#if the tide turns back they can not WAIT to do the same
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LADS Men React to You Pining for Them
Summary: POV Lads men wake up in your body, feeling your emotions. And the get to suffer MWAHAHAHAHHA
Pairing: Lads boys x gn reader
Genre: angst (only Zayne gets a pass)
AN: hmm I don't think I did the concept justice but I will return to it
(I do not own these characters + spoilers ahead)
Rafayel:
He has felt it every time. Every single time he brings up his pain, his years spent waiting for you, your abandonment of him, he sees the same pain flicker in your eyes.
Even when you remain unaware of the past, he sees it.
But for the first time, he feels it.
He does not know what timeline this is. Only that he watches himself lying on a bed, next to you.
Your hand, intertwined with his.
"Things will get difficult, and you may want to give up on me, Rafayel," your fingers ghost over his cheek. "Forgive me for bringing you into this trouble. For dragging you into my fate."
Words are not spoken aloud, yet he hears them ring in your mind.
"Forgive me," you whisper into the night. "What this love will cost us… might break your heart."
He watches as you lean over and press a kiss to his forehead.
And then, with a shaking breath, you utter the last of your fading words:
"Should the burden come to weigh on you… let go of this bond and return home."
Rafayel wakes to a thundering sky and rising tides, as if the world itself had shared the same dream.
Xavier:
He watches you stare into the sky.
"Return home, my liege," you whisper, fingers clutched tightly. "Your kingdom, your throne awaits you."
You fold your hands and pray to the stars. And Xavier feels it, the thrum of your power resonating through his heart.
Then, your hand tightens around your sword.
"You should not have bothered, my prince." Your voice is steady, but beneath it lies something fragile. "It was my fate to become the fuel for this world. You should have let fate play its part."
Somehow, you already know the secret he has desperately hidden from you.
"They say the only way to make this right is by giving away what always belonged to the world." Your hand rests over your heart. "Would it bring you back?"
Xavier reels at your thoughts.
"No!" he screams, the sound swallowed by the void. "You must not! There has to be another way!"
But you do not hear him.
You gaze into the mirror, addressing no one and yet, somehow, addressing him.
"If this is a farewell, then it is a poor one, my liege."
Then, finally, your voice softens.
"I hope this brings you back, my prince." You speak to him directly now. "Wherever you are, I hope this end grants me the wish to have you return to Philos."
Zayne:
"He never eats on time!"
The thought rings out loud, startling Zayne.
He watches you march toward him, and takes a moment to process where he is.
Pale. Tired. Are those acne? Has he really been living off vending machine junk?
A rapid-fire string of thoughts follows.
He hears your frustration, your worry, and then he sees it.
The other Zayne, a version of himself, is yanked away from his desk by you.
Were you always this perceptive? How had he never noticed the concern in your eyes?
"Treat me to a second breakfast."
The command is uncompromising. He watches as you march toward his car, not even waiting for a response.
And he sees himself follow.
Or rather, being dragged.
Then, in the rumbling car, he watches as you drive.
And just as you turn to check on him, he sees himself, fast asleep.
With a maneuver that seems life-threatening, you somehow manage to pull a blanket over him, while still driving.
"Foreseer my ass," you scoff.
Your words leave him scrambling before he can even realize them, jolting him awake.
He blinks, now fully alert, staring straight at you. Back in his body.
Sylus:
Despair. Guilt. Unrelenting heartache.
He sees himself fallen at your feet.
And then, he sees your fall.
On your knees, you pull him close, holding him tight, and for the first time, he feels the weight of your helplessness.
"There is no forgiveness," you whisper.
And he realizes—you are alone.
That back then, in that abyss of loss, you were always alone. Unlike him, you never had the hope of return.
Bearing the burden of right and wrong, you were alone in your doom.
He buckles under the weight of it. This grief, he knows it well. He has felt a fragment of it.
But even then, he had known you would return.
But you?
For you, there was nothing.
Nothing but the void of loss.
"It will be alright," he whispers, but his voice is frail, failing to comfort you.
"I will return to you. I am not cross with you. I still love you." He repeats until all but the echo of his voice remains.
Caleb:
He wakes to fire.
The burning home.
The one that became both nightmare and reality.
Flames devour everything, the heat suffocating, the smoke curling into the sky.
Then, he sees you.
You scrape against the concrete, pulling yourself forward when your body refuses to move.
Your fingers tighten around his locket, and he feels the stab of pain pierce your heart.
"Caleb!" you call weakly, voice cracking, gathering what little strength you have left to scream louder.
You drag yourself forward, until your arms give out.
He sees your skin peeling against the jagged ground. Your blistered nail beds. The blood seeping from fingers that have already lost their nails beneath the heat and debris.
Yet, you keep moving.
"Stop!" he wants to scream. He wills himself to close his eyes, to escape this vision, but it grips him, holds him hostage.
And in this moment of agony, he wants to stop you, wants to pull you away from the fire, but he fails.
He is nothing more than a spectator to your desperate cries.
To your pleas for him and Grandma.
"I am sorry," he begs.
He had let you suffer alone in hopeless grief, had left you to rot in sorrow.
And perhaps this vision, this endless, searing nightmare, was his penance.
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace sylus#love and deepspace caleb#love and deepspace headcannon#love and deepspace x reader#sylus x reader#xavier x reader#rafayel x reader#zayne x reader#zayne love and deepspace#caleb x reader#love and deepspace reaction#angst#drama#and fluff#my fav combo
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attached | ghost x f!reader
i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.



type: one-shot (8.4k)
cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+
Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.
No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.
He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?
Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.
He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.
Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.
Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.
It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.
He never wins.
Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.
If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.
He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.
He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.
It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.
There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.
When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.
It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.
He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.
He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.
His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.
It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.
He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.
But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.
He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.
Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.
The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.
The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.
It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.
He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.
He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.
There are different kinds of hunters out today.
He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.
When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.
Her.
He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.
He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.
"Hello, darling."
"Bite me."
He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.
"You bitch!"
Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.
Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.
The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.
You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.
Just a man.
I hate men.
You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.
He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.
You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.
Condoms.
Bunch of pricks.
He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.
You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.
When he walks again, you follow.
The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.
You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.
He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.
You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.
But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.
He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.
It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.
You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.
He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.
He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.
Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.
When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.
It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.
He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.
They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.
He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.
He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.
He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.
He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.
"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.
He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.
The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.
Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.
It is then that he decides to keep you.
What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.
Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.
You can do the same.
You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.
You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.
You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.
He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.
He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.
"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.
It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.
He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.
You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.
Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.
He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.
You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.
He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.
The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you.
Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.
It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.
You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.
It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.
"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"
He groans. It's music.
Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.
"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."
"Need wot?"
The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.
"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."
He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.
"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.
You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.
But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.
Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.
Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.
The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.
Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.
When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.
He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.
He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.
The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.
He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.
He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.
He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.
A terrible thing happens.
Not to you.
You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.
It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.
Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.
His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.
He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.
"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"
It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.
What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.
You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).
Another terrible thing happens.
Not to you.
They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.
They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.
You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.
You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.
This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.
It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.
You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.
He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.
You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.
You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.
"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."
You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.
You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.
There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.
Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.
You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.
You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.
It comes up tails.
He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.
You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.
His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.
Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.
You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.
It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.
And if you're dead, then he must be, too.
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost mw2#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#ghost mwii#ghost x reader#cod#call of duty#simon riley smut#simon ghost riley smut#dark!ghost#dark!simon
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hiiii!!! i hope you're having a good day 💖 i love your writing sm!! if your requests are open can i ask for a law x reader where reader used to date ace and was there when he died in marineford so she saw Law save luffy, so she joins the heart pirates as a way to thank him for saving Ace little brother. They slowly fall in love but won't admit it and when Law leaves to fight Doffy reader admits her feelings bc she's terrified of losing Law. They get together when they see each other again in zou
please please but it's okay if you can't or don't want to!!! 💖
Tides of Fate
law × reader (+ ace x reader)
a/n: this request was totally my kind of fav plots lmao thank you
words count: 5.9k
tags: slow burn, angst with a happy ending, marineford aftermath, emotional baggage
masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi
Luffy sits on the shore, his face blank. Too blank. The kind of emptiness that only comes after losing everything.
You know that feeling. It’s the same one you're feeling right now, that it's hard to breathe.
Tearing your gaze away, you turn toward the submarine where Law stands with his arms crossed, waiting. If you’re going to do this, you need to do it now.
Taking a deep breath, you step toward Luffy “Luffy.”
He doesn’t look up.
“I’m leaving.”
His fingers tighten around the bracelet, knuckles white “With them?” His voice is hoarse, raw.
You swallow hard “Yeah.”
Finally, he lifts his head, eyes bloodshot but focused on you “Why?”
You hesitate, because the real answer feels too heavy to say out loud. Because if I stay, I’ll break apart. Because the ache in your chest is unbearable, and you don’t know how to exist in this world without Ace in it.
Instead, you say, “I don’t have anywhere else to go... No one to go to.”
Luffy flinches, but you know he understands. He’s feeling it too.
His jaw tightens “You… you have me. You don’t have to go.”
You kneel in front of him, forcing a small smile “You have your crew, Luffy. They’re coming back to you. But me…” Your voice wavers, and you hate it “I need time.”
Luffy stares at you for a long moment before exhaling shakily “Ace really loved you, y’know.”
Your breath catches.
Luffy grips his hat and presses it to his forehead “So that means you’re like my sister-in-law,” he mumbles, voice thick with emotion “And I protect my family.”
Your vision blurs. You clench your fists to stop your hands from shaking.
“Luffy…”
He looks at you, his expression serious in a way you rarely see “You’re always gonna be my family. Don't forget it. You can come to me whenever you want and need to.”
The words nearly break you.
You force yourself to smile, even if it wobbles “Then you better take care of yourself, little brother.”
His lip trembles, but he nods “You too.”
You take a deep breath, memorizing the sight of him, before finally standing.
Law is waiting, watching silently as you step aboard. You don’t look back.
“That was dramatic” he mutters once you’re beside him.
You huff a weak laugh, hiding your tears “Shut up.”
He doesn’t push you for more, just nods toward the submarine’s entrance “Come on, Y/N-ya. We’re leaving.”
And with that, the Heart Pirates set sail, and you leave the past behind.
The Polar Tang is… different. Not in a bad way, just different. It’s quieter than the Moby Dick, smaller, and runs a lot smoother since it’s a submarine. The crew is nice enough, but they watch you carefully, like they’re waiting to see if you’ll actually stick around, and like they're afraid to say the wrong things.
You don’t blame them. You’re still trying to figure all that out yourself.
What you do know is that you’re not wearing that.
“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up the black and yellow jumpsuit like it personally offended you “There is no way I’m wearing this.”
Penguin grins “Aw, c’mon, it’s tradition! We all wear them.”
“Yeah, and you all look dumb.” You toss the uniform back at him.
Shachi snickers “She’s got a point.”
Bepo tilts his head “But it helps with unity!”
“I don’t care.” You cross your arms “I just lost my last family. I’m not replacing them by playing dress-up with you guys.”
There’s a heavy beat of silence. You didn’t mean to let that slip, but it’s too late now.
Penguin and Shachi exchange glances, suddenly looking unsure. Bepo’s ears lower slightly.
Before anyone can say anything, Law’s voice cuts through the air.
“She doesn’t have to wear it.”
You turn to see him leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His gaze flicks to the uniform in Penguin’s hands before settling back on you “As long as she follows orders, it doesn’t matter what she wears.”
You smirk, triumphant but still hiding the regrets of your previous words “See? Captain’s orders.”
Penguin groans “Man, you’re getting special treatment already?”
Law clicks his tongue “Tch. Don’t be stupid. She’s not getting special treatment.” He pushes off the wall and starts walking away “Now get back to work.”
The others grumble but scatter, leaving you standing there, still holding your ground.
Law pauses at the doorway, glancing at you over his shoulder “You really will be following orders, though.”
You roll your eyes “Yeah, yeah, Captain. You don't have to repeat it again.”
He watches you for a second longer before walking away.
You exhale, shoulders slumping. You still don’t know if this was the right choice. But for now, you’re here and that’s enough.
Days pass, then weeks. You settle into life on the Polar Tang, though settle might be a strong word. You’re still figuring out your place here, still deciding if this is home or just a temporary stop before the sea pulls you somewhere else.
The Heart Pirates warm up to you quickly, especially Penguin and Shachi, who have made it their mission to pester you at every opportunity. Bepo is a sweetheart, and you swear Ikkaku enjoys giving you extra work just to see if you’ll complain.
And then there’s Law.
Your relationship with him is… strange. He’s your captain now, and he makes sure you don’t forget it. He orders you around, assigns you tasks, and corrects you whenever you mess up. But he also lets you push back more than he probably should.
Like now.
“You’re not getting out of training, Y/N-ya,” Law says, arms crossed as he watches you from across the room “You’re part of this crew, which means you need to be able to hold your own.”
You sigh, sitting cross-legged on the floor, pointedly not moving “I can hold my own.”
“You haven’t fought once since you got here.”
“That’s not true. I threw a wrench at Shachi last week.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It should.”
Law pinches the bridge of his nose “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.” The words slip out before you can stop them, and for a second, Law freezes.
You don’t know why your heart starts beating faster. You don’t know why it suddenly feels like the room is too small, too quiet.
Then, he scoffs “Tch. Keep dreaming.”
You smirk, pushing yourself up “Fine, fine. I’ll train. But only because I choose to.”
Law rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.
As you walk past him, you can feel his gaze lingering on you for just a second too long, and for some reason, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.
It's another day with them and dinner is as loud as always. Penguin and Shachi are arguing over who gets the last piece of meat, Bepo is calmly eating his food, and Ikkaku is scolding someone about their table manners. It’s chaotic, messy, and full of life.
You should feel comforted by it.
But then, Shachi laughs, almost losing another game “Doesn’t matter what happens, we’ll figure it out! That’s just how we are, right? We don’t let anyone mess with our family.”
It’s innocent. Just a casual statement made as a joke for a game. But your whole body freezes.
We don’t let anyone mess with our family.
The words slam into you like a punch to the gut. You’ve heard them before. Ace used to say them all the time.
“Nobody messes with my family and gets away with it!”
Your breath catches.
You see Ace in your mind so clearly, grinning, full of warmth and unwavering confidence. His arm draped over your shoulders, his voice always so sure.
“You’re stuck with me, you know. You’re family.”
The sound of laughter around you distorts. Your hands tremble against the table. Your chest tightens so hard it hurts.
Ace said those words all the time, and now he’s gone.
Your vision blurs.
You push your chair back so fast it screeches against the floor.
The room falls silent.
“Y/N-ya?” Law’s voice is cautious, but you can’t answer.
You stand abruptly, shoving away from the table as the weight in your chest becomes unbearable.
You hear Bepo call after you, but you’re already moving, already pushing out the door before anyone can stop you.
The hallway is quiet, but it doesn’t help. Your heart is pounding, your breathing uneven. The walls feel like they’re closing in.
You don’t know where you’re going, just away.
But then...
“Y/N-ya.”
Law.
His voice is calmer than it should be, given the fact that you just stormed out in the middle of dinner. You hear his footsteps behind you, steady and deliberate. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t demand you stop, but you do.
Because you don’t want to be alone.
You lean against the cool metal wall, staring at the ground, swallowing down the sobs threatening to escape.
Law steps beside you, close enough that his presence is solid, grounding. He doesn’t speak right away, just waits.
After a moment, you exhale shakily “Ace used to say that.” Your voice is hoarse “What Shachi said. About family. I know Shachi was joking, it's not his fault. My mind just started thinking too much, again.”
Law is silent, but you know he’s listening.
You blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay “Ace always said it like nothing could ever touch us. Like as long as we had each other, we’d be okay.”
Your voice cracks.
“But we weren’t. We obviously aren’t.”
And then, suddenly, you can’t hold it in anymore.
The sob breaks free before you can stop it, and then another. Your shoulders shake as you clutch your arms, as if holding yourself together.
Then you feel warmth.
A hand on your back. Firm, steady. Not pushing, just there.
Law doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move away either. He lets you cry, lets you break, without judgment or expectation.
And when your knees nearly give out, he catches you, pulling you close, solid and steady, as if to say, I won’t let you fall. And for the first time since Marineford, you let yourself lean on someone else.
A few months passed…
Of course, things don’t magically get better. That’s not how grief works.
But they shift. Slowly. Subtly.
The crew doesn’t bring up that night you ran out of dinner crying, not directly. But you notice how they’re a little gentler now. Bepo always sits next to you. Penguin and Shachi tease you a bit less (but only a bit), and Ikkaku throws you extra portions without saying a word.
They don’t push. They don’t ask. But they see you.
And Law hasn’t changed. Not exactly. He still gives out orders like commands are oxygen, still gets that narrowed-eye look when you mess up during training, and still acts like emotions are an inconvenience.
But you catch him watching you sometimes. When he thinks you’re not looking.
And when you do catch him, he doesn’t look away.
It’s a calm evening, which is rare. The Polar Tang is surfacing for the night, drifting peacefully on the open sea. You’re up on the deck, sitting cross-legged and staring at the stars, enjoying the breeze on your face.
Law’s voice breaks the silence.
“Not hiding in your room tonight.”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s standing a few feet behind you, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.
“I like it up here,” you say, shrugging “it’s quiet. The stars help.”
Law walks over without asking and sits beside you, not close enough to touch, but closer than usual.
You blink “No book tonight?”
He smirks faintly “Even I get tired of reading medical journals.”
You hum and tilt your head back to the sky “Do you ever think about how small we are out here?”
Law doesn’t answer right away “All the time.”
Silence again, but it’s not uncomfortable.
You pick at a loose thread on your pants, then quietly say, “It still hurts.”
“I know.”
You turn to look at him “Do you think it ever goes away?”
Law’s eyes flick to yours, and for a second, his walls drop.
“No,” he says simply “But you get better at carrying it.”
You nod slowly. That makes sense.
You both sit there, the silence stretching, stars spinning above.
Then he speaks again, quiet and careful “You’ve changed.”
You snort “Thanks?”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
You glance at him, surprised.
He’s looking out at the ocean now “When you came aboard, I didn’t think you’d last a week.”
You raise an eyebrow “Wow. Inspiring confidence, Captain.”
He smirks again, but it fades fast “But you stayed. Even after everything.”
“Because of you” you say before you can stop yourself.
Law looks at you, startled.
You feel heat rush to your cheeks but hold his gaze “You saved Luffy. You didn’t have to. And then you let me on your ship. You didn’t have to do that either.”
His voice is low “I didn’t do it for thanks.”
“I know. That’s why it mattered.”
There’s a long pause. Something unspoken crackling in the air between you.
You look back at the sea, heart pounding, trying to ignore how much you want him to say something, anything that will explain what’s been growing between you.
He doesn’t. Not yet.
But he doesn’t move away either.
And when his shoulder brushes yours, just slightly, you don’t pull back.
Two years.
That’s how long it’s been since you joined the Heart Pirates.
And somewhere between near-death missions, long nights on the sea, and quiet moments you didn’t ask for. Something changed.
You and Law changed.
It’s not loud or obvious. Not something you could put into words if someone asked. But it’s there.
Like the way his eyes always flick to you when he walks into a room.
Like how you always end up sitting beside him at meals, even without meaning to.
Like how his voice softens slightly when he says your name.
He still scolds you during training. Still sighs like you’re impossible when you ignore protocol.
And when you’re injured? He’s the first one kneeling at your side. Every time. Without fail.
You don’t talk about it. He doesn’t either.
But it’s real. It’s there. And everyone else knows it.
“Okay, seriously,” Shachi whispers one night as he leans over the dining table toward Penguin, “did you see the way they looked at each other earlier? Like... looked. That was something.”
Penguin nods “They’re either in love or telepathically plotting a murder.”
“I’m going with both” Ikkaku mutters, sipping her tea.
Bepo sighs “We’re not supposed to bring it up.”
“Why not?” Shachi hisses “They’re so obvious, it’s painful.”
“Because of Ace” Bepo says softly “She’s been through a lot. We won’t pressure her.”
That shuts everyone up for a beat.
Until Shachi mumbles “Still feels like they’re circling each other in slow motion.”
Ikkaku stabs a dumpling with unnecessary aggression “Just kiss already. I’m begging.”
You catch them watching you sometimes, too many times to pretend it’s subtle.
Whenever you and Law share a look, the whole room seems to pause.
Whenever he lingers a second too long beside you, or his hand brushes yours, the crew’s collective poker face fails miserably.
But Law ignores it all. Just keeps moving forward, like it doesn’t affect him.
Like he doesn’t know that your heart skips every time he calls your name in that low, measured tone.
And you pretend not to notice either. Pretend your stomach doesn’t twist when he leans in too close. Pretend you don’t feel the shift every time your eyes meet.
But in the quiet moments, when it’s just you and him, you feel something hanging there between you. Like something is building.
The unspoken thing between you and Law has only grown heavier by time. Stolen glances, the rare soft tone in his voice when he says your name, the way your hand always finds the spot next to his at the table.
You’ve gotten used to reading him, how to tell when he’s irritated, when he’s tired, when he’s secretly impressed. But now, something’s off.
He’s quiet lately. More than usual. Locked in his quarters for hours at a time. Studying maps, muttering things you can’t hear. And when you ask, he brushes it off with a flat “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Which, of course, only makes you worry more.
One night, dinner is unusually tense.
Shachi and Penguin whisper from across the table, not even trying to hide it anymore.
“She’s gonna find out soon.”
“She already knows. Look at her face.”
“She knows something,” Bepo mutters “But she doesn’t know it’s Dressrosa.”
You set your spoon down “What’s Dressrosa?”
The table falls into silence.
Ikkaku winces “Damn it.”
You stare at them all “What’s happening?”
Nobody speaks.
So you stand, chair scraping behind you, and walk straight out of the mess hall.
You find Law in the control room, his face locked over a table full of charts. Dressrosa is circled in red.
He doesn’t flinch when you walk in.
You close the door behind you “You’re going there.”
He nods once “Yes.”
“You weren’t going to tell me.”
Law straightens up, but doesn’t meet your eyes “It’s not your concern.”
“It is my concern,” you snap “I’m your crew too, just like the rest of them.”
He finally looks at you “That’s exactly why you’re staying with them.”
There’s a long beat of silence. Just you and him, staring, and the space between you suddenly feels like a chasm.
“You’re doing it again” you say softly “Pulling away. Trying to protect everyone by shutting us out.”
Law’s expression flickers with guilt, regret and frustration.
“I’m handling it.”
“No, you’re running. You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You're not scared...” You step closer, voice breaking “You’re terrified of letting people care about you. You think if you keep pushing us away, it won’t hurt when something happens.”
You lower your voice “But it will. It always does.”
He stares at you, like he’s waiting for you to stop.
You don’t.
“You think I don’t see what this is between us? You think I haven’t felt it for a long time now?”
He says nothing.
You take a breath “You’ve given me so much, Law. You gave me a second life after Ace. You gave me something to live for again.”
Your throat tightens “And now you’re just gonna disappear into some revenge mission and pretend like none of this matters?”
His eyes darken “It does matter.”
You blink “Then say it.”
Law opens his mouth, then closes it again.
You shake your head, heart cracking open “Forget it.”
You turn to leave.
But before you touch the door...
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says behind you “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
You stop. But you don’t look back.
You don’t sleep that night.
You lie in your bunk, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of that conversation. The look in Law’s eyes. The silence where his answer should’ve been. The ache in your chest that’s only getting worse.
When you hear footsteps above deck a little before dawn, you know it’s him.
You throw on a jacket and follow without thinking.
He’s there, standing at the edge of the deck, the sea wind catching his coat. Alone.
He turns slightly when you approach “You should be asleep.”
“You should be explaining yourself.”
His mouth twitches. A ghost of a smile. Gone in an instant.
You cross your arms “You were really gonna leave without saying goodbye.”
Law looks ahead again, gaze fixed on the horizon “Goodbyes make it harder.”
You take a breath “Harder for who?”
Silence.
You step beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm “I meant what I said yesterday.”
“I know.”
“And?”
He exhales slowly “You shouldn’t love someone like me.”
Your heart lurches “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
“I know who you are,” you snap “I’ve seen you save strangers without blinking. I’ve seen you risk your life for your crew. For Luffy. For me.”
You pause, voice low “I love all of that. And if you leave now, and something happens to you—”
You look at him fully now “Don’t make me lose someone else I love, Law. Not without even getting to hold onto you first.”
His jaw tightens. He says nothing.
So you laugh, bitter and soft “Of course. You don’t say anything you don’t think you deserve to feel.”
You start to turn away, tears building, when he says “I do.”
You freeze.
He’s looking at you now. Fully. No mask.
“I do feel it. All of it.”
He steps forward, slow and certain, until he’s close enough that you can see the storm in his eyes and hear the quiet panic in his breath.
“Every time you laugh. Every time you sit next to me without saying a word. Every time I catch myself looking at you and don’t know how to stop. I feel it.”
Your lips part, but you don’t speak. You can’t.
“I didn’t want to,” he says, voice barely above a whisper “But it happened. And now I don’t know how to leave without feeling like I’m leaving part of myself behind.”
Your throat burns.
“So don’t,” you whisper “Don’t leave like that. Not with nothing.”
He hesitates.
Then, he leans in slowly, unsure, and presses his forehead to yours.
Not a kiss. Not yet. But it says everything.
“I’ll come back,” he promises “And when I do… if you’re still here—”
“I will be.”
A breath passes between you. His hand brushes your cheek like he’s still convincing himself you’re real.
Then he pulls away.
“Stay safe” he says.
“You too, Law.”
And with one last glance, he disappears down the dock, coat billowing, heart heavy, and not just with revenge anymore.
The moment your feet hit the ground of Zou, you’re paralyzed. The chaos of the crew bustling around you, the excitement in the air, everything feels too loud. It’s all too much. You’ve been bracing for this moment for what feels like an eternity, but now that it’s here, you can’t breathe.
You’ve heard the whispers that he’s finally back, felt the crew’s excitement bubbling up like they’re about to burst. But nothing could prepare you for the reality of seeing him alive. You knew they won, you knew he was out there, somewhere, but seeing him in front of you again… it’s different.
Your heart races. The crew is already moving forward, pulling you along because you’re too shocked to even move on your own. They don’t even try to hide it, they want to see this happen.
And then there he is.
The crew appears from the bushes and trees around him.
Law stands tall at the center of the clearing, his eyes scanning the crew as they move toward him, his usual cold demeanor barely cracked by the soft, almost imperceptible smile on his lips as he sees Bepo charging toward him before he could even find you with his eyes. The sight of him makes everything inside you freeze.
It’s not that you didn’t know he was alive, but now, standing here, seeing him with your own eyes, it feels real.
Bepo throws himself at Law, tears in his eyes as he cries out, “Captain!” The hug is tight, emotional, the kind of reunion you would have imagined, one that speaks of the bond between them, of loyalty and friendship. Law’s arms stiffen at first but then soften, holding Bepo close, the smile on his face genuine if not a bit awkward.
You stand there, caught in the wave of emotions that’s rushing through you. Relief, yes, but something else too...fear. Fear of what this means. You haven’t let yourself think about it that much, but now, with him standing there before you, something shifts. It’s the first time in two years you feel your heart thundering like it did when you first met him, when you started noticing those little things about him, the quiet ways he showed his care.
But now… he’s here.
Bepo pulls back, laughing through his tears “I’m so glad you’re alive, Captain!”
Before Law can even respond, someone else, maybe Ikkaku, maybe Shachi, pulls Bepo away gently, guiding him back to the group.
And then Law finally sees you.
There’s a moment, a breath of time where you feel like the whole world is holding its breath. You didn’t expect the distance between you to feel so large. You didn’t expect to feel so small.
You stand still, unsure of what to do, your legs suddenly heavy, like they’re made of stone. You know the crew, everyone, is watching, but none of that matters right now. You’re looking at him, really seeing him for the first time in so long, and it feels like everything inside you is falling apart.
He hasn’t changed. He still has that same unreadable expression, but something about the way he looks at you now is different. His eyes linger, and in them, you see the same thing you’ve always seen, quiet intensity. But there’s a softness now, a faint warmth.
You don’t move.
You can’t move.
It’s not fear. It’s… shock. You thought you were ready. You thought you were prepared. But seeing him here, right in front of you, it’s more than you can process in a single moment. The flood of emotions, the relief, the joy, the terror, all rush through you all at once, and it feels overwhelming. You never realized how much you needed this, how much you’ve missed him, until now.
And then, slowly, Law begins to walk toward you, his movements steady, calculated, like he’s taking his time, giving you space. When he stops in front of you, there’s a long pause. His eyes are searching your face, studying you, like he’s waiting for something. You’re afraid to look into them, to let him see how much you’ve been holding back.
And then, softly, he speaks “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and you finally look up into his eyes. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. The relief is too much. The pain of missing him, of not knowing if you’d ever see him again, it all comes crashing down, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek.
Law’s eyes flicker to it, and without a second thought, he reaches out, his hand gently brushing it away “You don’t have to hide it” he says, his voice low and careful.
“I—” You try to speak, but your voice cracks. You can’t say what you need to. It’s too much. Everything is too much.
Law stands there, his hand still lingering near your cheek, and you can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t rush. He just stands there, waiting for you to breathe, for you to find your voice.
And when you finally do, it’s quiet “I thought I lost you. I—I didn’t know if I could—”
“You didn’t lose me.” His words are simple, but they cut through the noise in your head. He steps closer, his hand sliding from your cheek to rest gently on your shoulder, the contact grounding you “I’m here. I told you I would be.”
And in that moment, you let yourself believe it.
You don’t know what’s going to happen from here, but for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re not standing alone anymore. Law is here, and he’s not going anywhere.
Zou is loud again.
After the quiet weight of seeing Law alive, after the press of his hand on your shoulder, after the whirlwind that followed, now everything is moving. New plans are forming. Straw Hats talking over each other. Heart Pirates buzzing about what’s next. Minks giving updates. It’s chaos. Familiar chaos. The kind you hadn’t realized you missed.
You find Luffy just outside one of the tree dwellings, scarfing down food like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, which, to be fair, is probably true.
“Luffy” you say, your voice unsure but soft.
He looks up, mouth full “Y/n!” He jumps to his feet and wraps you in the kind of hug only Luffy can give, tight, fast, and a little chaotic “You’re okay! You’re really here!”
You nod against his chest, your throat tight “You too…”
“Of course I am!” he grins like it’s the most obvious thing in the world “I knew we’d all meet again. I told you!”
He pulls back and beams at you “We’re gonna get Sanji back. Me, Nami, Chopper and Brook. You should come too! With me!”
You freeze.
Your eyes dart past the Straw Hats, past the Heart Pirates, until they land on him. Law is leaning near a shaded post, arms crossed, watching the scene from a distance. You can feel his eyes on you.
You start to answer Luffy, but someone else cuts in.
“She’s not going.”
It’s Law.
He’s walking toward you both now, slow and steady, like the decision was already made before this conversation even started.
Luffy blinks “Huh?”
Law stops beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours “She’s staying with me. With the Heart Pirates.”
You look up at him, startled. You hadn’t even told him you would yet. But he’s not looking at you, he’s looking straight at Luffy.
Nami steps closer, eyebrows raised like she knows exactly what’s going on “Luffy, read the room…”
Luffy blinks again, slowly turning to you “Wait. What? Since when?”
You open your mouth, but the words don’t come.
“I—” You shake your head “I was going to tell you. I just… I didn’t know how.”
“Why not?” Luffy tilts his head, confused as ever “You like Law, right?”
Your eyes widen “Luffy…”
“It’s fine,” he says with a shrug “I mean, I get the way you’re looking at him right now. I just didn’t know it was, you know… like that like that.” He grins.
You stare at him, stunned “You’re not… mad?”
“Why would I be mad?” he says, blinking like the very idea is weird “You think Ace would be mad?”
You swallow hard, throat tightening at the mention of Ace’s name.
“I just...” Your voice cracks “I didn’t want to disappoint him. Or you. He… he loved me. And I loved him. And I didn’t think I’d ever be able to—”
“Y/n.”
Luffy’s voice is soft. Even softer than usual.
He smiles again, big and warm and bright “Ace would be happy. Really happy. Because you’re not alone anymore. He wouldn’t want you to be.”
You blink fast, trying to keep the tears back, but it’s no use “You really think so?”
“I know so,” Luffy says, tapping his chest “Because Ace told me you were the best thing that ever happened to him. He said if anything ever happened to him, I had to take care of you. You found someone who can take care of you even better than me, and I’ll always support you like my sister.”
That breaks something in you. You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to cry outright.
Nami steps up beside Luffy, resting a hand on your back “He’s right, you know. We’ve all known for a while now. About you and Law. After we met Law and Luffy asked him about you, it was pretty obvious even if the man here has the most unreadable face. It’s just Luffy that is always too oblivious.”
Law, still at your side, hasn’t said a word. But his presence is steady, anchoring. His eyes stay on you.
Luffy grins and throws his arm over your shoulder, dragging you into another hug “I’m happy for you, Y/n. And Ace would be too.”
You press your face against his chest again, this time not hiding the tears “Thank you.”
Law leans in slightly, his voice low near your ear “You didn’t have to be scared.”
You glance up at him, smiling through your tears “I know. But it still scared me.”
“I get it,” he says “But you don’t have to worry. And you can talk to me about your fears, I won’t leave you alone.”
And somehow, for the first time, you believe it.
The sun is dipping behind the massive trees of Zou, painting everything in golden light. The others are gone now, off to find Sanji. The moment they disappeared over the horizon, the world got quiet again.
Too quiet.
You sit at the edge of the overlook, watching the sky shift from orange to deep indigo. The wind brushes through your hair, soft and cool. You hug your knees to your chest, letting yourself breathe for what feels like the first time in days.
And then you hear his footsteps behind you.
“You’re always out, watching the sky when it gets dark” Law says, voice even.
You don’t look at him, not yet “It’s peaceful. Beautiful. Easier to think.”
He stands beside you for a second, silent, then sits down next to you with a small sigh. The space between you hums. Not touching, but not distant either.
You glance over. His hat’s off. That always does something to you. Makes him look realer. Softer. More… him.
“You really told Luffy I was staying with you” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips “Didn’t even bother ask me.”
“You were going to stay anyway” he replies, tilting his head toward you.
“I might’ve,” you murmur, teasing “Might’ve said no. Might’ve gone off on my own. Who knows.”
He looks at you, dead serious “You wouldn’t.”
You meet his eyes “How do you know?”
“Because you’ve looked at me the same way I look at you. You wouldn’t want to separate again.”
Your breath catches.
The silence after that is thick, like the air itself is holding its breath with you.
“I was scared,” you whisper “Of what it meant. Of what it felt like. After Ace… I didn’t think I was allowed to feel this way again.”
“I know,” Law says, just as quietly “That’s why I never pushed.”
You look down at your hands “But you stayed.”
His voice is steady “I wasn’t going to be another person you lost.”
That’s when your heart cracks, but in a good way. The dam you’ve been holding back breaks just a little. You turn to him, really look at him. The way the fading light touches his face, the faint worry in his brow, the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything.
“Say it,” you breathe “Just once.”
Law doesn’t hesitate “I love you.”
And you’re already leaning in by the time he says the last word.
The kiss is slow and gentle. His hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek. Yours clutches his coat, grounding yourself.
It’s not desperate. It’s relieved.
When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you a little breathless.
You whisper “I love you too.”
He smirks “You were worth the wait.”
Your smile widen and just as his small smile/smirk.
“FINALLY!”
You both flinch apart like you were struck by lightning.
Law whips around, eyes narrowing “What the hell—”
From behind a cluster of bushes near the edge of the clearing, three heads pop out in rapid succession: Shachi, Penguin, and Ikkaku. Bepo follows a second later, way too big to be hiding, but he tries anyway.
“We knew it!” Shachi shouts.
“I said it would happen today!” Penguin crows, fist-pumping like he just won a bet.
“I told you she was gonna make the first move” Ikkaku says smugly.
“You literally did not” Penguin says.
Bepo tries to look innocent “I was just... uh... making sure they were okay…”
You bury your face in your hands, heat flooding your cheeks “Oh my god!”
Law groans, dragging a hand down his face “How long were you there?”
“Long enough” Ikkaku grins.
“To hear everything” Shachi adds.
“I hate all of you” Law mutters.
“Don’t lie to us, Captain,” Penguin says, smug “You’re glowing.”
“I am not glowing.”
“You kind of are” Bepo mumbles.
You let out a breathy laugh, cheeks still flushed, but honestly, it’s kind of perfect. This dumb, messy, ridiculous crew, you didn’t know how badly you needed them until they showed up in your life. Until he showed up in your life.
“Alright,” Law snaps, pushing to his feet and brushing off his coat, “You saw what you wanted. Now go. Before I use Room.”
That gets them moving fast.
Shachi and Penguin scramble like cockroaches, dragging Bepo behind them while Ikkaku throws a wink over her shoulder “You’re cute together! Don’t screw it up!”
They disappear, giggling like kids.
You turn back to Law, trying not to laugh “So… that happened.”
He sighs, but there’s the faintest smile tugging at his lips “We’re never gonna hear the end of it.”
“Nope.”
A pause.
“…Still worth it?” you ask, teasing.
He glances at you. And then, softly “Always.”
#REQUEST#one piece#one piece x y/n#one piece x you#one piece x reader#one piece law#one piece fanfiction#one piece fanfic#trafalgar law#trafalgar one piece#trafalgar law x reader#law x reader#ace x reader#law x you#trafalgar law x y/n#trafalgar law x you#law x y/n#portgas ace x reader#one piece fic#one piece scenarios#one piece x yn#law fluff#law fic#law scenarios#law x yn#trafalgar law headcanons#one piece imagine#law angst#one piece angst#trafalgar d water law
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Not sure if you’ve ever done something like this, but I think a miraculous ladybug style love square featuring Danny would be absolutely hilarious. It can be with literally any bat (I’m partial to either Damian or Tim, but honestly any would be amazing). But literally just Danny coming to Gotham and going out as Phantom, running into the bat of choice and BOOM instant crush. And then Danny running into that same bats civilian ID and BOOM another instant crush going the opposite direction. Not particularly picky about who has the civilian crush, and who has the vigilante crush, but we would definitely need to see interactions between all four identities a la Miraculous.
Danny Fenton loathes Bruce Wayne. It's not because Sam's parents have often attempted to pawn off their daughter onto the guy or that Danny, as her once boyfriend, felt threatened by him. He can see the intelligence in Bruce's eyes, and the man still acts the way he does.
What's worse is that they are the same age, which means when Sam's parents started pushing for her to attend galas at age fifteen, Danny had been forced along to help deflect annoying rich boys. He met Bruce hiding behind curtains, making faces at his butler when the older gentleman attempted to push fifteen-year-old Bruce back onto the dance floor.
He would have felt sympathy for the wealthy heir—being an orphan so young with everyone around him foaming at the mouth for his wealth and titles was rough on anyone—were it not for how he spoke to poor Mr. Pennyworth.
Bruce acted like Mr.Pennyworth was an accessory to his image, as if the man wasn't treating him with the obvious care and attention one would a son.
Danny found his feet, leading him to Wayne just as the teenager instructed Mr.Pennyworth to wait in the car—four hours, four hours, in the freezing cold!
The first words he ever said to Bruce Wayne were, "You do not talk to him like that, you self-centered jerk!"
Then he had to dodge a fist because apparently Wayne had anger issues, but Danny had been dodging ghosts for an entire year. He sidesteps and pushes the boy on his ass. Mr.Pennyworth seemed frozen by the wall, and Wayne dared to stare up at him like someone standing up to him was such a wonder.
Sam had called him away, so with a long look down his nose at the rich boy, he spun around and strutted away.
___________________________________________________________
Bruce Wayne adored Danny Fenton.
Ever since the firecracker appeared in his life, with a grace that rivaled even his best of masters, Bruce has been infatuated with him. Fenton came from a small town in Illinois as a guest of the Manson family.
The Manson were new money, having only developed their wealth two generations ago. They had no real social connections and lived in the middle of nowhere. Mr. and Mrs. Manson were eager to pair their daughter off with someone with better standing, but it is evident that they only pushed a little for her to find a rich husband.
They wouldn't have allowed Fenton to tag along if they genuinely wanted their daughter to build connections through marriage. The couple just seemed to want their daughter to stop being goth.
The teenager was unapologetically middle-class, and Bruce found himself watching Fenton move about Galas with a defiant air that left him breathless. He insulted people to their faces, returned passive aggression tenfold, and someone tried to talk down to him; Fentn had the brain to quickly turn the tides.
The Manson's standing shouldn't have shielded him, not when they barely had any social power, yet somehow no one dared to bother Fenton outside of events. It was all so fascinating.
Fenton didn't often come to Gotham, as the Mansons mainly stayed in their own little part of the world, but every year, without fail, they were there for the Charity event in Spring and the Halloween Fest. The dark-haired, sharp-eyed eye, blue-eyed boy would be at Miss Manon's side, muttering into the goth girl's ear.
Bruce's heart constantly fluttered when the days were approaching the two high society events because it would mean seeing Fenton again. Years passed with Alfred attempting for Bruce to strike a friendship with Fenton, but something always made Bruce nervous.
Excited and nervous, like he was about to hit the drop of a rollercoaster. It was a rush whenever their eyes locked, even if Fenton's hardened into a dangerous glare.
Eventually, Bruce went off to do his training, finally getting close to his goal of making the rot of Gotham pay. He didn't see Fenton for a while, and the angry teenager lingered in the back of his mind until Bruce rocked back to Gotham with his new Brucie persona.
Only to have his jaw drop the moment he caught sight of Fenton. The boy was now the CEO of VladCo. after his godfather had taken a sabbatical for medical reasons. Fenton was still unapologetic about his roots and seemed enraged whenever Bruce brought out his playboy persona.
"Cut the crap," Fenton hissed into Bruce's face, unaware of the swarm of butterflies in his stomach. "We both know you're not dumb. I can see your intelligence, and how you're downplaying it is sickening."
Bruce fought the urge to fan himself, heart racing, as he smiled absentmindedly. "Whatever do you mean?"
Fenton made a screech of outrage before turning and stomping away. Bruce hated watching him go, but he loved to watch him leave.
"Sir," Alfred muttterd as he stepped up behind him. Bruce snapped out of his staring, turning his head slightly to pick up the man's whispered words better. "A break-in at Gotham Bank. Nine hostages"
"Understood." He made a show of diving into the fountain with Fenton, looking like he would pop a blood vessel as an excuse to leave. As he drives, Bruce Wayne fades into Batman in more ways than a costume change, and his mind races with plans to save the hostages.
He just hopes that Dofus Phantom doesn't get in his way again. The ghost would pop up randomly in his city, and no matter how many times Batman threatened him, the idiot came back again and again.
Phantom had no detective mindset. He stopped crimes right before him without considering the bigger picture. Dofus probably died in a small town with low crime rates. He didn't understand the complications of deep corruption, power vacuums, or gang violence.
Out of all the people who could have turned into a poltergeist, it had to be the clumsy fanboy Phantom.
#dcxdpdabbles#dcxdp crossover#Spirt Halloween ship#Flip of a coin#Part 1#Bruce likes Danny#Danny hate Bruce#Phantom likes Batman#Batman hates Phantom#Love square#Growing up toghter somewhat
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For you Ekko reqs, may I suggest R and Ekko hurt/comfort where Ekko slowly confides with R about what happened at the end of show (like probably a year or 2 of Ekko trying to process everything) and how he sometimes wished he stayed at the alt timeline? 🥲 Just him processing his grief of everything while R comforts him. Mans deserves better
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Ahhhhh writing this made me tear up ngl 🥲 I hope you like it! ❤️❤️❤️
Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader
Word count: 1.3k
Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, can be read as platonic, cw violence mention, cw injury mention, cw blood and death mention, hurt/comfort.
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“Ekko?” Your call is carried by the cool autumn wind, breeze fluttering your lashes as you stare at his back. You see him shrink in his seat, face hidden on the crook of his elbow. Walking closer, footsteps clanging against the metal balcony where you always find him on the same day it all happened. “You'll catch a cold up here.”
Piltover shines in front of you, warm light flickering off by the windows as people settle in for the night. But the glimmering fire paper still flies above the city, its light fading as it burns out in the breeze. It's the anniversary of that day, the day Piltover and Zaun saw war right on their doorstep.
Your arm aches, a phantom pain ebbing in and out when your mind goes back to that exact day where the sky was covered in searing smoke, and the streets splashed in warm crimson. Thumb brushing along your scar, it's a mark, a reminder of what was lost that day.
After a minute, Ekko sighs, still unmoving on his spot. “I'm not leaving.”
“I'm not trying to make you leave.” You fetch the blanket that was folded and draped over your shoulder. “I have a blanket for you. If you want it.”
He turns his head slowly over to you, mind playing tricks on him as he sees the flash of you bleeding and yelling for him. Eyes bloodshot, skin clammy and marred with blood. As fast as it came, he blinked and it's gone. Vision returning to the present, the present that wouldn't be possible if not for his sacrifice.
“Don't just gawk at me, bossman,” you smile gently at him, the blanket now unfurled in front of you, ready to drape it over his trembling form. “Do you want it or not?”
The corner of his lip curls up in a small smile, his eyes are tired, weighed down by the world. “Come sit down?”
He has never asked you to join him. You always left him alone up here whenever the anniversary comes around, thinking that's what he needed. But you always waited patiently just outside the door, sitting down on the cold steps while you let grief wash over you like the tides. Until it's time to pick yourself up again at the sound of the door opening. His hand helping you up wordlessly, grief holding the two of you in place, mourning together silently. When morning comes, everything seems to go back in place. The sun still shines, the world still breathes. But it lingers, that grief that has etched itself in your bones, sorrow that lives in his chest, weighing him down but never letting it fester and spread.
You two continue to fight, to improve the very place where blood has been spilled. Carry their memories, their names and their voices until the end. Lest their sacrifices would be in vain. Ekko's sacrifice would be in vain. He deserves better, to not bear the heaviness left in his soul.
“Are you just gonna gawk there or will you take a seat?” He uses your own words against you.
“Can't help it,” you say, heart pounding in your chest as you take a seat right next to him. Giving him enough space, but close enough to see his heavy eyes marred by unshed tears. “You look good under the moonlight.” You joke in an attempt to make him smile.
Ekko manages to chuckle softly, letting you drape the fluffy blanket around his shoulders. Your warm fingers grazing along his cool skin, sending goosebumps on his lean arms.
“Do you find my frown charming?”
You smile kindly, knuckles brushing down his goosebumps. “It’s the tear stained cheeks that gets me everytime.”
He scoffs with a small smile, attention turned towards the Piltover sky. The smell of burnt paper and violets linger in the air, frown deepening at his racing thoughts.
“Will you stay?”
With trepidation, you take his hand in yours, giving him enough time to pull away. He doesn't, instead, he weaves his fingers around yours. His grip is weak, but you can feel how much he needed it by how his eyes stare at your joined hands.
“Of course, whatever you need, Ekko.” You'll stay forever if he asks.
He nods, eyes staying downturned. “I wanted to stay at that place.” Letting out a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, trying to remember what they look like in his mind's eye. Faces that he once thought that he'll never see again. Faces that he had to say goodbye to. “But that would be selfish. I couldn't—” you squeeze his hand. “—I couldn't just leave this place and let it burn.”
The last two years have melded together in your head. All those months of waiting for him at the edge of the hideout, never losing hope, not even when they declared him dead. And then the war came, and you two didn't have the time to reunite, until it ended with you laying half dead on the streets of Piltover. Waking up to him holding your hand in a grip, wishing for you to open your eyes. And you did. A year later, he comes to you, angry and furious, wanting to let it all out. You still remember the day he told you exactly what happened when he disappeared for months like it was yesterday.
He recalls it all like it was a dream, a dream that was destined to be forgotten once he awakes. He didn't want to wake up, not when everything he always dreamed of was there. He gripped onto you tightly that day, held onto you until the sun rose. Nothing was left unsaid, his story left a hole in your heart, wishing that you've seen it for yourself. But you're afraid that you wouldn't be strong enough to leave, as strong as him who made a difficult choice to leave.
He has experienced unthinkable loss, a longing you've never felt. You don't have the exact words to comfort him, to soothe his want, so you move closer to him, fixing where the blanket has fallen and wrapping it over his body like a warm cocoon. You could only hope that it's enough, but you know it will never be enough.
Ekko tucks his head on your shoulder, hand finding its way over to your raised scar. His thumb traces along the skin, feeling your warmth and in turn comforting you. He knows the pain you're in too, he witnessed it, all the nights you've hid away only to come back with red eyes and grief etched on your face.
“I couldn't leave you and Zaun behind.” He mumbles against your shoulder.
Your heart wretches out of your chest. “It wouldn't be selfish.” You say, whispering it into the air around you. “I think— I would've done what you wanted to do. I wouldn't be strong enough to leave, but you did.” He leans away, eyes soft and shining under the moonlight as he meets with your eyes. “You're brave, Ekko. You might not want everyone to know what you had to do to save everyone, but I know. And I'm forever grateful for what you did. For what you have sacrificed so we could live. I'll remember it until I can't, even then, I'll try not to forget.” Cupping his jaw, you watch as a tear slides down. You wipe it away gingerly, smiling at him as he leans against your warmth, eyes closing, shoulders slumping with every word you utter. “You did well, Ekko.”
He moves forward, leaning his forehead against your own, affection radiating off him. “Thank you.”
“We'll be okay. We have time.”
“I know.” He has seen it, one day that dream will come true.
With a tender squeeze, his hand takes the other edge of the blanket, pulling and covering you with its warmth right next to him.
#request done#ekko fanfiction#ekko fanfic#ekko x reader#the kr8tor's creations#arcane ekko#arcane ekko x reader#ekko arcane x reader#cw violence mention#cw injury mention#cw blood and death mention#ekko imagines#arcane x reader#arcane fanfic#arcane fanfiction#ekko x you#ekko hurt/comfort#x reader#fanfic#ekko x fem! reader
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pa said the well's run dry he said the bank came out yesterday and said we're gonna have to sell the blog and get work in the city like the rest of folks less we can come up with something real quick. he was all ready to sign the papers today but i begged him to wait to give me time to find something anything and he sighed and said he could give me a week and not a minute more. and i nodded and i cried because he was right when he said there was next to nothing i could do and even if i did find a miracle. all our neighbors shuffled off weeks months years ago because the posts dried up and the bank came knocking. i break open my piggy bank hoping there's enough drafts in there to tide us over. i sit there. and i have to decide if it's worth spending everything i have just to buy us an extra day. and i know this extra day will consist of walking around mute and shellshocked. and i decide. it's worth it. i give pa all my drafts and he looks at me and shakes his head and his voice cracks when he says i better keep hold of those for getting settled in the city. i could fight him. i don't. i leave all my drafts on the table and storm out the back door. there must be something. they must have just missed it. pa says he knows this blog better than anyone. but i grew up here, same as him. and as much as he loves it, i love it more. when i was seven years old he tore the place apart looking for me after i wandered off. but i wasn't lost. i'd found a tag to play in, happy as could be. he never found me, or the tag, i just wandered back out when i got hungry. it's pa's blog, but it's my home. i know where the creeks and streams and ponds are. i know if i look hard enough, i can find a new posting well.
day one, i strike out. i wake up before dawn. i come in after dusk with no posts to show for it. pa's boxing up our plates when i walk in. he doesn't say anything. i don't either.
day two, i wander a further. yesterday, i was following a map with areas of interest marked in order of likelihood of success. today, i pick a direction and walk. i have more to show for it, if only barely. i get home with one bucket of posts. pa tells me i should keep them.
day three i wake up because pa's dragging furniture into the yard for a yard sale. when i ask him what he's doing he says he'd rather be paid flop drafts by our neighbors than flop drafts by the bank. i walk back inside. get my map. i get home after midnight with empty hands.
day four. when i wasn't looking, the cold single minded determination turned into fear. i'm realizing i'm running out of time. i'm realizing the reason pa didn't put up a fight is because he knew there was nothing out here. i could kill him. what kind of farmer depends on one well? my heart isn't in it today. i head out after noon. i'm back before dusk. there's been a stack of empty boxes sitting outside my room since pa told me the news. i haven't touched them. tonight, i take one and put away some of my things.
day five. there's more ground to cover. it's more out of a sense of completion than anything. so that when we're in the city, i can say, i did everything i could. i looked everywhere. this was the only option. i stop midday for a rest. the ground i put my palms on is curiously softer than the rest. i dig. it comes away easily. it turns into mud. heart thudding in my ears, i keep digging. the mud gives way to a trickle of posts. ears roaring. i keep digging. hands covered in mud. the trickle turns into a stream. i start yelling for pa. i'm too far from the house for him to hear me, but i'm not thinking about that right now. i'm thinking about the posts in front of me, clear and fresh. text posts. gifs. amvs. there's enough to live another twenty years on this blog. i splash my face. i laugh. i fill my bucket. i'll have to bring more. we'll have to get the pump set up. because there are enough new supernatural posts here for me and my children to build a life.
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Soul Astrology-Planets in The Second House
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The Sun in The Second House
You came back carrying the memory of being the one everything else depended on. There was a time, not here, but close, where you learned to stay solid so others could fall apart. You became the warmth. The steadiness. The one who knew what to do when things broke. But deep inside, something quiet unraveled. Because holding everything together meant there was never time to ask: who holds me? This lifetime, the question changes. You’re not here to radiate, you’re here to root. Not to be strong, to be present. The body doesn’t want certainty. It wants consistency. It wants your breath, not your brightness. Your hunger, not your usefulness. This house teaches that safety isn’t something you give away to earn love. It’s something you build slowly, from the inside out, like warmth in your own chest that doesn’t leave when the door closes. Here, the soul unlearns the need to be the center. Not to disappear but to finally come home to the one place it always abandoned first: itself.
The Moon in The Second House
You came back with weather in your bones. Forecasting feeling before it forms, sensing shifts before they speak. Not magic, memory. A body trained to keep the peace by absorbing the storm. You called it intuition, but it was defense. You called it care, but it was compensation. In another life, you became the shelter before you ever knew what it meant to be sheltered. This time, the soul doesn’t want insight. It wants inwardness. Not the kind that flutters or waits to be needed, the kind that feeds you before anyone else asks for a piece, that lets you belong to your own tides without apology. This isn’t about sensitivity. It’s about letting the body become a container for your own emotion, not a sponge for someone else’s. You don’t need to prove you can feel. You don’t need to explain why you flinch when it’s quiet. You don’t need to mother the world to earn a place inside it. Somewhere deep in the marrow, the tide turns, not to crash, but to become your bloodstream again.
Mercury in The Second House
There’s a flicker in your system that never stops scanning, a rhythm your body remembers before your mind catches up, the kind that formed in lifetimes where knowing was the only way to stay safe, where silence held teeth, and uncertainty came with a cost. So now, thought arrives faster than breath, language rises before sensation, meaning is manufactured before feeling has a chance to speak for itself. But this time, Mercury was placed low and close, not to be fast, to be present. This time, the task isn’t to make sense of everything , it’s to stop sharpening your thoughts into protection, to stop translating your instincts into sentences before they’ve had time to root. The work now is to let your thoughts take shape in the same place your hunger does, to let language take its shoes off. Not to perform clarity, but to practice pause. To let the question sit in your hands without setting it on fire. To let meaning be slow and bodily and unfinished. You are not here to interpret yourself into safety, you are here to learn what it means to listen without leaving.
Venus in The Second House
You came back with your longing wrapped in ribbon, rehearsed into palatability, shaped into something easier to hold, not because you didn’t know how to want, but because you remembered what happened when your wanting arrived unedited. There were lives where desire had to be beautiful to be safe, where closeness meant giving until you disappeared, where you learned to turn softness into currency and affection into a form of control you couldn’t name at the time. So now your body braces around pleasure even as it reaches for it, waiting for the moment when it will be taken, taxed, or turned into a transaction. But this house speaks in a different language, one that unfolds slowly in your chest when no one is looking, the quiet permission to keep what feels good without owing it back, the trust that touch doesn’t have to dissolve you to hold you, the remembering that your tenderness was never meant to be a bargaining chip. This is not about attracting what you want, it’s about letting yourself have it without shrinking under its weight. You don’t have to beautify your needs to make them easier to love. You don’t have to give twice as much just to stay in the room. This time, the soul is learning how to stay full and stay connected without emptying itself to keep the closeness from leaving.
Mars in The Second House
You came back with movement in your mouth, with an instinct to act before asking, to reach before resting, to claim before it’s taken. Not because you’re reckless, but because you remember what it was like to hesitate and lose everything. Your body still carries the echo of urgency, the memory of a door closing just as you arrived, a need rising too late to be met. So now, the muscles brace before the hunger speaks. You want like you’re running out of time. You choose like you’re still being chased. But this house is not a battlefield. It’s a threshold, a place where effort dissolves into permission. Where wanting is not a threat to safety, but a doorway to it. Here, action is not how you survive. It’s how you stay in yourself when there’s nothing left to push against. Mars in this house is the slow unwinding of urgency. The red heat of instinct cooling into trust. The ache that no longer demands to be solved, only stayed with. You are not here to win. You are here to remember that need is not a war. And your body was never meant to be the weapon.
Jupiter in The Second House
You came back full, but uncertain how to hold it. There were lives where you equated having with deserving, where abundance was either a moral test or a divine transaction. You made meaning out of hunger because hunger was all you had and it felt safer to believe it had a purpose than to admit it was just pain. So now, you carry a nervous system that doesn’t fully trust ease. You turn simplicity into philosophy. You turn enough into a question. You look for proof that what feeds you is allowed to stay. But this house asks for something quieter. No sermon. No promise. No narrative of growth. Just this: a bite of food you don’t pray over, a home that doesn’t have to teach you anything, a pleasure that doesn’t come with an epiphany This is not the return of faith, it’s the return of gravity. It’s your soul lowering itself back into your bones until worth is not a principle, but a place you live in.
Saturn in The Second House
You came back shaped like restraint, like someone who learned to survive by holding their breath until the hunger passed, someone who remembers the sound of every door that closed too soon and still flinches when one stays open too long. There were lives where your worth had to be proven in silence, where softness came second to service, where being reliable meant being invisible. And now your body still carries the ache of unspent wanting, the tension of always waiting for permission, the bone-deep belief that ease must be earned, that joy must be delayed, that having too much means it could all be taken. But this house doesn’t ask for proof. It asks for presence, it asks you to let the weight belong to time instead of self, to let the effort fall away without fear of crumbling, to feel the ache without naming it punishment, to let worth arrive without needing to be rebuilt again and again. You are not here to carry the structure anymore, you are here to become the ground beneath it.
Uranus in The Second House
You came back with the voltage still running through you, the memory of how fast everything changed when you got too close, how the ground once loved you and then vanished, how permanence became a kind of trapdoor and closeness felt like a countdown. So, you learned to live with one foot always lifting, one hand still holding the escape hatch, and even now, your body listens for the moment when it all might fall apart, mistrusts the calm, flinches when things don’t move. But this house wants the stillness you were never taught to trust, not as stagnation but as sanctuary, not as a cage but as a room that does not collapse when you sit all the way down. This is not where you lose your freedom, it’s where you learn that staying can be just as electric. That anchoring is not the opposite of aliveness. That you do not have to shatter the thing you love to keep from being buried by it. That sometimes what the soul needs most is not escape, but a steady rhythm in the spine and a place where the sky doesn’t move.
Neptune in The Second House
You came back with the echo of having loved everything but yourself, of merging too early, offering too much, dissolving into other people’s needs until your own became untraceable. Somewhere, you learned that to be good was to disappear. That to be wanted meant to be weightless. That the more you gave away, the more you might be allowed to stay. Now, the body drifts at the edges of certainty. You touch things carefully, wondering if they’re real or about to vanish. You hesitate when comfort arrives, not because you don’t want it, but because something in you still believes that having must come with consequence, that too much presence will cost you something essential. But this house is not asking for sacrifice. It’s asking for shape. It wants your longing to land, not escape. It wants your hands around something that doesn’t slip through. It asks you to stop turning ache into offering. To stop romanticizing absence. To stop calling hunger beautiful just because it’s familiar. This is not the dissolving kind of love. This is the kind that pours slowly, stays warm, fills a body without flooding it. You are not here to disappear again. You are here to learn how to receive fully and let what stays become real enough to trust.
Pluto in The Second House
You came back with a burial ground inside you, not for what it holds, but for what it never let grow again. A kind of grief that taught the soul how to clench, how to guard, how to look at anything beautiful and brace for the breaking. Somewhere in your lineage, having became dangerous. Desire led to devastation. Stability was a setup for collapse. So now the body carries its own perimeter, instinct before ease, withdrawal before want, armor where softness should have lived. You test what you’re given, you doubt what stays. You don’t mean to, it’s just that your cells remember what the ground felt like right before it gave out. But this house is the undoing of the trapdoor. It asks you to stop rehearsing loss and start practicing weight. To let intimacy live without being interrogated. To hold something precious without watching it rot in your hands. This is not about trust as a concept, it’s about letting the body touch what it fears and not flinch. Letting value be quiet. Letting permanence be possible. You are not here to master control. You are here to learn what it means to keep what doesn't require protection, not because it’s indestructible, but because you don’t have to destroy it first to survive it.
Chiron in The Second House
You came back with the quietest kind of ache, the kind that doesn’t cry out, just clenches slightly when something good reaches for you. Somewhere in your soul’s memory, asking led to silence, and needing made you easier to leave. So you adapted, not by disconnecting from desire, but by keeping it at a distance, safe and imagined, easier to carry when it stayed unmet. Even now, your body reacts before your heart does. You feel closeness as tension, trust as a test. You’re not cold, you just remember too well what it felt like to expect something and watch it slip away. But this house holds the medicine your hands forgot how to touch. It offers nothing dramatic, nothing grand, just the slow, daily practice of letting what you need exist without shame. Letting worth arrive in the present tense. Letting the body become a place where softness doesn’t cost you anything. Healing here isn’t heroic. It’s the moment you eat the whole meal without earning it. The day you let comfort land without narrating why you’re allowed to keep it. The moment your breath deepens, not from release, but because this time receiving doesn’t feel like the beginning of the end.
Lilith in The Second House
You came back carrying the memory of what it cost to be wanted, kept, allowed in. There were lives where inclusion required you to round your edges, to silence the part of you that moved too instinctively, wanted too deeply, claimed too much. You learned to tame your appetite, you learned how to shrink without looking small, how to shape yourself into something smoother, easier to hold, easier to use. The wound here isn’t rage, it’s the quiet erosion of self-trust that happens when your body stops believing it belongs to you.Now, the work is different. This house do asks you to stay inside your form even when it’s misunderstood. To let the wild parts of you come all the way back, not as rebellion, but as restoration. Not as noise, but as knowing. You are not here to be tolerated. You are here to be whole. And wholeness, in this life, might look like letting pleasure take up space without softening it first. Might look like letting your presence be unmade, unframed, unexplained. Might feel like walking into the room without asking what part of you needs to be hidden to be held. You don’t owe anyone your erosion. You’re not here to trade pieces of yourself for peace. This time, you stay in the body like it’s already yours, not because they gave you permission, but because you never needed it.
Vertex in The Second House
You came back looking for a signal, something bright enough to remind you that you exist, something sudden enough to make the moment feel like it means something. There were lives where you only felt alive when you were being pulled toward a person, a crisis, a calling. The quiet was unbearable. The ordinary felt like erasure. So you chased crescendos and called it alignment. You mistook intensity for truth. You learned to read your worth in what disrupted you. But this time, the turning point doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a lesson. It arrives as stillness. As repetition, as the strange discomfort of not having to be anywhere else. The signal you’re waiting for isn’t out there. It’s inside the unremarkable, the coffee made the same way each morning. The way your body exhales when nothing is about to change. This time, you are not here to be shaken. You are here to let the quiet parts of your life count. And that is the new gravity. That is the axis you never thought would hold.
South Node in The Second House
You came back knowing how to stay steady. Not because you were at peace, because you had to be. In other lives, you learned to make safety from repetition. You built routines like fortresses. You survived by staying predictable, by keeping your needs simple, manageable, private. You mastered the art of self-containment. You learned how to provide for yourself so no one else could take anything from you. And for a while, it works. You keep things running. You hold your world together. You become someone others can rely on even as your own hunger grows harder to name. Eventually, the ache arrives: not loud, not sudden, but slow. It comes in the moments when nothing is wrong, yet something is missing. The part of you that’s tired of staying untouched. The part that wants to be altered by love, by loss, by something deeper than control. You’ve done this before, the self-reliant one, the steady one, the quiet provider who asks for nothing and receives even less. But this time, the soul is pulled toward a different edge. The North Node calls not for accumulation, but exchange. Not for stillness, but surrender. Not to survive but to let someone in far enough that survival is no longer the point. You didn’t come back to hold the world together alone. You came back to let something inside you break open and discover that what’s on the other side is not ruin, but a kind of wealth you could never hoard.
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Any Kind Of Life
bob floyd x fem!aviator!reader
call sign: Raven
The Hard Deck looks the same as every pilot bar I’ve ever stepped into: rowdy, golden-lit, thick with the smell of beer and bravado. But tonight, it feels different — heavier, like fate is pushing me toward something I’m not ready for.
I push through the door and am met with music and shouting and pool balls cracking across felt. The place is packed. Figures lean over the bar, laugh at the dartboard, cheer at the jukebox. I spot Phoenix first — she’s got her long legs kicked up on a barstool and a beer in one hand, already laughing at something Fanboy just said.
“Raven!” she calls, grinning when she sees me. “Finally!”
I smirk and shake my head. “Y’all started the party without me?”
“Fashionably late,” she teases, reaching for me. “C’mon, everyone’s here—”
But I stop walking.
Because I see him.
Bob Floyd.
Standing right there, next to Payback and Hangman. Same soft brown curls, same stupidly kind face. Glasses a little fogged from the warmth of the bar. And his smile—
It falters the second he sees me.
The world spins. My breath lodges in my throat. I haven’t seen him in years. Years. Not since—
“Hey, Floyd,” Phoenix says, glancing between us. “You two know each oth—?”
“Are you serious right now?” I blurt, barely louder than the pounding in my chest. My arms are stiff at my sides. “Phoenix. Who invited him?”
She blinks. “What—?”
“You didn’t know?” Fanboy asks, eyebrows raised. “That’s Bob. He’s—”
“I know who he is,” I snap. “Believe me.”
Hangman’s looking between us like he just smelled drama. “Someone want to tell the rest of the class what the hell is going on here?”
Phoenix turns to me slowly. “Girl…”
I laugh — but it’s hollow, humorless. My eyes burn, but I keep going anyway.
“Bob and I…” I gesture vaguely, jaw tight. “We were together. All four years of high school. Freshman year, sophomore year — homecoming, prom, all of it. We graduated together. Sat next to each other. We had plans, real ones.”
Bob shifts uncomfortably, but I don’t look at him.
“And then,” I say, voice cracking, “he took me out for dinner. Thought it was just another date. Turns out it was the last one. Because he sat me down and broke up with me — said he enlisted in the Navy, said he didn’t want me to wait for him.”
Now my eyes sting for real. The heat behind them is unbearable.
“I begged him. Told him we could make it work. That I’d wait. That we were meant for this. And he just—he left.”
A tear falls. I wipe it away fast, like I can erase the whole memory with one swipe. But the bar’s gone quiet around us.
Phoenix stands frozen beside me, mouth parted.
“Excuse me,” I whisper, turning before the dam fully breaks.
I push past everyone — past their pitying stares and confused faces — and shove open the back doors of the bar. The ocean wind hits my face, cool and briny and too much, not enough.
I walk across the sand until my legs give out and I sit, hard, on the beach. The tide rolls in like it doesn’t care that my world just tilted on its axis.
Phoenix joins me a moment later.
She sits quietly beside me, pulling her knees up. “So that’s Bob.”
I huff a broken laugh. “That’s Bob.”
“You loved him.”
“I still do,” I admit. “And I hate that. I hate that I never moved on. I dated, sure, but no one ever came close. He was it for me.”
Phoenix rests her chin on her knee. “Girl… that’s real.”
We sit in silence, letting the waves speak for us.
Back inside, the squad is reeling.
“You let that go?” Hangman asks, brows raised at Bob.
“I didn’t want her to wait for me,” Bob says quietly, eyes still on the door I disappeared through. “Didn’t want her to wonder every day if I’d come back.”
Fanboy leans back. “Man, you broke a baddie’s heart.”
“She’s not just a baddie,” Bob says, voice steady. “She’s the love of my life.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Hangman shrugs, cocky as ever. “Well, if you’re not gonna fix it, I might.”
Bob doesn’t blink.
He walks straight out the door.
Down the beach, Phoenix nudges me. “Company coming.”
I turn and see him.
Bob, lit up by the moon and the distant glow of the bar, walking toward us like he’s moving through fog. When he reaches us, he stops short.
“Phoenix,” he says gently. “Can I talk to her?”
Phoenix looks at me. I nod.
She pats my leg, stands, and leaves without a word.
Bob drops into the sand next to me, not too close, not too far.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says.
“I didn’t know you would be,” I whisper, staring at the waves.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says. “Letting you go. Giving you the chance to find someone who’d stay.”
I look at him now. “You didn’t even give me a choice.”
“I know.” He looks down at his hands. “And I’ve regretted it every day.”
I exhale shakily. “Why now? Why show up now?”
“Because I’m not letting you slip away again. If there’s even a chance that you still feel the same…”
I reach over and take his hand.
“I never stopped.”
He looks at me then, like he can’t believe it.
And under the stars, in the sand, the ache between us finally softens. Not gone — not healed. But maybe… maybe this time, it could be different.
———
The next morning came quick, sun slicing through the slats of the base housing blinds, dragging Raven out of her dreams with the weight of last night still heavy in her chest.
Seeing Bob again had hit her harder than she thought. All those years she spent burying that part of her—four years of flight school, proving herself, pushing past heartbreak—only for it all to unravel the second she locked eyes with him again.
She was up early. Earlier than usual. Earlier than necessary. A run on the beach didn’t clear her head like she wanted, but it helped. The crash of the waves reminded her she was here now. Not in Texas. Not seventeen. Not sobbing into her steering wheel after he left her in that empty diner parking lot.
Back in her room, she pulled on her flight suit, brushed her hair back into a tight ponytail, and stared at herself in the mirror.
You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Raven.
She rolled her shoulders back and headed out.
⸻
The hangar was buzzing by the time she got there—pilots milling around, instructors calling names, someone laughing too loud over the comms. Raven spotted Phoenix near the simulators and walked over, pretending her stomach hadn’t twisted the second she noticed Bob already across the room.
He was talking to Fanboy and Payback, still in his gear, aviators tucked into the collar of his suit. He looked good. Unfairly good.
“Hey,” Phoenix greeted, her voice still tinged with concern from last night’s beach breakdown. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Raven said quickly. “I don’t have time not to be.”
“Copy that,” Phoenix said, but didn’t push.
Just then, Cyclone and Warlock stepped out of the main office.
“Alright, pilots!” Cyclone called out, voice crisp and commanding. “Time to assign today’s exercise teams. You’re gonna pair up with a different pilot than usual.”
Groans from the crowd.
Cyclone continued, “Names will be drawn at random. Let’s keep it professional.”
Warlock smirked as he read the first pair: “Phoenix and Hangman.”
Hangman clapped like he’d just won a trophy. “Luck of the draw, baby!”
Phoenix rolled her eyes and muttered, “More like curse of the skies.”
“Payback and Coyote.”
“Fanboy and Halo.”
Then Warlock looked down at the next card, brows quirking just slightly before reading it out:
“Raven and Bob.”
Her breath caught.
Bob stiffened across the hangar.
They both looked at each other—years, heartbreak, and unspoken words all crashing in a moment of stunned silence.
Someone whistled. Probably Hangman.
“Now that’s a pairing,” he snorted.
Raven crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Let’s get to work, Floyd.”
Bob nodded, nervous as hell, but there was something different in his eyes this time. Something solid. Maybe even determined.
As they walked toward the jets, Phoenix shot her a look that said, You good?
Raven didn’t answer.
Not yet.
———
The sun beat down on the tarmac, heat lines dancing off the metal of the fighter jets as ground crew bustled around prepping gear. Raven pulled her gloves on tight, flexing her fingers once. She could feel him behind her before she even turned around.
Bob.
She hadn’t said a word since their names were called. Not on the walk over, not during brief. She didn’t need to. The silence between them said enough.
“I’ll take lead,” she said flatly, not bothering to look at him as she climbed into the cockpit.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bob replied quietly, tone unreadable.
The cockpit felt smaller than it should’ve—her in the front, Bob right behind her, his voice soft in her ear through the comms as they taxied onto the runway.
“Clear for takeoff, Raven,” his voice said.
“Copy that,” she said.
And then, they were airborne.
Up there, everything else melted away. Her pulse steadied, eyes sharp, hands sure. They worked like they used to—not as teenagers in love, but as pilots. Cohesive. Clean. Sharp turns, clean passes, seamless formations. The only thing left between them was cloud and instinct.
He didn’t say anything unnecessary. Didn’t push. Didn’t falter.
It almost made her mad—how easy it was to fall back into rhythm with him.
The moment their wheels hit the ground again, the weight dropped right back onto her chest.
She popped the canopy and was down the ladder before the techs had even finished clipping safety lines. Boots hit the tarmac. Helmet in hand. Jaw tight.
“Raven—” Bob’s voice called from behind her.
But she was already walking.
Fast.
Toward nowhere in particular. Just away.
Phoenix caught sight of her from across the hangar and frowned. She called out, “You okay?”
“Peachy,” Raven muttered, brushing past her.
Bob stood near the jet, helmet still tucked under his arm, brows furrowed with that same helpless expression she’d seen the night he left her.
Fanboy and Payback were standing a few feet away, whispering.
“Yo, she stormed off,” Fanboy muttered.
Payback elbowed him. “Can you blame her?”
Bob didn’t move. He watched her go, lips parted like he wanted to call out again—but didn’t.
He knew better than to chase her now.
He’d already walked away once.
Now he’d have to earn the right to get close again.
——
The sun was barely kissing the edge of the sky when she slipped out of her flight suit, every muscle in her back tense. Raven’s hands trembled—not from adrenaline, not from fear. From anger. From memory. From him.
“Raven,” his voice came softly behind her, and she didn’t even flinch. She just rolled her jaw, teeth clenched tight, and kept walking toward the locker bay.
“Can we talk?” Bob asked, following.
She snorted, shaking her head. “Now you wanna talk?”
“Please,” he said, not touching her, not daring. “Just—just give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
She stopped, turned on him so fast he nearly walked into her. Her eyes snapped up to his, burning. “You had four years and a goddamn prom night. You don’t get to ask for five minutes.”
Bob looked like she’d slapped him.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said gently, brows drawn. “I just… I didn’t know you’d be here. If I had—”
“Oh, what?” she cut him off, voice cracking at the edge. “You would’ve prepared a speech? Worn a tie? Warned your fiancée I was gonna be on base?”
“There’s no fiancée,” he said immediately.
“Doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “Because I didn’t come here for you. I’m here to fly. That’s it.”
Bob’s lips parted like he wanted to say more. Instead, he swallowed it. Good. She didn’t want an apology. Not when it wouldn’t change a thing.
“I’m not the same girl you left in Texas, Bob,” she said, voice low. “You don’t get to come back into my life and pretend that you are.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned on her heel, boots heavy against the concrete, and walked.
Didn’t look back.
Not once.
———
Raven didn’t cry—not in front of him. But her lungs burned as she stormed past the lockers and out toward the shaded corner near the tarmac, the roar of jet engines covering the sound of her uneven breathing.
Phoenix found her first.
She didn’t say anything right away—just leaned against the chain-link fence beside her, arms crossed like a quiet shield.
“You good?” she finally asked, voice soft.
“Nope,” Raven muttered, throat tight. “But I will be.”
“Didn’t know you two had history. That was a hell of a stare-down.”
“Yeah. We were high school sweethearts,” Raven said with a shaky breath. “All four years. I thought we were forever.”
Phoenix turned her head, brows raised.
“Then he dumped me after graduation. Took me to dinner—like it was a date—just to tell me he was leaving for the Navy and didn’t want me to wait.”
“That’s… cold.”
“I begged him to let me try. Said I didn’t care where he went, I’d wait. But he said no. Said I deserved someone who’d be there.” Her voice cracked again. “So I joined the Navy myself. Got shipped to a different coast. And now I’m here. And so is he. And I hate that he still makes my chest feel like this.”
Phoenix looked like she wanted to reach over and punch someone.
Instead, Hangman sauntered up, looking all too comfortable in the tension.
“Well damn,” he said with a drawl. “I knew there was drama but this is daytime soap levels.”
Raven glared at him. “Now’s not the time.”
Hangman held his hands up, cocky grin still intact. “Look, all I’m saying is—if Bob doesn’t want you now, I do. Been waitin’ for a shot since you walked in, Raven.”
Phoenix elbowed him in the ribs. “Helpful, Bagman.”
He winced, then got a little more serious. “But real talk? Bob’s a good guy. I’ve flown with him. He’s quiet, sure, but he’s solid. Not the kind of guy who lets go of things easy. If he’s lookin’ at you like that? He never stopped thinking about you.”
Raven opened her mouth to respond—when a familiar figure came into view across the tarmac.
Bob. Jogging. Face flushed, curls messy from the wind.
But more than that—he was holding something.
She froze when she saw what it was.
A small, worn photo frame.
She knew that frame. It sat on her nightstand for all four years of high school. A candid photo, taken on one of those disposable cameras: her and Bob on the hood of his truck, grinning like fools. She’d given it to him the night before graduation. He was supposed to take it to his dorm. She thought he’d thrown it out years ago.
But here it was.
“I kept it,” he said breathlessly, slowing to a walk as he approached. “Through every deployment. Every move. It’s been with me the whole time.”
She blinked, the words sticking in her throat.
“You gave it to me because you said it would remind me where home was,” he added. “And it did. Still does.”
Phoenix backed up, quiet as a shadow. Hangman gave Bob a little nod, then dragged himself away too.
And suddenly, it was just the two of them.
“Why now?” she whispered. “Why bring it now?”
“Because I know I don’t deserve anything from you,” Bob said, eyes searching hers. “But if I don’t say something—if I don’t try—I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
The silence between them buzzed like static.
She didn’t move toward him.
But she didn’t move away either.
———
Flashback: “Homecoming”
Senior Year – Wichita Falls, Texas
Bob’s room was small, but clean in the way only a boy raised by sweet southern parents could manage. His cologne lingered in the air, subtle and warm—like cedarwood and something a little nervous.
She stood by his closet mirror, smoothing the fabric of her dress while he fumbled with his tie in the reflection behind her.
“You good back there, Floyd?” she asked, a smirk teasing her lips as she leaned slightly toward the mirror.
“I—yeah, just—this tie is, um, trying to kill me.”
She turned and crossed the room toward him, barefoot for now, hair curled soft around her shoulders, still glowing from the chaos of getting ready. Bob’s hands froze mid-knot, fingers twitching as she stepped into his space.
“Let me.”
She gently took over the knot, her fingers brushing against the base of his throat. Bob tried not to visibly shiver, but she felt it. That tension that had always simmered between them—tender, intense, like lightning waiting to strike.
“You look beautiful,” he blurted, voice too loud in the quiet room.
She paused, looked up.
His cheeks flushed immediately. “I mean. You always do. But… tonight, you just—you look like something I’m gonna dream about for the rest of my life.”
She blinked. Soft. Surprised.
And then that teasing smile returned.
“Well, you clean up pretty nice yourself, Bobby.”
“Bobby,” he repeated, trying not to grin too hard. “You only call me that when you’re about to kiss me.”
She tilted her head, mock-innocent. “Oh really?”
Then she kissed him.
Slow and certain, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. Like there would be a thousand more after tonight. Like their whole future was already written in quiet moments just like this.
When they pulled apart, Bob just stared at her.
“You know,” she said softly, hands still resting on his chest, “I think tonight’s gonna be one of those memories I hold onto forever.”
He swallowed. “Yeah. Me too.”
From the hallway, his mom called out, “You two ready for pictures?”
They both groaned and rolled their eyes in perfect sync—just before lacing fingers and heading down the stairs.
———
Present Day
The Hard Deck was packed, buzzing, alive. Sunglasses hung low, boots up on tables, and egos even higher than the jets parked on the tarmac. You were tucked in a booth with Phoenix, Fanboy, and Payback, sipping on a beer that had long gone warm, eyes darting everywhere but in the direction of Bob Floyd.
He hadn’t approached. Not yet.
And that was fine.
It was better this way.
Then it happened.
That guitar riff. That gritty opening line. That crowd roar.
“Tommy used to work on the docks…”
You froze.
Phoenix turned so fast she almost knocked over her drink. “Is that—?”
“No,” you said quickly, heart already slamming against your ribs. “No way.”
But it was.
It was your song.
Not some slow dance tearjerker or a moody ballad. No. This was the song. The one that played at the end of every high school football game. The one Bob blasted from his truck as you both sang every word at the top of your lungs, no matter how out of breath or off-key. The one you screamed with your head hanging out the window, wind in your hair, his hand tangled with yours over the center console.
You shot to your feet.
“Where are you going?” Fanboy blinked.
“I need air,” you snapped, already pushing through the crowd.
The chorus was coming. You could feel it—Whoa, we’re halfway there…—and if you heard it from inside those four walls, you were going to lose it.
You stepped outside just as the voices inside erupted, all of them screaming the lyrics like it was gospel.
You gripped the railing, knuckles white.
He still remembered. Or someone did. That song hadn’t come on by accident.
“God,” you muttered under your breath.
Then—footsteps.
You didn’t need to turn. You knew.
“Wasn’t me,” Bob said softly from behind you. His voice cracked, like he’d been holding back a thousand thoughts all night. “It just… started playing.”
You didn’t answer.
“I still can’t listen to it without hearing your voice,” he said after a beat. “Especially the scream part. You always screamed the loudest on the ‘prayer’ line.”
You let out a shaky laugh, the memory crashing in: you on his shoulders during that one pep rally, belting it out like it meant something. Like you were invincible. Like love and music and Bob Floyd could carry you through anything.
“We played this at prom,” you whispered.
“I know.”
You finally turned to look at him—and that was a mistake.
Because he looked exactly the same and completely different all at once. That Texas boy softness behind those tired eyes. His hands fidgeting at his sides like he wanted to hold you but didn’t know if he was allowed to anymore.
“I thought you were gone,” you said. “I thought I’d never see you again. And now you’re just… here. Like it’s normal.”
“I never wanted to leave you like that.”
“But you did.”
He stepped closer, slow and careful. “I thought it would hurt less if I walked away first.”
“You were wrong.”
He flinched—genuine, quiet pain flickering across his face. “I kept everything, you know. That varsity jacket you stole from me senior year? Still have it.”
You blinked. “You do not.”
“I do,” he said. “It still smells like your perfume. Kinda faint, but it’s there.”
Inside, the song was finishing—Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear…—and for a second, it felt like senior year all over again. Like maybe you were still just a girl in a borrowed jacket, dancing in a gravel lot under string lights with her high school sweetheart.
And maybe he still was.
“I miss you,” he whispered.
The door creaked again, and you both stiffened—but it was only Phoenix. She caught your eye and nodded, silently asking if you were okay.
You gave a half shrug.
Bob turned to go—then paused. “If you ever wanna sing it again… just say the word.”
Then he was gone.
And all that was left was the echo of your song… and the one person you swore you’d stopped loving.
———
The sun was just starting to sneak through the blinds when Raven stirred, caught somewhere between sleep and memory.
In her dream, she was seventeen again.
⸻
It was fall in Texas. Crisp air, fading heat, and golden light dripping through the trees. Bob’s old truck rumbled down a backroad, country music low on the radio — not twangy, just soft and familiar. She had her feet up on the dash, one of his sweatshirts drowning her shoulders, her head leaned toward the window.
He reached across the console and took her hand without a word.
They didn’t need to talk that day. It had been a long week — tests, parents, future plans hanging over them like storm clouds. But they always came back here when things got too loud. That stretch of quiet backroad that twisted through the fields like a secret.
He pulled off by the little creek near the bridge, where the trees overhead turned everything gold. It was their spot. No one else even knew about it.
They sat on the tailgate for hours. Talking, not talking. His head on her shoulder. Her fingers tracing lazy shapes on his arm.
At one point, he looked up at her with that drowsy half-smile, brushed her hair back behind her ear, and said softly, “I think if I ever love anyone, like really love them, it’s gonna be you.”
She hadn’t answered right away.
She just kissed him.
⸻
The sound of knocking pulled her from the dream, slow and reluctant. The sunlight had warmed the sheets, the room still soft with that golden haze. She blinked at the ceiling, throat tight, heart aching with something that still lived under her ribs.
She hadn’t remembered that day in years.
But now, all of it was so clear. His hoodie. His hand. The way his voice dipped when he said that. The feeling of being so sure, so safe in someone else’s gravity.
More knocking.
“Raven?” Phoenix’s voice. “You alive in there?”
She cleared her throat, forcing her voice to steady. “Yeah. I’m up.”
Phoenix didn’t press. “We’re headed to the hangar soon. Briefing at 0900.”
“I’ll be down in a sec.”
She sat up, rubbing her hands over her face. The dream clung like a second skin — warm, sad, impossibly tender.
Four years ago, she’d been someone’s whole world.
Now?
Now she wasn’t sure what they were.
———
Raven stepped onto the tarmac with her jaw set and her shades on, her Top Gun-issued gear weighed heavy on her shoulders — but nothing heavier than that damn dream still lingering in her chest.
The wind hit her face as she walked, boots hitting pavement in rhythm with her pulse.
Bob was already there.
He was standing beside Phoenix and Fanboy, checking something on his clipboard, but the second his eyes met hers—soft, startled, like he’d been waiting—her stomach flipped.
Don’t do this. Don’t start this again. She looked away fast.
“Morning, Raven!” Phoenix called with that easy grin, but it faltered just a bit when she saw her face. “Hey, you good?”
“I’m fine,” Raven muttered.
Phoenix tilted her head and leaned in, walking closer under the pretense of adjusting her glove. “You don’t look fine.”
“I had a dream,” Raven said, voice low. “About Bob. About us. Before.”
Phoenix exhaled softly through her nose. “Want me to trip him down the stairs?”
That earned her a smile—brief, but real.
“You’re too good to me.”
“Only because you’ve got that mysterious hot ex energy now. That’s dangerous stuff.”
Before Raven could answer, the rest of the crew trickled in—Fanboy, Payback, Coyote… and of course, Hangman, smug as ever with his aviators on and his stupid “I run the room” strut.
“Morning, folks,” Cyclone barked. “Briefing in five. Get your heads in the game.”
Everyone started shifting toward the hangar doors.
Hangman fell into step beside Raven, looking her up and down like he was reading headlines. “So,” he said, grinning, “are you always this intense before you absolutely ruin someone’s life, or is Bob just a special case?”
Raven blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“Oh c’mon,” Hangman drawled. “You walk in like a storm cloud and homeboy looks like he saw a ghost. What did you do to him, sweetheart?”
Raven opened her mouth—probably to go for the throat—but Phoenix caught her wrist just in time.
“Easy, killer,” Phoenix whispered. “Don’t let that walking frat party get in your head.”
But Bob had heard it too.
He was looking at Hangman now, mouth tight, jaw clenched. Like he was seconds from saying something—or doing something.
Then his eyes flicked to Raven.
And there it was—a flash of that same look from the dream. The quiet kind. The kind that said I still mean it. All of it.
Raven dropped her eyes first.
Because she wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
———
The rain started sometime before dawn. Raven barely heard it at first — just the occasional patter on the roof of the barracks — but by the time she stepped outside in her flight suit, it was clear the day was canceled.
Sheets of water came down in unrelenting waves, grounding every bird in sight.
The sky was all gray fury and wind, but it was nothing compared to the tension already stirring in her chest.
Back inside the hangar, most of the squad was draped across crates or leaning against bulkheads, waiting for orders that wouldn’t come. She spotted Phoenix and Fanboy playing cards. Hangman had a football. Bob was across the room, talking quietly with Payback.
She pretended not to notice.
Raven shrugged off her soaked jacket, tossed it over a folding chair, and tried to blend in. She sat on a toolbox and kept her eyes on the floor, tapping the toe of her boot against the concrete. It didn’t help.
Of all the damn days to get grounded.
She knew it was coming — this moment where she’d have no excuse to run off, no cockpit to hide in, no simulation to bury herself in. Just a full day on the ground with him in the same building.
And not enough walls between them.
“Mind if I sit?”
Bob.
She looked up slowly, expecting him to already be pulling up a crate or trying too hard. But he wasn’t. He just stood there, unsure. Just like always.
The way he looked at her — like he still recognized her, like she still meant something — made her stomach twist.
“…Fine,” she said finally, shifting to the side.
He didn’t sit too close. Didn’t touch her. Just sat in silence beside her, their knees inches apart, the sound of the rain a steady hush between them.
“You hate me.” His voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
She stared ahead. “Not true.”
“But you’re mad.”
“I have every right to be.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”
They didn’t talk for a long time after that. Just sat there while the hangar lights buzzed and the smell of jet fuel lingered.
Eventually, Raven leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “It’s weird being back here with you. I thought I’d be angrier.”
“You shoved me,” he reminded her, a half-smile on his lips.
She didn’t return it. “Yeah, well. I waited four years for that.”
Bob looked down at his hands, quiet again. “I deserved worse.”
“Yeah,” she said again. Then softer: “But I still wanted to be the one flying next to you.”
That got his attention.
He turned toward her slowly, eyes wide like he wasn’t expecting that.
“I joined because of you,” she admitted. “I was so mad I wanted to prove something. And then… I got good. I stayed. But even now, even with everything—” She sighed. “You still make everything complicated.”
Bob was staring at her like he couldn’t breathe.
Raven stood up quickly. She wasn’t about to cry in a hangar surrounded by half the squad. “Don’t follow me.”
She turned to walk toward the side doors, the rain roaring louder outside, drowning the sound of her heartbeat in her ears.
But a few steps in, she felt his fingers catch her wrist.
He didn’t yank her. He didn’t force her to stop.
Just held it — like he was asking her not to go.
She looked back.
Bob’s eyes were soft, searching, almost pleading. “I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “Not for a second.”
And then — like he realized he’d said too much — he let go.
Raven stepped back slowly, heart thudding.
She didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
Just turned, walked toward the storm, and disappeared behind the door.
———
She didn’t go out into the rain.
She didn’t go find Phoenix.
She didn’t even make it past the hallway just outside the hangar.
Raven ducked into a side room — one of those old briefing offices barely used anymore. The lights were dim, the windows fogged up from the weather. She didn’t bother turning anything on.
She just sat on the floor. Back against the wall. Knees pulled to her chest.
Then she pulled out her phone.
She hadn’t looked at these in years. She didn’t even realize they were still saved. But somehow, scrolling down, down, down — past training pics and base updates and blurry food photos — there they were.
Him.
Bob, still a teenager in some, with a mess of curls and that boyish smile that used to make her forget about everything else.
She tapped on one of the videos — a short one.
Senior year. His bedroom.
She was laughing so hard the camera was shaking, and Bob had his hand covering his face like he was embarrassed.
“Bobby, come onnnn,” her voice teased from behind the phone. “Say it again!”
He groaned. “No! It was dumb—”
“Say it!”
He laughed. That same shy, lopsided smile. “Fine. I said… I’d give you my notes and my soul if you just pay attention for once.”
The camera jostled again with her laugh. “Best boyfriend ever. Confirmed.”
The video ended.
She stared at the frozen frame of his face, paused mid-laugh.
Her throat tightened.
God, she had loved him.
So much.
It used to be so easy — sitting next to him in class, stealing sips of his Dr. Pepper, studying together at the library even though neither of them wanted to study.
And he always shared his notes. Always.
Even when she zoned out. Even when she was too tired to care.
He never once made her feel small for it.
Back then, everything felt like it would last forever.
She ran her fingers over the screen, then locked the phone and let it fall into her lap.
She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear hit her wrist.
Raven took a shaky breath, wiping her face with her sleeve.
She hated that this hurt so much.
She hated that seeing him brought it all back — the good, the bad, the everything.
Most of all, she hated that no matter how hard she tried to bury it…
She still loved him.
Still wanted to know if maybe — somehow — they could find their way back to each other.
But she didn’t know how to ask.
Didn’t know if she was brave enough.
Didn’t know if she could survive being left again.
A soft knock came at the door.
She didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes and stayed still.
The knock came again. “Raven?”
Bob’s voice.
Of course it was.
“I won’t come in. I just…” He paused. “I wanted you to know I’m still out here.”
She said nothing. Couldn’t.
“I’m not going anywhere this time.”
And then — silence.
Not the kind that felt like goodbye.
The kind that felt like waiting.
——
The door creaked open.
Raven stood there, eyes puffy and red-rimmed, but steady. Resolved. She looked at him like she’d looked at him a thousand times before — back when the world was small and love felt big.
Bob didn’t move. Not until she stepped aside.
Then he entered.
The room was silent. Still. The hum of the compound outside was distant. Here, it was just the two of them.
He turned to her. “I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”
She swallowed hard, arms folded tight. “Then sit.”
They sat — not close, but not distant either. Just enough space for honesty.
Raven broke the silence first.
“I still love you.”
Bob’s breath caught. His lips parted slightly, like he didn’t believe she said it — like he’d dreamed it and now didn’t know what to do.
“I never stopped,” she continued. “And I hate that. I hate how much of me still wants this. Wants you. After everything.”
He reached forward, just a little. “I never—”
“I’m not finished,” she said, voice sharp but shaking.
He sat back.
“I’m willing to give you another chance.” She blinked fast, her jaw tight. “But I swear on everything, Bob… if you break my heart again — if I even feel the slightest bit of unworthiness or regret — I’m done.”
Her voice cracked then, and she let it.
“I’ll walk away, and I’ll never speak to you again. Not even if it’s work-related. Not even if it’s life or death. You’ll just… you’ll be gone. For real this time.”
Bob’s chest rose and fell in one deep breath.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
“No. I need to hear it.”
He looked her dead in the eyes, softer than she remembered but just as sure. “I give you my word. I’m not going to hurt you again. I’ll earn this… and I’ll earn you.”
Silence again.
But it felt different this time.
Like the start of something new built from something old.
She leaned back against the wall and let herself breathe again.
And for the first time in four years…
She didn’t feel alone.
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ok,,,,, hear me out,,,,,, so what if the american gang in dr stone also has a pirate lady who recently returned from expedition whos personality is similar to ryusui so he becomes attracted to her.... like she pulls up doing some obnoxious pirate laugh and bro just becomes smitten
"she just like me fr" type shit with heart eyes
Your wish is my command..
She’s Just Like Me, For Real

When the sails cut across the ocean horizon, Ryusui squinted, golden eyes gleaming as a new ship pulled into the harbor.
Not his ship, obviously — nothing could beat the Perseus. But this one had character. Swagger. A figurehead that looked suspiciously like a shark wearing sunglasses. The crew scrambled with practiced ease, dropping anchor and laughing like they owned the ocean.
And then you appeared.
Leaping off the top mast like it was a damn stage, boots hitting the deck with a crack, coat billowing behind you, and a wide, wild grin splitting your face.
“YARRR!!!” you bellowed, fists on your hips. “AMERICA’S FINEST PIRATE IS BACK FROM PLUNDERIN’ THE SEVEN GROWN-OVER SEAS!”
“…Please tell me that’s not who I think it is,” Gen muttered.
Senku blinked. “The hell did we even send her to do again?”
“Expedition,” Gen muttered. “She was supposed to be scouting. What the hell did she plunder, raccoons?”
“LAND-HO, YOU LANDLUBBERS!! PREPARE TO BE AMAZED BY MY GLORIOUS RETURN!!”
From the shoreline, a ship came barreling toward them at an obnoxiously jaunty speed. Its sails were covered in messy sketches of sea monsters and explosions, and the figurehead was somehow a combination of a shark, a dolphin, and what looked like a middle finger carved into driftwood. The mast had a pirate flag — hand-stitched, poorly, with the word “FREEDOM” scrawled under a skull wearing sunglasses.
The ship slammed dramatically into the sandbank, barely slowing down before skidding to a stop.
A lone figure stood at the bow, arms crossed, hair wild, coat flapping behind your like a banner of rebellion. Trinkets clattered in your braids. Your boots were mismatched. And the grin on your face could only be described as “borderline criminal.”
“YARRRRR!” you roared, leaping from the mast and landing with a crack of dust and bravado. “THE GREATEST PIRATE IN THE POST-APOCALYPSE HAS RETURNED FROM HER EXPEDITION—AND I BROUGHT PRESENTS!”
Senku’s eye twitched. “We didn’t send her to plunder, we sent her to scout.”
“Didn’t know there was a difference,” You snorted, tossing a massive sack onto the ground with a THUNK. “Found some old-world rum barrels, three cats, a petrified Walmart mannequin, and—wait for it—gator jerky. You’re welcome, nerds.”
Ryusui had not moved.
He stood frozen, halfway off the dock, eyes wide, expression unreadable. It was only when you turned to face them directly that it happened.
You threw your head back and let out the most obnoxious laugh he’d ever heard.
“BUWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
A seagull dropped dead from the air.
Ryusui inhaled sharply like he’d been struck. “She… She…”
“Is absolutely insufferable?” Gen offered.
“Is my soulmate,” Ryusui breathed.
Senku looked at him. “Are you broken?”
“Senku,” he whispered, stepping forward, hand over his chest like he’d just seen the light of the universe. “She’s just like me.”
You made eye contact with Ryusui and squinted. “You! With the smug aura and pretty-boy hair. You the guy in charge here?”
Ryusui smiled, a slow, charming grin spreading across his face like a rising tide. “That depends,” he said silkily. “Are you the kind of woman who can sail a ship through a hurricane and flirt with death at the same time?”
You blinked. Then you let out another obnoxious laugh. “HAH! Damn right I am. What’s it to ya, golden boy?”
He stepped down from the dock, boots crunching sand beneath him, stopping just a few paces from her.
“Ryusui Nanami. Captain of the Perseus. Heir to the sea, the sky, and all riches the Earth has yet to cough up.”
You grinned wide enough to show teeth. “(Y/N). Pirate Queen of What’s Left. Master of Improvisation, Looting, and Terrible Ideas That Somehow Work Out.”
A long pause. The ocean lapped behind them.
“I want to race you,” you declared.
Ryusui’s grin turned feral. “I want to marry you.”
Behind them, Senku pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew this would happen.”
“Are you seriously into her?” Minami asked, looking vaguely ill.
Ryusui didn’t even hear them. His entire world had narrowed to the woman standing in front of him with salt in your hair and delusions of grandeur burning in her eyes.
You reached into your coat and tossed him something.
He caught it without looking—a rusted compass, one side dented and clearly once used to bludgeon something.
“A gift,” you said. “Found it in a sunken office depot. Thought you might appreciate the vibes.”
Ryusui stared at the compass. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh for crying out loud,” Gen muttered. “Now there’s two of them.”
Chrome watched in awe. “It’s like watching a storm flirt with a tornado.”
Suika clapped happily. “I like her! She’s loud!”
“BUWAAHAHAHA! Damn right I am, kid,” you shouted, spinning on one heel and striding toward the bonfire pit like she owned the whole coastline. “Now somebody give me a drink! I’m dehydrated and obnoxious!”
Ryusui followed like a moth to a flame, starry-eyed and dazed.
Senku turned to Gen. “I give it a week before they sink at least two ships.”
Gen raised an eyebrow. “You think Ryusui’s actually serious about her?”
“Unfortunately,” Senku muttered, watching Ryusui enthusiastically try to match her pirate laugh decibel for decibel. “Yeah.”
Minami sighed. “God help us all.”
—
Later that night...
“You’ve got good wind instincts,” Ryusui said, leaning on a driftwood crate beside you, watching the stars. “You knew when to tack even without a proper barometer.”
“Gotta feel it in your bones,” you replied, hands behind your head. “Sky talks to me. Real bitchy sometimes, but I talk back.”
He laughed, genuine. “God, you’re amazing.”
You turned to him, one brow raised. “You always this intense?”
He shrugged. “Only for things I want. And right now, I want to build the greatest ship the world’s ever seen… and have you standing next to me when we sail it.”
You blinked. For once, you looked surprised.
Then you grinned. “You talk big, Captain Goldie.”
“I dream big,” he corrected smoothly.
“You really think we’d make a good team?”
He looked you dead in the eye.
“We’d either rule the ocean… or blow it up in the process.”
You howled with laughter.
“BUWAAAAAHAHAHA!” you howled. “Screw it, I’m in. Let’s make every historian cry.”
Ryusui smirked, feeling his heart flip.
“She’s just like me, for real.”
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Bite: Dennis Whitaker x Reader (NSFW)
Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @sargeant-sad-eyes @caffeinatedwoman @hooks-martin
Summary: Dennis doesn't mean to edge you.
Companion piece to:
Peppermint - The taste of peppermint will always have a special place in Dennis’s heart.
The Morgue Thing - A miscommunication between you and Dennis almost ends things before they begin.
Written In The Stars - Your first date with Dennis takes place underneath the stars.
In The Park - Dennis reveals a secret after the two of you spend the night together in the park.
Virgin - There's a rumour going around about Dennis.
Debauched (NSFW) - Karaoke night ends a lot differently than it did the first time around.
Symphony (NSFW) - Dennis has never eaten pussy before…
Pretty Boy (NSFW) - You and Dennis take the next step in your relationship.
Firsts (NSFW) - Dennis experiances alot of firsts during your first night together.
Permanent Marker - You find out about the betting pool.
The Porn Boom (NSFW) - Dennis isn't like the other man you've been with.
Wild Flowers - A crown of wildflowers leads you and Dennis to discuss the issues he has with his family.
A Friend of Denny's - Your relationship with Dennis takes a turn when his parents come to town.
A Cold Day In Hell - Dennis tries to make amends for his actions.

Dennis doesn’t mean to edge you.
It starts because you’re close, so fucking close that he can feel you fluttering around his dick but he’s not quite there at the peak.
“Not yet baby.” He pleads, his grasp on your ass tightening as he picks up the pace. “I need it to be with you, please Lola.”
Your nails rake down his back, and that pain, it heights the sensation driving him deeper into that perfect pussy. He thrusts with desperation, chasing the ecstasy that rises up inside of him like a tide. Your fingers thread through his hair, gripping it in your fist, your flushed cheek pressing against his, your hitched breath an erotic whisper in his ear.
“You’re so good to me.” He murmurs as his fingers dip between the two of you, circling your clit. “Holding back, waiting for me so that we can come together.”
You bite down on his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin and it sends him hurtling over the precipice as you grip his cock so hard that stars erupt in front of his eyes. His hands fasten on your hips, holding you place as he buries himself deep, his release spilling out of him in a haze of euphoria.
“Fuck.” You drawl, your lips brushing over the bite mark you’ve left in his skin. “That has never been my thing until now.
“I’d say you weren’t doing it with the right person but I just really like it when we’re there at the same time.” He tells you in a hushed tone, his palms smoothing over your back as he cradles you against him. “I like having that intimacy with you, like there’s one perfect moment where it’s just you and me, fuck everything else.”
“You say the sweetest goddamn things.” You whisper, your teeth grazing his earlobe playfully.
“I mean them.” He tells you, tumbling the two of you back into the sheets. “I mean every single word.”
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#the pitt hbo#dr whitaker#dr whitaker imagine#dennis whitaker#dr whitaker x reader#dr whitaker fanfic#the pitt#dennis whitaker fanfic#dennis whitaker imagine#dennis whitaker x reader
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Desire and Blood (Chapter 1)
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Strong OC(Jaenara Velaryon)
Tags: AU - canon divergence, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, Targcest (uncle/niece)
Wordcount: 4.9k
Summary:
Against all odds, the love between childhood friends prevails and the Dance of Dragons is avoided.
However, peace comes at a cost. With the unexpected proposal of marriage between Alicent Hightower's son and Rhaenyra Targaryen's only daughter, can love truly blossom between sworn enemies? Or will Jaenara Velaryon be reduced to a mere pawn?
Love may yet arise where enmity once thrived, but Aemond's relentless pursuit of power threatens to shatter everything they hold dear, including each other.
Notes: You can find the rest of the chapters on my masterlist!
If you like the first snippet of this series, please consider showing some love on my AO3 posting of this fic :) thank you x
Atop the cliffs that line Dragonstone, Jaenara Velaryon watches the tide crash against jagged rocks littered below. Crystal blue waters lap at the sandy shores and white wispy clouds pass by overhead. She thought it unfair that a picturesque day such as this be wasted on tragedy. Jaenara grips the ground beneath her, plush green grass filling her palm and tickling the skin. Gripping harder, she reveals the dirt underneath as grime is pushed underneath her fingernails. She is alone now, away from her mother and brothers. From her step-father and step-sisters. Away from all prying eyes and listening ears. Away from hushed whispers, the only sound that fills her ears are that of the breeze that whips around her and the ocean below.
She is finally free to weep.
Tears litter the ground she sits upon. Although she is alone she chokes back a cry, as if fearing that the winds would carry her sorrow back to the castle. Her tears muddle in the dirt below, and Jaenara recounts the events of the past fortnight.
— — —
Sunlight spills into the Chamber of the Painted Table, where Rhaenyra and Daemon are positioned at the head. The war room had seen more activity this past week than it had in many years, Jaenara had thought. She and her twin brother, Jacaerys, had sat in on a few meetings with members of her mother’s council. The passing of King Viserys had left the realm in disarray, and while her eldest uncle had made no claim to the throne yet, Jaenara understood that time was not on their side.
“The instruction of a mother can only do so much, especially for a boy as unruly as Aegon,” Rhaenyra had said to her council, “While Alicent may urge her son to heed the wishes of Viserys, Otto and his council are surely whispering ideas of betrayal and usurpation into my half-brothers ears.”
“I will not wait to see if Aegon honors my rightful place on the throne. It is time to act.”
Her mother had said this before leaving for King’s Landing, much to the dismay of some of her council. The presence of Prince Daemon - no - King Consort Daemon, had helped to quell some of their anxieties, as well as Jaenara’s. Though she knew, better than most, that her mother was a force to be reckoned with even on her own. They had left Dragonstone on Syrax and Caraxes, a formidable warning to the Hightowers and anyone else who opposed Rhaenyra’s claim.
Jaenara’s desire to accompany her mother and step-father had fallen on deaf ears.
“Jace and I must ride with you,” she had urged her mother, “dragons are stronger together.”
Rhaenyra smiled at that. “There is truth in what you say, sweet girl,” her mother ran a hand through her daughter’s thick black mane. So unlike her own white-bonde hair. “But this is a delicate time. We may yet be on the brink of war-
“All the more reason for us to come!” Jaenara pleaded.
“You, Jace, and Luke are needed here.” Rhaenyra had not raised her voice at her daughter, though her piercing violet eyes scolded her all the same. “Keep a watch over Joffrey, Viserys, and Aegon,” Jaenara let out an over-exaggerated sigh at that, turning away from her mother.
“As well as watch over Dragonstone, atop Aetherion, Arrax, and Vermax.” Her mother added.
The princess turned around at this.
“We can only hope your uncle and his council of vipers will allow this transition of power to be peaceful. But I need you and your brothers to remain here, to ensure that no one dares to bring harm upon this castle.”
The prospect of riding her dragon alongside her brothers seemed to satiate the princess’ desires. That had been the end of it.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
A week had passed. A cloud of tension hung over Dragonstone that Jaenara could only escape by mounting Aetherion. She patrolled the surrounding waters, in search of any signs of a siege on their isolated stronghold. Her dragon, still young and only slightly larger than a warhorse, danced across the waves below the castle. His dark, purple wings almost dip into the sea, allowing Jaenara to taste the salt in the air and feel the mist spray across her face. She had not a drop of Velaryon blood in her, though she enjoyed the water all the same.
I am no true Velaryon, Jaenara had thought to herself - a truth she would never speak aloud. But I may yet prove to be the blood of the dragon.
She reins Aetherion upwards, into the clouds above.
The princess is handing Aetherion over to the dragon masters when she finally learns of her mother and step-fathers arrival home. Her ears perk at the faint roars of Syrax and Caraxes in the dragon pit, surely feeding by now. Without another word, Jaenara turns on her heel, and sprints into the castle.
“Your mother requests your presence in the war room!” A servant had shouted after her.
Still in her riding leathers, she makes a sharp turn down the hall leading to the room and stumbles into her twin. “Jace-” Jaenara catches her breath, “Mother and Daemon are home! You must come with m-”
“I know.” Her brother responds shortly.
A pause.
“You have already met with them?” she asks.
Jaenara studies her brother and notices he will not meet her eyes. Her gaze drops to his fists, white knuckled at his side. “Go speak with her. We can talk afterwards.”
And before his twin has the chance to respond, Jacaerys is gone.
A sickly feeling settles in the young princess’ stomach as she faces the large doors of Dragonstone’s council room. She decided that there was no point in stalling whatever awaited her on the other side. Jaenara pulls open the doors and steps inside.
Queen Rhaenyra and King Daemon turn towards the young woman, and Jaenara feels even more unease spread through her. The feeling nearly subsides when she looks upon her mother.
“Nara,” Rhaenyra sounds as though she has not seen her daughter in years rather than days. Arms outstretched towards her daughter, Jaenara breaches the distance between them and embraces her mother. “Sweet girl” Rhaenyra breathes.
“Mother,” Jaenara exhales and realizes just how much she had missed her.
A moment passes before Jaenara finally pulls away. She eyes Daemon, and notes an unreadable expression etched upon her stepfather's face.
“Well,” Jaenara breathes, “I would venture to guess things went well?” she jokes.
Daemon turns away from mother and daughter and walks towards the large windows, looking out to the sea.
Rhaenyra looks upon her only daughter. The blood of her blood. Her long black hair spills over her shoulders. Her black and crimson riding leathers, crested with the symbol of House Targaryen, grips her form. She meets her daughter's lavender eyes. The rest of her daughter’s physical image, so unlike her. But not her eyes. Lighter than her own, but still undoubtedly Targaryen.
A deep breath from her mother. Daemon remains silent at the window.
“An agreement has been reached. I will take my rightful place on the Iron Throne, just as your grandsire intended. Alicent Hightower, members of the council, and even some lords throughout the Seven Kingdoms rallied to my cause - vouched for my legitimacy as heir. Your uncle, Aegon, seems surprisingly content with this arrangement. His mother tells me he has no true interest in ruling. He only wishes to retain his status so that he may live his life in his own…selfish ways.”
Rhaenyra sighs. “We have the gods to thank for allowing reason to prevail so that the realm may be spared from being plunged into needless war. There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, and no war so bloody as a war between dragons…” Her mother trails off but finds her voice once again. “But there are terms to this peace - I have agreed that your uncle has a seat on my council.”
Jaenara looks between her mother and step-father incredulously. A scoff breaks from her throat. “That’s it? Well this is good news!” she exclaims, “And Jace, he should remain your hei-”
“Tell her the rest of it.” Daemon turns from his place at the window, finally facing his wife and step-daughter.
The princess looks to her Queen, eyebrows raised.
“Mother?” Jaenara looks to her mother and sees a woman haunted.
“You are to marry Aemond Targaryen, and you will preside over Dragonstone together.”
Silence fills the room.
“Surely you jest, mother.” Jaenara bites out. Her voice is as cold and hollow as the room now feels.
“Your mother is not so cruel as to make a joke out of this.” Daemon says to his stepdaughter. The princess of Dragonstone stares at her parents. Rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. A position they have paid for with her hand. Her hand.
“Daemon,” Rhaenyra turns to her husband, “A moment alone with my daughter.” It is not a question but a command. He steps away from his place at the window and begins to leave the Chamber of the Painted Table. Daemon reaches his step-daughter and places a hand on her shoulder. Squeezes it. Leaves.
The door shuts and Rhaenyra moves towards her daughter, but not before Jaenara draws back.
“All my life,” she gasps, “All my life, you have told me you only wish that I may marry as I please. That I should not be in the position you found yourself in as a young girl. That I should not be some token of peace - some possession to be given away! You have allowed me to remain free in this position, even now at eight and ten!” Her hand finds her neck, as though she might start to choke.
“And now…now you - you give me away to him. To that - that man. Who tormented me throughout our childhood together. Tormented Jace and Luke! Surely it will be a loveless marriage.” She looks the Queen in her violet eyes. Eyes that mirror her own. “But anything for your throne, right?” She spits out.
Rhaenyra’s face falls at that. At a time such as this, she is reminded of herself in her youth and of her own mother. She remembers Aemma, her sweet mother, in her final days. Of when she had told young Rhaenyra that royal wombs as theirs are to serve the realm. Rhaenyra remembered the discomfort that had filled her, hearing her mother say this. And discomfort still surrounded her at the thought of her daughter following in her own footsteps. She remembered the gatherings of lords and their sons that had taken place in her teenage years. Auctions for her hand. Power hungry men only wishing to share her bed for a glimpse at the throne.
There was the evident truth. She had given away her daughter, in exchange for the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra had condemned her only daughter to the same fate she had suffered.
Jaenara immediately regretted the vitriol she had spouted at her mother. Her mother, who faced hostility and disdain all her life - from even those who were supposed to be her friends. Her family. Deep down, Jaenara understood what was necessary to avoid all-out war. She had told herself she would do whatever she would need to, to secure her mother’s crown and to preserve House Targaryen. But it was not supposed to be like this.
As a dragon-rider, she was supposed to forge the path to the Iron Throne through Aetherion. Alongside her brothers. Her step-father and step-sisters. Her grandmother, Rhaenys.
Not through a marriage pact.
Rhaenyra gathers her thoughts and speaks, “My love…this is not a decision I made lightly. You see now why our visit to King’s Landing lasted so long. The negotiations were a labyrinth to be navigated. I know this is not fair to you, but we inhabit a world that is unfair to women. A world that deals in our lives and in our misfortune. A world built by men, for men. But when I sit the throne…I will build a new world. I will forge a new path. One that your grandchildren may be happy to live in.”
Jaenara physically recoils at the thought. The Queen continues, “Though for now…we do what we must.” She takes her daughters hands in hers, “There are whispers about my ability to rule. There have always been, though now they are more present than ever. But you-” Her voice wavers and her grip tightens, “You have the opportunity to help me in ending the question of my capabilities. You can unite our house - we would all be the better for it. You will do the realm a great service in avoiding a war of fire and blood.” The mother finishes, squeezing her daughter’s hands again.
Jaenara breathes, low and steady. “Mayhaps I would rather see the realm put to the torch than marry a man such as him.”
“You do not mean that, daughter.” Rhaenyra is quick and stern in her reply. Now, her words burn Jaenara as well as her eyes. Jaenara does not shrink back, though she does not mean what she says. Not really. They are empty words, born from the heat of the present moment. It is not her mother she is angry with. The princess of Dragonstone is angry with the world, that it was made only in the interest of men. Angry with the gods, for making her a woman. Angry with herself. Angry at her now betrothed, for being who he was - for hating her so.
“I do not.” Jaenara finally replies. “But mother, he will not have me! Just as I will not have him!” Aemond Targaryen knew what Jaenara Velaryon was.
Memories of hurtful epithets from her youth—bastard, his Strong niece, the daughter of a whore—echoed in her mind, whispered by Aemond and Aegon alike, haunting her even now
All phrases that had been hurled her way in the days of their youth from him and Aegon alike. Words that followed her and her brothers throughout the corridors of the Red Keep. Words that coaxed tears out of the eyes of little Jaenara in the darkness of her bed chambers, where no one may see them.
Aemond would not settle for someone he viewed as inadequate as his niece, and Jaenara would not stoop so low as to marry someone as detestable as her uncle.
It would be a relationship doomed from the start.
Her mother’s words surprise her. “Aemond has agreed to the union.” Rhaenyra reasons with her daughter, “Alicent is very persuasive in her ways. She knows you to be good natured-”
The remarks earned a bitter laugh from Jaenara.
“-And not unlike him! You have both changed since the days of your youth. You are more alike than you may think.” Rhaenyra continues, “You would not be far from me daughter. Not far from the protection of myself and Daemon. As well as Jace. You would remain at the Red Keep for a time - before and after my coronation and your wedding - and leave for Dragonstone when you are ready.”
“He is vile. He despises me. And you.” Jaenara tells her mother.
“And yet my time at King’s Landing revealed a different side of my half-brother. He was not pleased with this proposal - though he took it much better than you have, Nara.” Rhaenyra reveals. A certain glint shines in her daughter’s eyes upon hearing this revelation, though it leaves as quickly as it had appeared. “Taking his hand will keep you close to me. You will both hold significant positions of power. You need not worry about being shipped off to the Riverlands, or gods forbid - the North - to marry a lord you barely care for-”
“I do not care for Aemond.” Jaenara interrupts.
“I would rather you take the hand of the devil we know rather than a devil we do not.” Rhaenyra remarks.
Jaenara left her mothers grasp and looked around the room before her. The room, which now belonged to her. And Aemond she thought bitterly. She had come to find profound comfort within the walls of Dragonstone. Some would call the castle dark and unwelcoming, though she knew its warmth came from the people within. Its merriment came from her time overhead, in the skies. But now, Aemond meant to ruin her home. Is nothing sacred? The princess wondered. In this moment, her thoughts felt so numerous that they may yet crack open her skull. Her emotions were so varying, she felt as though her heart would erupt from her chest.
Rhaenyra waits for her daughter to face her, and to finally give in to the Crown’s wishes. Instead, Jaenara lets out a noise akin to a wail and rushes out the door.
And Rhaenyra is alone.
— — —
Jaenara Velaryon’s tears finally stop and she feels as though she can finally catch her breath. She recalls the circumstances of the morning over and over, as if it were all just a bad dream she would soon wake up from. Wind whips her dark hair into her face. Salt kisses her lips. Salt from the air and from her teardrops mingle together.
A dragon does not weep.
“Dragons do not weep!” She echoes the words aloud, as if speaking them into existence will make it any more true. The words are carried away by the breeze and escape her.
“Everyone cries, child.”
Nara does not turn around. She doesn't want her mother to see her cry, as though she were a child reprimanded. Rhaenyra settles into the grass next to her daughter and takes her into her arms. Jaenara feels as though a coldness inside her melts from the warm embrace of her mother, and she allows herself to cry. She was still her mother’s child.
“I am sorry, my girl. My Nara.” Rhaenyra wipes her daughter’s tears away as her own begins to pool in her eyes.
Huddled in the warmth of her mother, Jaenara feels the anguish of her mother and sees the sorrow in her tears. How cruel it is, she thinks, that a mother could not save daughter from the same fate she once suffered — despite sitting on the most powerful seat in The Realm.
The princess understands sorrow to be a condition of life. A condition of womanhood, especially. But did sorrow have to become a hallmark of her life — for the rest of her life? Jaenara takes a shaky breath. She was a princess, a reality she had enjoyed as a luxury until now, when the weight of duty descended upon her. Marriage, a princess’s duty—she resolved it would not become her undoing, nor the source of her sorrow. Her duty is for The Realm. For her family.
In a moment of clarity, Jaenara understood the folly of her tears..
She sits there another moment, in her mother’s arms. She begins to picture Aemond Targaryen. His one eye, staring back at her with intensity. His sleek, white hair. The curl of his lip. Jaenara knew she could never come to love the man, and would never be able to love her. Duty, Jaenara thinks, is the death of love.
The princess finally rises up to look at her mother. Sorrow has been replaced with resoluteness.
Rhaenyra had always seen echoes of her past lover, Ser Harwin Strong, in her daughter’s features and had cherished her for it. But now, watching Jaenara, she sensed a dragon’s fire within her.
“I will do it mother.” Jaenara begins, “I will do my duty, I will serve my kingdom and you as its Queen - I will wed Aemond Targaryen.”
— — —
The One Eyed Prince rises from a dreamless sleep. He remains in bed for a moment, his eye adjusting to the early morning light that had begun to creep into his bed chamber. He stares at the ceiling and wonders if today will finally be the day that an agreement would be reached.
His half-sister and the Rogue Prince had descended upon King’s Landing on dragonback days ago. He regarded the gold and scarlet dragons with little interest. No matter, he had thought, mine is bigger.
During their lengthy stay, Aemond observed the frenzy that had been set upon the Red Keep. A frenzy that had started after his father’s passing and had only grown. He had sat in on a few meetings between Rhaenyra, his mother, grandsire, and members of the former king’s small council. Some meetings he and Aegon had been privy to - some they were not. His elder brother did not seem at all perturbed by the prospect of his possible throne being wrenched out from under him. He understood Viserys had no intention of leaving him with the crown. And Aemond had thought that the realm was the better for it.
Aemond and his mother had witnessed first-hand the kind of man Aegon had grown up to be. His sweet sister, Helaena, knew better than the both of them combined. It seemed the only person who wanted Aegon to sit the Iron Throne was their grandsire Otto - though he did not seek this out of the belief that his grandson could unite the realm. He only sought after a new puppet, one he could pull the strings of whichever way he pleased.
Alicent and Rhaenyra had grown closer in the past few months before the King’s passing. Letters carried by ravens were exchanged, and now the two women almost seemed like the close childhood companions the court had once known them to be. Almost. It was still uncertain if time could truly heal all wounds.
Aemond thought his mother naive. Easily bent to the will of his half-sister. A phantom pain settles in the socket of his eye.
It was no matter now. As a second born son, Aemond had nothing to gain either way. If the gods were fair, he would have been born the eldest. And his weak, malleable father would have named him heir, rather than Rhaenyra. It was no matter now. Dwelling on fleeting possibilities would do him no good.
Aemond is securing his leather patch over his sapphire eye when there is a rap at his door. Alicent Hightower stands before him. Dark circles sit below her eyes and loose, red curls frame her fair face. The negotiations between his half-sister and his mother’s family were taking their toll. “Your presence is needed in the council chamber. Rhaenyra and Daemon will be there, as well as Aegon and members of the small council.” She tells her son.
“And so we finally relinquish our power,” Aemond breathes, “under what conditions?”
Alicent’s eyes drop from her son’s and she walks away without another word.
His mother had always been a distant shroud. As a child she was wordless when he craved encouragement. Out of reach when he yearned for a motherly embrace. He tried not to blame her for this. He heard the stories that circulated the castle - of a girl who grew up without a mother of her own, forced to bring forth babes when she was not much older than one herself.
So, he was used to her aloof nature. Though her lack of explanation at a time such as this did unnerve the prince.
Aemond enters the council chamber where everyone else has already gathered.
“The man of the hour!” Aegon bellows.
Aemond regards his brother and wonders what has lifted his spirits at such an hour. Aegon delights in the misery of others, and in remembering this, Aemond feels unease.
“Aegon, enough.” Alicent is stern in her words, “Aemond, please sit.”
Prince Aemond sits opposite his half-sister Rhaenyra and her husband Daemon. Rhaenyra’s eyes rake over him, and he meets her neutral gaze with his cold one. Daemon lets out a wry chuckle at the wordless exchange. Ser Criston Cole, positioned at a corner of the chamber, stands stock still.
Alicent clears her throat and begins, “This council has come to a consensus,” Aemond looks to his mother.
“Rhaenyra…will be made to sit the Iron Throne, as King Viserys intended.” she shoots a sour look over to Otto Hightower, who sat on the far side of Aemond. Dismayed grunts and whispers circulate the chamber. “Aegon is to serve on Rhaenyra’s council. Jacaerys and Baela Velaryon are to stay here in King’s Landing. As heir, he will attend council with his mother and will make a place here.”
Aegon shifts in his seat and stares at a corner of the room, obviously bored. As if he had heard this to him recounted numerous times by now.
“The more the merrier.” he says in a voice so low, Aemond wonders if anyone else had heard him. Aemond then wonders how his brother can be so content with relinquishing rule over the Seven Kingdoms to their sister. He hears Rhaenyra draw in a breath and his cold gaze finds hers once more.
“Aemond. We find ourselves in unprecedented times. One of the last things our father wished was for the infighting amongst his family to cease. We cannot expect the realm to watch as sister fights against brother.” She pauses and Aemond senses the hesitancy in her words. Alicent picks at the flesh around her fingernails. Rhaenyra continues.
“I only wish to unite our families and ensure that everyone has a place amidst my rule. Amongst my court. To do this…your mother sees it best to…” Aemond wishes she would just spit out her decree and be done with it.
“I wish to wed you and my daughter, Jaenara Velaryon.”
Now that gives Aemond pause.
Aemond had seen his niece a short time ago, when she and her family had come to King’s Landing to defend her bastard brother’s claim to the Driftmark throne. He had eyed her as Vaemond Velaryon was cut down by Daemon, intrigued by her unwavering gaze despite the horrific scene. He watched her at dinner that night, finding a smile gracing her face at times. He noted the joy she took in watching Jacaerys dance with Helaena. He felt her burn holes into him as he toasted to Jaenara and her brothers. His Strong niece and nephews, he had said.
She despised him. And he gave her many reasons to. He did not have time to recount the enumerable times he had tormented her and her brothers during their childhood together at the Red Keep. A torment that was dealt back to him by the hands of his nephews.
Though Aemond could not deny, he held some sort of strange admiration for his niece.
His half-sister's voice returns the prince from his thoughts. “Aemond?”
Aegon does little to suppress his glee. “What do you say, brother?” He laughs and gives him a rough slap on the back. “Will you have your bastard bride?”
Daemon Targaryen slaps a hand down on the table. “Daemon.” Rhaenyra stops her husband before he can speak or act. Aegon quiets once more, though a smug smile settles on his face.
Despite the truth in his brother’s words, Aemond takes offense to them. He found himself feeling that way more often lately, when the slights towards his niece had not been dealt by him. His thoughts return to the situation at hand.
Aemond understands the position that he is in. This is not a request. It is a command by his new Queen. And by his mother. He considers that this may yet be a fortunate outcome for him. As the second-born brother, he has a small hope of ever sitting the throne. He had dreaded the day his mother would finally pass his hand onto the daughter of a lord that the Targaryens and Hightowers only wish to form political alliances with. Is that the only purpose children served? We are the bartering chips of our parents, he had thought bitterly. But with his niece - with Jaenara - Aemond would rule over the ancestral home of House Targaryen, and that seemed a better lot in life to have. They would retain their status. It could prove to be a comfortable position. But Aemond wondered if this is how low his family truly thought of him - to marry him off to a bastard. A so-called pure-blooded descendant of Old Valyria with hair as dark as the night.
It was no matter now.
As Aemond considers the future that has been thrust upon him, a new thought crosses his mind. The line of succession.
Jacaerys is her heir.
And if something were to happen to his betrothed’s twin brother before he were to have an heir himself? If The Stranger were to come for the eldest male heir of the crown? Well, then Jaenara would be next in line. The realm had already accepted Rhaenyra as their ruler - surely they could come to accept another woman.
Jaenara Velaryon - or Targaryen - Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. And her King Consort:
Aemond Targaryen.
It was hard to suppress the wry smile that began to tug on the prince’s lips. Aemond may yet use the cards he had been dealt to his own advantage. He could feel the cold steel of the Iron Throne beneath his fingers - power he may yet reach through his niece. He sat there another moment, as if still mulling over his options.
A sigh escapes him as Aemond once again meets the violet eyes of his half-sister.
“As you wish, your Grace.” The One Eyed Prince bites.
#house of the dragon#hotd#hotd fanfic#house of the dragon fanfiction#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#aemond x oc#aemond targaryen fanfiction#hotd aemond#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen x oc
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WASTING TIME
agatha x rio x reader, 1.1k words.
NSFW! having sex during a trial on the witches’ road is NOT recommended… the three of you do it anyway. part of my birthday event, linked here!



“We shouldn’t,” you argue. “Not here. Not when we have half an hour to get out of here.”
Agatha tilts her head at you, surveying you with a terrifyingly mischievous expression. “Come on. Death is on our side, remember?”
You don’t oppose her point, but you’re still not convinced that Rio can save you here. Not in a trial on the Witches’ Road, in a pristine and modern mansion that is so elegant it becomes daunting. You should be working to get through the trial — not fucking in some office you found upstairs. But you sit on top of a cleared desk with Agatha standing between your thighs and half of your clothes on the ground. And though you’ve protested on behalf of your chances of making it out of here, you don’t really want her to move away — just to reassure you that everything will be fine.
On cue, Rio emerges from the shadows. She circles the desk, taking in the sight of the two of you before her. She meets Agatha’s eyes. “You pulled her back here without me.”
Agatha shakes her head. “I knew you would find us.”
“And you know I can save you here? You think I can bend the rules for you again and get you out of a trial if it closes?”
“Can’t you?”
Rio shrugs. She motions for Agatha to step back, and then takes her place standing between your knees when she does. She still speaks to Agatha, but she’s looking at you, giving you her attention in the way she runs her hands over your thighs and tucks some loose hair behind your ear. “We have twenty-five minutes to get out of here and the others are going fucking insane down there.”
Agatha doesn’t respond, just looks at Death and crosses her arms like a child.
“The Witches’ Road is meant to be a group effort, Agatha.”
“Then make this a group effort,” Agatha steps forward, gives Rio a teasing look and kisses you in front of her. Your shirt is already on the ground, one less obstacle when her hands snake up your sides as she fights for a better position to reach you from with Rio still so close. She addresses her again, talking about you like you’re not there. “Twenty-five minutes is easy. I could make her cum in ten.”
Rio scoffs. “You’re wasting time.”
“Time and tide wait for no man,” Agatha quotes sarcastically. “Or whatever the fuck it is.”
Rio rolls her eyes, and you’re preparing some quip of your own when Agatha starts kissing your neck and the words dissipate. You sigh, pleasantly this time, closing your eyes and letting her nip and suck at your collarbones — one way or another, they will take care of you. They will not let you die here.
While Agatha is working at your neck, Rio kisses you. Though she keeps lecturing you about time, her kiss holds the same hunger as Agatha’s, and you can tell she wants this just as much as you do. It’s Rio that pulls off your pants and lets them fall to the floor, Rio that is racing against the clock most fervently.
Agatha pulls back, watching the two of you for a moment before checking the clock. Then, when Rio pulls back from kissing you, she meets your eyes. “Before this trial is over, we are going to make you finish.”
Her tone is laced with sureness, but somehow the statement still contains a question – both of them wait for a confirmation from you, if you’re really unhinged enough to stake everyone’s lives on this.
To their joy, you are. You look back at the clock. “You have… eighteen minutes.”
“That’s more than enough.”
Agatha pulls you down off the desk. Before you can get your footing steady on the floor she turns you around, pushing you down so that you’re bent over the face of the desk. She leans down over you, whispers something to you about how beautiful you look beneath her that you can barely comprehend with the wave of urgency rushing through you, not because of your limited time but because of the need that comes over you when she dips a hand between your thighs and starts rubbing your clit.
Every touch is too slow, agonizingly so, and you can’t help the whine that escapes you. You squirm under her, causing her to let some of her weight press down on you to keep you still as she keeps going.
“Listen to her,” Rio says to Agatha, but from where you are you can’t see her. Your senses are limited to the feeling of Agatha’s fingers circling your clit, ever so often dipping down as if she’s going to slide them into you before changing her mind.
You gasp when she finally does shove two in, dragging them out of you and pushing in again with a similarly torturous slowness. Your back arches as you try to get more from her, but Agatha is patient, giving you nothing more than what she wants.
“Hurry up,” Rio urges. You can hear the impatience in her voice. “Let me have her, we don’t have much time.”
“This was my idea.”
“Move,” Rio pulls Agatha back from you, and suddenly you’re left with nothing.
You don’t resist when Rio maneuvers you to stand up straight again, and you’re eager to lay back for her when she hoists you up onto the desk and pushes you down. You are becoming a little disoriented with the constant repositioning, but you do anything you can to drive yourself closer to release at their hands.
“Time’s running out,” Agatha reminds her.
Rio ignores her, ignores the narrowing time limit when she starts fucking you in place of Agatha, finally giving you what you’ve needed from the beginning. “Such a good girl, taking everything we give you.”
You suck in a gasp, every inch of you burning at the edge of release. Faintly in the background you hear the ticking of the clock, a quiet disturbance beneath the praise flowing from the two women above you so freely.
Rio checks the clock and then looks back down at you, taking in how your body is tense as your orgasm comes nearer, how your attention is limited to the pace of her fingers drawing in and out of you. The sight of you brings softness to her voice. “Let go for us, my love.”
It comes over you in a wave. You release a breathy moan, letting her work you through it, listening halfheartedly to the praise both of them give you.
A slow exhaustion settles over you, and you relax against the surface of the desk, taking in a deep breath. Rio parts from you before guiding you to sit back upright on the desk again.
Agatha checks the clock, and suddenly the three of you realize the gravity of your situation.
“We have to get the fuck out of here.”
thank you for reading!!! if you’d like to see my masterlist, click here! smut is not my strong suit so be patient with my little fics.
agatha all along taglist: @webism @szczurkanalowy @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf
#agatha all along#agatha all along x reader#agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader#agathario x reader#agathario#agatha harkness x reader#rio vidal x reader
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Like A Prayer (Part 2)
summary: best friends with wade you’re always being dragged into something even when he’s not trying to, what are you to do when you find the fate of your timeline in the hands of yourself, your chaotic merc and an angry wolverine who’s hellbent on drinking himself to death?
content warning: romance, some angst, a little fluff, character deaths, canon-typical violence, smut, lots of cussing, mutual pining, found family, drug and alcohol use, reader insert but with no use of y/n cuz I hate that shit, deadpool being deadpool, mentions of poor mental health (depression anxiety and ptsd mostly), scent marking, the honda odyssey scene needs a warning all on its own MINORS DNI
a/n: I wanted to get up to the part where you finally meet Logan but it was too long 😭 and I ended up deciding to split the chapter up. In the mean time I hope this enough to tide you over. <3
tag list: sorry if you weren’t tagged I tried tagging everyone that asked but some usernames didn’t work! @allmyn1ghts, @blooket-scares-me, @amararosesblog, @talanyra, @spideybv28
Previous Chapter//Next Chapter
Wolverining is Hard
When you come to, your arms are tightly secured behind your back. Sitting up you try to take in your surroundings as you wiggle around trying to free yourself. The room you’re in is dark with a metal table and a singular chair in the middle and smelled strongly of disinfectant.
Just as you felt like you were making progress with your restraints, really you had just dislocated your hand, a door opens up on your right flooding your vision with a blinding light.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Came an accented voice, it sounded British. Just as your eyes had started to adjust to the light you were harshly hoisted up to your feet and dragged away into another room before being dumped unceremoniously at the feet of a pair of red and black boots
“Pookie you’re alive!” said Wade dressed in a new and improved Deadpool suit. Where did he get that? You thought to yourself. “I thought these TVA fucks ate you or something!
Helping you to your feet Wade pats you on top of the head before gesturing between your restrained hands and a guy holding what looked like a giant remote in his hands.
Rolling his eyes the guy snaps his fingers and you’re manhandled again as your restraints are roughly yanked off.
Taking in your surroundings you notice you’re in what looks to be an office with office workers and a floating platform above it. On the platform, where you all were standing, are a bunch of monitors all showing different scenes of you and your friends.
“Where are we Wade? What is this place?” You asked confused as you rubbed at your sore wrists, getting closer to him.
“You, baby girl, have just been upgraded to first disciple! Congratulations!” He said jokingly, just as he was about to say something else he was interrupted by an accented voice, the same one you had heard before.
“As you can see Mr. Wilson your friend is alive and well mostly well.” Said the man from behind Wade with the British accent, he eerily reminded you of Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. Frowning, the man watched you with a disgusted expression as you flicked your hand popping your wrist back into place as you sucked in a breath in pain. You had definitely dislocated it earlier.
“Now as much as I hate to cut the reunion short it’s time for her to go back home.” He said snapping his fingers again, suddenly you're surrounded by men in body armor again, one reaches out quickly to grab you but you stumble back into Wade who pushes you behind him.
“Wait wait wait….you’re just gonna send her home? To die?” He turns to ask the man behind him. He could feel you pressed against his back, like you were trying to get under his skin. You were scared and he couldn’t blame you, you still had no idea what was going on.
“Die? What are you talking about?” You asked looking back and forth between the man and Wade until a gloved finger fell on your lips silencing you.
“Shush child Marvel Jesus is talking.”
“What the fuck?” You whispered, pushing his hand away.
“You can’t send her back Paradox.”
“Oh I can and I will.” The man, Paradox, had said as one of his armed men came up to him handing him one of those electric baton stick things you had seen earlier. You immediately tensed up, as he started to approach you with it, not knowing what it would do to you on contact.
“No wait wait wait please just hang on a fucking second!” Wade shouted, it was one of rare times he got serious and it made your hair stand on end
“What now Mr. Wilson?” Mr. Paradox asked, groaning dramatically, as if all of this was just a giant waste of his time
“W-what can I do to fix it? The timeline?”
Timeline? What the fuck was happening? You thought confused as you looked back at Wade again as he stared down Mr. Paradox
“Nothing unless you can bring Wolverine back to life in the next,” he says nonchalantly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world as he checks his watch “96 hours. But that’s impossible to-“
That little bit of information was enough to get the cogs in Wade’s brain turning as he hatched a play.
“Say less, I’m on it like a car bonnet!” Wade said cheerfully, you had no idea what the fuck that many but whatever it was Wade had set his mind too it and once his mind was set nothing was going to get in his way.
“Mr. Wilson-“ Mr. Paradox had started to say but before he could get another word out, Wade lunges forward and headbutts him full force, breaking his nose on contact, knocking him out as he snatched up the strange remote device Paradox had had in his hands.
Before you could even blink, Wade grabs you, scooping you up into his side, right under his armpit, as he opens up another one of those orange portal doors and jumps right through it with you.
The other side of the portal opens up midair and you crash land in the middle of a frozen forest. The ground and trees around you, covered in a powdery dusting of snow as a harsh wind blows over you causing you to shiver slightly, as you go to sit up you find yourself unable to move as a sharp pain shoots up your right arm.
It took a few moments to realize Wade had landed with you, more like on top of you it seemed, until you heard him groan from your back.
“I gotta get better at opening those things.” He groans, getting up.
“Sorry sugar lumps, we didn't really stick the landing there.” He said stretching his sore limbs as he gestured to your arm. It was bent at an awkward angle behind you, most definitely broken. Standing to your feet you grab at the injured appendage, popping it back into place with a loud snap and a yelp before it has a chance to heal wrong
“Ok Wade I’ve had enough of this Leon and Helena bullshit-“ you panted out still reeling from the pain of your arm.
“Ha! Resident Evil 6 humor!”
“Enough! Please just tell me what’s going on?!” You finally snap as you pull your cardigan around yourself in an attempt to block out the cold. Wade looks you over as if contemplating what to say next before he groans, running a gloved hand over his mask.
“Ah shit where do I even start?” He says as he sits down on a pile of rocks that had a makeshift stick x on top that looks suspiciously like a grave, you chose not to comment on it, as he begins to explain what had transpired over the last hour.
Apparently he was Marvel Jesus, you still didn’t get that part, and your timeline was dying. How? You weren’t entirely sure but Wade kept mumbling under his breath about some “Aussie fuck stealing his thunder from down under”, and that Mr. Paradox guy, who’s in charge of those TVA bastards that kidnapped you and Wade, was in charge of overseeing it but instead of letting it die out naturally over the next hundred years or so was going to speed up the process and now Wade only had 96 hours to fix it before everyone you knew and loved died.
“Which is why we’re here!” He said cheerfully pulling two shovels out of nowhere. Looking behind him to see where the shovels had intact come from you missed as he took a sip from his newly acquired ‘I Like Me’ mug through his mask before tossing it. “Grab your shovel jelly bean, we're hunting a Wolverine!” He said tossing the second shovel at your feet as he pulls the makeshift x grave marker from the pile of stones and starts to dig.
As soon as he said that you felt your stomach drop to your ass. That was a grave behind him, and it wasn’t just anyone’s… it was the Wolverine’s. You were digging up Wolverine to save your timeline?
“Holy shit.”
To say you idolized the guy was an understatement. When you were a kid you had all kinds of Wolverine comics and stickers, hell you still had a pair of Wolverine underwear to this day. Digging up his grave after all this time, after all that he went through in life just felt…wrong.
“You can cream your spinach later, right now we need to see if widdle Wolvie is really taking a dirt nap or not.” Chunks of dirt flew through the air as Wade kept digging, completely absorbed in his task.
“Wade this is-“ Not right you wanted to say. You start feeling your anxiety bubble up in your chest. “I can’t-!”
The sound of his shovel hitting something metal, adamantium, stopped you in your place. Tapping his shovel twice more to make sure he had actually hit something and that it wasn’t just his imagination, Wade looked over to you before turning back to what he had found, wiping away the dirt, he stared down at the now exposed decaying metallic skull of the Wolverine.
Your breath caught in your throat as you watched Wade stare at the corpse for a moment, lost in thought, before he raised his shovel over his head and bought it down on Wolverine’s skull over and over again, not stopping until he got even frustrated and snapped the wooden handle over his knee, no doubt breaking it in the process.
“Damn it! Son of a bitch! Fuck! Motherfucker! My world is fucked!”
He screamed, throwing the pieces of the shovel and swinging his arms as he punched at the air. It had been a long time since you had seen him this serious, albeit the last time you were quite literally dying, and it was honestly terrifying.
Your stomach sank even further at his words. Hugging your arms to yourself in an attempt to make yourself smaller you slowly approached Wade just as he was pulling the adamantium skeleton fully from the grave, dragging it over to a downed tree as he propped it up to sit cross legged by him.
“That was weird. I’m much calmer now.” He says with a chuckle, you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the corpse. “Look, I’m not a man of science, but you seem incredibly passed away. But it’s good to see ya.” he pats the corpse on the knee causing you to wrinkle your nose up in disgust as bile rises in your throat. You’d seen Wade do a lot of strange shit over the years of knowing him, but exhuming a grave of a fallen hero and having a one on one with his dead body was a whole new world for you.
“I gotta be honest, I’ve always wanted to ride with you, Logan. You and me, getting into everything. Just fucking shit up. Can you imagine the fun, the chaos, the residuals?”
You didn’t even want to know what he meant by that as you crept up next to Wade, kneeling down by his side.
“G’day, mate? There’s nothing that’ll bring me back to life faster than a big bag of metal cash.” Wade placed a finger under the corpse’s chin making its mandible move up and down as if he was talking to him, you put your arm on his to get him to stop but he just kept going as he moved to hold his masked head in his hands.
“No, no, no, no, uuuugh!” He groans dramatically as he throws his head back, thumping it on the tree trunk behind him. “He had to get all noble and die for real. God damn it! We coulda really used your help right about now Hugh.”
“Wade,” you said softly as you reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder, “we’ll figure something out, there’s got to be another way right?”
Wade’s masked face turns to look at you, deep in thought, before the sound of multiple approaching footsteps pulls him out of his head. Pulling you until you were tucked between him and the tree truck, he peeks over the tree before ducking back down just as fast, cursing under his breath.
“Wade Winston Wilson! You’re under arrest by the Time Variance Authority for too many crimes to count, come out!” Came a booming voice over the chill of the air. You and Wade look at each other for a moment as if deciding what to do.
“This is your last chance! Throw out your weapons and come out peacefully!” The voice said again as he and a bunch of other TVA agents began to surround you.
You look Wade in his eyes again and nod, knowing he’s going to have to fight to get you both out of there. Looking around himself for anything you could use to defend yourself, his eyes land on the adamantium skeleton sitting nearby and he gets a horribly morbid idea.
“I’m not gonna give you my weapons! But I promise not to use them.” He shouts back as he turns back towards you, placing a hand on your head. “Ok Nugget you know the drill.” He says so that only you can hear.
“You go right, I go left.” You nod your head towards the tree line in the background on your left.
“Good girl.” He pats you on the head one last time, tucking baby knife into your hand. “Maximum effort.” He grunted as you both stood, jumping into action. You break to the left as fast as your feet can carry you just as Wade jumps over the tree trunk pulling Wolverine's body with him.
Hearing rapid footfalls following close behind you try to pick up the pace, your lungs burning as you run, just as you reach the woods a gloved hand reaches out tangling itself in your locs before yanking you backwards. You hit the snow covered ground with an audible thud. Your head ringing and vision blurred from the impact. Just as your eyes were starting to clear, that rapid thumping noise from before came back with a vengeance.
Shaking your head to clear it you try and get back up to your feet until a black boot, steps down on your shoulder harshly. Above you stood a TVA agent, his stick pointed right at you as he glared down at you. Just as he began to lower it, you pulled baby knife from your boot, stabbing it as hard as you could through his foot.
He screams in pain as he stumbles backwards falling on his ass as he goes to pull out the knife. Scrambling back up you yank the knife from his foot before embedding it in his exposed neck. Pulling the knife back out again the fall back on your ass in shock at what you just did. You killed someone and hadn’t even hesitated. Sure you had see your fair share of people dying, thanks mostly to Wade, but never had you actually been the one doing the killing.
Before you have a chance to wallow anymore to yourself, you hear a body thud next to you and jump.
“My bad!” Wade calls as he smacks a TVA agent across the face with something that looked suspiciously like a metal femur, shattering his helmet and mostly his face on impact. “Wolverining is hard!”
“Wolverine was a hero and the only thing worth a shit to ever come out of Canada!” Shouted a voice from in front of you two, it was the same guy from before, the one who you tackled through the portal earlier, and he looked pissed. Before he had a chance to say anything else a katana goes bouncing off the ground and right through the guy’s mouth.
“Get my country’s name out of your fucking mouth.” Wade said as he walked up to the still standing body, pulling his sword out of his mouth. “And my sword, gimme that.”
Cleaning off the blade with his sleeve, Wade looks you over, checking you for injuries, something he couldn’t break himself from doing, no matter how much you told him you could heal, before pulling you to your feet.
“We gotta find us another Logan, an alive one.” He said looking around himself assessing the overall damage.
“How?” You question still trying to quiet the pounding in your head, it was starting to fade out now, only being a low murmur at the point, but it still made it hard to focus.
Pulling something from his belt, Wade holds up the remote looking device he had stolen from Mr. Paradox earlier between wiggling fingers.
“This my dear bestest pal is how.” He said opening it up and hitting a few buttons. Another orange portal opens and you stare at it in contemplation, nervousness grips your stomach as you think about what the two of you would get into on the other side of the portal. Wade goes through first holding out a hand for you from the other side. Swallowing down rising anxiety, you take up his hand following him through.
On the other side of the portal the atmosphere is much warmer, you're both in a club, a nice one at that, surrounded by other people as they mingle and converse by the bar.
“Logan I’m gonna need you to come with us!” Wade spoke over the music. Looking around the room, you wonder which of these people he was talking to, none of them really looked like a Wolverine to you.
“Who’s asking?” came a familiar voice from the bar. Turning to look to see who it was that said that, you were shocked to see a guy, about your height, with a crazy hairy torso, wearing a tight fitted black v-neck.
His face definitely screamed Wolverine to you but there was something about this man that just struck you as off.
“Look at this little Mary Lou Retton. Did you stick the landing little guy? Yes, you did, comic-accurate short king.” Wade cooed to him from your side in a baby voice as he crouched down dramatically.
You frowned up as Wade as he mocked him, definitely planning to ream him out later when you, yourself, was the same height as the man he was making fun of. This Wolverine stares at you, recognition and another emotion in his eyes, that you weren’t sure of as his nostrils flared and they took in yours and Wade’s, no doubt horrific, scents. Just as you were about to tell Wade that this Wolverine would work, another orange portal opens up behind you and he dragging you inside with him.
“Cue the fucking montage, baby.”
#logan howlett imagine#logan howlett x reader#wolverine imagine#wolverine x reader#logan howlett#wolverine#platonic deadpool x reader#deadpool and wolverine#deadpool 3#hugh jackman#like a prayer
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missent letters pt.2
wanderer x gn! reader
part 1 || part 2
tags/cw: academic rivals to lovers, some cursing, mc is: a Vahumana student in the Akademiya, roommates with Alhaitham and Kaveh, and a pyro vision holder.
a/n: I finally finished the book a year later (lol) which made me want to make a part 2! Also, please don't mind any ooc or wrong plot details...it's been a while since I've actually played genshin.
wc: 2.1k
“It would do your remaining few brain cells some good to stop banging your head against the table. Plus this table was expensive. I can’t have the wood scratched already.”
You stop mid head bang to send Alhaitham an incredulous look. “Please!” you plead. “Have some sympathy for me at least once in your life. My life is over.” You slump your body across the living room bench.
Without missing a beat, he replies, ”I let you live here, don’t I?” Alhaitham turns to Kaveh with a raised eyebrow, “Care to fill me in on their latest tantrum?”
“It’s not a tantrum—!”
“Long story short, they asked me to send out some envelopes for them because of their busy schedule, so I told them to leave whatever they needed sent on top of their desk. Among the envelopes was one for Hat Guy, which apparently they didn’t want me to deliver.” He takes another bite of the shawarma wrap that Alhaitham brought home for dinner.
Kaveh turns to look at your defeated form. “If you didn’t mean to send Hat Guy the letters, why were they mixed up with the other envelopes in the first place? What’s the big deal about those letters anyway?” he asks while chewing.
You perk up your head to look at him. “Huh? You didn’t read them?” you ask.
“You see, unlike some”—he sends Alhaitham a pointed look—”people, I have basic human decency.”
“Again, I let you guys live here—”
“Basically, everytime I feel anger or annoyance towards him, I just vent about it on paper pretending that he’s the recipient. Then I just stuff everything in the same envelope because it’s easy storage that way.”
“Wait!” Kaveh interrupts. “Just how many letters have you written about him? That envelope was like an inch thick. It even cost me extra postage!”
“...What can I say? I have lots of vendettas against him,” you shrug.
Alhaitham interposes, “I don’t think I understand. What’s the big deal? So what if you told him exactly how you feel about him? I didn’t take you for being a people pleaser.”
“This is why people think you’re such a machine at times, Alhaitham!” Kaveh throws his arms up in frustration. “Some people actually care about how they present themselves to others.”
“Actually!” You interject before another one of their infamous arguments breaks out full throttle. “Alhaitham’s kind of right. I did write exactly how I feel about him, and that’s the thing. I wrote everything that I felt about him..” you trail off.
Kaveh lets out a dramatic gasp. “No way! You finally confessed your feelings for him in those letters?!”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it confessing. I just talked about how I think his eyes are kinda dreamy despite being cold at times and that he has a really pretty face and that”—you almost give yourself whiplash turning in his direction—”Wait, finally? What do you mean finally? There’s no way you could have known about my minuscule crush on Hat Guy!”
“Anyone with eyes and ears could tell that you have some romantic attraction towards him,” Kaveh sighs while shaking his head before gesturing to Alhaitham. “Even this guy is aware of it.”
“You two do know that I’m not socially inept, correct?”
Deciding to ignore Alhaitham, you slump back against the bench. “I’m doomed.”
You pop up with an idea. “Wait! Do you guys think Tighnari needs any more forest rangers? I can take a break until this whole thing tides over and just help him over at Avidya Forest—”
Alhaitham quenched your wishful thinking. “Knowing how substandard you are with your vision, you’d accidentally set the forest on fire.”
You stumble back as if an arrow pierced through your body. You mumble out, “Must you always humble me.” You turn to Kaveh with hopeful eyes.
“I thought I'd never say this, but I agree with Alhaitham. You trying to help Tighnari in the forest would do more harm than good. Plus, you'd end up a victim to his lectures again. Remember that one time you—”
Feeling your body riddling with piercing wounds, you slump against the bench once more. “Yeah, I’m doomed.”
//
It's been five days since Kaveh accidentally sent out the envelope meant for Hat Guy and you aren’t sure how much longer you have until the letters would be in his possession. Unless they already were...
If you were blessed by the Archons, then maybe the envelope was lost or better yet damaged beyond repair in delivery, but alas, you know better. The mail system in Sumeru City is known for its attentiveness, especially since many important Akademiya-based deliveries are sent and received daily.
You haven't seen Hat Guy around much these days, especially considering the fact that you’ve been actively avoiding him. Mandatory lectures that you both share? You now sit close to the exit, far from him. The library that you guys are known to basically reside in? You begged Alhaitham to let you study in his office instead, promising that you’d do his portion of the house chores for the next two weeks.
Deciding to go home early out of your own volition (Alhaitham kicked you out because of an important meeting), you carefully tread the halls of the Akademiya making sure to peek around each corner before continuing. As you start to believe that you're finally in the clear, you hear someone behind you clearing their throat. Taking a look down at the shadows decorating the floor, you see the silhouette of the man that you have been avoiding for your own peace of mind.
"How much longer are you going to rat around the Akademiya for? It's not like you can avoid me forever, you know."
Feeling offended by his choice of words, you abruptly turn around to tell him off; however, the sudden close proximity of your faces has you taking a step back. If you hadn’t been paying attention to his face, you would have thought that he was unaffected by the action, but the slight widening of his eyes before returning back to normal has you knowing otherwise.
You give Hat Guy a pointed glare. Wanting to defend yourself against his statement, you open your mouth to retaliate but the sight of the familiar envelope in his hand causes you to simply shut your mouth and grimace instead.
As he notices your actions, Hat Guy lets an annoying smirk grace his face. "Come on, say what you were going to say. We both know that you have a lot to say to me," he says while lazily waving the envelope around.
To try and play this in your favor, you start to act nonchalant. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘avoiding you’. Also, what’s with the envelope? Never seen it before in my life.”
Hat Guy raises a brow. “What’s with this sudden stupid, chill guy persona? Anyways, it seems like you need a reminder. Not surprising considering our perspective rankings,” he subtly gloats.
“You little—”
”Let's see,”—he opens up the envelope and starts to smooth out the bottommost letter—”Maybe reading some of these letters will help jog your memory.” He makes a grand gesture of pretending to clear his throat before reading, and you can’t help but to cover your face with your hands to try and protect yourself from the upcoming embarrassing retelling.
“Again! Again, you received a higher score on an assigned research essay. It’s only been 2 months and 11 days since you’ve been enrolled into the Vahumana Darshan, so how is it that you’re the apparent “All-Knowing” about Time-Sensitive Commodities? Who do you think you are? The new Sumeru archon of wisdom? Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t be disrespecting our Lesser Lord Kusanali by comparing you to her—” he pauses and his eyes hurriedly shift to gauge your reaction. If anything, he should be thankful. If you hadn’t been so focused on not looking at him, you would have seen the crease in his brows mid-reading.
Hat Guy recomposes himself before continuing to read. “For Archon's sake. What’s more frustrating is your subtle boasting towards me. How could such a shitty personality even emit from a pretty face like yours? Though, I’ll begrudgingly admit that I actually look forward to these interactions that I have with you.”
“ST—!”
A coy smirk fills his face. “Oh? Why so embarrassed? Do you know these letters after all?”
“N-no…I was just clearing my throat.” At this point, you curse your pride for not being able to halt this interaction.
“Stubborn as always.”
This time he picks out a letter from the top of the stack..
“It's completely and utterly unfair how your resting face looks so serene. Why must you always be in the library at the same time as I? Your stupidly, bewitching face only serves as a major distraction, like how could I not stare! It's like your face was personally carved by a god. Also, how the hell do you make a simple fountain pen look so good? The way that your slender fingers grip the—”
“OK, that’s enough! Stop with the reciting! I admit it!” You feel your face heat up from embarrassment and your pyro vision only makes everything feel hotter. You raise your hands in frustration. “It was a whole mixup! Those letters weren’t even meant to be sent to you.” You dial back your volume towards the end.
He pointedly sighs. “Well that much I figured out. There’s no chance in Teyvat where you of all people would willingly subject themself to this. So, what are you going to do about it now?” he asks while crossing his arms.
It hurts to admit, but you felt stupid at this very second. “What do you mean?”
He tskd. “Do I need to explain every little thing to you? You’re ranked right below me, so I know that you’re not stupid. Are you going to own up to your letters and finally confess? Or are you going to just cowardly dismiss this like you’ve been doing?”
“CONFESS?” You almost give yourself whiplash from how fast you check to see if anyone’s heard you. You repeat yourself in a whispering tone. “Confess?”
“You talk about ‘looking forwards’ to our interactions, staring at my ‘bewitching face’ and ‘slender fingers’ and you think it’s absurd that I bring up confessing? Or would it be easier for you if I confess first?”
Without thinking you blurt out, “There’s no way that you actually like me back.”
“Do you ever see me bothering to interact with anyone as much as I do with you? I even surprised myself when I started to catch feelings for your stubborn self.”
You try to shake off the nerves before staring into his eyes. “Hat Guy, I like—”
“Wanderer.”
"What?"
"Call me Wanderer instead; it rolls off the tongue easier than Hat Guy. It’s a nickname that the traveler gave me. Hat Guy is a silly name that happened to stick around the Akademiya.”
“Lots of names you have there, huh?” you tease.
He lets out a sound that’s the mix between a chuckle and a scoff. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Well, Wanderer. I like you. So…will you go out with me?”
“Obviously.” (Your eye roll at his matter-of-fact tone is instinctual) “I wouldn’t waste my time with anybody else. Anyways, let’s get out of here. You were on your way home before I caught you, weren't you?”
Your lips start to raise into a smile. “You’re going to walk me home?”
“Noo, I’m saying this so I can just go off on my own—”
“Oh, shut it. Let’s get out of here.”
As the both of you guys stroll out of the Akademiya, your hand closest to Wanderer suddenly can’t stop twitching every so often. Your head fills with thought pertaining to your new found relationship.
‘Is it too early to be holding hands?…Maybe hand holding is too PDA for him on open streets—’
A cold hand suddenly embracing yours breaks you out of your stupor. You turn to Wanderer, clearly surprised by the action. Starting to feel embarrassed, you try to pry your hand out of his clutch, only for him to tighten his grip. “W-What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” He pivots his head to the opposite side, hoping that you won’t catch his ears turning slightly pink. “Your thoughts are so loud that even Mondstadt can hear them,” he scoffs. “Just lead the way.”
You start to walk with a slight pep in your step. “As you say!”
bonus scene?:
“Hey, can I give you a nickname too? Or is it too soon..”
He turns with a raised eyebrow. “Depends. What do you have in mind?”
“XxAssMaster69xX”
He lets out the biggest sigh. “Not you too.”
“Jokes, jokes—” you pause. “Wait, me too?”
He continues to walk forwards without you.
“Me too?! Hello???”
#ttalgi writes#genshin#genshin impact x reader#gender neutral reader#genshin x reader#wanderer x reader#wanderer x you#scaramouche x reader#scara x reader#genshin fluff
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If He Never Says It
MDNI
Shanks x f!reader
Warnings: heavy spice, hurt no comfort, angst, graphic description of dead bodies, character death
A/N: Please do feel free to scream with me in the comments.
If he never says it, it isn’t true.
His stirs from his dreams clinging to the taste of foreign words that have no business in the waking world. Half-conscious, he reaches over the warm patch beside him, grasping after a companion who isn’t where she ought to be.
As he blinks awake, taking in the daylight and the empty space under his arm, he resigns himself to weeks of old habits. He’s done it before. When he leaves, he’ll start each day this way, reaching for someone he expects but will never find in his quarters aboard the Red Force.
But he isn’t aboard yet, and he expects a cuddle. Maybe one last game beneath the sheets before he departs, too.
Grumbling, he listens to the little morning sounds of a bubbling kettle and warm liquid rushing into cups. So, that’s where his companion has gone. He knew she wouldn’t be far. Her home is only one great room. But she’s still too far away, and he whines.
“Don’t be like that.” She’s onto his games before he’s properly begun. “I’m just making some coffee.”
Lessons learned over long nights and aching mornings have given her foresight. Perfect creature.
“Damn, woman. Marry me.”
His hair’s in his eyes, and the sun glints on the window, blinding him to anything but her silhouette. But even still, he sees the pause. It rolls through her like the space between waves, a chance to glimpse the shiny things beneath frothing surf. And just like that, it tumbles away, dragged under the tide of their usual song and dance, and she’s scoffing, a little laugh that tilts her head back and bares her throat for the kill.
“As if you’d ever settle.” She returns to bed, sitting beside him and combing back his tousled hair. Her touch knows him, follows comforting trails away from his face, over his scalp. “You’re very pretty, Red-Haired Shanks, but the sunsets here are prettier.”
He nuzzles into her hand, giving her a lopsided smirk to hold in her palm. There’s nothing else he can let her keep.
Seas, he’s cruel.
It’s a kindness.
For every dismissive laugh and taunting remark, he’s adding years to her life’s count. The leagues he puts between them are measures of peace he could never gift her. He’s not a man for real romance, anyway. He’s never lied about what he can and cannot offer a woman, and he’s never broken his word – in either regard.
This is the same as every other lover he’s charmed to sharing more than drink.
It is.
Even if he’s found so many reasons to stop at the little island in his territory – for more booze, or fresh rations, or simply because the men need time ashore in a secure port. And every time, he finds himself in her bed.
People have started to notice. He comes ashore and the locals giggle behind their hands about how “the Emperor’s girl” will be scarce the next few days. Beck has started giving him looks, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or maybe just waiting for his captain to realize it already has. There’s a principle that guides his trysts. Better a broken heart than a still one.
He turns his smirk into a kiss, smelling coffee and sugar on her skin.
It’s past time to make this the last time.
He gives her hand a cheeky lick, and she jerks away, sputtering through a laugh, and lets the moment pass in a breeze of levity. She accepts his cruelty so kindly.
What a woman to love. What a woman to keep. If only the seas were kind and men were honest, what wouldn’t he give to have her in his own bed, in his heart and soul?
Sliding back under the covers, she gets her revenge, pinching his side, and he throws himself into teasing kisses. He’ll drown her in them, fill her with enough passion to bury promises never made but ever desired.
He growls, sucking bruises across her chest, groaning with every tug of his hair. She meets him measure for measure, giving and singing and making his name beautiful. She’s his sunny day, a comfort after storms, and despite everything, he feels that debt.
If this is to be the last time, he will make it the best.
Who needs dreams when he’s between her thighs, licking her silly? Who needs forever when he’s living eternity in her eyes, buried to the hilt in her heat. Only when she’s boneless, sated beyond her limits, does he stop. Only when he’s pleasured her every way he knows and enjoyed her every way he can stand.
He cleans her, thanking the swells and dips of her flesh for safe harbor as she drifts towards sleep. He rests with her. Holds her. Sends her back to sleep.
When she’s lost to the world, he rises.
The coffee, waiting patiently on the stove, tastes like home. He sips, watching her breathe, studying the sunlight and shadow tangling in her hair.
When he’s finished, he washes his cup and puts it back on the shelf.
He has no appetite when he returns to the ship. They set sail, and he watches the island shrink. It’s a small place in a big world, after all.
He avoids lunch, refuses dinner. When the booze comes out, he laughs, and talks, but he doesn’t accept a drop.
He goes to bed treasuring the lingering ghost of her coffee on his tongue.
------------------------------------------------------------
If he never says it, it isn’t true.
They’d sailed far away, and by the time he learned, the fires had burned out and the culprits had sailed away. Beckman stepped up to his captain when word first reached the crew, presenting the report. The first mate hadn’t even been smoking. Mourning his captain’s loss, perhaps. Acknowledging what couldn’t be said with all the gravity he could manage.
Now Shanks stands on ruined dock, cold ashes in his mouth carried by the wind – the last living thing in town.
If he doesn’t say it, it isn’t true, but he sees and hears and smells too much.
The townsfolk who didn’t burn in their homes had fled to the water. Crabs pick over families, the tavern keeper who most often hosted his crew, the gaggle of children who’d courted Monster’s affection with fruit and sweets. The monkey sits by them, petting their heads, groaning as the hair slides off their rotting scalps.
The pillagers left their Jolly Roger.
It’s tied like a cape around her neck, over the rope that suspends her from the cargo crane to welcome the island’s protector to its ruins.
He doesn’t say it, simply asks Beckman to cut the ropes as he gathers her in his arms. He sits on the dock so she can rest across his lap, against his chest, the way she did the first night he won her favor.
Matted blood has turned all her hair to shadow. Even the midday sun can’t bring it to life the way he remembers.
He reads her body. This is how he’s always found her pleasure, brought her to bliss. It takes understanding to share that kind of joy.
There’s no joy here.
Torture, pain, humiliation. A slow death, looking out to sea. Looking for –
“Captain.”
His crew has gathered the bodies they could find. Men carry shovels from the ship, digging new homes for old friends in the sand.
His commanders gather around him, grave as stone.
Beckman’s hand rests on his gun and he asks, “Orders?”
A wind blows in from the sea, and the ashes stir and rise. He sees lost souls in the haze. Imagines the other world where she’s gone is not so far at all.
He draws her in, cuddling her like the morning he left. Her skin isn’t right under his hands. Too dry. Too sticky. Too cold.
Her shirt is torn so all can read her crime, carved over her heart with knives.
Yonko’s whore.
It’s ugly. It’s wrong. It isn’t true, and he says it.
“She wasn’t.”
His commanders listen, taking his pain as theirs, letting the agony and guilt stew into something darker. Something useful.
“She wasn’t, you know.”
Lucky Roux answers for them all. “We know, Captain.”
He holds her close, chest ablaze, the world smearing with tears.
Beckman asks again, throwing his captain a lifeline, “Orders?”
The flag her killers left behind is all he needs to pursue justice. He hands the fabric to his first mate. It’s good enough.
His men give him space, but keep an eye. They’ll sharpen the blades and review their charts so the hunt is ready whenever he can bear to put her down. Set her in the earth.
He didn’t say goodbye.
He’d thought it would be kinder.
He still doesn’t want to say it.
But – well, what could it hurt now?
He stayed too long and loved too well.
He never said it, and it was true.
#fic: if he never says it#red haired shanks x reader#shanks x reader#shanks x you#one piece x reader#one piece fanfiction#angst#shanks x original character
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Wait Your Turn
Laura Freigang x Reader
Summary: You and Laura take a trip to the beach, her camera ready to capture whatever catches her eye (spoiler: it's you).
Word Count: 2.6k
Laura’s suggestion to spend an evening together at the beach was met with instant hesitation on your part. After the grueling training session you’d experienced this morning, all you really wanted to do was lay in bed and call it an early night, preferably in your girlfriend’s arms. With a soft peck to your lips and a whispered promise, she convinced you that it’d be a calm night, nothing to focus on but her and the sound of the waves.
Walking hand in hand along the cool sand with your shoes dangling from your free hands, the tide shifts unpredictably, causing crisp waves to occasionally rush up to your bare ankles. The earlier hope you felt of tonight being relaxing comes to a halt when Laura suggests walking along the pier that runs vertically to the expanse of blue water beneath it.
“Want to walk down the pier?” Laura asks, turning to you with a soft smile—the same one that instantly had you falling for her the first time you saw it.
You turn to look toward the pier she’s referring to. The combined chaos of the bright lights, wandering surfers, teenage lovers, and parents chasing after their children is overwhelming, even from afar. A groan leaves your lips before you even realize it.
“Ugh. Not really,” you respond as you turn back in her direction.
“Please?” she drawls out, dropping the shoes in her hand and paying absolutely no mind to the splash of water that surges up as a result, drenching both her shoes and the bottom of your jeans.
“Babe-” you start with the intention of lecturing her about the shoes that are now bobbing in the water, but she cuts you off.
“I want to get some pictures. Five minutes, and we can leave,” she presses, turning towards you. She steps closer and wraps her now free arm around your neck, pulling you into her as her other hand slips from yours and finds solstice on your waist.
“That’s why you brought me here? To get pictures for your photo book?” you gasp, feigning offense as your lips turn down into a faux pout.
Laura tilts her head playfully, mimicking your pout before leaning forward to rest her forehead on yours. She gently rubs her nose along yours, and you groan internally, knowing full well you’re about to give in to her. The way she’s smiling at you expectantly, paired with the softness of her actions, makes the thought of saying no to her weigh heavier on your limbs than the exhaustion you’re feeling. It’s almost subconscious when you lean in to press your lips to hers.
She reciprocates immediately, the two of you keeping the kiss slow at first. The slow movement of her hand up to tangle in your hair sends a shiver down your spine, and you press yourself closer to her on instinct. The warmth of her body against yours helps distract from the increasing chill of the evening air.
Too engrossed with the feeling of her mouth on yours, you don’t notice the water moving in again until you feel a rush of water around your ankles. You flinch slightly, causing Laura to stifle a laugh against your lips before she pulls back slightly.
“The pier? Please,” she asks again, the same smile on her face as when she first asked.
“Fine,” you say, your words intertwined with an exaggerated sigh. You’re sure that the matching smile on your face gives you away, undermining your facade of mock resignation.
She leans in to kiss your cheek. “Ich liebe dich,” she whispers as she pulls away. “Just five minutes,” she adds.
“We both know ‘five minutes’ to you is more like 30 minutes.”
“So you’re already prepared for it. Perfect!” Laura doesn’t argue, opting for a swift, satisfied nod before shifting her attention over to her shoes, which are now floating in the water several feet away. She directs her gaze back to you, her eyes full of playful disappointment.
“Amazing. They’re drenched. Why’d you let me do that?”
“I tried to stop you! You were too busy manhandling me,” you scoff lightheartedly.
“You don’t mind,” Laura murmurs before shifting closer to you. She slides her hands down your sides, fingers lightly trailing across the damp fabric of your shirt before giving a squeeze to your waist. She keeps her eyes on you the entire time, which only increases the butterflies that have already erupted in your stomach.
To your surprise, she doesn’t mention the blush that you can feel making its way across your face, but the growing smirk on her face tells you that she’s well aware of its presence.
“It’s okay. We’re at the beach, I don’t need shoes. No one will care.” She throws you a lifeline as she pulls away, giving you a second to catch your breath. She starts her stride in the direction of the pier, and you grab her shoes from the water before following after her.
⟡
The walk down the pier may have been nicer if your girlfriend wasn’t constantly pulling away from you. Every two minutes, and despite your resulting exasperated exhales, she’d yank her hand from yours to lift her camera and take a new photo. She filled her camera with pictures of the sky, seagulls perched on the railing, exhausted surfers still clad in their wetsuits, and a rogue dog devouring a fallen hotdog. It was enough to fill an entire photo book, really.
After watching her linger for one shot too many, you finally grab her hand with a dramatic sigh, grasping it tight enough to ensure she doesn’t slip away again. You weave your way through the crowds of bodies, successfully dragging Laura to a quieter spot.
“No more photos, please. Your camera’s getting more of your attention than I am.” You try to keep your tone lighthearted but internally hope she picks up on the silent plea beneath your words. The way her fingers loosen on the camera, paired with the subtle softening of her features as she lifts her eyes to meet yours, tells you that she does.
“Sorry, Schatz. No more pictures,” she says genuinely as she lets the camera fall from her grasp, the strap around her neck catching it as it rests against her torso. The moment her hands are free, she reaches for yours and tugs you closer.
“I don’t know if I believe you,” you tease with a smirk, allowing her to pull you closer.
“You should!” she assures before sliding one of her hands up your arm, pausing on your bicep as her thumb traces gentle circles against your skin. She moves closer, closing the distance until there’s barely enough space to breathe. She tilts her head, nuzzling her cheek against yours as she whispers, “You have all of my attention now, I promise.”
You swear you’re about to say something—maybe tease her again about her photography obsession, or maybe just revel in the moment, but then you catch the sunset out of the corner of your eye.
“Look! The sunset,” you say, pulling away from her embrace to point out to the horizon where streaks of red, orange, and yellow paint the sky above the water. She doesn’t shift her gaze though, keeping it on you instead.
“Pretty,” she says with a smirk. Your attempt at shielding the blush that takes over your face is useless, if the evergrowing smirk on her face tells you anything.
You step behind her, gently placing your hands on either side of her head before turning it toward the sunset, leaving her no choice but to finally look in its direction. Your hands trail down from her head before settling around her waist. Pulling her closer, you lean forward to rest your head on her shoulder. She lets out a gentle hum as she threads her fingers through yours, leaning back to settle into your embrace.
After spending a few minutes basking in the warmth of your girlfriend’s body against yours, Laura turns her head back toward yours, her cheek brushing against yours for the second time tonight.
“Now the sunset’s getting all of your attention.” Despite not seeing her face clearly, you can picture the faux pout she’s making, one that’s likely similar to the expression you sent her way earlier in the night.
“It’s only fair,” you mutter in response. Despite your words, you press a quick peck to her lips before pulling back. She makes a sound of protest as you pull back before turning her head further, pressing a kiss to your cheek in return, her lips lingering for a beat or two. You can’t help the quiet laugh that leaves your mouth.
You eventually turn your head back toward the sunset, resting it on her shoulder again and tightening your arms around her. “You should take a photo,” you whisper.
“Good idea,” she says, pulling away from you and lifting the camera that’s been hanging around her neck. She turns to face you, stepping back to put a bit of space between you.
“Smile!” she grins as she raises the camera to her eye. She gives you no time to prepare before the flash goes off, momentarily blinding you.
“Lau! Warn me next time!” you groan, attempting to blink away the spots in your vision. She lowers the camera and glances down at the screen, looking at it for a moment before a quiet giggle escapes her lips.
“This is going in my next photo book.” Her laughter is playful, but you see something soften in her eyes the longer her gaze lingers on the screen, and her laughter fades into a smile.
“Ew, no, delete it. That’s disgusting,” you groan again, reaching for the camera to delete it yourself.
Laura gasps dramatically, yanking the camera out of your reach. A look of pure disbelief flashes across her face, like she genuinely cannot comprehend how that thought could even cross your mind. “Excuse me? Have you ever seen a photo of yourself?”
“Plenty. This one is terrible,” you respond, unamused. Laura scoffs.
“Well, I love it. And I love you. So I’m keeping it,” she smiles. You roll your eyes, feeling slightly betrayed at the way your heart skips a beat at her words. You repeat the declaration back to her, and the smile that involuntarily graces your features is a small manifestation of the warmth she’s just sent spreading through you.
“Love me enough to let me take a photo of you?” you ask with a knowing grin, well aware of Laura’s constant reluctance to let anyone other than herself so much as touch her camera.
Her hesitance is palpable as she clutches her camera a bit tighter. She glances down at it, almost as if she’s searching for an answer in the object staring back at her. When she looks back up and catches the way you’re smiling at her, you’re pleasantly surprised at how quickly her resolve falters.
“Fine. Just one photo. But if you mess with any of my settings, I’ll hold it against you forever,” she exhales dramatically as she extends the camera to you. You handle it with extra care as you take it from her hands, if only to ease the lingering hesitation you’re sure is running rampant through her mind.
“Forever is a long time,” you remark as you glance down at the camera, attempting to familiarize yourself with it.
“Good thing we’re spending it together then.” Her words cause you to glance back up. She shrugs when your eyes meet hers, a small smile pulling at her lips as if she just said the most obvious thing in the world.
“Good thing,” you agree, trying to match the nonchalance present in her voice, but the unspoken meaning behind both of your words is anything but.
As you start messing with the camera settings, you see her wince slightly in your peripheral vision. You think you see her hands twitching, as if she’s consciously holding them back from grabbing the camera back.
“If anyone else was mistreating my camera like that, I’d probably be freaking out right now,” Laura says, watching you through narrowed eyes.
“Mistreating? Babe, I’ve pressed like three buttons,” you scoff, unable to stifle the laughter that carries through your voice.
“Three buttons too many. Come on, give it back. I want to take more photos of you.”
“Wait your turn!” you exclaim, instinctively holding the camera closer to your chest, turning away from Laura’s now eager hands.
“It’s my camera!” she says through a laugh.
“What’s yours is mine and all that. Smile!” you mirror her earlier words, quickly putting distance between your bodies and raising the camera to snap a photo of her. Similar to your reaction earlier, she winces at the resulting flash, blinking rapidly before rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm.
“Not so fun being on the receiving end, huh?” you ask as you walk back over in her direction. You let the camera fall to hang around your neck, reaching for her hands and gently pulling them away from her face.
“Sorry, baby,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to the back of each hand.
You’re about to step back and continue taking photos of her, but Laura moves quicker than you do. Her hands slip down, soft fingers brushing over your collarbone as they make their way toward the camera resting on your chest. In one smooth motion, the fabric glides over your neck as she lifts the strap over your head. She smirks at your stunned expression, now holding the camera in her hands.
You almost miss her secretly deleting the photo you’ve just taken of her.
“Hey! Not fair!” you glare, folding your arms over to your chest to emphasize your annoyance.
“It’s my camera,” she reiterates, clearly amused at your reaction. You narrow your eyes at her, but she just smirks, clearly unbothered. You hold each other’s gaze, neither willing to lose the unintentional staring contest this has turned into.
“I have a proposition,” Laura finally speaks, breaking the silence. “Give me another kiss, and I’ll let you take a couple more,” she bargains, but you don’t miss the mischief present in her eyes.
“Liar,” you argue with a subtle shake of your head, but she’s already stepping closer to you. The camera, which she’s moved to hang from her shoulder, is momentarily forgotten as she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you flush against her body.
“Only one way to know for sure,” she shrugs, her grin not faltering.
She doesn’t wait for your reply before leaning in. She crashes her lips into yours with more intensity than you were anticipating, stealing your breath as you gasp against her lips. Any lingering annoyance you were feeling dissipates, replaced by the warmth swirling in your stomach as your arms move to wrap around her neck. Her fingers slide up your jaw, cupping your cheek as she manually tilts your head, deepening the kiss.
Too distracted by everything that is her, you miss the way her hand leaves your waist. It’s only when a subtle flash flickers behind your closed eyes, paired with the quiet click of the camera, that you’re made aware of what she’s done.
But with her lips still on yours, you can’t find it in yourself to be bothered this time.
a/n: never really planned on writing for laura but I had a random dream about her that was similar to this and I got inspired to write a continuation of it, so here we are 🤓
#laura freigang#laura freigang x reader#laura freigang imagine#eintracht frankfurt women#woso#woso x reader#woso fanfics#woso blurbs#woso one shot#woso community
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