ you feel?” 

This entire time his cock has been leaking pre and throbbing against the side of his leg. There’s no rush, he knows, because watching you like this will probably have him spilling in his briefs anyway.

He slides a finger up to the knuckle, plugging you up tight. Your eyes roll back in your head when he rolls his thumb over your swollen bud. 

"What’s wrong, sweetheart? That bratty tone from earlier gone already?” 

He adds another finger, the hand on your waist holding you still as you keep squirming. A feral part of him knows exactly how deep his cock is going to be inside you as he presses down on your lower belly.  

“Maybe you’ve never cum like this before because no one’s given you what you needed. Ever think of that, sweetheart?” His gaze scorches you in the reflection. “No one knows how much you like your cunt stuffed up tight. Little whore likes being used a bit roughly, doesn’t she?”

The sound you make is sinful, a shuddering sigh of happiness and arousal that momentarily stops his breath. 

“Please, Shouta.” You’re doing your best to be quiet, but he’s not making it easy on you. You fall into a prayer of pleas as he dangles you over the edge for just a little bit longer, the litany of praise and degradation sparking such headiness in your eyes he’s half-afraid he won’t be able to stop. 

“Keep your eyes on us. There’s my girl.” He ruts his dick against your ass, groaning into your neck. “Can’t wait to sink inside you, honey. Gonna remold this fucking pussy to the shape of me.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying at this point. He needs to see you cum, needs to feel your arousal drip all over his hands.

“Let me see it, baby, let me see how much you like being my good little whore.”

He slaps a hand over your mouth just as you shatter around him, swallowing the majority of your keening wail by pressing your face into the side of his neck.  

You go boneless and soft after you cum, limp in his arms and nuzzling into his chest like you belong there. 

“Gonna go clean us up,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. You hum in response, falling back on the mattress. 

He cleans you slowly, gently, and offers you one of his t-shirts to sleep in. You pat the space next to you, and he crawls in instantly, tucking you into his side. 

“I didn’t know it could feel like that.” You look up into his eyes, happiness radiating out of yours. “Thank you, Shouta.”

As your breathing slows and you fall asleep, Shouta realizes that, truthfully, he didn’t know it could feel like that, either. 

taglist: @phaticserpent, @magidzi, @hotlosergirl17, @luckybibucky, @heyithinkilike, @getoisinnocent, @personally4runa, @kennys-partner, @geektastic84, @bakery-angel, @constanttea, @aryuunachigiri, @sskorvid, @therefore-evermore, @one-scarred-mofo, @food4dead, @alphabetsoupyum, @cielito--lindo, @rentheannihilator, @juiceeypeach, @imastorytelleritsondvd, @ivydoesit23, @anotherfuckedupdayinthelifeofme, @deputy-azor, @ibby-miyoshi-nerd, @h3rmit-purrrrple420, @lousypotatoes, @hisbitch101, @greedygobbo, @ginevraxrogers, @alucardsdaddyissues, @minminroie, @honeyoru, @gothsquash, @aldebrana, @yansfanficwritings, @babypeapoddd, @fashionably-a-hippie, @junehasnotbeenfound, @citruki, @bitch-spaghetti-o

ONE LAST NOTE: If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know! I hope you enjoy this, I had a lot of fun writing it. Next chapter is the two of them being freaky and nasty and horny and fucking like bunnies

[envy-of-the-apple]

Lovecraftian

(Yandere!Gojo Satoru x reader)

note: kinda warming up my gojo writing skills so my next fic isnt too painful to read:/ why is this guy so hard to write for

(warnings: death, yandere, op!reader, ooc gojo)

The first time it happened, he was ten years old. 

The Gojo house was bustling with servants and maids around that time. Eyes were everywhere, pinning him down with their stare, keeping him forever trapped. This was all he ever knew from a young age. He constantly needed to be monitored, stalked, and protected. The assassination attempts were too close together for the Gojo clan to rest. 

So, he sits on the steps, isolated, but never alone. He sucks on the lolipop, tasting the cherry on his tongue. It must have dyed his mouth red by now. He wonders if it looks like blood. 

The servant was one of the newer ones. Clumsy, inexperienced. He knew from just her wobbly steps that she was going to drop the vase. He doesn’t lift a finger. He doesn’t care enough to. He just waits for her to trip over. The pot slips from her grasp. 

And then the world freezes. 

Everyone is still. There’s no more sound, no more silence. The vase is kept in the air. He can no longer taste the cherry on his tongue. He has become nothing but his Eyes. 

It barely lasts five seconds. 

The chatter is back. He can taste the cherry. He can feel his arms and feet, and his skin.

The vase smashes onto the ground. 

The servants carried on as normal. The girl is berated for her clumsiness, his clan continues onward as though nothing happened. 

He sits on the steps until the cherry burns his throat, and then he tosses it away. 

He is sixteen. The second time it happens. 

He’s bigger now, stronger. He doesn’t need the strength of the Gojo anymore, not when he is Gojo. 

But when he’s with Suguru, it becomes easier to be Satoru. 

Riko and Misato splash each other in the water. He likes the smile Riko has. It’s bright, bright enough to light an entire room. It makes her look younger, like her life isn’t being stolen right in front of their eyes. 

Suguru sits next to him, quiet and thoughtful as always. He doesn’t feel the need to break it, unlike his usual urges. Satoru is content to sit right alongside of him, feeling the wind tickle the hairs on his skin. 

When he steals a peek, Suguru is staring up at the sunset. When the stars come out, they’ll have to pack it up. He knows that all too well. 

The world freezes, and he becomes his Eyes. 

He’s stuck staring at Suguru, but he strangely doesn’t mind. The secret glances mean nothing compared to this. He maps Suguru’s serene face. Pretty flowy hair, he knows is soft to the touch. 

Satoru has always been told he has beautiful blue eyes. At this moment, he feels that purple is the better color. 

He knows the world came back when Suguru blinked. 

“Did you see it, too?” He asks, his voice featherlight, the wind nearly blows it away. 

“What?” Suguru smiles. In the background, Riko cheers. 

Satoru doesn’t deflate. It doesn’t matter. He knows he has forever with him anyway. There’s no need to feel understood, not at this time. 

When Satoru is twenty-eight years old, he finally meets the person doing this to him. 

Shibuya is teeming with human bodies. He can hear and see and See the panic all around. Dozens of people have died already. 

He wishes he were faster in killing the curses, but their advantage was his downfall. 

The volcano fucker is grinning as though Satoru didn’t just massecre his comrade right in front of him. He can hear moans of transfigured humans all around him. The curse Yuji fought was laughing, getting louder and louder.  People were screaming. People were dying. 

He knew time was running out. He had to act. 

And then, he becomes nothing but his Eyes. 

He’s not as annoyed as he was the first time. He’s a little relieved, all things considered. Now, he was finally given a moment to think. Volcano-head would go down first, then he would destroy the scar-faced curse as well as Pigtails. He wanted to gut them, rip them apart limb from limb, but the transfigured humans were also something he needed to–

He sees movement. 

At first, he thinks the world has melted, but he is still his Eyes, none of the other humans have moved. Their mouths are open in prolonged horror. He can’t hear screams. He can’t even hear footsteps. 

He just sees you. 

He doesn’t expect you. He doesn’t expect someone like you. You’re normal, down to the cheap Halloween costume you wear. But he knows it’s you because of your walk. It’s slow and measured. And that easy smile you have on. He recognizes it because he’s had the smile on for a decade now. Like you’re untouchable. 

Like you have all the time in the world. 

You reach the volcano-head first. Your hand reaches out–it’s smaller than his–barely touching the curse’s skin. 

His body ripples, like he was made out of paper that was flushed down the toilet. A special-grade curse disappeared with barely a tap. 

The same thing happens to Stitches. Pigtail disappears too. It looked painful, if he wasn’t just his Eyes, he would probably hear the bones cracking as they shrunk into nothingness. 

You watched it all, barely even blinking. Unphased. 

This was the longest you’ve ever frozen time. He was counting every second, lingering on every minute because he didn’t want this to end. He wanted to watch you eviscerate them all. 

Twenty-three minutes and thirty-seven seconds pass before every curse and transfigured human is gone. You’re back in his sights, brushing away your hands.

It was just coincidence. You looked up. You looked down. You looked up again. 

You Saw him, just like he Saw you. 

You stare. He wants to open his mouth, but he is just his Eyes.

Hell is waiting for you to reach him. Hell is seeing you tilt your head, a laugh coming from your mouth, but he can’t hear it. 

You lean forward, never breaking eye-contact with him. You’re so close, he could almost reach out and touch. Your lips move. 

“You can see me.” 

It’s not a question, he knows it, you know it. The world is still. 

Your lips curve into a delighted smile. If he had a heart, it would be quickening right now. You look at him like he’s a marvel. 

A minute passes. Your awe of him fades. 

You must have realized he is just his Eyes. 

Disappointment. It’s an odd feeling. He’s never had anyone disappointed with him before. 

You stand up, brushing imaginary dirt off your skirt. You’re looking down as you’re saying this, but he catches your lip move. 

“Oh, must be too weak.” 

You never look back at him once as you walk away. 

Thirty-six minutes and fifty-two seconds later, his senses return. He hears the murmurs of the living again. 

He doesn’t care who sees him, he’s immediately gone. 

He searches everywhere for you: the tunnels, the crowd, the other humans. Once or twice, he thinks he sees you, but it’s never quite you enough. 

It takes him twenty minutes to realize he lost you. 

Ijichi finds him standing on the subway ledge. You must have killed whoever set up the veil too. 

“What?” Satoru asks. 

“Did you defeat them?” Ijichi repeats. 

It’s a stupid question. Gojo always wins. Gojo always fights. 

Until today. 

Today, he was still. Today, he watched as you wandered around the subway, killing anything you came across. 

You were inches away from him. If you had reached out, if your hands had ever so gently nicked his neck. He would have seen his death coming miles away, but he would be unable to do anything. He would’ve been helpless to stop you. He would simply stand there, waiting for you to do your horror. 

You were simply Lovecraftian. 

And Satoru was in love with it. 

“Yes.” He replies, his smile bordering on mania. “I did.” 

“Every single one.”

[trippinsorrows]

love lies

authors note: tribal daddy's current storyline had me inspired. these characters and 98% of this dynamic is from a personal story i've been writing since last year. some of these scenes were taken directly from that. some things have also been changed/modified/removed to fit the specific storyline of this oneshot.

an important thing to note is that in this universe, wrestling is all real. there's no kayfabe. everything that happens is real. wwe is also up there in ranks with the nba and nfl. the big three, if you will.

roman and jey are not married in this. jey is divorced with two kids. roman....just know he has no wife. lmao.

words: 17k (if you're new around here, i'm so sorry. i talk too much.)

warnings: angst. smut. fluff. age gap. unhealthy (toxic?) dynamics. roman is....annoying.

song inspo: 'love lies' by khalid feat. normani // 'for the night' by chloe feat. latto

She should have broken it off a long time ago. 

Alamea knows this and has known this for some time. The same way she knows this should have never started in the first place. 

She should have done exactly what she was instructed to do by anyone and everyone who offered advice when she was first hired by WWE. Different variations of the same shared warning across the board.

Stay away from Roman Reigns.

Truth be told, it didn’t—or shouldn’t—have needed to be said. His reputation spoke for itself. The self-proclaimed Head of the Table, and his unassailable Bloodline, ran WWE. Had for the past couple years following Roman’s disappearance and reappearance with a new, also self-assigned title as the Tribal Chief. And, it’d been a hell of a run ever since.  

Or, it was. 

Because while Roman sat untouched and unbeatable at the top of his throne for years, it all came crashing down in the most unexpected—or expected—of ways on April 7th, 2024 when the unthinkable happened. 

Roman lost.

He lost. 

A historic 1,316 day title reign ended on the count of a one, two, three. 

Cody Rhodes defeated him and finished not only his story but Roman’s as well. 

A story that, truly, Roman himself allowed to end in a lot of ways. The chair to the back of Seth allotted him brief satisfaction but long-term misery. A personal choice that he made that cost him everything. 

Something that felt and seemed inconceivable at the time.

“I made a personal decision,” he’d told her once as they laid in bed, his gaze on the ceiling, hers focused on the wall beside them. She was atop him, finger gently tracing the outline of his tattoos. “And, I don’t regret it. I’d do it again.”

She wonders if he still feels the same. 

She also wished, sometimes, at least, that he wouldn’t do that. 

Talk to her like that. It was…confusing. 

It all is, but especially that. 

Especially something so….personal. 

Then again, one could argue that sex was even more personal, because it is, and yet, that didn’t stop her every time he showed up at her door. 

And, he always does. 

At one point or another. 

—-------

March, 2022

The most frequent piece of advice that Alamea had been given since being hired at the WWE was, again, relatively simply enough. 

Stay on task, keep up with her responsibilities, and above all, stay out of Roman Reign’s way.

She took heed to all of it, but especially the latter of the three.

Or, at least, tried to.

Because only she could manage to run, literally run, into the man himself on her very first day. 

Of course.

And what an impact it was. She felt like the wind was knocked out of her. The man was a brick wall. A solid, muscled, impenetrable wall. The brace sent her flat on her ass, portfolio falling beside her, embarrassment fighting with anxiety. Not only was she late on her first official day, but now she’d broken the cardinal rule in less than 1 hour.

Go fucking figure.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Paul Heyman, also known as the Wise Man, and Roman’s chief advisor, was instantly berating her. “How dare you—”

Roman lifted his hand to silence Paul, and it was only then that she realized it was because he was staring directly at her. A quiet gasp left her mouth at the sight of him.

She’d seen him on TV plenty of times, watching wrestling every Friday and Monday night when she could, live, and recorded on the days where she had work or class. He’d always been attractive to her, even on the TV screen. But, in person….in person was something entirely different. He was both beautiful and terrifying in the same breath. Beautiful, weary brown eyes focused on her, assessing her, slowly moving up and over her seated, sprawled out frame. 

Everything about him screamed power. 

An extra layer of embarrassment crept over when she realized she was staring. Reorienting herself to the situation, Alamea expected to be met with a fiery, annoyed gaze. Instead, he looked….he looked curious. 

She frowned, and that frown deepened when she realized he was extending his hand, willing to help her get back to her feet. Her. The same person who rudely smashed into him because she was incapable of having and successfully completing one job.

Alamea felt, and probably looked, every bit of stupid just staring between him and his outstretched hand. There was definitely too long of a delay between his offer and her acceptance. Her hand in his, the other one grabbing her portfolio, he seemed to exert all of the strength needed to pull her to her feet. And, when she was entirely upright, she snatched her hand back to push back some of her hair that refused to stay in her now messy bun. It was slicked back when she left that morning, but it certainly wasn’t that way anymore. Not with all the ripping and running she’d done.

“I’m—I’m so sorry. I didn’t—” Stammering like an idiot only made her feel even more humiliated, no doubt her cheeks shaded red to match the burning within. “I–I’m sorry, Mr. Reigns.”

Paul’s correction was swift and razor-sharp. “You will acknowledge him as your Tribal Chief.”  

She swallowed, nodding. And the grave kept getting deeper and deeper. “Of course, my apologies. I’m sorry, my T—”

“Abigail!” A loud, vexing voice shrieked, and if Alamea hadn’t had the displeasure of already being introduced to the woman, she would have ignored it. Having only a handful of meetings, each one had been marked by being called the wrong name, offering a respectful correction, and said correction being ignored for the wrong name. “Where the hell is she?”

“Oh no.” Alamea’s face blanked as she apologized yet again and moved in between Roman and his council, ignoring the brush of her body against his. He was built. “I’m really sorry again!” She called back once more, rushing towards an agitated Tiffany Stratton.

When Alamea learned that WWE wanted to move forward with hiring her, she was ecstatic, happier than a kid on Christmas morning who saw they got the number one item on their wishlist. She couldn't wait to tell her parents that a lifelong dream was finally becoming reality. For as long as she could remember, Alamea loved clothes, loved how they could be so personal and expressive. She especially loved costume designing, something she was first introduced to through WWE. And WWE was something she was introduced to by her brother.

It saddened her sometimes, often, that he was no longer around to see that she did it. She followed her dreams, and it worked out. But, she also knew that he was proud of her, and it was that desire to keep him proud that allowed Alamea to deal with the irate woman before her.

“Why were you with Roman?” Her tone was accusatory but also interrogative, like she was looking for something else. “How do you know him?”

“I don’t.” Alamea answered quickly, realizing Tiffany wanted an explanation. “I, umm, I accidentally ran into him.”

This answer seemed to please her, her thin lips forming into an amused smile. “Of course, you did.” 

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Whatever, Abigail.” Alamea had long given up on trying to correct the superstar she’d been assigned to design for. One verbal lashing was more than enough for her to realize it wasn’t a dealbreaker. “Let’s go. You’ve got one more time, and I’ll make sure your ass never works in this industry again. Understand?”

Alamea nodded silently. It was no secret how heavily Tiffy was being pushed in the women’s division. A clear company favorite. Alamea had no doubt the woman could make good on her threat. Following the blonde towards her dressing room, Alamea was wholeheartedly unaware of the set of eyes that never let her from the moment of impact. 

The eyes of the Tribal Chief himself, Roman Reigns. 

—-------

One of the many reasons Roman kept The Wiseman around was because he was true to his name. Wise. And, reliable. Fast, too.

In under a couple hours, the Wise Man had successfully delivered the requested information to the Head of the Table.

Alamea Dixon. 25. New hire to the company in the wardrobe department. Assigned to a couple of female superstars, including Tiffany Stratton. That piece of information put a scowl on the Undisputed Champion’s face. Many of the women on the roster were irritating to him, but Tiffany was insufferable. She took any opportunity she could find to bat her eyelashes and stick fake ass, hard titties up and out in his presence. The desperation was tacky. A waste of time too. 

She wasn’t his type. Too thin. 

And if he was being real honest, too white. That had never been his preference. Even growing up.

But.

Alamea…she was most definitely his type. 

Those big brown eyes, full lips, and the curves…she checked all three boxes: hips, ass, and tits. Roman needed someone to take to bed who actually satisfied his appetite. And, as of late, the pickings had been mid at best. 

But type or no type, she was a distraction. And he couldn’t have distractions. As Head of the Table, the weight of his entire family on his shoulders, he couldn’t afford distractions. Alamea could be a sight for sore eyes but nothing more. 

—------

“Ayo, I think we should get some Yeet pillows next.” Jimmy, or maybe Jey, blurted out while walking in the Bloodline locker room with two plates of food. “Maybe some beach balls as well.”

“Ohhh shit, man, yeah, that’d be sick. We could kick them around and stuff during our entrance.” The other twin, whichever one, fed into the bullshit. Some days Roman truly contemplated demanding they have their own locker room because the way they tested his patience at least once a day, usually several times within the hour, couldn’t have been good for his health.

He wished they would be more like Solo. Seen but never heard. Roman’s preference for anyone not the Wise Man.

A knock at the door pulled him away from his thoughts yet again. Jaw clenching, he miraculously stopped himself from snapping on everyone around him. How the hell was he supposed to strategize with all these damn distractions?

“Shit, that must be the wings I ordered.” Twin #1 jumped off the sofa as Roman ran his hand over his face and through his beard, a telltale sign of his growing impatience. 

“Damn,” Jimmy/Jey called out from the door. “It ain’t the wings, but I’m not complaining.”

“Hi.”

Roman’s head snapped in the direction of the door. That voice. He knew it.

Alamea.

“I’m sorry to bother.” That damn girl was always apologizing for something. “But, Sheila is out sick today, and these came in for you, so I was asked to drop them off and make sure they’re what you wanted.” Sheila was the Bloodline’s personal and lead wardrobe designer. Good at what she did and didn’t make a lot of noise. 

But, she was no Alamea. Not in looks, at least.

“Oh, for sure. Come in.” Roman watched her walk in behind Jimmy with a box that partially obscured his view of her pretty ass face. 

He cuts his eyes at Jey, demanding, “help her.” Fucking manners were a dime a dozen these days. Jey, who was sitting, jumped up and did so, taking the box from her and placing it on the island in the kitchenette area. Alamea briefly locked eyes with Roman and offered a quiet thank you before she refocused on the twins ripping the box open like fucking children. 

Meanwhile, Roman tried to not focus too much on the fact that her side profile was on full display, his eyes temporarily zoning in on the curve of her ass, a nearly perfect ‘P.’

“Oh shit,” Jey cursed, lifting up one of the shirts to his frame and asking Alamea, “what you think?”

She opened her mouth and closed it. “It’s nice.”

“Be honest,” Roman instructed. She looked at him again, not for long. She was nervous. That much was painfully obvious.

“I just—” She reached out to touch the shirt. “I would have moved this further down and inverted the colors. Red on black instead of black on red. It’s too loud, and not in a good way. The font should also be less calligraphy, something more sans serif. Maybe crop this too. For you, at least. Leave it the length it is for Jimmy. Another distinction between you two.” Covering her hand over her mouth, her eyes widened as she shook her head. “But, it—it looks fine the way it is. Just—just my suggestions.”

“Naw, I love it,” Jimmy chimed and looked between him and Jey. “Shit, can you be our designer?”

Her eyes widened again in slight panic. “Oh no, I can’t—I’m Tiffany’s designer—”

“Man, fuck that bad bodied bitch. Her ass wear the same damn outfit every week. Just different colors. What she need a designer for anyway? Especially a good one.” Jey looked over at Roman, walking over to him. “Come on, uce, make it happen.”

“No, really, I—” She was cut off by her phone ringing. “Shit,” she cursed under her breath and pulled it out of her pocket. Glancing at the screen, Alamea shook her head and shared it with them. Tiffany. “See? I’ve gotta—” However, she was cut off by Roman lifting out of his seat and taking only two steps to close the distance between them. She was about to say something when he took her phone out of her hand and hit answer.

“She’s with me now.” A simple statement was all he issued before ending the call and reaching it back to her. 

Alamea might have been a distraction, but she was an even bigger distraction for the twins, which would give him some relief from dealing with their antics. So, a necessary evil.

One he could absolutely learn to manage.

—-------

April, 2022

Roman was wrong. He could not, in fact, manage it.

He anticipated Alamea being some level of distraction, but he didn’t anticipate how high that level actually was.

She was always around, and that was mostly because of his irritating as shit cousins who constantly asked for her advice, input, and designs regarding all of their stupid ass ideas. On one hand, he was happy to no longer be on the receiving end of that. But, on the other, he was still in earshot and now always in close proximity with Alamea. 

To be fair, she kept her distance and interactions with him to a minimum. He could tell it was partially because he intimidated her, as he did most people, but that was also just clearly her personality. She was quiet and soft-spoken, though the more she hung around the twins, the more he could see her comfort level increasing. She would crack jokes and laugh with them, matching their vibes as best she could.

Roman would never admit that there was some small part of him that liked how she got along with his family so well. The twins were annoying, but they were family, like brothers to him. And family meant everything.

“I wanna take this in a little more.”

She was tailoring a new shirt for Jimmy, and though he played off his disinterest well, Roman watched how focused and intense she looked when she was working, clearly finding passion and pride in what she did. “How’s that? Move your arm around.” Jimmy did so, freely, displaying the flexibility needed to wrestle. “Okay, yeah, that works. I’ll have it ready for you tonight.”

“Man, you are magic, Lay Lay.”

Lay Lay? Roman didn’t know why, but his cousin having a nickname for Alamea rubbed him the wrong way. 

Her smile was bright, warm, bubbly. Like her personality. “Always here to help.” 

Jimmy said something about craft services being ready before rushing out like a child going to see their Christmas presents on Christmas day. 

That left just Roman and Alamea, the latter of whom seemed anxious to gather her supplies and head out, probably to one of the other dressing rooms. Being alone together seemed to bother her just as much as it bothered him, even if he did a much better job of not showing it. 

In grabbing some of her supplies, she accidentally knocked down a portfolio, papers littered across the floor. 

She cursed quietly, and he smirked. Her voice was so light and soft, profanity on her tongue just sounded amusing. 

Roman moved across the room, bending down to help her out. Her head snapped up, hair framing her face. His jaw clenched. Her brown eyes, big and captivating, temporarily distracted him. Just like everything else about her.

“Thank you,” she offered, quietly. Roman said nothing, reaching her a stack of papers when his eyes landed on one in particular.

It was unfinished, clearly, but enough was completed for him to make out exactly what it was. His cousins and the Wise Man sitting around a table, Roman at the head, surrounded by money and what seemed to be a rough outline of their title belts.

He chuckled, “did you design this?”

“Y-yeah.” She added on, nervously. “I mean, it’s nothing serious. I was just messing around with different ideas to—”

“I like it,” he interjected, cutting off her rambling. 

Her surprise at his words, short and simple, were visible. “Really?” 

Reaching it to her, he ignored the slight brush of their hands and watched her add it to the top of the stack. “It’s good. Very good.”

She looked like he just told her that she was the reincarnation of God. Her cheeks were reddened as she pushed some of her hair behind her ear, bashful as always. “Thank you.” She gathered the rest of her materials, standing up and adding, “I planned on finishing it tonight for the twins—”

“No.” She frowned as he stood up as well, more or less towering over her. It was a matter of his massive size and her shortish stature. “That one’s mine. They can have their yeet shit.”

She giggled, and my God. It was like music to his ears. “You really don’t like that, do you?”

He rolled his eyes, answering. “It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I feel like a lot of things don’t make sense with them,” she added, a sly smile on her face.

Roman nodded, chuckling. “Yeah, they been like that since we were kids.”

“You guys are really close.” It was more an assessment than a question. An accurate one. Even in the moments where the Usos' antics were met with glares and looks of disdain from the Tribal Chief, she could always recall the small smiles and inside jokes she’d been privy to witness between the three. “You’re protective of them.”

“Of all my family,” he corrected, “If I care about you, ain’t nothing I won’t do for you.”

Alamea didn’t know why his gaze and words stirred up unidentified emotions. She just knew that her weight shifted from one foot to another as she murmured an excuse about needing to get to the dressing room.

She also refused to think too much about how she felt his eyes on her retreating form up until the door closed. 

—---------

May, 2022

Roman didn’t consider himself the jealous type, maybe in his teens, even early college days, sure. But as a grown man, it’d never been an issue.

Until then.

His first mistake was agreeing to attend his cousins’ random ass party they were throwing for no reason other than they liked to organize shit like this every so often. They claimed it was to celebrate his Mania win over Brock a few weeks prior, but he knew better.

He didn't want to go. Not really, but it’d been a while, and he’d not attended the last few, something Jimmy threw in his face when trying to convince him to show up.

Well, he had, and he was regretting it almost immediately. Everyone in attendance worked for WWE in some capacity, and several of them other wrestlers he barely liked, didn’t like, or hated. The one person he didn’t really expect, though he wasn’t sure why, to be in attendance, was the sole reason for him struggling to contain his temper at that moment. 

He didn’t know how he didn’t notice her presence sooner, but when he did, he both hated and loved what he saw.

Loved because she looked fucking amazing. Her thin sleeved, burgundy dress was short and hugged every curve seamlessly, her breast more exposed than he’d seen her dress before, and he was certain it wasn't intentional. She was heavy chested, so no matter what she wore, it was always nearly impossible for him to not notice her titites. Covered or not. Her hair was straight, the first time he’d seen it like so, and fell down her back as she laughed at something Carmelo said.

That was the hate.

She was talking to Carmelo Fucking Hayes. The kid definitely fell under the hate category. Not only was he annoying, he was pretentious and annoying. Believing himself better than he actually was. And now, he was talking to Alamea.

The only thing Roman would give him is that the kid had balls. Following that situation, and the bloodied, broken scene Roman left in the wake of his rage, word quickly spread around the locker room that Alamea wasn’t to be fucked with. In any sort of capacity.

And yet this little fucker thought he was beyond Roman’s law, which was what the ‘word’ really was. If the Tribal Chief wanted something, that automatically made it law. And, he didn’t want any other man on the roster speaking to Alamea, unless it was purely professional and business related.

Roman knew for a fact wasn’t shit business related regarding the conversation happening across the room.

To be fair, he really did try to distract himself, allowing Jaida Parker, a new NXT hire, convince him why they should leave together. It was a good effort, he’d give her that, but she didn’t compare to the woman whose smile instantly made him feel better, even on the shittiest day.

And, it was when Roman saw Hayes run his thumb over Alamea’s hand that his resolve broke. He completely ignored Jaida, moving up from his seat and making his way across the club. It seemed like only a few steps were needed to bring him to his destination, Alamea’s eyes falling on him with what he could swear was a look of appreciation.

“Get lost.” Was all he said to Hayes, moving in between the two of them, fully obscuring the other man’s view of her. Good. Dipshit didn’t need to even be looking at her, let alone speaking to her.

Hayes rolled his eyes, amused. “Come on, man, we was just talking. Or, can we not speak to her either?”

“No, you can’t.” Hayes was lucky that he was even getting the benefit of only being spoken to, because anywhere else, Roman would have let his fists do the talking for him. The kid was just that irritating to him. “And if you don’t get fucking lost now, you won’t be having a match tomorrow night or any night anytime soon cause I’m gonna bash your fucking head into this bar.”

Roman felt her move behind him and looked down when he saw her hand on his forearm. His gaze flitted to her eyes, fully aware of how her touch alone immediately caused his anger to settle.

“Let’s just go.”

Roman didn’t know how or fucking why, but it only took that one statement for him to do just as she asked. He took her hand and immediately began guiding her through the crowd of people who damn near parted like the red sea to make way for him.

Alamea struggled to keep up with his pace, partially because of the long strides he took due to his height but also those heels she stupidly decided to wear. He guided them up steps, which she realized led to one of the private rooms she saw him enter when he first arrived.

For a second, she grew nervous. She was pretty sure no one else was up there. 

And, she was right.

It was just the two of them.

Alone.

It was only when they were in the room that he spoke, slamming the door behind him, “hate that fuckin’ kid.”

Alamea shrugged, quietly. “He’s persistent, but he seems harmless.”

At that, Roman turned and looked at her, “has he tried to talk to you before?”

“I’ve done a couple fittings for him,” she answered, unsure why he seemed annoyed at that. “He’s asked me out.”

Judging by the fire burning in his eyes, Alamea realized she could have left that last part out. “And what the hell did you tell him?”

She was unsure where this was coming from, maybe exhaustion from feeling confused by Roman’s mixed signals over the past few two months. How he'd flop back and forth between talking to her and the pretending like she didn't exist. “Why do you care?”

He was surprised by her counter. “I care, because I made it clear that none of these fuckers were to talk to you, and if Hayes is defying my orders, then that’s a problem I need to handle.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” she defended. Alamea may not have been interested in Hayes in that way, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to be subjected to Roman’s anger. No one needed that. “He’s pushy but respectful. Nothing like….like Theory.” Her voice went soft, not wanting to revisit that dark memory. She shook her head. “I appreciate your help, but you can’t dictate who I can and can’t talk to.” 

“Do you like him?” She was unsure whether it was her pushing back against him or something else, but his anger seemed to only be intensifying. It was controlled, as much as Roman Reigns could control himself. But, it was definitely there.

“No.” The answer was easy. Carmelo may have been decent, but he didn’t spark her interest, didn’t make her stomach do all sorts of flips at the sound of his voice, didn't command her attention with just his presence. No…..no, that would be someone else. “Would you care if I did?”

“You could do better than him.” Was his safe answer, though it was an answer that didn’t match his actions. Because he was moving in her direction at the same time she was moving back. “You deserve better than him.”

Alamea wasn’t sure why she was backing away when she only wanted to move closer, to have his body up against hers. “Yeah?” Her voice was light, and she gasped quietly when her ass hit the door, leaving her nowhere else to go as Roman closed in. She licked her lips when he was directly in front of her, one hand braced against the door, the other on her hip. “Like who?”

“Jesus Christ….”

Alamea couldn’t deny that she’s imagined what it would be like to kiss Roman Reigns. She wasn’t blind. No one could deny how damn attractive this man is, his aura, his demeanor, that strong body that emanated power and authority. Everything about him was so appealing to her, but it wasn't until that moment she realized how good it would be to kiss Roman.

He kissed like he did everything else in life, with intention and purpose. His mouth was hungry and ravenous for her, and when she moved her hands to his rock hard abs, it was like that ignited something in him. He groaned into their kiss and moved his hands to the back of her thighs, hiking her up on his waist. 

She gasped, not once breaking their kiss, even as he brought them to the sofa and fell back. She was straddling him, his hands moving all over her body, squeezing her ass. She moaned in his mouth as he broke their kiss and lowered his mouth to her neck.

“Roman…” She gasped as he sucked on her neck, somehow finding that spot that had her vision blurring. Her nails dug into his shoulders when he kneaded her breast with his big hands, before moving one hand under her dress to squeeze her ass, which had her moaning again but also realizing they were moving fast. Too fast.

For this setting, at least. 

She breathed, managing a pained. “W–wait.”

He acquiesced, but there was a hint of irritation in his lustful gaze. "What?"

She licked her swollen lips. This was it. This was her moment to back away, to remember all the warnings she'd been given when she first started this job. To draw the line in the sand and set boundaries. To make him explain what was with all the hot and cold days. To get some answers.

But, right there, in that moment, she didn't want any of that. Didn't really care about any of that.

She just wanted him, and judging by the growing erection she could feel pressed against her wet panties, he felt the same.

And, she wasn't about to miss out on this once in a lifetime opportunity.

“Let’s get out of here.”

—------

June, 2022

It’d become a routine really.

A few times a week, sometimes every night during particularly stressful weeks, Alamea would find Roman standing outside her hotel room. Few, if any, words were exchanged before he had her up on the bathroom counter, the table in the middle of the room, or laid out on the bed, his head buried between her legs. It seemed to be his favorite way to start.

 And, then he fucked her. Thoroughly. Like most things he did. 

Always to her pleasure though. 

Alamea would struggle to explain to anyone just how this arrangement started. How a one night stand turned into that. Partially because she herself was still struggling to understand it. It wasn’t romantic, no matter how much she may have wished it was, or tried to convince herself otherwise. It was an itch that she seemed to be able to scratch for some reason. Pleasurable for both of them with low (no) commitment. He got his. She got hers. He left.

That….that was the part she always struggled with the most. 

She knew deep down she wasn’t made for such an arrangement. She felt too deeply, cared too much, all for a man who’d only ever seemed interested in using her body to relieve some stress. But, it was that same stress she felt that made her want more. She knew he’d never admit it, but Roman always came to her with a weight he didn’t outwardly show. Not really, anyway. She’d heard him refer to the weight he carried, but no one really ever really saw that weight.

Except for her.

He had small telltale signs. Like the way he sat with his chin in his hand, focused on nothing before him, deep in thought. Or how he sometimes slapped the wall of the locker room after a match or a promo that didn’t go well. Running his hand over his face and through his beard. 

She knew it was unhealthy, knew that the longer it went on, the longer her unrequited feelings would grow. There was only one outcome, and it wasn’t in her favor. He’d be fine. He’d have lost nothing. She’d be the one left devastated and heartbroken.

And in spite of it all, she still allowed him into her room damn near every night. Inside of her. 

She tried to convince herself it was because the sex was too damn good to give up, and that wasn’t a lie. He may have been only one of six people she’d ever been with, but he easily shot to the top of that already short list. Roman was a quick learner, easily picking up on what she liked, what made her scream, the things that made her beg for him not to stop. It was an ego stroke for him, of that, she was sure. But, it was also so damn good for her, too.

It was hard to give up something that felt good in the moment. Even if the crash and burn would be one for epic proportions.

Still, Alamea did her best to fight her feelings, to minimize them from growing more than they already had. And for a minute, a very brief, short minute, she thought that she was getting better. She didn’t wake up in the middle of the night and feel a pang in her chest when seeing she was alone yet again. Didn’t feel hurt when he barely said more than a few words to her during the day. She knew that was just how it was. 

And, then it happened. 

She woke up at some ungodly hour, something she’d done since a girl. A random waking before succumbing back to slumber. Alamea made an incoherent sound and went to turn over when she felt it. 

The muscled arm wrapped securely around her, holding her still and close to the equally muscular chest. For a brief second, she panicked, because there was no way in hell Roman was sleeping beside her. She’d be more likely to have a random intruder than the Head of the Table in her bed for something other than sex.

But, in managing to angle her body so she was on her back, Alamea saw that hell hath frozen over. Roman was sleeping, a peaceful expression upon his handsome face.

What….the….fuck?

She was panicking, clearly, because why? Never, ever had this man spent the night with her. He’d stick around for a little bit, but never longer than what was necessary. And now, he was just…sleeping. 

When the surprise settled, she took in the moment, took in how relaxed he appeared, how at peace he was. No pressure from the family, from the fans, from himself. Just…peaceful. 

And with her. 

Peace with her. 

She chewed on her bottom lip and found herself reaching to push the hair from out of his face. But, she stopped, caught it, scolding herself for risking waking him up, risking ruining this moment. Because that’s all it was. A single moment. It wasn’t indicative of anything other than someone who decided to just camp out instead of going back to his own room. 

That painful but necessary reminder allowed her to turn back on her side without disturbing him, as she fell back into a sleep that allowed her to escape her disappointing reality. 

But.

But, if she’d remained awake just a few seconds longer, she’d have felt the tug of her body into his chest and lips graze her temple. 

—----------

July, 2022

“Does he eat pussy?”

“Mom!”

“What?” She sucked her teeth. “I’m making sure, because I did not raise you girls to be with selfish lovers. If he ain’t reciprocating, don’t be giving.”

“Of course, he does,” Paris handled that answer, but not without offering her own. “The better question is if he uses Viagra?”

“Don’t be silly, girl.” Alamea’s mother, Taylor, dismissed. “He’s not your daddy.”

London was the first to protest that time. “Mama!”

“Why are we even talking about this?” Alamea groaned, going to rub her temples but remembering the cucumber face mask working its magic on her skin. “I just wanted this to be a nice little moment.”

“He’s not little, is he?”

“Mama, please.” Alamea released another groan, throwing her body back against the temple.

“Ain’t he like 6 something? That would be wild if he is.” London shook her head, her image on Alamea’s iPad partially distorted from the poor signal. “But, also….”

“I am going to hang up on all of you.”

A mouth full of popcorn didn’t stop Paris from protesting. “You better not!”

She was very much tempted to, but she didn’t, because as unhinged Alamea's family could be, she loved them deeply. Missed home and being away from them as long as she had. Missed these almost traditional type of monthly meeting they would have. When she still lived back in Virginia, once a month, they’d bounce around at everyone’s place, though usually the family home for the sake of space, and gather together with food, skincare, and a show they all shared the same love for. 

Usually Martin or One Tree Hill. 

It was something they’d done for years, and Alamea being on the road all the time wasn’t enough to stop it. Hence why she had her sisters and mom on a group FaceTime while season 3, episode 1 of One Tree Hill played on her TV and the TV’s of her family. 

“We just want to know, baby,” came Taylor’s voice. Alamea sighed once more. Of course, they did.

When people referenced that famous “I’m a cool mom” line from Mean Girls, they were actually talking about Taylor Dixon. For as far back as Alamea could remember, her mom was always an open book, willing and ready to talk about anything.

She had a relaxed, non-judgmental outlook on any and all things. She was also….eccentric in her methods. Giving her girls “the talk” using Alamea’s MyScene dolls probably a bit sooner than her youngest child really needed to know such things.

The minute Alamea hit an age that ended with ‘teen,’ Taylor was stressing that as soon as Alamea started to think about sex, let her know, and they could get her started on birth control. Not to mention the bowl of condoms she kept conveniently located on the fireplace mantle.

Hell, when Alamea lost her virginity, a group call with her sisters and mom was one of the first things she did. A given considering how….anticlimactic it was.

In a lot of ways, Taylor felt more like the biggest sister of the group but still managed to fulfill all the maternal needs of a mother. 

So, when Alamea said her mom was one of her best friends, she meant that shit.

Except right now, because all of the invasive ass questions about her sex life were the last thing she expected this call to entail. 

It was also the last thing she needed, really, because lately, Alamea found herself thinking of Roman in different ways. Thinking of them in different ways. Imagining what it would be like if it was more than just sex.

If they could ever be more.

A dangerous line of thinking, for sure. 

“Alamea….” Taylor’s voice shifting to something serious captured the attention of all of her girls. There was always something important to be said when their mom slipped from her usual carefree disposition. “I just want you to be careful.”

“We are, mama,” she murmured. For the most part. 

There were definitely some moments where the pull out method was utilized, but for the most part, a condom was always used when they fucked.

Taylor shook her head as Alamea looked at her through the screen. “I don’t mean like that.” She frowned, taking a deep breath. “I mean with your heart.” Alamea stilled, moving to hit pause on the TV and judging by the silence on Paris and London’s ends, they had, too. “Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great you’re embracing your sexuality and enjoying a good, fun sex life, but you’re also my child, and I know you. I know that you care and feel deeply, and I just….I just want to make sure you’re not catching feelings in a situation where, based upon what you’ve told us, that’s not what he’s looking for.”

Alamea remained quiet, hating how her mom always knew just what to say and when to say it. Even if she didn’t necessarily want to hear it. Even if it’s probably what she needed to hear. 

“Mama’s right,” Paris sounded, expression sympathetic. “He’s also, what? Almost 40? If he hasn’t settled down by now with anyone, it’s…it’s not likely to be you, Alamea.” Hard words to hear but presented almost gently, her oldest sister clearly trying her best to be empathetic. “It’s a fun fling. Enjoy it while you can, but protect your heart.” 

Alamea looked at the faces of her closest confidants, doing her best to let their words marinate and create a form of defense for just that. Feelings. But, it was hard to do so when she was certain that feelings had already started to grow, even if, as they all pointed out, it was stupid to do so.

Roman wasn’t that type. The type to ever date her or want anything more than just the ‘kinda friends but not really with definite benefits’ arrangement they had. She was better served, as they suggested, enjoying the time for what it was.

Not what it could never be. 

—----------

July, 2022

It happened again.

But, different this time. Whether for better or worse…that remained to be seen. 

She fell asleep with him beside her and woke up in the middle of the night with him still in bed with her. This time though, she’d found herself up against him, her arm around his body and her head on his chest. Alamea didn’t know what to make of that, especially when she realized he was still awake, his hand making soft, shapeless movements on the small of her back.

She closed her eyes to go back to sleep, refusing to ruin anything about the moment, wanting to capture it in a bottle and hold onto it forever. 

“Tell me something about you.” 

She didn’t expect him to stay, didn’t expect him to be holding her like he was, and she definitely didn’t expect this man to want to pillow talk with her. 

And yet….

“I—” She wasn’t sure what to say, not really knowing what he was specifically looking for. “I have two living siblings. They’re older than me.”

“You’re the baby….” He said it like it made everything make sense. “Are they quiet like you?”

She laughed. “Not at all.” She adjusted her body, moving closer to him. He tugged her closer, too. “My middle sister, London, she’s always been relatively carefree. Likes to joke around a lot. Imagine a much tamer version of the twins.”

He chuckled. “Definitely not like you then.” 

“And my oldest sister, Paris—”

“Your sisters' names are London and Paris?” The disbelief in his voice along with the fact that she could literally imagine the scowl on his face only made it that much better. 

“My mother always wanted to name her kids after places she’s always wanted to visit.” 

“And your dad agreed to that?” Rolling her eyes, she flicked the side of his chest.

“Shut up.” Another low chuckle, as she continued. “Anyway, Paris is the opposite. She’s….a bit of a control freak, sometimes. But, she means well.”

“Hmm.” He said nothing, and then asked, almost tentatively. “You said living….”

Alamea quieted. It’d been a while since she’d spoken about that. She didn’t really like talking about it, but something about it, about him, made her feel like she could. “Dallas,” she whispered. “He…umm…he passed away when I was in high school.”

That’s it. Nothing else. She wasn’t sure what there was to say after something like that.

“My sister passed away when I was away at college.”

She stilled against him, unsure of what to say, how to respond, what would be potentially helpful or even comforting to him in that moment. Even though, deep down, she knew firsthand there was nothing to say or do to comfort that kind of loss. It was something always just….there.

“I’m sorry,” was the response she settled on. Quiet and empathetic. Not sympathetic, not that overt contrition that people typically offered that made things somehow worse. She wouldn’t offend him with that. 

He didn’t say anything after that. 

Neither did she.

—-------

November, 2022

Oh hot damn, this is my jam

Keep me partying 'til the AM

Y'all don't understand, make me throw my hands

In the ayer, ay-ayer, ayer, ay-ayer

Eyes closed, body swaying, Alamea was in the zone. Completely wasted, only aware of the fact that she was in Roman’s nice, big ass hotel room, dancing on the table to one of her favorite party songs.

Actually, everything that played so far was her favorite song. Cyclone. Low. Birthday Song. Freak Hoe (Speaker Knockerz). Real Sisters. 

Jimmy was a good ass DJ.

It was her, Naomi, Jey, Jimmy, Sami, and, of course, Roman. Solo and Paul had dipped a while ago. When, she wasn’t sure, she just knew she hadn’t seen them for a minute. Except, the Tribal Chief remained the only sober one, clearly and visibly annoyed with the hot ass, drunken mess the majority of his Bloodline were at that moment.

He’d known the minute the twins suggested they celebrate the Bloodline’s War Games win that it was going to be some mess, and he was right.

Some mess, it certainly was. 

“Aye, aye, aye,” Jey slurred, stumbling over to the table where Alamea continued to dance despite the song fading to an end. “This the life, ain’t it? Shit, we should do this every night!”

The group cheered, as Roman sighed heavily. 

Over his dead body. 

A new song played, another one he recognized but gave no other indication as he watched their drunk asses overreact. 

“This is my song!” Naomi shouted, moving over and climbing onto the table with Alamea. 

(Yeah) Party like a rock, party like a rockstar

(Y-y-yeah) Party like a rock, party like a rockstar

(Y-y-yeah) Party like a rock, party like a rockstar

(Y-y-yeah) Party like a rockstar, t-t-totally, dude

The women sang along as Jimmy and Jey headbanged, Naomi somehow not wasting or spilling the drinks in her hand. And, Sami….Roman had no idea what the fuck Sami was doing. Moving erratically, dancing, in his own sort of way. He looked like he was having complications from an exorcism or some shit. 

They were all a hot fucking mess.

Alamea’s eyes opened as she landed on Roman who sat quiet and partially irritated, prompting her to giggle to herself. Holding onto a dancing Naomi’s shoulder, she made her way off the table and stumbled over to him. 

She frowned, looking at her empty hand, wondering where her red solo cup had gone.

“I took it,” he answered, forcing her gaze back on him. “You’ve had enough.”

At that, she pouted, “you’re no fun.” He said nothing as she moved closer, standing in front of him, pulling down her dress that just kept sliding up, her ass too much to keep it where it needed to be.

“What are you doing?” His voice sounded strained, but she ignored it, starting to dance in front of him. But, it was short-lived, because it was like she suddenly remembered there was another attendee other than himself and his family.

“Friend!” She shouted, way too excitedly, stumbling over to Sami, starting to dance with him.

On him.

Roman’s jaw clenched.

Alamea was having the time of her drunken life, dancing with her new bestest friend in the whole world, Stan.

Wait, no. That wasn’t his name.

Fuck.

What was it?

Shmuel?

Yeah, that!

“BFF’s,” she said, attempting to imitate the handshake he did with the twins. 

“Come here.” Came the deep voice of Roman who’d stood up, marching over to grab a hold of her. Naturally, she swayed and leaned into his hard body as he escorted her right back over to where he was sitting on the sofa.

On his lap.

A drunken smile fell on her pretty face. “Right here?” He looked down at her as she grasped at his shirt. “In front of e–everyone?” She shifted atop his lap, gasping at the feel of him slightly hard underneath her. “Oops.”

His jaw clenched once more, but for a different reason.

Except, the song changing again served as a maybe necessary distraction. Not the best though.

“I love this song!” She shouted, repositioning herself so that she was sitting forward on his lap, wiggling, feeling his bulge press against her partially exposed center as her skimpy dress rose up yet again over thick thighs and ass.

You wanna see some ass?

I wanna see sum cash

Keep dem dollars comin

And das gonna make me dance

Alamea danced on top of Roman, twerking her ass all up and on him as Naomi did something similar to Jimmy who mimicked the motion of backshots. Jey and Sami stood to the side, throwing up cash bills, donning sunglasses that Roman hadn’t the slightest clue where they’d gotten them. 

But, while Alamea was having the time of her life, along with seemingly majority of the party, Roman was clearly not.

“Enough of this shit,” he hissed, reaching for the remote to turn off the music.

“Hey!” She protested, frowning, eyes blinking. “I–I–I was listening to t–that.”

“Party’s over,” he announced, uncaring. His gaze fell over to his cousins, Naomi, and Sami. “All ya’ll drunk asses need to go back to your rooms.” 

Sounds of protest from attendees, Jey hiccuping as he swayed and fell onto the sofa. “Man, I ain’t even that—that drunk, uce.”

Naomi pointed to Sami. “What h–he said!”

Sami’s eyes widened, asking no one but himself, “what did I say?” 

Roman shut his eyes, reaching for his phone and sending a text for the Wise Man to come over. Never mind it was 3am, he wasn’t about to deal with this shit. 

And, he didn’t.

Less than ten minutes later, Paul was present, escorting the inebriated parties back to their rooms, all of which were conveniently located just a few doors down from Roman. But, still, given how wasted they all were, he wouldn’t trust them to walk in a straight line, let alone to the right hotel room. 

Paul had just finished with Jey, who'd he heard saying something about getting Waffle House, when the Wise Man went for Alamea who continued to dance, listening to some song through her phone. 

But, Roman stopped him.

“I’ll take care of her,” was all he said, and it was all that was needed. 

Paul left the Tribal Chief alone.

A few minutes later, Alamea became aware that it was really just herself and Roman. “Well,” she elongated the ‘l’ and started to look around, as if searching for something. Her purse, most likely. “I–I guess I—should get g–going.” Shrugging, she attempted to walk past him, of course, stumbling seconds later.

Roman caught her, looking down at her. Naturally, his eyes set on her titties, sitting nice and perfect in that little dress of hers. “Naw.” She looked up, warm brown eyes wide and full lips formed into a pout. “You’ll stay with me tonight, baby girl.” 

Alamea blinked, hating and not understanding why her stomach fluttered at that. At the nickname. 

It’s not like it was the first time he’d called her something other than her government, so what was different?

“I—I don’t—” She stopped, falling and leaning into his chest. Her eyes shut. She was suddenly so tired, and he just felt so good.

He did nothing, just standing there holding her as the music continued to play from the phone in her hand. 

Got me lost, got me hooked, now I'm so confused

Was this a part of your plan?

I don't really understand what to do

What to do with a boy like you?

They remained that way for a few minutes before Roman finally lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bathroom. He sat her on the counter, opting to only wash her face, removing makeup for her. He’d have helped her shower, if not for the fact he was certain she’d probably pass out before he could finish.

So, he skipped that, helping her out of her dress and into one of his shirts. Alamea became slightly more cognizant when he carried her once more into the bedroom, laying her down, pulling the covers over her, making sure she was good before leaving her alone. 

She wasn’t exactly sure where he went, but her guess would be to clean up some of the mess they’d made. 

However, that was the least of her concerns, because her drunken haze wasn’t enough to stop her from thinking about his actions. How he….how took care of her. Like….like he cared.

Music no longer playing, Roman having stopped it, leaving her phone on the nightstand, the lack of Kesha’s voice didn’t stop the lyrics from playing on repeat in Alamea’s head. 

Got me lost, got me hooked, now I'm so confused

A song and lyrics she’d heard a million times over before, they’d never felt or rang more true than in that moment. 

—------

December, 2022

The last thing Alamea expected or needed was Roman Reigns waiting for her in her hotel room.

But, that was exactly what she got.

Ever since that night of their impromptu party, that something had shifted between them. She didn't know what, just that he’d reverted back to his old ways of mostly ignoring her during the days. He was still outside of her door more often than not, but he didn’t stay anymore. Sometimes leaving as soon as they were done.

It was….confusing, to say the least. Hurtful as hell, to say the most.

Blowing out a breath, she bumped the door shut with her hip and locked it. “Not tonight,” she murmured. She couldn’t tonight. 

Physically and emotionally. 

“Where the hell have you been?”

She just looked over at him. It was obvious he was pissed, and any other time, she’d be nervous by his tone and expression. But, not tonight. Just….not tonight. 

Alamea stepped out of her heels and threw her purse to the side, finally answering, “out.” 

She realized she’d yet to maintain eye contact with him, a partially intentional act on her part. But, trying to move past Roman Reigns without answering a question posed to you was never a good idea. 

He shot up off the bed and blocked her path, a solid wall of prevention. “You’re drunk,” he assessed, eyes going over her from head to toe. He looked displeased. Oh fucking well.

“I had a drink or two. I’m not drunk,” she argued, feeling a sense of defensiveness that clearly came from the alcohol in her system. “Now, can you please move? I’m tired, and I can’t do this with you tonight.” 

“Do what?” He sounded both annoyed and confused, the latter of two just pissing her off.

“Roman, please.” She ran her hand over her hair and closed her eyes. “It’s been a rough day. I just want to go to bed.”

He looked down at her, a line of fire flashing in his eyes. “Were you with someone?”

At that, her head snapped up. Irritation covered her face, moving its way up her body. The absolute audacity for him to not only ask her that but to seem annoyed?

The alcohol had her emboldened but not stupid. She murmured, “you’re impossible.” Foolishly, she tried to move past him again, only for him to lift his arm, barring her. “Ro–”

“I’m not going to ask you again, Alamea.” She closed her eyes. “Were you—”

“Fine!” She snapped. If her volume or outburst surprised him, he did an excellent job not showing it. “You want to fuck me? Fine! Fuck me!” She pushed him away and marched over to the bed, starting to remove her earrings. “How do you want me, huh? On my back? On my knees? What will it be tonight?”

Roman turned towards her, looking less angry and more confused. That only made her more upset. “What the hell are you doing?”

“This is what you wanted, right?” She continued, using the hair tie on her wrist to put her hair up. “This is all you ever want.” 

It was that statement that caused the anger to completely slide away as Roman realized what was happening. “Ally—”

“Come on!” She reached back, probably for the zipper of her dress. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To get your itch scratched, so let’s get to it.”

“Would you shut up?” His tone was softer, volume lower. He stepped toward her, reaching to lower her arms. “Stop it.”

“Why?” She snapped once more, trying to tug her arms out of his reach. “You need to get what you came here for, right? Why else would you bother with me if not to get your dick wet?” Roman didn’t show it, but it was off for him seeing and hearing that from her. Alamea was a lot of things, but drunk, angry, and incoherent would never be any terms he’d use to describe her. Maybe omit the latter of the terms, she may have been drunk and angry, but he was following her just fine. “So, do it. Fuck me. Fuck me and leave like you always do.”

It was the way her voice cracked at the word ‘always’ that did something to him, made him pissed all over again. 

He fucking hated seeing her cry. 

“What are you waiting for?” She was beating on his chest, the tears flowing freely. “Just do it.” She sobbed. “Just leave me.”

“C’mere,” he whispered, moving his hand to the back of her neck. “Look at me.” His tone was soothing, free hand moving to her waist, holding her. He waited until she settled her eyes on him. “You wanna know why I leave?” Alamea didn’t say anything, just nodded quietly, her tears still reflecting, taunting him. He shut his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “I can’t function when I’m with you.”

Alamea wasn’t sure what she expected him to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. And she definitely didn’t expect him to continue. “All I fucking think about is you. Your smile. Your scent. Your taste. I’m with you, and all I want to do is stay because everything is simple with you. No pressure. No weight. It’s just me and you.” 

And it was true, every fucking word that he never thought he could find in him to verbalize. But, he was a selfish bastard, too selfish to realize that letting her go was exactly what he should have done. 

But, as true as all of that was, he could never and would never say that to her face. Not when she was sober. No, he could only say it then, because she was drunk, and he’d seen Alamea drunk. Knew good and well her memory of the night prior would be all but non-existent. 

It was a confession that wouldn’t hold or stand, because she wouldn’t remember it come tomorrow.

Roman wiped at her tears, and she clutched onto his shirt. She didn’t know how to even begin to process what he was saying, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol in her system. 

“I told you before, Alamea, I’m not a good man.” His voice grew soft, and she could have sworn she saw his eyes gloss over. “I can’t give you what you want. I can’t be what you deserve.”

It was when he attempted to pull away that Alamea broke from her haze of surprise. She released the knot of his shirt in her hand and slowly moved her hand up his chest, resting it over his heart. “This….” Her smile faltered, battling with the defeated frown that was impatiently waiting its turn. “This is all I want.”

He said nothing, and neither did she. Not after that. Both silent for different reasons. Alamea because she wasn’t sure how they were to move forward from this, what happened after tonight. 

And, for Roman, it was less confusion regarding what happened next and more the fact that Alamea was desiring something she already had.

—-----

2023

In 2023, Roman modified his schedule. He wasn’t part time, per se, but he certainly wasn’t full time like he used to be. He stopped attending every show, his appearances being something more of a surprise than anything.

That also meant his dynamic with Alamea changed. If he wasn’t at work, that meant that she didn’t see him as much, that their arrangement shifted from something consistent and frequent to the polar opposite. 

It was an…adjustment for her, for sure.

Beneficial in a lot of ways, as it freed up some of her time, allowing to work with and design for other superstars. But, it also left a sort of void that she couldn’t allow herself to think too much about. Too difficult. 

What she couldn’t ignore though was the slow and gradual implosion. Tension. Ego. And many other things that started to infiltrate her work family. As great as Alamea viewed Roman, she could acknowledge that he could be….a lot.

In not the best ways.

Ways that were starting to directly impact his Bloodline.

It started with Sami. His loyalty to the Bloodline waning and completely gone with a single chair to Roman’s back. An already sensitive topic and area for The Tribal Chief. That seemed to mark the beginning of the end of it all, because before she knew it, not only was Sami gone, but so was Jey.

That was especially hard for her. Over the past year plus, she’d grown so close to all the members. Especially the twins. They were like her brothers, and for someone who’d already lost her only real brother, it was like reopening a wound that never fully healed in the first place.

She knew it was hard for Roman, too. Not that he’d admit it. He’d hint at it during pillow talk, but a full, honest acknowledgement of how he’d unintentionally caused the dissolution was something she knew that she’d never hear. 

Even if it was true. 

He still had Solo. Still had Jimmy.

Still had her, and for him, that seemed to be enough.

If only she felt the same. 

But, again, Roman being gone for what felt like the majority of the time helped in other ways. She focused more on work and started thinking more about her future outside of WWE. While she loved designing gear for the superstars, she found herself thinking more and more about the long-term. If she could see her doing it for the rest of her life. If she would be satisfied. She wasn’t sure.

She did know, however, that the idea of trying to launch her own clothing brand seemed more than appealing. Maybe opening up a small boutique back home was looking more and more like a possibility and reality. Because being on the road was fun sometimes, but she often found herself missing home more and more. She missed being around her family.

So, maybe a couple more years, and she’d venture back home, establishing roots there.

Maybe start to lean into the idea of settling down. It was something she knew she always wanted. A husband and family, but it was never a big priority. She wanted to establish and be comfortable in her career first. And, she had. Being the Bloodline’s lead designer along with other close friendships with the other superstars had given her a decent sized online following.

That could definitely be helpful when it came time, maybe, for her to establish her brand. 

But, thinking of her future also meant figuring out her present. And, Alamea was starting to see that while she definitely missed Roman when he wasn’t around, it wasn’t….it wasn’t unbearable. She was happy to see him when he came around, but she was also learning how to navigate a life around him.

Without him.

And, maybe, just maybe, that could be a thing she could learn to make a reality. 

She tried, at least, downloading a few dating apps. It felt silly though. At 26, using apps to find potential romantic interests seemed like an almost embarrassing thing. It also didn’t work out very well given her insane travel schedule. Still, it was nice to have men to talk to. 

Even…even Carmleo was nice to talk to from time to time.

If only Roman could function with that last part and not act a goddamn fool afterwards.

He’d shown up one show for an unadvertised appearance, saw her talking to Melo backstage, and fucked her completely into that damn mattress later that night. 

It felt less like a care thing, and more Roman being possessive. Whatever that meant, because Alamea didn’t know a lot, but one thing she did know was that she was not his. Not in any meaningful way. They fucked, and that was it.

Right?

—----------

2024

He never said goodbye. 

Not necessarily in between his sporadic appearances. Where he would show up to work in the morning, do his thing in the evening, appear outside her door at night, and be gone the following morning. At some point, when him leaving right after the deed was done transitioned into him staying longer, holding her, pillow talk, staying the night, he’d mention it. Tell her that he’d be on the jet back home in the morning.

And, he’d do just as he stated, being gone by the time she woke up the following morning ready to travel to their next stop. 

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

So, it wasn’t that goodbye she didn’t get.

It was the one following Mania. 

His loss at Mania.

He’d only spoken to the Wise Man, given a few orders, and he’d boarded that jet with not as much as a single look at her. No text. No call.

Nothing.

And, it’d been that way for four long months. Four months filled with nothing but stress and anxiety. Roman’s fall at WrestleMania left the Bloodline in shambles, all but extinct. It was already on the brink of collapse, what with the turbulent exits of Sami and Jey, but it seemed Roman losing to Cody truly cemented that.

He’d failed, according to Solo, and failure, as deemed by Roman himself, was always unacceptable. 

Roman was labeled a disgrace and therefore unfit to lead the Bloodline. New leadership was needed, according to Solo, who also felt that he was the right person to do so. 

Alamea didn’t agree, but at the end of the day, her opinion didn’t matter. She was just there.

Solo ousted Jimmy, the last piece of what used to be her normal. Brought on new, distant, dangerous family members. It started with Tama, who’d never not made her feel uncomfortable. Then Tonga. He was less erratic as his brother but equally unhinged, just in a subtle way. 

And then there was Jacob.

He was just fucking terrifying. 

Everything that was happening felt frightening. Alamea partially expected Solo to also kick her out. She was hoping for that, but instead, he made her stay. Kept her close. Forced her to watch as he and the new Bloodline wreaked havoc. And, it wasn’t that the OG Bloodline wasn’t equally volatile, but there was always a method to the madness. Roman was methodical and strategic. 

Solo just felt like a little boy stomping his feet trying to prove that he was old enough and ready to sit at the big kids’ table. 

At the head of the table.

Week by week, it seemed to go from bad to worse. The only thing that helped was Paul. That he too shared her horror at what was being done. The massive undone of all of Roman’s hard work. The erasure of him. The disrespect of his legacy, but for all the poking and prodding that bear, the bear…never came.

Roman never showed up.

Never replied to any of Paul’s texts and calls, something she inquired about every damn day. 

Never replied to any of her calls and texts. 

He’d completely abandoned them. 

Abandoned her.

And, he never even said fucking goodbye. 

—-------

August, 2024

Alamea always had a bad feeling about Summer Slam. A small part of her was hoping that it would be Roman’s return, despite four months of no contact. But, that hope went right out the window when the new Bloodline finally turned on Paul and landed him in the hospital and out on indefinite leave.

Because if that couldn’t drag Roman out of hiding, what could?

And, it only worsened when she was told the day that they wanted her out, ringside. 

She’d paled. 

They’d never asked that before, and despite offering no clarification or direction, she knew exactly why. 

They wanted her to interfere and help Solo win the match. 

Win the Undisputed Title from Cody Rhodes.

Roman’s title.

And, in the strangest of ways, it was right then and there when she realized what they were asking—telling—of her, she knew what she had to do. 

There was interference. As expected. New or OG, if there was one thing the Bloodline would always do, it was make sure whatever man or men was/were in the ring would come out on top.

It was a common, shared understanding thing.

Not for Alamea. 

Four months of being and feeling helpless bled over into a newfound, insurmountable amount of indignation and defiance. Tama and Tonga were out of the picture, somewhere battling it out with Kevin Owens and Randy Orton, who’d come out to even the odds.

Jacob was down and injured, his leg fucked up, but that didn’t stop him from yelling at her.

“Distract his ass!”

He was referring to the referee, and the moment was perfect. Solo had the upper hand and was clearly wearing Rhodes down. All she had to do was capture and sustain his attention last enough for Solo to get in a cheap, illegal shot and do it. Secure the win.

Standing on the sidelines, the roar of the audience, the chill of the Cleveland air, the rapid beating of her heart, it was all so much.

“Ally!” Solo leaned over the rope, body sweaty and exerted. She winced. Only Roman had called her that. It felt wrong coming from Solo’s mouth. “Get me that damn chair!”

He was pointing to the ready, open, available chair only a couple feet away from a grounded Jacob.

She looked at the chair, looked at Jacob, looked at Solo, and with every single piece of frustration that had been building up over the four months, she said without a single stutter. 

“Go to hell, Solo.”

Those in close enough vicinity expressed sounds of shock. Jacob was spazzing, but when was he not?

Solo, however, he was enraged.

She tried to move, tried to run, but he was too fast. It seemed like it only took a matter of seconds for him to move out the ring, grabbing and dragging her by her hair into the ring. 

“No!” She’d shouted, trying to fight against him, but was no good. “Let me go!”

“You ungrateful bitch!” He’d yanked her head back, yelling and screaming in her face, spit flying. “I would have given you everything! I’m your Tribal Chief!”

The hell you are.

She would and was preparing to say as such, but the moment was taken from her the minute Cody came from behind, grabbing Solo, effectively separating them. Knocked off her feet, she stumbled into the corner, watching Rhodes do his signature Cross Rhodes move. 

To this day, she’s still uncertain if it was to save her or take advantage of a distracted opponent. 

But, it was a short-lived upper-hand, because less than a minute later, Cody was back on his ass and Solo was on his feet, moving towards her. And, once more, she was on her feet, his hand tightly gripping her hair, but this time, a different position. One arm extended and holding her out, the other also extended, thumb protruding, Alamea knew all too well what was going to happen next.

But, it didn’t. 

It didn’t because the sound of rhythmic drums and flashing blue lights broke everything. The momentum. The moment. The fucking atmosphere. 

For the first time in months, Solo and Alamea shared something. The wide eyed look of disbelief on both of their faces as the crowd all moved to their feet, screaming and shouting in anticipation for what so many—Alamea and Solo included—believed impossible.

But, then she saw it. 

She saw him, and he looked livid.

Alamea cried out in pain when Solo roughly shoved her into the post, pain shooting through her shoulder. On the mat, she held onto her arm, the burning intensifying, face scrunched up in pain. 

She wasn’t looking, too consumed in her discomfort and the shock of it all to see it was at seeing her reaction—the pain on her face—that made Roman waste no time getting into the ring.

And, at the same time he unleashed months worth of pent-up rage onto his younger cousin, the ref helped her out of the ring, another referee meeting them and escorting her to the back. 

One look over her shoulder, however, would find Roman looking directly at her. 

—---------

Alamea would love to say that that was it. That him randomly showing up after months of being MIA and straight up ignoring her was it. The straw that broke the camel’s back. That despite him showing up and essentially saving her, it didn’t make a difference. 

That she was finally done after that.

But, she can’t.

She can’t because that would be a lie. 

Did she give him an earful when he, of course, showed up later that night outside her hotel room, as always? 

Sure. 

Never mind the fact that the first thing he did was welcome himself inside of said room, immediately and gently reaching for her arm, inspecting her shoulder, asking, “you alright?”

No. No, she was not alright.

“I’m fine.” 

A lie. A fucking lie.

“What the hell, Roman?” She yelled, pacing across the hotel room as he sat silent on the edge of the bed. “Paul and I were texting and calling you for months with no response, and then you just show up tonight like everything is fine?”

His gaze remained focused on the floor, his voice even and calm. She hated it. “Nothing is fine, Ally.”

“No shit,” she scoffed, shaking her head, rubbing her temples. “Roman….you abandoned us.” 

You abandoned me.

Had she been looking at him, she’d seen his jaw tick at that. At the word abandoned. “I needed to clear my head, Alamea.”

“So, say that,” she snapped, finally stopping to look and focus on him, regardless of his lack of eye-contact. “Communicate with us, Roman. It’s been a fucking nightmare—” Alamea winced seeing his reaction to her poor choice of words, but it didn’t stop her from expressing months worth of frustration. “You lost, and I get that was hard for you, but leaving us here to deal with all this mess was not fair, and you know it.”

Leaving me here.

“I know that.” His eyes lifted to hers, finally, and she immediately regretted it, because him looking at her like that, almost….sympathetic. Apologetic. It….it didn’t help. “And, I’m sorry.” 

That definitely didn’t help. 

“Are you?” A pointed challenge but valid question, nonetheless. She crossed her arms, the pain in her shoulder almost non-existent largely due to the Tylenol she’d been given by the trainers. “Because that would mean you actually care.”

He was silent.

“You think I don’t care?”

A simple question. If only a simple answer was available. Though unnecessary, because Roman was on his feet, in front of her and on her before she could truly process what kind of answer she wanted to give him.

His lips were on her, igniting a fire she didn’t realize she’d missed so much until that moment. Roman always kissed with intent and purpose, neither of which were unclear in that moment. She grasped at his face, holding him closer, his mouth dominating her.

Her hand went to the bottom of his shirt, eager to lift it off, to feel taut muscle under her short acrylics. He obliged, removing his shirt, leaving him bare and exposed to her. Her breath caught just for a moment. His body had always been something to be exalted, but it seemed over the past year he’d progressed to whatever exists beyond the gods level.

Divine.

He was divine.

Roman worked quick to return the favor, yanking her toward him and pulling off the thin sleeved shirt she wore. No bra. Big, heavy breasts freed, she could see his eyes darken. He’d always been obsessed with her body, almost as much as she adulated his. 

He hiked her up on his waist, an unnecessary act as he simply moved to lay her down on the bed he was previously sitting in. 

Body hovering over hers, she sat on her elbows, watching and lifting up her lower half as he went to remove the matching pants to her top.

Again, that darkened look of desire that deepened as he focused on her thick thighs and the sacred, still clothed space between them. 

“Missed this,” he murmured, soft, thick lips trailing kisses down her neck while one hand played with her breast. “Missed you.”

A statement she couldn't think too much about when his mouth shifted to her nipple, sucking greedily while his other hand lowered from playing with her breast to dipping inside her underwear.

“Roman,” she moaned his name, neck craned back, one hand cradling the back of his head as his tongue circled around her chocolate areola and his fingers began collecting the wetness already forming between her thighs. 

He was too good at this.

Way too good.

Eyes barely open, focused and unfocused on the ceiling above her, dissatisfaction filled when he released her with a pop, voice haughty and something else. “You missed me?” 

Need. A sense of need unlike the carnal one blooming through the both of them. 

She said nothing, shifting and moaning as he teased a finger in her tight hole. An unacceptable non-answer.

He snaked his way down her body, Alamea partially wishing she’d removed his pants instead as she caught a brief glance of that unmistakable dent against his dark sweats. 

She watched as he easily slid her panties down her legs, bringing them to his face, eyes shutting as he sniffed and inhaled deeply, like trying to comment her scent to memory.

It made her even wetter.

She watched his head lower and lower, the tip of that pink tongue peeking out and grazing just enough for her to feel but not feel. Groaning, she reached to push his head down and help him reach his target, but he resisted, smirking up at her. 

Damn you.

“You missed me?”

Her eyes widened. This bastard. 

“Roman, please,” she groaned, again, working to help him reach his destination, and again, he decided to play more games.

Her head dropped back when he hummed and blew on her clit, fingering the wetness on her inner thigh. “That wasn’t an answer, baby girl.”

Damn him.

He always knew just what to say, when to say it, and how to say it. It always did her something different when he used nicknames like that. Even calling her Ally. But, it was when he placed a long, languid kiss up her pussy that he finally evoked the response he was clearly looking for.

“Fuck,” she cursed, ready and willing to say whatever he wanted to get exactly what she wanted. “Yes, yes, I missed you, okay? I missed you.” A desperate confession born from need and borderline pain.

It pained her to not have him.

Another haughty smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Like most, if not all, sexual interactions, Roman ate her out until she was seeing stars, moon, skies, Jupiter, Mars, and anything else not of this world. His arrogance was astounding to many, and rightfully so, but for her, someone who’d been on the receiving end of that magical tongue of his, it simply wasn’t enough.

He was too good. 

And, he always knew just how and where to get her for when it was that time. Time for him to spread her thighs, and slide every inch of that thick, long dick of his inside of her. And, when he did, for the first time in much too long, they were both moaning together. He kept his grip on her hips, her fingers dug into his back, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

It’d been a while, so there was a bit of discomfort, maybe even pain, but that easily and quickly morphed into that pleasure only he could bring her. 

“Missed this so much,” he groaned, deep voice in her ear as he drove into her, filling her to the hilt. “Thought of this—of you—the entire fucking time.”

She moaned, seeing the hiss leave his mouth as her nails raked up and down, laying claim to him. “L–liar.”

She could have sworn the faintest hint of a smile appeared on his face before he shifted his hips and somehow found a way to dig into her even deeper. “Shit,” she cursed. “You’re so deep in me.”

“Course’ I am,” was his cocky ass reply, though again, well warranted. “No one else can fuck you like this, Ally.” 

Ally.

God, it’d been too long since she’d been called that. Called that by him. The only person she wanted to hear said name from. 

She was having a hard time keeping the noise down, keeping from screaming, the intensity of his thrusting causing the headboard to smack into the wall repeatedly. She was certain they were going to put a hole into it. 

“You think I don’t care?” He asked, having switched positions so that one of her thick legs was over his shoulder, her other leg locked around his waist. He was pounding her. “That it didn’t kill me to be away from you that long?”

It certainly didn’t feel like it. Not while he was gone, but in that moment, with him etching and memorializing his place and autonomy over her body with his dick, she could feel it. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was, was unprepared to admit that it was care. Not really.

The sex. He could have just missed the sex. Not her. 

He, unlike her, seemed to be able to separate the two.

If only she was so lucky. 

When he put her on her hands and knees, she’d braced for something else. Rougher. Less….whatever that was. It was his favorite position on especially stressful days. He’d use her body as a ragdoll of sorts, jerking her back and forth, heavy balls slapping against her bountiful ass the same way her Double D’s flopped all about. Erratic and aimless. He’d use it—and her—to decompress from the heaviest of stressors, and she took it all. 

She took everything he gave her, because it was mutually satisfying. He fucked her until she couldn’t feel anything else, couldn’t take anything else, all the while he got his own sort of fill and salacious unloading. 

It just worked.

But, this was different, there was something almost…..sensual. He fucked her hard and deep, but he also kept that big body leaned over hers, continuing to pour into her all of the right—or wrong—words.

“Mmmm. Look how good this pussy molds to my dick. Shit made for me and me only.”

“You making a fucking’ mess all over these nice as sheets. Your Tribal Chief loves how wet this pussy gets for him.”

“Fucking perfect, Ally. I can never get enough of you.”

“That’s it, baby. Take this dick.”

“Trying to act like you didn’t miss me but milking the shit out of my cock. You a terrible liar, baby girl.”

They fucked throughout the night. Various locations. Several positions. Respites never lasting longer than twenty minutes, though none of it really shocked her. Alamea learned a long time ago if she was with Roman, alone, a bed or any other type of flat surface in the vicinity, she’d always end up with her legs in the air.

That wasn’t the problem.

Afterwards was the problem.

He didn’t leave. Not after the shared shower where he ended up on his knees eating her pussy like it was his midnight snack, a necessity in order for him to slumber. Not even after they—eventually—made it out of the shower, where she’d expected him to grab his clothes and redress, preparing to leave.

No, he instead made his way over to the bed, stark naked, climbing in and clearly waiting for her.

Or, something, at least.

She climbed in shortly after him, not needing to position herself. He did that for them, pulling her atop his body. Silence fell among them. Welcomed but not helpful.

They needed to talk. 

“I care, Ally,” he spoke into the dark, voice low and what some might consider vulnerable. “Too much.”

She said nothing, unable to ignore the unspoken “I’ve always cared” that lingered in the room. 

—-----------

The appearing and disappearing act continued. A bit of a detriment, in Alamea’s eyes, given all that happened since Roman’s grand return. New title as the OTC aside, it’d been nothing but back and forth between him and the New Bloodline, because, of course, his pride and hubris remained unchanged. He believed himself able to handle them all on his own. 

She knew he couldn’t, and deep down, she knew he knew that, too. But, for as long as she’d known him, Roman’s pride was one of his biggest downfalls. He’d continue to end up in the situation he was in until he realized that he needed help.

And, to her credit, she tried to reason with him. Using their pillowtalk for those occasions where he showed up and they fell back into their old routine to talk some sense into him. But, it was always the same thing.

“I’ve got this, Ally.”

He didn’t. He didn’t have it. And, she knew as much when he agreed to team with Rhodes at Bad Blood. 

Knew that if there was an opportunity, that was it, so she did what she had to do. 

Reached out to Jimmy. She’d spoken with him every so often ever since his little brother and his new Bloodline put Big Jim out of commission for six long months. Stressed with him how Roman needed him.

Roman needed help.

And like the loyal family member he was, he showed up. 

Right when Roman needed him the most. 

She’d been on the sidelines of that match, saw the shock and appreciation, subtle vulnerability in Roman’s expression as he stared up at Jimmy in that ring. Saw his lips moving, asking, “you called the play?”

The way Jimmy nodded, pointing to her, Roman’s eyes setting on hers, locking.

“For you,” she mouthed. 

Because, she had. She did it for him.

She did a lot for a man who, really, didn’t do much for her in return.

Not….not what she really wanted, at least. 

But, Jimmy’s return kickstarted something. Restarted what was starting to feel like the good ole' days. Jey was recruited, though he’d made it clear it was less about helping Roman and more about getting his receipt on Solo and his crew following them costing him his title. Sami returned simply to help Jey. No other reason.

A disastrous show at Crown Jewel, however, revealed that while they were together, they weren’t united, and that was a problem.

A big problem. 

One of many problems, as Roman still refused to humble himself, even as the group went around trying to recruit a fifth and final member for War Games. The match that was supposed to determine once and for all who the real Bloodline was.

Except, they couldn’t find a fifth member.

Until they did.

And, Roman hated it. Hated him. CM Punk. Though, she couldn’t blame him. That history ran deep, and so did the hurt.

In getting to know Roman better, learning him, she’d realized that underneath that harsh, hardened exterior was an unhealed man.

It sometimes made her wonder if…if that was why he never gave any indication of wanting more from them. Wanting more of her beyond just what she could provide him sexually.

If something held him back.

If someone.

Regardless, it didn’t matter anyway. They had more important issues, because even though they came out with the dub at War Games, Solo was still refusing to relinquish his “claim” to the title of Tribal Chief.

This meant another match was needed. 

Just the two of them.

Roman vs Solo in Tribal Combat.

Like most things, Roman didn’t outwardly admit it, but she could see it. See that he hated it came to this, hated that despite everything that happened, he still loved his cousin.

But, Roman knew what had to be done. And, he did. He came out on top, hailed as the Undisputed Tribal Chief. It seemed like things were starting to gradually fall into place.

Seemed that way, at least.

—-------

Alamea wouldn’t say that it went downhill after Tribal Combat on Netflix, but one could argue that, in some ways, it went downhill after Tribal Combat on Netflix.

Roman was so determined and focused on winning back his title, on entering and winning the Royal Rumble to secure a chance to do just that, that he’d lost focus on something else.

Something important.

Something that was currently biting him in the ass.

The favor.

Punk’s favor owed to him by Paul Heyman. She had a feeling, a big feeling, actually, that somehow, someway, that favor would end up screwing over Roman. And, sadly, she was right.

He was being screwed over.

Back to back. 

Punk eliminating him at the Rumble.

Seth injuring him at the Rumble, thus ruling him out for Elimination Chamber, his last opportunity to challenge Cody for the title. 

The constant back and forth between him, Seth, and Punk all culminating to the grand reveal of the big favor. That Punk wanted Paul with him, in his corner, at their match at Mania. 

And right then and there, Alamea knew where things were headed. What was happening.

Betrayal.

Roman was being betrayed.

Again.

And this….this, he couldn’t ignore.

Couldn’t not talk about. She couldn’t see how deeply it was impacting him without at least trying again to get him to open up.

Alamea woke up in the middle of the night, alone, but not alone. Reaching for his shirt, she slid it over her body, walking out to the balcony of her hotel room. That’s where he was, sitting and looking out over the city, alive and surprisingly bustling considering it was the middle of the night. 

Cali things, apparently.

Pushing back some of her hair, she sat down next to him, unsurprised at how he kept his gaze on the city, not even bothering to look at her.

She didn’t say anything, and neither did he. 

Not at first.

“It’s funny how much a year can change,” he spoke, deep voice low and laden with something indecipherable. “This time last year, I was untouchable.” 

She remained silent. There was nothing to say to that, because he was right. He was literally on top.

Alamea watched his face distort into something bitter and resentful. “I should’ve tightened my grip on this company’s neck.” A sudden relaxation of his hard features as he chuckled bitterly. “It was the Wise Man that taught me diplomacy.” His voice suddenly mocking as he recited something she’d also heard Paul repeat almost a dozen times. “You gotta think politically.”

She licked her lips, moving closer to him. He reached a hand to her thigh. “I tried to help everyone.” A dip in his tone. Sadness. “Most of them don’t understand what a helping hand really looks like. What that really feels like.”

She frowned. “Roman…”

“What do I get for it?” A rhetorical question, his head shaking, hand squeezing her thigh just enough. “Netflix…TKO….Billion dollar deals.” Truths that could not be denied. There was 100% no question that the company had been as successful as it’d been the past few years because of the man next to her. “And somehow, I’m out on my ass.”

“Roman.” She placed her hand on top of his, taking and squeezing it. “You’ll get past this.”

Her words, however, didn’t seem to penetrate. “I lift everybody up and somehow….no one’s got enough respect….to just be true to their Tribal Chief.” He swallowed, jaw clenched. “To be true to me.”

So what does that make me?

An almost bitter question she forced herself to keep safe within the confines of her mind. She’d never been one to kick a man when he was down. 

A quiet fell over them followed with an almost whispered, “lessons learned.” She ran her thumb over his knuckles as he turned to look at her for the first time. “We don’t lose.” She pressed her lips together. “We learn.” Unable to help herself, she reached to cup his face, his salt and pepper beard bristling against her palm. “Don’t trust anyone.” Words that didn’t seem to meet his eyes. Not as he looked at her.

“You can trust me, Roman,” she whispered. “You have to know that.” As much as she wished that gentle reminder would prompt a different expression, one of acceptance and appreciation, it didn’t. He still looked torn. Conflicted. The weight of it all fully visible for her to see. “I’m here. Right now. With you. Does….does that not mean anything?”

Do I not mean anything?

A question she’d wondered since their meeting three years prior. 

A question, one day, she knew, she’d have to ask. But, not that night.

Again, it wasn’t about her, and she wasn’t prepared to try to make it about her. 

Even if….even if there was a conversation they needed to have about her, about them. She couldn’t. Not tonight, at least. Soon. Most likely after WrestleMania, where he was likely to take another break.

“You sticking around?” His voice broke her from her thoughts. Even. An admirable attempt to remain indifferent and unbothered, but she knew better. Could see past it. Could see the hesitation and uncertainty swimming in his eyes. 

Her answer was interesting to her, because at one point, it would be different. Another response than the one she would give him. An answer that was a bit of a necessity. 

If for some reason, she didn’t want to stick around, that option seemed like no longer an option.

She didn’t have the choice to not stick around anymore. 

“Yeah,” she answered, lowering her hand and scooting closer to him. Roman moved his arm around her, kissing the top of her head. She snuggled into him, hand on his chest. “I’ll stick around..."

—----------

She needs to talk to him. 

Not a text. 

Not a phone call. 

No waiting around for him to find her after the fact, when he feels like being bothered with her. 

She needs to talk to him, in person, and now.

It’s why, despite the massive weight of nerves sitting on her chest and rumbling in her stomach—unless that’s another symptom—she finds out where his locker room will be. Because of course, title or no title, the Tribal Chief always has his own space at every show. 

Never to share with others except his Bloodline.

Whatever that means and looks like these days. 

Determined or not, it doesn't stop the fact that there are a million and one things she’d rather be doing right now. Literally anything else. Anything. But, almost two weeks of sitting on this is already too long. Every day that passes without her saying anything just delays the inevitable. 

She has to tell him at some point, and him making an unadvertised appearance at the show tonight is the perfect opportunity to do so.

Standing outside the locker room, Alamea forces herself to push back the urge to run away and hide. In every and all the ways. Makes herself knock three times, waiting, foot tapping, arms crossed outside the door. 

It doesn’t take long for the door to open, and while she’s not sure who she expected to see, it certainly isn’t him.

Paul looks nervous, but that’s to be expected. He should be.

Roman is gonna fuck him up.

He clears his throat, stepping outside, standing in the doorway. Almost intentionally. “Ms. Dixon, what a sur—”

“Cut the crap, Paul.” A terse interruption, somewhat unlike her character, but between that and the fact that this bastard clearly made his choice regarding whose team he’s on, she really doesn’t have much of anything to say to him. “Do you know when he’s set to get here?”

Normally, it would be posed as a “when” versus a “do you,” but again, Roman’s long-term Wise Man has found himself in that space below the doghouse these days, so what he knows has, she’d bet, become severely limited.

He stutters with his response. “Well, you know as well as I do, the Tribal Chief comes and goes as he ple—”

“That’s not what I asked you.” She closes her eyes, shaking her head. This is already hard enough, and the fact that she’s now, of all times, getting a sudden wave of that damn nausea is just icing on the fucking cake. “Never mind, I’ll just wait for him.”

Because he’s bound to show up sooner or later, and she’d rather the sooner so they can get this over with now, even if something tells her this discussion is better served for after the show. 

After WrestleMania, like she was initially thinking. But, there's something....something that won't let her wait any longer.

He...he deserves to know.

But, it’s when she goes to walk past Paul, into the room, he moves, shifts his big body, blocking her.

She frowns.

What the hell?

An insincere smile followed by a bullshit excuse or reason. However he sees it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Her frown deepens. What? “I always used to hang out in the Bloodline locker room.”

A fact. When not working and helping the few superstars she was allowed to work with, Alamea would oftentimes spend the majority of her time in the locker room, laughing and bantering with the twins. Sometimes, it was just her and Roman. He’d kick everyone else out so he could focus before a match.

Never her though. 

And, Paul knows this, so she’s even more confused by his reluctance.

“I understand that.” More insincerity, except something else now. He’s nervous. Even more than he was when he first opened the door. “But, I just think tonight you’d be better served somewhere—”

“Who is that?”

Another voice.

Not hers. 

Definitely not Paul’s and most definitely female.

Familiar, too.

Alamea’s frown deepens once more, as she watches how Paul’s eyes go wide, his body angling towards inside the room. 

“Oh, nothing, just—”

“Who’s in there?” She asks. Nothing else. Voice still. Dangerously still.

A now frantic almost gaze switched back onto her. “Uhh—

“I said who is that, Paul?”

Again, the female voice from inside the room. More attitude. A lot more attitude. 

Something comes over Alamea as she subconsciously starts putting the pieces together. Something that makes her shove past the obese men, uncaring of how he stumbles and almost falls to the ground. She’s too busy putting a face to a voice, an act that gives her the most unexpected answer.

It’s not the fact that Jaida Parker in Roman’s locker room that bothers her.

Nor is it even the fact that the NXT star that she’d heard had been out on injury the past few months is looking her up and down with a sort of contempt. 

No, it’s the fact that Jaida Parker is standing before her, mean mugging her, with one hand on her hip and the other on her slightly swollen belly. 

Her pregnant belly.

And, it’d be maybe nothing to think about, but not for the fact that one look at a now standing Paul, the immense, sheer panic and terror on his face, that gives it away. That puts all the pieces together for one damning ass puzzle. 

Jaida’s scowl shifts into an almost knowing smirk as she rubs her stomach. Salt on an open, gushing wound. “Oh, you that lil seamstress girl that used to be with the Bloodline, huh?” She scoffs. “I didn’t even know you was still around.”

Not anymore.

Alamea says nothing. She has nothing to say, or maybe she has a lot to say but none of it nice nor appropriate, and really, her gripe is not with the haughty woman before her. Or, even the complicit accomplice. 

It’s with him, but they’re words that will never be spoken, because she’s done.

Done with it all. Done with this job. Done with WWE. Done with him.

Alamea turns on her heel, marching out past Paul, out of Roman’s locker room, and though he doesn’t know it yet, out of his life.

[kenwio]

Joker's kid! reader: kids of villains: meeting Cass and Stephanie

Route: recovered dove

Warnings: bad writing, bad English, attempt at fluff?

Authors note: I know Im late. Its far past midnight where I am, and only now i found time to post. I am currently not able to post regulary, but I will post when i can. I will answer on all coments I haven`t yet after some sleep

They say, when you see something one time you cannot unseen it. In your case it was, when you heard something, you cannot stop hearing it. Well, since you become a real member of batfamily, free to hang out with everyone and almost everywhere in a manor, you were fee to converse and to hear the conversations of others. And while doing it, you started notice how everyone were bringing up two names. Cassandra and Stephanie.

One time it was when you came down to the batcave to bring Tim yet another cup of coffee. Dodging consequences of Damian's and Dick's training, you carefully completed your task and started watching the two of them

- Hey, Dams, is that a new move? - Dick commented, dodging the blow in his dramatically graceful manner

-  Cassandra have showed it to me

- Cass? Wait, why she has name privileges and I don't?

.... Cass?

Or another day, or rather night, where you were woken up by the sudden thunder, and decided to watch few documentaries in the living room to distract yourself. On your way Chlory, who was on your shoulder pulled you, so you've look in the library and low and behold, Tim was doing something on the laptop sitting near the couch on the floor while Jason was on the couch reading. You walked over, sitting next to Jason, Chlory creaked happily to greet both of them.

- How was patrol? - you asked them

- good - Jay answered calmly, giving you a head pat

- yeah, aside from Jason acting not according to the plan - Tim grumbled

- hey, I couldn't possibly ignore the tip Steph gave me, could I?

.... Steph?

It led you to conclusion: they existed, well obviously, and they were part of batfamily, meaning your family. You had two more siblings, and you didn't know about them. You didn't really know why. Maybe Bruce have told you, because now thinking about that, you remember him mentioning you haven't met all of your family, but he didn't really talk in long about them with you. Maybe that was caused by the fact that he was busy, maybe by the fact that your adjusting to the family took longer than he thought.  You couldn't know the real reason, that's why you were left theorizing. All you could say for sure, is that you wanted to meet them.  You wanted to know Cass and Steph

Maybe, this wish was heard by stars or wind, like in fairytales you read to Chlory in order to practice your read and speech, but really soon after you met them, and, well, it all happened in true batfamily fashion

You Firstly met Steph. It happened one particularly noisy afternoon, when it seemed everyone who was in manor, that left you with Jason and Damian ... and some other voice. You've considering to stay in your room, but your hunger decided for you. So, you made your way to the kitchen.... and saw her, as your latter found out. She was emptying the fridge from every food option possible, with intention to make it her meal. As you stared at her, trying to analyze her opinion on you, she started back, slightly startled and surprised

- wow, this is awkward.... - she said, soon after, her eyes traveled between you and her food collection- wanna sandwich?

You nodded.

Soon you found out, Stephanie was a ... rather talkative person, a yapper as she called herself. And maybe it was overwhelming at times, because she talked even more than your biological father, you liked the way Steph talked. She talked with you as if your past didn't exist, as if she didn't care about your blood relations, and soon you found out she indeed did not

- Pfft, my father was a bad guy too. Am I a villain to ya? - she said one time you brought it up.

In Steph's eyes you were adorable! A little cutie, who looked a bit too lost, sure, but aside from that, you were cute as hell. So, she wanted to hang out with you. She told you funny stories about her school life and her patrols. Sometimes she joined you and Tim in your game nights. And she also helped you to color your hair.

As for Cass, you met her later. It wasn't something awkward, at least on her part. You just noticed that dancing room (yes you were surprised that it was in manor) which was usually empty and that's why closed, was open. You couldn't help but get curious and take a look. What you saw was really beautiful. You saw dancing only on TV, when Jason showed you ballet adaptation of Romeo and Juliette. But the moment was short lived, Cass noticed you right away, turning to look at you, and after few moments she softly smiled at you, giving you a little greeting wave.

Cas knew body language like no one else, she was professional in reading it, and she saw your hesitance, she noticed presence of small fear, but that was to be expected, judging by the what Bruce have talked about you. And she, for sure never noticed anything malicious in you. You were a kid, who was traumatized beyond measure. She could relate. She, just like you, weren’t given a choice, but now in the Wayne manor everything is better. You safe now. You have control of what you do and who you are.

Cass took you after her wing in some sense. She showed you that with her you were safe. She also did not pressure you it any point in expression yourself though words, she could understand you without them. You both formed almost telepathic bound, understanding each other without words. And it was nice. Sometimes you both just hang out with each other, while being busy with your own activities: she could dance and you could draw, and sometimes (oftentimes) during those sessions you draw her. You both also started practicing reading and speaking together. Sure, it surprised her that you already had a deep knowledge about since language (thanks to Tim), but it made her proud of you. She was proud to be your older sister

And sometimes the three of you hang out together. Steph called three of you (and sometimes she forced squad Damian to join in) the villain's kids, and we'll name was suiting. Steph was talking about how three of you are trauma bounding while you and Cass were sitting down, chewing on snacks or choosing movies to watch, because those hang outs usually happened after patrols, and it was more reasonable to relax. That was just good. Yes, Steph and Cass sometimes fall asleep to your favorite documentaries (Though, Damian who usually was around when you chose the film watched it with you) but it was so domestic and comforting.

All in all, you love your family even more

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think about my work! Hope you have a good day

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[ixloom819]

A hard lesson you learned is that sometimes you don’t get to say goodbye.

You learned this lesson the hard way, the day you died. You remembered distinctly being hit by a truck (when you were feeling morbidly funny, you joked about Truck-kun striking again).

You had grown to love your new life and you couldn’t say you’d change much if you could go back. But something you wish you had done was say goodbye to your friends and family.

You missed them terribly when you first arrived and you had felt guilty whenever you found yourself enjoying your new life. Weren’t you supposed to be finding a way back to them? Didn’t you care? Were these fictional people more important to you?

Now that time had passed, you’ve mostly overcome such feelings, learning to live with what you had now. You had to acknowledge that your death was an accident, so goodbyes weren’t a possibility.

But there was one goodbye you could give.

“I’d like to visit her grave sometime.”

The words hung in your shared office. You kept your eyes on your work, not daring to see how Sylus reacted to your request.

You didn’t have to say whose grave. There was only one dead woman with any significance to you.

“Why?” he finally replied.

“To say goodbye,” you answered. “I can’t help but feel completely partly responsible and… I’d like to speak with her one last time.”

You heard his chair move, then footsteps approaching you. A large hand lightly sat on your head and leaned it back against a firm torso. The fingers began stroking your hair.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” he spoke in that deep, soothing tone that always put you at ease. “You don’t have to keep villivying yourself for what I chose to do.”

You didn’t bother telling him that it wasn’t about that, because on some level it probably was. “I’ve left so many people without being able to say goodbye,” you responded. You felt the slight tension in his body referring to your death. “I’d like to get closure with someone.”

The room was silent, digesting the weight of your request. Then he spoke up. “Alright. I’ll have to see when the colonel is out and what I can push around. But it’s doable.”

You turned to look up at him with a smile. “Thank you Sylus.” You grabbed his hand with your and gave it a squeeze. “I really do appreciate it.”

You swore you could see him softening. “Of course darling,” he said with a soft chuckle. “You should know by now that I would never refuse you.”

It had taken longer than you thought for an opportunity to pop up, with Caleb being sent to Linkon for a while. But once you got word that he was headed back to Skyhaven, Sylus personally rode you over on his motorcycle.

You weren’t sure you’d ever feel safe on a motorcycle. Even with the leather clothes, helmet, and the driver in question, you had a nagging fear of being thrown off the bike and getting battered and bruised. Despite your attempts to enjoy the ride, your grip on Sylus was always tight.

Once you arrived at the cemetery, you asked Sylus if he wanted to come with you. He paused- no, hesitated. “…Perhaps,” he decided to say. “I’ll join you if I decide to.”

You decided not to comment on the obviousness of his statement and just acknowledged him before walking off.

Did he feel guilty about killing MC? It was the only reason you could think of for him not to come. Yet he had empathized again and again how he didn’t regret what he did. Maybe he felt it was insensitive for her killer to visit her grave?

You realized with a start that you had arrived at her grave. It definitely showed signs of being well loved. There were bouquets, some notes, even a small plushie, all slightly worn down by the elements.

You paused, then knelt on the ground. “…Hey,” you spoke, pausing as if the earth would answer you.

“We didn’t know each other well or long,” you started, “but I could tell what an amazing person you were. Kind and brave, strong and loyal… I didn’t even need to know what I did to see that.

“You… had a lot to look forward to. Bonding with the other LIs, finding out the secrets of your aether core… reuniting with Caleb… You had a lot to look forward to.

“I… don’t know how your story would’ve ended. Who knows, maybe you would’ve ended up with Sylus in the end… but you didn’t get to find out because… I came here.

“I didn’t… mean to cut your life short by coming here. Maybe if I wasn’t so insecure… or if I didn’t know what I did… maybe we all could’ve gotten along. Maybe no one would have gotten hurt.

“But I can’t dwell on maybes and what-ifs. What’s happened has happened and I need to learn to accept it. I do regret that things turned out this way, but I’m not going to beat myself up about it anymore. I… hope that somehow, you can find it in you to forgive me.”

Having said all you planned, you knelt there, just taking in the atmosphere and letting yourself be in the moment. The sky was overcast, warm with a slight, cooling breeze. The dirt below you was soft from the recent rain, staining your leather pants.

You were worried you’d feel intense guilt or sorrow, that you might regress to the day when Sylus broke the news to you. But to your relief, you felt a general peace. Maybe there was a bit of melancholy, but… you think you’ve learned to accept this reality.

Then, there was only one thing left to do. You reached into your pocket and pulled out a small shovel and white peony seeds. You started digging small holes around her grave and planting the flower seeds there.

Typical gifts brought here seemed to either get taken by the groundskeepers or slowly wilt away. You hoped that by planting flowers, they’d grow and stay with her, creating new life in a place of death.

Just as you were covering up the last patch of dirt, you heard footsteps approaching. Had Sylus changed his mind after all? You turned to face him and offer him a small smile- but froze.

It wasn’t Sylus that had approached. It was Zayne, holding a bouquet. He didn’t look at you in shock like you did, but rather wariness, as if unsure of what to think of this stranger kneeling at his beloved’s grave.

Your mind went in several panicked directions. He was observant - they all were. He would see the shock, the look of recognition in your eyes. How could you play off your strange reaction?

“You’re that doctor,” you blurted out. “I… think I saw you in the news once. You got to be the head… something at a really young age, right?”

Of course you knew who he was. You could probably tell him his own story, including details he didn’t know himself. But hopefully this gave you an excuse to know him while hiding the extent of your knowledge in the most natural way.

You thought you saw his lip quirk a bit at your dumb comment. “Chief surgeon,” he corrected in a soft but stern tone. “That was quite a while ago. I’m surprised you remember me from it.”

Feeling incredibly awkward, you hummed in response as you stood up. “Well, congratulations.” You internally winced. Yeah, great idea to congratulate him on an achievement long ago when he’s visiting a loved one at a graveyard…

To Zayne’s credit, he didn’t openly judge your tactlessness. “Thank you,” he said courteously, walking past you and setting the bouquet down on the grave. Jasmines, you recognized with a stab of guilt, remembering his myth as the Foreseer.

You had come here to finally let go of your inner turmoil about your role in MC’s death, and here you find a living reminder of the aftermath. You took in his appearance, reviewing what you had seen when he was facing you. He didn’t look necessarily unhealthy but he seemed tired, like he was running himself ragged. You had noticed heavy eye bags - the nightmares? You could sense the burden of grief weighing down on his shoulders, maximized by his exhaustion. His hands, used to save so many lives, faintly trembled in a way only one who looked could see.

No matter how indirectly, you had created his suffering.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The words came out before you had time to think of them. They carried a weight you hoped he didn’t pick up on - that they meant more than an outsider’s sympathy. That they were the confession of a sinner.

There was a moment of silence. Then he spoke up. “Who was she to you?” A fair enough question.

You mulled over the best explanation, then settled with, “A friend of a friend.” You were certain either ‘friend’ never was associated with such complexity before.

You found yourself continuing. “I didn’t know her well, but I could tell she had a big heart and loved others deeply.”

His shoulders tensed, as if memories flooded at your words.

“She carried those she loved deep in her heart,” your voice grew softer, “and I think… if she were here now… she wouldn’t want us to grieve. Or at least, be stuck in grief. She’d want us to move on and find happiness in our lives.”

Could he tell what this was? A silent plea not to let his sorrow drown him? A reminder that she wouldn’t want him to become this?

“…Perhaps,” Zayne responded, almost too quiet to hear. And yet, it broke your heart.

Tell him the truth. He deserves it, doesn’t he? 

He’s not one to seek revenge, you know you’d be safe to do so.

Isn’t he here to receive your plea for forgiveness? Her stand in?

But… would telling the truth actually help him? Would this knowledge bring peace and clarity to him, or would it just shift the burden of your guilt to him?

He didn’t need to know who killed MC. He didn’t need to know why she was killed. It would only fill him with more heartache, and that’s not what he needed.

She was killed in a fight. No matter the circumstances leading up to that, that was Zayne’s reality and nothing you said now would change that.

“…Do you want a hug?”

The words came out before you could stop them. Zayne turned to give you a questioning look.

“It’s just-” you stumbled a bit, “I can tell that… she meant a lot to you, and this has been hitting you hard. I just thought…” You trailed off. What were you thinking? Zayne wasn’t shown to be a physically affectionate person, especially with someone he doesn’t-

“Alright.”

Your gaze snapped back at him, this time being the one to give a surprised look. “Sorry?”

He didn’t look right at you as you spoke, shifting his gaze to the side. “Patients dealing with grief can often find comfort from others. However I am… reluctant to do the same. I don’t like the people around me perceiving me as being weak. However, this is a one time meeting and if you’re offering…”

He trailed off. You didn’t need him to continue to know what he meant. There was no real harm in being vulnerable around a stranger you wouldn’t meet again.

You slowly moved to face him. “Let me know if I make you uncomfortable,” you prefaced before tentatively wrapping your arms around him and pulling yourself into his body.

You could tell he wasn’t used to this. He felt stiff in your arms. You had the urge to rub your thumb against his back, but resisted. You didn’t know what Zayne was comfortable doing with people other than MC and this was for his comfort.

Eventually he slowly relaxed in your grip and his arms loosely moved to return the gesture.

You felt a sporadic tremor in his body. It was something you were familiar with - when you were holding back from crying.

“…You can let it out,” you said softly, “if you’re comfortable. Whatever you need.”

It took a moment. Then his body began to tremble with his soft sobs. There was no large explosion of emotion or wailing. Just a quiet crack from the pressure of grief, letting a few tears and shuddering breaths through.

Time didn’t seem to move at that moment. You had no real idea of how long the two of you stood there, letting him unravel just a bit. At last, he dropped his arms and you let him step away.

His eyes were wet from the tears, a bit puffier and redder. Yet, he looked a bit lighter, as if he truly was able to get something off his chest. Taking out a handkerchief and wiping his face, he muttered a “Thank you”, avoiding your gaze.

You tried to give your most comforting smile. “Of course. I…hope I was able to help.” Still averting his eyes, Zayne nodded in reply.

You had done everything you meant to do here and more. Now it was time to go and let Zayne have his space. “Well… take care.”

You hadn’t taken five steps away when a leaf flew by your face. You wouldn’t have thought much of it except it was being pulled by a familiar red mist. Lip curling a bit in amusement, you followed the leaf around a large memorial where Sylus stood.

He didn’t speak at first, just grabbing your hand. Then he said, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Worried about me?” you asked in a slightly teasing tone.

“Yes.” His voice shut down any playful banter. “He’s one of her men. Who could say what he’d do to you if he knew.”

You squeezed his hand gently, trying to center him. “Well he doesn’t know. And even if he did, he’s not one to take up revenge like the others. Would he be upset? Sure. But he wouldn’t hurt me for it.”

Sylus looked into your eyes, as if trying to take your certainty for himself. Finally, he closed his eyes and sighed. “Alright… ready to go?”

You leaned against his arm and let your gaze wander around the cemetery. “Yeah, I am.”

As you walked back to his motorcycle, you whispered a thank you into the breeze. He squeezed your hand back, and you felt the strength of the pillar in your life.

[gallavichsreddie1128]

The Unfortunate Events of Unprotected Sex (Hannibal)

Description: A one night stand between Y/N and Hannibal turns into pregnancy and an obsession.

Warning: Smut

Word Count: 1,873

Request:hello can give me Hannibal x fem reader one night stand and after that night Hannibal became obsessed with reader and reader found out she pregnant from Hannibal and Hannibal found out reader pregnant with his child and Hannibal love puts his hand on reader stomach pregnant , please 🙏 😊 😊 😊

Author’s Note: I made this request dark but kept in the plot and details.

It was the cliche look across from the room, eyes locked and silent communication that led to the events that were currently taking place. His lips moved against hers in a messy and sloppy kiss, his hands roamed her beautiful tight dress to feel her up. Her hands making a mess of his hair and suit, something Hannibal hated usually but he thought this girl was an angel sent from heaven.

He didn’t know her name yet or who she really was but all that worry slipped outside the window when their lips met. She knew him or at least of him and had heard the rumors of him being a dirty killer and yet she still wanted him. That information turned her on and she couldn't  never admit that out loud.

His large hands moved all over body , making her dizzy. One of his hands moved under the dress to her wetness that was soaking her panties. Hannibal grunted at the feeling of her wetness, never being with someone that was this wet so fast before, he was obsessed. In moments his pants were undid and down his legs some as his hard dick was in her soft hands.

Her eyes watched his face as she jacked him off a few times, getting him prepared to join her as one. She had wished that they were in a more comfortable setting but she was glad to get him no matter where they were. Her jaw dropped as he entered her, his size stretching her to the hilt.

Her legs went around his waist as he held her up against the wall. Each thrust made her whine, not caring if anyone heard. This was so unlike Hannibal that anyone that personally knew him would be shocked to know what he was doing. “I’m gonna cum.” She whined to him. They were both so horny that they forgot to use protection. 

Y/N wouldn’t think about this for a month until she became very sick and was throwing up. She couldn’t understand why she was puking every morning and why she now hated the smell of roses. The last thing on her mind was pregnancy.

As she sat in the doctor’s office waiting for her results she tried to think back to the last time she had sex and it was with Hannibal Lecter. Her eyes widened a bit as she thought back to that night and when it was. It all made sense, she was definitely pregnant.

That night was wild and errotic and made her feel warm. She shifted in her chair as she became very wet at the thought of him making her cum multiple times. The doctor entered the room making her abandon those thoughts. “Well Ms. Y/L/N the test came back positive. You’re Pregnant.” 

She tried to find Hannibal and tell him but she realized something that made her stomach crunch, Hannibal was in prison. 2 weeks after they had sex he was caught and all those rumors proved to be true. It was obvious that Y/N tried to push this out of her mind as she learned it and now revisited the sick truth.

The father of her unborn child was a killer. She thought back to all who was at that party that night and who she could get in contact with to find him. Will Graham. That name was very familiar to her and she knew that he would have some idea on what prison he was being held at. Will answered his phone as the random number appeared on his phone, “Hello?” He sounded confused.

“Hi uh is this Will Graham?” She asked the man. “Yes, who is this?” She took a deep breath before explaining everything to Will. Will was surprised to say the least that he was talking to the woman that Hannibal wanted to find before his arrest. Hannibal had a mild obsession with her and Will did everything in his power to make sure that he didn’t find her, knowing that he was a dangerous man. But now the woman was reaching out to him to find Hannibal. 

Will was nervous as he sat in the coffee shop awaiting her arrival. He looked around trying to find the woman. He remembered her and what she looked like but hadn’t known that she and Hannibal shared an intimate moment. She was walking into the coffee shop when Will saw her, “Y/N?” She turned to him and gave him a smile. “You must be Will.” She said and sat down.

She was very beautiful and he could see why Hannibal was into her. “You uh want something to eat or drink?” He asked and she nodded. Will ordered her some food and a cup of coffee. “So you know where he is being held?” She asked as she drank the coffee. Will nodded, “Yes but there is something you should know.” She felt sick and nervous at that statement, was Hannibal married? Did he regret that night? Questions ran through her mind.

“He wanted to find you after that night and I knew that was a killer and a cannibal so I stopped him from doing so.” He admitted. Cannibal? Hannibal ate people? She only heard the rumor of him being the killer. “He eats people?” She asked Will, disgust lacing her voice. “Yes.” She looked down now regretting coming to try to find him.

Killing was one thing but eating human flesh? That thought made her gag. “He’s not good, Y/N and he wouldn’t be good for the baby.” She wanted to listen to him but she came all this way she had to see him and he deserved to know that he was going to be a dad. Maybe it makes him feel bad and regret doing all the bad things he did, knowing he would never get to see his child. 

As Will drove her to the institution he couldn’t help but wonder what good it would do if Hannibal knew about the kid. Y/N didn’t seem interested in being with him but she wanted to rub it in his face. “I heard the rumors about him before we had sex but I didn’t really believe them. He seemed so well put together and too good to be a killer.” She said to Will.

“Yeah he can fool anyone with that charm.” The car ride was silent until they got there, Y/N’s nerves through the roof as she got out of the car. “Remember he can’t hurt you.” Will said as he saw how sick and nervous she looked. She gave him a reassuring smile as they walked through the doors. She had nothing to be nervous about, right? 

Hannibal’s eyes widened as he saw the girl that was on his mind ever since that night. She looked so beautiful and had a certain glow to her. She didn’t smile at him as she approached him, she couldn’t bring herself too. Will stayed back as he let her walk up to the glass, “Hannibal.” She whispered his name, almost caught in a trance looking at him. He was so handsome and charming, this was going to be hard.

“The girl of my dreams.” Did he not know her name? “Hannibal this is Y/N. The girl you were trying to find.” Hannibal whispered her name like it was the perfect word. “Yes.” She whispered as they stared at each other. “I looked all over for you.” He told her and she nodded. “So I’ve heard.” “You don’t live here do you?” He asked her and she shook her head, she was out of state.

“I came here to tell you something, Hannibal.” She said as she placed her hand on her stomach. Hannibal looked down at her hand and realized what she was trying to say. “You’re pregnant?” He asked with shock in his voice. She nodded and gave him a small smile. Though the smile didn’t seem genuine and almost fooled Hannibal. “Yes and I wanted you to know that.

I wanted you to know that you messed up and that you’ll have a child out in the world that you won’t get to see because you’re a terrible person.” His face dropped at her words. She was going to keep his child from him and that wasn’t going to slide.

“I don’t think that’s a wise decision.” He said and she shook her head remembering Will’s words from earlier. He couldn’t hurt her and he never will. Y/N stepped away and went back to Will, “When I get out I will come and find you and I will see my child.” He yells to her as she and Will leave the place, hoping to never return. 

5 months later Y/N was cooking dinner when she got the phone call from Will. They had kept in contact afterwards and his wife Molly had helped her out with her pregnancy. “Hey Will.” She answered the phone and she stirred the soup. “Y/N, Hannibal escaped.” She nearly dropped the phone in the soup. Her jaw dropped and a quiet “What?” left her lips. “He’s looking for you and thankfully he doesn’t know where you live but Molly and I are on our way over there.” He tells her and tears stream down her face.

“When did he escape?” She asked him. “4 days ago. We’ve been looking for him and he no longer seems to be here.” She felt her heart drop in her stomach and she was really freaking out. “I’m sorry I thought we could catch him before he would leave town.” Her ears started ringing and she dropped her phone on the ground, she backed up against the counter and started taking deep breaths.

“Y/N? Hello?” Will tried but she was far away from her phone now. A knock at her door broke her out of her thoughts and she quickly picked up her phone, “Will, are you at my house?” She asked and he sighed. “No, Y/N don’t answer it.” Will said as he quickly got in his car, nearly speeding.

Y/N was crying, sobbing at this point as the knocking got louder. “Shit.” She gasped as she realized that her door was unlocked and the second he realizes it, he’ll be inside. The knocking stopped for a second and she let out a breath. Glancing at the door she had hoped that he left but knew that was too good to be true.

The door handle turned and the door opened, Hannibal walked in and she gasped. “I told you, Y/N.” He said and she tried backing away from him but there was no use. “You look bigger now. It’s been 5 months?” He asked and she just let out a sob. She wished that Will and Molly would be here sooner but they were 7 hours away.

“It took me a while to find you but once I did I headed this way. Your colleagues gave me your address without hesitation, not like they know of me.” She shook her head not believing this was happening. “We can be together Y/N, as a family.” He said softly as he placed a hand on her pregnant tummy.

[trashedsunsets]

Spoiled Honey

***

Summary ~

Small towns need big personalities to compensate. If only overworked ER doctors knew that.

wc ~ 1k

big credit to @candlelitea for the inspo on this 💕

a/n ~

girl idk I’ve never done this before

Retirement.

A beautiful ten letter word. Sparkling. Glimmering. Hopeful.

And something that Michael Robinavitch still can’t find himself committing to yet. Though here he is with his old friend, Jack Abbot on what he’s deemed a pseudo retirement. Airbnbs are still in the realm of what Robby deems sketchy, self endangerment perhaps? Either way he found himself talked into using his plethora of leave days to take an extended three month summer stay. Somewhere rural, real middle of nowhere, Main Street USA, type of place.

Abbot pulls the old pickup truck into the only grocery store in town. No sooner is the car parked before its doors are flung open both men all but stumbling out. Robby’s joints are groaning from what he wishes he could blame entirely on the long drive. A solid clap to his back when he stands to his full height as Abbot starts guiding him, “Come on my friend, let’s see what uh, Delaneys grocer and general store, has to offer huh?”

The door chimes with an old fashioned bell announcing their entrance to the store. Blasts of cool breeze from the air conditioning is a reprieve from the humid summer air. To the left is a wall lined with refrigerated doors, the center is taken up with two long rows of shelves, and the right wall houses the stores the bulk food dispensers. At the front of the right side sits a lone cashier station, behind it someone has their feet propped up on the counter with a worn book covering their face. They don’t move to greet the men only flipping to the next page of the book. However the pup that sits in a fancy plush bed at the foot of the counter raises their head curiously. A very well loved cavalier spaniel huffs softly at their presumed owner as if chastising them for not greeting the customers before settling again.

One of the carts is pulled from the front of the store as the men start perusing the aisles. Robby takes note of the front window display next to the first refrigerator door, a very staged set up of handmade goods. He keeps moving following Abbot with the cart.

“The one with the blue cap is fresher. The ones with the green caps are from yesterday but they’re discounted, 25 percent off. Still good though.” Called from behind the counter is the cashier���s voice, their book now pulled down so their eyes are revealed, watching them. Abbots head whips around to the source of the comment. “Pardon me?”

Nodding and gesturing with the book the cashier speaks again. “The milk you’re holding the Callahans, our dairy suppliers, do different cap colors every day of the week. Rainbow order, blue caps means it’s Friday.” Returned to the fridge is the milk bottle with the green cap exchanged for a blue capped bottle. In thanks Abbot gives a nod back, “good heads up.”

Humming softly the cashier returns to their book as the men continue to shop. Making their way around the store they continue to fill their cart, only soft debates about what products to buy. Eventually they round the store to the bulk section, back in view of the cashier. Who has now abandoned the book completely in favor of watching the men. Robby sneaks a glance at the cashier whose face is now fully revealed to them. A pretty young woman sits with her chin resting on the palm of her hand elbow on the counter. Abbot hasn’t gotten a look at her yet as he reads an ingredient list for granola.

“That stuff is delicious, Marjorie makes it fresh down the road in the bakery twice a week. Family recipe she says…” The cashier glances conspiratorially at the store entrance before leaning closer voice lowering in a mock whisper. “Between you and I though, I think it’s just the recipe from behind the Quaker Oats box that she jazzes up.”

Robby and Abbot glance at each other then back at the cashier. Chatty girl is a shared thought between the glance. Yet Abbot smiles picking up one of the small paper bags starting to fill it with the aforementioned high praised granola. “You seem to know a lot about what goes on here, take it you’re a long time resident?” Jack muses languidly in response. Robby stifles a grin turning his head to the side as he knows his partner is appeasing the young girl.

Undeterred she perks up at the reply seemingly eager to have someone entertaining her quips. “Oh only my entire life, my daddy owns the place figure it’d be rude to run out on him after he so graciously raised me and all.”

Pretty girl… Daddy… Hmm…

Another glance is shared between the newcomers. Men are still men at the end of the day.

Robby clears his throat, “Well you and your dad must be pretty close if you think that way. Most kids can’t wait to get away from their parents.”

Tilting her head back and forth as if considering then giving a relenting nod, “Yeahhh… he’s okay.” She’s grinning despite it, lots of love there obviously.

“Anyway you two must be the ones renting the Talbots place for a few months, just past their ranch but before the woods.” Not a question, but stated as a fact from the cashier.

Brows are raised in surprise from the men before Jack speaks this time. “You must know everything that goes on around here.”

Moving her book off the counter to clear space for groceries as the men near with their full shopping cart. “Mmhm, Mrs. Talbot has been ecstatic since you booked. Called me a bit ago when you got in, I believe the words ‘strapping’ and ‘devilishly handsome’ were used.”

Faintly flushed cheeks adorn both the men’s faces as she starts scanning the chosen products, expertly packing them away into waiting paper bags.

“Oh really?” Robby takes the bait this time.

A nod as she turns the screen around displaying their total awaiting their payment taking them in up close. “Really really, and you know what? Guess her eyesight isn’t that bad after all.”

She holds out a receipt, “Pleasure doing business with you Michael and Jack.”

Masking their surprise but not that well from the perceptive cashier, the bolder of the two, Jack. Turns the charm back on the girl, “And do we get to know your name pretty girl?”

Bright laughter fills the air before she gives her name with an unabashed grin.

Nods from both the men in acknowledgement, “Well that’s certainly one we’ll want to remember.” Robby answers as they collect the hefty paper bags.

“The only one in town can’t be too hard.” Calls the girl as the pair makes their way to the door. They both laugh this time, Jack holds the door turning his head “Well if the first impression wasn’t memorable enough the names gotta stick right?”

It’s her turn to laugh now as the men take their leave. Bells on the door chime again barely disguising what she says next. “What do you think Honeybee? They’re hot right?”

The dog rolls over tummy up unconcerned with her owners appraisals of attractiveness, and more concerned with belly rubs. An over dramatic sigh is heard as the girl slips from her stool to crouch next to the dog giving into the demands scratches. “And they say I’m spoiled.”

[eodiablo]

Wilson seems to me to be such a well-rounded character from his conception that I find it curious to see him being flanderized by the fandom or by Klei;

Yes, others may have knowledge, good knowledge, but intelligence isn't just having said knowledge, it's knowing how to apply it. And Wilson knows how to apply it. On a small scale, he may be a bit of a dork, with his puns and the situations he ends up getting into, but, as already mentioned, at the end of the day, he's the one who gets to Maxwell; he's the one who made the science machine that everyone uses.

I've always thought that perhaps outside of The Constant he has no real (or correct) direction, and that's why the title of Scientist might be a bit too much for him, but in the Constant? He's the one, of all, who sees the problems, investigates them, and solves them.

Because besides everything, besides being the clever character of the box, he is... well, he is Wilson.

Maybe this is a bit of a stray, but I'd also like to touch on his personality. A gentleman before a scientist is something I've seen a lot of people in the fandom say, and I also know we often make the joke that he's a bit of a blank slate, but no, I really don't think that's the case —judging by all the people in the notes, it's a popular opinion. He's impulsive, he's somewhat egocentrical, very, very determined, and on a grand scale, he's good socially. We can headcanonize that he's not good at navigating complex social interactions—maybe that's partly true—but the first person he reunites with after years of isolation in the Constant is, look, the man who made him ended up there in the first place, and yet he's still able to team up with him for the greater good—his greatest act of resentment toward Maxwell is, perhaps, not wishing him good day like with everyone else—and I think that speaks volumes about him. I think there's a reason we all designate him as the "leader" of the group, because he's competent enough while also caring for the rest of the survivors..

He's really, from the game's first trailer, a very three-dimensional character, if I may say so. If Klei tries to say anything else, we invade them.

Let's talk about Wilson's perceived competence. Can we talk about Wilson's perceived competence, please? I've been dying to talk about Wilson's perceived competence with you all day, okay?

(Prefacing with the fact that I am aware that people just like to make jokes and be silly sometimes, nothing wrong with that, plus that that doesn't mean they believe that's his entire canon personality but I just wanted to make a post)

There seems to be this increasing general opinion/characterization that Wilson is like. an incompetent, know-nothing-know-it-all?

Yes, he does have a bit of an ego. ("Just when I thought I couldn't get any better", for the Construction Amulet.) He can be insecure about not knowing something, which isn't particularly odd, it ties into the ego thing. (The quotes for Wagstaff's tools show this though personally I feel like Klei leaned a little into some flanderization there perhaps?)

But incompetent know-nothing?? :(

(once again no-one's said that word for word, it's just the vibe)

This is the same guy who, canonically, forged his way through the entirety of adventure mode and reached the Nightmare Throne before anyone else. And then after Charlie threw him back into the Constant he (probably very likely) made those blueprints for the Jury-Rigged Portal.

He's also invented things like the Telltale Heart, three of the boating implements, (perhaps the Think Tank itself?) and the Gardeneer Hat, which can be upgraded at the Ancient Pseudoscience Station!!

To my knowledge there's only 2 other items you need pre-existing crafts to make, but this is the only one that's personally invented by one of the survivors! I think that's pretty notable!

I like how Wickerbottom puts it here, eccentric but sound.

Another thing is something from the old ARG stuff that Klei set up. One of them was a map with a bunch of formulas and equations, which he wrote! I don't think he was pretending to know what he was writing here.

Anyways bleh, it seems like Klei is getting in on it too with certain quotes and especially the overabundance of puns that just. aren't good. (Anything involving marotters, for example...) I really hope that they stop leaning into that sort of thing for his characterization in the future. He's capable and actually pretty smart even if he's not the best scientist in the world. (Most of the screenshots and images are sourced from the non-fandom.wikia don't starve wiki)

[butterflydm]

WoT 3x08 - additional thoughts

Random collection of thoughts after I tried to go to sleep and then proceeded to not fall asleep. Spoilers for all of s3 including 3x08 and for the whole series through A Memory of Light.

Mostly thinking about knock-on effects.

Egwene. Siuan's death. Egwene and how Siuan's death affects her storyline.

I noted in my 3x06 thoughts that Egwene is specifically devoting herself "to the Light" as opposed to any specific other allegiance, and I think I see how Siuan dying here matches that shift in focus. Egwene's loyalty is not to Rand. Egwene's loyalty is not to the Wise Ones. Egwene's loyalty is not to the White Tower. It is to the Light.

The show has been pretty consistent in sending Egwene down this road. She doesn't feel instantly "at home" at the White Tower the way that book!Egwene did. She doesn't embrace ji'e'toh the way that book!Egwene did. She has chosen a very specific duty and plans to follow it. I do wish we'd had some more insight into Egwene during that middle run of episodes (cutting a bit of time from Liandrin's backstory in 3x03, in particular, would have been fine, I think, especially since Liandrin is gonna be sticking around for a while longer) because I do think what she had going on was a bit too subtle, but it comes out strongly in both 3x01 and the ending of 3x08, where Egwene was there as a firm contrast to everyone else around her, who were embracing Rand as a figure of prophecy.

There's an ironic contrast. Which is... Egwene actually is being what Lanfear pretends to be, I would say.

Because Lanfear tries to sell Rand on the idea in their scene together that she was the one person in all the world who didn't ~bow~ to him and that's why he broke it off with her, but he's seen her for who she is and he knows that it isn't true. Just like he was able to see the truth about himself back in 2x08 and confidently tell Ishamael that he had never chosen the Shadow and never would. It's not because she refused to bow to him. It's because she's jealous, and petty, and cruel. That's why LTT broke up with her, and that's why Rand doesn't want her either, now that he knows the truth about her.

(also, did Aviendha kinda confirm that she was low-key listening in on Egwene and Rand's fight in 3x06? That or Egwene went around telling everyone about Rand sleeping with Lanfear, which I guess is also possible)

The Randgwene stuff in general has been the most frustrating/weakest element of the season for me, overall, but I will see how I feel about it when I rewatch. I do think... I do think I have a thread of a thought about the reasoning behind why it was written the way that it was but I want to poke at it some more.

I am interested in the show having Moiraine (I think) quoting that specific prophecy about the Dragon Reborn at the end of the season -- about how the heart of stone needs to remember tears and the soul of fire needs to remember love. Because Moiraine is the person who was trying to get him to distance himself from the people he cares about, yet some part of her is aware that the Dragon Reborn needs to be capable of tears and of love. So there's a tension there.

It does feel like we've set up pretty strongly for s4 (fingers crossed) to start in Tear - with Couladin trying to take the Stone, and Team Waste coming from the land while Team Tanchico comes from the sea. And potentially Moggy and Liandrin waiting in Tear to try to collar Rand as he goes for Callandor? Or maybe Lanfear and Rahvin will be trying to trap Rand?

And with Elayne aware that a Forsaken is messing with Andor, it feels fairly natural to have Andor be the focus of the end of s4. But there is also the possibility that they might do Dumai's Wells at the end of s4. That feels too early for me, but this show surprises me a lot, so it is entirely possible.

I am startled that (apparently) some reviewers apparently thought that the ending of the season implied no time-skip between s3 & s4, because it seemed very much set up for a time-skip to me, especially with Team Tanchico already in travel mode. tbh, that note from reviewer(s) was one of the things that made me think that Siuan wouldn't die!

But a time-skip lets Elaida settle into power as the new Amyrlin; it lets Team Tanchico get to their next destination (hopefully Tear); it lets Rand settle into power as the Car'a'carn, etc.

Overall this season, the villains have been shown to be a real and true threat to our heroes, with genuine costs enacted by their schemes. Perrin is imprisoned by the Whitecloaks and facing a trial that the viewers have no reason to believe will be fair and just. Loial and Siuan are dead. Rand got a large portion of the Aiel to follow him, but there's been the split in their forces and we have to deal with Couladin. Liandrin and Moghedien have the full male a'dam and want to use it to cage Rand. Lanfear was temporarily driven away but is still at large and now has no reason to go easy on Rand. The villains are much better at being villains in the show than they were in the books.

It looks like Siuan's speech genuinely shakes Elaida, but then Alviarin swiftly acts to try to prevent Elaida from actually reflecting and thinking on her choices, and kills Siuan. I am uncertain how suspicious her actions would be to show-only viewers and if they would clock her as a potential Darkfriend from what she does here.

[2222bad]

YUMMY

[michael surprises you with his new haircut] | 900+ words

WARNINGS: fem!reader , the man is a TEASE! & this look should’ve been illegal

[1995]

he wanted the haircut to be a surprise. he didn’t tell you anything. no clues, no input from you, nothing. the only thing he let slip was the day and time karen was supposed to arrive in santa barbra. he wouldn’t even let you near the guest house when she got there, clippers and suitcase in toe. he made you swear to stay put until he came to get you, which you reluctantly sealed with a contractually binding kiss of trust. still, you speared at the thought of squeezing some hint out of karen. maybe faking that you’d like a touch up and just so happened to be free the same day, what time would you be done with michael? could i just come wait for him? but, eventually, you thought better than to pry against his wishes and simply tried to ignore the antsy feeling that grew larger in you with each passing minute. fine, you relented, the man can have secrets. just this once!

up in your bedroom, you gather a few contents from your purse in your palm, receipts and loose change from the day before namely, before being suddenly swept into darkness by michael’s sneaking hands.

“guess who,” he sings, an obvious grin laced on his mouth, pulled from ear to ear.

you hadn’t even noticed how tight your hand was on your blouse as you recovered from the sudden thrill. you release your vice grip, breaking into an excited smile. the delicious sweetness of after-spray, evidence of a fresh cut, wafted easefully into your nose. “hmmm…my handsome husband i’ve waited oh so patiently for, i hope?”

“could be…”

“well, may i please see him already? my ride will be here soon.”

“yes,” he grants with a delighted hum, “but when i let go, you have to keep your eyes closed.”

“fine.” you tilt your head back with a playful groan. you weren’t confident in how much longer you could hold up this dam of anticipation.

you fix your body to stand completely still as his hands leave your face. your lip flies between your teeth as your excitement brews quicker.

“okay,” michael says carefully, “turn around—don’t peek!”

“i’m not, baby!” you insist with a frustrated shake of your arms. you turn around, eyes closed to him, squinting with exaggeration. “see?”

you hear him chuckle in front of you and you twinkle your fingers at your sides, a wishful expression. “okay. you can look now.”

gently your eyes flutter open to the blurry figure stood in front of you, quickly adjusting to the view of his body. comfy in his white shirt and jeans, clean shaven, face aglow and beautiful as always. then his hair; subtle curls tipped over from his head and paused their reach at his brow, framing his statuesque features like an open curtain. he’d cut and shaved all along the back and over the sides, leaving layers of black curls frayed prettily around his head. he looked…older. confident, matured, but princely. your knees betray you and buckle under the sight of him. your face shifts from excitement to pure, primal thirst, pupils blown incredibly. like you want to scale him on all fours. like you want to eat him. you want to eat his whole day. you make a note to give karen a personal tip.

“do you like it?” he bites into his bashful smile, his hair dangling to the floor. how could he not know how torturously beautiful he was?

you’re speechless, your mouth agape. your whole body feels like putty, your heart at primal speed. before long, the dam breaks.

“why do you do this to me?” you whine helplessly, swiping your eager palms out at him and dragging them down his chest.

“do what?” he laughs, catching you in his arms.

“you knew i had my meeting today!” you pout up at him, fighting, with great power, the urge to just trap him under you right then and there and gnaw at him like a toothless cub.

he lets out another laugh, which, to you, felt full of pity, wrapping your body in his embrace. “well,” he toys with a devious smile, “now you know how it feels!”

“know how what feels?” you slip your hands beneath his t-shirt with a possessive grip on his waist earning a ticklish smile to match his scrunching nose.

“how it feels when…you know…like in the morning when you walk out of the shower smelling so good with all your lotions on and i have to go work.”

you stare at him, bemused. “i don’t see how that’s remotely fair.”

he smirks at that, leaning down to kiss you. a drooping strand brushes against your eyelash and forehead, nearly binding you within your lover’s trance. “i’ll make it up to you later…”

“oh, you’re gonna do much more than that,” you bid, returning his kiss with mock weakness at the same time your pager buzzes in your bag. your car was at the gate. “and you—“ he plants another unreturned kiss on your lips, “—better not let anybody see you—“ he kisses your cheek, the crux of your jaw, “—you stay right here in this room until i get back—“ you whine impatiently as he lands another one on your neck, “—bye. i love you.”

he lets you slip out of his grip, but not before he presses a firm, promising kiss to your lips that leaves you, almost, utterly dazed. you swipe your stuff into your arms, turning to look back at him, your hand curling up as if to strangle him.

“i mean it, michael! you’re not leaving this room!”

“i look that good, huh?” he teases, arms folded in triumph as he watches you tromp away. you only scoff, the sound of your heels moving like a rolling thunder through the neverland palace.

-

for you, lovely one :) thank you!!! @cinnamoncunt

[alexanderlightweight]

Was told something recently that hit hard, don't know why exactly, I think maybe because I was already defensive and ready to justify myself that getting support shocked me. My doctor said 'If a diabetic person needed to be on medication for the rest of their life, you won't argue it. If anxiety medication is what is needed, why is that any different? Why shouldn't it be used to ensure on-going quality of life? It really hurts but so relieved. Could I see a Malec situation with similar emotions?

my dearest Anon, I am so very happy for you and I hope you are proud of yourself. I have been there. you are so strong for accepting the support offered and ALSO being ready to fight for it if needed. i'm so glad you didn't have to fight for it. but also good job for realizing that the epiphany both hurt and relieved you. also there is nothing wrong with feeling defensive about needing support since in this world getting help is so often met with scorn.

i wrote this based on some of my own experiences with chronic fatigue and anxiety but every person is different so if it doesn't mesh well, let me know and I can try again. Its important

tw: chronic fatigue and anxiety

i hope you enjoy? which feels like a weird thing to say about this fic but I know that's MY brain raveners (will be explained in the notes).

<3 lumine

-

attacked from within

Alec stares at the small clear vial of pink liquid, so delicate in his calloused hands.

It would be so very simple to take a sip. To swallow the potion that Magnus specifically asked Catarina to make taste like strawberries and know that the tension he’s holding will start to fade.

That the spiraling dizziness in his head will clear soon after taking it, not an instant relief but a gradual recovery from the doom encompassing him.

Still... it’s not that bad yet.

Alec’s thoughts have certainly done worse to him than this and today hasn’t even been that bad of a day. Alec’s clearly just let Magnus pamper him too much if he can’t even handle a normal shift at the Institute without wanting the potion.

After all, it’s not bad enough that he needs it.

Not yet.

—

“Alexander, the point of the potion is to take it.” Magnus is holding the vial between thumb and pointer with a pinched expression on his face and Alec winces.

He made Magus worry.

Again.

Even if he didn’t need the potion, he should have just taken it, to avoid Magnus’ sad face and the disappointment he’s no doubt hiding so Alec doesn’t feel worse.

“I wanted to wait until I really needed it.”

It feels like such an excuse in the face of earnest gold eyes watching him with sincere concern.

“Were you stressed? Did your head swirl after meetings and when talking to your mother about your future plans for your career? Did you want to simply slide to the floor and pull at your hair until the thoughts left?”

Alec really wishes that he hadn’t been so honest — well that's not true, Magnus deserves his complete honesty — because Magnus knows now what to ask about. What to look for, even when Alec is too used to it to notice himself.

Alec swallows and nods, “yeah but it wasn’t... it wasn’t as bad as it was last time.”

Last time specifically referring to a night Alec barely remembers but he knows that Magnus hasn’t forgotten and probably never will.  Not if the terrified devastation on his face when Alec finally came back to reality meant anything.

It was a night like any other, except that Alec had felt like his mind and heart were tearing him to pieces and that maybe he should just let it. Maybe if he succumbed the battering of his thoughts and accepted his failures and the crushing reality of his dreams being erased it would ease the pounding of his head.  

Where Alec was the prey and his thoughts the hunter.

“Darling, the potion is to make sure it doesn’t get that bad again. It’s preventative.”

“Then I’d be taking it all the time, Magnus. Every day.” Which is hard to admit and also sounds ridiculous. Why would Alec need to take it every day when he’s been surviving so far without it, except for a few incidents?

“Yes darling, because it’s to help manage the symptoms.  The gold vial? That one is for emergencies.  An extra precaution for truly horrific days that attack regardless of if you’ve taken the regular potion or not.  The pink vial? That’s just to help you live life to the fullest, Alexander. Because you deserve to enjoy life.”

“I can handle it, Magnus.” Because Alec can, he’s been handling things that would break other people his whole life, he can’t let this small thing be the breaking point.

“Do you want to live the rest of your life managing yourself like this?” Magnus sounds so concerned, so worried and Alec really, really doesn't want to live like this. But he can’t help but feel this isn’t the correct way. That he should be stronger or that he’s taking the easy route to all of this.  Because wanting to take the potion feels like a weakness. Can’t he just work on his thoughts? 

He says the last part out loud and Magnus sighs, but he’s smiling at Alec.

A soft, proud and slightly sad smile.

“Yes, working on your thoughts is good. However what happens when your thoughts fight back darling? Do you simply try harder? When you’re already exhausted and doing your best? How is that fair to you?”

“Shadowhunters don’t get anxiety.” Alec mutters, just to be contrary because he’s a shadowhunter and he definitely has anxiety. It’s true in a way though, because shadowhunters aren’t allowed to have anxiety. 

Magnus reaches out his fingers, running them gently down Alec’s arm in a soft, soothing motion.

“Do you think Helen doesn’t need her potions?”

The question strikes true, a hot poker that burns Alec as deeply as iron burns Helen.

“Of course not! She takes it to protect her from iron, which she could come into contact with at any time in her field. She needs them to function properly since she doesn’t know when iron might—” Alec pauses and frowns, lips tugging downward as he crosses his arms.  “I see what you’re doing there. It’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it? If it improves your quality of life and helps make you safer, even if it's from your own thoughts and the targeted words of others that pierce too deeply, isn’t that the same? Don’t you make better choices, greater advancements and have more time and energy to enjoy life with the potion?”

Alec really wants to grumble but he can’t deny it.  It feels like a weakness to need the potion but he knows that’s his parents talking.  And the Clave. And every other figure in his life before Magnus.

“I shouldn’t need it, though.”

“Oh for...” Magnus grabs his wrist and pulls him into a tight hug.  It makes Alec squirm, wanting to get away from the blatant affection, love and acceptance but Magnus doesn’t deserve that and he loves touching Magnus. So he stays where he is, even if he feels like clawing his own skin open, but that would only worry Magnus and cause Alec to waste energy on an iratze.

So Alec steels himself, gathering up his courage and lets himself relax into Magnus’ arms, his own coming up tightly as he hides his face in Magnus’ neck.

If Magnus can’t see him then he definitely won’t know how torn up Alec is.

It doesn’t work.

“Alexander, sweetheart. You’re shaking in my arms, if you’re trying to hide how upset this conversation is making you, it's not working. However, if you'd like, we can finish it later. When you’re up for it.”

To be fair, Magnus’ voice isn’t the slightest bit amused.  Instead it’s soft and tender and so understanding that Alec feels overwhelmed, lashes kissing Magnus’ skin with a wet sheen of tears.

“I don’t want to be like this.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Alexander. Not a thing. You just need a little help in this one area.” There’s a pause as Magnus runs his fingers through Alec’s hair and then he adds, “or do you think I’m weak for needing the rejuvenating teas that Catarina specifically makes for me?”

The tea isn't a necessity.  Alec knows that Magnus can live without them.  But it’s harder.  Edom left scars and Magnus wakes tired, the pull of Edom draining him even as he sleeps and while it doesn’t affect his magic, it certainly affects his energy.

Magnus mentioned it one day.  That sometimes, no matter how deep he sleeps, once he wakes it feels like he never slept.  That his eyelids feel weighed down by the sands of Edom, that when he wakes and tries to get up his feet feel like he is sinking into the traps of shifting dunes, keeping him sluggish and unable to move for fear of falling.

It passes.

Magnus forces it too, just like Alec does with his mind, but it is no way to live. Alec hates seeing Magnus like that, frustrated with himself and the world and too tired to even enjoy life as he has for centuries.

The tea changed that, for him, gave him back the ability to express himself the way Magnus loves to and socialize as he desires.

“Will you try, darling? Not for me or the Institute or your family, but for yourself?” 

And Alec nods, because Magnus is right.

Alec deserves to be able to enjoy the life he’s sharing and building with Magnus, without the threat of his own mind swallowing him whole.

It feels like a step back, instead of a step forward but only until he takes the vial with barely trembling fingers and lifts it to his lips. At the taste an unbidden smile crosses his lips, knowing that Catarina had cursed Magnus out in five languages for asking her to make it taste like strawberries.

But she still did it.

Not just for Magnus, but also for him.

Because Alec can admit that he needs help and the people who care about him make sure he has it.

—

AN:

This is magic. You bet your fucking ass they have something for chronic fatigue which is what magnus has and i wish they had something for it in real life. Never ever tell a person with chronic fatigue to ‘drink caffeine, or exercise, sleep more or whatever so they’re less tired.’ Those aren’t actual solutions unfortunately and depending on the severity of the fatigue can make it worse.

Hence, Magnus manages his symptoms in a different way here, with teas that have magical herbs and siphoned energy (from alec/catarina/ragnor)  but he still also has changed his work schedule and sometimes needs several days of recovery after big events/parties and meetings. He’s less likely to want to go for days around the world and to parties because the effort is a lot more. He’s not less powerful, he can use his magic as much as he wants, but life itself is harder. Edom changed him and he’s in for a long recovery, if he does recover and so the teas definitely help. I think a part of it is the drain because he’s so far from Edom

Alec has Clave/Parental/Institute induced anxiety and because of how he was raised believes he should just ‘do/be better’ even though that's not how it works. And he was bullying himself because he felt like a failure which is exactly why he needs the potion!!! Because he’s not a failure but you don't recognize that in the throes of anxiety. no matter how logical you try to be. Alec is hesitant to accept help in this fic only because I felt that would be how he felt based on how he grew up. he really does want to take it, but he feels like he can't justify it. when there is no need for justification.

Yes, the gold potion is gold like Magnus' eyes so Alec will be more willing to drink it. unfortunately, Catarina was not color changing the daily potion when she already went through the works making it taste like strawberries when there are no strawberries in it (interfere with ingredients).

Magnus: alexander it’s your brain weasels 

Alec: whats a weasel? (he mostly knows magical species)

Magnus: ... changing tracks. so it’s your brain ravenors

Alec: you think there are demons in my brain and that's the problem?

MAgnus: ... give me a moment, my beloved and very literal shadowhunter.

Magnus downing a cup of tea and taking a very deep breath: alright, sweetheart the brain raveners are a metaphor. The bad thoughts in your head? They’re attacking you. Like raveners or shax or whatever demon you want to call them. 

Alec: can they be edomei demons?

Magnus with a endeared smile but also very tired: yes darling, they can be edomei

Alec: good, if there are going to be demons in my head then at least want them to be the ones you have some control over

MAgnus: alec thats... okay we are moving on. I am only allowed one more cup of tea today, my love and we are getting through this conversation if its the last thing we do tonight. So, your bad thoughts are edomei demons and the potion, thats how you can both attack and defend from them. Does that make sense?

Alec very earnestly: of course Magnus

Magnus: ... okay pretty boy, summarize it back to me because for some strange reason, i’m feeling very doubtful of your comprehension of this conversation

Alec: rude... okay so there are demons in my head and the potion is a non-lethal poison

Magnus: NO. NO poison. IT is a HEALING potion. You know what. Forget the demon idea. Your thoughts are infected, okay? *alec nods* okay! The potion is an antidote to the infection. And you have to take it every day or the infection will grow and spread... of bad thoughts. BAd thoughts, Alexander! you are not actually infected with anything.

Alec: oh, so i’m taking an antidote because my brain hates me?

Magnus wondering how this is the explanation that works: ... if thats what works for you than yes. Yes Alexander, it’s an antidote to make your brain hate you less. Wonderful, please come cuddle me in bed darling. I have fought a good fight and won but i cannot deal with anything else.

Alec feeling a little silly now that the potion has kicked in and mostly relieved and very grateful and is definitely going to snuggle Magnus until he's tired of Alec's embrace: was the fight with my thoughts?

Magnus sighing: yes darling. I fought your thoughts and won, so please come cuddle me.

[anonymousewrites]

One Hell of a Love (Book 3) Chapter Fifteen

Sebastian Michaels x Demon! Reader

Chapter Fifteen: One Hell of a Tale

Summary: Ciel, Sebastian, and (Y/N) hear about witches, and Sebastian and (Y/N) "discuss" the issue.

Mouse Note: Let's hear it in the comments for our horny (affectionately) couple!

            “Witches?” Sebastian smirked at (Y/N) after Klaus's announcement of a curse. “Interesting.”

            They looked at him, unamused. “Witches can be formidable, Sebastian.”

            “I believe you,” said Sebastian, nearly forgetting to omit the “darling” he wished to purr.

            “What is the Witch’s Curse?” asked Ciel as his servants had their side conversation. He had long since grown used to their asides.

            “The age and sex of the deceased vary, but they had one thing in common. They had all visited a ‘certain forest’ before their deaths,” said Klaus. “The Werewolves’ Forest. It’s a supernatural wood that the locals have deemed forbidden lands.”

            “Werewolves, the forest of the wolfmen,” said Sebastian. How amusing a notion.

            (Y/N) hummed with interest. It had been quite a while since they heard tales of men turning into wolves. These days, people barely talked of them, of the old creatures that still stalked the night. Werewolves, witches, vampires, demons—they and so many other beings of the darkness were forgotten to the humans. If that was the root of this mystery, then it was humans reaping the consequences of playing with forces they could never fully understand.

            “Indeed,” said Klaus, nodding. “Intensive witch hunts occurred in southern Germany from the fourteenth to seventeenth century.”

            “Amusing how humans find a way to shed blood no matter the moment. These poor German witches,” said Sebastian, greatly entertained at the silliness with which humans handled their problems.

            “The hunts came to England, too,” said (Y/N). They knew it far too well.

            Sebastian’s gaze flicked to them as they spoke.

            “Supposedly, the witches who survived them escaped and settled in a certain forest and released werewolves—their familiars—into the wood to protect themselves,” explained Klaus.

            (Y/N)’s nose twitched. Hm. No witch I ever encountered had a familiar that had a human form. They are, at most, spirits in animal form. A werewolf…it wouldn’t channel much magic.

            “Since then, the forest has been called the Werewolves’ Forest, and humans who set foot there are said to be cursed by the witches,” finished Klaus.

            Ciel tsked. “So humans are being killed by a curse? Nonsense!”

            The young lord seems to think himself immune to the world of magic despite the demons standing on either side of them, thought (Y/N).

            “I knew you would say so!” laughed Klaus. “I do apologize. This is the only information I was able to come by.”

            Ciel sighed. “No. It was I who troubled you to go there. It appears I must make the trip in person after all.” He straightened. “Now, then. To an altogether different matter. I have a question for you. The Undertaker has vanished.”

            “Oh-hoh, has he now?” said Klaus.

            “You must know more about him than I do. You already knew him from when he and the previous Earl were acquainted,” said Ciel. “I want information on him, anything you can give me.”

            “We rarely interfered in each other’s affairs,” said Klaus, shaking his head. “And Vincent was the first to get to know the Undertaker. He alone must have known Vincent before the Undertaker since the two met during their public school days.”

            “Then perhaps you should visit that gentleman in addition to your mission. Germany is your destination, after all,” suggested Sebastian.

            “Well put, but German beauties—no, former beauties—are made of tough, virtuous stuff,” warned Klaus with a grin. “Woo the beauty well, junior.”

            Ciel huffed. “I can only pray he is in excellent spirits by the time I call on him. Sebastian, (Y/N), see to the tickets.”

            “Yes, my lord,” said Sebastian.

            “Yes, Young Master,” said (Y/N).

            Together, they bowed.

l

            “Darling,” said Sebastian.

            (Y/N) felt his hands winds around their waist from the back as they packed for the trip to Germany. “Sebastian,” they replied as he kissed the side of their neck. “Are your preparations finished?”

            “Indeed,” said Sebastian. “Much earlier than anticipated. We leave tomorrow.” He smirked and tilted (Y/N)’s head back towards his. “Giving us plenty of time to act as we see fit.”

            “Hmm,” (Y/N) pretended to consider. “What might we do? Discuss our present mission? I do have information on witches, as you well know.”

            Sebastian knew they merely teased, but he could play that game. “My, my, darling (Y/N), if you’re withholding—” he punctuated his words by tightening his grip on their waist, hand dropping lower “—information, then I will have to force it out of you.”

            “I don’t know if you can,” replied (Y/N) coyly.

            Sebastian’s hand on their chin held more firmly, and he dipped to kiss them. (Y/N) sighed into his lips and kissed back, raising a hand to grip the back of his head and pull him in roughly. They spun in his arms, never breaking the kiss, and Sebastian reached to their hands, pulling their gloves off. He wanted their bare skin, even their bare hands. It was all sinfully stunning. (Y/N) wound his tie around their hand and pulled. A groan rumbled in Sebastian’s throat at the possessive moment, and, not to be outdone—he was the one searching for information after all—Sebastian tore the rest of their dress off, leaving them in a simple shift.

            “Dear oh dear,” said (Y/N), leaning back. The pressure on Sebastian’s neck from the tie mounted, and he smirked at the sensation, breathlessness nothing but a spice of pleasure to the demon. “You ruined my dress. How are you going to make it up to me?”

            “You mistake me,” said Sebastian. His possessive hold on their waist left, and he smoothly pulled his tie undone. In a single fluid motion, it wrapped around (Y/N)’s wrist, and he pulled them on. “It is you who must give me what I desire.”

            The binds on their hands were flimsy and would do nothing should (Y/N) wish to free themself, but they humored Sebastian. “And what is it you desire?”

            “Information,” said Sebastian, carelessly pushing (Y/N)’s suitcase from the bed so that he could sit. Pulling (Y/N) to his lap, he smirked and let go of the tie. His hands traced up their thighs to their ass, shifting them farther towards them. Their breath hitched, and Sebastian crooned, “On witches.” Once, then twice, he pulled his gloves from his hands with his teeth.

            (Y/N)’s eyes fluttered shut as his hands dropped back to their thighs and slowly inched up, now smoothing up their skin below their shift, teasing them ever-so-gently. Sebastian nipped their neck, sharp teeth nicking the skin. (Y/N)’s head fell forward into his neck, tied hands resting against his chest.

            “So, my darling,” purred Sebastian, “Tell me, what do you think of this case? I’d hate to get more forceful.”

            “Mm, will I get a reward?” said (Y/N), tongue tracing up his neck. This time, it was Sebastian’s turn to close his eyes as a shudder ran through him.

            “Of course,” said Sebastian, hands cupping underneath (Y/N)’s thighs.

            “How enticing,” said (Y/N). “I suppose I can—” their teeth sunk into Sebastian’s neck as he finally made contact with them. “—tell you.”

            “Go on,” said Sebastian, though now he was just eager to have their teeth in him again.

            “I don’t believe this curse is magical,” said (Y/N).

            “Fascinating,” said Sebastian, placing gentle kisses over their neck. He nipped their collarbone.

            (Y/N) let out a sigh at the sensation. “Werewolves aren’t—mm—familiars.”

            “No? Do continue,” said Sebastian, and they both knew he meant making sounds of pleasure and “giving up information.”

            “They don’t direct magic with witches. They are their own supernatural beings,” said (Y/N), hands flexing against the tie. Slowly, they began to undo the buttons of Sebastian’s shirt with their bound hands. Their eyes fluttered, and they bit back a moan as Sebastian touched them.

            “And so you believe the story false,” said Sebastian, kisses lowering farther on their chest. The hand still on (Y/N)’s thighs lifted them slightly so he could lay them down properly. The other hand simply...continued.

            “It is at least incorrect in some part on the part—” (Y/N)’s bound hands grabbed onto the headboard tightly “—on the part of the humans.”

            “And is that all you know?” said Sebastian, raising himself over them.

            “It is,” said (Y/N), looking at him fully. They were proud of the dark mark already blooming on his pale neck. It would fade as soon as he decided to correct his appearance, but for the moment, Sebastian wore it proudly. He was theirs. They were his.

            “I should be sure you’re not withholding anything,” said Sebastian, one hand going to his belt with a smirk.

            (Y/N) returned it with just as much evil eagerness.

l

            (Y/N) and Sebastian lay beside one another, the devil’s hour creeping towards them with their lack of need to sleep. They didn’t particularly mind. They had ways to amuse themselves. (Y/N) curled against Sebastian, hand carelessly tracing his covenant mark in the moonlight.

            “Corvus?” said (Y/N).

            Sebastian glanced at them. “Yes, Felis?”

            “May I ask something of you?” they said, looking at him.

            “Anything,” said Sebastian. He meant it. He would serve the world on a silver platter or burn it to ashes for them.

            “If there are true witches in this case, please to do not invoke the witch trials for your amusement,” said (Y/N).

            Their death. Sebastian’s grip on them tightened gently, and Sebastian looked at them. “My jest about the German witches.” He remembered his words.

            “This is a silly request, I am aware,” said (Y/N). “And it is not that I care what happens to these witches if they are the mission. I’ve killed witches before. I killed them as a witch. However—”

            “You were a victim of the trials,” said Sebastian. He leaned in and kissed them, and (Y/N) kissed him back. It was soft, gentle. “I apologize, darling. Your death is nothing trivial. I would not make light of it. My comments were wrong of me.”

            (Y/N) shook their head. “We could burn witches, drown them, anything. It is all perfectly amenable to me. It simply making light of the way men got rid of those who resisted the structure of power of that time that—”

            “—that irks you.” Sebastian knew (Y/N) as a demon favored contracts that factored rebellion in. They feasted on souls that achieved power in a world that refused to hand it over. He had been curious for centuries about it, and only recently had he discovered where it came from. “I understand, Felis. Once again, I apologize.”

            Their feelings mattered to him. (Y/N) was not even asking him to become merciful—they were hardly merciful themselves—but just to watch his jokes about something that had occurred to them. Sebastain would never cross such a boundary. It was wrong of him to not consider it in the moment.

            “Thank you, Corvus,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            Sebastian was truly the best man, demon, and being they knew. He respected them, their experiences, their individuality, their power, and their emotions. He understood they were not weak for requesting this and even understood he was in the wrong for saying what he had. Sebastian apologized, and they knew he was telling the truth that he would not speak in that way again. (Y/N) felt his love each moment Sebastian demonstrated it, from speaking the word to demonstrating it physically to showing it subtly.

            “I love you,” they said, tangling their hands in his hair and kissing him.

            Sebastian rolled over on top of them, legs spreading theirs slightly. “I love you too, my dear, darling Felis.” He kissed down their chest, covering the marks he had left with gentle kiss. “Allow me to apologize properly.” He raised his eyes to theirs, looking up at the only being he would ever worship. “Will you let me?”

            (Y/N) smirked. “Beg?”

            Sebastian had already been reminded once tonight that he would do anything for them. This was merely another example. “Please?” crooned Sebastian. He shifted farther down the bed, sliding off smoothly. “Let me make amends to you, darling. Allow me to show my love and devotion.”

            “Very well,” said (Y/N), gazing down at him.

            Sebastian grinned, expression sharp and mischievous. He took a strong hold of their ankle and pulled. (Y/N) slipped down to the edge of the bed, and Sebastian knelt before them. Oh, how he would enjoy this. That was the only thought he had as he parted (Y/N)’s knees. (Y/N) was thinking the exact same thing. They loved one another.

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[apple-onigiri]

falls into your askbox all sillylike. The average person in ISATs universe has mental + physical barriers against excessive craft energy. In my headcanon, extensively pushing these barriers doesn't make them stronger, but instead just grates them down until one can't safely access their craft without risking exhaustion and sickness. Wish and time craft push against these barriers hard, almost completely shattering them depending on what you do with them. Post-canon, siffrin can't use their craft at all anymore at the threat of intense side effects. With his already-there internalized ableism, they are not gonna be nice to themself about this. [i may have yoinked this from a fic, but i dont remember the title </3]

guys someone just fell into my ask box?? (＃°Д°)! that's crazy!! help them up omg

but ooo, interesting idea. i do especially like the physical and mental blocks on craft overuse, kinda like your brain and body don't really allow you to pull your fingers back with your other hand enough to, y'know. break them. even though you probably have enough strength to do so

and yeahhhh siffrin would not take anything like that well At All, the party would have their work cut out for them in their attempts to reassure him he's not a burden ≡(▔﹏▔)≡

when it comes to pushing against those barriers... i do personally follow a belief of wish craft not being dangerous or harmful on its own unless it's overused, and time craft being the thing that exhausts siffrin the most (it is said to be impossible because it kills the user, the king and siffrin can only do with thanks to their wishes), and act 5 abolishing any self-preservation he had left with his desperation.

i think this because - considering the timeline - the island must've gotten [REDACTED] when siffrin was a child/teenager, and that means wish craft is something even kids know about and learn the rituals for, so it can't be that volatile if used the way you're meant to. also, on a less theoretical note, i don't want to make an element of siffrin's home culture something directly harmful because it'd be sad for them and for me, and for everyone, and :(

thank you for the ask!! i assume the other one worrying about if it came through was yours too, so don't worry - i was simply more offline yesterday and only now got to opening up my inbox o*(￣︶￣)/　

[noxitsnox]

garage band singer!hee- hc

garage band!lee heeseung x f!waiter!reader

summary: in the pub where you work, often performs a band whose singer fascinates you. it's become a habit for you to secretly exchange notes, but despite this, you've never went on a date, well until today.

tags: non idol au, fluff, both reader and heeseung are down bad, heeseung is a bit toxic but also very sweet, alcohol mentioned, second person pov, y/n is used a few times i think? idk, a hybrid between hc and os

a/n: this is about blue haired heeseung specifically.

also this isn't jake fic... sorry, i've had this one in my mind so long i wasn't able to finish the chapter. i'll post jake before the 28th of april for sure! as always @exactlyinfp 🙂‍↕️

heeseung is a singer in the band his friends and him formed during highschool. the goal was to make a living from music and well, they're not quite there yet but they did find a place to play at regularly

you worked at that pub as a waitress and the moment you saw heeseung... you were in love. the moment you heard him sing your heart exploded

was it possible to be attracted to someone's voice? because damn

after the performance you fought against time to be the one to make his drink just to have a chance so see him up close

you watched him the whole night, hoping to gather the courage to talk to him. it didn't happen but instead you found a note on his napkin

to the pretty waitress with h/c and e/c, xx -l. heeseung

keeping your cool suddenly became very difficult. as you watched the way he slightly tilted his head back when he laughed or the way he bit his tounge as he played.

there was something about his vibes, his aurea... he looked both very approachable and very unapproachable at the same time. even now that he approached you, you were scared to make your move.

in the end, you managed to find out where he kept his guitar case and you put your own note to him in the front pocket when he went to the bathroom.

the week after, his band played again and you could swear he was looking at you, smirking throughout the whole performance.

that day he passed you another note and you did the same.

now, after almost a year, it was normal for you to exchange those notes between a song and a glass of beer. it was the only way you and him would talk basically. you kept every single note- from the very first one, inside your journal so that if in a hypothetical future your grand children asked about how their grand parents got together you could simply show them the story. you hoped he was conserving them too, that way the story would be complete.

problem was that after all this time you needed to have his number, it was a physical need atp. you wanted a way to actually communicate with him outside of the pub.

everytime you were tempted to write it on a napkin and give it to him you changed your mind, main problem was your constant overthinking

if he wanted my number he would've asked by now, we've never even really talked to each other, what if he has a girlfriend, what if doesn't actually like me

but that night you were tired of waiting

you only wished you could talk with him outside of that stupid paper notes. when his band played you spent more time in your mind than at the pub, everytime you looked at him you were closer to just go and kiss him on the spot. maybe this way heeseung would finally understand and give you his number, take you out on a date. everytime you stopped yourself, "y/n don't let your impulsive thoughts win and contain yourself". but as the days passed it was becoming more and more difficult, you were growing frustrated to the point you almost hated him. it was stupid, if you never talked to him how could he know how much you wanted him? and yet you couldn't help but think that he should have an idea by now. and furtively just like the first note you gave him your number. you avoided his table for the rest of the evening, dying of embarrassment every time you met his eyes.

that night an unknown number texted you, but you knew very well who it was

→ finally, i was starting to lose hope. thought i had to find me another pretty girl yk

you audibly scoffed and asked him why, if he wanted your number so bad, he never asked for it

he said he "didn't want to impose himself on you" which was a shitty answer disguised as something sweet

despite that, you actually liked talking with him. that night you stayed up, butterflies in your stomach as you two texted. you felt like a middle schooler dealing with her first crush

everything was perfect except for one thing: at the pub he never spoke to you, barely even looked at you as he flirted with other girls.

you wanted to be mad but you had to remind yourself that he wasn't your boyfriend, your jealousy wasn't legitimate

you hated that part of him so much, how could someone be so nice on the phone and yet so cruel in real life?

but even this didn't stop you from immediately responding with a smile every time your phone screen lit up with his name.

after months he asked you on a date! you had a real actual date with heeseung

he didn't want to tell you where he'd bring you. "it's a surprise" he insisted when you asked

but eventually, after a hundred messages begging him to tell you, using the excuse of "I have to figure out how to dress" he gave you a small spoiler

you found out he was planning a pic nic

he didn't tell you directly, but you heard him say to one of his bandsmate after a performance at the pub

→ when's your day off? i'll pick you up at 11 am that day

you didn't question how he knew where you lived, it wasn't worth it

you just focused on the date, and god it was perfect

you pretended to be surprised when he got out the blanket and pic nic chest. why would you ruin the moment by telling him you already knew about it?

he prepared everything. all the food was cooked by him, he brought all the drinks- even tho it was mainly beer- and he even got you flowers

and the most important thing: heeseung looked absolutely stunning

it was your first time seeing him in day light, since you decided the photos you saw by stalking his profiles didn't count

dark blue hair literally shined under the sun and even if he was simply wearing some baggy jeans and a t-shirt he was gorgeous

he took up just the right amount of space, without invading your personal space but still appearing friendly and close

the confident, secure man you knew was gone

he was sweet, kind and lovely and you weren't complaining

even when he kissed you, it wasn't like you imagined at all

knowing his "stage persona" you thought it'd be rough and wet but it wasn't like that at all

it gave you butterflies, he put a gentle hand on your cheek and lean on you

you were afraid that after the date he'd went back to not knowing you while at the club

instead during the first performance after the he openly dedicated one song for you

he stopped flirting with other girls and he introduced you to his bandsmates

that night on the napkin he wrote:

you're lovely, girl. i'm the luckiest man alive to have you all for myself. xoxo l. heeseung

[hello-spidey14]

I'm about to give a potential hot take that people may not agree with me on but I need to open my heart with this-

S!Lloyd would not be jealous of M!Lloyd

And look It's perfectly fine to interpret it that way but I personally have a hard time believing it and it's an idea I've seen brought up in the small amount of show meets movie fics that focus on both of the lloyds.

The main reason people believe this is because M!Lloyd had a parent who loved and supported him day 1 and he got to do normal kid things (going to school and stuff) but while he had a semi normal life S!Lloyd had to grow up quick and become a ninja while not having a consistently loving parent.

Initially i thought he would be beacuse having a real childhood or a completely supportive parent are things he would have really liked to have but i think the statement of "lloyd would wish to have a childhood but that doesnt mean hes jealous of movie lloyds childhood" can be worth noting.

If we take the current versions of each character- DR Lloyd and then M!lloyd (cause that's the only version of him) then i domt think DR lloyd would be jealous A younger lloyd like seadon 5 or something? Sure, i can see it, but sensei lloyd? I can't, really. Because sensei lloyd is an adult and while it will always hurt to know you lost your childhood its something you have the ability to heal from or at the least make a little less bad.

Lloyd got some semblance of a childhood with the ninja and while it hurts to not have a mom that was able to raise him he doesnt resent her for it and he did get a family who could take care of him and see him grow with the ninja. It was just a bumpy road before he got there.

So i think that an older lloyd wouldn't feel anything other than sympathy and mabye protective instinct if he met M!lloyd. If he even started to feel a little jelous it would quickly fade away the second he learns about the bullying and the fact that the ninja (the most important people in his life) aren't the best to lloyd in his universe. (I love movie ninja but I think we can agree S!ninja wouldn't have emotionally abandoned lloyd in that manner if it happened in the series and wouldn't have told lloyd that they hated him)

Lloyd in Dr seems to be protective over kids cause he says something like - "but if you're locking up kids and apparently dragons, then we have some issues to work out." Which implies 2 things to me 1.) He's grown to be an adult, and now he's firmly in that spot with his primary feeling being protective instinct when he sees kids being hurt in any way. 2.) Because of this hes grown out of his childhood instincts and upset and has moved to a new chapter in his life where hes comfortable in his role as an adult that tries to make kids not go through what he had to go through instead of being jealous of their childhoods.

Since M!Lloyd firmly slots into the role of a child thats being hurt (by the city) i think sensei lloyd would hear that M!lloyd has koko and be more relieved than anything.

When i really think about it lloyd did get all the things M!lloyd got in terms of having a koko figure it just didnt come from one person but mutiple.

Movie lloyd

Koko- loving, a good parental figure, looking out for lloyd when nobody else will, a family relationship with him

Show lloyd

●The ninja- Loving

●Sensei garm, (+wu and misako imo. Ninja also kinda raised him too)- a good Parental figure

●The ninja- Looking out for lloyd when nobody else will

●Everyone on the bounty (ninja, wu ect)- a family relationship with him

So in my eyes, the only thing show lloyd didn't have that movie lloyd has is a normal sense of life with high school and stuff like that he didn't get. But if that's the only thing he didn't get this movie lloyd has and hes jealous of him, then imo that would have to mean DR lloyd would be jealous of sora as well.

Cause sora lived in a city that hated her for being herself but got a semi normal life havimg school freinds and a school expirence just like lloyd was hated by his city for something he couldnt control but also had a semi normal life with school and school freinds.

Ofc this isnt a 1 to 1 comparison but you sorta get what im saying with this.

I can't picture lloyd getting jealous with sora, and i can't picture him getting jealous with movie lloyd. Someone rebloged a post about the topic and said something to the degree of "lloyd wouldn't be jealous of him cause that's not the type of man he is" and i agree.