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trippinsorrows · 3 months ago

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love lies

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

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

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

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

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

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

She should have broken it off a long time ago.

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

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

Stay away from Roman Reigns.

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

Or, it was.

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

Roman lost.

He lost.

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

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

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

Something that felt and seemed inconceivable at the time.

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

She wonders if he still feels the same.

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

Talk to her like that. It was…confusing.

It all is, but especially that.

Especially something so….personal.

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

And, he always does.

At one point or another.

—-------

March, 2022

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

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

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

Or, at least, tried to.

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

Of course.

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

Go fucking figure.

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

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

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

Everything about him screamed power.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, I—”

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

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

The eyes of the Tribal Chief himself, Roman Reigns.

—-------

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

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

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

She wasn’t his type. Too thin.

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

But.

Alamea…she was most definitely his type.

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

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

—------

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

Alamea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One he could absolutely learn to manage.

—-------

April, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanna take this in a little more.”

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

“Man, you are magic, Lay Lay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled, “did you design this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—---------

May, 2022

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

Until then.

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

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

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

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

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

That was the hate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s just go.”

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

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

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

And, she was right.

It was just the two of them.

Alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ….”

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

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

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

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

For this setting, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s get out of here.”

—------

June, 2022

It’d become a routine really.

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

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

Always to her pleasure though.

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

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

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

Except for her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, then it happened.

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

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

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

What….the….fuck?

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

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

And with her.

Peace with her.

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

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

But.

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

—----------

July, 2022

“Does he eat pussy?”

“Mom!”

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s not little, is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

Usually Martin or One Tree Hill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If they could ever be more.

A dangerous line of thinking, for sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not what it could never be.

—----------

July, 2022

It happened again.

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

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

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

“Tell me something about you.”

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

And yet….

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

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

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

He chuckled. “Definitely not like you then.”

“And my oldest sister, Paris—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t say anything after that.

Neither did she.

—-------

November, 2022

Oh hot damn, this is my jam

Keep me partying 'til the AM

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

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

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

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

Jimmy was a good ass DJ.

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

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

Some mess, it certainly was.

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

The group cheered, as Roman sighed heavily.

Over his dead body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were all a hot fucking mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

On him.

Roman’s jaw clenched.

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

Wait, no. That wasn’t his name.

Fuck.

What was it?

Shmuel?

Yeah, that!

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

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

On his lap.

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

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

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

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

You wanna see some ass?

I wanna see sum cash

Keep dem dollars comin

And das gonna make me dance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, he didn’t.

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

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

But, Roman stopped him.

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

Paul left the Tribal Chief alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was this a part of your plan?

I don't really understand what to do

What to do with a boy like you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—------

December, 2022

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

But, that was exactly what she got.

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

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

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

Physically and emotionally.

“Where the hell have you been?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He fucking hated seeing her cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-----

2023

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

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

It was an…adjustment for her, for sure.

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

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

In not the best ways.

Ways that were starting to directly impact his Bloodline.

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

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

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

Even if it was true.

He still had Solo. Still had Jimmy.

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

If only she felt the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

—----------

2024

He never said goodbye.

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

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

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

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

It was the one following Mania.

His loss at Mania.

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was Jacob.

He was just fucking terrifying.

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

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

At the head of the table.

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

Roman never showed up.

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

Never replied to any of her calls and texts.

He’d completely abandoned them.

Abandoned her.

And, he never even said fucking goodbye.

—-------

August, 2024

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

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

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

She’d paled.

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

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

Win the Undisputed Title from Cody Rhodes.

Roman’s title.

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

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

It was a common, shared understanding thing.

Not for Alamea.

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

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

“Distract his ass!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Go to hell, Solo.”

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

Solo, however, he was enraged.

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

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

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

The hell you are.

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

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

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

But, it didn’t.

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

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

But, then she saw it.

She saw him, and he looked livid.

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

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

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

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

—---------

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

That she was finally done after that.

But, she can’t.

She can’t because that would be a lie.

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

Sure.

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

No. No, she was not alright.

“I’m fine.”

A lie. A fucking lie.

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

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

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

You abandoned me.

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

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

Leaving me here.

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

That definitely didn’t help.

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

He was silent.

“You think I don’t care?”

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

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

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

Divine.

He was divine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was too good at this.

Way too good.

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

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

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

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

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

It made her even wetter.

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

Damn you.

“You missed me?”

Her eyes widened. This bastard.

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

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

Damn him.

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

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

It pained her to not have him.

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

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

He was too good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only she was so lucky.

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

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

It just worked.

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

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

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

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

“That’s it, baby. Take this dick.”

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

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

That wasn’t the problem.

Afterwards was the problem.

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

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

Or, something, at least.

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

They needed to talk.

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

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

—-----------

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

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

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

“I’ve got this, Ally.”

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

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

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

Roman needed help.

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

Right when Roman needed him the most.

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

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

“For you,” she mouthed.

Because, she had. She did it for him.

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

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

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

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

A big problem.

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

Except, they couldn’t find a fifth member.

Until they did.

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

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

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

If something held him back.

If someone.

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

This meant another match was needed.

Just the two of them.

Roman vs Solo in Tribal Combat.

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

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

Seemed that way, at least.

—-------

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

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

Something important.

Something that was currently biting him in the ass.

The favor.

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

He was being screwed over.

Back to back.

Punk eliminating him at the Rumble.

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

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

And right then and there, Alamea knew where things were headed. What was happening.

Betrayal.

Roman was being betrayed.

Again.

And this….this, he couldn’t ignore.

Couldn’t not talk about. She couldn’t see how deeply it was impacting him without at least trying again to get him to open up.

Alamea woke up in the middle of the night, alone, but not alone. Reaching for his shirt, she slid it over her body, walking out to the balcony of her hotel room. That’s where he was, sitting and looking out over the city, alive and surprisingly bustling considering it was the middle of the night.

Cali things, apparently.

Pushing back some of her hair, she sat down next to him, unsurprised at how he kept his gaze on the city, not even bothering to look at her.

She didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

Not at first.

“It’s funny how much a year can change,” he spoke, deep voice low and laden with something indecipherable. “This time last year, I was untouchable.”

She remained silent. There was nothing to say to that, because he was right. He was literally on top.

Alamea watched his face distort into something bitter and resentful. “I should’ve tightened my grip on this company’s neck.” A sudden relaxation of his hard features as he chuckled bitterly. “It was the Wise Man that taught me diplomacy.” His voice suddenly mocking as he recited something she’d also heard Paul repeat almost a dozen times. “You gotta think politically.”

She licked her lips, moving closer to him. He reached a hand to her thigh. “I tried to help everyone.” A dip in his tone. Sadness. “Most of them don’t understand what a helping hand really looks like. What that really feels like.”

She frowned. “Roman…”

“What do I get for it?” A rhetorical question, his head shaking, hand squeezing her thigh just enough. “Netflix…TKO….Billion dollar deals.” Truths that could not be denied. There was 100% no question that the company had been as successful as it’d been the past few years because of the man next to her. “And somehow, I’m out on my ass.”

“Roman.” She placed her hand on top of his, taking and squeezing it. “You’ll get past this.”

Her words, however, didn’t seem to penetrate. “I lift everybody up and somehow….no one’s got enough respect….to just be true to their Tribal Chief.” He swallowed, jaw clenched. “To be true to me.”

So what does that make me?

An almost bitter question she forced herself to keep safe within the confines of her mind. She’d never been one to kick a man when he was down.

A quiet fell over them followed with an almost whispered, “lessons learned.” She ran her thumb over his knuckles as he turned to look at her for the first time. “We don’t lose.” She pressed her lips together. “We learn.” Unable to help herself, she reached to cup his face, his salt and pepper beard bristling against her palm. “Don’t trust anyone.” Words that didn’t seem to meet his eyes. Not as he looked at her.

“You can trust me, Roman,” she whispered. “You have to know that.” As much as she wished that gentle reminder would prompt a different expression, one of acceptance and appreciation, it didn’t. He still looked torn. Conflicted. The weight of it all fully visible for her to see. “I’m here. Right now. With you. Does….does that not mean anything?”

Do I not mean anything?

A question she’d wondered since their meeting three years prior.

A question, one day, she knew, she’d have to ask. But, not that night.

Again, it wasn’t about her, and she wasn’t prepared to try to make it about her.

Even if….even if there was a conversation they needed to have about her, about them. She couldn’t. Not tonight, at least. Soon. Most likely after WrestleMania, where he was likely to take another break.

“You sticking around?” His voice broke her from her thoughts. Even. An admirable attempt to remain indifferent and unbothered, but she knew better. Could see past it. Could see the hesitation and uncertainty swimming in his eyes.

Her answer was interesting to her, because at one point, it would be different. Another response than the one she would give him. An answer that was a bit of a necessity.

If for some reason, she didn’t want to stick around, that option seemed like no longer an option.

She didn’t have the choice to not stick around anymore.

“Yeah,” she answered, lowering her hand and scooting closer to him. Roman moved his arm around her, kissing the top of her head. She snuggled into him, hand on his chest. “I’ll stick around..."

—----------

She needs to talk to him.

Not a text.

Not a phone call.

No waiting around for him to find her after the fact, when he feels like being bothered with her.

She needs to talk to him, in person, and now.

It’s why, despite the massive weight of nerves sitting on her chest and rumbling in her stomach—unless that’s another symptom—she finds out where his locker room will be. Because of course, title or no title, the Tribal Chief always has his own space at every show.

Never to share with others except his Bloodline.

Whatever that means and looks like these days.

Determined or not, it doesn't stop the fact that there are a million and one things she’d rather be doing right now. Literally anything else. Anything. But, almost two weeks of sitting on this is already too long. Every day that passes without her saying anything just delays the inevitable.

She has to tell him at some point, and him making an unadvertised appearance at the show tonight is the perfect opportunity to do so.

Standing outside the locker room, Alamea forces herself to push back the urge to run away and hide. In every and all the ways. Makes herself knock three times, waiting, foot tapping, arms crossed outside the door.

It doesn’t take long for the door to open, and while she’s not sure who she expected to see, it certainly isn’t him.

Paul looks nervous, but that’s to be expected. He should be.

Roman is gonna fuck him up.

He clears his throat, stepping outside, standing in the doorway. Almost intentionally. “Ms. Dixon, what a sur—”

“Cut the crap, Paul.” A terse interruption, somewhat unlike her character, but between that and the fact that this bastard clearly made his choice regarding whose team he’s on, she really doesn’t have much of anything to say to him. “Do you know when he’s set to get here?”

Normally, it would be posed as a “when” versus a “do you,” but again, Roman’s long-term Wise Man has found himself in that space below the doghouse these days, so what he knows has, she’d bet, become severely limited.

He stutters with his response. “Well, you know as well as I do, the Tribal Chief comes and goes as he ple—”

“That’s not what I asked you.” She closes her eyes, shaking her head. This is already hard enough, and the fact that she’s now, of all times, getting a sudden wave of that damn nausea is just icing on the fucking cake. “Never mind, I’ll just wait for him.”

Because he’s bound to show up sooner or later, and she’d rather the sooner so they can get this over with now, even if something tells her this discussion is better served for after the show.

After WrestleMania, like she was initially thinking. But, there's something....something that won't let her wait any longer.

He...he deserves to know.

But, it’s when she goes to walk past Paul, into the room, he moves, shifts his big body, blocking her.

She frowns.

What the hell?

An insincere smile followed by a bullshit excuse or reason. However he sees it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Her frown deepens. What? “I always used to hang out in the Bloodline locker room.”

A fact. When not working and helping the few superstars she was allowed to work with, Alamea would oftentimes spend the majority of her time in the locker room, laughing and bantering with the twins. Sometimes, it was just her and Roman. He’d kick everyone else out so he could focus before a match.

Never her though.

And, Paul knows this, so she’s even more confused by his reluctance.

“I understand that.” More insincerity, except something else now. He’s nervous. Even more than he was when he first opened the door. “But, I just think tonight you’d be better served somewhere—”

“Who is that?”

Another voice.

Not hers.

Definitely not Paul’s and most definitely female.

Familiar, too.

Alamea’s frown deepens once more, as she watches how Paul’s eyes go wide, his body angling towards inside the room.

“Oh, nothing, just—”

“Who’s in there?” She asks. Nothing else. Voice still. Dangerously still.

A now frantic almost gaze switched back onto her. “Uhh—

“I said who is that, Paul?”

Again, the female voice from inside the room. More attitude. A lot more attitude.

Something comes over Alamea as she subconsciously starts putting the pieces together. Something that makes her shove past the obese men, uncaring of how he stumbles and almost falls to the ground. She’s too busy putting a face to a voice, an act that gives her the most unexpected answer.

It’s not the fact that Jaida Parker in Roman’s locker room that bothers her.

Nor is it even the fact that the NXT star that she’d heard had been out on injury the past few months is looking her up and down with a sort of contempt.

No, it’s the fact that Jaida Parker is standing before her, mean mugging her, with one hand on her hip and the other on her slightly swollen belly.

Her pregnant belly.

And, it’d be maybe nothing to think about, but not for the fact that one look at a now standing Paul, the immense, sheer panic and terror on his face, that gives it away. That puts all the pieces together for one damning ass puzzle.

Jaida’s scowl shifts into an almost knowing smirk as she rubs her stomach. Salt on an open, gushing wound. “Oh, you that lil seamstress girl that used to be with the Bloodline, huh?” She scoffs. “I didn’t even know you was still around.”

Not anymore.

Alamea says nothing. She has nothing to say, or maybe she has a lot to say but none of it nice nor appropriate, and really, her gripe is not with the haughty woman before her. Or, even the complicit accomplice.

It’s with him, but they’re words that will never be spoken, because she’s done.

Done with it all. Done with this job. Done with WWE. Done with him.

Alamea turns on her heel, marching out past Paul, out of Roman’s locker room, and though he doesn’t know it yet, out of his life.

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x oc #roman reigns x black!oc #arisnotebook

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no-phrogs-in-hats · 2 months ago

Text

Suburban Sunrises and City Sunsets !NSFW!

Avenger!Agatha x Avenger!Pregnant!Reader

Word count: 11,178

Content Warnings: MDNI; soft smut, pregnancy, morning sickness/vomiting, childbirth/c-section, needles/epidural

Summary: The nine months following you and Agatha finding out you're pregnant--also known as Agatha having a crisis and realizing you've turned into a suburban family.

A/N: Hiii!!! I absolutely loved writing this. Panicked, worried Agatha is always fun to write, plus pregnant reader really adds to it. This will probably be my last oneshot for a couple weeks unless I have some free time! The next one on my list is a Maya Mason x reader!!!

Read Part 1 here

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You sit in the warm bath, clouds of bubbles up to your chest. Agatha sits on the edge of the tub, pouring some kind of floral scented bath oil as you sigh and flip through the packet of OB/GYNs and prenatal information the nurse gave you.

“What about Jen?” you huff, and toss the packet on the side table beside the tub, reaching into the bag of candy Agatha got for you. “She’s a midwife.”

Agatha recaps the bottle of bath oil. “She hasn’t been a midwife since 1925.” She sets the bottle on the table and crouches down beside you. “I’m not trusting her with you or our child.”

“She’s been wanting to get back into it,” you try to reason.

Agatha sighs. “Do you actually want Jennifer as your midwife?”

“I mean–I don’t know!” you groan. “I know Jen. I like Jen. It would be a little comforting to have someone that doesn’t see me as a statistic, and actually…” Your voice goes quiet. “Sees me–us–as a person and a child.”

Agatha smiles sadly and her hand runs through your hair. “Okay,” she says softly. “If it makes you more comfortable, Jen can be part of it–but I would like it if we had someone who hasn’t been out of practice for 105 years.”

You take her hand and press a kiss to it. “Thank you.”

“I’ll call the OB office by the Tower,” she says. “See if they can fit you in soon.”

You order in for dinner tonight–some vegan place where Agatha made sure every single ingredient is organic. She nagged the poor employee on the phone for almost ten minutes.

“So, every ingredient is organic?” she double checked. You heard the girl on the line mumble something and Agatha nodded, flipping over the menu that’s on the counter. “And the tofu? Is that pasteurized? Okay. And your sauces–? Well, excuse me for not wanting to give my pregnant wife a foodborne illness!”

Sitting at the kitchen table, Agatha unpacks the bag of food. “I called the OB office earlier. They have an ultrasound appointment available tomorrow, but it’s at nine in the morning.”

“When’s the next one?” You ask, opening your container that has a vegan grilled cheese.

“In two weeks,” Agatha sighs, and takes a seat to eat dinner.

“Alright,” you say. “I guess since it’s so close to the Tower, we might as well just go back.”

“Are you sure?”

You shrug. “Yeah. I mean, we’ve calmed down–” You pause, completely forgetting that Wanda guessed.

“What?” Agatha asks. “What’s wrong?”

Your voice is steady. “I forgot to tell you…Wanda knows.”

“How?” she gapes.

“She called me to check in right after you went into CVS,” you explain.”I didn’t tell her. She guessed it.” As you watch Agatha’s face contort into frustration, you lean forward, taking her hand. “It’s okay! Honey, it’s fine! She said she won’t tell anyone.”

“Okay,” she sighs. “It’s your place to tell, anyway. Not mine.”

“I’d like the coven to know first,” you say. “I guess Wanda’s part of the coven. She’s been to a few meetings. But I want to wait until after the first trimester…just get settled–out of the high-risk-for-miscarriage-zone, have a few ultrasound pictures to show them. When’s the next meeting?”

Agatha gets up, checking the calendar on the fridge. “Looks like March 7th–two weeks.”

You sit back in your chair, sighing. “Alright, yeah. We’ll tell them then.”

“And the rest?” Agatha asks, raising an eyebrow as she sits back down. “The team is gonna be suspicious sooner or later.”

You groan. “It’ll come out eventually.”

It’s like the nausea only appeared after learning that you’re pregnant. There’s a deep, unpleasant feeling in your stomach when you wake up in the morning. The sun is just barely above the horizon. Dark shadows are still cast across your bedroom ceiling, but you’re out of bed immediately, rushing to the bathroom.

Your heavy footsteps and rushing stir Agatha from sleep and she’s out of bed quickly. Hunched over the toilet and retching, you feel Agatha’s hand on your back as the other holds your hair back.

“Oh, god,” she mumbles, her voice still rough from sleep. Back in the bedroom, you can hear Agatha’s alarm go off for the doctor's appointment. “It’s okay, honey.”

She opens the bathroom closet and grabs a rag, running it under the tap. Agatha sits down on the floor beside you and when you sit up she gently wipes your mouth and nose.

“Thank you,” you sigh, sniffling and wiping the tears from your eyes.

Agatha kisses you on the forehead and stands up. “I’ll go get you the nausea meds.” After turning her alarm off, she goes downstairs and retrieves the medication. It helps, mostly. Your stomach has settled by the time you finish getting ready, but there’s still a twinge present. Despite your protests, Agatha makes you eat two pieces of toast.

The ride back to New York City is uneventful. Commuter traffic is always heavy, but you slept right through it, and you even slept through Agatha picking up her coffee order in a drive-thru. When outside of the OB/GYN office, she wakes you up with a gentle shake of your shoulder.

You blink against the bright sunlight and stretch before you look down at the cupholder. “Where the hell did you get coffee from?”

“I went through the Dunkin’ drive-thru,” she says, and reaches into the car door pocket. She holds out a baggie to you, “I didn’t wanna wake you up. You looked so peaceful. But I got you a donut if you get hungry.”

“Aww, thank you,” you say, eyes still heavy with sleep as you lean over to kiss her.

When you walk in, it’s much warmer than it is outside. Agatha’s hand is on your lower back as you check in at the front, and it doesn’t leave its position in the waiting room. There are a few other people there, and as you sit there, you have a weird feeling.

Across the room, a couple whispers to one another and looks at you and Agatha. You lean over subtly, “Are they talking about us?”

Agatha doesn’t even get to respond before they approach you. The woman is meek and soft-spoken, “I’m so sorry to bother, but are you two part of the Avengers?”

Shit.

“Um–no,” Agatha lies, politely smiling. “I guess we just look like them.”

You feel Agatha’s hand tighten on your back when the woman’s husband persists. “Are you sure? You guys look ve–”

“Sir, I’m just here for a pap smear,” you sigh, watching in delight as his face drops.

When your name is called, Agatha’s hand is in yours. Her thumb gently runs over your skin as you feel your heart race. Your vitals are taken along with your height and weight, and when you’re brought to the room you’re given a blanket and instructed to remove your pants.

“The sonographer will be in soon,” the woman tells you.

You remove your coat and pants. On the table, you get yourself situated, blanket over your legs as you lay back. You smile as you watch agatha fold your pants and drape your coat over a chair before straightening your shoes below. “Agatha, stop obsessing over my clothes,” you say. “Come here.”

She sighs and takes your hand as a knock sounds on the door. The sonographer enters, smiling way too brightly for it being nine-thirty in the morning. She introduces herself in a chipper voice and you can almost feel Agatha wanting to roll her eyes.

“I have to say,” the sonographer chirps, “this is the first Avenger we’ve had here.”

“Glad to be the first,” you muse.

Agatha, with her hand holding on tightly to yours, stares intently at the blank TV screen on the wall. She rocks side to side and only looks away after you say her name twice. “Hm? What?”

“You’re hurting my hand,” you say softly. “Relax, please.”

The gel on your lower belly is cold, but the gasp comes from Agatha. The TV screen lights up when the probe is placed on your belly and there, on the screen amidst the black and white coloring, is a small blob.

“It looks like you’re at around ten weeks,” the sonographer pipes up. “So just at the tail end of the first trimester. And if I turn up the volume here, we should be able to hear–there we go!”

Above you, Agatha stops breathing. The sound of your baby’s heartbeat is loud, and over top of it you can hear Agatha sniffle.

The sonographer turns her computer screen toward you, pointing at different areas. You turn your head, looking closely.

“Right here, you can see the arms and legs,” she says, pointing to them. She moves her finger to the tiny head just barely visibly. “And here, you can see their face–it’s not super prominent, but you can see it starting to form.”

As you watch the screen up close, he heartbeat loud and strong in your ears, you can’t help but wipe away tears.

The OB comes and goes. Your clothes are put back on. Ultrasound photos are in Agatha’s purse.

You’re back in the car, maybe five minutes from the Tower, and you’re quiet.

“I know I got you a donut,” Agatha says, “but do you wanna get breakfast at that one pla–What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” you sniffle, wiping away tears. “I know we were gonna see them today, but I didn’t think we’d hear the heartbeat! Oh, my god. And their little arms and legs–!”

“Yeah,” she says quietly, buckling in, “let’s go get breakfast.”

You sniffle again, wiping away your tears. “Okay.”

The coven meeting is held at your home in Westview. Wanda joins again, arriving with Billy and complaining about his driving skills.

In the kitchen, you and Agatha prepare tea, wine, and snacks while everyone waits in the basement. You can hear laughter drift up through the staircase as you cut slices of cheese and place them on a platter.

“How are we gonna tell them?” you mutter.

“I don’t know,” Agatha sighs. “I’m sure when you reject a glass of wine, they’ll catch on soon enough–that’s if Wanda holds her tongue.”

“Oh, be nice,” you hiss.

Agatha grins, “Not my forte, hon.”

So look at the cheese platter and pause. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the brie,” you say. “Brie’s my favorite. They’re gonna know something’s up.”

Agatha looks at you, knowing that you’re probably right, but not wanting to say it. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she says, completely unconvincing.

You take everything downstairs to the coven, and with a little spell, trays of hors d'oeuvres, tea, and wine are floating around the table. Lilia sits beside you and when you take your seat you can feel her eyes narrow at you.

You look back at her, raising an eyebrow and watching as she looks you up and down.

“Something’s different,” Lilia says.

Damn her intuition.

“Like what?” you ask, and you feel Agatha’s hand rest on your thigh, clearly listening in on the conversation.

Lilia narrows her eyes more, finger at her mouth as she focuses on you. Her eyebrow twitches and you can see it in her face when she realizes. “Ah, yes,” she mutters to herself. “I know what it is.”

You curse under your breath and Agatha turns her head. “What?”

“Lilia knows,” you mumble behind a napkin, disguising it as wiping your mouth.

“Fuck,” she sighs. “I knew she’d find out just by looking at you.”

The meeting is in full swing. Multiple conversations are going on at once. Wanda and Agatha–despite bickering–are mentoring Billy, Jen and Alice are going over protection spells, and Lilia…is reading your tea leaves.

She rotates the cup in her hands, focusing on each shape and pattern she could interpret. “So, how far along are you?” she asks quietly.

You sigh and lean in close. “Almost thirteen weeks. We’re planning on telling the coven tonight, we just don’t know how.”

She hums, “Well, congratulations.”

Towards the end of the meeting, you hear your name called and when you look over Agatha has the cheese platter in hand. “Are you finished with the hors d’oeuvres?”

“Yeah, honey, thank you,” you say, stacking cups around the table to clean later.

“You’re not eating the brie?” Billy asks.

You’re so focused on the task at hand that you answer his question mindlessly. “No, I can’t have it, sweetheart.” And then you freeze. And agatha freezes. And you see Wanda and Lilia trying to hide their smiles.

Billy and Alice both look confused. “Why can’t you have it?” Billy asks.

You look at Jen who starts to connect the dots. There’s no way to dig yourself out of this. You look at Agatha and finally sigh. “I’m pregnant.”

Billy’s and Alice’s jaws drop.

“Oh, my god!”

“What?”

Shocked laughter reverberates around the room before hugs and congratulations come.

“That was the hardest secret secret I’ve ever kept,” Wanda sighs before hugging you. “I’m so happy for you.”

You run upstairs quickly and take out the ultrasound pictures from your nightstand. When you’re back downstairs, the coven has moved to the living room. “Here,” you say, letting them pass around the pictures. Agatha stands beside you, hand on your back as you continue talking. “That was a ten week ultrasound. It’s almost at 13 weeks. They said the due date is around September 10th.”

“You guys are the first ones to know, so don’t go running your mouths…Billy,” Agatha says, and then glares at him.

“I think it’s gonna be a girl,” Alice says, handing it to Jen.

“Mmm,” Jen looks at the picture, almost analyzing it from how focused she looks. “I think it’ll be a boy.”

“I’m not saying,” Lilia comments, looking at the ultrasound picture and smiling.

After they’re passed around, you take the pictures back and hugs and goodbyes are exchanged. Just before Jen’s able to leave, you pull her aside.

“I know you’ve been wanting to get back into obstetrics,” you say. “So, I was wondering if you’d like to be one of the midwives in the room. We have an obstetrician, so it wouldn’t be everything, but you know, just some extra help…”

Jen looks shocked. “Seriously?”

“You don’t have to!” you hurry. “But we–” You look at Agatha and then back at Jen. “I trust you.”

Jen glances at Agatha before smiling at you. “If you’re comfortable, yeah, I’d love to help you. Don’t stay up reading baby blogs, those are never helpful. I’ll get you some reliable info, okay?”

You hug her tightly. “Oh, thank you, Jen!”

After everyone’s left and the house is quiet, you move to the kitchen where the dishes from tonight’s meeting sit in the sink. You stand in front of the fridge, looking at all of the pictures and recipes and christmas cards from three months ago that hang from magnets. Arms wrap around your waist and the smell of Agatha's perfume calms you as her lips skim over your neck.

“What are you doing?” she asks quietly.

You sigh, leaning into her touch as her hand splays over your stomach. “Trying to figure out where to put the ultrasound pictures.”

She hums behind you and then takes the roll of pictures from your hands. Her arms reach out on either side of your head, and you watch as she slips the pictures beneath the magnet that holds a picture of you and Agatha at the reception after your wedding.

“There,” she says simply, wrapping her arms back around you and placing a kiss on the top of your head. “Perfect.”

__________

The second trimester rolls in quickly. You’re feral. Absolutely feral. And Agatha loves it.

It starts with a single kiss in the morning. And then the raspy morning voice when Agatha says, “Good morning.”

You bite your lip, fingers running over her bare arms as she leans over you. Agatha eyes you suspiciously, “Why are you giving me that look?”

You sigh, eyes wandering over her body–the satin nightgown that clings to her curves, her blue eyes lit up in the morning sun, the stale perfume still lingering from the previous night.

“I just love how you sound in the morning.” You pull her down for a kiss. “And how you look, and…” You have no clue where you’re going with this and you start to ramble. “…It’s our wedding anniversary, and I’m overflowing with hormones and…”

She giggles as she kisses you again, her voice low and seductive, “And you want me to touch you?” Her hand sneaks under your shirt as she kisses you, but she pulls away quickly, brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

Agatha pulls up your shirt, eyes wide as she looks at you. “You’re starting to show.”

“What?”

“You’re showing!”

Laying on your back, you tilt your chin to look down, and sure enough, there it is. “Oh, my god,” you mutter. You lay back, hands over your eyes. “We’re gonna have to tell them,” you huff.

Agatha’s hand rubs soothingly over your belly. “Your 20 week scan is in a couple weeks, hon. It’s gotta happen soon. Quite frankly, I was surprised they didn’t catch on when you declined the sushi they offered you.”

You drop your arms, smiling painfully up at her, “I know…I kind of liked just us knowing–aside from the coven. But everyone else is gonna make a big deal out of it.”

“Because it is a big deal,” Agatha says, pressing a kiss to your belly. “Sweetheart, you’re an Avenger. You can’t be training and doing missions. We’ve been lucky enough that Steve’s been taking ‘no’ as an answer for training recently. But sooner or later we’re going to be called for a mission, and we both know that Tony won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You glare at her, “I hate you.”

“Only because I’m right,” Agatha smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. You can feel her hand drift higher, fingers wandering underneath your bunched up shirt and over your nipples. She leans in close, lips over yours as your heart races. “Would you hate me less if I give you what you want?”

“Maybe,” you tease. “I’ll be the judge of that after.”

Agatha kisses you softly, trailing her lips down your throat as her hand slips beneath your underwear. She moves back to your lips and your hands tighten their grasp on her shoulder and nightgown as her tongue moves with yours. You can feel her smile as her fingers tease you. “It’s not even nine in the morning and you’re already this wet for me?”

“It’s the hormones, I swear,” you huff, quickly pulling her back down to kiss you as she laughs.

Your head is thrown back into the pillows and your back is arched as her fingers work. She hovers over you, arm flexed, veins visible through the skin, and it turns you on even more. Agatha kisses you softly, “You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are like this.”

A loud moan escapes you as her palm presses against your clit and she smiles. “You’re fucking beautiful,” she says, jaw clenched and fingers working faster. “You’re glowing. I did this to you, and everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Yes! Yes, yes!” Your hands grab at any part of her they can reach. Your lips press hard into hers and you breathe deeply. “Fuck, I’m all yours! And I want everybody to know!”

Your legs close around Agatha’s hand as you shake beneath her. You moan loudly into her mouth when she kisses you hard, fingers curling as you finish. Her kisses become softer and softer as you catch your breath.

“Okay,” you breathe. “I guess I don’t hate you as much.”

Agatha laughs and kisses you again. “What do you say we take a shower and then we can go out to brunch, and then…” She places her hand back on your belly. “..we go to the mall to look at maternity clothes?”

Before you can get out of bed, she stops you. “Wait! I almost forgot. I have an anniversary present for you.” She leans over to her nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling something out, and when she faces you again, she has her hands behind her back.

You eye her suspiciously as she smiles, and without a word, she hands you a pair of tiny yellow rain boots with duck faces on them. You gasp and sit up quickly, turning them in your hands. “They’re ducky boots!” You look up at her with tears in your eyes.

Agatha takes one in her hand and examines it. “They definitely won’t fit for like…a year,” she chuckles. “But when I saw them at the store I couldn’t help myself.”

You sigh and sniffle as you hold back tears. “I love you.”

The shirt you put on today is a lot more snug than it used to be, and when you actually take a look in the mirror, you’re showing more than you thought.

“How did you not realize?” Agatha asks, spitting her toothpaste into the sink.

You go into the closet, looking for a shirt or a dress that’s looser than what you have on right now, and more appropriate for brunch. “Well, I don’t–I’ve been wearing nothing but sweatpants and baggy, lazy clothes, and–leave me alone!”

You can hear Agatha snickering as you get defensive, and you step out in another outfit. “What about this one? Is it obvious?”

Agatha wipes toothpaste from her mouth and smiles. “Give me a twirl, princess.” When you do, she acts like she’s thinking hard, but you already know how she’ll answer. “Beautiful!” she says.

You sigh, “Okay, but is it obvious that I’m pregnant?”

“You know, most people say ‘thank you’ when called beautiful,” Agatha teases, pulling you into her by your waist as you roll your eyes and hold back a smile. She places a kiss on your forehead, “But no, it’s not obvious.”

The maternity store at the Westview mall is cute. It’s not super big, but they have a decent sized selection.

“Why are there so many dresses?” you huff. Agatha holds up a pair of maternity jeans and you make a disgusted look as she giggles. “Why can’t there be a luxury maternity clothes store?”

“For someone who grew up with very little money, you certainly are picky,” Agatha chuckles.

You shrug, looking through a rack of shirts. “What can I say? I’ve developed a taste for more than just White Star Line stewardess uniforms.”

You end up at the checkout counter with an armful of clothing. You get antsy as you look at the cashier, seeing the recognition of the both of you in her eyes. She smiles politely, making friendly conversation, but her eyes keep drifting to your belly. You uncross your arms quickly after realizing that they’ve pushed your blouse in, defining the bump that you were trying to hide.

“Do you have a rewards account with us?” the cashier asks.

“No,” Agatha says, going to put her card in the reader.

“Would you like to sign up?” the cashier continues. “It’s free, and you’ll earn points for your next purchase.”

Agatha huffs, “Okay, sure. Fine.”

You leave the store with three bags of clothes, Agatha carrying all of them.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry one?” you ask.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she snaps. You’re taken aback by her attitude, and while it normally wouldn’t affect you, she panics as she watches your eyes flood with tears. “Oh, my god! No! I am so sorry!”

You sniffle, trying to wipe them away, but they don’t stop. “No, don’t apologize! I’m not–!” You take in a heavy, shuddering breath and Agatha takes your hand and leads you to the bathroom.

When the door closes, she locks it, setting the bags on the tiled floor. Her thumbs come to your cheeks and wipe your tears.. “Hey! Hey, look at me!” You do and she kisses your forehead, resulting in even more tears. “Take some deep breaths! Sweetheart, I need you to calm down.”

You do as she says, breathing deeply through your nose and out your mouth. “Okay,” you whimper, repeating the breathing until your tears slow.

Agatha’s hands cup your cheeks and she looks you in the eyes, voice apologetic and soft, “I am so sorry for snapping at you. It was not directed at you one bit.”

“I know,” you sniffle. “I know. It’s okay.”

Agatha grabs a paper towel and wipes away the mascara that’s running down your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “Just, seeing how that cashier was looking at you–how uncomfortable you looked. It was pissing me off.”

She tosses the paper towel into the garbage can by the door and pulls you into her arms. Her hand holds the back of your head, thumb stroking along your hair as you sniffle into her shoulder. “ She recognized us. Im sure by the time we get back to the Tower, it’ll be all over the Facebook, or the Twitter, or whatever the fuck people use now.”

Your laugh is muffled and watery, and you sigh as it sinks in. “Yeah…” You’re quiet as she holds you, but you’re thinking. Thinking hard. “Agatha…I don’t think I wanna be an Avenger anymore.”

She pulls away quickly, shocked as she looks at you. “What do you mean? I thought you loved it.”

“I do. I do love it,” you say. “But…” Your eyes get watery again and you take a deep breath. “We have no privacy. We probably won’t even get to tell the rest of our…” You trail off, trying to find the right words. “Of our…family…that I’m pregnant, because a cashier at the maternity clothes store recognized us! We were at the OB’s office and someone tried to get it out of us!”

You let out a sob as she holds you tighter again. “Agatha, nothing we have is ours! I don’t want our child growing up surrounded by paparazzi. I want our baby to be ours!”

Agatha wipes away her own tears quietly and pulls away. Her hands gently hold your face, like if she held you tighter you’d shatter–and maybe some of that is true. Her eyes are soft and glassy with held back tears. “Okay,” she says, voice cracking. “If you want to, we’ll leave.”

“Maybe not permanently,” you sigh, and press a kiss to her wrist. “I do love what we do, and our kid’s gotta go to school at some point, and that leaves a lot of time open on our schedule. But just…for now…do our own thing.”

“Like, picking out baby clothes?” Agatha smiles softly, thumb stroking your temple. “Painting a nursery? Having me go out in my pajamas at three in the morning to the 24-hour gas station because suddenly you’re craving a very specific kind of ice cream that only they sell?”

You let out a teary laugh, voice quiet. “Yeah…”

She tucks a piece of hair behind your ear and kisses your forehead. “Then we can do that.”

The drive back to New York City is quiet. You doze off about halfway through the drive with your hand in Agatha’s lap, and you’re woken up with a kiss to your palm.

“Wake up, buttercup, we’re here,” she says. “You can take a nap in your luxurious, unbelievably-expensive-bed.”

“Oh, what about the clothes?” You sit up quickly, rubbing your eyes.

“It’s okay,” she reassures you quietly. “I’ll put a concealment spell on the bags.”

You almost fall asleep standing up while on the elevator with Agatha. Your head bobs to the side, resting on her shoulder before you’re jolted awake by her. When in your room, you change into comfier clothes, removing your makeup and laying down on your side of the bed.

Agatha slides in beside you, hand brushing your hair back as you face her. “I love you,” she says quietly. “And no matter who gossips about us or invades our privacy, I won’t let them touch either of you.” Her hand settles on your waist. “Both of you are the most important things in my life, and if you want us to stop being Avengers for a few years, then that’s perfectly alright with me. I don’t want you stressing for any longer.”

“Okay,” you whisper, lip quivering.

“We can stay in New Jersey–which sucks, I know,” Agatha continues, and wipes a tear from your cheek. “We’ll come here for the weekend, or whenever the hell we feel like it.” She smiles as you let out a quiet laugh. “I want you to be happy. That’s all that matters to me right now.”

“I’m sorry I was too tired to do anything fun for our first anniversary,” you sigh, sleep heavy on your eyes.

“Honey, we spent today having brunch and picking out maternity clothes for you,” Agatha says. “You’re carrying our child. I could not ask for more today.”

When you wake up, it’s dark outside and you’re curled up in front of Agatha. Her arm holds you close to her, hand resting on your belly as she breathes softly against your neck. Your hand reaches out, blindly searching for your phone on the nightstand.

Your movements wake her and you can hear her groan behind you. “What time is it?”

After checking your phone you roll over and curl into Agatha. “Nine,” you mutter.

Agatha stretches, her arms wrapping around you. “I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” you mumble. “But you’re so warm, I don’t wanna get up.”

She hums before sitting up, ignoring your whining. “Come on, sleepy head. Let’s go turn food into a baby.”

The following morning doesn’t come with kisses, but with loud explosions in the dark of your blackout curtains. Your reflexes kick in and both you and Agatha are out of bed, robes on and out the bedroom door. You opt to take the stairs to the lounge and when you open the door, every resident of Stark Tower is there.

The floor-to-ceiling windows looking over Manhattan show what no one wants to see at nine in the morning: another fiery crisis to deal with and alien spaceships hovering over the city.

“Alright, everybody on the deck in ten minutes!” Tony commands.

As the team heads for the stairs, you look at Agatha and there’s only one thing in the look she gives you.

‘You’re staying here.’

You stay put as she follows but Tony looks back and huffs, “Come, on! Let’s go!”

“No,” Agatha says, her voice still hoarse from sleep.

Agatha’s response stops everyone in their tracks and you can see the frustration in Tony’s face border on anger. “Excuse me?” he says, whirling around to face her.

“No,” Agatha says more firmly. “She’s not going.”

“And why not?” Tony asks, nostrils flaring.

Agatha hesitates, “She’s not feeling well.”

“I don’t care if she has the damn flu!” Tony shouts. “All of New York City is under attack right now! She’s one of the most powerful people here–!”

“I said, she’s not going!” Agatha yells back, and you can see every eye in the room on the three of you. You make eye contact with Wanda and she looks like she’s about to intervene, but she stands back.

“Why?” Tony snaps. “How sick could she possibly be to not–!”

You can see it in Agatha’s face. She’s trying to hold her tongue, she’s trying to hold back from screaming, but in the end, it slips out. “She’s pregnant!”

The room falls quiet, and the only sound is the distant explosions. Agatha sighs, her hands rubbing her face tiredly. “Shit.”

Tony turns around to look at you, and it’s like he’s an angry father who just found out his teenage daughter is pregnant. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” you sigh, looking defeated.

“I–” Tony opens his mouth and closes it again, trying to get his thoughts in order. “Okay, both of you stay here–”

Agatha looks appalled. “What?”

“Both of you!” Tony snaps. “We’ll talk about this after.”

There’s a heavy silence as the room clears out, and when the doors to the stairs swing shut you take a heavy seat on the sofa. Agatha follows, arm immediately pulling you close as you drop your head on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “It shouldn’t have come out like that.”

You press a kiss to her shoulder and take her hand. “It’s okay. Like you said, it had to happen sooner or later.”

The day drags on and eventually, in the lounge, it’s only you, Agatha, and Tony. He’s on his third whiskey after dinner and he sits back, sighing. “So, what’s the plan?”

Mindless TV plays in front of you, your head on Agatha’s shoulder, but when he asks his question, you sit up. You can feel her arm tighten on your waist and you hesitate. “Well, the twenty week ultrasound is next wednesday…” He nods carefully and you fiddle with your fingers. “And–umm–we’re moving back to New Jersey. We’re gonna leave the team for a few years…but we’ll visit on weekends.”

“I figured,” Tony shrugs. “That house is pretty small, though. Nice backyard, but that second bedroom can’t even be called a bedroom.”

Agatha scoffs. “I’ve been trying to tell her that, but she won’t listen.”

“I’m not arguing about this,” you sigh. “I’m too tired for it.”

“You know, if you’d like, I could move you closer,” Tony suggests. “Doesn’t have to be in the city, but close enough that you don’t have to drive almost an hour to and from.”

You smile tiredly, “That’s a very nice offer, Tony, but we can’t ask you to do that. You’ve done so much already.”

He finishes the rest of his whiskey, and gets up, setting the glass down on the liquor cart. “Just think about it.” When he comes back over, his hands are on his hips. “We’re gonna miss having you around here. Both of you.”

“I’m having a baby, Tony. I’m not dying,” you deadpan.

“I’m happy for you, really,” he says. “You’ve done a lot for us, so I want to do everything I can to help you out–even if that means buying a brownstone for you in the Upper West Side.”

Wednesday morning you’re woken up by a flurry of kisses on your face.

“Good morning,” Agatha mutters, pressing a light kiss to your lips. “Are you excited to find out what we’re having?”

You hum in amusement, “Don’t you want it to be a surprise?”

“Are you serious?” Agatha asks, kissing you again. “This entire thing was a surprise.”

“Touché.” You swish your lips from side to side. “Alright, fine. But only because I’m too excited to go clothes shopping for them.”

Agatha kisses you on the forehead and smiles. “That’s a good enough reason for me.”

Once again, you’re on the table watching Agatha fold your clothes. The lights are dimmed when the sonographer comes in–this one is much less chipper than the previous one–and Agatha’s at your side immediately.

“So, are we wanting to find out the sex of the baby today?” the sonographer asks as she sets up her equipment.

Agatha squeezes your hand and you smile, “Yeah, when you’re having a baby at 149-years-old you don’t need any more surprises.”

The sonographer pauses for a moment and then a look of realization flashes across her face. “Right–witches, Avengers.” She lets out a breathy laugh. “Alright, now my favorite thing to ask: what do you think it’ll be?”

As she applies the gel to your belly you look up at Agatha, smiling. “What do you think it’ll be?”

You notice a brief flash of anxiety on her face before she answers, “A girl.”

“Alright, we’ll go with girl,” you say as the wand presses into your skin.

The heartbeat is strong and the sonographer points to various parts of the screen. “They are all curled up in there! Here’s the profile of it–you can see the little nose and–oh, looks like they’re yawning!”

You smile brightly and you hear a shaky breath from Agatha. Her free hand goes to your head, a comforting weight as she sits beside you.

“Alright,” the sonographer says, “a little pressure–we’re gonna move over here. There are the little feet, its legs, and you can see a hand right there.” As she goes along clicks can be heard when freezing the screen to take a picture. “And, if we move over here…it looks like…you are having…a girl!”

When you look over, Agatha’s smiling. But there’s more to it. Yes, there’s happiness, there’s excitement, but there’s something else there–relief. She presses a kiss to your forehead and sighs.

The appointment goes by quickly and soon, Agatha’s helping you into your newest pair of maternity pants. She slips the roll of ultrasound pictures into her purse and takes your hand, but when you’re back in the waiting room you freeze.

“Why the hell are you all here?”

A receptionist comes up to you, talking quietly, “I apologize, ma’am. I told them they can’t–”

“It’s okay,” you say, cutting her off with a polite smile. “Thank you.”

A whole group is standing there. Tony, Steve, Nat, Wanda, the whole coven, Billy and Peter, Bucky, Sam, Clint, Bruce, Thor, and Loki.

“We wanna know what you’re having!” Steve smiles brightly, waiting for you to answer.

You and Agatha look at each other, and when your eyes meet you can see that you both have the same idea.

“A healthy baby,” you smile. You pull Agatha through the waiting room. “Come on, I’m craving that one lunch place a few blocks away.”

Before you can open the door, you’re stopped by them again. “Can we please know what you’re having?” Billy asks.

You look at all of them as Agatha opens the door for you. “A healthy baby,” you repeat. “That’s what we’re having. You can find out the sex in twenty weeks.”

You survive their endless pestering throughout the day, and now, you lay in bed with Agatha, talking into the dark–baby names, nursery themes, whose eyes the baby would get, what color magic. But there’s one thing on your mind.

“Agatha,” you say. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm.”

“When the sonographer said it was a girl…” you start, thinking about how to word your question. “You looked relieved–like you didn’t want it to be a boy.”

“That’s not a question,” she mumbles into your collarbone.

“Agatha,” you sigh. “You know what I mean.”

She’s quiet, and you can tell she’s thinking hard. You hear her swallow and take a deep breath. “If…we had a boy…do you…” You can hear the wheels turning in her head, wondering if she should even ask it, if it’s even worth being vulnerable. “Do you think Nicky would feel like he was being replaced?”

Your stomach drops and you feel the hand she had on your belly recoil into herself. “Agatha,” you whisper, heart breaking. “Look at me.” You turn to face her and you can see the uncomfortable look on her face. “Nicky would never think he was being replaced. Do you think you’re replacing him?”

Agatha turns over to lay on her back, huffing in frustration. “I don’t–maybe? I mean, it was 300 years ago, I shouldn’t…even be thinking…”

“Agatha, you’re not replacing him,” you reassure her. You lean over her, forcing her to look you in the eyes. “Loving your daughter doesn’t mean loving Nicky any less, okay?” She nods slowly and you kiss her. “This isn’t going to be like last time. You can be happy, Agatha. You deserve to be happy.”

“Okay,” she mutters. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You kiss her again, and when you pull away you sigh. “And do you know what I deserve? A pregnancy pillow.”

Agatha laughs and kisses you again, pulling you into her arms. “We’ll go out tomorrow to get you one. How about that?”

You’ve forgotten what life outside the city was like. You’re three weeks into living in Westview. It didn’t take long to move everything back to Westview–most of it was clothes, and even then, you were building a new wardrobe that actually fit you.

Your life is much quieter now–filled with lamaze classes, doctors appointments, and tea with the coven. It’s slow. Peaceful. You wake up, take your vitamins, Agatha makes you breakfast, and with it being spring, you’ll usually retire to the backyard to work in the garden. It’s pure, domestic bliss.

You stand in the cereal aisle of the grocery store. The list crinkles in your hand as you stand there, looking at the vast expanse of cereal options, and Agatha waits patiently beside you with the cart.

“So…” Agatha starts. “What cereal–?”

“I don’t know,” you say absentmindedly. “It just says cereal.”

Agatha swishes her lips, “Okay, well, while you decide what cereal you want, I’m going to get the frozens.”

You barely acknowledge her, only offering a quiet, “Mhm.”

You can barely remember your name–it’s like your brain is completely shutting itself off and refusing to remember anything. Just the other day, you were heating up leftovers in the microwave and you sat down on the couch, completely forgetting about them and dozing off. When Agatha got home an hour later, the TV was on, you were knocked out, and the leftovers were still in the microwave–cold again.

And when she woke you up to tell you, it led to tears.

And now, you’re in the cereal aisle with a half-complete grocery list and only a vague idea of what kind of cereal you want.

Agatha rounds the corner quickly, frozen foods in her arms. She drops them into the cart, clearly frustrated as she huffs, hands on her hips. “We have a problem.”

“Oh, hi,” you say. “Where’d you go?”

“Frozen food aisle,” she sighs. “We have a problem.” She leans against the cart, fingers tapping on the metal impatiently. “We’re in the suburbs.”

You look at her, confused. “Um…Yeah…?”

“No,” Agatha huffs. “I mean, we’re a suburban family. We’re grocery shopping at a Trader Joe’s.” She starts gesturing around her dramatically. “There are vitamin supplements in our cart. I was just in the frozen foods aisle and I was met with “hey neighbor”. I just ran into one of our neighbors. I don’t even know his name! We are not suburban people!”

“Agatha, honey. It’s okay,” you say softly.

Her jaw tenses and she purses her lips. “Do you know what we were doing, what, five months ago? Fucking in the Adirondacks.”

“Okay. Lower your voice, first of all,” you scoff, throwing whatever cereal boxes into the cart. “Second of all, yes. I know. The result is right in front of you. And, third…maybe it’s good.”

As you push the cart through the aisle she walks beside you. “Good?” she repeats, eyes wide.

“Yeah…” you shrug. You turn down the snack aisle and push a bag of animal crackers off the shelf and into the cart without stopping. “I mean you’re almost 356 years old and I’m 149. We’ve been through a lot—sinking ships, witch trials, like…a shit ton of wars. Maybe it’s good that things are slowing down.”

Agatha sighs, “Well can we slow down in a luxury apartment in Manhattan?”

“You actually wanna move to New York City? We’re about to have a baby in four months.”

“It doesn’t have to be midtown,” Agatha says, and puts a bag of veggie chips into the cart. “There’s Greenwich, the West Village—townhouses have more than one and a half bedrooms”

You pause and raise an eyebrow at her. “One and a half?”

“Oh please, that bedroom might as well be a storage room,” Agatha scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Besides, we haven’t started on the nursery yet. And Brownstones are nice.”

“Brownstones are expensive,” you counter.

“Tony told us that he’ll move us closer to the Tower.”

“What about backyards?” you ask. “I don’t wanna have to go to a park every time I want our kid to go outside.“

“I looked up some brownstones in the city. The backyards aren’t bad,” Agatha says, hand resting on your back.

You stop in the middle of the aisle, looking up at her with a hand on your hip. “You’ve already looked up new houses for us to move to?”

“They’re bigger!” Agatha says, exasperated. “There’s one with four rooms. We should move now instead of when we have more kids–”

“When?” You start grinning. “More? Our daughter hasn’t even been born yet.”

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. “Um–well–I mean–I quite like you in this state…”

“Oh, so you wanna keep me like this?” you tease. “Your perfect, pregnant little wife?”

“We’re getting off topic here,” she says, giving you a pointed look as you keep walking. “Just think about it. We’ve lived in the suburbs since 2026–me since 2023, no thanks to Wanda—and now we’re about to have a kid. Things are already going to change. Why not move now?”

“Okay fine,” you sigh. “You have some good points. I’ll think about it.”

It didn’t take much convincing later that night, which isn’t surprising considering the position you were in when she brought it up again–on your back, slick with sweat, and in her arms as you both laid in the post-sex bliss that she always brought you.

She called Tony the next morning, discussing each feature the new house needs to have–at least three bedrooms, a decent sized backyard, hardwood floors, a fireplace, renovated yet classy, she had more needs than you. They spent days with a realtor, discussing pricing and location and selling your current house, and then came the tours.

You and Agatha saw at least five houses in the span of two weeks: two in Greenwich, two in West Village, and one on the Upper East Side. You were in the Upper East Side townhouse for less than ten minutes before she turned it down, and by the time you’re reaching the third trimester, you’ve both decided on one in the West Village.

It’s cozy, with four bedrooms and hardwood floors from the original build. There are two fireplaces, one in the living room and one in yours and Agatha’s bedroom, and a nice backyard with a patio and room to run around in. And as Tony promised, he paid for it all–leading to you sobbing your ‘thank you’s.

By the time you’re completely moved in, you’re approaching your eighth month of pregnancy. Your ankles are swollen, you’re the size of a cantaloupe, and your back aches constantly. Agatha eventually has to sleep with ear plugs because of how loud you snore–and you cried when you found out–and every time you stand up, you feel like you’re going to lose balance.

After finishing the nursery, Agatha guides you in with her hands over your eyes. When she removes them, you’re met with elephants and soft greens and dusty pinks. The cream colored crib that you had picked out together sits against the far left wall and all of the furniture is placed exactly where you wanted it. And it’s perfect. It’s exactly as you imagined.

“Are you crying?” Agatha asks softly.

You sniffle and wipe your eyes. “Yeah, it’s okay. It’s good crying. I promise.” You hug Agatha tightly and kiss her. “Okay, my back is killing me. I need to sit down.”

You take a seat in the plush armchair that you chose specifically because it’s a rocking chair. When you lean back, hand on your belly, Agatha sits down on the small ottoman and takes your foot, fingers rubbing the pressure points as you sigh.

“How many people do we have coming to the baby shower?” you ask, resting your head on your hand as you stare at her with nothing but love in your eyes.

“Well,” Agatha starts, “there’s the coven, that’s five. Then there’s Tony, Nat, Steve, Clint, Bruce, Peter and Sam. And Thor and Loki said they might be able to come. So, possibly fourteen.”

You hum, thinking. “We’ll have to lock the door to this room. The only one who knows is Jen–and probably Lilia–and god knows someone will try to snoop around to find out.”

Thankfully, everyone who arrives at the baby shower gets what’s only on the registry–Agatha was very stern about it. But when Alice walks in, your jaw drops.

“You brought wine and premixed margaritas to my baby shower?” you gawk.

“Who brought wine?” Wanda perks up at the kitchen table. “I’ll get the cork screw.”

“Margaritas too!” Alice cheers, and joins Wanda in the kitchen with the rest of the coven.

Lilia pours herself a glass of red, “Agatha would you like a glass?”

“No, thank you,” Agatha says, hand rubbing your back as you cross your arms.

The coven stops and looks at her.

“What, are you pregnant too?” Jen scoffs.

“No,” Agatha pipes up. “I’m standing in solidarity with my wife.”

You’re beginning to regret having your baby shower in the third trimester. You’re exhausted, and by five o’clock you’re growing irritated because you and Agatha haven’t been able to take your daily walk, and on top of that you’re being continuously kicked in your ribs.

“Are you feeling okay?” Agatha comes to stand behind the couch, her hands running over your shoulders as she leans down to kiss your temple.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Just tired.”

Agatha glances around the room at everyone and lowers her voice so only you can hear. “Do you want me to kick everyone out?”

You giggle and shake your head. “No, you don’t have to kick everyone out.”

“Dammit,” Agatha groans. “I was really hoping you’d say yes.”

By seven, everyone is gone and it’s just the two of you. These have always been your favorite moments–the quiet nights spent in Agatha’s arms while something plays on the TV in the background, and the only other sound is her heartbeat beneath your ear.

“I know we got a pretty good amount today,” Agatha mutters, “but do you wanna go shopping for baby clothes tomorrow?”

Your hand fidgets with the wedding band on her ring finger. “Sure.”

When you pick up that first frilly, pink satin dress you want to cry–and a few tears do slip out. “It’s so cute,” you whimper, and throw it in the basket. “We’re gonna have the cutest baby ever.”

Agatha’s hand settles on your lower back as you continue through the store, gasping at every piece of clothing you see. “”Sweetheart, you can’t take home every single article of clothing you see. I know you’re nesting, but you’re going a bit overboard,” Agatha says. “She won’t even grow into any of this for at least three months.”

“Well, you know me,” you shrug, and look through a rack of clothes. “I like to be prepared.”

“One more dress,” Agatha sighs. “And that’s it.”

“One dress and two shirts,” you counter.

Agatha stares at you and then relents, “Fine. One dress and one shirt. And then I wanna get dinner after this, I’m starving.”

You’re a week overdue, and you’re miserable.

“Is there anything I can do for you, honey?” Agatha asks from the stove as she cooks breakfast.

You take a bite of an apple slice at the kitchen table and huff, “Oh, I dunno. Can you get this baby out of me? Or, you could apply my hemorrhoid cream for me, how about that?” Your words get louder as you go on. “Oh, maybe you could remove a couple ribs so that the soccer player I’m carrying has room to move!”

Agatha looks around awkwardly. “Well, I mean–I could apply the–”

“I was being facetious, Agatha,” you say, glaring at her. When she sets your plate in front of you, she presses a kiss to your forehead and you sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted. I can’t sleep, I need help putting on my shoes, and I’m the size of a fucking pumpkin.”

“How about we go to the nail salon today?” Agatha suggests. “You said you wanted to get a pedicure done, but we never had time.”

You sigh, “Yeah, alright.”

The fumes of the nail salon hit you stronger than ever before. You’re settled into the spa chair with Agatha right beside you, picking out a color for her toenails as the technicians set up their stations.

“I usually go for purple, but I’m thinking maybe pink this time,” Agatha murmurs, thinking to herself.

“I think pink would look cute,” you shrug. “What about orange for fall?”

“Mm…Maybe closer to Halloween,” she mutters, and looks over at you, smiling. “Yeah, I’ll go with pink.”

The nail technicians assigned to you and Agatha are engrossed in her stories. You lean back, relaxing as you listen to Agatha gossiping with the woman who starts to paint her toenails.

“I just think she should mind her own business, you know?” Agatha scoffs. “And then there was the time…”

She could talk for days and days and you would never get tired. But a low, dull ache begins to settle in your abdomen. Your face contorts into obvious discomfort as you adjust your position in the seat.

Agatha pauses her story and looks at you, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” you wince. “I’m fine. Just uncomfortable–Oh!” Your hand squeezes the arm of the chair as dull ache tightens.

“That was not a Braxton Hicks,” she says, and the two techs look at you with concern.

“No, I’m fine! Finish the pedicure!” you insist, and while the tech continues to paint, Agatha doesn’t relax. Her jaw tightens and you can feel the warning look she's giving you.

When the tightening sensation returns you try your best to hide it, but when you know someone for almost 120 years, you pick up on their tells.

“Okay, no!” Agatha says sternly. “Come on, we’re going!”

“No!” you cry, and look at the tech in front of you. “Finish my nails! We have time!”

“You’re a week overdue, we’re going now!” Agatha says. She gives the tech assigned to you a sharp look. “Put the nail polish down, now!”

“Agatha, no! It needs to dry! Let him finish!” you beg, and another wave of pain crests through.

“Is it gel?”Agatha asks him quickly, and when he shakes his head, snaps her head back to you. “Put your flip-flops on, they can dry in the car, hon!”

With her own nails still wet, she gets down from the chair and slips her sandals on. She digs out her wallet from her purse and tosses a fifty on the chair before helping you down. Her arm goes around your waist as she rushes you out, all eyes on the both of you.

“Wait!” you cry, waddling towards the door with your hand in hers. “I don’t want to mess up my pedicure! Slow down!”

“Sweetheart, that is the least of my concerns!” she shoots back. When Agatha helps you into the car, she pulls out her phone and you can hear her on the phone with Jen as she rounds the car.

She starts the car quickly, and she has a complete disregard for the rules of the road.

“Agatha!” you shout, holding onto the dashboard. “Pull over! Now!” She does as you say and you turn to her, “Take a deep breath. Please. You’re more worried than I am and I’m the one in labor.”

She looks over, nostrils flared, jaw clenched, and knuckles white on the wheel. “Okay,” she croaks, and breathes deeply.

“Okay,” you repeat. “Are you okay?”

She sighs. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Okay,” you say again, your own breath shaking. “Let’s go.”

This time, Agatha decides to follow the rules of the road. Her hand doesn’t leave yours once until you pull into the hospital parking lot. When she helps you out of the car, you snicker to yourself. “I bet you’re glad I nagged you to put the hospital bag in the car the other day.”

“Walk,” Agatha groans, and you giggle.

In the hospital room, you slip the gown on as Agatha watches, perched on the edge of the bed. “Give me a twirl, princess.”

You huff and give her a slow, cautious turn. “Good?”

“Perfect,” she smiles.

Agatha makes you as comfortable as possible in bed–pillows in between your legs, under your arms, cups of ice chips after cups of ice chips. As the hours pass, Jen arrives, helping with pain management and whatever the nurses can’t do for you.

Around four hours later, at 6pm, the whole coven plus Tony, Nat, and Steve, are in the room, despite you being doubled over on the bed, clutching on tightly to Agatha’s hand. You’re becoming irritated quickly, even with all the well-wishes and balloons and flowers.

“I don’t want them in here,” you groan, another contraction washing over you.

Agatha looks confused. “What?”

“Get them out of here!” you seethe.

“Oh, okay!” Agatha pauses. “Um…Even Jen?”

“Yes! Send them to the fucking waiting room!” you cry. “I only want you in here!”

Agatha ushers the group out of the room, and for once, apologizes to Jen.

“It’s not personal,” Jen says. “I understand. It’s okay.”

At midnight, you’re in the hallway of labor and delivery taking a walk when your water breaks, and you start crying because of how bad you feel. Agatha reassures you that you’ve done nothing wrong, but you’re a complete mess.

She sits on the couch in the hospital room. Your forehead rests against her chest as you rock on a yoga ball, her hands massaging your lower back. Your hand tightens its grip on her arm as a strong, sharp pain rips through you.

It’s then that you finally decide to take the offer of an epidural–and you’ve never been more relieved. You sit on the edge of the bed, squeezing Agatha’s hand as the catheter is placed in your back, and after about twenty minutes, it starts to kick in.

“You should try and get some sleep,” Agatha murmurs, coming to sit back down beside you after dimming the room lights.

You hum, trying to keep your eyes open. “You should too.”

But there’s no chance in hell of that.

You’ve been asleep for maybe an hour when two nurses assigned to you enter the room and wake you. The older one washes her hands and slips on a pair of gloves and the younger goes over to the fetal heart monitor, analyzing the graph in comparison to your contractions. When the first nurse is finished checking your cervix, she joins the other nurse.

“What’s the matter?”

Agatha’s hearing seems to increase tenfold.

“Looks like the baby is having late decels,” the second nurse mutters.

“She’s only at four centimeters,” the older one whispers.

“How long has she been in labor?”

“About nine hours.”

“I’m sorry,” Agatha speaks up. “What’s the matter?”

The nurses turn toward you, the older one wearing a look that she’s rehearsed for these kinds of conversations. “The baby’s heart rate is dropping. It’s not too serious right n–”

“Not too serious?” Agatha repeats, her tone sharp. “Our child’s heart rate is dropping and you’re saying it’s not serious? I want a doctor in here right now.”

“Ma’am, I assure you–”

“I want a doctor in here!” Agatha shouts, standing up from her seat. “Now!”

Both of the nurses leave the room and Agatha lets out a frustrated sigh, sitting back down and taking your hand. Her other hand goes to your forehead, pushing back the flyaways sticky with sweat.

You lay there, eyes closed and trying to even out your breathing as you feel her thumb stroke along the back of your hand. Your eyes, still heavy with sleep, open when the doctor enters the room.

She reads the fetal monitor, analyzing every last bit of information on it. You watch her lips purse in thought and then she sighs. “You should have gotten me sooner,” she says to the nurses.

“What the hell is happening?” Agatha asks, eyes wide with panic.

“Your baby’s heart rate, for about the past hour, has been decreasing,” the doctor explains. “It’s not uncommon after receiving epidurals. Hypotension is seen a lot and your blood pressure has dropped a bit, and that usually ends up decreasing blood flow to the placenta. We’ll administer some fluids and have you lay on your side. But if it doesn’t change within an hour, maybe an hour and a half, we’re looking at a possible cesarean.”

Before the doctor can leave, Agatha gets out of the hospital recliner and lowers her voice. “If it’s possible, I’d like a nurse that actually knows what the hell they’re doing when caring for my wife.”

You watch the doctor nod and leave, and sure enough, fifteen minutes later, there’s a new night-shift nurse walking in with IV fluids. You lay on your side, facing Agatha while she holds your hand. With the bed rail down, and her reclining, it’s almost like you’re side-by-side in bed. Almost.

You doze off again, hand limp in Agatha’s. When the lights flicker on an hour later, the new nurse and the doctor are back. In the past hour you’ve barely dilated and you can see the worry in the doctor’s face.

She sighs after typing something on the computer. “Unfortunately, your baby’s heart rate hasn’t gone up. Your contractions aren’t doing what they’re doing, and the stress of that, combined with the hypotension is causing that. We will need to perform an emergency cesarean.”

“No,” you mumble, shaking your head. “No, I don’t want surgery.”

Agatha sighs, eyes heavy as she looks at you, “Sweetheart, I d–”

“It’s not optional,” the doctor says. “If we don’t deliver the baby as soon as possible, both you and the baby are at risk of injury.”

Your lips tremble and tears prick your eyes. “Okay,” you cry. “Alright.”

The clock on the operating room wall reads 4:03am.

Agatha sits beside you in the blue scrubs they had her change into, mask covering her mouth and nose, and blue hairnet containing the brunette mess of hair on her head. “I’m sorry it’s not going how you planned. You didn’t even want an epidural and now look where we are.”

“It’s okay,” you sigh as a nasal cannula is placed around your head. “You look hot in those scrubs, though.”

Agatha smiles, “Really?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “You’d be a really hot surgeon. You sure you don’t wanna watch them slice into me?”

Agatha makes a gagging sound. “I think I’ll stay here.”

“Okay,” the surgeon says. “10-blade, please.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Her hand rests on the cap that holds your hair, thumb running soothingly over the soft skin of your forehead. “It’s okay,” she mutters behind the mask.

It takes the surgeon about two minutes to do the procedure. Agatha stands, eyes watering and watching as they pull your baby from the opening in your abdomen. But it’s quiet. Too quiet. And then there’s the dreadful sight and sound of doctors rushing around.

“I don’t hear crying,” you panic, tears starting to fall down your temples. “Why isn’t she crying? Agatha, what’s happening? Why isn’t–why isn’t she crying?”

And then you hear it. The piercing shriek that means life.

You watch Agatha exhale with relief above you and you yourself do the same as tears flood your eyes. Your daughter, tiny and squirming, is wrapped loosely in a blanket and handed to Agatha. She sits back down beside you on the stool, lowering her carefully so you can see her properly.

You crane your neck to press a kiss to her forehead, lips trembling and eyes watery. And as you look at her, you’re unable to form any thought that isn’t about her.

By the time you’re brought back to your room, the sun is rising. You’re exhausted, but the sight of your daughter in your arms makes you want to stay awake for as long as you can. Agatha sits beside you on the bed, shoes kicked off and completely relaxed. One arm is wrapped around you while the other reaches down, finger brushing against the soft cheek of your newborn daughter.

“What about ‘Daphne’?” you ask quietly, not wanting to wake the baby.

“‘Daphne’?” Agatha repeats.

You look down at your daughter, smiling softly. “It was the first name that came to mind when I saw her.”

Agatha smiles, watching as the baby looks up at you both, her mouth forming an ‘o’ shape as she gurgles. “Daphne it is then.”

At nine, Agatha receives a text. “Tony’s bringing breakfast for everyone. What would you like?”

“Everyone?” you repeat.

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You know they’re all coming to visit this morning.”

You chuckle, “Surprise me. I’m starving. I’ll eat anything.”

By ten in the morning, your room is filled with people and the smell of breakfast foods.

“Alright,” Tony says. “We’ve patiently waited. What is it?”

“It’s a healthy baby,” you shrug, and pop a grape into your mouth as you cradle her in one arm. You and Agatha giggle together as everyone groans, but you finally give in. “It’s a healthy baby girl,” you smile.

“You owe me fifty bucks, Rogers!” Tony says.

“Wanda owes me ten,” Nat comments.

Alice hands Billy a twenty from her pocket and you sit there in shock. “You were gambling on what sex our child would be?”

“You made us wait until they were born to find out,” Nat says, shoving a piece of pancake into her mouth. “What do you expect?”

“What’s her name?” Billy asks.

Agatha sits on the edge of the bed, a genuine smile on her face. “Her name is Daphne.”

As you sit in the hospital bed wearing the fuzzy pink robe Agatha brought you, you watch your family. You watch them talk, and hear them laugh. You think back to that day in the parking lot–crying as Agatha held you, panicking because you had no idea if this was something you truly wanted or thought you could do. You think back to every moment filled with anxiety, every late night conversation with Agatha, fears spoken in the dark.

But a weight in your arms grounds you. You look down at the tiny baby fast asleep in your arms. You look at the yellow crocheted blanket that Lilia made for her. The ducky boots that Agatha gave you on your anniversary. The frilly dresses, and the hair bows.

You questioned once if you were okay with this. But now, as you look around the room, you realize that you’re more than okay with this. You’re more than okay with the family you found, and with the woman you love, and more okay than ever with what the two of you created–your little Daphne.

#agatha all along #kathryn hahn #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #fanfiction #smut #agatha harkness smut

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strawbairicake · 2 months ago

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various hsr trios and how they play uno! -various x reader (can be seen as platonic or romantic!)

warnings: none!

word count: 816

author’s note: i never post writing during the week, but enjoy haha! technically you guys would be a quartet if you played uno with them but like!! if we ignore that fact, i think life is still okay haha! hope you enjoy! <3

taglist: @cmiru, @unriding (Moze’s here, that’s why you’re tagged!), @m1ckeyb3rry (the trio of amphoreus is not here but thought you’d like this!), @vyyper, + @sheyfu! lmk if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

The Astral Express (March 7th, Dan Heng, Trailblazer):

Dan Heng wins almost all the time, it’s almost infuriating.

Trailblazer always has the most ridiculous cards and somehow still loses.

you and March team up to try to take down Dan Heng- it never works, unfortunately.

you, March 7th, Dan Heng, and the Trailblazer sat in the express car, playing a very fun and not at all hostile game of uno. you and March sat next to each other, while the Trailblazer and Dan Heng sat across from you. honestly, if uno was a game of teamwork, you should be teaming up with Dan Heng, since he always wins. but do you ever learn your lesson? no! not one bit. you place a +4 card down on the pile, March adds another +4, and now the game reaches Dan Heng, who slightly smirks, much to your dismay. he somehow places another +4 on the pile and quietly goes “uno.”

you all lose your minds.

The Yaoqing trio (Feixiao, Jiaoqiu [non-blind for this scenario!], Moze):

you all take a shot everytime Feixiao wins a round, which thankfully isn’t very often. she may be a general, but she sucks at the game.

Moze, however, is an absolute god at the game. gets all the good cards, plays fair, and is a good sport. truly the only question is how he ended up here (Feixiao begged him with puppy eyes).

Jiaoqiu plays fair, has pretty ok cards, and sometimes wins. he’s not quite a god at the game, but he’s not AWFUL like Feixiao.

you sat next to Jiaoqiu, while Feixiao and Moze sat across from you both. for the most part, the game is very calm, and might be your last game given how droopy your eyes are getting. Jiaoqiu has his cards in one hand (you can’t see them, stingy) and he’s got his other arm around your waist and rubbing shapes into your side. god you could fall asleep if it weren’t for the sound of-

“uno!” Feixiao just about hollers, waking you out of your droopy state. Moze rolls his eyes but plays a reverse, which makes Feixiao draw a few cards and you hear her mutter “mean” under her breath. Jiaoqiu chuckles at how you tensed up previously. hopefully this game won’t last much longer.

Divergent/Simulated Universe trio (The Herta, Ruan Mei, Screwllum):

can see Ruan Mei winning these types of games unintentionally.

Herta has a 50/50 shot of winning. if she doesn’t win, she takes a breather where she goes and rages (very funnily, might you add, you record her crash outs).

Screwllum doesn’t see the appeal of the game but if the three of you ask nicely, he always sits and plays with you all.

you’re sitting next to Ruan Mei and listening to Herta go on and on about how she’s going to win. Screwllum watches the chaos unfold between the four of you. Ruan Mei sips her tea and nudges you to play. you had zoned out briefly so you were thankful for the nudge.

“uno!” you said excitedly.

“oh mother f-“ Herta started before Screwllum covered her mouth. Ruan Mei sighed.

“I would appreciate no foul language in the presence of (name), madame Herta.” Screwllum said after uncovering her mouth.

“Oh i’ll show you foul language-“

Herta then proceeded to crash out over uno for the next twenty minutes, putting the game on hold. You and Ruan Mei sipped your tea and messaged each other in the meantime.

Interastral Peace Corporation (Aventurine, Topaz feat. Numby, Dr. Ratio):

I can definitely see Aventurine being awful at uno, if his luck comes from gambling, then surely his luck is ass at something he (for the most part) cannot gamble.

Topaz probably kicks ass at uno, she can get very competitive.

Ratio pretends not to care about the game, but if you in particular ask him to play with you and the crew, he scoffs before following you to play.

You and Topaz sat next to each other, mostly because Numby wanted to say hello to you. Numby sat on your lap as you watched Aventurine scramble for cards from the deck. Topaz is laughing, almost hysterically, at the amount of cards he’s collected. Dr. Ratio looks rather uninterested, but you know he’s most likely going to win. Aventurine finally draws a green card and smacks it down on the pile. You and Aventurine watch (in horror, for Aventurine) as Veritas puts a green reverse on the pile of cards and goes, “uno”.

“Doctor, are you fucking kidding me?”

Topaz wheezes and laughs even more hysterically at the sight in front of her. you laugh and watch Aventurine draw a few more cards before playing. you all came to a sudden realization: this game is NOT ending soon. something you all have come to know and enjoy, for the most part.

#airi writes #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #dr ratio x reader #aventurine x reader #topaz x reader #ruan mei x reader #herta x reader #screwllum x reader #jiaoqiu x reader #moze x reader #feixiao x reader #dan heng x reader #march 7th x reader #trailblazer x reader

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digiflora · 11 months ago

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🌺 ᯓ★୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘!

STARRING. ノ dan heng

request. ノ anon: helloo if it's right up your alley, could you do a danheng x reader hanahaki au? one where the reader thinks he and someone else have something going on given how caring danheng is through that stoic face of his! but really, danheng is just too kind and you're much too caught up with your own feelings

word count. ノ 3.4k

contains. ノ hanahaki!reader, u and dan heng r both kinda dumb, angst pertaining to the hanahaki trope, you can tell how old this fic is because it's set during the jarilo-vi story quest, some unfounded jealousy of march 7th?, mentions of death and injury and some graphic descriptions of blood and illness

gia's notes. ノ this was the very first request that i ever received on this blog. over a year ago. i drafted this fic and wrote out about 70% of it then let it rot at the bottom of my drafts. anon, you have the patience of a saint if you're still here.

THE MOMENT THAT YOU STEPPED FOOT ONTO THE ASTRAL EXPRESS, you had the sneaking suspicion that you were doomed. Your fate was set in stone as soon as you felt the hard encasing of a seed clutch the walls of your heart in a vice grip when you first laid eyes upon him.

Dan Heng was elusive. The others had been warm in their welcome, but it took the combined efforts of yourself and March 7th to find him hidden in the recesses of the train’s records room. His greeting was a mere nod in your direction before Welt required your presence again, but that’s all you needed.

His eyes were cool, practically piercing through your skin as March 7th ushered you pack to the parlour car, and you felt yourself shiver as his intense stare burned itself into the back of your head.

And while he’s intimidating, sure, that’s not why you stayed away from Dan Heng. He had a cold and callous exterior that you had never seen crack, yet all the same you had felt the start of a crush start to take root.

And this may not have been a problem at all if it weren’t for two details that were like a slap to the face for you.

One, you were fairly certain that Dan Heng had his eyes for March 7th.

And two, if your crush didn’t return your feelings, you would die.

It wasn’t a case of exaggeration, either. You had been aware of the fact that to develop feelings for someone was dangerous, as it had been drilled into you from a young age by your parents. They had gripped your hands, steering you away from other children with little more explanation than that, always chastised you for wanting to forge a human connection, keeping you isolated from the world around you, better safe than sorry.

And you had felt so alone.

Being forced to live a life in confinement was not an easy one, and despite your parents’ wishes, you had told them of your plan to to finally go out into the world, to live a life from experience and not watching it unfold as an impassive reader of a book or on your phone screen, danger be damned.

So it wasn’t really your fault that you had been so quick to develop those feelings that had been so often described in the books you read, as an explosion of butterflies erupted within you upon meeting someone else, another person for the first time.

And yet you found yourself in the same predicament- a watcher from afar. The heart wants what it wants was a bitter mantra that seemed to enjoy your misery as you watched March 7th excitedly chatter with Dan Heng, and you could have sworn the man even cracked the smallest of smiles at whatever she was saying. And really, could you blame him for it? March was kind, bubbly, outgoing- a perfect match for the stoic and seeming immovable Dan Heng.

It was more common sense than pessimism that had you concluding that you didn’t really stand a chance for his affections against someone like her. You doubt that Dan Heng even looked at you more than he had to. You, so secretive and elusive that you gave him a run for his money; and two similar poles never attracted each other. It was a funny hand that fate had dealt you, but you had to play with those cards regardless.

As if to mock you, you ducked away from the outskirts of the room, feeling a coughing fit coming. You had barely made it to your room before you doubled over, feeling your insides run ragged by the prickly thorns of the rose bush that grew inside you.

A single bloodstained petal fell into your palm.

Besides the quickly growing issue that you refused to acknowledge, life on the Astral Express wasn’t awful. You hadn’t yet confided in anyone about your condition, so to speak, and not entirely because you didn’t want to. To be completely honest with yourself, there was much that you didn’t know about it.

And so you timed it well- you waited for the subject of your affliction- for Dan Heng to leave his unofficial bedroom before you slipped through the door into the records room, desperate to find any sort of information that might help you find some sort of cure.

There was a small computer in the corner that you quickly typed your symptoms into- flower. unrequited love. coughing fits. You didn’t know if the single digit of entries was a cause for concern or not, but your brows furrowed as you began to scan through them. The number of obituary entries that were listed on this one document alone was making you shiver. You clicked out of it, about to open the next one before the door sliding open had you starting like a frightened animal.

Dan Heng strolled in, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as he registered that you were in the room, in his room. He spoke your name, softly, as if trying not to scare you further. You would have said something, honestly, if it weren’t for the sudden explosive coughing fit that came on a lot quicker than usual.

You could barely get a word out before you were bent over from the force of your coughs, tears pricking your eyes from the newfound intensity of the pain coming from inside you. Despite your hands clasped over your mouth, a couple of petals escaped and fluttered down to the floor, some distance between you and the horrified Dan Heng.

He was frozen in place, fingers itching to reach out to you and comfort you, but with the way you practically flinched away from him, he wasn’t sure if his presence was wanted. He barely caught a glimpse of your pained face before you darted around him and back to your own room on the train.

Dan Heng scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration at his inability to act, before his attention diverted once again to the bloody petals on the floor, and the files on the record searcher that you hadn’t completely closed. He cast one last guilty glance back in your direction before heading closer to the screen and beginning to read.

The Trailblazers’ journey must progress, and your heart hammered for another reason other than a sighting of the raven-haired male who you still harboured feelings for. You had ultimately left your home to explore the world, and with the Express finally stopping at the planet Belobog- your promise to yourself was a step closer to being fulfilled. You disembarked alongside Stelle and March, doing your best to avoid Dan Heng like the plague ever since that fated day. You didn’t know how much he exactly knew, but you had no intentions of finding out.

Your plans of peaceful exploration, however, were short lived with the arrival of Silvermane guards to greet you. In the chaos of the smoke, it was not lost on you that Dan Heng had instinctively protected March, practically shielding her with his body. As Stelle dragged you along some backway path in pursuit of some mystery saviour, you felt the excruciating addition of a new thorn in your heart.

The adrenaline of the escape had worn off by now, and you could feel your secret threatening to spill over any second now. You could barely warn Stelle to let you move off to the side before you were keeled over, closer to gagging than coughing as a large ball of petals and dark, dark blood forced its way through your throat. You felt faint, barely registering the panicked calls of your name as you felt your world turn sideways, Stelle’s face and voice being quickly replaced by another deeper one, with fear in their eyes and a certain desperate edge as you felt yourself slip into unconsciousness.

It's a dreamless sleep, yet it isn't restful, judging by how you feel like you've been hit by a bus when you sit up. Every fibre of your being aches, and there's a harsh overhead light that dazzles you as you blink awake.

As your eyes grow accustomed to it, there's a surge of panic as you don't recognise your surroundings. It looks like a clinic of some sorts- and there was the cloying smell of chemicals that invaded your nostrils. You struggled to sit up, until you felt a hand place itself gently against your chest.

A dark-haired woman with a doctor's coat smiles down at you warmly, and you eye her warily.

"Who are you?"

"My name's Natasha, I'm a doctor in the Underworld. Try not to move around too much, dear. You've been unconscious for quite some time and your condition is unstable, you still need rest."

"Where's the people that I was with?"

"They've all awoken a few hours before you." She casts a quick glance at the clipboard in her hands, as if to fact check herself, giving herself a quick satisfactory nod. "Don't worry, you haven't been abandoned. They should be just outside. The young man sat by your bedside while you were unconscious only left a few minutes ago- he got whisked away by one of my... colleagues."

Your mind's racing now, wondering who she could be talking about. Hoping that it was who you thought it was. But she reiterates her request to lie back down, and you comply begrudgingly. You start to settle down, until you catch a glimpse of the mess lying atop your blankets. A visceral combination of blood and crumpled petals rest upon the fabric, and you watch the doctor's expression become grave.

"That is the unstable part of your condition that I wanted to discuss." She pulls up a chair besides you, settling neatly, hands folded in her lap. "How long have these symptoms been ailing you?"

You furrow your brows, recalling how they started a mere month or two ago, after you joined the Astral Express. After you met him.

"A couple of months." Natasha nods, a frown forming on her face again.

"Considering how quickly it has developed, I imagine that your case is rather severe." You shrug, a humourless smile on your face.

"There's not much that I can do about it, Doc."

"I'm sure that you're aware of the risks that come with a confession, but as a bystander rather than a doctor, I think that you should talk to him."

"Who?"

"The man who refused to leave your side for all of these hours."

You hoped that Natasha was right. Deciding to ignore her advice of continued bed rest, you force yourself up, walking out of the clinic in search of him. Welt was no young man, and there wasn't anyone else that came to mind based off of Natasha's description. It couldn't be anyone else than him, right?

You stumble out onto the streets of the Underworld, garnering a few odd looks from passerbys as you wander around, looking for not just Dan Heng but anyone that you recognised.

You round a corner, seeing the back of a head and clothing that looks an awful lot like him. Who you're planning to confess to. You call his name, out loud, voice a little hoarse.

And he turns, beautiful crystalline eyes meeting yours. Call it a trick of the light, but you could have sworn that they shone a tad lighter when he saw you. But your gaze drifted past him, and all bubbling hope was quelled once again in your heart as you recognised the figure of March 7th stood with him.

Of course he would be with her.

If you looked closer at the pair of them, all signs indicated an intimacy to them that made you feel sick. There was a serious look on her face, one of her hands rested against his arm, but she soon recognised you too, her face instantly perking up as she began to ran towards you, calling your name.

"You're finally awake, you're OK!" she calls out in delight, her arms wrapping around you as she practically barrels into you, threatening to knock you off balance. You stumble, returning the hug, the nausea turning to guilt as you remember how the girl has been nothing but good to you. Of course Dan Heng would harbour feelings for her, not you.

The Doctor's order was wrong.

You sigh to yourself in defeat, unwinding your arms and shooting March 7th the best smile that you could muster in the moment.

"I feel better, but I'm still feeling weak so I might go back to the clinic."

March 7th frowns, eyes scanning your figure in concern.

"Are you OK, Y/N?"

"Do you want me to walk you back?" You twitched, not even realising that Dan Heng had caught up to the pair of you. He was also looking at you with concern, and you could feel an onslaught of petals coming.

"No, it's fine, I'll go back on my own." You don't really give either of them the chance to respond, spinning on your heel and trying not to run back from where you came.

You felt... worse. Before, you had at least been able to function, but now you felt so much limper, and weaker. You cursed at yourself for allowing false hope to be instilled, just as the coughing begins. It wracks through you, so hard that you almost dry heave as you keel over, and you watch in horror as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and see it come back crimson.

At least the clinic was around the corner.

You barely make it inside, unable to stand up straight by this point. Natasha springs to action, helping you back into a bed, helping you through the worst of the coughing. It's so much more draining than before, and you're quick to fall into a fitful sleep.

Even unconscious, you don't get a reprieve. Even in your dreams, he's all you can think of. There's a spitting image of him stood before you, eyes soft and voice like honey as he calls out to you, hands outstretched. And you try to join him, fingers straining to touch his before you watch them turn into branches and flower before your very eyes. You look down, and it hurts, with brambles wrapping themselves around your middle. And just as fast as they grow, your new floral appendages wilt before your very eyes. Branches drooping, flowers losing their hue, and you feel yourself start to fade, his name one last desperate cry from your lips.

You wake up, tears staining your cheeks and you trembling. For a few panicked seconds, you think you're still dreaming because he is here, sat by your bed, and as he stands up to wipe your tears you shrink back in fear of turning back to branches again.

But his warm palm cups your face, solid against your trembling state, deft thumbs wiping away your tears, an uncharacteristically soft hushing and cooing coming from Dan Heng as he promises you that everything is okay now.

It's easy to believe him, with the way he moves even closer to hold you, cradle your form against his warmth, patting your hair and letting you cry until you can't any more amidst the petals on your bedsheets.

You don't know how long the pair of you stay like this, your face pressed into his chest, his heartbeat leading yours back into the range of one at rest rather than its prior pounding against your ribcage. You would stay there for the rest of time, if you had a choice, but you had to admit that the oxidation of blood and its drying against your skin was making you feel ever so slightly uncomfortable.

You clear your throat, as best as you can in your hoarse state, and Dan Heng picks up on your withdrawal as he all but flinches away from you, returning the distance that usually lies between your two bodies. But his eyes still scour your figure, your face, for any and all signs of discomfort. Like a lover would. The thought melds with the already-bitter taste of blood residing against your tongue, and you frown down at your lap. At the petals. At your pathetic form lying beneath the blanket, obscured from view.

“How long has this been happening for?” Dan Heng sounds so timid, as if he were walking on glass sheets around you. Ever since that fateful day in the records room, it felt like he had done nothing but tiptoe and tread around you, a careful dance of avoidance that you were forced to be his partner in. You sigh deeply, a hand gingerly beginning to gather the gorey sight of such beautiful pink marred by the visceral crimson that remained, not yet dried.

“I’ve had it all my life, apparently, but it only started making itself known once I joined the Astral Express.” Once I met you.

“I, um- I looked into it more. In the records.” His admission made you snap your head up to face him, cautious of his next words, whatever they may be. He looked nervous himself, with eyes that refused to meet yours and fingers that twisted into his clothes, toying with the hem of his jacket.

“I read of many such cases where people were able to make a full recovery.” He sounds so hopeful, even daring to meet your eyes, that you almost feel bad for him. It was like looking back at a past version of yourself, so hopeful for a happy ending that once sparkled in your eyes, now a dull flicker you can see when the lighting is just right.

“It’s not that simple, Dan Heng.”

“What do you mean, it said that there weren’t any later cases of symptoms returning-”

“That’s because it’s not an illness from the body.” You’re snappier than you intend to be, you see it in the way his mouth snaps shut and his throat bobs against his collar, as he sits up straighter, waiting for you to continue. “The only cure is to confess to the person that I love.”

“And why haven’t you?” His voice is barely above a murmur, and even from his place in the seat next to our bed, you hear him just fine.

“Because I’m sure that he has eyes for another.” You’ve collected all the petals in your palm by now, observing them with a dry humour as you notice that they’ve begun to wither, much like yourself. You doubt that you could go on much longer after this conversation. Part of you urges to get it over with, to confess now and let yourself bloom with one last glance upon his face.

Dan Heng must have scoured each and every record, because you didn’t need to offer an explanation of what would happen with such unrequited feelings. He’s silent again, an awkward and palpable tension as you can feel his confliction from here.

He finally manages a lame “you never know” that has you laughing, a brief reprieve before you dissolve into another coughing fit. It’s hardly something to worry about, but Dan Heng is by your side again, palm smoothing over your shoulder blades as you are wracked with coughs. You appreciate it nonetheless.

“What would happen if someone else confesses to you?” You shoot him a sideways glance, confusion written all over your features, urging him to elaborate. “What if you held no feelings for them, but they confessed to you all the same. Would that cure you?” He’s earnest now, hands scooping up your dirtied ones, clasping them in his grasp as he looked at you with stars in his eyes.

Your shrivelled heart begins to beat again.

“What- what do you mean?” Play dumb. Don’t mistake curiosity for what you desire most.

“What if I told you right here and now that I love you?” His eyes are searching yours, pleading with you for an answer that you’ve been screaming at him for so long. One that he does not have to search for, because it’s been laid there at his feet this whole time.

“I would tell you, Dan Heng, that such a confession is not unrequited.” You’re grinning now, the smile on your face growing wider and wider as you watch recognition flood his features.

And then he’s smiling too, laughing, holding you ever closer to him before he pulls away again, just to cup your face now. It’s only natural to close the distance between the two of you, lips touching his for a kiss that quickly becomes searing, welcoming a new season of heat into your body.

The thorns in your heart reside. Spring begins to bloom.

➤ IF YOU LIKED THIS, TRY ... enjoy the silence

roommate!dan heng x reader

➤ alternatively, you can find my hsr masterlist here!

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moonlit-stay · 3 months ago

Text

· . * · ° ☆ Stray Kids Texts

· . * · ° ☆ Jealousy With OT8: Chapter Four

☆ Pairing: Stray Kids (OT8) x Female Reader

☆ Genre: Fluff and Suggestive

☆ Screenshot Count: 16

☆ Warnings: best friend!stray kids, best friends to lovers, lots of mutual pinning, jealous confessions, slight possessiveness, they all allude to sex at some point or another, non-reader women mentioned in all plots (once again, all fictional with literally no names)

☆ Other Warnings: allusive mentions of food in Jeongin's

☆ Please let me know if I missed anything

☆ Requested: Yes

VII: big thank you to the anonnie who requested a reversed version of chapter three of my jealousy texts !! I'm so sorry it took me so long to get around to this, a lots happened :)))) Thank you for your patience <33

If you are under the age of 18, please do not interact with this fic. This fic contains inappropriate content and is strictly 18+

Everything written in all of my work is consensual. Even if not stated within the work.

Enjoy :)

· . * · ° ☆ Chan ♡

· . * · ° ☆ Minho ♡

· . * · ° ☆ Changbin ♡

· . * · ° ☆ Hyunjin ♡

· . * · ° ☆ Jisung ♡

· . * · ° ☆ Felix ♡

· . * · ° ☆ Seungmin ♡

· . * · ° ☆ Jeongin ♡

Happy Stray Kids Day, Loves <8

☆ Main Masterlist

☆ Stray Kids Masterlist

☆ Author's Note !

This post was originally supposed to be released on my blogs 4th birthday (the 7th of March), but I didn't finish writing it in time. So, I'm posting it today for my eight loves on the special day they share instead :')

With that being said, thank you for all the love and support on this blog over these past four years. It truly means the world to me, and I hope this blog continues to grow, I make new amazing friends, and my creativity never dies❤️‍🩹

To my eight loves, thank you for everything. You inspire my creativity, fill my heart and soul with unconditional love, and make all my bad days worth fighting through. I will be here until the end of time, I love you all forevermore.

☆ Taglist !

@kpophubb @whatudowhennooneseesyou @skzgallll @ka0ila @hanji-coffee @pixie-felix @velvetmoonlght

Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist !

☆ Extras !

Released: March 25th, 2025

254 notes · View notes

eggluverz · 2 years ago

Text

LIKE ME BETTER?

PAIRING. il!dan heng x gn!reader

WORD COUNT. 615

SUMMARY. you want to braid dan heng's hair and he wonders if you like him better in this form.

SOF'S NOTE. just a short and sweet drabble!! <3 i just had thoughts of wanting to play with dan heng's long hair and this came out heh ;p hope u enjoy!!

“Can I braid your hair?”

Dan Heng looked up from the pages of his book, startled at the sudden request. He had just returned to the Astral Express after his long journey at the Xianzhou and was settling back into life as a proud Nameless.

While the reconciliation with his past was settled, he still hasn’t reverted back to his human form. Not yet, at least.

And with the interest you’ve taken to his long hair and pointed horns, Dan Heng was wondering if he should keep this appearance just for a little longer.

You sat up next to him on his bed, leaning your back against the wall. He smiled at your comfortable stance, setting his book aside. As he turned his face away from you, he offered the back of his head and said, “Here you go.”

With a cheer of happiness, you excitedly straightened up. You turned so you were facing Dan Heng’s back as you gently ran your fingers through his hair. It was soft and smooth to the touch, and it made you want to twirl a strand around your finger.

“You’re hair is so pretty like this,” you said with a sigh, a dreamy look on your face.

He chuckled softly, leaning into your hands as you massaged the base of his scalp.

You began separating his hair into three sections and weaving one over the other. Back and forth, back and forth, you continued down the length of his hair. The reds and greens mixed in with the black and you wondered how much the colors would shine in the sunlight. With a content smile, you let yourself bask in this intimate moment with Dan Heng.

After a few moments passed, Dan Heng spoke up, almost cautiously. “Do you…like me better in my Vidyadhara form?”

Your eyes snapped wide open and you quickly let go of the hair you just finished braiding. “No! Of course not.”

He let out a short hum.

Pursing your lips you moved around on his bed so you were face to face with Dan Heng. You placed your hand on his cheek softly and examined him; he had the same nose, the same mouth, the same jaw. His eyes may have been a different color, but the expressions and depth they held were the same.

No matter the appearance, he was still your Dan Heng. And you only wanted him to present himself in a way he was most comfortable with.

“You look so handsome like this,” you stated, feeling the warmth from his cheek emanate onto your palm. “And you look just as handsome without the Vidyadhara features— The way I first saw you on the Express.”

The worried crease between his brows lifted as he listened to your words. He rested his idle hands on your legs and gave them a brief squeeze. You smiled.

“You aren’t able to braid my hair like this if I take on my preferred human form, though.”

You giggled and ruffled the top of his head. “Do you think that really matters to me? It’s pretty and it’s fun, yes, but I get plenty of enjoyment putting March 7th’s hair clips all over your hair as it is.”

Now it was Dan Heng’s turn to crack a grin. “My hair certainly looks great whenever you do such things.” He leaned forward to plant a chaste kiss atop your head. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Always accepting me for who I am.”

“I always will!” you said, reaching out to hold him in your embrace. You gazed at him fondly and he returned the look with upturned lips. “I’ll forever be your biggest supporter.”

“And I, yours.”

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #dan heng x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr fanfiction #hsr imagines #hsr fluff #dan heng #dan heng imagines #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #hsr drabbles

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writesvani · 4 months ago

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coming down | 02

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to-enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): complicated parent-child relationships, toxic friendships, substance use (cigarettes, weed, implied past substance abuse), emotional & verbal conflict, misogyny & objectification, mentions of cheating & sexual situations, mentions of self-worth issues, brief mentions of past trauma

THESE CHARACTERS ARE NOT MEANT TO BE PERFECT AND IDOLIZED.

comment here for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M.LIST

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 9,5k // date: 7th of March 2025

CHAPTER TWO - KISSLAND proceed with caution...

AN: first of all, this chapter is dedicated to everyone around the globe who has a complicated relationship with their parents—always feeling the need to make them proud yet subconsciously sabotaging that effort. i see you. i feel you. i get you. we are holding hands in the trenches. stay strong, soldiers.

the necklace. the mystery. the lore. the foreshadowing. we will find out more soon, and i am begging you to prepare yourselves.

and finally, THE KISSLAND SCENE. i am not okay. why are they like this. why are we like this. i need everyone to take a deep breath because we are in for a long ride.

anyway, tell me your thoughts. scream at me. cry with me. i’m here for it.

love, [@writesvani] (still ren's #1 fan)

It’s March, for Christ’s sake! And technically, spring hasn’t even officially begun yet, but here you are, sweating like it’s the middle of July. Seriously, who needs a calendar when the weather’s already acting like it’s summer? You’re drenched, sweat dripping down your face and neck, and you actually scoff at yourself for wearing a jacket today.

It’s too hot. Summer hot. You’re panting, sweating, and groaning like you’ve just run a marathon in the Sahara. You’d throw the jacket off, but your hands are too busy holding groceries that are slowly but surely turning into a puddle of disappointment. Actually, screw the groceries. Screw March, and screw spring while we're at it. What you really want to do is crawl into bed and pretend the world doesn’t exist.

But nope. Your mom decided to bless you with her presence this evening, giving you absolutely no time to prepare mentally or emotionally. But hey, at least you’ve got time to clean your apartment and cook her something nice. Who doesn’t love an impromptu cooking show under duress?

And here you are—cursing your life, your poor choices, and your bed-rotting habits. If you weren’t so lazy, you wouldn’t be stuck in this ridiculous situation in the first place.

Thankfully, grocery shopping is the last thing on your to-do list for today. And cooking after it, but cooking doesn’t count as a chore - you actually adore doing it. You've already tackled the bathroom—scrubbed it until it actually looks presentable. You’ve vacuumed, cleaned everything properly—or at least, you’re telling yourself that. After all, you're a struggling college student with no time for the "simplicity" of house chores. Who needs that when you’ve got an endless pile of textbooks waiting to ruin your life?

Well, that’s the image you want your mom to have, anyway. So, you’ve left a few textbooks scattered messily on the table, pages marked with pastel highlighters and slightly crumpled corners. It’s all part of the act. See, Mom? I’m so deep into my textbooks that I don’t even have time to exist outside of them.

Perfect illusion, right?

As you step through the front door, the first thing you do is rip off that stupid jacket—finally. You’re pretty sure you look like a worm trying to escape its own skin as your body does some weird wiggle dance, but who cares? You can breathe again, and that’s what matters.

Before fully releasing yourself from the torturous clutches of jacket hell, you haphazardly toss the grocery bag next to your shoe closet. Now, it’s time to put the groceries in the kitchen, but not before you do a quick scan of your apartment. You know, to make sure everything looks Pinterest-worthy (because that's totally a realistic goal for a college student).

The cushion on your sofa is pink and soft—at least you pretend it’s soft, since it’s been there forever and you’ve never actually sat on it. The pillows are neatly placed in the corners, probably by some invisible cleaning fairy. There's a pinkish-red jar filled with candy on your coffee table, and next to it, a cheap air freshener Ren picked up at a dollar store. “Something has to get rid of that smoke stench,” he had said, with all the seriousness of a man on a mission.

Your shelves are stacked with old perfume boxes (because you just had to keep them), random jewelry, and books by authors you claim to love, though you haven't read half of them. Then, there’s the picture of you and Ren from his 18th birthday. Ren’s arms are crossed, glaring at the wall like he’s about to solve world peace, while you’re kissing his cheek, looking like you just stepped out of an ‘80s music video, with your hair a chaotic mess of silky, untamed locks. Ren’s rocking a blue shirt and gray pants, like he's going to a business meeting, while you’re channeling some sort of leather-clad, retro goddess.

You love that picture. It’s pure magic.

But, of course, you don’t mention the tiny detail in the far-right corner—a speck of white hair and an angry, brooding figure, accidentally caught in the background. Because who needs that kind of energy, right?

The apartment looks perfect. No more overthinking it.

Now, it’s time to throw yourself into the real challenge—making brownies and bolognese for your mom. You do a dramatic flop onto the task like it’s the most important thing in the universe. A hair tie swoops in to shove your hair out of your face, because, let's be real, the last thing you need is your hair mixing with your food—though it’s probably inevitable. You're wearing a new pair of sweatpants and a hoodie —courtesy of your aunt, but hey it's a birthday gift. You know cooking in new clothes is a terrible idea, and by the end, you're probably going to look like you’ve been attacked by a spaghetti tornado, but whatever. Changing is too much effort.

Cooking? Well, that’s your jam. You love the gleaming smiles when someone takes a bite of your food, like they’ve just discovered the meaning of life. You love watching them devour it like it’s their last meal on earth. And, let’s be honest, you thrive off the compliments. “You’re a monstrously good chef!” they say, and you just stand there, glowing like you’ve earned a Michelin star.

The smell of tomatoes and minced meat fills the air, and while it’s making your stomach do happy flips, it’s also turning your tiny apartment into a sauna. The kitchen and living room are basically one open furnace, and the stove is the blazing sun. You really start questioning your life choices—like, why on earth don’t you own an AC? What kind of college student are you? Clearly, one who spends all her money on clothes she doesn’t need and overpriced coffee at cafes she can’t afford. Air conditioning? Nah, that’s for rich people.

You decide to throw open the window, because fresh air is the answer to everything, right? But nope, that doesn’t solve your personal heatwave, so you go for the ultimate lifehack—off comes the hoodie. Boom, problem solved. It’s tolerable now, and you’re literally standing there wondering why you didn’t do this an hour ago. Like, how did you not think of this? Rookie mistake.

In the midst of cooking up the world’s most delicious sauce (seriously, your mom is going to faint from how good this is), your phone rings with that familiar tune. You don’t even need to glance at the screen to know it’s Yumi. You've given everyone their own ringtone, and it’s a system that works—except when it rings in the middle of something important like dinner prep.

“Hey, wassup?” you say casually, balancing the phone between your shoulder and ear while stirring the sauce like it’s a magical potion.

“Girl, what are you doing tonight?” Yumi’s voice is practically vibrating with excitement. “I was thinking of hitting that bar everyone’s been sending streaks from. You know, the one where all the Instagram influencers go for ‘content.’”

“Can’t,” you reply, giving her the full dramatic treatment. “My mom’s coming over tonight. She’s staying with me for two days, so I’m officially off-limits for drinking and smoking for the next 48 hours.” You turn off the stove with all the flair of someone who just won a gold medal in cooking. Take that, world.

“Ouch, I feel you,” Yumi says, her sympathy overflowing. “Can I come over instead? I haven’t seen Miss L/n in forever and I just know she missed me as much as I missed her.”

“Well, uhm, sure, why not?” You shrug, even though deep down you know your mom’s going to give you that disapproving look when she finds out you’ll be having company. “I’ll set another plate for you.”

“Yesss! I’m so excited!” Yumi squeals, and then suddenly goes full-on dramatic. “Oh my God, I gotta go. Kento and Satoru are yelling at me to come back—bye bye!” And before you even get a chance to say goodbye, she hangs up, leaving you holding the phone, talking to thin air.

You don’t hold it against her, though. It’s just the way Yumi is. The girl’s like a tornado in human form, constantly swirling from one thing to the next, with nothing really sticking. What does catch you off guard, however, isn’t the way she magically hung up and vanished into what you assume is her next smoke session or impromptu adventure. No, what really surprises you is the fact that she mentioned Satoru.

Yes, you know that Satoru and her boyfriend are thick as thieves—best friends, practically joined at the hip. But that doesn’t change the fact that back in high school, Yumi loathed Satoru. Like, if you’d asked her then, she would have rather been seen wearing those leopard-print tights she absolutely hated (the ones you judged along with her) than have a conversation with the “awkward teacher’s pet.” Now, though? Now, Yumi’s hanging out with her newfound love and his bromance buddy and it totally throws you off.

You try not to dwell on it too much, even though it gnaws at you. Deep down, it eats away at you more than you care to admit. Because Yumi has no idea just how close you and Satoru actually were. She knew you were next-door neighbors and probably assumed you were just, like, casual acquaintances. You’d say “hi” at school, maybe. But she never knew that Satoru was the first person you’d run to as soon as you were free from the suffocating school gates.

Because back then, you and Satoru were… well, different. You were a mess, and he was the golden child. The kid every adult dreamed of having as a son—or a future son-in-law. You were the one parents pointed at when they wanted to prove the dangers of too much freedom—"See what happens when kids have no rules?!"—and then their kids would be like, “But Satoru’s parents also let him do what he wants too, and he’s perfect!”

He was the kid winning debate championships while you were hidden behind crumbling school walls, trying to sneak in one more smoke before the bell rang.

But despite all that, after school was over? It was always Satoru, right there, a few steps behind you. And as much as you’d never admit it out loud, you secretly wanted him to catch up, to always be there. And he always did. You’d never let him know, though. That’s just how it was.

Since you’re already holding your phone, it wouldn’t hurt to check the time—shit, it’s almost 5 p.m., and your mom will be here in 20 minutes. Panic mode activated. You scramble to wash the dishes—well, as quickly as your clumsy self allows. The remnants of your cooking extravaganza must be banished to the sink before your mom sees any of it.

Before you can even finish rinsing off the last plate, you hear knocks vibrating through your door. Your mom’s here. And, wow, she’s absolutely glowing. Her smile lights up the whole entryway, and suddenly, something stirs deep in your chest. You realize just how much you missed her.

She throws her arms open wide like she’s some kind of grand diva welcoming her long-lost child, and you take in her familiar floral scent—mostly roses, but just perfectly feminine. You briefly entertain the thought of buying that perfume, but quickly dismiss it because, let’s be real, it would smell ridiculous on you. But on her? Chef's kiss.

“My baby!” Your mom beams, and her hug is so strong, it feels like she might crush your ribs in the process. Ouch, you think. It hurts. But it’s the good kind of hurt, the kind that reminds you how much you missed her.

You hug her back, tightly, even though she’s probably breaking you in the process, and as she pulls away, you think, Yeah, this is worth it. Even though, in a few hours, you’ll be telling your friends how much of a drag it is that you can’t go out and do something fun because of her. Well, except maybe Ren—he’ll definitely get an earful of how much you actually wanted her here.

Still holding you in the tightest hug ever, your mom manages to close the door—with her leg, for Christ’s sake. You’re pretty sure she’s trying to reenact a scene from a bad rom-com, but you’re not in the mood to be the punchline.

“Mom, you don’t have to destroy my doorframe already, you just got here,” you mutter.

“Nonsense, honey, I’m just showing my love,” she declares dramatically, letting go of you to toss her travel bag and purse on the nearest surface. She then glances at you, her eyes lighting up. “Will you make a cup of coffee for your mom? I want to hear all about the madness of college life—boys, cocktails, aaaand exams.”

You chuckle, a smile plastered on your face as you agree. “Of course.” But as soon as you turn your back to her, there's a little quirk of your lips that she doesn’t catch. Like you’d spill all your college secrets to her.

Over the years, you’ve learned the hard way to filter what comes out of your mouth when it comes to your mom. For example, the extensive list of questionable decisions you made in high school involving unprotected sex and lots of substances.Yeah, not going to bring that up. And you’ve mastered the art of smiling and nodding when she talks about how proud she is that you stopped smoking weed—painful clutch to the chest every damn time.

It sucks, though, because all you’ve ever wanted is to make your parents proud. But there’s no way they’d ever understand the pure joy of taking that first hit of the day. So you’ve decided to settle for honesty about smoking cigarettes, something she can’t really argue about since she’s an avid smoker herself.

Just as you’re mulling over this, you hear the soft click of her lighter igniting and then then you feel the familiar swirl of smoke hit your senses.

“Want me to add milk in? I know you don’t like your coffee pure black,” a question leaves your lips and you see her eyeing you with the sort of judgment only a mother can give when you dare drink your coffee like a grown-up.

“Yes, because unlike my daughter, I don’t enjoy setting my tastebuds on fire with coffee that tastes like burnt sadness,” she shoots back, smirking. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”

“You just don’t understand, Mom,” you retort, shaking your head like you’re the misunderstood genius of coffee culture. “I like to treat my tastebuds to the pure, unadulterated flavor of espresso. None of this sugary nonsense—just the bold, unflinching taste of real coffee.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get all dramatic and start talking about the science of coffee,” she grumbles, gesturing with her coffee cup like she’s in the middle of a bad soap opera. “Coffee’s coffee, and I like mine sweet and milky, thank you very much.”

You previously served it in two pastel-colored mugs and she tries to maintain her cool. But you see it—her eyes twinkle for a second, like she’s secretly in love with the mugs. Oh, she’s gonna be so easy to shop for this year. New idea for her birthday gift? Check.

“So, what’s up, honey?” she asks, sounding casual, but you can tell she’s about to interrogate you like a detective in a crime drama. Her cigarette dangles from her fingers like she’s the star of an artsy indie film produced by questionable people. You light your own cigarette, puffing a cloud of smoke that looks suspiciously like a perfect O. Might as well embrace the cliché.

“Nothing much. Studying, sleeping, and chilling,” you say, making sure to sound effortlessly cool, even though you’re internally cringing at how not cool you are.

“I can see that,” she says, pointing at the pile of open textbooks you so strategically left out. Honestly, you’re proud of yourself for leaving them visible—no way she’ll think you’re wasting time on TikTok now. “Chilling? What the hell does chilling even mean? Like chilling chilling?”

You already know what’s happening—she’s trying to put the pieces together and wondering if you’ve slipped back into your old ways. Her mom-radar is going off like a siren.

“Ma, it’s not like that,” you say with a wave of your hand, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just hanging out with friends, having a drink or two. But nothing crazy, promise. Definitely nothing like... before.” You add that last part in a dramatic whisper, as if you’re revealing the greatest plot twist of the century.

“Good, good, that’s good,” she mumbles, nodding like she’s just solved world hunger. But then, just as quickly, her eyes crinkle, and the spark that dimmed in the last thirty seconds reignites. “Actually, that’s great! See? I told you—you don’t need all that nonsense to have fun. All you need is the right people around you,” she beams, looking like the wise mother from a coming-of-age movie.

Your soul, however, twists uncomfortably. Because, well... that’s a lie. And not just any lie—a perfectly crafted, strategically placed lie that ensures family harmony. If your mom ever found out the real details of your college lifestyle, she’d probably faint. And your dad? Oh, he’d skip the fainting part and go straight for murder and disownment. Maybe both at once.

But sometimes, little lies build a happy family. And the big ones? They keep it from sinking.

“And you were right,” you say, flashing her the most reassuring, Oscar-worthy smile you can muster.

She looks at you for a second too long, and for a terrifying moment, you wonder if she sees through your well-crafted facade. But then—she laughs. Oh, thank God. Some long-forgotten ancestor must’ve blessed you with the genes of a master liar and parent manipulator. You mentally salute them.

“And while we’re talking about friends,” she continues, tapping her cigarette against the ashtray, “what’s my favorite bundle of joy, Rennie, up to?”

A small pouch of ash falls from her cigarette onto the table. You’ll have to clean that up later, but there’s no way in hell you’re pointing it out. You cherish your life.

“He’s great, actually. We had a sleepover and breakfast just three days ago,” you say casually, knowing damn well this information is about to delight her. “I told him you’re coming, and he sends his regards—actually, he mentioned we should all grab lunch tomorrow if you’d like.”

The way her face lights up—you’d think you just told her she won the lottery.

“Oh my God, YES, of course I want to! Call him immediately and make plans!” she exclaims, practically bouncing in her seat.

You chuckle. “Mom, he has evening classes right now. I’ll call him later tonight.”

“Okay, but don’t forget,” she warns, pointing at you as if forgetting would be a crime punishable by law.

You nod, taking a sip of your coffee, feeling victorious for making her happy. But, because life is cruel, you open your mouth again and instantly regret it.

“And since we’re talking about friends... Yumi’s coming over for dinner.”

You almost miss it. Almost. But there’s a tiny shift in her posture. Her back straightens ever so slightly, her jaw tenses just a bit, and that overly polite, tight-lipped smile creeps onto her face.

“Oh, sure,” she says, voice dripping with forced enthusiasm. “That’s just going to be lovely.”

And just like that, you mentally slap yourself for not making up an excuse when Yumi invited herself over.

As soon as Yumi enters your apartment, your mother’s mood is back to perfection—like a switch has been flipped. It’s honestly impressive. The charm, the warmth, the perfectly rehearsed laughs—it’s all so seamless, you’d think she had been dying to see Yumi again. But you know better. You recognize the act because, well… you do the same thing. Turns out, the poker face you so proudly wear when needed? You definitely got it from her.

The table is perfectly set for three, decorated in soft patterns of yellowish gold and white, all thanks to the Valentine’s Day sale you definitely did not regret splurging on. Totally a good investment. Definitely not an impulsive decision made out of boredom.

But, of course, peace never lasts.

The conversation has taken a dangerous turn. Yumi, in all her zero-filter glory, has decided to bring up THE recent party—the birthday one. The one where you, oh-so-gracefully, crashed at Ren’s place afterward. And because the universe loves to make your life difficult, she’s conveniently leaving out the necessary details and instead painting the most inaccurate picture possible.

“So, this girl right here,” Yumi says, pointing at you with her fork like she’s revealing some deep, scandalous secret, “was totally all over that guy. Seriously, Miss L/N, she was so into him.”

The words feel sharp—unnecessary, exaggerated, dangerous. Your mother’s smile doesn’t waver, but you see the way her fingers press just a little tighter around her fork.

Your stomach twists.

“That’s so not true, Yu,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “I was literally just talking to him. For five minutes.”

Yumi scoffs, waving you off. “Oh, come on, it’s just us. No need to downplay it.”

A silence falls over the table—one that stretches just a second too long.

Abort. ABORT.

And then, your mother speaks.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this,” she says smoothly, setting her glass down with deliberate care. Her voice is light, but her posture tells a different story—her shoulders are tense, her breaths are slow and measured. The smile is still there, but her eyes… Her eyes are sharp. Calculating.

Yumi doesn’t notice.

But you do.

Because you know that look. It’s the same look she’d give you when you were younger—when she already knew you were lying but was giving you the chance to correct yourself before things got worse.

Your pulse quickens.

Yumi keeps talking, oblivious to the way the atmosphere has thickened, to the way your mother’s patience is thinning. But you don’t.

You’re hyper-aware of every second that passes, of the way your mother’s fingers drum once against the table before going still. Of the way her eyes flicker to you, just for a moment, like she’s silently telling you, fix this now.

And suddenly, the apartment feels too small.

The tension in the room is suffocating. Heavy. Like a thick fog settling between the three of you, wrapping itself around your throat and making it impossible to swallow. And Yumi—God, Yumi—as if reading the room is suddenly too much effort for her, keeps going, like she’s on some mission to drag this out as painfully as possible.

“And to make things even more uncomfortable,” she says, leaning in slightly, voice dripping with glee, “the guy has a girlfriend.”

She gasps dramatically, eyes alight like she’s just spilled the juiciest gossip about some mutual enemy. Like she isn’t actively humiliating you in front of the one person whose opinion of you actually matters.

Your stomach twists, nausea creeping up your throat.

Your mother doesn’t look at you. Not immediately.

“A girlfriend, huh?” Her voice is quiet—too quiet. Not accusing, not angry, but there’s something chilling about it. Something worse. She isn’t even looking at you—her gaze drifts over your walls, your bookshelf, the ceramic vase you bought on a whim, like any of those things are suddenly far more interesting than this conversation.

It makes you want to shrink into yourself.

“We were just talking, Mom,” you say quickly, voice carefully controlled, measured. A calculated lie, necessary to clean up the mess Yumi just dumped all over your dinner table. “I promise, it wasn’t like that at all.”

Yumi starts to speak again—probably about to dig an even deeper hole for you—but before she can get another word out, your knee bumps into hers, pressing just hard enough to make your point clear.

Stop. Right now.

Your eyes find hers, dark with warning.

Her lips press into a thin line, but she sulks into silence, stabbing at her spaghetti instead.

Thank God.

Your mother finally looks at you. And the moment your eyes meet, your chest tightens. Because you know that look. Fragile. Like she wants to believe you. Like she needs to believe you.

“You promise, baby?” she asks softly.

And it’s the way she says it that makes the guilt sink into your bones, makes your throat tighten. Because she’s giving you an out. A chance to make things right. A chance to be the person she thinks you are.

But you’re not.

So you nod, forcing a smile, settling for the lie.

“I do,” you say, swallowing down the guilt. “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

She watches you for a moment longer, searching. And then, she exhales, nodding slowly.

“Okay,” she murmurs, taking another bite of her food.

The conversation shifts. The moment passes.

But the weight of the lie lingers.

The clatter of dishes fills the room as you scrape leftovers into the trash, the sharp scent of tomato sauce and garlic lingering in the air. Yumi, sprawled out on your couch like she owns the place, giggles at her phone screen, completely unbothered.

You steal a glance at her, irritation simmering just beneath your skin. Of course she’s acting like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just throw you to the wolves at dinner, casually dropping a bomb in front of your mother and then sitting back to watch the fallout.

“What the hell was that?” you hiss, voice low enough to avoid waking your mom, who retreated in your room to take a quick after dinner power nap, just 10 minutes ago.

Yumi barely looks up. “What?” she says, blinking innocently, her thumbs still lazily scrolling.

You slam a plate down into the sink, harder than necessary. “You know what.”

She exhales, exaggerated, like you’re the one being ridiculous. “Oh my god, you’re still mad about that? It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big—” you stop yourself, inhaling sharply, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Yumi, you literally made it sound like I was crawling all over some guy with a girlfriend. In front of my mom.”

“Okay, but were you?” she teases, flashing you a smirk.

Your glare could cut through steel.

Yumi sighs, tossing her phone onto the couch and sitting up, finally giving you her attention. “Look, I was just making conversation. How was I supposed to know she’d get all weird about it?”

“Because it’s my mom,” you snap. “And because you always do this.”

That last part slips out before you can stop it, but it’s true. And the way Yumi’s expression flickers—just for a second—tells you she knows it, too.

A tense silence stretches between you, the only sound the distant hum of your fridge.

Then, Yumi huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Jesus, you act like I ruined your life.”

You don’t reply. You just grab another plate and start scrubbing, jaw tight.

She watches you for a moment, then flops back onto the couch with a shrug. “Fine, I’ll be more careful next time,” she says, and it sounds more like a throwaway comment than an actual promise.

Yumi leans forward slightly, her voice light and hopeful. “Hey, since your mom’s here, why don’t we all spend the day together tomorrow? We could go shopping, get our nails done—just have a girls’ day. I’m sure she’d love it.”

You glance at her from the sink, rinsing off the last plate. “Can’t,” you say simply. “We’re grabbing lunch with Ren.”

For a second, she freezes. It’s so brief that if you weren’t paying attention, you might’ve missed it. The corners of her mouth twitch, her fingers tighten around her phone, and something flashes in her eyes—disappointment? Annoyance? It’s hard to tell.

“Oh.” Her voice is airy, casual, but you know her well enough to notice the forced quality of it. “Well, maybe I could come along?”

You shake your head, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “It’s just gonna be the three of us. You know how my mom is—she really wants to catch up with him.”

There’s that pause again, the slight purse of her lips, the way she shifts in her seat like she’s trying to keep herself from reacting too much.

“Oh,”It’s a single syllable, but it carries weight. Her smile falters, just for a second, but you see it—the way her lips twitch, the way her fingers stop tapping, curling slightly against the phone case instead.

Then, just as quickly, the mask is back in place. She forces a light laugh, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “That’s nice. Tell him I said hi.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, but the air feels different now—tense, awkward, like something unspoken is lingering between you.

Yumi scrolls through her phone, laughing a little too hard at some random reel, and you sit beside her, lighting a cigarette.

But neither of you say anything else about tomorrow.

“What’s up with Nanami?” You try to get rid of the awkwardness of your previous - not so fun - conversation.

Yumi’s voice flows easily now, her earlier tension dissolving into excitement as she gushes about Nanami. You watch her, the way her hands move animatedly, the way her lips curl when she says his name.

“—and then he just whipped out his card, like it was nothing. I told him, ‘Babe, I can’t let you spend this much on me,’ but he just insisted.” She sighs dreamily, taking a sip of her coke. “Honestly, I don’t know what I did to deserve him.”

You exhale a slow stream of smoke, letting your eyes drift over her. She looks so happy—practically glowing—and yet, for some reason, something about it makes your stomach twist. Maybe it’s the absurdity of it all. Prada on a Thursday? You’re still debating if you should buy that overpriced sweater you saw last week, and here she is, getting designer gifts like it’s nothing.

Or maybe it’s something else.

“Must be nice,” you mutter, tapping ash into an empty can.

Yumi grins, nudging your leg with her foot. “Don’t be jealous, babe. Not everyone can have a sugar daddy boyfriend.”

You force out a laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

And as she keeps talking—going on about the perfume he got her, the dinner reservation at some exclusive restaurant, the spontaneous weekend trip he’s planning.

You lean back in your chair, the dim light casting shadows on the walls as you lazily drag on your cigarette. The smoke curls around you, and for a brief moment, you lose yourself in the haze. Your gaze drifts over Yumi's face, her eyes glued to her phone as she scrolls through something that seems to hold her entire attention. You’re not even thinking, just letting your eyes wander, following the line of her jaw, down her neck—where something catches your eye.

A soft gleam of silver catches the light, drawing your attention without warning. You shift your focus, now fully intrigued by the small object nestled against her skin. The pendant, a tiny four-leaf clover, sways gently with her movements. Its emerald green specks glint like small stars, reflecting the dim light of the room. Something about it feels… familiar. Almost too familiar.

You blink, your heart unexpectedly quickening, as you slowly begin to trace the length of her neck with your eyes. Your gaze hovers just beneath her collarbone where the pendant rests, the chain almost too delicate, too precise.

No way.

The sharp, sudden realization hits you like ice in your veins. It’s the same damn necklace. The one that you’ve seen before. The one that, despite everything, you never thought you’d see again.

You feel a tightening in your chest, the room closing in as your breath hitches in your throat. You try to shake it off, but you can’t. It’s like your entire body’s been frozen in place. A single thought flashes through your mind, pulling you from the overwhelming recognition. That necklace... it used to be yours.

You swallow, but the lump in your throat doesn’t move. And before you can even process it fully, your voice slips out—low, almost hesitant. “Yo, is that a new necklace?”

Her voice responds with casual confidence, but it’s like you’re hearing it from far away.

“Duuuh, of course it is. You like it?”

But you’re not listening to the words anymore. You’re too lost in the emerald gleam hanging just inches from her skin, a necklace that doesn’t belong to her. You already know the answer, and deep down, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop seeing it hanging there, a haunting reminder of the past you tried so hard to leave behind.

“Yeah, where’d you got it from?”

“Found it in Satoru’s apartament while Nanami and I were hanging with him.”

Oh, oh.

You hate how casual she sounds, like it’s nothing. Like it’s just a trinket she found lying around.

"So... you just took it?" Your voice comes out sharper than you expect, a mix of disbelief and something darker you can't fully control.

She shrugs, unfazed by the tension in the room. "Well, yeah, and not really. It was just sitting on a shelf next to some old childhood pics of his, and I saw it and liked it. Asked him about it, and he said I could take it if I liked it that much."

You stare at her for a long moment, disbelief mixing with an odd sense of betrayal. You can’t help but wonder if he even cared that she took it, or if he was just so far gone from the past that it didn't matter. But you know, deep down, that it matters to you — it matters to you more than anything right now.

“So... whose was it?” You ask, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. You don’t want to know, but you need to. You have to know.

Her answer comes too easily. Too carelessly.

"Some chick from his past," she says, rolling her eyes as if it’s some insignificant detail. “He doesn’t remember.”

You hear it, but you can’t fully process it. It’s all too much. A necklace, a past, a chick, all tangled together in a way that makes your insides twist.

Some chick from his past. You can't escape it, no matter how much you try to push it away. You try to hold onto the fragile calm that’s left inside you, but it's slipping away, piece by piece.

You clench your jaw, fighting to keep the rage and hurt from spilling out of you. Your eyes flick to the necklace again, the gleaming pendant resting innocently on her neck, and you feel that old ache rise inside you.

A part of you wants to rip it off of her. But you don’t. You stay quiet, your emotions tangled in knots you don’t know how to untangle.

And then, without thinking, you mutter, your voice low and cold, "Some chick, huh?"

She doesn’t hear the weight of the words, the way they cut through you. She’s already back to scrolling through her phone, blissfully unaware of the storm building inside you.

Yumi stays for the next two hours, talking nonstop about the latest 1st-year drama. Her voice fills the apartment as she eagerly recounts some wild story involving cheating, a gang bang, and all the chaotic details that would make anyone cringe. You nod along, barely listening, your thoughts drifting. The gossip rolls off her tongue easily, but all you can think about is the necklace. The way it gleams against her skin, the way she casually mentioned Satoru’s past—each word pushing you further into a spiral of frustration.

When she finally leaves, you’re exhausted, your mind buzzing with the stories and the unease that’s been gnawing at you since the moment you noticed that damn necklace. You barely register the passage of time, the gossip still swirling in your head as you head to the bathroom for a quick shower. You let the water run over you, trying to wash away the remnants of the day, but it’s hard to forget what’s still hanging in the air.

As you step out, you glance toward your bedroom. Your mom is still asleep, her body curled in a way that makes her look so vulnerable, so untainted by the mess of everything going on around you. Your heart softens, but there’s a weight in your chest that refuses to go away.

You walk over to her quietly, careful not to disturb her, and just for a moment, you allow yourself to feel the warmth of her presence, the peace she brings to the room. You slip into bed beside her, feeling the tension in your body slowly ease, but the thoughts in your mind keep swirling,

“You know, I always didn’t like that about you.” She doesn’t turn to face you, but you can hear the weariness in her voice, the kind of weariness that comes from years of watching you make decisions that break her heart, even if you don’t realize it. The kind of weariness that comes from loving someone who refuses to see their own worth.

She’s awake, you realize. Probably woke her up when you entered the room

“You always choose people who don’t choose you back. Ren’s the only exception.”

Your heart stops for a beat, but it quickly resumes a pounding rhythm as she continues. The night seems colder now, even with her warmth just a few inches away. The way she says Ren’s name, like it’s a beacon of light in a sea of dark. You can feel it. You can feel her disappointment coating the air, suffocating you just a little. You’ve always had a knack for choosing the wrong people, haven’t you? She’s always known that.

“The ones who just want all the best for you always end up pushed away somewhere and erased from your life.” She sighs, a sound that makes your stomach twist. “And the ones like Yumi? You somehow always stick to them instead of escaping.”

Her words are a lullaby, but not in the comforting sense. They don’t soothe. They burn. They remind you of every choice you’ve made that’s led you here—at this moment, in this room, with your mother who can see right through you.

You want to say something, to defend yourself, to explain, but the words get stuck in your throat. The truth is, you don’t know how to escape from the people who somehow feel like home, even when they’re the ones hurting you.

“Mom,” you finally whisper, barely able to manage the word. The silence between you stretches, thick and suffocating, and you know she’s waiting for you to respond. But your mind is spinning, trapped in the chaos of it all. “I didn’t mean to...”

But she’s already quiet again, her eyes closed, her breath soft. “I know,” she murmurs, but there’s something final in her tone, something that makes you feel like you’ve let her down yet again.

You lie there, the weight of her words lingering in the air like a faint smell that won’t quite go away. Your mom’s palm is warm against yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world outside the bedroom has faded completely, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time. It’s comforting, yet painful, her gentle touch contrasting with the tension in your chest that’s been building ever since she spoke.

“Don’t worry, Ma. Yumi’s okay, you know her, she just doesn’t really understand social cues,” you say, the words leaving your lips without much thought. You’re trying to brush it all away, to protect the fragile peace in the room. You don’t want to confront everything she just said. Not now. Not when her presence is the only thing that feels like home.

Her fingers tighten around yours, a soft, almost imperceptible squeeze. You can feel her warmth even through the darkness of the room, her quiet comfort wrapping around you like a blanket.

“I wish you saw yourself from my eyes,” she whispers, the words soft but full of meaning, full of something deeper. Something that digs into you. You don’t know how to respond to that, don’t know how to accept what she’s saying. There’s something in her tone that makes it clear she sees you in a way you don’t quite understand yourself.

And then, just like that, she’s back in the dreamland. Her breathing slows, the rise and fall of her chest the only sound that fills the room. But you stay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her words pressing down on you. You know you won’t be able to shake them off easily, no matter how much you try.

The next day passes in a blur of light and warmth. Your mom and Ren are lost in their little world, their laughter and chatter filling up the space between you like a comforting melody. The K-drama they’re obsessing over becomes their bond, something you don’t quite understand, but you can’t help but smile as you watch them. It’s a rare thing—your mom so genuinely happy, and seeing her connect with Ren like this feels...right. About the weight of her words. Almost.

But then, like everything else, that too fades. The hours slip by and soon the past two days are gone, and your mom is packing her things, ready to head back to the chaos of home and family. You watch her leave with a bittersweet feeling, the apartment suddenly feeling too big. Too empty.

You sit for a moment, unsure of how to fill the silence, but then reality hits. There’s no time for lingering on the loneliness. Dinner with Yumi and Nanami Kento is waiting for you. You had hoped to dodge the plan, to escape the awkwardness of spending time with Nanami outside of parties, but Yumi had insisted. She wanted more for you than just the surface-level interactions, wanted you to connect with her boyfriend, to step outside the bubble of social circles.

You roll your eyes at her persistence, but at the same time, you can’t help but respect her determination. Sighing, you grab the first presentable outfit you can find—a soft, oversized sweater and a pair of Michael Kors jeans you thrifted, nothing too flashy but cute enough to not feel totally out of place. The soft girl aesthetic that’s trending is easy to mimic, so you do your makeup in soft shades of pink and neutral tones, trying to look effortless and fresh. It’s not that you care about impressing anyone, but a part of you feels the pressure, the need to fit in with this new dynamic that Yumi insists on creating.

When you finish, you glance at the mirror, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in your chest. You’re going to have to face this now—spend an evening with Yumi and Nanami, pretend everything is fine. You pull yourself together, heading out the door with the practiced ease of someone who’s become too good at pretending.

The diner Yumi chose is surprisingly... normal. Thank the heavens. It's one of those classic American-style joints, with red leather booths and large windows that showcase the hustle and bustle of a busy street. You can already tell there’s no “look at me, I’m rich” vibe, and you're grateful for that—there's nothing more suffocating than an evening where you have to pretend to be impressed by some fancy place where the appetizers cost more than your rent.

You spot the back of Yumi’s head from across the room, the unmistakable blend of her bright hair and... well, her energy, so you make your way toward the booth. When you approach, your smile is polite but a little strained. And that’s when you realize—they’re not alone.

Great.

At the table sits not just Yumi and Nanami, but a whole bunch of his friends. You know some of them from passing, the kind of people you’d nod at or give a half-hearted “hey” when you’re too stoned to form full sentences at parties.

“Hey, Yumi! Nanami,” you greet, as smoothly as you can manage, and then proceed to make your way through the sea of faces.

You lock eyes with Shoko, who waves lazily, her aloof “what’s up” vibe floating through the air. Then Megumi gives you a half-smile, but the best part? Yuji, that ball of hype and chaos, practically jumps up from his seat, gesturing for you to sit next to him. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, wondering if he thinks he's auditioning for a role in a buddy cop movie. But still, cute.

But then—oh, then—you see him.

Ryomen freaking Sukuna.

He’s sitting there, looking like he’s about to start a fight with a random glass of water. You and Sukuna have a... history—let’s just say one that ended in a “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” kind of way, but you still shoot him one of those “I know what we did last summer” looks. You’ve both agreed not to speak of that night. Ever.

And then... the real plot twist happens.

There, looming like a bad decision you’re going to regret later, is none other than Satoru Gojo.

You freeze. He locks eyes with you. And before you can even muster up a sarcastic comment, he scoffs at your presence. A scoff.

Your inner monologue is screaming: "Oh, you’re here too? Of course you are. What a surprise. As if I wanted to be here either, buddy. Oh, this is gonna be fun, isn’t it? A nice round of passive-aggressive banter and pretending we don’t know exactly what we did a while back."

You put on your best fake smile, just to show that you, too, are totally enjoying this delightful evening. "Hey, Satoru," you say, the words syrupy sweet with a layer of sarcasm that only he would get.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable this is.

And you—well, you’re just trying to figure out how the hell you're going to survive this without setting the entire diner on fire with awkward energy.

But hey, at least you’re not the one who scoffed.

Satoru doesn’t greet you, which—well, expected, honestly. You almost laugh at the sheer audacity of him, but no, you’re a grown-up, right? Or at least, you’re pretending to be one in this exact moment. Yumi jumps in immediately to fill the silence, launching into a never-ending monologue about her exams and all the "tragedies" that come with them. It’s the kind of thing that makes your head feel like it's going to explode, but Yuji’s hanging on every word like she’s about to reveal some deep, world-altering secret. Shoko hums every now and then in that way that only she can, and Nanami—bless his soul—just gazes at Yumi her with that soft, patient look that somehow makes you feel like this evening isn’t a complete disaster.

But then—bam—the waitress arrives to take orders, and that’s when it happens.

Satoru, the satanic embodiment of all that is unnecessary and obnoxious, opens his mouth. You flinch when he orders an Americano and eggs and bacon. Just... eggs and bacon? That’s your thing. Your classic “breakfast for dinner” move. So of course, here he is, stealing your thunder with that trademark smugness.

You catch his eye as he looks up, and he shoots you that silent, I beat you again look. Like, okay, we get it, Satoru, you’ve got a weird sense of victory when it comes to trivial things, but you’re not playing his game today. No. Instead, you channel your energy into ignoring him. Sukuna's got your attention now.

You turn to him, engaging in a conversation about a new tattoo he's planning on getting. You mention something about wanting a tramp stamp. Why not? You’re at the point of no return, so might as well go for broke. Sukuna raises an eyebrow, his usual smirk playing on his lips as he nonchalantly offers to tattoo you for free.

You chuckle. "Sure, and what's the catch?"

He leans in just a little, that familiar dangerous glint in his eyes, and you swear he’s about to say something about a "special price" for services rendered. "I can think of a way you could pay me, baby," he mutters with that low, suggestive tone that sends a bolt of heat straight down your spine. You feel the flush creep from your lips, all the way to your core.

Before you can even recover from that moment, Yumi—oblivious as always—turns to Nanami with that innocent curiosity of hers. “Why isn’t Suguru here again?”

Nanami pauses, then answers casually, “He’s with his girl tonight.”

Yumi nods like this is the most earth-shattering news ever and dives back into her endless tirade about exams. You half-listen to her, feeling yourself slip into the weirdest mental tug-of-war: half trapped in a conversation with your ex-fling turned mildly annoying acquaintance, half trying to suppress the weird tension floating between you and Satoru.

You pretend—absolutely pretend—that the mention of Suguru doesn’t interest you. Not even a little. Nope. Not at all. Except… that stupid, lingering pending follow request Ren sent from your phone still haunts you like a ghost in the attic of your mind. You mentally cringe. You should have unsent it, but now it’s been six days.

Six. Whole. Days.

Like, come on. You didn’t send him a message saying, Hey, fuck me, please. It was just a harmless follow request. And yet, nothing. Not a single response. It’s infuriating in the most embarrassing way possible.

And, of course, because the universe has a personal vendetta against you, Gojo has to open his big, fat mouth.

"Too bad," he drawls, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s THE main character "I’m sure there’s someone here dying for Geto’s presence."

He points directly at you.

You want to lunge across the table and strangle him.

Instead, you slap on the most passive-aggressive, annoyed beyond belief smile you can muster and hiss, "I don’t remember anyone asking you anything."

Gojo grins, completely unfazed. Of course he’s unfazed. He thrives off this. "As if I need to be asked to speak," he says with an exaggerated eye roll. "This is called conversation, sweetheart. Maybe you should look it up sometime."

You feel your eye twitch.

You're so over this. Like, so over this that you start seriously considering your escape plan. Maybe you could grab Sukuna, leave this entire situation behind, and make that tramp stamp a reality. That would definitely be more productive than suffering through Gojo’s nonsense.

But just as you’re about to plot your exit strategy, the waitress finally arrives, setting your food and drinks down in front of you.

Great.

No escaping now.

The atmosphere is awkward—like painfully awkward. Everyone glances around, dumbfounded and weirded out, as if they just witnessed a couple fight at a party they weren’t supposed to be invited to.

Thank God for Yuji, who, in true golden retriever fashion, breaks the silence by turning to Megumi. "Dude, I watched the last episode of Naruto Shippuden this morning."

Megumi groans, already seeing where this is going. "Again?"

"Yeah, bro. I’m rewatching it for the millionth time."

And just like that, the tension dissolves. The entire table shifts gears into what is now an inevitable debate: Naruto or Sasuke?

Shoko rolls her eyes. "Both of them are overrated. I love Itachi the most. And the anime has too much Kakashi glaze anyway."

Nanami, ever the scholar, immediately launches into a counterargument. "Kakashi is essential to the story. Without him—"

You zone out, the voices blending into background noise as a soft, familiar melody swirls from the diner's speakers.

It pulls you back in time.

Fourteen years old.

Getting ready for school.

Humming Kiss Land under your breath in your bedroom while Gojo lounges on your bed, waiting for you to finally finish fixing up your hair.

The memory is warm, nostalgic in a way that makes your chest ache just a little. Unconsciously, a soft smile tugs at your lips as your fingers begin to tap the song’s rhythm against the table.

And then—

You glance at him.

Gojo is still focused on the Naruto versus Sasuke debate, expression unreadable. But his fingers—

His fingers are tapping the exact same tune against the table.

Your breath catches, a flicker of something unspoken sparking between the two of you.

You flinch. Shoving your hands into your food, you pretend it didn’t happen, pushing down the nagging feeling creeping up the back of your mind.

You try your best to ignore him—really, you do. And for a moment, it actually doesn’t feel hard at all to do so.

Not when Sukuna is sending you those looks—the kind that could make a nun rethink her life choices.

Not when Yuji keeps pulling you into conversations, making sure you’re included like the sweet boy he is.

Not when Megumi sends you a reassuring little nod every time you hesitate before asking a question, as if to say, It’s not dumb, you’re fine.

For the first time since arriving, you actually feel okay.

And then—

"You think she’d be easy to bring home?"

Gojo’s voice cuts through your peace like a knife.

He’s talking to Shoko, nodding toward a girl you recognize from some of your classes. He slides his glasses down, pinning her with that look—the one that has probably been responsible for at least half the campus population making bad decisions.

Shoko, unimpressed, shoves a fry into her mouth and doesn’t even dignify him with a response.

Across the booth, the poor girl blushes furiously. You worry she might actually combust under his gaze.

Gojo smirks. "Easy it is," he mutters to himself, like he’s already won.

And that’s it. You snap.

"You’re a disgusting, sexist, misogynistic pig," you hiss, the words leaving your mouth before you even think about them.

And Gojo—he smiles.

Like he expected it. Like he wanted you to say it.

His eyes gleam.

As if he was waiting for you to say something.

"And you’re a junkie," he fires back.

It shouldn’t hurt.

But it does.

The words cut straight through you, sharper than any knife, and the pain—oh, fuck—the pain is instant and overwhelming, a familiar ache wrapping around your ribs and squeezing tight.

You try to recover, to throw him a devilish grin, to act unbothered—

But you fail.

Miserably.

"Gojo…" Nanami warns, his voice low, cautious. A worried look etches onto his face, and for once, you actually appreciate his presence.

But Gojo just shrugs, completely unbothered.

"What?" He leans back, his voice so casual, as if he didn’t just gut you like a fish. "I thought we were just saying what we really think of each other."

The table is silent.

Not the good kind of silence—the one that comes when friends are too comfortable to fill the gaps with mindless chatter.

No, this silence is thick. Heavy. Unbearable.

It presses against your chest like a weight, suffocating, pulling you under.

You hate that you let him get to you. Hate that he can still rip you apart with a single sentence.

But most of all?

You hate that he’s right.

A shaky exhale slips from your lips as you grab your drink, gulping it down like it might wash away the lump in your throat. The cold liquid burns against your insides, but it does nothing to numb the ache spreading through your ribcage.

You can feel Gojo’s eyes on you. Watching. Waiting.

Daring you to snap back.

And fuck, you want to. You want to say something cruel, something cutting—something that would make him feel even a fraction of the pain that’s been eating away at you since the day you walked away from him.

But you don’t.

Instead, you push yourself up from your seat, grabbing your bag with more force than necessary.

"Where are you going?" Yuji asks, confused.

You don’t answer him.

You don’t answer anyone.

You just move.

Because if you stay here any longer, you’ll either start screaming or crying—and you don’t want to give Gojo the satisfaction of either.

You barely make it past the counter when you feel a presence behind you.

"Yumi," you breathe out, relieved.

But when you turn, it's not Yumi.

It’s Gojo.

Standing too close.

His lips part like he’s about to say something—but you don’t let him.

"Don’t," you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

For a moment, just a moment, something flashes in his eyes. Something almost genuine.

But you don’t stick around to figure out what it means.

You leave.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t stop you.

He doesn’t catch up.

taglist: @zeunys @charmstarr @ovela @kur0mii3 @dabisdolly @17362939 @krispywhisperswhispers @mintcheery @kazupop @heh123321

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aventurineswife · 2 months ago

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so how do you think sahsrau would react if they found out that fem reader liked one night stands like she has a body count in the hundreds (her personally is kinda like the girl from that rabbit hole song) would they be horrified to learn that their creator was defiled by such lowly insects or would they also choose to adopt her life style just wondering since as you've said in a previous reply to and ask sagau's and sahsrau's don't really get into the human aspect of the reader

Also love your writing love you!!!!!! (*^*)

Oooooh that is such a juicy and chaotic question—

If we’re talking SAHSRAU and not just a soft romantic AU, then yeah: the reaction would be intense, but not necessarily all the same across the cast.

Initial Reaction: Shock + Intrigue + Conflict

SAHSRAU characters don’t fully grasp the human element of the reader—they worship her, revere her, or treat her as some omnipotent concept. So when they learn something so deeply personal and intimate, it shatters that perception for a moment. It’s not that they’re disgusted—no, no. It’s that they don’t understand how something so sacred could allow herself to be touched by… mortals.

Divided Reactions

1. Those who would be absolutely horrified (but internalize it):

Jing Yuan, Welt, and maybe Himeko — they'd keep their composure, but their entire worldview just cracked. They’d start to overthink like, “Was it pleasure? Was it loneliness? Was it… penance?”

Jing Yuan in particular might start researching Earth’s culture on sexuality like he’s studying scripture.

2. Those who would want to purge the memory from existence:

Cocolia, Yaoshi-coded beings, some Aeons, and definitely Kafka (but secretly). These are the “you’ve been defiled” types. They’d go full “they were insects unworthy of your skin” and might even start tracking these people down to erase them like an obsessive zealot faction.

They might also try to protect the reader from her own urges after this.

3. Those who would adopt the lifestyle out of devotion or mimicry:

Silver Wolf, March 7th, Sampo, and weirdly enough, Blade (in a very unhinged, obsessive, if you let them touch you then I’ll let you break me too way).

Silver Wolf especially would be like: “Okay queen, body count at 100+? Slay. Wanna make it 101?”

They’d start seeing sex as a form of divine expression—“If this is how she conquers the world, then we must become fluent in it.”

4. Those who don’t fully get it but love her anyway:

Dan Heng, Luocha, maybe Ruan Mei. They’d struggle to reconcile the image of the reader with this behavior, but they wouldn’t condemn her. Dan Heng might quietly mourn the emotional side of it, thinking, “Did no one love her?”

Ruan Mei, on the other hand, would be fascinated—she’d want to study the psychology behind it.

But here's the kicker: no matter how they feel about it emotionally or spiritually, they’re still afraid to shame her. She's their god, their shepherd, the source of their universe. If the reader casually mentioned this with zero shame—just vibes and mascara streaks—they’d be forced to either:

Accept that their god is a wild creature of the night

Or snap under the pressure of their idealization cracking

Also, thank you!! <33

#x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #sahsrau #self aware au #self aware hsr #self aware honkai star rail

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emeritusemeritus · 1 year ago

Text

Call me by your name [Fred Weasley x Malfoy!Reader]

Pairing: FredWeasley x Malfoy!Reader

Timeline: OOTP, reader and twins are in their 7th year.

Summary: Malfoy!Reader had been successfully hiding her secret relationship with Fred Weasley for years. What happens when Fred no longer wants to hide? Cue angsty breakup and makeup fic!

Warnings: Mentions of deatheaters, Umbitch, negative commentary of status and wealth. House divide, negative talk of Slytherins. Abusive parents. Sorry Narcissa, I actually like you. Mentions of arranged marriages, swearing, public declarations of love. DA and inquisitorial squad mentions.

Word count: 3.4k

This came from a wonderful request from my dear @kellyxo1, as always thank you so much for your wonderful request, hope this is okay!🖤

The air in the stuffy old Manor House was unbearably cold and stale, much like the family that resided there. The home of the Malfoy family, much like their surname, was figure of stature and tradition, a paragon of social status that oozed wealth and importance on account of their pure-blood status. Each member of the family had been selected by the sorting hat upon their arrival at Hogwarts to enter into the house of Slytherin, a fact the family was most proud of, another ode to their pure-blood roots and continued beliefs. Every malfoy had followed in the footsteps of the previous generation, marrying into other pure-blood families as to keep the bloodline strong, fraternising with equally powerful families that held the same beliefs, each out to gain and maintain status in the wizarding community.

"He's younger than me!" You shriek, you left arms lifting into the air as you look upon the stiff and unemotional faces of your parents who stand by the edge of your bed, delivering the news.

"Blaise is a fine boy and he shall make a fine husband," your father says, as if he truly believed the words that he was speaking. "He's from a long line of Slytherin's, a good student and a promising young wizard."

"He's a complete twat," you argued, taking a seat on the edge of your bed, completely exasperated by the conversation you were forced to endure with your parents.

"It's only two years difference," your mother says, trying to remain at least diplomatic as your father gave you a thunderous look for your selection of language.

"He's a friend of Draco's! It's archaic and barbaric." You added, trying to express your disgust at the very thought but it was immediately apparent that your parents did not share in your distaste, nor understand it.

"Young lady!" Your father hissed in displeasure, the veins on his head looking fit to burst.

"I just don't understand why I have to marry someone with status," you say, in a calm and somewhat emotionless voice, realising that your emotive reaction was doing no favours here. "I don't understand why I have to be married at all, much less to somewhat that wasn't my choice."

"We want the best for you," your mother adds, her hands clasped in front of her as her gaze flicks between you and your father. It's a blatant lie, a way of manipulating you into following their path but it wouldn't work, not this time.

"Then let me make my own choices," you retort, not meeting their eyes.

"So you can run back to that blood traitor?" Your father all but screams, his temper exploding as he throws his cane, narrowly missing the house elf that was tending to the paintings in the hallway just outside of your door. He storms off in a flurry of black robes, almost growling under his breath as you hear his heavy footsteps marching angrily away.

The mention of Fred makes your stomach roil dangerously, filling you with hatred for your family, for the life you'd been born into. You don’t know how they came to know about your situation, but you detested their use of it against you. The anger dissipates slightly as you watch your mother perch on the side of your bed, hands still folded in her lap as she looks at you with a conflicted expression.

"We just want what's best," your mother repeats but you interject, frustrated by her attempt to keep pushing the matter you were so obviously not open to discussing.

"You had your chance! You chose to marry for money and status," you replied, a harsh tone to your voice that you'd seldom used at your mother.

"I didn't have a choice!" She says, her voice coming out like a hiss as her resolve drops so that you finally see her fraying nerves.

You pause, taking a moment to really see your mother as a young woman that was in your position so many years ago.

"If it's so bad why would you want that for your own daughter?" You ask, trying to appeal to her though your emotional delivery, trying to reach out for that young woman who must have felt exactly how you did right now.

She refuses to meet your eyes, nor answers your question. You realise very quickly that you're getting nowhere and never would. All emotions exit you as you look upon your mother feeling no love or affection, nor receiving any in return.

As you looked upon the vision of your mother and thought of your fathers reaction, you felt an empty void of emotion where love should be. The chasm of happy memories was empty, at least when it came to your family.

Right then you thought of Molly and Arthur, of the whole family and the strong, foundational outpouring of love in which the family was built around. Two people that loved one another deeply, building a life and a family, creating a warm and loving home for their children to thrive in.

They'd be celebrating Christmas right now, with gorgeous homemade food and handmade presents, surrounded by love and laughter and maybe the occasional cross word.

Poor in wealth but rich with love; and you would always chose that over this.

"I refuse to marry Blaise Zabini or any other pure blood suitor you deem acceptable," you say matter of factly, your voice completely void of emotion as you made your point clear. "I'll make my own choices in life. You may not have been strong enough to resist the pressure but I am, I refuse to be forced into a loveless marriage and live out a miserable existence like you."

"You're no daughter of ours," your mother sneers. "No. I'm not."

Later that night, you lay in your dark and dreary bedroom, looking around at the bare, lifeless walls that held no sentiment nor icon of your personality, your life. You thought of Fred and George's bedroom and how cluttered it must be, with all their quidditch memorabilia and Weasley products lying around. They'd have bedspreads that had been knitted for them, fresh sheets that smelt like their home and little trinkets around the room that had been collected throughout their lives. You had none of that, even down to the colourless and scentless sheets on your bed. You thought of Fred often, the boy you loved more than anything in the world. The boy that had seen past your surname and your Slytherin placement and still loved you regardless. He hadn't been prejudiced or hateful, nor had he used you to gain status in the Wizarding community. He simply loved you because he loved you.

Loved.

Memories flashed behind your eyes of happier times, your relationship strengthening over the years until you were completely infatuated with each other, planning your futures in hushed whispers and promising secrets. You could be yourself around Fred, completely unashamed of the things you'd believed for so long to be personal failures and character faults.

You'd been together since your fifth year, unable to deny the attraction any longer. You'd started sneaking around, stolen kisses in the secret passageways, sneaking out after hours, notes slipped into pockets, fingers grazing as you walked past eachother pretending the other didn't exist. You secretly cheered for each and every hit he'd administer on the quidditch pitch, every dive and skilful deflection of the bludger. Though you couldn't cheer or support him outright, you always kept a little something on you in Gryffindor red that you both knew meant that you were there for him.

After a while, you told your small group of friends and Fred told his, including his siblings. There were tensions at first, of course there was, but after seeing how good for each other you were, of how happy you were together, the grievances quickly quietened.

His friends became yours too, a real and honest group of friends that too could rely on, share with and care for in return.

You didn't have to hide anymore, at least not with them. But Slytherins much like their name were mostly all vicious snakes, with sharp tongues and deceitful tendencies. You couldn't let them know, couldn't allow them to spoil the singular good thing you had in your life and so for the most part, your relationship remained hidden to the wider school.

It was exciting at first, rebelling against the restrictive and domineering upbringing you were forced into. You weren't like your parents or Draco, or any members of your family really. You were certainly no deatheater and didn't hold the same disgusting values that they did. Blood trainers, mud bloods, muggleborns or muggles, everyone should have the right to be treated the same, to live their life without fear or prejudice.

Fred knew, he knew you weren't one of them, that you were better, different than your name but also that you couldn't step out of line for fear of the repercussions you'd face. Or at least, you thought he understood.

Your seventh year at Hogwarts, your last. The last hurdle to get through before you could truly be your own person and break away from the chains of being a Malfoy. You had a plan, carefully and slowly formulated for years for the eventual day you'd be your own person and free to make your own choices, leaving your family behind. Your world would gain colour and warmth instead of the cold and monochrome world you felt you loved in. Only, it wouldn't happen now, at least not as you always planned it.

Things had been going so well, you were on track to ace your NEWTS, your relationship with Fred was almost blissful and with everything happening behind the scenes, it kept your parents busy and mostly out of your way. But then it all started to crack when Fred became Fred up of sneaking around, becoming paranoid and suspicious of your true intentions. You'd tried your hardest to squash these intrusive thoughts, to calm his nerves and to show him just exactly how much you wanted him but for so many reasons you couldn't be open about it. He'd face repercussions too, not just you. But he didn't see it that way, said he didn't care, that he just wanted to be able to be in love without having to hide it.

The last nail in the proverbial coffin came when Umbridge turned up and tried imposing her disgusting views upon the students, altering the curriculum and moving in favour of the deatheaters under the guise of ministry control. You'd joined Dumbledore's Army without a scone thought, knowing it was the right thing to do. The only Slytherin who was invited to join, their trust in you appreciated. But then Umbridge had formed the inquisitorial squad and you'd never felt a more painful divide in your life. Your younger brother had proudly joined, sadistically enjoying the power he was bestowed with. The danger of being discovered , found to be a traitor and the consequences of that were almost enough to make you quit the DA, but you persevered with increasingly fraying nerves.

You were stressed, tormented by the divide in your life and the conflicting expectations of you with no outlet to express your frustrations.

So you did what you had to do and fought harder to keep your relationship a secret, to keep the one good thing in your life away from the dementor-like happiness stealing of your family. The Christmas holidays were coming up and your anxiety was peaking at having to spend an extended amount of time away from your boyfriend and friends and have to go back to that dreary manor with your even drearier family. Fred could tell that something was up with you, that you were unhappy, tense and quiet but he never stopped to read between the lines, to see the big picture. Instead, his insecurities began to plague him again until one day you both snapped.

"I just don't understand why we still have to hide!" He says with a frustrated growl, pinching the area between the bridge of his nose and his eyebrows.

"Because I can't be without you!" You say back, voice raising to a dangerous level as you become irritated at having the same conversation over and over again. "If my family find out that's it, they'll force me to stop dating you, lock me away. I'll never be able to leave then."

"So what, I'm just a part of your plan? A stepping stone for you to break away and then as soon as you're free you can throw me away? Thanks for that mate, sorry to using you and all," he mocks, only furthering your anger that you're painfully trying to repress.

"Using you? You think that's what this is? You think you're just a pawn for me, even after two years of loving you?"

"You tell me," he says, eyes dark.

"Unbelievable," you say under your breath, closing your eyes as you take a seat on one of the wooden crates down in the passageway between the staircases and Honeydukes, your regular spot.

"Or are you embarrassed by me, is that it? The poor, scruffy Weasley boy that fell for the rich, beautiful Malfoy. The prophet would have a field day, wonder if they'll make us into a film," he rants, a vicious side appearing in his tone. "The deatheater and the peasant."

"How dare you!" You say, standing up in a fit of rage, squaring up to him like you'd never done before; the insult he'd so readily dished out feeling like a blast to the heart. "I'm no more a death eater than you are you prick! You think I'm embarrassed of you? I think you're ashamed of me, ashamed that you fell for the bad seed, the villain. I think you can't stand that I'm a Malfoy and you know it. My surname bothers you much more than your's bothers me."

"Yeah maybe it does."

Silence. His words are met with sheer silence, except for the pounding of your breaking heart. I'm your worst nightmares you'd never expected those words to fall from his lips, for him to admit the thing you'd been fearing the most since your crush of him started to bloom. You were tainted goods, a person that tried her hardest to be good that would always be haunted and spoiled by her name.

"No, no sweetheart I didn't mean, I don't think that," he began backtracking, realising that he'd gone way too far this time. "It makes me crazy that I can't shout from the bloody roof that you're mine no matter how much I want to. I don't care that you're a... Malfoy," he says, reaching out for you to hold you close, knowing that he was hanging by a thread here.

You're quiet for a moment as you take in his words, unsure of how to proceed.

"Maybe you're right, about it all," you paused. "But if you wanted me to believe all that, you should have said my surname with less disgust."

You turned around walked away, ignoring his calls, barely holding yourself together until you made it back to your dormitory and finally allowing yourself to sob. You should have known you could never be happy, it was ridiculous to think that anyone could ever get past the fact that you were born to be bad.

The week that followed before the holiday was sheer torture. You gathered sympathetic looks front your friends, or rather Fred's friends but were unable to get any actual comfort as you couldn't fraternise with the social enemy.

Fred however, hadn't spared you a single glance since that evening in the tunnel, the fight that had ended your relationship, or so it seemed. He went back to pretending you didn't exist, believing your harsh words all to easily. He'd said things on his side too but you thought, stupidly, that you'd be able to explain that you were simply retaliating. Apparently he wouldn't give you a chance to explain.

"Maybe you're right, about it all."

Those words haunted you, cut you deeper than any splinching ever could. If only you'd pushed down your anger, never said those words, he'd still be yours. But now he wasn't.

Christmas break was miserable, even more so than usual as you sat alone in your bedroom, physically and mentally distanced from any sense of company.

You though of Fred often, wondering what he was up to, wondering if he was happy. You hoped his dad was okay after hearing through the grapevine about his attack. You hoped that even if it was just a little, that he was missing you.

When you got back to school, you were just as miserable and separated from your peers as you were at home. The friendship group you'd built up of good people still have you distanced smiles and sympathetic glances but you felt the distance more than ever. It lasted for a few days before you'd had enough, completely depleted and in need of something good back, you needed Fred. You tried to think of ways to get him alone, to explain but you couldn't think of anything. You sat in the Great Hall, completely separated from your Gryffindor friends and sat between two of the most bearable Slytherins you could find, trying to ignore the boasting and mockery your brother was bestowing a little further up the table.

It makes me crazy that I can't shout from the bloody roof that you're mine no matter how much I want to.

You looked around you, considering your options. It wasn't a rooftop per se, but it would do.

You climbed up on the table, unfazed by the cries of outrage of the people around you as you ascended, trying to be mindful of the plates and glasses on the table. Draco shouts at you to get down, what are you doing, but much like always, you ignore him. The commotion began pulling people's attention towards you but you knew you had to make it quick because the faculty and teachers were starting to notice.

"I have something to say," you said, projecting your voice until you were certain you’d be heard across the hall. “I’ve been hiding something, for so long, something that never should have been hidden in the first place. I was scared and stupid. I’m a Malfoy, a Slytherin… but I’m completely and hopelessly in love with a Gryffindor.” You look up to where Fred is watching you with wide eyes, the first hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes quickly flick over to George who is beaming at you, enjoying the demented display you were putting on, encouraging you to continue before you lost your nerve.

“Fred Weasley I’ve loved you since that bloody third year Quidditch match when George hit that bludger at Snape and you winked at me for laughing. You told me that we didn’t have to hide, that you’d shout from the rooftops, well this is the best I could do considering.”

Fred makes his way to you quickly, sensing that the teachers were on their way to inevitably punish you.

“You’re bloody insane woman,” he says with a laugh, unfazed by the entire hall watching you as he holds out his hand for you to come down. You smile at him, so happy to see him smile at you again, to hear his voice.

“Y/n Malfoy! Get down, get down! Detention!”

Instead of helping you down, Fred suddenly seizes your hand and uses you to pull himself up until he was also stood on top of the Slytherin table, cackling at the groans of the other slytherins around you.

“Mr Weasley, detention!”

“More time to spend with you,” he shrugs, smiling as he bends down to kiss you wildly in the middle of the hall as cheers erupt around you, making you both laugh into the kiss.

“It really doesn’t bother you that I’m a Malfoy?” You ask, suddenly bothered by what he’d said before as you pull away slightly. His hand holds your cheek as he smirks, shrugging his shoulders.

“Not gonna be a Malfoy for much longer, I plan on making you a Weasley as soon as possible.”

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nicxl333 · 2 years ago

Text

JADE ABACUS— JING YUAN X READER

what happens when you use the jade abacus for the wrong purpose? (contains spoilers from the 1.3 update)

tags: 18+ content, nsfw, reader is not the trailblazer, masturbation, voyeurism, oral sex (reader receiving), reader is described to have a vagina (afab), fluff, praise kink, breeding, unprotected sex

first hsr oneshot hope it’s good! (also it’s late so i haven’t proof read this very well)

word count: 2.3k

“the same is true of this jade abacus- it is a record of the luofu cloud knights’ promise to the crew of the astral express. it is also a beacon- grip it tightly, and it will send a message to the jade abacus here in my hand. no matter how astronomically distant you are, the luofu cloud knights will always come to the aid of the crew, whatever your need may be.”

after saying your goodbyes to everyone on the xianzhou, you, welt, dan heng, march 7th and stelle/caelus made your way back onto the astral express, ready to warp to penacony the next day. after conversing with himeko and bickering with pom pom you said your goodnights and turned in for the evening.

truth be told you were slightly disheartened that you’d be leaving the xianzhou, having made so many new friends.

some, more friendly than others.

while there were many very good looking individuals residing on the luofu, one particular individual caught your eye; the high and mighty general himself.

it was something about him that drew you to him, like a moth to a single flame. maybe his smug confidence, his ability to control a crowd, or his handsome looks with his piercing eyes that could make your cunt gush within seconds. who knows, it was probably all those factors combined. either way, the attraction was there and steadily growing.

as you undressed to don yourself in your nightwear, you emptied your pockets to place your clothing in the laundry. your contents contained some trinkets here and there, and the jade abacus, which you were entrusted to hold for some unknown reason. you placed the jade abacus on your bed, meaning to look at it in greater detail once you were fully clothed.

once finished you lay in your bed, picking up your phone from the side table to scroll through any missed messages. puzzling enough, the most recent message at the top was from none other than general jing yuan.

wondering what he could possibly need (considering he rarely texted) you opened the message.

“good evening y/n, i hope this message finds you well. i realised i didn’t have the chance to bid you in particular a proper farewell, my deepest apologies. in good reparational faith i would like to make it up to you with a meal the next time you’re on the ship, on me.”

fuck knows how, but knowing that he specifically had you on his mind made you honoured, and strangely enough, horny. your mind flooded with thoughts that were downright filthy of what he could do to you should you have the chance to be alone.

he would probably take his time with you, pulling orgasm after orgasm just from his fingers alone, before he would even grace you with his cock. it only took a few different conjured up scenarios for you to have your hands snaking down to pull off your shorts, your fingers immediately stuffing your cunt full, stifling a moan at the ecstasy.

overtaken by the urge to cum you plunged your fingers in and out, scissoring and curling your fingers up against that spongey spot that made you see stars. your eyes rolled back, your back arched and your voice stayed stuck in your throat, chained by your slipping rationality which warred with your spiralling composure. you could feel the heat inside your core as your fingers continued their attack, creating a resounding ‘shwick! shwick!’ which bounced off the walls. your eyes were scrunched, your mind revelling in the scene of jing yuan pounding into your sopping cunt.

you were far gone, way too far gone to notice the quiet pads of feet along your carpet, moving towards the armchair in the corner of your room which faced your bed, and your quickly dishevelling figure. the figure sat on the armchair, sinking into the soft material as he witnessed your sinful performance.

you, none the wiser, continued to guide yourself towards your high, your moans becoming more and more harder to stifle as you completely succumbed to the lust, delirious with pleasure.

“f-fuck! jing yuan, please!” whispered pleas tumbled out of your mouth, wafting in the air till they reached his ears. he parted his legs slightly to ease his oncoming erection, letting his hand prop up his head, as his elbow rested on the arm of the armchair.

you neared your peak, your fingers burning in pain as you furiously pumped to reach your end. your free hand left your mouth and gripped your tit, playing with the peaked nipple to ease the overwhelming feeling you were experiencing.

with a final call of his name, (which was slightly louder than you would’ve liked) your body jolted and shook as you reached an earth shattering orgasm. you convulsed as you came which was probably the hardest you ever had cum before, letting the aftershocks subside.

you suddenly became aware of something poking at your back. you retracted your fingers from your cunt and retrieved the item, seeing the jade abacus in your hand, having accidentally moved underneath your body during your…activities. you then recalled the words jing yuan told your group about gripping the abacus tightly, hoping and praying your recent actions had not triggered a call- still unbeknownst to the figure who had already been summoned, to your dismay.

“that was quite the show, y/n-”

you stiffened at the deep, powerful voice of jing yuan, perched in your armchair, staring at you with something distinguishable as lust.

“-however, i do recall warning that the abacus shouldn’t be used for inappropriate circumstances, no matter how amusing that circumstance may be.”

you were stunned into silence, riddled with shame and hushed with guilt. there was simply no rational explanation for this as you were half naked in front of him. and you had no knowledge of exactly what point he entered your room, therefore meaning you had no idea just how long he’d been watching, although evident that he had been in the room long enough to make himself comfortable on that damned armchair.

“cat got your tongue? seems like i’ll have to administer your punishment first.”

by this point he had risen, beginning to take off his boots and the numerous straps and harnesses that made up his uniform. he then took off his tight shirt, leaving him in his red pants, while crossing the short distance to your bed, raising your hand which was wet with arousal, lifting it to his mouth and giving your index and ring finger a long lick.

“i… uh-”

“hush. naughty minxes like you do not deserve to speak. lay back and spread your legs. i will not ask twice.”

although confused and befuddled you followed his command, not expecting events to turn out like this, not that you were complaining. he lowered his face so he was level with your dripping cunt, observing it as your cum dripped out.

you lifted your head slightly to see why he stalled, feeling a tad bit self conscious. all thoughts flew out of your head however once you felt him lick a long stripe from your cunt to your clit. you instantly mewled at the sensation, hands finding purchase in jing yuan’s hair, gripping lightly, to which he grunted at.

he rose to look at you, amber eyes boring into your own. “if you’re too loud, i’ll stop. we wouldn’t want to wake up your fellow crew now, would you?”

you shook your head vigorously, wanting anything but him to stop in this moment, knowing that this could potentially lead to you getting the fuck of your life. fat chance in hell you would cockblock yourself.

he hummed at your silence, lowering himself back down and resuming again. his tongue swirled around your clit, paying close attention to the bud. he then moved down to your pulsing hole, plunging his tongue in and out and slurping at the soaked flesh. one hand left his head and rose to your mouth to stifle any noises from leaving it. as if it weren’t enough, jing yuan let his mouth leave your cunt, his fingers immediately integrating into the mix, while his mouth moved back up to your clit, this time sucking on it. your eyes rolled back, hips grinding against his tongue to gain more of the sensation.

his fingers were thick and long, reaching further into your core than your own smaller fingers could ever hope to reach. as his assault on your slobbering cunt continued you started clenching down harder on him, signalling that you were about to cum again for the second time that night. your hips ground in circles, the heat inside you blazing hotter with each push of his fingers, the coil tightening until it could resist no longer, and snapped.

your body convulsed once more, even more so once you registered that jing yuan wasn’t letting up on his ministrations, and pulling you into a state of overstimulation.

“shit! jing yuan- oh my god!”

he groaned at the sound of your moans calling for him, using the bed sheets below him to grind against for some semblance of relief for his now raging hard-on.

once he had enough he rose once more, raising his soaked hand to your mouth.

“suck.”

you obliged, wrapping your tongue around his digits, sucking slowly while looking directly into his eyes, unaware of just how much you were affecting him.

“god you’re so sinful.” he groaned, moving his hands to his pants to unbutton them, hastily slipping them off, along with his boxers, leaving him bare, sporting a very large prominent erection. the mushroom tip was flushed with an angry pink, pre cum dripping at the tip. his length had two large main veins running down it before branching off into little tributary like veins.

you but your lip at the sheer size, hoping you could take him all. even with all the prep you had it still looked like a tight fit. he was insanely girthy with an impressive length to match.

this led to a quiet chuckle from jing yuan.

“don’t look so apprehensive, i’ll go slow.”

smug bastard.

he lifted your legs, bringing them down, down, down towards your shoulders. a mating press. your breath hitched at the realisation, knowing that he was about to fuck up your insides.

“take a deep breath, kitten.”

you took a slow inhale, feeling the tip breach your opening, pushing past and spreading your walls to all opposite ends. the stinging sensation was immediate, his dick stuffing you to the brim, more than his fingers managed to. you instantly gripped his shoulders, lifting your head to bite into his left, thus stifling a pain wrenching moan. many sensations flowed through your body, specifically pain at having never taken a size quite like jing yuan’s before. tears pricked the corners of your eyes before trailing down and staining your cheeks.

he hushed you, wiping the tears away before stroking the hair away from your face, looking at you with adoration and care, forgetting all about the ‘punishment’ he was supposed to give in that moment.

“are you okay? do you need me to pull out?”

you shook your head, lacing your fingers in his hair, and smiling softly.

“no, just give me a moment.”

he nodded, massaging your hips to help you get used to the feeling.

“you feel so good, you’re doing so well for me my treasure. i’ll take care of you soon.”

after a few minutes of adjustment, the pain faded and replaced itself with yearning and pleasure. you started grinding your hips against his, making him see the picture. he pulled out slowly till around halfway, then gently pushed back in.

you let out a small gasp, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer and whining, edging him to go faster.

he obliged, picking up the pace gradually until the room was filled with soft sounds of repeated ‘paps’. your lips connected with his, tongues dancing in a sloppy rhythm, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth, doing little to muffle the moans and groans entangling in your mouths.

even at such a close proximity you felt incredibly needy, needing him closer and closer to you.

noticing you lose yourself, jing yuan laced his hand in yours, against the bedsheets.

“i’m right here, my love.”

truth be told even jing yuan was struggling to keep himself composed too. your fiery nature around protecting the ones you cared for gave him a sense of familiarity with his duties as general, forever protecting the people of the xianzhou luofu. not only that though, your sense of humour and your witty remarks really captivated him during the times you had together. in his hundreds of years of living, no one caught his attention quite like you did. especially with the way you got along so nicely with yanqing. considering the fact he was practically considered as his son, seeing the two of you bond warmed his heart in ways indecipherable. so, realising that you would be leaving to travel onwards really left a gape in his life that you had just started to piece together.

he gripped your hand tighter, moving with more vigour and urgency, wanting to hold you in his arms forever.

“j-jing yuan-”

“my love?”

“i’m gonna cum-!”

“so do it, cover me with your essence, i’ve got you, always.”

his words carried you to the end and you came all over him, legs tightening against his sides, trapping him inside your cunt. his hips instantly stuttered, losing rhythm and his groans became impossibly deeper, until he eventually spilled his cum all into you, complete with each other.

all was silent for a moment, as both parties recovered from the overwhelming orgasms. jing yuan pulled out and rolled off of you, pulling you into his chest and closing his eyes.

“y/n. stay with me. just for tonight.”

#jing yuan #jing yuan x gender neutral reader #jing yuan x y/n #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #jing yuan x reader smut #honkai star rail #hsr jing yuan #hsr x reader #hsr smut #jing yuan star rail #jing yuan smut #jing yuan scenarios #honkai x reader #honkai star rail smut #nicxl333 #nicxl333writes #general jing yuan

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if-whats-new · 8 months ago

Text

What's New In IF? Issue 28 (2024)

By Brij, Dion, Briar, Jen and Peter

Now Available!

Itch.io - Keep Reading below

If you read the zine, consider liking the post: it helps us see how many people see it! And sharing is caring! <3

~ EDITORIAL ~

The surprises are just never-ending!

The Halloween Issues are successfully behind us. But don’t worry, there’s still more exciting things to come! Check out the Announcements for more information!

We want some feedback!

As we’re starting to get a hand of things, we would love some feedback from you guys! What you enjoy, want more or less off, how we could improve... Anything goes! We even have a nifty form!

Still looking for members!

The Zine Team is growing, but we won’t say no to more free hands looking to make a little difference in the community!

If you too would like to help us out in a more official capacity, please shoot us a message! You can check out the available positions here, but if you’d like to help in any other way, feel free to contact us as well!

We hope you enjoy this new issue!

BRIJ, DION, BRIAR, JEN AND PETER

~ BE A PART OF THE ZINE ~

THIS ZINE ONLY HAPPENS WITH YOU!

Want to write 1-2 pages about a neat topic, or deep-dive into a game and review it in details? Share personal experiences or get all academic?

WRITE FOR THE COLUMN!

Prefer to be more low-key but still have something to share? Send us a Zine Letter or share a game title for Highlight on…!

WE WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU!

Came across something interesting? Know a release or an update announced? Saw an event happening? Whether it's a game, an article, a podcast… Add any IF-related content to our mini-database!

EVERY LITTLE BIT COUNTS!

~ EVENT SPOTLIGHT : BITSY JAM ~

Fuu, already #85?

Bitsy is a little engine for little games, worlds, and stories created by Adam Le Doux that makes game making look easier than ever! I mean really! You can use it to make a game in your browser just by drawing it! Thanks to the simple pixelated graphics and limited colour palette you can make basically anything from simple short stories to complicated masterpieces.

The first jam (with a yummy theme: Breakfast) took place on April 8th 2017. Now it’s a monthly occurrence, each time with a new challenging theme that the creators themselves (or even possibly you) get to vote on.

Petrichor, temporary, intentionally bad, tomatoes, no dialogue, long distances, secret place, bitsy fest jam, lost media and waiting are just the ten most recent ones. This month’s theme is game manual - the theme can be the core of the game, or just a small reference. Anything really. The main point of this jam is to have fun and make something! (Just make sure that your game is made in one of these: bitsy, mosi or bipsi.)

So why not give it a shot?

~ ENDED ~

The Halloween Jam has officially ended and the winners have been announced! Check out the results here.

~ ONGOING (VOTING) ~

The voting for ECTOCOMP 2024 has officially started! To vote and participate as a jury, you must do so by giving between 1 to 5 stars on each entry page of the jam. The voting period ends on November 30.

The 7th edition of inkJam is in motion and you have until the 15th November to vote for your faves. The winners will be officially announced the following day.

~ ONGOING (SUBMITTING) ~

Disabled Rep VN Jam has a very simple premise but a very important message.

Once upon a time, a game jam was held to create stories around the theme of fairy tales… and that game jam is the Once Upon A Time VN Jam. It’s running from October 1st to January 31st.

Concours de Fiction Interactive Francophone 2025 is for all French-speaking enthusiasts. Submissions are accepted March 3rd 2025.

Are you perhaps a fan of more somber, melancholic themes? Then check out the Dying Year - Visual Novel Jam! You have until the end of the year to participate.

The Black Visual Novel Jam is all about working with creative professional developers who work in visual novels to bring more Black stories to life. The goal is to create a space where Black creators can show their unique storytelling through visual novels.

Bare your teeth and sharpen your claws because the Monstrous Desires 2024 Visual Novel Jam is here! Dedicated to the love of entities, horrors, and monstrosities, this jam will be full of romantic Visual Novels (VN) that heavily focus on a monster may it be original or from classics, folklore, modern media, etc.

The October Bitsy Jam is here! The theme is game manual and you have until November 11th to submit your projects.

~ OTHER ~

Jams are a great way to find new games! Don’t be afraid to check out submissions from previous years as well. There might be some gems hiding between them!

~ NEW RELEASE ~

The corpos are after you. The cops are, too. Even your ex has crawled out of the grave to try and get you back. Meanwhile, the fate of the galaxy itself rests on a knife’s edge, and only you can bar the doors of hell in Whiskey-Four (CScript)

In Between Two Worlds (CScript) join forces with a rogue smuggler to uncover the truth of a mysterious cult and foil their plans—but who can you trust in a time of uncertainty and darkness?

It’s natural to hold onto the memory of someone you loved and lost. But when does remembrance turn to fixation? When does clinging to the past begin to warp your present and future? Find out in That Which Surrounds. @blank-house

Blood Moon Rising is a text-based IF where vampires kidnapped your father. Now you need to get him back to safety at all costs.

You wake up in a dark forest, all alone. Who are you? What’s going on? Play The ritual (bitsy) and find your way inside the forest and discover the truth about the mysterious ritual that brought you here…

In Monstrous Brew play as Mae, a cute pastel witch, finding refuge in her bakery. What will she do when a feather flutters into her hand, foreboding a her death?

As always, don't forget to check out the submitted entries to the events mentioned in the previous pages. They deserve some love too!

~ NEW RELEASE (WIP) ~

Godsbane: Book One (CScript) Since the day of your birth, everything was nothing short of perfect. So why do you still see this face? Why does it burn so much? @speechlessturtle

Love After Death (Twine) Your past is in the past. And your future is with your lover. No more stress. No more tears, rage, helplessness, or feeling powerless. But isn't it going a bit too smoothly?

In Unneeded Script (Twine) you died in a car accident. Now, it's time to try again in a fantastic setting, but oh wait! You are a villain! Good luck! @unneededscript-if

In When Love and Law Collide (CScript) you are a newbie police officer. And as a police officer, your mandate is simple. Apprehend those who don’t follow the law. But what if you get caught in the rivalry between two warring clans - and two people who make you ignore the laws and follow your heart? @biinthecity

Addy (Ren’Py) - Welcome to Nowhere Tech, transfer student- where you'll meet people, make choices, make mistakes, and make even more mistakes.

Hana's got some skeletons in her closet. For the past few years the hustle and bustle of the city has served as a great distraction, but the time has come for her to view the reality of what happened to her in MINE MEMORY.

~ UPDATES ~

College Tennis: Origin Story (CScript) released Chapter 6 to the public. @collegetennisoriginstory

Cyberpolice (CScript) added the Romantic part of Stillwater one night stand scene to their demo.

Remnants of the Past (Twine) released Chapter 3 of Act 2. @remnantsofthepast-if

The Ballad of the Young Gods (Twine) released Chapters 2 and 3. @childrenofcain-if

Vice Virtue (Twine) added new content to Chapter 1. @dam-peace

Only Flesh and Blood (Ren’Py) updated the demo. @gauloiseblue

The Bureau - Halloween special (CScript) is here. @morbethgames

Crystal Lambs (Ren’Py) released Chapter 4.

Dice & Dungeon Masters (CScript) added new content to their demo.

Hooves & Hearts (Twine) released Chapter 1: Rudolph and Dasher.

~ OTHER ~

The author of The Sword of Rhivenia (CScript) is also back with a remake! Be sure to check out the demo.

The VNture podcast is back with another episode! This time talking about spooky scary monsters.

The wait is over and the Reincarnation Of The Archdemon (CScript) demo relaunch is here.

Chronicles of Taldun: The Remainder Expanded Edition is out. There’s a lot of new content, so be sure to check it out!

As always, we apologize in advance for missing any update or release from the past week. We are only volunteers using their limited free time to find as much as we can - but sometimes things pass through the cracks.

If you think something should have been included in this week's zine but did not appear, please shoot us a message! We'll do our best to add it next week! And if you know oncoming news, add it here!

~ MAYBE YOU NEXT? ~

We did not get a submission this week. But if you have an idea for a short essay, or would like a special space to share your thoughts about IF and the community...

Shoot us an email!

~ HIGHLIGHT ON ~

A couple of games that we thought were cool.

Sanguine Sky by @sanguinesky-if (CScript)

HEYYYY! for the game highlight, may I please mention "Sanguine Sky" by the amazing @ sanguinesky-if ??? I swear this IF is so lovely, and the ROs always have my heart racing. Not to mention the amazing writing!

//submitted by anon//

Flight by Cidney Hamilton (Twine)

You moved overseas for love. But was it worth it? A short piece of hypertext fiction about leaving a toxic relationship.

//recommended by the Team//

Your favourite game here?

Do you have a favourite game that deserves some highlighting?

An old or recent game that wowed you so much you spam it to everyone?

Tell us about it! And it might appear here!

WE LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU ALL! WHETHER IT'S GOOD OR BAD, OR EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN...

Have something to say? Send us a message titled: Zine Letter!

Did you miss our Small Talk portion of the Zine? Then you have a reason to celebrate because we’re bringing it back!

You’ve read it right! The interviews are back thanks to our new Team members: BRIAR AND PETER! Welcome to the Team guys, we’re happy to have you! There’s already an interview in the works and we can wait to share it with you!

And we will be interviewing... *insert drumroll here*

LEIA TALON!

Fantasy romance writer, author of the newly released Ink and Intrigue, Their Majesties' Pleasure and The World Tree Chronicles book series.

Send us any question you'd have for her and we’ll ask her for you! Whether it's general or ultra specific, tell us what you'd like to know!

As we end this issue, we would like to thank:

our awesome anon!

For sending us their game Highlight!

As always, huge thanks to all you readers who liked, shared, and commented on the last issue!

What might be tiny actions are huge support and motivators to us!

Thank you for cheering us on this journey

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We’re also currently working on a Meet the Team post, so be excited for that!

And see you again next week!

BRIJ, DION, BRIAR, JEN AND PETER

WHAT'S NEW IN IF? 2024-ISSUE 28

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tragedy-of-commons · 5 months ago

Text

RUE.

── march 7th x gn!reader

summary: On Valentine's Day, rumors reach your ears that your best friend - and coincidentally, your mega crush - March 7th, has inexplicably started dating someone else. Is everything here really as it seems, or is Cupid just using you as target practice?

contains: modern & highschool au, misunderstanding trope, comedic tone but there is Angst Kinda™, inspired by my very american experiences (sorry), not actually unrequited love, happy ending, perhaps some wlw-coding icl but anyone can read

word count: 5.6k

notes: written for this event, requested by @plebejus-argus (prompt rue + indelible, lacuna)! umm. i got a little carried away. enjoy.

The world is ending as you know it.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, smile turning terse. “What was that?”

“I said she’s with someone else,” Herta, the Robotics Club president, informs you. She slams her locker shut (normally you’d make a comment about her barely reaching the knob, but right now you think your insides are dissolving), the sound reverberating throughout the chasmic hallway.

“Why you or anyone else would want to date Little Miss Pink is beyond me, but you’re encroaching on a taken lady, twerp. For your own benefit, you should back off.”

You knew something was off when the aloof academic genius herself dragged you away from your lunch to walk with her. But you didn’t expect this. March, your bestest friend in the whole wide world, suddenly off the market? And the news is being broken to you on the day of your planned confession?

This can’t be right, your gut urges, she would’ve told me.

Why wouldn’t she? March 7th tells you everything! She even confided in you about accidentally pushing that TA into the courtyard fountain that one time. Hell, the pink-haired girl even triple texts you about the drama she overhears (eavesdrops on) in the library, excessive emojis included.

You text her during calculus when you should be working, and she responds immediately, both of your souls almost intertwined in some type of procrastination symbiosis. When you’re riding the bus together, she’ll rest her head on your shoulder and doze for twenty minutes while you watch the rise and fall of her chest.

And on days like these, Valentine’s, you hold apprehensive hope in your heart that today may be the day I tell her how I feel.

Your chest tightens painfully. What if that day will never come?

“How do you know that?” you rasp, throat now dry, “And more importantly, why do you care? You didn’t even come to my party last week! You’re a geek, not a gossip—”

Herta whirls around to face you, amethyst eyes narrowed. “I’m not stupid. If you require anecdotal evidence, fine: I saw her canoodling with her presumed lover this morning. I can’t remember his name, and frankly, he was repulsive - but he was holding a bouquet, she was giving him googoo eyes, et cetera.”

You are going to die.

If it were not for your stubborn brain, you’d buckle to your knees and beat on the linoleum floor while lamenting how every single divine being out there must be praying on your downfall. But you stay as still as a statue, probably burning holes into this egghead’s face.

It makes a little sense, you suppose. March 7th is fun, hilarious, thoughtful, beautiful, and full of joy; she’s a total catch, so it’s not as surprising as you’d like that others would be vying for her attention. She’s already befriended just about everyone in this school, including all of the teachers and the stray dogs near the gate. Who wouldn’t try to confess to her?

You blanch. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’!” Herta stomps her foot, pulling you from your impending breakdown. “I’m never wrong, by the way. Everyone and their mother sees how you look at her. But,” she rocks up on her tiptoes to flick your forehead, “you’re too late. Pity.”

“There’s gotta be more to it than that,” you reason, huffing and rubbing the wounded spot. “Even if this did happen, she would’ve told me, like, right after! Her suddenly acquiring a boyfriend is kind of a big deal.”

“Maybe she forgot. Young love is inebriating.”

No, she wouldn’t forget. You know March like the back of your hand, and though important stuff can slip her mind, it’s moreso… assignment deadlines, instead of interpersonal drama. She’s a pro at cataloguing the latter.

“You’re overthinking it!” Herta crosses her arms over her chest. “Consider your options carefully. If I were you - which would be a travesty - I’d tell her how I feel, and before the end of the day, too.”

“That doesn’t sound like something you’d say. You were just telling me to back o—”

…then she stalks down the hallway with purpose, shockingly fast on her short legs.

Something is very wrong in the world today. You can’t even go back to lunch, your appetite lost among a whirlwind of thoughts. It’s disconcerting; you’ve, admittedly, not seen March since morning, and she was absent from the cafeteria too.

She could be off somewhere with this… this guy. Solidifying the thought in your mind is devastating.

One time - both of you were about thirteen, the subject of romance (what you knew about it against your will) was breached over a mess of glittery pens and scented stationery. All day, instead of working on a dreaded animal cell diagram, you’d been indulging in the sacred, prophetic game of M.A.S.H. and the crafting of paper fortune tellers.

“I don’t see what you find fun about this,” you’d grumbled.

“Well, that’s ‘cause you’re weird,” she’d responded matter-of-factly, scribbling numbers on sectioned folds of loose leaf. “Don’t you wanna know who you’ll marry?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s too-bad-so-sad. Now, pick a color!”

Minutes earlier, you’d been slyly watching out of the corner of your eye when she’d decided which person to put under which flap of the fortune teller (her big, looping handwriting can be discerned from a mile away), and you’d taken great care to remember which numbers and colors to pick to land on her name.

Notably, March had put her name and yours into the craft - forever cementing the possibility that both of you could end up together, if someone just picked the right combination.

Perhaps, back then, you were trying to puppeteer fate. It seemed to work, because when you picked 3 and pink, March 7th was revealed to you after some mere hand-shuffling and genius scheming. Back then, you’d felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to tell her that you were probably going to get struck down for blasphemy or hubris or something. You’d just internalized that part.

…but most clearly, you remember the giant, blinding smile on her face.

“Oh my gosh!” she’d exclaimed, cheering like she was competing with the shot heard ‘round the world, “Me! You’re gonna marry me! This is awesome news. We already know everything about each other; we both like puppies and kittens, and we both suck at science!”

March was, and still is, the most beautiful person alive.

You remember your heart pounding traitorously. “...yeah. This is awesome news.”

“I want red velvet for our wedding cake!”

Of course, as you’ve grown older, you recognize that it was just a silly game. But the memories you’ve made with her between then and now, were not. If anything, they’ve only made you realize how much - how badly - you do want to marry her, one day in the future. There’s no one else for you.

But is there someone else for her? Like this mysterious guy giving her flowers that may or may not exist? You need to talk to March or else you’re going to explode. If that happens, then the already underpaid janitors are going to have to scrape your remains off the floor. Ugh.

However, the feat of communicating with your best friend today is starting to seem impossible.

“Now, not to call anybody out,” a warm but monotone voice interrupts your spiraling, “but please try to pay attention. This will be on your exam.”

Mr. Yang is clearly talking about you, but you cannot bring yourself to tear your gaze away from March 7th’s empty seat. This isn’t funny anymore, where is she? Out of the four classes you have today, you share three of them with her. Though sometimes she skips to nap in the abandoned bio lab, she always texts, and she always invites you.

Is she with her new boyfriend? The one she didn’t care to tell you about? You hope not. Whoever this guy is, he’s definitely not good enough for he—

A hand is placed on your shoulder. You jump.

“Mr. Yang! Sorry!” you blurt, looking up at your history teacher with a visceral type of embarrassment. He’s assessing you with an arched eyebrow and a frown, even as his hand reels back and he formulates a response.

Your cheeks feel hot, especially because, surely, everyone is watching - judging - and you’re just floundering with your mouth hanging open like an idiot.

…wait, where is everyone?

“Are you alright? The bell rang two minutes ago,” he informs you, gesturing to the very empty classroom. Everyone’s already filed out, and it dawns on you that you’re going to be late for your next class if you keep this up.

You swiftly counter, standing rigid in your seat while beginning to gather your things, “Yes! Again, I’m sorry, I’ve just been skimping on sleep. I’ll get the notes from someone, I promise!”

Your explanation sounds unconvincing even to you, but you’d rather die before bringing up your dilemma to someone so kind like Mr. Yang. He’s so chill that lets everyone eat in class, allows cheat sheets on midterms, and lets you sit next to your friends.

Your friends. You stop cramming papers into your backpack, bottom lip trembling.

“Sit down. I’ll write you a note, so don’t worry about being tardy.”

Slumping back down, you give up on lying, the despair clear as day on your face and in the tears clumping in shimmering globs on your lashes. “Okay.”

A pregnant pause settles over the classroom, making the cooler side of you inwardly cringe. The other side wants to rant and rave to Mr. Yang until your tongue falls off. You do neither, waiting for him to speak first. He brushes past you and drags a chair over from an adjacent desk, the metal scraping against the floor like a death knell. When he levels with you, index finger drumming against the wooden surface below, he sighs.

“I couldn’t help but notice someone isn’t here today,” he retrieves a patterned handkerchief from his jacket pocket, paternally offering it to you. “I can’t say your reaction is abnormal. March 7th usually shows up, what with you two being the best of friends. Did something happen between you guys?”

You sniffle pathetically, wiping your tears and snot on the cloth, making a mental note to wash and return it later. Y’know, if you make it through today. Exploding is still a viable option.

“Um, not really. I just think she’s avoiding me? It’s not like her at all, and now, out of nowhere, people are saying that she’s dating this mysterious guy, and—”

The look Welt Yang gives you is still one of concern, but there’s a knowing spark in his eyes that makes you pause. God, how mortifying. Have you made it that obvious that you’re jealous? Seething in envy? Ready to burn down this school and raze the fields in her honor? You bite your tongue, muttering to yourself in embarrassment.

“I’d be remiss not to tell you that rumors can be just that - rumors,” he adjusts his glasses. “I’m sure you understand; you’re a smart kid, I’ve graded your quizzes myself. Once you determine the truth, things will get easier. I’m quite familiar with you and March 7th. She’ll turn up.”

“I know, I-I just…” you swallow. “I really like her. And I guess I underestimated how much until I heard she was with someone else.”

“I figured,” Mr. Yang smiles at you, eyes crinkling and crow’s feet elongating with the shift of his facial muscles. “It is Valentine’s Day, after all. It makes sense you’re troubled about love - the atmosphere really amps up the pressure.”

Love. He used the L word. Spontaneous human combustion therefore must commence.

Without a doubt, you know you love March. But have you ever said it? Have you ever taken the initiative to make something more out of your friendship with her? No. You’ve been… waiting, and because you’ve been waiting, you’ve missed your shot with her. Someone more candid, more confident, has wooed her first.

You can’t stew in your inaction any longer! Something must be done… maybe Herta was right. Maybe you need to confess, get this all out of your system, even if she’s taken now. There’s no other prime time for it - you feel a burn in your calves that urges you to get the hell up right now, get moving, and go tell her.

You want to tell your best friend that you love and cherish her company more than anything in the world, even if she knows. Even if she doesn’t love you back with that knowledge.

“I guess it does.” Sneaking another glance at March’s empty desk, you breathe out hot air and stand up again to continue gathering your belongings, stuffing Mr. Yang’s handkerchief in your pocket. “Um, I think I know what to do now. If I could get that note…”

He nods sagely. “Of course,” the brown-haired gentleman eyes the clock, “if you ever want to talk about anything else, my door is always open. Well, except for when it’s not, I suppose.”

You don’t see it as you get ready to leave, your resolve strengthened and obscuring the big picture, but Welt Yang puffs his chest out in pride for a fleeting second as you go, note in hand.

You decide to head to the last period of the day, but not quite. What you mean by that is…

“Dan Heng! Psst, Dan Heng!”

You knock on the window perhaps a little too harshly, but you have to be at least a little loud so he can hear you, right?

The repetitive racket eventually penetrates the walls of the science building, finally earning the attention of Dan Heng. If March 7th is your bestest friend (and hopefully more soon), Dan Heng would be your number two - your sidechick. Wait, actually, not sidechick, ‘cause you don’t like him that way.

He’s the guy you drag along to the mall or to the skating rink so he can actually get out of the house a little. Smart, bit of a nerd, but he’s a stand-up dude.

His eyes are widened marginally, and he sits up straight in his seat at your display. You can see most of him, but your fellow classmates are littered about, his desk smack dab in the middle of them and the room itself. It’s a miracle the teacher hasn’t noticed you, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you’re caught and promptly sent to detention (again).

And this guy doesn’t answer his phone in the middle of classes, either. In fact, he turns the device off completely, something you can’t fathom doing. So simply texting him and demanding that he rendezvous with you right now for an emergency meeting is out of the question.

You must look a little… unkempt. Oh well. You seek the counsel of Dan Heng the Wise.

“Meet me in the bio lab,” you painstakingly enunciate your syllables, mouthing the words as clear as you can. To drive your point home, you jut out your arm and gesture to the left, where the abandoned room lies. You’ll have to go back in the building to meet him once he understands.

Dan Heng’s eye twitches. He glimpses back and forth between the teacher and you.

“Please! E-mer-gen-cy!!!” you frantically wave.

You spot your dark-haired friend sigh; victory is yours. He raises his hand and rattles off some convincing excuse, throwing one last look over his shoulder before exiting the classroom when granted permission.

Quickly, and with an exhilarated smile, you rush around the corner and push open the metal swinging doors, heading inside.

You’re sufficiently sweaty by now, faced with Dan Heng’s crossed arms and ever-present judgment. The lab, room 104 to be specific, is cluttered with all sorts of crap.

Spare desks are stacked high in all corners, spillage giving way to boxes of used equipment containing microscopes and bunsen burners - or just everything you’d expect. Large tables meant for conducting experiments are riddled with wear and tear.

But there’s a reason a lot of people ditch to come here. Under one of the tables rests a communal snack box that every burnout, delinquent, and tired student contributes to - always leaving something in return for seeking respite from classes and the like.

You’ve sure taken your fair share of stale pretzels and fruit bars. Lastly, the lights always stay off, giving way to the natural light seeping through the windows, illuminating floating dust particles that tie everything together.

Wow, you should come here more often. Grades be damned.

“What could possibly be so important as to—what’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”

Oh, right.

Dan Heng looks frazzled by your unresponsiveness, and you can’t blame him. Steeling yourself, you bring up what’s been on your mind.

“I’m gonna confess to her,” you breathe, “March, I mean.”

It feels so good to say it to him. But if you were in his average-sized tennis shoes, you’d be miffed to be called out of class for something as frivolous as this too - a crush, one so life-altering that it’s holding your sensibility hostage and making you act like you’ve lost all your marbles.

“Has the day gotten to you too, then?” your friend actually facepalms. The hand splayed over his visage eventually cracks open so he can peer through the gaps of his fingers at you, no doubt in contemplation. “But I can tell you find this important. Is that all this is about?”

“Um… if you know where she is, do you mind telling me?”

He shakes his head, sarcastic. “I don’t happen to track her hyperactivity all day long.”

“Right, right,” you fiddle with your hands and pick at your nails. You want to specifically ask for advice, because if there’s another thing to note about Dan Heng, it’s his levelheaded nature; this cornerstone of his personality has gotten you out of trouble in the past, and though he isn’t exactly a romance guru, there’s no one else you can think of turning to.

“What?” he sighs.

“I’m gonna tell her no matter what, I swear, but… do you think that’s the right thing to do?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, because Herta told me she was sucking face with some dude this morning—”

Dan Heng coughs abruptly, “Actually, save it. I don’t want to know. Regardless of any external circumstances, you’re still partial to her. That’s love, and it will only hurt you later if you bottle it up inside. Plus… if you ask me, you two work well together. I’ve never seen March happier than when she’s with you.”

You think of cute plushies and pillow forts. You think of snacks and dual-toned eyes that are always crinkling in a jubilant, idealistic kind of hope. You think of funny faces and bunny ears, of candids and camera lenses.

“Thank you,” you smile. “You’re always the guy I can call on, huh?”

“Not in the middle of class, at least,” he sternly reminds you, though the fond pinch of his brows gives him away. “Please.”

“Understood!”

By the time the bell rings, signifying the end of the school day, you have somewhat of a plan.

There are a bunch of weeds gathered up in your arms - dandelions, daisies, onion blooms, just a myriad of general wildflowers you’d picked from the campus’s track field. They itch at your exposed arms, bared from the feat of your rolled up sleeves, but it’s better than nothing. You’ve even shorn some of the stems and arranged them just so to give off the illusion of propriety.

They probably won’t hold a candle to whatever roses or carnations March 7th was given earlier. But that’s okay! You’ve tried your best, even pilfering a lavender ribbon from the art room to tie around the makeshift bouquet, sufficiently beautifying their otherwise lackluster appeal.

Now comes the issue of finding her. Just as you pull out your phone to send another text (the past few hours have filled her contact with unanswered messages), the device pings in your hand. Startled and hopeful, you shiftily survey the area before reading the notification.

April 8th: Omg!!! I’m sooo sorry for not responding all day (╥﹏╥)!!!

Phew, she’s alright! The animated typing indicator pops up again, so you wait.

April 8th: I promise I have a really good reason! You’re probably at the bus stop right now, so why don’t you take it to Purrfect Pastries? I’m there rn

April 8th: With a surprise for you, of course :3 and the kitties are waiting~

She’s of course referring to the cat cafe you’re both prone to frequenting. It has a cozy atmosphere, serves sweet things, and isn’t far off the normal commute to school… so it’s been purrfect, the past few years, for unproductive study sessions and shared laughter.

Oh. She’s probably going to gush to you about her new lover. That makes sense - she was so caught up all day having fun and basking in the warmth of her new fling.

But now is your time to shine. You’ll show up with your shitty flowers and you’ll win her over! Or maybe not that. Ideally that, yes, but March deserves to be happy; she’ll pick whoever she wants, even if that person is not you.

You: Okay haha glad you’re safe ^^

You: I’m omw On my way!

Damn autocorrect.

“Hey, you finally made it!”

Even after a day like today, where nothing and everything made sense, one word comes to mind: Lovely. March is lovely.

As if your life depends on it, you shove the wildflowers behind your back. The stakes certainly feel that high when your eyes land on your friend. She’s at the table in the corner - the one you both always sit at, so much so that you’re told some of the feline residents curl up under the chairs, waiting for either one of you to walk through the door.

You make a beeline for the table. Normally, you’d at least greet Mittens, the host cat who lounges on the order counter, but you’re itching to deal with your pounding heart and sweaty palms right now.

However, when you wave at March and begin making your way over, you almost trip. Walking fluffballs swarm your legs, mewling up a storm and demanding your utmost attention.

“Oof! Hey, I’m here, calm down,” you laugh, kneeling briefly to scratch some bellies and chins. You beckon the pink-haired girl over to lend you a hand, too nervous to look at her, but you hear a giggle and the scraping of a chair as she presumably comes to your rescue. “They’re so clingy today!”

“Well, we haven’t been here in forever,” she hums, kneeling down with you to say hi to everyone. She coos and simpers, and while she’s distracted, then you ogle all you want.

March is positively beaming, radiant as ever in the midst of dim lamplight and dark wood. For some reason, a hidden, sardonic part of you thought she’d look different after entering a relationship. More affected, maybe, like she’s getting used to the company of a person that hasn’t been there since the beginning. Like she’s getting used to the company of a person that isn’t you.

Selfishly, maybe you’d hoped she’d look a little dissatisfied with the affections of someone else.

No time for that now, you remind yourself. Stay grounded.

You watch as she works her magic; the uppity cats disperse after being fussed over a little. “I guess it has been a while. I’m a bit jealous - Mittens and the others prefer you over me any day.”

“Nah, they just missed us is all,” she grins. “Actually, mostly me, ‘cause I’m an animal whisperer and probably the reincarnation of Snow White. But you’re pretty awesome too.”

I missed you more than they did, you agonize.

March 7th grabs your hand. “Now come on, we have a lot to talk about!”

Dread courses through your veins as you take your rightful seat across from her. All of a sudden the gingham tablecloth looks very interesting. You decide to stuff your weed bouquet into your pocket, too ruffled to present it to her now.

After March tells you all about her new sweetheart, you’ll come clean - if you don’t chicken out, that is. You’ll come clean about the explosion of wonderful and awful feelings in your chest, about the years of wanting.

How could that admission change things? Ideally, she dumps this guy and threads her fingers through yours, giving you a shot at her heart and actualizing your idea of paradise.

Unfortunately, that fantasy is just a fantasy - realistically, she’ll react with sympathy, but tell you she doesn’t feel the same. That’s what you expect; friendly touches will cease, there’ll be a foreign, awkward lull in the air, and she’ll excessively tiptoe around anything that could upset you.

March is considerate like that. God, why does this have to be so difficult? You want to back out, but Dan Heng will forever see you as a chicken (his eyes will say it for him), and you’ll be stuck yearning until the heat death of the universe.

“Again, I’m really sorry for being kinda AWOL all day, but I was planni—”

You don’t even think about what you do next. You just blurt,

“I cheated when we were making fortune tellers.”

You don’t register the bewildered look on her face, you just keep going. It’s a bit crazy how your hesitance just vanished - leaving your true feelings to lead the situation, for better or for worse.

“W-When, uh, we were in eighth grade. You asked me to come over to your house so we could work on science, or fucking—whatever it was—and we never ending up working. You showed me how to make those paper fortune tellers and I thought it was really stupid. I thought it was stupid until you… until you put our names in it.”

March’s lips are parted in surprise. You want to kiss them. Also, you want to projectile vomit. The Exorcist style.

“So I totally tuned you out while you talked so I could spy. I remembered where you put your name specifically,” you stutter, “I also r-remember how many jumbles it would take, so your section would—yeah. I picked you. I chose to marry you, and I cheated.”

You choke out the last word, tears rolling down your cheeks. You’re crying, and you haven’t even made a lick of sense so far - this the second time today you’ve had a breakdown and have gotten nothing out of it! Watching as the droplets land on the tablecloth, you don’t dare look up.

At least you still have Mr. Yang’s handkerchief.

“I cheated because you’re the best, and I wouldn’t wanna be with anyone else, ever,” your vision blurs, thankfully giving you some courage. “But I know you’re dating someone else now, and I’m happy for you. I know that’s like… a cliche thing to say, b-but it’s true.”

March’s first reaction is not what you expect.

“Huh?! What on Earth are you talking about?! I’m not dating anyone! Dummy, where did you even hear that? I… oh you’re crying, I’m so sorry!” she panics, grabbing your hand once more. “Please don’t cry, it’ll make me cry.”

You’ve closed your eyes, but her sobering words make them shoot right back open.

“What?” you manage dumbly (hopefully).

“Is that why you think…? Oh my god, no! I wasn’t avoiding you all day because I was out tying the knot or something. I was avoiding you because I was busy planning this.”

March 7th stretches her arms out, concerned. She gestures to the cafe interior, and when you gather the strength to determine what she means, you notice something you hadn’t before.

Purrfect Pastries is empty, save for the two of you and the cats. Other tables normally teeming with couples and introverts alike are barren - there aren’t even menus set out. There are no empty coffee cups or muffin wrappers to be cleaned up by staff.

Speaking of, where are the staff? Sushang and Guinaifen are usually clamoring about, even on the clock.

…other stuff, too. Besides the banker’s lamps tinged emerald and gold, there are flowers - they look to be paper - scattered over the whole expanse of the floor. Some of the waxy petals seem to have been shredded by the claws of none other than Mittens and his gang, while others remain intact, distinctly imitating a trail of roses.

“I wanted candles, but Little Gui said they’d be a safety hazard. Honestly, I’m surprised she can talk, considering she swallows swords and fireballs as a side hustle,” she laughs, though it’s strained and unnatural. “You were really making a girl wait to be asked out, so I decided to take the initiative. Pretty smart, huh?”

You gawk.

“This… this is a date?” Oh my god. Oh my god. “And you’re not seeing anyone?!”

“Yeah, duh,” her tone softens. “You’re so silly. Um, I skipped school to work a daytime shift here as payment, that way we could have the place to ourselves tonight. Turns out it’s a lot of work to secure Purrfect Pastries… I begged and bothered Ms. Siobhan until she said yes. Turns out my charm is, in fact, irresistible!”

“But—huh?”

She wipes your tears, all the while chattering like you’re not gonna have a heart attack. “And I was so, so nervous that I’d ruin the surprise! Sushang made me turn off my phone so I wouldn’t spoil anything - she almost threw it into the deep fryer too - but it was all worth it.”

“What I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark, ‘cause it seems like I’ve missed a lot. I hope you’re okay… and, also, Happy Valentine’s.”

You bite back a hiccup and shakily retrieve your real - but undeniably pathetic - bouquet from your pocket. It’s completely squashed, the ribbon is almost unraveled, and the flowers have lost most of their color, already colored a soft brown.

Speaking is out of the question, because if you attempt it, you’re convinced that you will vomit The Exorcist style. So you just press the bundle into her hand, hoping it will say what you can’t.

“Are these for me?” March asks, breathy and on the verge of squealy.

Don’t vomit. “Y-Yeah. Can you believe it? I was gonna try and win you back with them.”

Under regular circumstances, you wholeheartedly believe she would’ve poked harmless fun at this sad attempt at a romantic gift. She’d probably say something charming like “It looks like Bigfoot stepped on them,” or “Did you get this bouquet from the time of consumption?”

But the girl you love does not do that. Everything is too much, what with the realization that today was just some hellish misunderstanding, and you’re so… so happy. You don’t think you deserve to feel such joy after coming to believe untrue rumors about March 7th, but you’ll deal with that later.

“That’s so romantic!” she swoons, “Like in the movies where the noblemen are fighting over the hand of the princess, trying to win her over…”

“You’re the one who rented out a whole cafe for me, March.”

“Huh… I guess I did! When you put it like that, maybe you should bake me scones.”

“What?”

She fluffs the proffered weeds, making them look a bit livelier (despite most of the petals being lost to time), before setting them down on the table. It makes for a shitty centerpiece, but she seems more than content, a rosy color adorning her cheeks and allowing her to glow.

“Well, we can’t have a date without food, can we? Before clocking out, everyone helped me bake scones for us to eat. I’ll go get them, okay? I’m starving!”

Getting up and looking just as she always does, you speak up, somewhat coherent now.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Shit, it seems silly to ask now, but… will you be my girlfriend?”

The pink-haired girl, your best friend, stops and turns. With a giggle and a wink, she once again, turns your world upside down.

“I already am! Heh. Also, I definitely knew you cheated back in eighth grade - with the fortune teller. I’m not so ditzy that I didn’t notice your staring, y’know.”

She disappears behind the counter and into the kitchen, petting Mittens on the way, but you still hear her - muffled, but still quite audible - squealing from here. What a delightful sound.

Just as you begin to decompress and recover, a burning question flares at the forefront of your mind.

Just what was Herta talking about, then? What about the dude March was supposedly ‘canoodling’ with?

Almost prophetically, your phone pings several times. You dare to check it after a brief panic attack.

Herta: Well, it’s about time I tell you, I suppose

Herta: Ruan Mei and I made a little wager yesterday. She bet, in the interest of human compatibility, that you wouldn’t make a good pair with Little Miss Pink, and that you’d wuss out and spend Valentine’s Day alone

Herta: You should know by now that I don’t lose. Simply put, I lied to your face - there was never a John Doe trying to steal her from you. However, if my deductions are correct…

Herta: You and Little Miss Pink are now an item. I expect many thanks and perhaps your unwavering monetary support on my next project. You’re welcome 💜

…

You: Fguck Duck you

Herta: lol duck

Damn autocorrect!

…you’ll just have to kill her tomorrow.

taglist: @kazuinvocation HELP i'm too scared to tag anyone else

vday heart dividers by @/strangergraphics!!! rue on ao3

#hvntersloveletters #—stellaronhvnters.#g.writes #march 7th x reader #march 7th x you #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr angst #hsr x you #march 7th x y/n #march 7th x gn!reader #march 7th hsr

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