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sixeyesonathiel · 3 days ago

Text

wanted: dead or wed

chapter one: sweet thing with a switchblade

pairing — cowboy satoru x bandit reader

synopsis : satoru’s just passing through—dust in his lungs, a bullet wound in his side, and no intention of staying anywhere too long—when you crash into his life like bad luck with a pretty face. you’re trouble from the start, all sharp looks and sharper secrets, but he’s never had much self-control when it comes to danger dressed like desire. what begins with blood and bad timing turns into something else entirely—something he can’t name, can’t escape, and sure as hell can’t walk away from. you’re the last thing he needs, but the only thing he wants, and if that makes him a fool… well, he’s been worse.

tags -> wild west au, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, dubcon elements, forced proximity, captivity, power imbalance, morally ambiguous character, horny at first sight, feelings later, toxic dynamic at first, eventual healthy relationship (i swear), gojo satoru is down bad, slowly falling into domesticity, eventual smut, eventual fluff, banter, unresolved sexual tension, other additional tags to be added

wc — 8.4k | series m.list | gen. m.list

your scream cuts through the desert air like a blade through silk.

satoru’s hands tighten on the reins without conscious thought, his mare luna already wheeling toward the sound before his mind catches up. dust kicks up around them in russet clouds, the sun beating down merciless and white. he’d been riding for three days straight, his thoughts circling like vultures around the deed folded in his saddlebag—his mother’s house, waiting for him like a grave he’s not ready to visit. but a woman’s scream? that’s different. that’s immediate. that’s the kind of thing mama would’ve skinned him alive for ignoring.

his spurs dig into luna’s flanks and she responds like lightning, her hooves drumming against the hardpan earth. the wind whips through hair that catches light like spun glass, wild and pale against the endless blue sky. sweat dampens his shirt beneath the leather vest, salt stinging where it meets the dust caked on his skin. he can taste the desert on his tongue—grit and heat and something metallic that might be his own blood from where he’d bitten his cheek that morning, trying to stay awake.

through the scrub brush and twisted mesquite, he spots you.

and christ, you’re beautiful.

even terrified, even with dirt streaking your cheeks and tears cutting clean tracks through the grime, you’re the kind of beautiful that makes a man forget his own name. your dress is torn at the shoulder, fabric clinging to curves that make his mouth go dry despite the heat. there’s something about the way you’re positioned—sprawled but not quite helpless, your ankle twisted at an angle that screams pain but your spine still holding some invisible thread of steel.

behind you, two men with guns drawn. standard issue bandits by the look of them, all beard and bluster and eyes like dead fish. one’s got a hand twisted in your hair, yanking your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat. the other’s got his barrel trained on your temple, finger hovering over the trigger with the kind of casual threat that makes satoru’s jaw clench.

“help!” you cry, and your voice cracks just right—desperate but not quite broken, like you’re holding onto hope by your fingernails. “please, they’re gonna kill me!”

satoru’s already moving, luna’s hooves throwing up clouds of red dirt as they thunder into the clearing. he swings down from the saddle with fluid grace, his duster coat billowing around him like dark wings. his hand finds the grip of his colt without thought, muscle memory carved deep by years of staying alive in places where hesitation gets you buried.

“no worries, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice carrying that easy confidence that’s gotten him out of more scrapes than he can count. “i’ve got you.”

the first bandit—scraggly beard, vest that’s seen better decades—shifts his aim toward satoru. mistake. satoru’s already moving, his body flowing like water around the muzzle flash. the bullet whines past his ear, close enough to feel the heat, and then his own gun is speaking. clean shot, center mass. the man drops like a stone.

the second bandit doesn’t even get the chance to scream. satoru’s on him in two strides, his blade sliding between ribs with surgical precision. blood blooms across the man’s shirt, dark and spreading, and he crumples with a wet gurgle.

satoru turns back to you, already reaching for his bandana to clean the blood from his knife. “you hurt, darlin’? they lay hands on you?”

but you’re not looking at him with gratitude. you’re looking at him with something else entirely—calculation. focus. the kind of look a predator gives prey before it strikes.

that’s when he sees it. the flash of metal in your hand. the way your body coils, all that supposed helplessness melting away like sugar in rain. time slows to honey-thick molasses as you lunge forward, your blade aimed with deadly precision at the gap between his ribs.

clever girl.

the steel slides home with a whisper, parting flesh like it was made for it. fire explodes through his side, white-hot and immediate, and he can feel the warmth spreading across his shirt. but even as the pain hits, even as his own blood starts to paint his fingers crimson, he’s almost impressed. almost.

“well, shit,” he breathes, looking down at where your blade has found its mark. the shock in your eyes is almost comical—like you can’t quite believe you actually managed to stick him. “you really had me going there, sugar.”

that’s when they emerge from the treeline. a dozen men, maybe more, whooping and hollering like demons fresh from hell. your backup, he realizes. the real trap. he’d been so focused on playing hero that he’d walked right into it, led by his cock and his conscience in equal measure.

“guess i’m the fool here,” he says, and there’s something almost conversational in his tone. almost amused. because fools don’t last long in the west, and satoru’s been breathing desert air for more years than most men see in a lifetime.

the first wave hits him like a tide of violence and stupidity. guns blazing, knives flashing, voices raised in bloodthirsty chorus. and satoru? satoru becomes something else entirely. something that moves like liquid death and strikes like divine judgment.

his revolvers sing their deadly song, muzzle flashes painting the desert in brief, brilliant light. bullets that should have found their mark bend around him like they’re afraid to touch him, deflected by forces that don’t have names in any language spoken by mortal men. one bandit charges with a wild scream and meets satoru’s fist instead, the sound of breaking bone sharp and final in the desert air.

another tries to flank him, blade gleaming in the dying light. satoru catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and sends the man’s own knife sliding between his ribs. the scream cuts off abruptly, replaced by the wet sound of punctured lung.

through it all, satoru moves like he’s dancing. coat tails spinning, hair streaming pale as moonlight, those impossible eyes bright as winter stars. blood seeps through his shirt where your blade found its mark, but it doesn’t slow him. if anything, it seems to fuel him, like pain is just another kind of music and he’s conducting the orchestra.

one by one, they fall. screaming. bleeding. dying.

when the smoke clears and the last echo of gunfire fades into the endless sky, satoru’s still standing. breathing hard now, finally, sweat mixing with blood and dust on his skin. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the chaos, revealing eyes that burn like cold fire. unnatural. divine. hungry.

and you? you’re staring at him like he’s the devil himself, pressed back against a gnarled tree with your hands shaking and your face pale as bone.

that’s when he hears it. the sound of hoofbeats, fast and fading. your so-called partners, fleeing like the cowards they are. leaving you behind like yesterday’s garbage.

“they left you,” he says, and there’s something almost gentle in his voice. almost. “after all that acting, they just... left you.”

he can see the moment it hits you—the betrayal, the abandonment. your face crumbles for just a second before you school it back into defiance, but that second is enough. satoru’s always been good at reading people, at seeing the cracks in their armor. it’s kept him alive this long.

“fuck you,” you spit, and he laughs. actually laughs, the sound rich and dark and entirely too pleased.

“oh, sweetheart,” he says, closing the distance between you in two long strides. “we’re just getting started.”

his hand shoots out, fast as a striking snake, and clamps around your wrist. you yelp as he yanks you upright, slamming you back against the tree. bark digs into your spine, and his face is inches from yours. close enough to see the gold flecks in those impossible eyes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“you gonna scream again, darlin’?” he rasps, tilting his head like he’s studying you. like you’re something fascinating and dangerous and worth taking apart piece by piece. “go on. give me another show.”

his free hand slides down your waist, slow and deliberate, fingers pressing through the fabric of your dress like he’s mapping territory. claiming it. his breath ghosts across your jaw, warm and sharp with the copper taste of violence.

“but first,” he says, voice dropping to something low and dangerous, “you’re gonna pay for trying to fool me.”

his grip tightens. his smile deepens.

“and sugar, i charge interest.”

the ride to his mother’s house is torture in more ways than one.

every bounce of luna’s gait sends fire through the wound in his side, but worse—so much worse—is the way you feel pressed against him. soft curves and angry heat, your body rigid with tension and something else. something that makes his pulse quicken despite the blood loss. despite the pain. despite every rational thought screaming at him to get you secured and stop thinking about the way your ass fits against his hips.

you’d fought like a wildcat when he’d hauled you up and thrown you over his saddle, all claws and fury and threats that would’ve made a saint blush. but now you’ve gone quiet, probably plotting your escape. he almost hopes you try. it’s been too long since he’s had a proper challenge, and something about you—the way you’d played your part so perfectly, the way you’d looked at him like he was death incarnate—makes him think you might actually be worth the effort.

“you can stop planning,” he says conversationally, his voice rumbling through his chest and into your back. “wherever you think you’re gonna run, i’ll find you.”

your only response is to dig your elbow into his thigh, and he grins despite the pain. despite the way his shirt is stuck to his skin with drying blood. despite the fact that he’s probably losing his mind, because no sane man would be this entertained by a woman who just tried to kill him.

luna’s hooves drum against the hardpan, steady and sure, carrying them both toward a destination he’s been avoiding for months. his mother’s house sits on the outskirts of a nothing town called redemption, all faded paint and memories he’s not ready to face. but it’s isolated, which is what he needs right now. isolated and empty and far enough from civilization that no one will hear you scream.

the thought sends heat pooling low in his belly, and he has to shift in the saddle to hide his body’s reaction. you feel it anyway—the way his muscles tense, the way his breathing changes—and you go even more rigid against him. like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. invisible.

“easy there, darlin’,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “i can feel you thinking. it’s giving me a headache.”

you flinch at the contact, a full-body shiver that he feels more than sees. interesting. he files that reaction away for later, along with the way your breathing hitches when he speaks and the way your hands clench into fists when he touches you.

the sun is setting by the time they reach the house, painting the sky in shades of rust and gold. it’s worse than he remembered—sheets over furniture, dust thick as snow, windows so grimy they barely let in light. the garden his mother had tended with such care is nothing but weeds and regret now, the white picket fence weathered to gray.

“home sweet home,” he mutters, sliding you down from luna’s back. you immediately try to bolt, just like he knew you would, and he catches you around the waist before you can take two steps. your body slams back against his chest, soft and warm and trembling with barely contained rage.

“uh-uh, sugar,” he says, his arm tightening around you. “you’re not going anywhere.”

your pulse is racing under his fingers, a frantic rhythm that matches the way you’re breathing. fast and shallow, like you’re fighting panic. like you think he’s going to hurt you in ways that don’t involve bullets or blades.

“what do you want?” you demand, and he can hear the fear threading through your anger. you think he’s going to force himself on you. the thought should disgust him—his mother raised him better than that, taught him that real men don’t take what isn’t freely given. but instead, it makes him wonder what you’d look like beneath him, all that fight turned to desperate need.

the house looms before you two, full of shadows and silence. the porch creaks under their weight, old wood groaning like it’s protesting this reunion. satoru hesitates at the door, one hand resting on the knob, his breath shallow.

“she always hated leaving it locked,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. he turns the handle. the door swings open with a low moan, like it’s waking from a long sleep.

inside, dust motes dance in the last rays of sunlight, and the air smells like lavender and loss. his mother’s presence is everywhere—in the lace curtains she’d sewn by hand, in the photographs lining the mantel, in the rocking chair where she’d spent her last days waiting for a son who’d been too much of a coward to come home. her ghost lingers in the wallpaper, in the creak of the floorboards, in the quiet hum of the house settling back into itself.

satoru steps over the threshold and doesn’t breathe for a moment. his fingers trail the side table by the door, where her gloves used to rest. his eyes flick to the photo near the hearth—her smile caught mid-laugh, dust blurring the frame. he swallows.

“don’t touch anything,” he says, voice tight.

you say nothing, but your eyes sweep the room like a threat. like you’re already planning which window you’ll break when the time comes.

he pushes the guilt down, locks it away where it can’t touch him. there will be time for that later. time for apologies to ghosts and promises to women who can’t hear them anymore. right now, he has more pressing concerns.

like the way you’re looking at him—calculating, measuring, searching for weakness. like the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips when you think he’s not watching. like the way his body is responding to your proximity despite the pain, despite the blood loss, despite every reason this is a terrible idea.

he turns toward you then, the dying sunlight painting his face in copper and shadow.

“strip,” he orders, and watches your face drain of color. the word hangs in the air between them like a loaded gun, heavy with implication and threat.

he drinks in your reaction like fine whiskey—the way your eyes go wide, pupils dilating with terror. the way your hands fly to your chest, protective and futile. the way your breathing goes shallow, like you're drowning on dry land. beautiful. absolutely fucking beautiful.

“please,” you whisper, and something in his chest tightens. something that feels dangerously close to conscience, but he's having too much fun to stop now. “please, i—”

“now, now,” he drawls, taking a step closer. close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes—those impossible eyes that burn like winter frost touched by flame. close enough that he can see the pulse hammering at your throat, fast and frantic. “don't look at me like that, sugar. like i'm some kinda monster.”

but he lets his gaze rake over you slowly, deliberately. lets it linger on the curve of your breasts, the way your dress clings to your waist, the smooth line of your thighs. lets you see him looking. lets you feel the weight of his attention like hands on your skin.

“you think i'm gonna hurt you?” he asks, and his voice is soft. conversational. like he's asking about the weather instead of the fear painting your face pale. “think i'm gonna hold you down and take what i want?”

you flinch at the words, and he has to bite back a groan. the way terror looks on you should be wrong, should make him feel sick. instead, it makes him want to see what other expressions he can pull from you. what other sounds.

“the thought's crossed your mind, hasn't it?” he continues, circling you slowly. predatory. hair like spun starlight catching the dying light from the windows. “big, scary man like me. isolated house. no one around for miles.” he pauses behind you, close enough that his breath ghosts across your neck. “bet you can already feel it, can't you? my hands on your skin.”

you shudder, and he knows he's hit the mark. knows you're imagining exactly what he wants you to imagine. your body betrays you—the way you lean away from him, the way your hands shake, the way your breath catches when he speaks.

“stop,” you whisper, but there's no real force behind it. you're caught between fear and something else, something that makes your pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with terror.

“stop what?” he asks, moving back into your line of sight. “stop telling the truth? stop making you think about what it would feel like?” he reaches out, fingers barely grazing your cheek. “stop making you wonder if you'd like it?”

the slap comes fast, sharp, and he catches your wrist before you can pull away. his grip is gentle but immovable, and he tsks softly.

“now that's just rude,” he says, but he's grinning. “here i am, being a perfect gentleman, and you're trying to mark up my pretty face.”

“gentleman?” you spit, and there's fire in your eyes now. anger burning through the fear. “you're sick.”

“maybe,” he agrees easily. “but i'm also patient. and i do so enjoy watching you squirm.”

he releases your wrist and steps back, putting space between you again. the absence of his touch is almost as unsettling as the presence of it, and he can see you struggling to recalibrate. to figure out what game he's playing.

he watches your face for a long moment, drinking in the terror, the way your mind is clearly spinning through every horrible possibility. the way you're looking at him like he's already got his hands on you. like you can feel phantom touches burning across your skin.

his eyes drop to your mouth—your lips parted with quick, shallow breaths. soft. probably sweet. definitely something he wants to taste. the impulse hits him like lightning, sudden and electric, and before he can think better of it, he's moving closer.

one hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin with surprising gentleness. the other braces against the wall behind you, caging you in. your eyes widen, confusion replacing terror as he leans in, and christ, you smell like dust and fear and something uniquely you that makes his head spin.

“what are you—” you start, but the words die as he gets closer. close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your skin, close enough that your breath mingles with his.

his eyes—pale as winter sky, bright as lightning—flick down to your mouth again. back up to your eyes. down again. he's so close now that he can see the tiny flecks of gold in your irises, can count your eyelashes, can feel the way your body trembles with each ragged breath.

“just wondering,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, “what you taste like.”

and then he's leaning in, closing that final distance, and you—

you close your eyes.

the realization hits him like a physical blow. here you are, terrified and trapped and completely at his mercy, and you're tilting your face up to meet his. your lashes flutter against your cheeks, dark and delicate, and your lips part just slightly in unconscious invitation.

beautiful. so fucking beautiful it makes his chest ache.

for a heartbeat, he hovers there. a breath away. close enough that he can feel the warmth of your skin, can smell the salt of unshed tears and the sweet scent of your hair. close enough that all he'd have to do is lean forward just a fraction more and he'd be tasting you, claiming you, taking what he wants because he's always been impulsive as hell and you're looking at him like—

like you want him to.

but something stops him. maybe it's the way your hands are shaking. maybe it's the memory of his mother's voice, telling him that real men don't take advantage. maybe it's the fact that you just tried to kill him and he's not sure if this is surrender or strategy.

whatever it is, he pulls back.

just a fraction. just enough to break the spell.

and then he laughs.

the sound is rich and genuine and entirely too amused, echoing off the dusty walls of his mother's house. it's the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you're missing the punchline to some cruel joke, and your eyes snap open, confusion and hurt flashing across your features.

“didn't peg you for the type to fall for a man that fast,” he says, voice dripping with mock surprise. “you must be real easy, darlin'.”

the words hit you like a slap, and he watches the progression of emotions across your face—confusion melting into embarrassment, embarrassment burning into rage. your cheeks flame red, and you look like you want to disappear into the floorboards.

“you—” you start, voice thick with mortification, but he's already moving away, putting distance between you again.

“what exactly did you think i was asking you to do?” he continues, reaching into his saddlebags and tossing you a bundle of clean clothes. the fabric hits your chest and you catch it reflexively, still staring at him like he's lost his mind.

“strip,” he repeats, voice dripping with mock innocence. “as in, take off those filthy rags and put on something clean. you know, basic human hygiene?” he tilts his head, studying you with those impossible eyes that seem to see right through you. “what did you think i meant?”

the realization hits you like a physical blow, and he can see the exact moment your brain catches up to what just happened. the way your eyes widen further, the way the color in your cheeks deepens from pink to scarlet.

“you're filthy,” he continues, his grin widening as he watches you struggle with the whiplash of emotions. “and you smell like horse. there's a washbasin in the kitchen, pump's out back. get cleaned up.” he pauses, letting the moment stretch. “unless, of course, you'd prefer to stay dirty. some folks are into that sort of thing.”

“you—you bastard,” you stammer, and your voice is thick with humiliation and fury. “you did that on purpose.”

“did what?” he asks, all wide-eyed innocence even as his eyes glitter with amusement. “asked you to change clothes? seems pretty reasonable to me.” he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “can't help it if you've got a dirty mind, darlin'. and apparently a weak spot for pretty faces.”

the look you give him could melt steel, but there's something else there now. embarrassment that goes bone-deep, rage that makes your whole body tremble, and underneath it all, something that might be wounded pride. like you can't believe you fell for it. can't believe you actually thought he was going to kiss you.

can't believe you wanted him to.

“what's the catch?” you ask through gritted teeth, clutching the clothes to your chest like armor.

“no catch,” he says, and for once he's not lying. “just can't have you stinking up my house.” he pauses, then adds with a wicked grin, “and if you need help with any buttons or laces, just holler. i'm real good with my hands.”

you clutch the clothes tighter, and he can see you trying to decide if that was another threat or just more of his twisted sense of humor. the uncertainty in your eyes is almost as entertaining as the fear was. almost as satisfying as the way you'd looked at him when you thought he was going to kiss you.

“the kitchen?” you ask, voice barely controlled.

“through there,” he says, nodding toward the doorway. “and sugar? don't even think about running. i told you—i'll find you. and next time, i might not be so generous.”

you take a step toward the kitchen, then pause. turn back. there's something in your expression that he can't quite read—calculation, maybe, or the beginnings of a plan. or maybe just the desire to salvage some dignity from this train wreck of a conversation.

“you think you're real clever, don't you?” you say, and there's steel in your voice now. fire. “getting me all worked up like that.”

“worked up?” he echoes, and his grin turns predatory. “is that what we're calling it? here i thought you were just scared of a little soap and water.”

the blush that spreads across your cheeks is beautiful, and he files the image away for later. for when he's alone with his thoughts and his hand and the memory of the way you looked at him like he was going to devour you whole. the way you'd closed your eyes and tilted your face up to his like you wanted him to.

“go on,” he says, shooing you toward the kitchen with one hand. “get cleaned up. and take your time—i'm not going anywhere.”

you disappear into the kitchen without another word, and he's left alone with the ghosts and the dust and the sound of his own breathing. but also with something new. something that feels like anticipation, like the moment before a storm breaks.

through the doorway, he can hear you moving around. the creak of floorboards, the splash of water, the rustle of fabric. his imagination fills in the details, and he has to adjust himself in his pants because apparently nearly dying hasn't done anything to dampen his body's reaction to you.

especially not after that moment. that breath of space where you'd looked at him like you wanted to be kissed. where you'd closed your eyes and leaned into him like you trusted him not to hurt you.

like you wanted him to hurt you in all the right ways.

the wound in his side throbs with each heartbeat, a reminder of how close he'd come to dying today. how close he'd come to never making it home. but now he's here, in his mother's house, with a beautiful woman who tried to kill him washing herself in his kitchen.

it feels like the beginning of something dangerous and necessary and entirely too tempting to resist.

left alone, satoru feels the house settle around him like an old coat, all creaking wood and familiar ghosts. sunset bleeds through dusty windows, painting everything in shades of copper and regret. his wound throbs with every heartbeat, a steady reminder of how close he’d come to meeting his maker today. how close he’d come to never seeing this place again.

satoru grimaces, his jaw clenching as he shrugs off his duster. the movement pulls at torn skin, and he lets the leather fall to the floor in a heap of dust and regret. his shirt comes next, pale fingers working the buttons with practiced precision despite the tremor in his hands. he hisses through his teeth as the fabric pulls against torn skin, broad shoulders rolling to ease the sting. the cotton is ruined—dark with blood and dirt, beyond salvation. like most things in his life, really.

he catches his reflection in the mirror above the mantel and almost laughs. he looks like hell—chest streaked with blood and grime, muscles tight with tension, that deep gash just beneath his ribs still weeping red. there’s a bruise blooming across his shoulder where someone’s fist had connected, and scratches on his arms from the scrub brush and flying bullets. he’s all sharp edges and bad decisions, and somehow he’s still breathing.

the pump out back protests when he works the handle, rust flaking off like old skin. his forearms strain against the stubborn metal, tendons standing out beneath sun-weathered skin. the water runs brown at first, then clear and cold enough to make him curse. he soaks a cloth and presses it to the wound, biting back a groan at the sharp bite of pain.

through the kitchen window, he can see you moving around. shadows and glimpses of skin, the sound of water splashing. his imagination fills in the details—the way you’d look bent over the basin, soap sliding down your spine. the way his shirt would hang loose on your frame, the way it would smell like him when you put it on.

christ, he’s losing his mind. getting stabbed and then kidnapping your would-be killer—his mother would’ve boxed his ears for this kind of stupidity. but then again, mama had always said he had a weakness for lost causes and pretty faces. looks like death hadn’t changed that particular character flaw.

“how long does it take to scrub off a little betrayal?” he mutters, pressing the cloth harder against his ribs. the bleeding has slowed but not stopped, and he can feel exhaustion creeping in around the edges. blood loss, probably. or maybe just the weight of this godforsaken day finally catching up to him.

he glances toward the kitchen again. still no sign of you. maybe you’re plotting another escape attempt. maybe you’re just taking your sweet time to spite him. either way, he’s got nothing but time and bleeding wounds to keep him company.

the sound of bare feet on wood floors makes him look up, and then you’re there in the doorway, and his brain promptly forgets how to function.

you’re wearing his shirt—way too big, sleeves rolled sloppily up your forearms, the hem brushing mid-thigh. his pants are tied at your waist with the cord he’d tossed you, bunched and folded but somehow still managing to cling to your hips. your hair’s damp, sticking to your cheekbones, and there’s a smear of soap behind your ear that he wants to lick off.

barefoot and clean and wearing his clothes, you look like trouble. like the kind of temptation that gets good men killed and bad men redeemed. like something he should run from if he had any sense left.

the moment his gaze lands on you, it sticks. travels from your bare legs to the way his shirt gaps at your throat, to the pulse point he can see hammering beneath your skin. the corner of his mouth lifts in appreciation, and his eyes—pale as winter sky, sharp as fractured glass—drag over you with undisguised hunger.

“well, don’t you clean up nice,” he drawls, voice rougher than he intended. his head tilts slightly, studying you like a predator contemplating prey. “almost makes me forget the whole stabbing part.”

you roll your eyes, but he catches the way you shift your weight from foot to foot, the way your hands fidget with the oversized sleeves. your chin lifts in defiance even as heat creeps up your neck. “you bleeding out yet, or just fishing for compliments?”

he nods toward his side, where crimson is still seeping through his makeshift bandage. his smile turns lazy, dangerous. “come take a look. unless you’d rather finish what you started.”

you hesitate for a beat, teeth worrying your lower lip, and he can see the wheels turning behind your eyes. calculating. weighing options. then you sigh, roll your eyes again, and walk over with that purposeful stride that makes his pulse quicken. your bare feet make no sound on the wooden floor, but he tracks every step.

“sit,” you command, and there’s something different in your voice now. less fear, more exasperation. your hands find your hips, pushing the oversized shirt tight against your curves. “if you pass out, i don’t wanna drag your corpse.”

he settles into the chair with a grunt, spreading his legs wide and leaning back. the position puts you between his thighs when you step closer, and he doesn’t miss the way you tense at the proximity. doesn’t miss the way your breath catches when you get your first good look at the damage. his eyes—moonlight and mischief—never leave your face.

“you gonna patch me up or spit in it first?” he asks, tilting his head to watch your expression. his voice drops to a murmur, intimate in the dusty air.

“you deserve worse,” you mutter, but your hands are already moving, peeling away the blood-soaked cloth with surprising gentleness. your fingertips brush his skin, and he watches the way you flinch at the contact, the way your pupils dilate despite your scowl.

“you keep saying that, sugar, but your hands are shaking.” his voice is silk and smoke, and he leans forward slightly, invading your space. close enough that he can smell the soap in your hair, the lingering scent of his own skin on his clothes.

“i’m just trying not to punch you again.” your jaw clenches, but you don’t pull away. if anything, you lean closer, your breath ghosting across his chest as you examine the wound.

“cute.” the word rumbles from his throat, and his smile turns wicked. his fingers twitch against his thighs, fighting the urge to touch.

you shoot him a look that could melt steel, your eyes flashing with fury and something else—something that makes his blood sing. but you don’t pull away. instead, you lean closer, studying the wound with the kind of focus that speaks of experience. too much experience for someone who should be playing tea parties and picking wildflowers.

“it’s not as bad as it looks,” you say finally, and there’s something clinical in your tone. professional. your fingers trace the edges of the wound without quite touching, and he can feel the heat of your palm against his skin. “missed anything vital. you’ll live.”

“disappointed?” his voice is barely above a whisper, and when you glance up at him, he’s close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the way his pupils have blown wide.

“jury’s still out.” your words are breathless, and he watches the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips. watches the way your gaze drops to his mouth before snapping back up.

he chuckles, and the sound makes you glance up at him. for a moment, something passes between you—recognition, maybe. understanding. like you’re seeing past the blood and the bravado to something real underneath. the air between you crackles with tension, with the kind of heat that has nothing to do with the setting sun.

then you’re moving again, cleaning the wound with careful precision. your touch is gentle but sure, and he finds himself watching your face instead of what you’re doing. the way you bite your lip when you concentrate, leaving tiny indentations in the soft flesh. the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. the way you hold your breath around blood like you’re trying not to breathe in the memories.

“they took you young, didn’t they?” he murmurs, and you flinch like he’s struck you. his voice is soft, almost gentle, and that makes it worse somehow.

“you don’t know shit about me.” your hands still for a moment, trembling against his skin before you force them to keep working.

“no,” he agrees, voice soft. his fingers twitch, wanting to touch your face, to smooth away the pain he can see etched there. “but i know the look.”

you don’t respond, just keep working. but he can see the tension in your shoulders, the way your movements have gone rigid. the way you’re holding yourself like you might shatter if he says the wrong thing. he’s hit close to home, and part of him wishes he hadn’t. part of him wants to take it back, to let you keep your secrets and your walls.

but the other part—the part that’s always been too curious for his own good—wants to dig deeper. wants to know what made you this way. what turned a girl who should be worried about dress patterns and sunday socials into someone who can patch a bullet wound without blinking.

“there,” you say finally, taping down a strip of cloth with more force than necessary. your movements are sharp, efficient, but he can see the way your hands shake slightly. “try not to get stabbed again before it heals.”

he hisses through his teeth at the tight binding, but he’s grinning. his eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s something almost fond in his expression. “you enjoy hurting me, don’t you?”

you step back, and there’s something almost like a smirk playing at your lips. your arms cross over your chest, pushing his shirt taut against your curves. “a little.”

“if you were trying to kill me, sugar, you should’ve aimed for the heart.” he pushes himself up from the chair, movements fluid despite the pain. he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and when he stands this close you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

“if i wanted your heart,” you shoot back, chin lifting in challenge, “i’d have to dig through a whole lot of ego first.”

he throws back his head and laughs—really laughs, the sound rich and warm in the dusty air. his throat works, and you can see the way his chest moves with each breath. “christ, you’re mean. i like that in a woman.”

“lucky me.” you turn away, but not before he catches the flush creeping up your neck, the way your breathing has gone shallow.

you finish cleaning up, fingers smudged with his blood, and step back like the sight of him disgusts you. it probably does. he’s shirtless and scarred and grinning like a fool, all sharp angles and dangerous promises. muscles shifting under skin that’s marked with violence and time. but there’s something in your eyes when you look at him—something that isn’t quite hatred.

“don’t suppose you’re a good little housewife who makes dinner after a long day of stabbing,” he says, pushing himself up from the chair with a grunt. every muscle in his body protests, but he forces himself to move. weakness is invitation, and he’s not ready to show you any more of his throat than you’ve already seen.

you scowl, but he catches the way your gaze drops to his chest, to the bandage wrapped around his ribs. “don’t suppose you’re the type who says thank you either.”

“thank you,” he parrots, drawing out the syllables with a smirk. the words taste strange on his tongue, foreign after years of taking care of himself. his head tilts, and those pale eyes study you with renewed interest. “now shut up and eat.”

he saunters to the saddlebag by the door, muscles shifting under skin that’s still damp with water and blood. his movements are deliberately casual, calculated to draw your attention. he can feel you watching him, and he makes sure to give you a good show. broad shoulders, narrow waist, the kind of confidence that comes from knowing you’re dangerous and not caring who knows it.

the canvas pouch hits the table with a soft thud, and he settles into the chair across from you. inside the bag: two strips of smoked jerky, a handful of stale crackers, dried apple slices, and a tin of beans that’s probably older than you are.

“gourmet,” you say flatly, poking at the jerky with one finger. your nose wrinkles slightly, and he finds the expression endearing despite himself.

“better than whatever rot you were cooking with your friends in the woods.” he tears into his own piece with sharp canines, and you can’t help but watch the way his jaw works.

you sit across from him at the rickety kitchen table, and he’s struck by how domestic it feels. no plates, no cutlery, just fingers and attitude and the kind of tension that makes the air thick as honey. he tears into the jerky with his teeth and watches you eat like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“careful,” he says, tone easy but eyes sharp. his fingers drum against the table, pale and long and stained with his own blood. “i counted what’s in there. you pocket anything, i’ll know.”

“you counting how many times i sigh, too?” you chew deliberately, jaw working in a way that makes his mouth go dry.

“yeah. and so far, it’s insufferable.” his smile is all teeth and trouble, and he leans back in his chair like he’s never been more entertained.

you chew louder just to piss him off, and he smiles around a mouthful of cracker like he’s never been more entertained. this is what he’s been missing—someone who gives as good as they get. someone who doesn’t flinch when he shows teeth.

“so,” he says, leaning back in his chair. his arms cross over his chest, and you can see the way the muscles in his forearms shift. “what’s your real name?”

“what’s it matter?” you mirror his position, and he doesn’t miss the way the movement makes his shirt gape at your throat.

“might be nice to know what to carve on your headstone.” his tone is conversational, but there’s steel underneath. his eyes never leave your face, cataloging every micro-expression.

“optimistic, aren’t you?” you lean forward slightly, and he can smell the soap in your hair again. it’s maddening.

“i’m a planner.” his voice drops to a murmur, intimate despite the threat.

you snort, and the sound is almost fond. almost. your lips curve in what might be a smile if you weren’t so determined to hate him. “you plan on killing me?”

“haven’t decided yet. depends on how entertaining you are.” he tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “and so far, you’re exceeding expectations.”

“and if i bore you?” there’s challenge in your voice, in the way you hold yourself. like you’re daring him to try.

“then i guess we’ll find out how deep the well out back really is.” but his tone is almost playful now, and there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. something that looks dangerously like affection.

you should be scared. should be begging or bargaining or trying to run. instead, you’re sitting there eating his food and trading threats like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like you’re not afraid of him at all.

maybe you should be.

maybe he should be afraid of you.

the thought sends heat spiraling through his chest, and he has to look away. out the window, the sun is setting properly now, painting the sky in shades of violence and promise. soon it’ll be dark, and then there’ll be nothing but you and him and the ghosts in these walls.

“finish up,” he says, pushing back from the table. his movements are fluid, controlled, but you can see the way he favors his injured side. “it’s getting late.”

“what, no dessert?” you lean back in your chair, and the movement makes his shirt ride up slightly. he notices. of course he notices.

“if you’re good, maybe i’ll let you have some of the whiskey i found in mama’s pantry.” his smile is sharp as broken glass, and his eyes—pale as frost, dangerous as winter—never leave your face.

“and if i’m bad?” your voice drops to a whisper, and there’s something in your tone that makes his blood sing. something that sounds almost like invitation.

he grins, and it’s all teeth and trouble. his head tilts, predatory and pleased. “then i guess we’ll have to find other ways to entertain ourselves.”

you don’t respond, just watch him with those clever eyes as he moves around the kitchen. he’s checking windows, making sure the latches are secure. his movements are purposeful, efficient, but you can see the way he’s favoring his injured side. the way he moves like a man who’s been hurt before. making sure you can’t slip out in the middle of the night and leave him bleeding in his mother’s house.

“you don’t trust me,” you observe, watching the way his shoulders move beneath scarred skin.

“would you?” he glances over his shoulder, and his smile is sharp as a blade. there’s something almost admiring in his expression, like he appreciates your honesty.

“probably not.” you stand, and the movement makes his shirt shift around your thighs. he notices. he always notices.

“smart girl.” the words are rough with approval, and he has to turn away before he does something stupid. like reach for you. like forget that you tried to kill him just hours ago.

he moves through the house with purpose, checking every possible exit. the window in the bathroom—locked. the one in the room next to his—latched tight. the one in what will be your room—secured with a chair propped under the sill for good measure.

you follow him like a shadow, bare feet silent on the wooden floors. he can feel your presence behind him, warm and dangerous and entirely too distracting. when he lingers by your door, you glare at him from the bed like a hissing cat in a too-big shirt. your legs are curled under you, and he can see the way his shirt has ridden up to expose the curve of your thigh.

“if you lock me in,” you say, voice flat as a blade, “i will break a chair through that window.” your chin lifts in challenge, and there’s fire in your eyes. promise and threat all rolled into one.

“just keeping the wildlife out, sugar. and by wildlife, i mean you.” his voice is honey and steel, and he leans against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world. like he’s not fighting the urge to step closer, to see what you’d do if he did.

he informs you flatly, voice taking on that authoritative edge that brooks no argument: “you’re in the room across from mine. don’t bother trying the front door—barred it already. pump’s out back if you need to wash that filthy mouth.” his eyes drop to your lips as he says it, and you can see the way his jaw clenches.

you bristle at the casual dismissal, at the way he’s arranging your life like you’re a doll in a dollhouse. your hands clench into fists, and he can see the way your breathing has gone shallow. “and if you’re thinking of running,” he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper, “just remember—i don’t miss twice.”

your response is to slam the door in his face, hard enough to rattle the frame. but not before he sees the way you bite your lip, the way your eyes flash with something that might be excitement. he chuckles, low and pleased, and heads to his own room. the sound of your frustrated cursing follows him down the hall, and he finds himself grinning despite the exhaustion weighing down his bones.

his mother’s room—his room now, he supposes—is exactly as she left it. lace curtains and faded quilts, the smell of lavender and old roses. he strips off his boots and settles onto the bed with a grunt, every muscle in his body screaming for rest. the sheets are soft against his skin, and he can still smell your soap in his hair.

but he doesn’t close his eyes. instead, he reaches for his revolver, checks the chambers, and places it within easy reach on the nightstand. old habits die hard, and he’s not about to let his guard down just because you’re pretty and wearing his shirt.

through the thin walls, he can hear you moving around. pacing, maybe. plotting, probably. the floorboards creak under your feet, and he finds himself mapping your movements. three steps to the window, pause, four steps to the door. back to the window. back to the door. he can picture you in his mind—barefoot and furious, his shirt hanging loose around your thighs as you plan your next move.

you’re caged, and you know it. caged and furious and probably scared, though you hide it well. he should feel guilty about that. should feel something resembling remorse for taking your freedom, for making you a prisoner in his mother’s house.

but all he feels is anticipation. like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air goes electric and everything holds its breath. like the moment before a gunfight, when time slows and the world narrows to a single point of contact.

he stares at the ceiling, listening to your restless movements, and mutters: “what the hell have i brought into my mother’s house.” his voice is rough with exhaustion and something else. something that sounds dangerously like want.

but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. because he knows damn well what he’s brought home. trouble. temptation. the kind of woman who stabs first and asks questions later. the kind of woman who wears his clothes like armor and looks at him like she’s trying to decide if he’s worth the trouble.

and he’s never been more awake.

the house settles around them, full of shadows and secrets and the promise of tomorrow. somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls, and the sound makes him think of freedom and wild things and the way you’d looked at him when you thought he was going to die.

soon, he’ll have to decide what to do with you. soon, he’ll have to figure out if you’re worth the trouble you’ll undoubtedly cause.

but not tonight. tonight, he’s content to listen to you pace and plan and probably curse his name. tonight, he’s content to drift between sleep and waking, one hand on his gun and the other pressed to his wounded side.

tonight, he’s home. and for the first time in months, that feels like something worth protecting.

taglist: @sleepykittyenergy @caffine-exe

taglist is open, comment on the masterlist if you want to be added <3

#gojo satoru #gojo x female reader #gojo smut #gojo fluff #gojo x reader smut #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk series

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dark-night-hero · 2 days ago

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Imagine being Caleb's non-mc significant other. Alpha/Omega verse. Part 2

Imagine Caleb always thought it would be you. From the very beginning, despite the complications of second gender, despite what society whispered with hushed cruelty, he never once doubted what he felt. You weren't just someone he loved. You were it. The constant. The calm in his storm. His gravity.

Imagine he never saw the absence of scent or the lack of designation as a void. To him, it was purity. Choice. He chose you. Every single day. Over expectations. Over tradition. Over his mother's arched brows and the backhanded compliments from those who called your bond 'experimental.'

Imagine they said it wouldn't last. He never listened. He loved you. Really loved you.

Imagine then came Resonance Week. Skyheaven's silver moon rose like a knife in the sky, and psychic pressure built across the island campus like a stormfront. The Academy issued suppressants, advised caution. Caleb thought he could handle it.

Imagine he told you to meet him in his room. Same as always. Same as safe. But instead of you... There was an Omega. Not just any Omega. Bred, tailored, reeking of pheromones so sweet and thick they turned the air to syrup. His door wasn't locked. That should've been the first sign something was wrong. By the time his instincts flared, it was too late.

Imagine he remembered the heat. Not yours. A voice calling his name. Yours. But he couldn't reach it. You.

Imagine then came black. Chemical restraint. Suppressants in his veins like frost. He woke up two days later in the infirmary, a soft hiss of IV drips and the muted hum of resonance fields whispering overhead.

Imagine the moment his eyes opened, he reached for you. "Where…?" His voice broke. Raspy. Barely human.

but Imagine you weren't there. Only a folded letter sat beside the bed. His name written in your hand. He stared at it too long. Touched it like it might bite. Then he read. And everything shattered.

Imagine denial. You couldn't be gone. You'd never leave him. You promised, both of you did, to make it through. To stand together against the weight of a world that didn't believe in what you had.

Imagine then came loss. Real, throat tightening, marrow deep. You left. You actually left him. Then came anger. White hot and blinding. How could you? How dare you leave after everything. After the battles you fought for each other, the blood and breath and time you'd given? He punched the wall. Screamed into nothing.

but Imagine, the rage didn't last. It never does. Because the truth was waiting, low and silent like a guilt that never needed to speak. He couldn't be angry with you. Not really. Not after what happened. Not after what he did.

Imagine he remembered it in pieces. The shove. Your voice. Your body crumpling against the wall. The way your voice cracked when you said his name. The war inside him. The loss in your eyes. He broke before you ever left. You just carried the pieces with you.

so Imagine he did what alpha's aren't trained for. He grieved.

Imagine he blamed the Omega. The society that built the system. His biology. His instincts. He blamed his mother most of all. For the pressure. The silence. The quiet war she waged on your existence like your love was a threat to their legacy.

Imagjne he stopped showing up to strategy briefings, to classes. His scores dropped. He didn't eat much. He barely spoke. The other Alphas noticed. Whispered. The Omegas whispered more. None of them mattered.

Imagine he hadn't just lost you. He lost his mate. His soulmate, regardless of biology, against every odd.

because Imagine, the moment he saw you bleeding in that room, not in body, but in trust, he knew. He was the storm. And you had been trying to hold him together with bare hands.

Imagine he visited the gate you left through once. Maybe twice. Maybe every night after lights out. The security cameras stopped tracking him after a while. Even Skyheaven gave him space to mourn.

Imagine they said it was just instinct. They said it wasn't his fault. But none of that mattered. Because he still saw your face when he closed his eyes. And every time he woke up, the first word on his lips was your name. You were gone. And he couldn’t follow. Because your letter wasn't a door. It was a grave.

Imagine Caleb standing in his room where you last said his name. Where your scentless presence still lingered in the way only love ever could. His medals hang untouched. His bed half made. A piece of paper folded twelve times, then unfolded twelve more, sits on his desk like a wound that won't close.

Imagine he picks it up. Reads it again. The words haven't changed. But he has. And still, part of him believes foolishly, selfishly, that maybe, just maybe… You'll come back.

Imagine that someday, if the stars align, the second gender stops mattering, and the world forgets its old hierarchies. He'll find you again. Not as an Alpha. Not as a weapon. But just as Caleb. Yours, always.

Imagine the last time someone saw him, it was near curfew. He was out by the old comms platform high enough to see the towers, the training fields, the edge of the sky.

Imagine he sat alone. Legs dangling. Boots tapping lightly against the metal ledge. He had the letter in his hands. Folded. Unfolded.

Imagine a cadet passed by. Caleb looked up and gave a small nod. A ghost of a smile. Nothing strange. Nothing loud. Just quiet.

Imagine then the wind picked up. Just enough to lift the paper from his hands. He didn't reach for it. The next morning, his room was still as ever. Nothing packed. No note. No request for transfer.

Imagine some say he left Skyheaven that night. Others think he was transferred somewhere far. Somewhere quiet. And some though, even though they don't say it out loud, wonder if maybe he just let go.

but Imagine no one knows for sure. It was hard to tell, really. Because some love stories don't end. They just disappear into silence.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025° pfff lmao.

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tobeholyistobeempty · 1 day ago

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part two / continuation to ‘immediately into dating, simon riley would buy you a gun.’

———————

simon doesn’t do panic. he doesn’t do “what if” in the way most people do.

simon does loadouts, contingency plans. redundancies. plans b, c, and d. war-game strategies for situations you haven’t even considered. you once joked that if aliens invaded he’d have a bunker prepped with oxygen tanks, thermal blankets, and stashes of your favourite tea.

he didn’t even laugh. just looked at you and said “third shelf. bottom left.”

that’s simon riley in a nutshell. the man you’ve grown to love more than you thought possible. so it’s no surprise when, a few months into his first deployment since moving in with you, he returns home with yet another gift. a plain black phone - matte black, weighty, no brand or ports or logos - just a long slim button along the left side.

you look at him as if he grew three heads, and earn an amused smirk for it.

“encrypted satellite uplink.” he explains, like that’s a thing you’ve heard before. “custom interface. only one number in it - mine.”

you blink at him. “you got me a burner bat-phone?”

he hums, then shrugs like it’s not the weirdest thing ever.

“gps auto-tracks if it’s turned on. hit the button on the side twice and it sends me a signal - transferable no matter where i am in the world. i’ll see location, coordinates, audio, front facing images. enough data f’me to paint the whole picture without you sayin a word.”

oh.

you exhale something shaky, mumble something like jesus simon - but nonetheless, you hear what he isn’t saying. he’s made it clear, from day one, that you being safe isn’t negotiable. and simon isn’t the man to leave anything to chance.

you understand it’s love, in the language he speaks best. preparation.

so then he runs you through it. how to use it, scenarios you might need it and how to remain calm while staring down the face of danger. gives you script suggestions and ways to talk yourself out of an ambush. he’s got an idea for every situation and a backup plan for each back up plan. you understand it’s the mind of a soldier. the way he’s been trained to be.

and when it does happen - some months and change into his second or third deployment - it doesn’t even feel real at first.

it’s late. you’d gone out to grab some takeout from a spot two blocks down. you don’t even question it anymore - don’t even think twice. you carry the phone in your pocket just like you carry the gun in your purse - knowing it tracks your location, knowing it sends a silent beacon straight to him if you double press the side button. you used to joke about him being paranoid, but simon isn’t paranoid. he’s a realist. a man who’s watched enough good people die to understand that bad things don’t wait for convenience. they wait for your hands to be full of takeout bags, your guard to be down, and your head to be elsewhere.

and that’s exactly how it goes.

it’s a shortcut you’ve taken a hundred times. the alley behind the restaurant that cuts straight to the other end of your neighbourhood. you’ve got headphones in and your hood up when you come face to face with a man standing dead centre of your path.

you clock him immediately. wide stance. twitchy energy. hand near his hip - not quite pulling a weapon, but not just scratching his ass either.

shit.

“evenin’,” he drawls with a toothless grin. “nice night, huh?”

you don’t respond. your mind is already going - whirling through all the things simon taught you. how to pretend. how to play a part so well you catch the catch off guard.

the man steps forward. “whatcha got on you?”

you exhale, steady. just like you’ve been taught - and then you smile. script selected and ready to play the part.

“careful,” you murmur. “you’re interfering with an ongoing operation.”

that gives him pause.

“operation?” he repeats, eyebrows notched.

you nod, slowly - turning your head only slightly, not taking your eyes off him, to nod toward the building behind you.

“undercover narcotics. been tracking cartel for the last two weeks. i’m wired, by the way.” you tap your hoodie. “whole conversations being recorded.”

he laughs, ugly, and pulls a knife out of his pocket.

“bullshit. give me the purse, lady.”

“okay, okay. sure.” you shrug, snuff down the panic, and work that training that was drilled into you. “sniper on the rooftop two buildings over says otherwise.”

“nice try.” he snorts and steps closer again, raising the knife a little higher. “ain’t no fuckin sniper.”

and that’s when you do it - two presses of your thumb on the side of the phone in your pocket. no sound, no light - but somewhere halfway across the world, simon riley is already moving.

the call comes three seconds later. you answer without taking your eyes off the man before you.

“sergeant.” simon grits out from the other end. “what’s your status.”

there’s noise behind him. a radio, chatter, chopper blades - yet his focus is entirely on you.

“got a civilian obstructing the path. attempted mugging with a concealed weapon. non responsive to verbal warnings. might need a threat escalation.”

a pause - then simon’s voice changes.

“copy that. sights locked, target acquired - middle aged male, five foot seven, green hoodie.” he says, like he’s in the middle of a fuckin battlefield, somehow detecting all of this from behind a five inch screen. you hear his gun cock. the man hears it too. “rounds chambered - if he reaches for you, we take the shot. confirm.”

the man’s face drops into a scowl. you smile wider.

“confirmed.” you reply.

“wh-who the fuck is that?” his hand falters. “what the fuck-“

simon doesn’t miss a beat.

“who i am doesn’t matter. what matters is your position, your movement profile, and the blood spatter trajectory once my round goes through your fuckin teeth.” he pauses, just for a moment. “you’ve got a daughter. five years old. get moving if y’wanna see her again.”

and it’s like a switch flips in the guy’s brain, because his whole posture changes. eyes darting to the rooftops. sweat prickling at his hairline. you don’t even have to reach for your gun because he’s already backing away.

how the fuck simon knew all that in a thirty second span is beyond you.

“fuckin’ - whatever, man. shit,” he mutters, turning on his heel and power-walking into the shadows.

you let out a breath once he’s gone - slow and long and completely in shock, and raise the phone to your ear.

“you still there?”

“always ‘ere, love,” simon murmurs. his voice coming through in something softer now. still tense, still locked in, but something in it cracks around the edges. “you alright?”

you nod even though he can’t see it, then realize that maybe he can.

“i am now, si.”

there’s a soft silence between you. weighted with everything he can’t do from across the globe.

then, quiet: “i shoulda been there.”

you clutch the phone tighter. pretend it’s his hand.

“simon,” you murmur, “you were.”

you walk home with the phone still pressed to your ear, and he stays on the line until your door’s locked, your shoes are off, and the food’s gone cold on the counter.

“hey,” you whisper into the speaker. “your sniper impression’s terrifying, by the way.”

a breath of a laugh - filled with all the relief that comes with it.

“nothin’ bout that was an impression, sweet’eart.”

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leislibrary · 2 days ago

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[skz] how they accidentally reveal your relationship

pairing: maknae line x reader hyung line here! genre: fluff, hints of angst wc: 2.8k, between 500 - 800 each

Han - on Bubble

“Hannie, are you aware you’re dating another idol?” Minho asks, eyes trained on his phone screen, legs thrown over Han’s lap.

“Yes, you’ve been my boyfriend for years now. Don’t tell Y/N,” Han remarks. He continues scrolling through his Bubble messages. He’s trying to respond to as many people as he can to make up for his recent inactivity.

“That too. But look,” Minho shoves his phone in Han’s face. There, on screen, a headline reads: HAN of Stray Kids Dating ITZY Member??

Han scoffs. Idols constantly have dating rumors about each other. Very rarely does it mean anything at all. In this case, a camera captured Han and Chaeryeong talking while waiting for their drinks from JYP’s cafe. The picture crops out Chan standing right next to Han.

At dinner that night, Seungmin asks, “Hey Han, do you think you can get us tickets to an ITZY concert soon?”

“Yeah!” Hyunjin chimes in, “I bet it would be so easy now that we have connections!”

“Haven’t you known Yeji longer than you’ve known us?” I.N laughs, earning a flick of water his way from Hyunjin. The table quickly descends into chaos as I.N. tries to hit Hyunjin back but misses and hits Changbin instead.

Nights like this are rare for them - being able to enjoy each other’s company without cameras documenting their group dynamics or worrying about their rigid schedules. It’s relaxing. Freeing.

Minho silently hands him a beer. Han accepts.

The night progresses in comfortability and laughter. The boys pile into the living room for a Tekken-tournament-slash-drinking game. Han scrolls through social media, sending you posts he knows will make you laugh.

He takes a sip from his third beer and opens Bubble again. He never finished answering everyone earlier.

An idea forms. Chan and Felix are great at recounting amusing stories or sharing their thoughts with Stay. Why can’t he do that too? He’s positive that his fans will appreciate him making light of the dating rumors.

He types:

Did you guys see I’m dating someone new? Apparently I’m close with ITZY hahaha I don’t think my girlfriend will be happy about it

He smiles and leans back - drinks affecting him more than he’d like to admit - and imagines your sweet laughter when he can tell you in person tomorrow. He loves the fact you never take rumors seriously. He loves how the silliness of some of them become jokes between you. He loves you.

The room is quieter than it should be. He opens one eye, and is met with seven pairs of eyes staring back at him.

“Hm?”

Chan speaks. “You told Bubble you have a girlfriend.”

“You have my Bubble?” Han unlocks his phone. Rereads the words he sent. I don’t think my girlfriend will be happy about it.

My girlfriend.

Everybody starts talking at once.

“I’m like 70% sure you can convince them you meant Minho!” “You should put your phone in a different room when you drink.” “You’re one to talk! Last week you stole my phone and posted my WORST picture ever!” “Yeah, but that was on purpose.” “Getting a new tattoo would distract people from this.” “Get a tattoo of Y/N’s face!!”

Han does not hear them.

My girlfriend.

Chan’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Have you and Y/N ever talked about going public?”

Silence. Again. Seven pairs of eyes on Han. Again.

Of course you’ve talked about it. He tried to convince you to hard launch by posting cosplays. You shut him down, and he made a huge show of how he loves you more than you love him.

You wanted to protect your privacy for a little longer. He would do anything you asked.

Except the one thing you asked, apparently. His breathing quickens. He doesn’t register Seungmin asking if he’s okay.

You’re going to break up with him. His careless words cost him the best thing he’s ever had.

His phone buzzes. On screen:

Y/Nie 🤍:

Baby I know you’re probably spiraling Chan texted me when you sent it I could never be mad at you for this I love you so much Granted, not the most ideal way to announce it Okay yeah you’re definitely spiraling …we can do your fuckass cosplay idea ONLY if it will help you feel better about this

He loves you.

Felix - Anniversary Dinner

Felix had insisted on taking you out for your one-year anniversary. He claimed he wanted to properly show you off - the most ”showing off” you two get is hurried moments backstage, fearful of lurking fans or the wrong person’s eyes on you.

Now, excitement overtakes nerves as you adjust the dress Felix bought you for the occasion. You can hardly even remember the last time you went out without wearing a random SKZ Staff lanyard and toting along a third member.

JYPE placed that safeguard - nobody would question why Felix was hanging out with staff and at least one of the boys.

Felix appears behind you in the mirror to wrap his arms around you. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning down and resting his head on your shoulder. His hair tickles your cheek. “Really beautiful,” he adds, dragging his eyes down your reflection.

Your eyes sparkle as you smile back at him. “I’m happy we get to do this.”

His fingers lace through yours. He places a soft kiss on your forehead, allowing you time to breathe in his cologne. Its scent reminds you of home. Of being in his arms.

“You’re sure nobody will recognize you?” You ask, worried about what his managers will say if one of their biggest idols’ relationship is unveiled through paparazzi photos. You can’t imagine they would be thrilled.

“The restaurant is dark, and I’ve booked us a private table. We should be fine,” he murmurs against your skin.

“What if we aren’t?”

He pulls away, keeping his body pressed against yours, to lock eyes with you. “We will be fine no matter what happens.” His eyes search yours, still seeing your hesitancy. “If ‘what happens’ is our relationship goes public,” he brushes some hair out of your face, “then the world will finally see how lucky I am.”

Dinner went better than you could have imagined. You hardly recall the food. Just the feeling of what it was like to be out with your boyfriend. To hold his hand. To laugh at his jokes. To admire him across the table.

To have people recognize you two as a couple in love, rather than writing you off as “an idol and his staff”.

You are still giddy about last night as you pad into the kitchen. Felix is already leaning on a counter, sipping coffee and scrolling his phone.

“Morning, baby,” he says.

You stop in your tracks. “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“You only call me normal pet names when something’s wrong.”

He sighs, taking a couple steps closer. “You’re too observant. It’s nothing bad, I promise.” He pauses, then adds, “Pookiebear.”

You lean into him. “What’s wrong?”

His chest rises and falls against your cheek when he sighs again. Wordlessly, he turns his phone to show you his screen.

An Instagram account you’ve never seen before has posted pictures of you two at dinner.

Felix lets you scroll through the photos at your own pace. Due to the angle they were taken at, most of them show the back of Felix’s head, with an unobstructed view of your face. You laughing. You mid-bite. You gazing at him like he hung the stars just for you. A couple towards the end capture his face as you leave.

He takes his phone back. “The good news is you look gorgeous in every single one.”

You remember one in which you overestimated how much pasta could fit in your mouth.

He continues. “The bad news is we couldn’t control how everyone sees my gorgeous girl for the first time.”

Your heart flutters at his words. You know this is a huge deal, and his company will be upset, but right now, leaning into him, all you can think about is how much you love him. You two will be okay no matter what, because in the end you will still have each other.

Seungmin shuffles into the kitchen, staring at his phone, and takes one look at you before deadpanning, “You should take smaller bites. This is gross to look at.”

Felix lets you go to chase him through the dorm - Seungmin’s screams echoing against your reflection on your life with Felix.

Seungmin - on a walk

You had a shit day.

A coworker spilled coffee on your white shirt. Your boss pushed up an already-impossible deadline. You had to cancel dinner with Seungmin the singular night this week he gets out at a reasonable hour. Public transportation shut down - seemingly just to make your day worse. Rain soaked you on your walk home.

Seungmin darts toward you when you push open the door to your apartment, dripping like a wet rat.

You smile weakly at him. “Forgot my umbrella,” your voice cracks, betraying any sense of humor you tried to muster.

“Oh, baby..” his voice trails off as he wraps you in his arms. “Let me take care of you.”

And he does.

He runs you a hot shower, puts your towel in the dryer so it will be warm and fluffy, and lights your favorite candle - the one he claims smells like the bottom of I.N’s shoe but keeps repurchasing for you anyway. He’s queuing up the next episode of your show when you step into the living room.

All the emotions you tampered down flood into you when you see him, perfect, waiting for you. Your heart clenches in your chest. Your shoulders shake, and before you know it, tears are streaming down your face as you sit down next to him.

Seungmin pulls you into him. “Hey, what’s wrong? I thought I did well,” he questions.

“You’re amazing. It’s everything else, I guess,” your voice shakes with the reply.

“It’s over now, baby. We can decompress - take all the time you need.” He rubs circles on your back, grounding you as you try to stop sobbing. You feel silly crying like this, but it’s hard to stop once you start. It has been so long since you cried, you’re not even sure what you’re crying about anymore.

“Hey, the rain stopped,” He brings his hand under your chin and gently pushes upwards, forcing you to look at him. He’s right - you no longer hear raindrops tapping against the window. “You want to go on a walk with me? The city will be dark and pretty. And you’re getting my favorite shirt wet.”

The fresh air will help. You nod.

The fresh air does help. Puddles reflect neon lights off the ground, and the air smells like rain. Hardly anybody else is out at this hour. It feels as if you and Seungmin have the whole city to yourself.

Seungmin keeps talking to lift your spirits. You’re walking hand-in-hand as he recounts how both Hyunjin and Han kept messing up the choreo during their practice today.

“Lee Know was getting so frustrated but taking it out on Hyunjin because you know he can’t stay angry with Han - even though Han was doing worse than Hyunjin. I thought Hyunjin would quit, honestly. But then, Lee Know missed a step and -”

“Seungmin??”

Both of you freeze.

“Oh my god! Look, it’s Seungmin from Stray Kids!!” a girl on the sidewalk screeches, followed by the sound of her slapping her friend’s arm.

You try to drop his hand. He squeezes yours tighter.

His management reminds you about the importance of secrecy every single time you see them. It was already risky just to hold hands in the first place, but continuing to do so when he’s approached by fans? They’ll kill you. It’s not even your fault.

The girls trot over and seem to notice you for the first time. Their squeals overlap, “OHMYGOD I love you!!!” coupled with “Isthisyourgirlfriend??”

“No,” you two reply in sync, well-rehearsed from practicing with his management team and other close calls. Except, this time, Seungmin is blowing right past “close call” territory.

He has not let go of your hand.

As Seungmin begins making conversation with the first girl, the other is staring at her phone, angling her camera towards where you two are connected. She’s filming. You pretend not to notice. Any attention you draw will make it worse when the video is inevitably posted.

Seungmin glances at you, then at the camera. He noticed too.

He rests his arm over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Eventually, finally, the girls leave. The girls never told you they were videoing, but it became exceedingly obvious the more comfortable they got with him. Seungmin never mentioned it, but he also never took his hands off you.

“What was that?” You ask when they’re out of earshot. “Your company will have a heart attack when that’s posted.”

Seungmin shrugs. “I wanted them to know I’m yours,” he states simply. “Besides, I don’t want JYP to control my personal life. He does not make good decisions.”

I.N - Backstage

The atmosphere is addicting. The electric air. The screaming fans. Your boyfriend on stage like he was born for it. No matter how many concerts you attend, you always crave more when it’s over.

The crowd surrounding you cheers as they finish their last encore. The group will stay on for a bit after the song is over, but you want to be waiting for your boyfriend as soon as he gets off stage. No matter what time they end, he’s always practically vibrating with energy after performing - especially to sold-out stadiums.

You push through the crowd, making your way towards a backstage entrance. Along the way, a group of girls is holding up signs, shouting for your boyfriend’s attention. You glance up at him just in time to see him smile back at you. The girls behind you go crazy.

You fish a backstage pass I.N gave you long ago out of your bag, but the familiar security guard just smiles and waves you through. Since they are playing at a baseball stadium, this “backstage” is still outdoors, but mostly hidden from the seats.

Quiet chaos awaits you. Staff is rushing around, trying to get everything finalized in their dressing rooms, and for the rides back to the hotel, and to make sure everyone has food after the show. The stadium’s staff is planning out the logistics of doing this all over again tomorrow.

You find a quiet spot in eyesight of where your boyfriend will be coming back to you. A cool breeze blows against your back.

Soon enough, the boys are filing off stage, each causing the entire stadium to cheer with their unique sign-offs projected onto screens.

The energy transforms into full-blown chaos in an instant. Hyunjin jumps up and down, unable to contain his energy. Seungmin dramatically collapses and shouts that he can’t get up for another week. Changbin picks him up bridal-style and twirls him until Seungmin screams.

I.N appears. His eyes search for you, a smile overtaking his face when he spots you. He sprints over, barrelling into you and lifting you up to avoid falling. You still almost lose your balance to avoid crashing into Chan.

“Baby!! Did you like it?? Did you have a good time??”

Your giggle matches his own as he sets you down, still holding you close and pressing his forehead against yours. You squeal at his sweatiness, but that only pushes him to try to smush your faces together as much as humanly possible.

With everything happening around you, you two don’t notice the fans filing out of the venue beside you.

The clamor grows when fans realize it’s I.N that’s holding you like he never wants to leave.

I.N leans in and kisses you hungrily, exerting some leftover energy into showing his love.

Chatter erupts into screams. He pulls away and stares into your eyes. A wall of sound blocked you two from even hearing each other.

Through the corner of your eye, you can see the band members still in the vicinity all staring at the scene: You and I.N, holding each other, all smiles, while an audience grows in the stands behind you.

629 notes · View notes

holyblonded · 2 days ago

Text

feel no pain | alexia putellas

pairings: alexia putellas x sister!reader

summary: after being publicly called out, alexia finally tries to redeem herself and mend your relationship

universe: bear’s/cloud nine universe

warnings: this whole series is just angsty tbh

notes: usually i really look over for grammar mistakes but i have no more adhd meds so its going to have to wait. on the bright side, the lack of adhd meds helped me finish this!

It had been a week since the barbecue. A week since you said the words that, no matter how many times Alexia replayed them, still made her chest crack open like a fault line.

“I’m actually done this time.”

That sentence hadn’t left her head. Neither had the rest of that night.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She’d only stepped outside to get some air after Olga stormed off. After Olga’s words landed like gut punches she couldn’t defend herself from. But then she heard you. Through the open window, in the dim orange glow of the patio light. She heard everything.

"No more crying boohoo for her, no more saving seats, no more texts, nothing. I'm not going to waste any more time or tears on a person who has made it obvious she doesn't care for me." Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. Brutal in its finality. Alexia had always known how to read a tone, and this wasn’t anger. It was grief with the funeral already held. You had buried her.

Alba had been crying. Softly, but uncontrollably. Eli looked like someone had kicked her in the gut.

And then the voice from the phone. Calm, grounding, and most of all gentle. “I understand you, Bear. But I need you to take a deep breath for me.”

Alexia flinched. Bear. She hadn’t heard anyone say that out loud in god knows how long. She was the one who gave you that name. When you were little and grumpy and always stomping around the house in your puffy winter jacket. Mi Osita. Her little polar bear. She’d thought it was hers… and now someone else said it. Someone who knew how to make you breathe again.

You quieted at the voice. You relaxed. Not for her. Not for your sister. But for JuJu, who didn’t even have to be in the same room to get you to slow your heart rate.

“You’re doing great, Bear. Can you give the phone to Alba or Eli so they can tell me the full story?”

You passed the phone like you’d done it a thousand times before. Your hands still trembling. And when Alba reached for your face to ground you, Alexia saw it—the way you melted into her hands like a child desperate to feel safe. “Calm down, Osita,” Alba whispered, her voice catching. “Sigan mis respiraciones.” (Follow my breaths)

You followed. Inhale. Exhale.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” Alba whispered again.

That was the part that gutted Alexia. Worse than anything she’d heard you say. Protect you. From her… from your own sister.

Now, back on the training pitch at Ciutat Esportiva, Alexia felt like she was moving underwater. Everything was too loud and too quiet all at once. Her touches were off. Her passes too soft. Every time she ran, her legs betrayed her.

“Ale,” Irene said gently, jogging beside her as they finished a rondo. “You good?”

Alexia nodded without meeting her eyes. “Fine.”

“You sure?” Irene asked again, tone more direct this time. “You’ve been off all week. Want to talk?”

“I said I’m fine,” Alexia snapped, sharper than intended. She didn’t look back as she jogged toward her water bottle, wiping sweat off her brow like it might erase the tension building under her skin.

Irene stayed put for a beat, then sighed and let her go.

The break came, and just as Alexia finally started to breathe, Vicky bounded over, Salma and Sydney right behind her, grinning like they’d just walked out of a movie premiere.

“Oh my God,” Vicky said, beaming. “Did you see the new Gatorade promo? Your sister’s flavor? It’s actually so good.”

“She gave me a case!” Salma chimed in. “Persimmon Rush. Who even thinks of that? It’s fire.”

Sydney laughed, nudging Alexia lightly. “She said it was inspired by JuJu’s favorite fruit in an interview. They’re so corny. I love them.”

Vicky nodded, face lit up with that kind of bright, infectious admiration. “She’s seriously killing it. Like, I knew she was good, but she’s becoming an icon. That new Nike line? Crazy.”

“Did you see the TikTok with the mini Bear doing the Putellas 1080 on a trampoline?” Sydney added. “Half the Olympic team stitched it. Bear reposted it with the caption ‘She stuck the landing better than me.’ She’s hilarious.”

They laughed and glowed, while all Alexia could do was smile. Tight, tired, and hollow.

Because she knew how cool you were. How brilliant. How rare. She’d known it since the first time she saw you land a spin in the backyard with no pads on, just grit and a scraped chin.

But she hadn’t been there for any of it. She hadn’t reposted the Nike line. Hadn’t congratulated you on the Gatorade deal. Hadn’t even watched the full run that won you Olympic gold.

And now? Now, she had to hear about your victories from her teammates. Her teammates who had somehow become your fans.

“I think she’s gonna win another one,” Salma said, thoughtful. “Like another gold. She’s built different.”

“She’s been through hell. That injury was tough,” Vicky murmured. “And she’s still the best.”

Alexia nodded again, but it was just muscle memory now. Her throat had closed. Her stomach churned.

She didn’t say anything. Because what could she say? I missed it. I chose silence. I let someone else become her safe place.

They kept chatting, buzzing, praising you, and all Alexia could think about was how you used to save her a seat at your high school showcases. How you used to wait by the tunnel after her matches, holding signs in the stands. How you used to run into her arms yelling, “Did you see me? Did you see me?”

You didn’t ask that anymore. Now, you had someone else waiting at the finish line. Now, someone else called you Bear. And Alexia, she had only herself to blame.

It’s been a week since the barbecue. A week since you said I’m done. A week since you told her, told the entire family, that you were finished chasing shadows. Since Eli cried. Since Alba whispered ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.’ Since you saw the look on Alexia’s face crack for the first time in years—confusion, then denial, then something that almost looked like guilt.

But you didn’t wait around for it to turn into anything real. Because you’re done.

Now, it’s the beginning of a new semester. You’re back at USC, off campus now. Finally moved into the apartment you and JuJu signed the lease for in last semester. It’s cozy, tucked just behind the campus hub, with one master bedroom, a guest bedroom, and two and a half bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and exactly one miniature couch that you had custom made for Deuce the Frenchie.

Deuce, for all his snorting, grumbling, muscled-up glory, is 100% your dog now. He sleeps in your bed, waits in your side of the bathroom, and barks at JuJu when she tries to steal your hoodie (her hoodie back) or play fights with you. She pretends to be annoyed, but secretly, she loves it. Loves that the three of you feel like a little world. A little family. One that shows up for each other.

Your apartment has become the official hangout spot for half of USC Athletics. Someone from the basketball team is always on the balcony, someone from the snow team always raiding the fridge. The whiteboard in the kitchen is always full of tournament dates and new potential smoothie combinations. The music is always loud. The air smells like fresh laundry, eucalyptus, and a hint of saffron. And your bedroom—you and JuJu’s bedroom—is a safe place now. No ice packs. No meds. Just you, JuJu, and Deuce, grunting in his sleep between you.

Life is good. No—life is great.

And then comes the preseason media panel. You’re not cleared to compete yet, but the university still asks you to speak—Olympic gold medalist, comeback kid, viral trick inventor, snowboarding’s darling. You don’t mind. You’ve done panels before. You know how to smile on cue. You put on your team jacket, Persimmon Rush patch stitched into the arm, adjust your gold ‘J12’ necklace to fall perfectly, and take your seat under the lights.

The first few questions are easy.

How’s the knee?

“Strong. We’re ahead of schedule.”

How’s it feel to be back on campus?

“Warmer than Switzerland. Colder than Spain.”

What’s your goal for the season?

“Land clean. And have fun.”

Then comes the question about Alexia.

The reporter phrases it casually, like it’s a throwaway. “Your sister Alexia is having a great start to her season with Barcelona. Do you two still keep in touch?”

You smile, thin and practiced. “We’re both busy, but I always hope she’s doing well.”

The next reporter presses it, just slightly,

“Any chance we’ll see her cheering you on this year?”

You nod vaguely. “She’s got a packed schedule. We’ll see.”

And then comes the third one. The one that makes your throat dry. That makes your hands curl slightly in your lap.

“Would you say you come from a competitive family? You are the sister of an incredible soccer player.”

You laugh. Just once. Sharp and low. Then you smile again, but it’s not sweet. It’s bitter. Bone-dry. “Some compete,” you say, voice like glass, “and some disappear. Flip a coin.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. A quiet, surprised chuckle from your coach, who steps in quickly, “Let’s move to the next question—maybe about NIL deals or community outreach…”

But it’s too late. The quote is already out there. By the time you get home that night, the clip has gone everywhere.

JuJu’s curled up on the couch in one of your hoodies, legs under a blanket, Deuce snoring at her feet, SportsCenter on mute and an NBA game running on her iPad. She looks up the second she hears the door unlock.

“Hey, Bear,” she says, her voice warm, familiar, soft.

You don’t even answer. Just drop your bag to the floor, shuffle toward the couch, and throw yourself directly into her arms.

She catches you instantly, wrapping her arms around your back, and lets you bury your face in her neck.

“You saw it,” you mumble, already groaning.

“I did,” she says. “TikTok says three million views. Instagram… I stopped counting. ESPN is having a field day.”

You groan louder. “I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t’ve said anything. I was tired. I was sore. And I hate those chairs—they’re always built for people with normal knees. No athlete has normal knees.”

JuJu hums and chuckles at your last statement, but doest’t argue. Just runs her fingers through your hair.

For a while, it’s quiet. The only sounds are the low buzz of the TV, the soft flick of her nails against your scalp, the way your breathing starts to slow in the circle of her arms.

Then she says, quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you do. But it’s hard. It always is. Talking about her.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” you whisper eventually. “I was just tired. I’m always tired when it comes to her. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

JuJu brushes her thumb across your jaw.

“You didn’t make a scene,” she says. “You told the truth.”

You lift your head. Meet her eyes.

And then it spills. Quietly. Like a cut reopening.

“I used to lie for her,” you whisper. “All the time. In interviews. To my teammates. Even to my coaches. I used to say, ‘We’re just busy,’ or, ‘We’re super close, just private.’ I thought if I kept saying it out loud, it’d eventually be true.”

JuJu doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“And then I stopped lying,” you go on. “And it got worse. The silence. The distance. The way she only remembered me when there were cameras. Or when someone asked. Or when it benefited her.”

Your voice shakes. “And I hate that I still care. I hate that I still check her stories. That I still wonder if she saw mine. I hate that part of me still hopes she’ll text.”

JuJu pulls you in tighter.

You bury your face in her hoodie again. “I don’t want to want her. I just want to be over it. Over her.”

A beat. And then JuJu whispers, “You will be.”

“How?”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, sure.

“Because you’re already doing it. Every day. With every medal, every rep, every laugh, every new beginning. You’re healing. And she can’t take that from you.”

You nod. Tears sliding down now.

“And if you ever get tired again,” JuJu says, kissing your forehead, “you can borrow some of my strength. I’ve got plenty.”

You laugh through your tears. “That’s so corny.”

She grins. “Shut up, you love it.”

“I really do.”

And just like that, you exhale. For the first time since the barbecue, your chest feels light again.

You don’t exactly know what started it. Maybe it was the long day. Maybe it was your sore knee. Maybe it was the emotional whiplash of the preseason panel and a flood of DMs afterward, all asking some variation of “But how are things with Alexia now?” Or maybe it was just the damn box sitting on your kitchen counter.

You’re standing there, soaked from the rain, half out of your hoodie. Deuce, equally soaked, at your side staring at the package like it barked at him first.

JuJu walks in, towel slung around her neck, fresh from lifting. She pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene. Her drenched girlfriend, her drenched, judgmental dog, and the (surprisingly dry) unopened package.

“Okay, what’s going on?” she says, amused. “You and Deuce look like you’re about to interrogate that box.”

You exhale slowly. “It was waiting for me at the training center.”

JuJu frowns and walks over. “USC Athletics delivered it to you?”

You nod. “They said it was dropped off earlier this week. No note. Just my name. But… it’s from her.”

JuJu tilts her head. “From your sister?”

You nod again, tighter this time. “She sent it there because Alba wouldn’t give her my address.”

JuJu’s face hardens just a little. “Okay. That’s… weird.”

“It’s so weird,” you mutter. “It’s awkward. It’s pathetic. I don’t even know what she wants me to do with it.”

JuJu puts a hand on the counter beside yours. “Want me to open it?”

“No.”

There’s a long pause. The box sits there between you and her like it knows what it’s about to do. Eventually, JuJu gives you a pep talk. Gentle, loving, steady. And somehow, you find yourself opening the flap. Inside is a jersey… her jersey. The new Barça kit. Signed. Folded perfectly. No note. No message. Just a signature across the number.

You stare at it. Your breath catches in your throat. “She signed it,” you whisper, stunned. “Like… like I’m a fan.”

JuJu steps closer. “That’s not—”

“This is something you give a Make-A-Wish kid,” you snap, voice cracking, “not your sister.”

You stumble back from the counter, chest heaving, and collapse onto the floor. The tile is cold. Your whole body shakes. It’s too much.

JuJu drops down next to you in a heartbeat, arms circling your shoulders. “Breathe, Bear. Breathe.”

But you’re already breaking. Sobbing into her chest, your hands balled into fists.

“She doesn’t get it,” you cry. “She never gets it. This isn’t an apology. It’s an autograph.”

JuJu holds you tighter, and you feel her press a kiss to your forehead.

“She’s trying in the only way she knows how,” she murmurs, “but it’s not the way you need.”

You don’t respond. You just cry harder.

Three days later, Alba sends you a screenshot. Alexia’s story.

A throwback photo of the two of you as kids. You’re maybe seven so she’s eighteen.

She’s holding your hand. You’re both in matching Barça shirts. It was the day she signed her senior contract with Barcelona.

No tag. No caption. Just the image.

“She posted this today,” Alba texts. “I think it’s her way of reaching out.”

You stare at it. You don’t respond. You don’t repost it. You don’t like it. You don’t message her. You check your Instagram and see she’s followed you again. You don’t follow back.

You’re done mistaking crumbs for love. You’re done hoping passive efforts mean anything.

She can follow you all she wants. It doesn’t mean she’s behind you. Not anymore.

Your comeback becomes official on a cloudy Thursday afternoon in early March. You’ve known for weeks, it’s been a slow buildup of PT milestones, check-ups, internal sign-offs, but now it’s public. The Royal Spanish Winter Sports Federation posts a sleek announcement:

“She’s back. Olympic gold medalist and reigning X Games champion “La Ossa” returns to snow competition. Cleared. Competing. Chasing another title at X Games.”

You don’t even plan on posting anything. But your Nike rep texts you and your agent says, “It’s good for the brand.” So you do.

It’s not dramatic, just a photo. You in your new snow gear, goggles pulled up to your forehead, board propped under your arm, a tiny scar from childhood visible under your reflective goggles.

The caption reads: “Let’s ride.”

It takes only six minutes to go viral. Your phone explodes. DMs, tags, texts from journalists, retweets from sports outlets. RFEA puts you on their story, and ESPN picks up the post before lunch.

But it’s not just them. Your teammates from USC and Spain post it. So do JuJu’s teammates—her basketball girls, her trainers, even her media intern. They tag it with bear emojis and write things like “Let’s go legend” and “She’s really HIM.”

JuJu reposts it with a caption that just says: “She never left.” And then adds an Instagram Story of you holding Deuce like a baby with: “She’s still taking this deadbeat dog with her tho.”

And then there’s Alba, who posts a three-photo carousel. One of you snowboarding as a kid, one of you holding your gold medal in Beijing, and the final one, taken just months ago, of you walking unassisted out of the rehab clinic. Her caption says, “My baby girl. You were always coming back.”

You almost cry at that one… almost.

But what catches you off guard are the reposts that start rolling in from players you didn’t expect. Irene Paredes. Marta Torrejón. Aitana. Then the newer ones. Vicky López tags you and writes, “My role model.” Salma reposts with a flex emoji and says, “The real GOAT.” Sydney reposts a story from your X Games run last year, the one you landed that impossible frontside 1080, and just types, “Insane.” Even Jana reposts with a simple “Welcome back, Bear 🐻” Even though you’ve only met her once or twice at a Barça women’s dinner. And then the headlines start rolling in. ESPN España. MARCA. Mundo Deportivo.

“The Return of a Champion: La Ossa’s Road to Redemption.”

“Two Sisters, One Legacy: The Putellas Bloodline Reigns Supreme. La Ossa and La Reina.”

“Snow and Grass: The Putellas Dynasty Across Sports.”

You stare at that last one and feel something curl bitter and sharp in your stomach. Dynasty. Legacy. Bloodline.

You read the headline again. Your name next to hers. The sister who ignored your injury. Who gave you a signed jersey like a fan. The one who said in Vogue that she didn’t really follow snowboarding.

And before you can think twice, you go on your story. Black background. White text.

“I’m not sharing a headline with someone who won’t even say my name.”

You hit post. Your phone lights up again. People screenshot it. Fans repost it. One TikTok about it hits a million views by the next day.

You don’t care. You’re not here to make peace. Not anymore.

You don’t hear from her directly, not at first. Until the voicemails start.

She doesn’t text. She doesn’t DM. She doesn’t email. Just these shaky, stumbling voicemails. Sent in the middle of the night. Always under a minute.

You don’t listen to the first one. Or the second. Or the third.

But then there’s a day. A day where practice sucks. Where you push yourself too hard. Where your coach says, “Do it again,” and it slices through your chest. Where JuJu’s gone for an away game in Arizona and Deuce keeps bringing you his toy like you’re supposed to fix everything.

You make it home. You shower, only manage to eat three spoonfuls of plain, cold rice before get in bed with Deuce tucked against your ribs and finally, you press play.

Alexia’s voice crackles into your ears. She sounds… tired. Smaller than you’ve ever heard her. “I know you don’t want to hear from me. I wouldn’t either. But I—I’m proud of you, Mi osita. I always was. I just didn’t know how to love you right. I thought keeping my distance was… safe. For you. For me. But it was cowardly. I know that now. I missed everything and that’s on me. Not you. It was never you. I love you, Osita.”

You lie there, still as stone. The voicemail ends. The silence afterward is suffocating. You don’t move.

Then, slowly, your face crumples. Your hands come up to your mouth and you sob. Silent, wracking, body-breaking sobs. The kind that make your chest ache and your spine tremble. You curl in on yourself like it’ll help. Like it’ll make the past easier to hold.

Deuce shifts, curling tighter into you, licking the tears that slide down your chin, not having the strength to push him away. But you don’t call back—you can’t call back.

Because apologies don’t erase absences. And love doesn’t fix the damage when it’s said too late.

She left you in the dark for too long. And you’re only now learning how to find the light without her.

Alexia opens the door expecting warmth. She’s always expected that from her mother, even when she didn’t deserve it. Even now, with the gaping silence between her and her sister, she thinks that maybe Eli has come to soothe it over. To tell her it’ll be fine, that time will patch it all up. That Bear is dramatic. That she’ll come around.

But one look at Eli’s face tells her otherwise.

She doesn’t step forward. She doesn’t kiss her cheek. She doesn’t carry a tray of leftover tarta de Santiago or hum in that way that used to mean comfort. No. Today, she looks like a woman on a mission. Sharp, stern, and most of all tired.

And Alexia suddenly feels ten years old again, like she’s about to get scolded for breaking something fragile.

“¿Quieres pasar?” Alexia asks hesitantly, moving aside. (Do you want to pass?)

Eli nods once, then walks in. They sit on opposite sides of the room. The silence is heavy. It buzzes in Alexia’s ears. She fidgets, unsure whether to offer tea or brace for a storm.

Eli doesn’t make her wait long. “You know,” she begins, her voice quiet but laced with steel, “she used to sleep on the floor with your jersey.”

Alexia’s stomach drops.

“She was younger. Maybe nine? Ten? She’d fold it like it was sacred. Wouldn’t even let me wash it. Just hugged it like it was a lifeline.”

Alexia closes her eyes, pain blooming in her chest.

Eli leans forward, eyes fixed. “Now she sleeps beside a girl who loves her better than you ever did.”

It lands like a punch to the gut. Alexia’s breath catches. Her mouth opens but she has no defense, no shield, no way to soften the truth. She stares at the floor, shame settling on her shoulders like a second skin.

“I’m trying,” she says finally. “I’m trying to fix it. I’ve been sending things. I followed her again. I left her voicemails. I posted that photo…”

“Do you think that’s enough?” Eli cuts in, her voice rising—not loud, but sharp like glass. “Do you think that erases everything? The birthdays you forgot? The interviews where you pretended she didn’t exist? The months you let go by without so much as a text?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Alexia whispers, her voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t,” Eli says. “That’s the point.”

Alexia looks up, eyes shining. “I want her back. I want to be her sister again. I know I messed up. I know I hurt her. But I miss her. I miss—” her voice breaks. “I miss the way she used to look at me. Like I was someone worth being proud of.”

Eli’s face softens just slightly, but she doesn’t let up.

“You need to understand something, hija. You don’t get to decide when you want to be a sister. She’s not a porch light waiting to be turned on whenever you finally feel like coming home.”

Alexia blinks fast, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“She is fire,” Eli continues, firm now, eyes burning. “And you left her in the cold.”

Alexia looks away. Her hands tremble in her lap. She presses her palms together like maybe she can keep herself from falling apart.

“She has overcome more than you know,” Eli says, softer now, but no less fierce. “That injury nearly broke her. The press wanted her to be you. Everyone wanted her to fail so they could say she was a mistake. But she didn’t break. She rose. She is rising. She has a girlfriend who adores her, teammates who protect her, and friends who know her heart better than you ever bothered to learn. I am part of the blame. Staying silent for so long, letting her hurt that long.”

Alexia says nothing. She can’t. Her throat is tight. Her vision blurs. All she can think of is the sound of your voice in the conversation she wasn’t meant to hear. “No more saving seats. No more texts. I’m not wasting another tear on her.”

Eli stands. “You want to fix this?” she says. “Give her space. Don’t corner her. Don’t use the press. Don’t make passive attempts and call them effort.”

Alexia wipes her eyes quickly, silently.

Eli steps toward the door, then pauses. “She doesn’t hate you, Alexia. That’s what makes it worse. She still loves you. Deep down. But she doesn’t trust you with that love anymore. And you’re going to have to earn it back inch by inch.” She opens the door, then turns over her shoulder. “And if you can’t do that with patience and humility, don’t do it at all.”

Alexia stands in the quiet of her apartment, her jersey still folded on the couch, a photo of you both as children face-down on her desk. She walks over, picks it up, stares at the grainy image. Your little body wrapped in her arms, eyes wide, grin lopsided. She clutches the frame to her chest and finally cries. Not for what she’s lost. But for what she gave away.

Alexia sits in the dark of her apartment, shoulders curled in like she’s trying to protect herself from the weight of her own guilt. She has a Champions League game is in two days, but she can’t focus. Every time she closes her eyes, she doesn’t see the pitch. She sees you. She sees the version of you that no longer looks at her like she hung the stars. Reminding her of the fact that it wasn’t always like this. It used to be you and her against the world.

Fourteen-year-old Alexia chased a giggling toddler across the backyard.

You were three, cheeks flushed with excitement, oversized Barça kit practically swallowing your tiny frame. You’d just managed to tap the ball past her and into the miniature goal she set up earlier that day, a feat you celebrated like you’d just won the World Cup.

“I scored! I scored, Lexi!” you shouted, arms raised like a superhero.

She laughed, pure, delighted laughter that echoed through the warm Mollet air. “You did, Osita! Golazo!”

You ran in circles, mimicking her own goal celebrations. She caught you mid-lap, scooping you into the air, spinning you around while you shrieked with joy.

“Lexi, I’m flying!”

“Of course you are, Bear. You’re unstoppable.”

She held you close after that spin, your forehead pressed against hers. Your curls were wild. Your grin was missing two baby teeth. She kissed your nose.

Back then, you were her shadow. Her little bear. She used to call you that every day—Osita when you were sweet, Bear when you had your little temper tantrums. She taught you to dribble before you could spell your name. You wore her old cleats like they were glass slippers. You loved her like she was the sun.

Two years later. You were five. A small pink bike with tassels sat on the front driveway, glinting in the afternoon light.

Alexia knelt beside it, one hand steadying the handlebars, the other resting on your helmeted head.

“I don’t want to fall,” you said softly, eyes wide and uncertain.

“You won’t,” she promised. “Because I’ll be right here.”

“You’re sure?”

She held out her pinky. “I promise. Pinky promise.”

You wrapped yours around hers. “With the kiss,” you whispered.

She smiled and leaned in, kissed your knuckle. “Con el beso.” (With the kiss)

Then you climbed on, wobbled, and cried out as the bike tilted. But she was there. Always there.

Her hands gripped the back of your seat as you steadied. She ran beside you the entire way down the street, breathless and beaming when you made it to the end without falling.

“I did it, Lexi! I did it!”

“You did,” she laughed, pulling you into her arms, heart thudding with pride. “I told you I’d be there.”

And you whispered into her ear, small and soft and certain, “Never leave me, okay?”

She squeezed you tighter. “Never.”

Then came the night everything changed.

You were seven. The house was quiet, painfully so. The kind of quiet that follows death like a shadow. Your father had passed two weeks ago, and though people still dropped off flowers and food, the visits had slowed. The once warm dishes were cold now. The grief was heavier.

Alexia was in her room when she heard the knock.

“Lexi?” your voice was barely audible.

She opened the door to find you in your pajamas, clutching a stuffed polar bear, tears lining your lower lashes.

“Osita,” she whispered, heart crumbling. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t sleep,” you said. “I miss Papi.”

Alexia dropped to her knees and pulled you in. You didn’t sob. You were past sobbing. This grief was quieter, deeper. The kind that lived in your bones.

She carried you to her bed, tucked you beneath her blanket, pressed her forehead to yours.

“He’s watching over us,” she whispered. “Always. You know that, right?”

“Like a guardian angel?” you asked.

“Exactly,” she said, brushing your hair from your eyes.

You sniffled. “Do you think he’d be proud of me?”

Alexia’s voice cracked. “He’s already proud, Bear. So proud.”

Then came your whisper. “Will you always be here for me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Always.”

“Promise?”

She held out her pinky, lips trembling. “Pinky promise.”

You linked yours with hers. “With a kiss.”

She kissed it, sealing it. And in the darkness, you finally slept.

Now. Alexia stares at her own reflection in the dark window of her apartment. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her heart is shattered. She broke every promise. She wasn’t there. Not when you moved into college. Not when you stood on that podium, medal around your neck, tears in your eyes as the national anthem played. Not when you tore your ACL. Not when you called her name through silence and she didn’t answer.

She let the press get between you. Let pride stand where love used to be. She let the idea of who she thought you should be ruin the chance to celebrate who you became.

And now, she has voicemails you won’t answer, throwback photos you don’t repost, a sister who used to sleep beside her—who now barely breathes in the same world.

“She’s not a porch light waiting to be turned on,” Eli had said. “She is fire. And you left her in the cold.”

Alexia curls her knees to her chest. She thinks of the jersey she sent—the stupid, signed jersey that felt more like a pity gift than anything meaningful. She didn’t mean it that way. She just…she didn’t know what to send. So she defaulted to distance, to impersonality, because getting too close meant reckoning with the years she spent failing you.

She remembers that voicemail she left. “I know you don’t want to hear from me. But I’m proud of you. I always was. I just didn’t know how to love you right.”

But the silence that followed said everything. Because love too late isn’t love at all. It’s regret. And Alexia Putellas has never known failure quite like this. Not on the pitch. Not in the spotlight. Only here, in the wreckage of a promise sealed with a kiss and a pinky. Only here, in the silence you left behind.

The event is loud, polished, over-produced in the way all Nike events are. Flashing lights, pristine backdrops, branded hydration stations and photo ops and camera crews lingering near every smiling athlete like moths to flame. You’re used to it now. Used to the attention, the posture, the grace required of you. You’re here for a good cause. You’re also here because your contract says you have to be.

JuJu’s off giving an interview on the far side of the room, charming the press in her calm, confident way. You can hear her laugh from where you stand, and it grounds you like it always does. She’s why you came. She’s why you stayed. She’s why you haven’t collapsed under the weight of everything else.

You’re idly sipping from a sparkling water bottle, scrolling through your phone to avoid small talk, when something shifts. You feel it before you see it—a sharp, gut-deep twinge like a storm moving in. You look up.

Alexia is across the room. She looks different. Not in the way time changes a person, but in the way regret lives on the face. There’s no smugness in her. No arrogance. Her shoulders are tight. Her expression is subdued, worn down by the ache she’s been carrying. Her usual command of a room is gone. She doesn’t glow here.

She looks… human. Small, almost. And heartbreakingly quiet.

She’s standing beside a Nike rep, but she’s not talking. She’s just watching you. Carefully. Softly. Not like she’s owed anything. Not like she expects a reunion or a smile. Just like someone who’s been hungry for your face and has finally found it in the wild.

You lock eyes. Time stops yet the room spins. The crowd fades and the music dulls.

Your chest tightens instantly. There’s a second—a flicker—where something in you wants to go to her. Wants to walk over, like you used to when you were little and got scared in a crowd. Like the part of you that will always remember her piggyback rides and pinky promises and the way her arms felt like home.

But then, you remember everything else. Every silence. Every unanswered text. Every birthday missed. Every time she talked about you like you were a stranger. Every passive attempt to fix something she shattered.

You remember her interview. “We don’t talk much.”

You remember the jersey. No note. Just a signature. Like she was sending memorabilia, not reaching for a sister.

You remember the voicemail. The one you listened to when you were raw and hurting and alone. The one that said ‘I didn’t know how to love you right.’

She nods. It’s small. Barely there. Not a plea. Not an apology. Just… an offering. A gesture that says I see you.

Your throat closes. You almost nod back…almost.

But then you take a breath and step away. One foot in front of the other. Back straight. Chin up.

You don’t look back. Because love, once, might have pulled you toward her. But you’ve learned that survival sometimes means walking away from the people who made the fire feel like home just so they could burn you in it.

It takes everything in you not to cry.

Alexia watches you go. Her hands tighten into fists at her sides, then slowly unclench. She doesn’t chase after you. She doesn’t make a scene. Maybe once, she would’ve tried to save face, spin it, make you the one who couldn’t forgive. But not now.

Now, she just stands there, watching the space you leave behind. Like she’s realizing all over again that the worst part of losing you wasn’t the fall out—it was knowing she was the one who let you fall.

And that this time? You didn’t even ask her to catch you.

#alexia putellas x platonic!reader #alexia putellas x sister!reader #alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #woso community #woso x platonic!reader #woso fic #woso x reader #juju watkins x reader #·˚ ༘ cloud nine

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lighting-and-shadow · 2 days ago

Text

Ikigai, Part 11

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Trigger Warning: suicide ideation

Part 10

You go through the motions on your ride back to Linkon. Out the airship, to the bus stop, to the train station. None of them are you fully present. You’re a machine, moving and getting through what’s happening.

Miss Hunter is the opposite. Fully aware of the movement of anything and everything. Squeezing your forearm in her hands in a death grip. Her soul shackes. Her thread to Colonel Xia trembles especially.

You want to comfort her. To take her into your arms and shield her from the world until you return to safety. Until you can take her to Sylus, her soulmate and the only one who can provide her real help. But your mind is consumed by fog.

Fog in the shape of Undertaker Rafia. Her black hair and black horns that occasionally flicker. Her deathly pale skin, so pale you can see her veins. Her simple, yet elegant, suit, neatly pressed and not a wrinkle in sight.

What stood out to you most about her was the simple silver band on her finger. A wedding ring. Something you’ve always thought impossible for people like you and her. Something you thought those born without soulmates couldn’t have.

Marriage. A happy one, judging by her soul.

Because even without a thread attached to that soul, you can still read it. Still hear it and the songs and wants and needs it sings. Songs of happiness. Songs of bliss. Songs of a man of sunshine she loves deeply.

That music makes you think. Makes you stare down at your own hand as you ride the train with Miss Hunter. It’s not the hand of the arm she holds, so she doesn’t notice. Doesn’t see how you study your fingers and imagine a ring on it. A ring from Sylus.

What color would he choose? Or rather, what the two of you would choose? What would you choose to make together? Because somehow, deep within you and your foolish fantasies, you know Sylus would craft the engagement rings while you make the wedding ones. Two tokens of love, forged from both of your hands.

The train screeching to a halt cuts off your imagination. Makes the fake ring you’ll never get fade from your fingers and allows you to ground yourself back to reality. Back to the present. Back to your struggle with your heart and the soulmate of the man you love.

As you walk out with her, it’s harder to let your thoughts go. Harder to abandon a hope you thought you squashed ages ago. Because Astrid exists.

There’s another world out there, a voice whispers in your head. A world where I can love. A world where soulmates aren’t everything.

The idea is stupid. Foolish. Laughable. It’s an idea you briefly had once in the past, when you met Kai and Alex and saw their threads.

Alex has a living soulmate. A living soulmate with a living bond where they share each other’s thoughts. Alex has a living other half, a living perfect love, a living person they can share everything with, and they choose to be with someone else.

They choose not to share the most important thing with that person. They choose an imperfect love over their destined one. And that choice makes you wonder. Their entire relationship to Kai makes you wonder at times. Wonder if maybe you stop being such a coward and take a leap, you could have that life. That love.

You stopped that once Miss Hunter came into your life. Or, at least, you thought you did. Because that image of the Undertaker—Astrid Rafia—and her ring and her joy and her love lingers in a way that it wouldn’t if you’d truly let that idea go. It lingers, it burns, and it makes you yearn. Yearn for her life, and yearn for her courage.

She is like you. More so than anyone you’ve ever met, and probably ever will meet. She has no soulmate, but still has love in her life. How is that possible? How is that possible that someone out there is everything you are and has everything you want? How can such a perfect, chosen, love exist?

And you think you turn the world upside down.

“Well, this is my stop.”

Your pity part is cut off by a trembling voice. A voice that reminds you of the first day you met Miss Hunter, when she was in throes of grief and rage. She’s in that state again.

You look at her, really look at her, and for once, you don’t see Sylus’ soulmate. You don’t see your lost love. You don’t see your envy, your resentment, and your self-pity. You see her. You see this strong hunter who’s lost and alone and doesn’t know what to do.

You see her, and realize you can’t let her go. Not to her empty home where her only company will be her racing thoughts. Not to the base with one of her other soulmates, whose entire existence will probably just remind her of what happened.

She’s been through enough. So get your shit together, and stop projecting your mess onto her.

“Come with me,” your tone is warm, and gentle—similar to the one you’d give the suffering children you sometimes encounter during your job. “Let’s go to my place.”

You’re a bit hesitant with your offer, the words falling out before you can truly process what you’re saying. But your tone and body language don’t portray it judging by Miss Hunter’s reaction. Or maybe she’s just too lost in her own mind to notice. Too caught up in betrayal to care about the little things in your life.

“Your place?” Her words come out shaky.

“Yes, my place. Sylus may be my boss, and I may spend most of my time at the base, but I don’t quite live there. Since even I can use some time away from the chaotic twins and the man I work with. Beside, it’ll be fun to spend some time away from everything, woman to woman.”

Miss Hunter appears relieved the moment you make your suggestion. You pretend not to notice. You just guide her to your motorcycle, hand off the helmet with cat ears to her, and instruct her to wrap her arms around your waist.

They serve as grounding for you and your traitorous thoughts. Even when all you can see inside your head is Astrid. She’s there in every passing car, on every street. She’s there when you park in your driveway. She’s there when you finally open the door to your little home.

You guide Miss Hunter to your room, even with the discomfort that already begins to well up inside you. Not even Sylus or the twins have been in your home. Neither have Alex or Kai. You simply never bring anyone here.

It’s your safe space. A place away from all the drama of soulmates and love that you dread so much. A place where you can be you, soulless and alone, without the fear of judgement or scorn.

A place where when the memories of Ever and your family get too bad, you can run yourself an ungodly long and hot shower before eating too much junk food and watching trashy shows in your living room.

This place is yours. And you brought someone here without a second thought. All because of your stupid empathy and savior complex.

”I do love that heart of yours,” Sylus’ voice echoes in your mind as you guide Miss Hunter to sit at the edge of your queen sized bed and then walk to your closet.

Well, I don’t.

Sometimes, you wonder what life would be like if you didn’t care so much. If you’d taken the advice of so many when you were a child and toughened up.

I probably wouldn’t be here taking care of the soulmate of the man I love.

Maybe you would’ve already confessed to Sylus. Maybe you would’ve left as soon as she showed up. Maybe you would’ve kissed him without a care in the world during the gala. Maybe you wouldn’t have loved him at all.

That train of thought is what ultimately gets you to turn to Miss Hunter, put a smile on your face, and say, “So we have some options for you. Because I didn’t know which color scheme to go with, and your sense of style is positively dreadful—“

“No it’s not.”

“Sweetie, I’ve only ever seen you in work attire. And since I’m a believer in seeing is believing, your words a moot point compared to my observations.”

You lay out some loose shirts, shorts, and pants next to her. She looks over them, eyes still glazed over with thoughts you want nothing more than to know.

“Take your time,” you say as you walk back to your closet.

She doesn’t need your eyes baring into her soul as she thinks and relaxes. The less stress on her, the better.

You hear her shuffle through your selection as you try to appear busy. Your closet is small, nothing like the massive walk-in ones Sylus has at the base. But you prefer simply pleasures to opulence despite your very expensive hobby.

Sylus knows that better than anyone. He knows to get you a signed copy of a book from the author whose books got you through high school (a copy you didn’t even know existed) for your birthday rather than some necklace. To cook your soul foods on your bad days rather his usual spread that probably costs more than your house. To take you to a thrift store or a regular grocery store during sales rather than somewhere like Whole Foods.

He knows you so well. Too well. And that’s the thought that permeates your head as you brush your fingers against the one pricey piece of clothing you let him buy for you: an ethically sourced cashmere sweater. It’s huge. It’s comfy. It’s baggy.

It’s what you’ll put on once Miss Hunter goes to take a shower and decompress.

“I’m done,” she announces behind you, voice still weak and arms still trembling ever so slightly.

It’s as if she’s afraid you’ll snap at her. That you’ll turn off your kindness and begin making demands of her like the Colonel did. The building rage you already had towards him worsens. But it’s unsteady, like the house of cards that the twins tend to make during game nights and they’re losing to you badly.

You’d hate to see what happens if hers topples.

“How about you hop in the shower while I change?”

Miss Hunter nods, so you continue, “Then we can relax? Watch some trashy shows, eat some good food? I’ll update my foolish boss when he gives me a call.”

You hope she says yes. Doing that with Sylus and the twins, critiquing dramas and throwing popcorn at one another, is your favorite way to unwind. You also get the added bonus of pretending you’re a real family instead of you being an imposter for Sylus’ soulmate at the same time.

She’ll take my place during those nights as well.

The image is already in your head: Miss Hunter curled up next to Sylus, the latest medical drama on the screen, the twins flanking her and him, all of them laughing together. And you already know where you’d be in all this. Alone. In this house of yours. Crying your eyes out because you dared to love again.

Stop it. Shut up. Put it out of your mind.

You’re so busy mourning a relationship you never had that you barely hear Miss Hunter’s, “Yes.”

You turn on your award-winning smile, guide her to the bathroom in the master bedroom (you use that as a guest room as your room), and finally let all your tension release once you crash onto the bed.

The door is cracked open so you can hear when she shuts off the water. But the sound hardly registers in your brain. So many other things consume it, float within it to cancel out that simple noise.

Undertaker Rafia. Miss Hunter. The twins. Kai. Alex.

Sylus.

So many people who stir so many different emotions in you. You let out a sigh, stifling it with a hand in the foolish worry that Miss Hunter will somehow hear it. That somehow anyone anywhere could hear it.

What right do you have to be so tired? What right do you have to be hurt over losing a love you never had, over your friends having their own lives, and over a woman whose only crime was existing?

What right do you have to not want the twins to have a real family with Sylus and his soulmate? That’s how all families are: two soulmates married with their children. There’s no place for you there.

What right do you have to wish Alex would text or Kai would call? They have lives, they have each other. There’s no place for you there.

What right do you have to hate Miss Hunter, to want to scream at her and curse at her every time you look at her? She’s hurting and grieving and confused and lost and wanting to get her life on track. There’s no place for you there.

There’s no place for you anywhere. You and your lack of soulmate and your weird powers and you stupid fears and loves and wants and weak heart—

There’s no place for me anywhere.

You chant this to yourself as you change, as you wear the gift Sylus gave you and feel it against your skin and let it warm your heart.

There’s no place for me anywhere. Undertaker Rafia’s existence doesn’t change this. She doesn’t change anything.

You try and try to convince yourself of this. You try to convince yourself of all the possibilities of why her spouse was with her and not their soulmate, of why your circumstances are different.

Their soulmate is abusive. Their soulmate is some kind of monster. Their soulmate is dead, like Kai’s.

A more absurd idea hits at the thought of your old friend and her spouse’s own soulmate.

Maybe her spouse’s soulmate is Alex. Or someone is a situation like them: their other half is with someone who lost theirs.

It makes sense in your befuddled mind. Makes sense that a person would only choose someone like you or Astrid, someone who’s destined to be alone, only as a last resort. A last ditch effort to be with someone, no matter how broken they are. A false love is better than no love. You’re living proof of that.

Because all you’ve ever given is false love. To your family. To your friends. To the twins. To Sylus.

It’s why you know Miss Hunter will replace you someday. They’ll compare her love to your love, and immediately know which one is better, which one is real and valid. For the love of an empty soul is nothing next to one that’s brimming with the approval and care of the very stars.

What are you, a soulless woman that can see and manipulate threads (and someone who seems to only really trust said threads) compared to a woman has had and will have the love of many? A woman whose lived multiple lives, and found love in all of them.

At best, I could probably get one of her leftovers.

Maybe you and that mystery man will find solace in each other? Solace in the fact that neither of you were the person you love’s choice. The image disgusts you, you in the arms of another man and kissing that man’s lips instead of the ones you desire. Instead of his.

But that’s how it’s meant to be. Right?

Why did I ever think it would different now? That Sylus would be different than everyone else?

You press the sweater into your face, tears stinging your eyes. Imagining the soft fabric as Sylus embracing you and holding you close allows the droplets to break your waterline.

You don’t make any sound—you mastered the art of silent crying long ago. Body shaking slightly, cradling your heart in the clothing, you allow yourself just a moment to be truthful to yourself. You allow yourself some reprieve; even you have your limits.

I can’t go on like this forever.

Your encounter with Astrid made that all the more clear. Made it clear that you can’t stay in Onychinus, and that you need to leave. A scathing laugh rips out of you as you weep into the sleeves of your expensive shirt on your humble mattress and linen.

Curling into a ball to stifle the sound, you admonish yourself with every giggle.

Why did I ever think I could stay? That I wouldn’t fall apart again?

You’re that little girl again, the one that got her heart broken for the first time by her so-called best friend. A best friend you cut out the same day you did your family when you ran away on your 18th birthday. You ran to get away from them, from Ever, from everything you knew because everything you knew was pain and a reminder of how broken you are.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying at your own stupidity. It feels like it’s been hours, but probably not even a full minute in reality. A quick peek in the mirror to be sure your little spell didn’t show on your face, and you head back to the living room to wait for Miss Hunter.

She emerges soon, in a baggy shirt with shorts and a towel haphazardly on her head. Her hair is clearly still wet.

“Come here,” you pat the couch next to you, eager for something to do to distract yourself.

The more I avoid it, the longer I have to find a plan. To find somewhere to disappear to while they make each other happy.

She sits, and you stand to drag a chair behind where she sits on the couch before you begin to dry her hair. You do it gently and with care, memories of when your family did this for you as a little girl briefly flashing in your mind. That was, of course, before everything fell apart. Before they found out how messed up you are.

Miss Hunter is silent. She picks at her nails, taps on your couch, and squeezes the throw pillows. But not a word leaves her lips, despite how much her soul quakes with a need to speak.

You can wait for her to speak. Humming as you pat her hair with the fluffy towel, one from a set the twins gave you as a gift, you wait. With patience and a little bit of fear in your heart.

“I’m sorry,” finally comes out of her, quiet and afraid.

“Whatever for, sweetie?”

“For not staying in contact. For dragging you into my mess again. For using you. For—“

She can’t let her last thought be vocalized. Her soul swirls with guilt, her thread to Sylus in particular spinning with that emotion.

Of course.

You already know she knows. With all the questions she asked at the gala and before that, the way she acts around the idea of her and Sylus, and the secret keeping they both do when it comes to the time you know they’re spending together, it’s obvious. It’s clear she knows you love him.

And somehow you know, even without the threads and her soul, she’s apologizing for that. For “stealing” away the man you love. For daring to be his other half. For hurting you just by existing. For breaking your heart.

“Enough of that,” you say, taking a section of her hair to rub in the towel. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. You have a lot going on in your life. As have I. It’s understandable we can’t talk very often.”

”She has time for him. They have time for each other. To hurt you. To break you. To isolate you. Just as so many have.”

You ignore that foolish voice inside your head, and refocus on your task, moving to another section of your friend’s hair.

Or at least, that is until she pipes up again, “Why?”

“Why what?” You ask, despite having a pretty good idea of what she wants answers to.

“Why did you come? Why do you care so much about me, some stranger and someone who’s…”

You know what she almost says. You know, and you think she knows you know.

Does Sylus know? Does he know I know the connection between the two of them?

“I’ve been a terrible friend,” she continues. “I’ve never done anything to help you despite how much you’ve done for me. Since we’ve met, all you’ve done is babysit and look after me.”

She laughs a cruel laugh at herself. “And after my ghosting you, the first thing I do to reach out to you is ask another favor, to have you help me again.”

Her breath catches and you hear a sob break past her lips. She takes a shaky inhale before continuing.

“All seem to do is give you more and more problems. So why…?”

She’s full on wailing now, trying in vain to wipe the tears that run down your face. And you can’t bare to watch. You see too much of the old you in her. You see too much of the little girl who just wants someone to love her for her in Miss Hunter.

Ironic.

You embrace her from behind, towel and her hair forgotten as you lead her head to lean onto your shoulder.

“Silly hunter,” you murmur as you brush her bangs against her forehead. “I’d be a most terrible friend if I didn’t come running when you called. I gave you those earrings for a reason. And you used them wisely.”

You climb over your couch to plop down beside her, “As I said, we both have a lot on our plates. And since we’re both workaholics with a severe deficit in female friendships, constant contact wasn’t something I expected. Besides, I know our introduction was less than stellar and at a low point in your life. I knew there was a chance you wouldn’t reach out because my existence might remind you of that time.”

You pause, brushing her hair again in thought, “You’ve been through a lot, Missy. Don’t beat yourself up on my account.”

Her cries begin to subside. She burrows herself into you, head in your shoulder and arms around your torso, as you rub her back.

“I told you to rely on me. I want you to rely on me. I’d be a bad friend and a hypocrite if I didn’t come running to your side during a crisis.”

No words are exchanged between the two of for some time. The only sound that fills the room is Miss Hunter’s whimpers and your steady breathing and shushing of her.

Your foolish heart breaks with every pitiful sound that leaves her, turning her pain into yours when it has no right. It has no right to feel such pain when hers is much worse. Because what is the pain of unrequited love compared to the betrayal of a soulmate and the death of one’s family?

One of those is something you’ll never experience, can’t experience. The other… well, you left your family behind of your own accord. If they die today, tomorrow, or whenever, you’ll have no right to grieve.

Miss Hunter does. She has every right to scream and cry out at the world that keeps taking things from her. She deserves to vent and to have someone to rely on.

She needs someone in her corner. Now more than ever. I can cry all I want later.

Maybe your brief little breakdown’s given you the relief you need because you’re able to push your feelings down quite quickly for a change. You feel like yourself again, the version of you that existed before Miss Hunter arrived.

The version of you so distant from the girl of your past. The version of you that’s strong, knows exactly what to say and when to say it. The version of you that’s Sylus’ Gamayun.

The messy version of you is none of those things, has none of those qualities that make people actually look and listen to you. That you has no voice, no purpose, no love. She’s nothing.

She’s dead.

“I have my own question, if you wouldn’t mind?” You say to get out of your head.

“Sure,” she sniffles, moving out of your arms to sit on her own beside you.

You miss her warmth the moment you do. Maybe because touch with Sylus feels so strange, tinged with guilt and sorrow for the future every time you hug him or brush shoulders. None of that is there with Miss Hunter. You don’t love her like you love him.

You don’t love anyone like you love Sylus. And you probably never will again. That’s why it’s so hard to let go, to actually put any of your plans into action.

Because you know yourself. You know how much you’ll miss his touch, his warmth, his laugh, his smile, his horrible singing voice, his extravagant tastes you always give him shit for, his intelligence, his gifts, his care, his attention… you’ll miss it all. You’re already missing it despite it still being here.

You still miss him despite you still being with him. You’ll miss him to the day you die. Even if you somehow find someone else. Even when he marries Miss Hunter and forgets all about his Gamayun in favor of his sorceress.

With all those complicated emotions stirring about, spinning in your empty vessel of a soul, you finally articulate your question, “Why me?”

Why not write to your soulmate? Why not use that bond to distance yourself further from me and build your special little connection I’ll never understand or have? Why keep hurting me with your friendship? Why don’t you both just put me out of my misery?

“I… I didn’t know who else to call. I hardly know Sylus. My other friends wouldn’t have been able to even get close to me, since Caleb used his authority to isolate and watch me.”

You nod as she talks. And when she begins to pick at the skin around her nail beds, you take her hands into yours.

“None of that now. It’s alright. I was just curious.”

You smile at her, hoping to somewhat ease her mind and the guilt that has no place being there. You’re glad to help, glad to be of service, and be useful. It’s all your good for.

“I believe your hair is done,” you say with a soft voice. “Would you like to watch me cook now? I did promise food, after all.”

Miss Hunter’s stomach decides to growl at that very moment. You hold in a laugh when you see how flushed she gets.

Adorable.

That cuteness aggression allows you to wipe away your rogue thoughts, and your pointless feelings. Right now, you just want to give this girl a good meal.

“Come along now,” you beckon her to stand and follow your lead. “You ought to watch me, and learn a thing or two. Because I seem to recall you being a terrible cook.”

“Am not,” she mutters.

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetie. Now hush and watch your master work.”

“Master?”

You’re opening cabinets—cups, pans, and ingredients filling your countertops.

“Yes, master, my dear student. I’ll be teaching you my ways, after all.”

You wink at her and begin cooking.

—

Miss Hunter watches you diligently, eyeing each ingredient carefully and taste testing every step. You allow her.

After being possibly drugged by her oldest friend, any comfort I can give her will be worth whatever the cost.

You did the same thing for the twins when they came to live with you and Sylus. You let them watch you cook, taste the ingredients as you went along, and always made sure they felt safe consuming what you gave them.

In both cases, the people you’re serving food to are weary. Afraid after betrayal upon betrayal coming their way for so long that any kindness feels like another trap. Any amount of comfort you can offer to such people is something you’ll do gladly.

You have her chop vegetables and stir the pot so that she’s always busy. The twins like to help out when you cook, and Sylus does the same (unprompted and messing with your rhythm with his baritone voice and sweet words), and you figure Miss Hunter will be no different. And she does each task with gusto, so you must be doing something right.

The food is done in no time. You each get a bowl, curl up in the couch with pillows and the softest blanket (another gift from the twins), and switch on some terrible drama.

Miss Hunter begins to relax as she wolfs down her food, getting seconds and thirds before you finish your first. It brings a smile to your face. But, at the same time, you’re still waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop, for disaster to strike because life is never that simple for either of you. The world is never that kind to either of you.

The turmoil that’s in her thread to Caleb is what makes you so on guard. Mountains and mountains of guilt that go to war with her fear. Stones upon stones of grief, a coffin she thought buried in those mountains unearthed by gravity reversing on itself.

It’s weighing on her, crushing her with the eyes of Colonel Xia. His mechanical arm around her soul, their past life together a ghost behind her even if she’s not aware of it. All it is too much for one person.

She starts rambling between ads:

“He’s so different,” she whispers while some guy goes on about insurance.

“Maybe the Caleb I know really did die that day,” she murmurs during a commercial about some new show on Paramount.

“Is it the chip in his head? Or is this just the real him?” She mutters as you pop some popcorn.

“Stupid Caleb and his stupid secrets,” she picks at the popcorn bowl you gave her, studying the kernels like they hold the truth of the universe.

“Why does no one tell me anything? Zayne? Rafayeal? Sylus? Stupid Caleb?”

That one in particular hits you. It lingers in your mind, an imprint of words that follow your eyes wherever they go. On the screen. On your food. To your kitchen. To your fridge. To her. No matter where you look, those words dance. They taunt you, haunt you, in your every moment.

“They say they’re protecting me… but all they do is hurt me.”

She doesn’t say these words. You see them. In her soul, in her threads, in the very fabric of her being that was born in the Deepspace Tunnel. The words weave a sad tale within her. A tale you know all too well.

“I’ll never lie to you,” you say such falsities with ease, with confidence, and with pain.

Because you know if she asks certain things—Do you love Sylus? Who are you really? What is it that you see? What are your plans? How do you know what you know?—you won’t answer with the truth. Partial truths. Half-full truths. Truths that fall apart the more one thinks about them.

But your guilt is worth the smile that spreads on her face. A genuine, full, relaxing, smile. All the self-hatred, all the whispers in your mind how you’re no better than all those who hurt and betrayed you, are worth it.

She’ll forget about your lies in time, after all.

“Promise?”

Your phone ringing saves you from answering. The classical music immediately keys you in on who it is. You pick up, not putting the phone on speaker.

“Speak,” you say in an authoritative voice.

“Are you mocking me with your sweet song, Gamayun? How rude. You wound me with that melody of yours.”

“You’re such a big baby, foolish man. What else do expect from me when you make it so easy?”

Hearing his rich chuckle directly in your ear does things to you; you hope Miss Hunter doesn’t notice.

“There you are with those words of yours again, cutting into me deeply. Can’t you muster up the heart to feel even a little bad for me, sweetheart?”

“No.”

He sighs a dramatic sigh, one dripping with humor and warming your stomach, “I should’ve know that would be your answer. What else can I expect from the woman who cruelly rushed off and left me all alone in our bed?”

You splutter. That gets your friend’s attention and she walks over to you, leaning in to hear the other side of the conversation.

“I gave you prompt warning.”

“You should know better than anyone, my dear, that I’m not exactly awake after a night with you.”

Miss Hunter gives you a look, one that says details, now! You shake your head at her and turn away from where she perches on your couch to eavesdrop.

“Than fix that dreadful habit of yours pronto. It makes setting up meeting a hellscape.”

“I will,” fondness bleeds into his tone, and you’re tempted to put a hand over your heart and giggle like a school girl with her first crush. “Once you get rid of your terrible habit of running off and disappearing on me. I mean, I awoke to my precious negotiator being in Skyhaven of all places, sweetheart. What ever were you doing there?”

His playful tone doesn’t disguise his concern, his worry. The warmth in your stomach spreads, tingles flying up your body and invading your senses. All you feel is Sylus and the emotions he causes. Ghosts on his touch on your skin. His words in your heart.

You try to deflect because otherwise something stupid might come out of your mouth, “Did you send your favorite crow after me? I thought we talked about this.”

“I had to, sweetheart. You’ve been so secretive lately that your boys asked me if we were getting divorced first thing this evening.”

“My boys?”

You refuse to unpack what you really want to say to his words. You refuse to focus on how you two getting divorced implies you’re married and how, apparently, that’s how the twins see you two’s relationship. And how Sylus seems perfectly content with that.

You refuse to think about it more than a second because any longer and you’ll give yourself false hope. You’ll give yourself a chance that’s not there. You’ll say something you can’t take back.

Why must you do this to me, Morana? Why must you refuse to let me kill my love for you?

Loving Sylus is both the easiest and hardest thing you’ve done in your life; and the other people around you don’t do anything to abate that.

He laughs at you again. “Why act so surprised, dear? You and I both know they’re your boys, first and foremost. Especially when they’re making noise early in the morning. That’s a habit that got from, and you alone. Besides, Luke said if we split they’d fight to give you full custody, so any argument you try to say otherwise dies there.”

“Whatever you say, Sylus. Doesn’t change the fact you sent Mephisto after me. Thought you killed your stalker habit when it comes to me.”

“That’s rich coming from the woman who makes jewelry with tracking devices and panic buttons imbedded in them,” Miss Hunter levels you with a smug gaze, and she says her words close to your phone. “You two truly are a match made in heaven. Or hell. Whichever you want.”

You scoff at her, forgetting the other member of your little group doesn’t know she’s here.

“Who are you talking to, sweetheart?”

“Just Miss Hunter. She’s being nosy.”

“How terrible of her, committing such a heinous crime towards you.”

This time when you scoff, you direct it both of them.

“I hope you know you’re both incorrigible.”

“Oh? We both are? I’d take that title of gladly if it means you’ll stop ditching me for her. I can be as incorrigible, or unincorrigible, as you’d like, my dear.”

You roll your eyes at him. You give Miss Hunter a look and wave your hand to jokingly shoo her away. The grin on your face is betraying you.

“He saying something about me? If he is, he can say it to my face!”

“I’ll put him on speaker than, sweetie, so be civil. You two can have your little showdown later, but right now, I need you to put those claws of yours away.”

She huffs. But doesn’t say anything as you put your phone on speaker.

“You’re on speaker, Sylus, so reign in your nonsense.”

“Of course, my dear. Anything for you,” his words tug at your heartstrings. “Now, back to my original question. Why were you at Skyhaven?”

Miss Hunter answers him, glancing at you as she gives a quick summary. You nod encouragingly, interjecting only when she seems to stumble too much on recalling what happened. On remembering the pain her friend caused her. On mentally returning to that place she just escaped.

Because despite her teasing and laughs, you know she hasn’t even begun to sort out her feelings on the matter. No smile or giggle will hide that from you.

“You said someone led you two out?”

A coldness washes over you at Sylus’ question. You’re not entirely sure why, but you do know you don’t want him to know about Astrid, about the woman who’s so much like you and like him.

“Just a Good Samaritan that happens to work there and outrank the Colonel.”

The lie slips out so easily. You know Astrid’s more than that. She’s more than just some person to you.

And possibly to Sylus.

Your Morana never directly talks about his first life. He drops hints, shares little stories, and shows some fears and anxieties you know come from that time. He says some old timey things, references cities and traditions you know never existed on this planet. And he’s aware, on some level, you know what he’s really discussing with you in those moments.

But he’s never been blunt. Never flat out told you about the fact he had a past life, remembers it, and was a dragon/human hybrid in it. Never talks about how the woman he loves killed him.

You do know one thing for sure: his loneliness. As the only of his kind, as someone who was too much of monster for humans and too much of a human for the dragons, he knows isolation. He knows what it means to live in a world you feel isn’t built for you.

That’s part of why Astrid’s existence hits you so much. She isn’t just soulless, she’s a fiend. She isn’t just a fiend, she’s soulless. She’s a mixture of human, dragon, and burdened to live a life without having someone else be her perfect match. She lives walking around with both you and Sylus’ pains.

And yet she’s happy.

She’s in love. She’s accepted. She’s free.

She’s everything you’ll never be. She has the scars you and your love carry, but none of the agony; they’ve already been healed without a trace of them left in her skin.

You’re sick because of that. Sick. Guilty. Enraged.

So despite the confusion on Miss Hunter’s face that begs you to answer why you’re doing what you’re doing,—and the way she trips over her words to agree with you—you lie. You lie and omit the fact that someone like him is out there. She’s out there and she’s happy.

Astrid’s torn a hole through your mind and heart. How deeply would that wound run for Sylus, who’s held his past and his hurts far longer than you? You tell yourself you’re protecting him right now, keeping the weight of everything from crushing him.

But another, truer and more cynical part of you, believes otherwise. You’re protecting yourself. From what, you’re not entirely sure of.

You just don’t want the two of them to meet. And he can’t meet her if he doesn’t know she’s out there.

Sylus is quiet the entire time you spiral in your thoughts. And his silence just makes them worse.

”He knows,” they whisper. ”He’s knows you’re lying and soon all will fall apart.”

You find it ridiculous that part of you believes this will be the secret that makes everything break. That this will be the final straw. Not your lack of soulmate. Not your ability to see threads. Not the way you’ve pried into his heart and soul to discover who he is despite him not being ready to tell you.

Not the way you’re desperately in love with him even though he belongs to another. No, your brain seems to think lying about one undertaker is enough to break down everything you two have built together.

Stupid. Idiot. Foolish, foolish woman.

“Just for clarification purposes, who exactly is Caleb? And why did he think it appropriate to lay his hands on you?”

When you saw Miss Hunter’s multiple threads and found out that one connects to Sylus, you always knew he’d find out about the others. That he’d ask questions about them, research about them, dig into their lives and find out their secrets in his concern and love over her.

What you didn’t expect was this. That his voice would echo with that familiar tone, a tone that says someone’s going to die.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not hate. It’s not even curiosity. What weaves in Sylus’ voice can only be described as bloodlust. Bloodlust and protectiveness bleeds into every word he says.

The dragon in him is on full display.

“Don’t,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“Don’t what, sweetheart?” He tries to keep his tone light, to be his normal teasing self.

You see right through him. “You very well know what, boss. I know that tone of yours, and what it means.”

“And just what does it mean?”

“It means you’re plotting something stupid that you know I absolutely will not approve of.”

Sylus doesn’t say anything. Miss Hunter does.

“Please don’t do anything to him. Please.”

She sounds so defeated, so helpless. So weak. So unlike the hunter you know.

Sylus notices this too, judging by how soft his reply is, “He laid his hands on you.”

For a moment, you think he’s still addressing you. That his protective nature is out because of you. But then your logical side takes over and you squash that pathetic notion deep down into abyss of your mind.

Don’t be a fool.

Miss Hunter begins to ramble, “I know, I know. It’s just… I just got Caleb back after I thought he died in front of me and now, things are so complicated and he’s lying to me and hurting me and I know it’s because he’s going through some shit, but that that doesn’t excuse what he did, but I just…”

“I just got him back,” she repeats after choking on her words for a second. “I just got him back. He’s different, but he’s still Caleb. He’s still my family.”

Neither you nor Sylus know what to say to all that. To say to the one hurt most by this man, but who’s also the first to jump to his defense.

“What’s your opinion on this?” Sylus asks with tender voice of his; it sounds so kind, and feels so good in your ears.

You know he’s talking to you this time. “My opinion is that you need to let this go for now, Sylus. He’s not off the hook, trust me. But since my methods are far less… extreme compared to yours, I’ll handle things with the Colonel. And get his head out of his ass while I’m at it.”

The silence over the phone is crushing you, swallowing you.

But then Sylus hums with content, “Fine. But if he gets worse…”

“I’ll handle it,” you state firmly.

While your words are clear, your heart is turmoil. Because your traitor of a heart knows the truth behind your words. It knows your plan.

I’m willingly going back to them after all this time. Eighteen year old me would be oh so disappointed.

What other choice do you have, really? Is there really any better way for all this to resolve? Sylus and Miss Hunter get to be happy together, Caleb and others like him get their freedom, and you won’t have the time to be heartbroken and depressed.

Everything works out if you go back to Ever, if you go back to being the Professor’s favorite daughter.

Everyone wins, you tell yourself. Everyone wins.

The pinpricks of that man’s needles and other tools return. They crawl up your skin, spiders dancing on your arms and laughing at you as they spin webs to tape your mouth shut. No one but them can see how you struggle or hear how you scream.

It’s disgusting, vile. The phantom of that man’s breath on your face. The stinging smell of chemicals in your nose. The hours and hours you’ve spent crying to your parents to stop all this. So many tears shed to the point where you got headache from dehydration and your throat was sore from how loud you were.

You ran from that long ago. And now you’re running back to it.

Maybe he really can fix me. Give me love. Give me a place in this world. Break me and rebuild me into someone worth being alive. Turn this mistake into a—

“Why?” Miss Hunter saves you with her question; she’s sheepish she asks, ashamed of how many times that word has left her lips today.

“He’s important to you, right?” She nods. “Than he’s important to me. It’s that simple.”

She gets embarrassed at that. Her threads tell you she’s in awe at your words. Taken aback. Shocked beyond belief.

They say, ”Why does she care so much? How can someone care for someone they hardly know so much?”

Her wonder makes you envious. Makes you wish again that you could harden your heart. That you could stop caring. You’d probably be so much happier that way.

You’d never become the Professor’s pet if you weren’t so eager to please. And you wouldn’t be going back if you didn’t care about others so much.

But you tell that part of you to shut up, to remember that Miss Hunter, Caleb, Sylus, and everyone else deserves happiness. You don’t.

The next words out of your friend’s mouth turns your world upside down, “It’s no wonder Sylus calls you Gamayun.”

All the air leaves your lungs. Your mouth is dry. Your heartbeat is too loud. Your body is so empty. And it takes all your focus to set your phone down on your couch without shaking.

How does she know that?

Sylus and you never really call each other your nicknames in front of others. They’re your secret. Your sanctuary, your pride, your joy, your promise. The names are yours and yours alone; they’re not meant to be spread to others.

So why does she—

You cut off your thoughts before the lead you down a dark, dark path.

You try to speak, to form a coherent sentence and be the master of words you usually are, “What?”

It’s all you can get out. A pathetic squeak and one short word. You’ve suddenly turned back time, become the innocent and embarrassing little girl you were before your powers appeared.

Your chest stings. Your body is hot, boiling even, at the memories. At how you stumbled on every other word. At how so many laughed and kept snickering at you to speak up.

Your tongue is heavy. Your jaw refuses to work. And you continue to get hotter and hotter. It’s not the comforting heat you feel with Sylus. It’s the heat of fear, shame, mistakes, and a past you wish you could burn.

Miss Hunter’s words burry you even more into that feeling rather than saving you this time, “I said it makes sense he calls you Gamayun. I can see how a beautiful prophetic siren that represents happiness, harmony, and prosperity and supposedly lives near paradise is what he calls you.”

She laughs to herself before taking your phone; that sound just makes your stomach and your heart fall further towards the ground.

“Sylus’ nickname suits him too. But it is kinda a shame that you get to be this beautiful creature while he’s an old ugly hag of death. Then again, his white hair and penchant for explosions sells that picture to me, so good job for that.”

You can’t say anything. Cotton in your mouth, heart pounding so loud you can barely hear yourself think, and the sudden urge to curl into a ball and rub your arms because of how much you burn.

It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it—

“You’re not funny, kitten.”

Normally, just the sound of Sylus is enough to soothe yourself. Normally, his voice is cool balm over your burning body, and you remember that that’s not you anymore. His voice lets you remember you have a voice, and you remember people care to listen to you.

This time is not one of those time. His words just make the pit in your stomach larger, make your pain all the more potent.

“I’m hilarious, old man. Or, I guess, woman? Either way, I finally have an explanation for why you suck at Kitty Cards and the claw machine so much.”

You’re hit with a new wave of pain, a new layer of isolation.

They’re spending time together. Alone. Having fun. Being people and bonding and playing games and not telling me a thing.

Hearing about Sylus getting out and having fun, spending quality time with his soulmate, shouldn’t hurt so much.

“And what is that?”

“It’s the goddess of death in you. It kills luck and scares off every cat in the cafe.”

This is what you wanted. This is what you asked for, foolish woman.

If you had any less self control, you’d be crying. Sobbing. Breaking here on this couch in your home that’s supposed to be your safe space. A place you’ve now been violated in, exposed in the worst way and feeling the most alone you’ve felt in a long time.

“My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”

Sylus’ words come back. Another knot twists into your stomach, threaded by the bond between him and Miss Hunter. It hurts. It hurts and reminds you of when you were a freshman in high school and the two girls you thought were your best friends betrayed you.

The two were soulmates. You know that from the beginning. They don’t know that you know. Because if elementary school taught you anything, it’s that your powers are best kept to yourself.

So you never tell anyone again. Deny it when others from your past bring up or make claims about what you said. And eventually, people got the hint. They understand, and portray themselves that way on the surface.

You know better. Even at your young age back then, you know better. You go along with their lies just as they do yours because it’s easier.

When you meet your two new friends, you keep them away from that part of yourself. Away from your family, away from your old friends, away from the powers that haunt you. And you convince yourself that this time, things will be different.

So you tell them nothing of their connection. But you do know as soon as it sparks. As soon as it begins, you become desperate. Joining clubs you never wanted to be a part of. Doing all their homework at their houses for them, giving them answers to tests you’d taken earlier, and just forcing them to be in your presence whenever you can.

Heart pounding, and body boiling, you remember as Sylus and Miss Hunter talk. You occasionally nod your head and chuckle as you’re drowning in the past. It’s silent how you succumb to those waves. Silent, still, and so unnoticeable. No one bothers to check up on you.

Of course no one sees. No one sees anyone else when they have their other half, when they’re having fun with their other half.

Your exclusion back then started small, like right now. Hangouts you found out via social media. Inside jokes popping up in conversation that they never explain to you. Only partnering up with each other for classes, and when three are required, you’re a background thought. A necessary evil to be around.

You feel the same things now as you did back then. Plastering the fake smile on your face and forcing a laugh from your throat despite the pain, despite how much you want to scream at them for being so blind.

No matter how much pretend, how much you do things for them, eventually, they drift away completely. They leave you alone on your makeshift raft of friendship to sail on their cruise ship of love. You drowned back then, and you’re drowning right now.

You can’t swim. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. So you excuse yourself to the bathroom, docking there in hopes somehow, someway, you’ll be rescued. That you won’t be left to suffer among the deep and vast expanse of your mind.

It’s such a foolish thought. Such a stupid, stupid, wish from one lonely girl. And the tides don’t care for wishes from those like you.

Your emotions come in waves. Grief. Disgust. Anger. Betrayal. You chase them all away from the shore of what’s left of your control, not letting them crest and wash away the hard work you’ve dug in the trenches of your heart.

This is what you wanted, you remind yourself. This is what you wanted.

The truth doesn’t make the daggers in you lessen in their ruthlessness, cutting and stabbing and ripping without mercy. The truth doesn’t make your eyes stop watering. The truth doesn’t keep you from falling to pieces.

This is what you wanted, you tell yourself as you run the fan in the bathroom to keep your sobs from reaching Miss Hunter.

This is what you wanted, you say as you dab your tears away with the arms of the sweater Sylus gave you.

This is what you wanted, even if the pain is too much too soon.

“This is what you wanted,” you say in the mirror, trying to compose yourself.

It’s then that you resolve to forget about Astrid, to push away the woman who gives you hope just by being around. You must forget her if you’re going to survive losing Sylus and the twins and returning to Ever.

Survive.

The thought gets a bitter laugh out of you.

Do I even want to?

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

2nd Author's Note: This concludes Act 1!

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano, @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

#ikigai #lads x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x non!mc reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace sylus #sylus qin x reader #sylus x reader #sylus angst #sylus x mc #sylus x non mc #sylus x nonmc #sylus x nonmc reader

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itsnotyouithink · 3 days ago

Text

without you

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: long distance isn’t for the weak, especially when you visit your girlfriend in new york city - just to see her all over somebody else.

warnings: mentions of ghostface & blood

word count: 7.0k

author’s note: that viral video of the girl surprising her boyfriend while another girl is sitting on top of him and all his friends are like “yoo holy shit wtfff” and laughing at the girlfriend haunts me to this day.

——

You were the smart girl. The golden girl. The one with annotated poetry books and hair that always looked a little too perfect in the wind. Your teachers loved you — that kind of quiet reverence usually reserved for prodigies and people who already had TED Talks queued up in their futures. You wore Harvard on your chest before you even applied. Because of course you'd get in. Of course you did.

But none of it ever made you feel like Tara did.

Tara Carpenter — with her bite and her bruises, her too-dark eye circles and the way she rolled joints like it was an art form. She used to call you "Valedictorian Barbie," but only when she was feeling flirty. Which was often. She made you feel like being brilliant was hot. Like being soft and sharp at the same time was something to be worshipped, not tolerated. You loved that she didn't treat you like you were breakable.

And she loved that you saw her.

Not Sam's little sister. Not Ghostface bait. Not the girl who almost didn't survive.

You knew her before all that.

Before Amber's house. Before the hospital.

You were the one holding her hair back while she cried on the bathroom floor the week after her stitches came out. You were the one who wiped blood off her collarbone and kissed her anyway. You were the one who told her she was more than what happened to her. That she was still here. Still worth everything.

You spent your last year in Woodsboro fused. That was the only way to describe it. Two people who knew they wouldn't survive the year unless they clung to each other. It was desperate. Beautiful. And when you got your Harvard acceptance letter, she screamed louder than your mom did.

"I told you," she said that night, sprawled across your bed, a bowl of grapes between you. "You're gonna be running the whole world by 30."

"And you're gonna be directing horror films in a basement somewhere," you teased.

"With Chad holding the boom mic," she grinned. "And Mindy threatening producers."

You looked at her and said it without thinking:

"I wish you were coming with me."

She had blinked at that. Quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet.

Then: "We'll be fine. I'll be in New York. You'll be in Boston. It's like—what? A four-hour train ride?"

That was the plan.

Or so you thought.

Harvard was cruel in a subtle way. It didn't punch you in the face so much as bleed you dry by a thousand little paper cuts. It didn't feel like success at first.

It felt like punishment.

You sat in lecture halls the size of churches and felt like a fraud. You got A-minuses and wanted to scream. You called your mom crying twice in the same week because your roommate played club lacrosse and thought Nietzsche was "just okay." You started eating dinner at 9 p.m. and sleeping four hours a night. You excelled, of course — you always did — but it didn't feel like winning. It felt like surviving.

Like a fever dream made of fluorescent lights, frigid air, and classrooms that smelled faintly of erasers and old money. You walked through campus in your thrifted wool coat like a ghost wearing someone else's skin — the only person in the lecture hall taking notes by hand because you couldn't afford a new laptop after your financial aid went toward books in the first month of school.

But then you met them.

Gwen. Samira. Alex. Cassie.

The weird girls. The brilliant ones. The ones who built forts out of unread textbooks and spoke about grief and girlhood like it was a second language. You found them on the floor of a dorm hallway during a fire drill. Someone quoted Adrienne Rich. Someone else cried. You stayed until 3 a.m.

They didn't just like your mind. They saw it.

You weren't too intense or too emotional or too ambitious here — you were exactly enough. And when you spoke, people leaned in. You started to laugh again. You started to write again. You stopped apologizing for taking up space.

But the thing is, when you start becoming more of yourself... Sometimes the people who loved the earlier version of you start to disappear.

You were halfway through a half-eaten pack of seaweed snacks, balancing a laptop on your knees while everyone around you argued about which sad girl singer deserved the "haunting voice of the decade" crown - it was clearly Mitski - when your phone lit up.

Tara Carpenter ❤️ calling.

Your heart stuttered.

You dropped the snacks.

"Shh—guys, shut up—Tara's calling."

They all fell dramatically silent.

You answered on the second ring, suddenly too aware of the chaotic mess behind you.

Her face filled the screen. Sleepy, soft. She looked like she had just climbed into bed, hair half-damp and hoodie swallowing her frame.

"Hey," she murmured. "Did I call too late?"

Your chest ached. Her voice still did that to you.

"No, it's perfect."

From behind you, Samira waved dramatically. "Is that the famous girlfriend?!"

You laughed, startled, and turned the phone slightly so Tara could see the room: Gwen wearing Alex's hoodie like a cape, Samira eating instant oatmeal with chopsticks, Cassie in your bed pretending to meditate.

Tara blinked at the screen, clearly caught off guard.

"Oh... wow. You have a cult now."

"They worship me," you deadpanned.

"Obviously," said Gwen.

"Duh," said Samira.

Tara laughed. Kind of. But there was something off in her voice.

"They're cool," she said. "Different from Woodsboro."

"They're insane," you grinned. "But in the best way."

Tara nodded slowly. But didn't say anything right away.

Then: "You look happy."

You glanced down. That kind of compliment — simple, sincere — shouldn't hurt. But it did. It made you think about how long it had been since she'd said anything like it.

"I am, I think," you replied. "It's hard, but... yeah. They make it easier."

More silence.

Tara's thumb brushed the edge of her screen. Her eyes flicked somewhere just out of frame.

Then: "You're still coming here next month, right?"

"Yeah. I booked the train. Didn't I tell you?"

"You didn't," she said, smiling faintly. "But I'm glad."

And for a second, it almost felt normal. Easy. Like you were still the girl who patched up her stab wounds in a bathroom and whispered "I'm not scared when I'm with you."

But then Gwen asked if you wanted to stay up for tarot readings and Samira announced she was making "grief popcorn" — and Tara suddenly looked very far away again. "I should let you go," she said. "Looks like you've got a whole... thing going on."

You frowned. "No, wait, stay on. I'll kick them out."

Tara shook her head.

"It's fine. I'm just tired."

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

Call ended.

No I love you.

No goodnight.

Just a gray screen and a slow, sinking ache in your chest.

Then, it just got worse.

"I'm just tired, babe," she'd say, voice raspy. "Long day. I'll call you tomorrow."

Tomorrow turned into the weekend. The weekend turned into "shit, sorry, I forgot."

You told yourself it was okay. She had her own life. You couldn't expect everything to stay the same. You were both adjusting. But something shifted in the silence. Something you couldn't name.

You started overanalyzing her texts.

Started noticing how often Chad's name came up. Started wondering why she laughed in his stories but never in your calls.

You visited her once in early October. Took the Amtrak with an overstuffed bag and nerves like static in your chest. It was a surprise. You brought her favorite cold brew, wore her favorite sweater. You imagined the way her face would light up when she saw you.

She answered the door in someone else's hoodie.

It smelled like cologne.

The apartment was buzzing with noise — Mindy was yelling about a horror remake, Chad was tossing popcorn into his mouth like a Labrador, and Tara... Tara was tired. You could see it in her eyes, the way she hugged you like she was checking off a box.

You stayed two nights.

She kissed you once. She slept facing the wall.

By November, you'd memorized what it felt like to fall asleep without her voice in your ear. You'd stopped telling her about your day unless she asked. (She didn't.) You'd stopped sending cute videos you saw on Instagram because she rarely watched them anymore. Your late-night-post-essay-due-date drunken pictures of you just in the Harvard sweatshirt and the pair of black lace panties she loved on you stopped.

You caught yourself wondering what the point of it all was. Of you. Of her. Of trying.

You called her on the anniversary of the attack.

You cried. She didn't.

She said she didn't want to "dwell on it." Which, obviously, you understood. She was the one to get stabbed while you were just the one who found her bloody on her kitchen floor.

She said Chad took her to Coney Island to cheer her up.

She said she'd call you later.

She didn't.

It became a kind of masochism — loving her. You started to feel embarrassed when you mentioned her in conversations with new friends. Like it was obvious you were the only one still in it.

You kept trying anyway.

You remembered what she was like in Woodsboro, when she'd press her forehead to yours and whisper things like "I didn't know I could feel this much without falling apart."

You thought maybe — maybe if you just showed up again, you could remind her of that version of yourselves.

Of the "us" she used to cry over.

The train into Manhattan rattled like a pulse beneath you. Loud and relentless.

You sat pressed against the window with your cheek resting on the glass, watching the East River blur past like a half-forgotten memory. Your duffel bag was jammed under your legs, your phone was dead, and your head ached in that particular way it always did when you hadn't eaten properly in two days. The cold from the window crept through your coat and up your spine, but you didn't move. You didn't want to miss the skyline.

You hadn't seen her in 62 days.

You counted.

You told yourself you weren't counting, but of course you were. That's what people do when they miss someone. They count days. Silences. Excuses. And lately, you'd had too many of all three.

Still—this wasn't some dramatic last-ditch attempt. This was love. A surprise. A grand, spontaneous thing you used to dream about when you were fifteen and scribbling your future into the margins of your AP Lit notebook.

You imagined her opening the door, eyes going wide, smiling so hard she forgot how to speak. You imagined her pulling you in by the collar, kissing you like the wait was unbearable.

You imagined it so clearly it started to feel like a memory.

You got off at Penn Station just before sunset. The city buzzed around you in that way only New York could — like it didn't care who you were, what you were carrying, or why your hands were shaking slightly as you pulled up her address from memory. The air was sharp with early winter. You could taste metal on your tongue.

Brooklyn wasn't far. You'd made this trip before — once, back in September, when things still felt like they were holding together. When she met you at the subway stop in that green jacket you loved, kissed you like she needed you to breathe, and made you pancakes at 1 a.m. even though she didn't know how.

But tonight, you went alone.

No warning. No texts. No "I'm outside :)"

Just your bag, your college sweatshirt, and that familiar pressure in your chest that always showed up when you were about to do something brave or stupid.

Her building looked the same. Beige brick and flaking paint, a crooked buzzer panel and the smell of someone cooking aggressively seasoned lentils on the first floor. The hallway was dim, light flickering above the stairs, the sound of a muffled bass line bleeding through someone's door.

You climbed the steps slowly. Your legs felt heavier than usual. Each floor seemed longer than the last.

You reached her apartment and stood there for a full ten seconds.

Just breathing.

You adjusted your hair. Wiped your hands on your jeans. Told yourself to relax.

Then knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Then you heard it.

A laugh.

Her laugh.

Muffled, but unmistakable. That slightly raspy, breathy little sound she made when something actually got to her. When she wasn't faking it.

You smiled.

And then you waited.

Waited for the sound of her footsteps.

Waited for her to fling the door open, throw her arms around you, gasp "oh my god, you're here."

But nothing happened.

Another laugh — and a second voice. Deep. Familiar.

Chad.

You knocked again. A little louder.

A beat.

Then the doorknob turned.

And there she was.

Her face was flushed from laughing. Hair pulled back into a loose bun, a smudge of eyeliner under one eye like she'd rubbed it in the middle of a joke. She was wearing a hoodie. Too big to be hers. You recognized it instantly.

She froze when she saw you.

And something flickered behind her eyes — not joy. Not even shock.

Panic?

"Y/N?"

Her voice cracked on your name. Like she wasn't sure it was really you.

"Hi," you said, heart thudding. "Surprise."

There was a pause. Too long. Like she had to recalibrate her entire brain to process what she was looking at.

You smiled, nervous. "I couldn't stay away anymore. Midterms ended yesterday. I took the train."

Her mouth opened. Then closed again.

You watched the confusion settle into something else — a practiced calm. Controlled. Neutral.

She stepped aside.

"Oh. Uh... come in."

Not come here.

Not I missed you.

Just... come in.

And that's when the noise behind her hit you fully.

Voices. Laughter. The rustle of blankets. The glow of a paused TV.

You stepped through the doorway and into the warmth.

And stopped.

Chad was on the couch, controller in his lap, half-turned toward the door like he'd already seen you coming. Mindy was curled up in the bean bag, legs tucked under her, phone glowing in her hand. Anika waved weakly from the kitchen. There were empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Two mugs of something warm.

It wasn't a party.

But it was close.

It was a night in.

And she hadn't told you.

She hadn't said, I'm busy tonight.

She said she was tired. Ready for an early night.

Because she hadn't expected you to come.

Because maybe she hadn't wanted you to.

And yet, here you were — still smiling like an idiot. Still holding your bag like you didn't already know.

Still pretending you didn't notice the way she didn't hug you.

"Hey," Chad said, nodding like you were a regular delivery guy, not the girlfriend who hadn't been here in weeks. "Didn't know you were visiting."

You swallowed. "Yeah. I wanted to surprise her."

Mindy raised an eyebrow. "Well... you certainly did."

No one laughed.

Tara cleared her throat and sat down — not beside Chad, not exactly, but close enough to make your stomach churn. Her arms folded tightly over her chest.

"We were just watching something," she said quickly, gesturing to the screen. "You can sit if you want."

You sat.

Of course you sat.

In the far corner of the couch. Bag still in your lap. Sweatshirt still on. Like a guest.

Like a stranger.

And the worst part?

You told yourself it was fine.

Because you were tired.

Because you loved her.

Because you'd made it this far.

Because if you let yourself really feel what this was turning into — you might not be able to crawl back out of it.

So, you stayed.

Because what else could you do?

You sat stiffly on the far end of the couch, half-perched like a piece of misplaced furniture, still clutching your bag like it was armor. No one told you to relax. No one offered to take your sweatshirt that was obviously overdressed for the warmth of the living room. You waited for her to shift closer. She didn't.

The movie started again. Something loud and gory, the kind of film she used to tease you for squinting through. She used to tuck herself under your arm during the bad parts, fingers curled into your hoodie, whispering things like "okay that part was kinda hot actually" when someone got their arm chopped off.

But tonight she sat three feet away, laughing too loud at Chad's dumb commentary, chewing her nails like nothing was wrong.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Once. Twice. Then a steady stream.

You didn't have to look to know who it was.

HARVARD GAYS 💌 — the groupchat.

Samira:

are you THERE???

what's happening is she like sobbing in your arms rn or what

Gwen:

PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN

don't make us go all poetically unhinged for you

Alex:

if she didn't jump into your arms like a war widow I'm gonna be sick

Samira:

y/n 👁👁

You let the screen fade to black.

Didn't answer.

Your chest buzzed with something sticky and slow, like syrup over a wound. You could almost hear your own heartbeat in your throat — that tight, pulsing ache that came whenever you forced yourself to stay in situations that didn't love you back.

It didn’t get any better. The feeling in your gut, your mind, your heart, your soul. It didn't help that she didn’t touch you once.

Not even a hand on your knee. Not a passing brush of fingers. You watched her laugh at Chad's jokes and lean her chin into her hand and mouth the words to some stupid commercial on Hulu and all you could think was—

This isn't the girl who used to fall asleep on your chest.

The girl who cried when you left for college.

The girl who wrote you a letter the night before you moved into your dorm. A real one — with her messy handwriting and a pressed flower between the pages.

The girl who was obsessed with you - always wanting you underneath her in her bed. In her clothes. In her hands.

The girl who said you're my safe place.

But this girl sitting beside you?

This one wouldn't even meet your eyes.

By the time the movie ended, your bones ached from how still you'd been.

Tara stood up and stretched, then mumbled something about getting ready for bed. She didn't look at you when she said it. Didn't invite you to come with her.

You followed anyway.

It felt pathetic.

It was pathetic.

But you followed her down the hallway, past the peeling paint and the poster of Jennifer's Body Mindy taped to the wall and the echo of Chad's voice yelling something behind you. You tried not to think about how different this walk was from the last time — how you used to race each other down the hallway, out of breath and laughing and already half-undressed before the bedroom door even closed.

Now it was just footsteps.

Hers first.

Yours echoing after.

Her room was small.

She clicked on the lamp and stepped out of her hoodie. You tried not to notice how she didn't offer it to you. How she folded it and set it neatly on the chair instead, like it meant something.

You sat on the edge of the bed.

She rummaged in a drawer. Pulled out pajamas. A pair of soft shorts and a worn t-shirt. Not yours. Not anything you recognized. She changed with her back to you, and you stared at the cracks in the ceiling to give her privacy.

She climbed into bed without a word.

Didn't ask if you were coming.

Didn't ask anything.

You stood for a second too long, waiting for her to say something. Anything. A glance. An invitation.

Nothing came.

So you slipped off your jeans, peeled off your socks, and eased in beside her.

She didn't reach for you.

She didn't turn toward you.

She just laid there.

Like sleep was something she owed to someone else.

Throughout the night, you stayed very still.

So still your back started to cramp. So still your throat felt like it might close.

You thought about texting Samira. About typing something's wrong, and waiting for her to send a voice note, one of those soothing ones with sleepy affirmations and stupid jokes and a promise to egg your ex's dorm if things went south.

But you didn't.

Because that would mean admitting it.

Admitting that this trip — this grand romantic gesture — wasn't going the way it was supposed to.

That you were losing her.

That maybe, somehow, without you even realizing it… You already had.

Like always, you didn't sleep.

Not really.

Your eyes stayed closed, your breathing even. But your body never softened the way it used to in her bed. You laid perfectly still, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside — the occasional honk, the distant thrum of a train, the rhythmic creak of the radiator. You used to find it soothing. Now, it just felt like a countdown.

You felt her shift beside you. Not dramatically. Not the exaggerated toss of someone trying to fall asleep — more like the quiet, guilty stir of someone who never planned to.

Her breath caught. Just for a second. You could feel it.

She thought you were asleep.

And maybe that was the only reason she whispered, "Shit," under her breath. Like the night was closing in on her too.

You opened your eyes.

The lamp was still off, but a thin strip of light from the hallway cracked through the door and cast a sharp outline of her back. She was sitting up now, legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees like a kid.

"Tara?" you said, voice hoarse, small.

She didn't answer right away. Just tilted her chin toward you, not all the way.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't.”

A pause.

Then: "Couldn't sleep?"

Another pause.

She nodded.

You sat up slowly, the comforter falling from your shoulders. The bed was still warm beneath you, but your skin was starting to go cold.

"Tara," you said again. This time with more weight. "Talk to me."

Her eyes closed like the sentence physically hurt.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That's a lie."

You said it gently. Not like an accusation — more like a confession.

She inhaled. Sharp. Controlled. Like she was bracing herself.

You stared at her, really stared, and realized how small she looked in that moment. Not physically — emotionally. Like she was pulling every piece of herself inward, trying to disappear inside her own silence.

"I feel like I don't know you anymore," you said. Quiet. Not a threat. Just a truth you'd been trying to avoid for weeks.

Tara didn't flinch. But she didn't deny it either.

"You've barely looked at me since I got here."

Still nothing.

You reached for her hand — tentative, slow — and she let you hold it. But it was limp. Heavy. Not how it used to be. Not the way she used to need you.

You squeezed anyway.

"I'm not mad," you whispered. "I just... I need you to be honest with me. Please."

Her thumb twitched against your palm.

And finally, finally, she turned toward you.

Her voice was so soft it nearly disappeared.

"I didn't think you'd actually come."

That shattered something in you.

You tried to keep your voice steady. "Why wouldn't I?"

She looked at you like the answer should've been obvious. "You're at Harvard. You're... happy. You have this whole new world."

"So do you."

"No, I have this," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment. "I have late-night movies and dumb jokes and group projects with people I barely know. I have Chad."

Your mouth went dry.

The name hit like a slap. Not because she said it with affection. But because she said it instead of you.

"You could've told me you were struggling," you said. "You could've called."

"I didn't want to ruin it."

"Ruin what?"

Her voice cracked: "You. Everything you're building."

You wanted to scream. Shake her. Tell her that she was never a distraction. That she was part of the dream. That every hard night at Harvard still ended with you whispering her name into your pillow like a prayer.

Instead, you said: "Tara, you don't have to protect me from your sadness.”

"I wasn't protecting you," she said. "I was hiding."

Silence.

You stared at her. Your Tara. Or the girl who used to be.

"I'm still here," you said. "Even now."

And for a second — just a flicker — she looked like she might believe you.

But then her gaze dropped to your hands, still loosely clasped.

And she said: "I don't know if that's enough anymore."

—————

You woke up cold.

The kind of cold that doesn't make sense at first — the kind that feels like it came from inside you. Like it had been building overnight, slow and secretive, seeping through your bones while you pretended everything was okay.

The bed beside you was empty.

Her side: cold. Sheets slightly wrinkled. Pillow still shaped like her head had been there hours ago. She didn't just get up. She'd been up. Long enough for the impression to start fading.

You sat up slowly. Blinked against the light filtering through the cheap blinds. The room looked almost exactly the same as it had last night. Except now, it was unbearable.

Your throat was dry. Your heart felt like it was bruising itself against your ribs.

Still, you gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe she ran out for coffee. Maybe she went to the bathroom. Maybe she—

—maybe she didn't want to be there when you woke up.

You tried not to think that.

You tried not to think anything at all.

You got dressed without turning the light on. Pulled your jeans on quietly. Tugged your sweater over your head like you didn't want to disturb ghosts. You didn't brush your hair. Didn't fix your face.

You didn't want to see yourself.

When you stepped out into the kitchen, the apartment was alive in that half-awake kind of way — music playing low from someone's phone, the scent of cheap coffee burning slightly in the pot, a pan on the stove with something scrambled and overcooked inside it.

Chad was at the counter. Shirtless. Making eggs.

Mindy sat cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand, thumbing through something with a blank expression.

Anika leaned against the wall, sipping from a chipped mug, eyes flicking up when you entered.

No one said anything at first.

You could feel it.

The thing in the air.

The quiet kind of discomfort that stretches across a room like a spiderweb. No one wants to touch it. No one wants to be the first to speak.

"Morning," you offered, voice raw from not talking.

"Hey," Anika replied, like someone cautiously approaching a dog they don't trust not to bite.

Chad gave a small nod. "Tara ran out. Said she had class."

You stood there.

Still.

"I thought she had Fridays off."

Chad shrugged. "Maybe she picked up a makeup lab?"

Mindy didn't look up.

She didn't say anything.

That's when it hit you.

Not all at once — not like a gunshot or a scream.

More like drowning. Like realizing, slowly and too late, that you're already underwater.

They knew.

Not everything, maybe. Not the details.

But they knew something.

And none of them would meet your eyes.

You sat down at the tiny kitchen table. Didn't ask. Just sat. Folded your hands together and stared at the chipped tile on the counter, willing yourself not to cry.

You didn't belong here.

Not anymore.

This wasn't your place. This wasn't your girl. Not the way she used to be. Not the way you still were.

You felt your phone buzz in your back pocket.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

You didn't check it.

You knew who it was.

Samira. Gwen. Alex.

Asking for updates.

Sending jokes.

Probably picturing you wrapped up in Tara's arms, happy and safe and home.

And you couldn't bear to tell them the truth.

That she didn't stay.

That she left before you could ask her to.

That maybe this entire time — while you were holding your breath in Massachusetts, counting the days, promising yourself this would all be worth it —

She was already letting you go.

————

She came back around three.

Sunlight was bleeding through the blinds in that slanted, golden way that made everything feel too soft for how sharp the ache in your chest was becoming. You'd been sitting on the edge of her bed since noon, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, bag zipped tight and ready by your feet. It had started to feel like you weren't even waiting anymore — just sitting with the loss.

When you heard the key turn, your body stiffened.

Not with relief.

With resignation.

The door creaked open. You listened to her boots hit the floor, the scuff of her tote bag against the wall. She was humming. Humming.

Like nothing was wrong.

She walked into her room half-distracted, pulling her phone from her pocket. She didn't see you until she was already inside.

"Oh," she said, nearly dropping her coffee. "You're still here."

You blinked up at her slowly. "Of course I am."

The way she stood there — surprised but not sorry — made something nauseating bloom behind your ribs.

"I thought..." she trailed off. "I figured you'd be gone by now."

"Yeah," you said flatly. "So did everyone else."

Tara's expression faltered. She set her coffee down and crossed her arms. Defensive. Tired. Distant in a way you were starting to recognize as permanent.

She nodded at your bag. "You're leaving?"

You stood. Slowly. Shoulders heavy, breath uneven.

"I don't think I ever really arrived."

That's when she looked at you. Really looked.

There were bags under her eyes, purpled and sunken from sleepless nights. Her lips were chapped. Her posture curled inward like she was trying to become smaller — less real. She looked like a person unraveling quietly. Like someone who'd long since forgotten how to ask for help.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said.

And god, you wished she had. You wished it had been intentional. Because at least then you could be angry instead of just... broken.

You shook your head, voice tight. "But you did, you stopped choosing me.”

It came out quiet, but it landed like a bomb. Not because of how loud it was, but because of how true it was. The kind of truth that makes people flinch. And she did. Not dramatically — not like someone slapped her — just a blink, a recoil. A subtle, almost imperceptible jerk of her chin like her body had finally caught up with the thing she'd been pretending wasn't real.

"You say you love me," you continued, voice rising now, shaking in that way that meant you were either going to cry or break something. "You say you didn't mean to hurt me. But you didn't fight for me either. You didn't reach. You didn't try. You let me show up here with hope in my chest like an idiot while you've been slipping further away every single day and letting him fill in the blanks."

Tara's arms crossed tighter over her chest, like she was trying to contain herself — or maybe cage something in. Her eyes were glassy but hard, like she was tired of being accused of something she didn't mean to do. But meaning didn't matter anymore. Intentions didn't keep people warm at night.

"I told you," she snapped. "It's not about Chad. It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" you shot back. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you replaced me with convenience."

Her expression cracked, sharp and sudden. "Fuck you."

You blinked, stunned for just a second.

"Fuck me?"

"Yes, you," she said, stepping forward, voice trembling with rage and heartbreak tangled together. "You come here and act like I'm the villain for needing someone when you're not around. You say I stopped trying, but when was the last time you asked if I was okay? When was the last time you noticed I was falling apart and didn't just tell me I'd be fine?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off.

"You send pictures of your weird little study group and talk about how seen you feel and how you've finally found your people. And that's good. I'm happy for you. But you talk about it like I'm not one of them anymore. Like the version of you that loved me is someone you already buried back in Woodsboro."

"That's not true," you breathed. But it was weak. Paper thin.

"Isn't it?" she said, voice cracking now. "You say I stopped calling, but half the time when I tried, you were too busy or too tired or in some deep, intellectual spiral with Gwen or Alex or whatever the fuck. You outgrew me. I just didn't realize it until I was watching you shine from across a screen like I didn't even belong in your orbit anymore."

The room felt too small. Too hot. You wanted to scream or run or throw something just to make the pressure in your chest stop.

You stepped closer, teeth clenched.

"You think I outgrew you? I built everything around you, Tara. I made space for you everywhere. I wrote you into every story, every plan, every thought about my future. You were the constant I was holding onto, even while everything else felt like it was swallowing me whole."

Her breath hitched.

"I was drowning too," you whispered. "But I kept calling out for you."

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back fast, stubborn.

"You weren't supposed to need me," she said, voice suddenly small. "You were supposed to be the one who made it out."

"And you were supposed to be the one I came home to."

Your voice wasn't quiet when you said it this time. It wasn't trembling. It was full. Solid. Final. It echoed through the small bedroom like a bell toll — sharp and sickening and absolutely true. And Tara didn't move. Didn't deny it. She just stood there, arms still crossed over her chest, mouth parted like she might say something, but nothing came out. She just stared at you with that same hollow, stunned expression — the kind people make when they realize the building is already on fire, and it's far too late to save anything inside.

And that was what pushed you over the edge.

"Oh my God," you snapped, stepping back, your hand running down your face like you could wipe the pain off your skin. "You're not even gonna try, are you? I came here, Tara. I showed up. I left everything I had going for me to be here with you, and you're just gonna stand there and let me fall apart in front of you like it doesn't fucking matter?"

Her jaw tightened. "You think it's that simple?"

You laughed — sharp, bitter, like broken glass under bare feet. "It was simple. Until you made it complicated."

"I never asked you to come," she said, and there was venom in it now, like she was trying to hurt you first. "You showed up without warning, expecting me to—what? Drop everything and wrap my arms around you like it's still high school?"

"I showed up," you hissed, "because I missed you. Because you wouldn't answer my calls and I started to wonder if maybe something was wrong—and guess what? I was right."

Tara's voice rose, suddenly sharp. "You think I don't miss you?"

"You have a hell of a way of showing it."

"You think I'm not trying?" she yelled. "Do you have any fucking idea what it feels like to sit in this apartment every night, surrounded by people who only know the broken pieces of me and pretend that's all there ever was? You think Chad knows me? You think I want him?"

"Then why does it look like you do?" you screamed back. "Why did I walk into your space and feel like a guest in my own relationship?!"

Tara shook her head but didn’t respond, her mouth opening and closing while she tried to find a word, a phrase, a sentence - anything, to say back to you.

You felt the tears slide down your cheeks, you never cried. “I miss my caring girlfriend, Tara. The one who used to send me letters every two weeks with flowers and small drawings between the words. The girlfriend I made plans to have a future, a family, a life with!”

"I don't think that version of me exists anymore," she said.

And for a moment — a single, frozen heartbeat — the entire room went quiet. Like even the walls were waiting to see if you'd break.

You didn't. Not right away.

You just stood there, blinking at her like you couldn't quite comprehend the weight of what she'd just said. Like you were waiting for the punchline.

But it never came.

Just her. Just that look on her face — exhausted, hollow, wrecked in all the wrong ways. Like she wasn't sorry enough to take it back. Just sorry enough to say it.

And that's when something inside you snapped.

"You don't think that version of you exists?" you repeated, slowly, voice rising with every syllable. "Then what the fuck have I been holding on to, Tara? What the hell have I been fighting for all this time?"

"I never asked you to fight," she bit back, voice sharp now, ugly.

"No," you spat. "You just let me."

You were shaking — full-body shaking — like your grief was trying to claw its way out of your skin. You took a step toward her, not to threaten, but because standing still hurt too much. "You let me call. Let me text. Let me write letters. You let me lie awake at 2 a.m. wondering if you were okay, if you still loved me, if I'd done something wrong. You let me keep giving when you knew you'd already checked out."

"I didn't know!" she snapped, stepping forward now too, fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't know what the hell I was doing! I was scared and numb and just trying to survive and every time I looked at my phone and saw your name I felt like I was drowning in all the ways I was failing you."

"You weren't failing me," you shouted. "You were leaving me!"

Tara's face twisted. "I didn't know how to be with you and be broken at the same time."

"And I didn't know how to be without you," you said, and it came out a sob. Not a scream. Not even a sentence. Just a raw, trembling ache you couldn't keep down any longer. "But I tried. I tried so hard. I tried when you went quiet, and when your texts got short, and when you started saying Chad's name more than mine. I tried when it felt like I was talking to a version of you that had already decided I was part of a different life. One you were trying to forget."

She flinched at that.

You kept going, because there was no turning back now.

"You think I'm thriving, don't you? That because I have people and lectures and some bullshit little academic glow-up, I don't need you anymore? That I forgot what it felt like to kiss you with blood still on your shirt? That I stopped waking up in the middle of the night wanting to hear your voice just so I didn't fall apart?"

"I didn't want to be your trauma!" she shouted suddenly, like the words had been rotting inside her for months. "I didn't want to be the thing that held you back! I didn't want to be the reason you couldn't fucking breathe."

"And now you're not," you whispered. "Now I'm just the girl you forgot to say goodbye to."

Tara's face collapsed.

But you weren't done.

"Do you have any idea how humiliating it felt to walk into your apartment and realize everyone knew before I did? That your friends had already seen you pull away and just let me show up like some lovesick idiot begging for scraps? That they watched me sit on your couch while you laughed at Chad's fucking jokes like I was invisible?"

Her mouth opened. Her voice cracked. "It wasn't—"

"I loved you more than anything," you said, stepping back, chest heaving. "And you let me come here thinking we were still us."

"I didn't know how to tell you," she said, breathless.

"You didn't even try."

You said it like it was the last thing you'd ever say to her.

And maybe it was.

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #scream #scream 5 #scream 6 #aesthetic #fiction #fanfic #jenna ortega #wlw #jenna ortega x reader #netflix wednesday #netflix #angst

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harkovsangel · 1 day ago

Note

okay so i saw ur post for sg reqs!!

OKAY

how bout reader wearing one of the sg boys jacket?! >< lets say smth happened to reader while playing one of the games and things got too violent or wtv so he just puta his jacket around reader and says keep it for now and the next morning their whole friend group just teases them ab it :0

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Wearing Squid game characters jackets ! pt.1

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Characters: HyunJu / Player 120, Thanos / Player 230, Kang Dae Ho / Player 388, Myung Gi / Player 333, Nam Gyu / Player 124, Min Su / Player 125, Kang Sae-Byeok / Player 067

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ A/n: ik u said Squid game boys but i HAD to add Hyun Ju and Sae Byeok i’m sorry 😭 in my eye’s season 3 doesn’t exist idc so very season 2 core for most characters! i also wanted to add a lot more characters, but since my writing motivated is super low right now along with me being busy, i wanted to get this out now. I am definitely going to make a part 2! The rest of the characters i still need to do is Thanos, Kang dae ho, Nam gyu and Minsu(i might add some)

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Hyun Ju / Player 120

It was just after the Six-legged Pentathlon. You were sitting closest to one of the groups when they were shot, which resulted in you getting covered in blood. You tried your hardest to wash all the blood of your coat afterwards, desperately scrubbing- but by the time you got back to the dorms, the blood was mostly dried and stained into the fabric.

Hyun Ju was concerned for you. Her group was one of the firsts to leave so she didn’t see what happened, but she knew something was wrong when she saw finally come back, rushing to the washroom and covered in blood.

“Y/N?” Her voice was soft as she walked her way into the washroom, her eye’s trained on how you were desperately scrubbing at your jacket in the sink. “What happened?”

You jumped when you heard her voice, turning to look at her, small, forced smile forming on your lips as you spoke. “Uh.. someone was shot.. uh, close to me. And their blood got on my jacket.” You murmured, still laser focused on trying to get the blood out of your jacket.

She guessed something like that happened- with the blood splattered in your hair and over your face. She got a bunch of toilet paper from one of the stalls, bunched it up and moved over to the sink next to you. “I’m sorry.” She apologized, wetting the toilet paper. “Are you ok?” Her voice was soft, turning her head to look at you.

“Yeah.” You lied, and it was obvious with the tremble in your voice and your slightly uneven breathing.

“Look at me.” She said, tapping your arm slightly to get your attention. When you glanced at her she started cleaning some of the blood of your face, just hard enough to get the dry blood off.

Her gaze found way back to your jacket for a split second and then she looked back up at you. Smiling slightly as she spoke. “You can wear my jacket if you’d like.” She offered.

You were taken aback by her offer, cheeks flushing. You were crushing on Hyun Ju hard- yeah, but you really didn’t want to steal her jacket from her. But at the same time you really didn’t wanna a wear a blood stained jacket.

You thought for a second before nodding. “Yes please.. Thank you.” You said sheepishly, not looking directly at her as she finished cleaning the blood off from your face and neck.

She smiled at you. “Of course.”

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Myung Gi / Player 333

He swore to find you during the hide and seek game. He’ll kill one person, then get to you. However Nam Gyu didn’t make it easy, constantly messing up his search for you with useless distractions. By the time he finally found you, there was only three minutes left.

You were on the floor clutching your stomach, blood seeping and spreading into the fabric of your jacket. You looked weak.

He could feel his heart physically drop in his stomach, instantly dropping the knife and crouching down to you, ‘who the hell did this?’

He managed to help you, ripping part of his shirt off to wrap it tight around the wound, but your jacket was still covered in blood.

“Hey.” Myunggi spoke from behind you. His eye’s watching your every move as you turned around to look at him.

You noticed he had his sweater slung over his arm. You raised a brow, a look of skepticism crossing your features. Instinctively clutching your injured side.

“What?” Your voice was sharp, wanting to immediately get to the point.

His eye’s glanced towards where you clutched where you were injured and he sucked in a breath, his jaw clenching. “Switch jackets with me.” He said, stepping closer and dropping his jacket onto your lap.

You narrowed your eye’s, glancing down at his jacket then back at him. “Why? I don’t need your jacket.”

He rolled his eye’s slightly, leaning a bit closer as he glanced around before motioning towards the blood stain on your jacket. “The blood. That can make you a target to some people since they’ll see that you’re already injured.” He explained as if it should be common sense.

You scoffed, shoving his jacket off your lap. “I don’t need your pity, i’ll be fine.” You refused.

Myunggi sucked in a frustrated breath, look of annoyance and exasperation flashing over his features. “What if there’s another riot tonight?” He said as he sat down on the bed. “Do you really want to take that chance?” He said as if he was trying to fear you into agreeing.

You thought, wanting to be stubborn and refuse, but at the same time understanding where he’s coming from. You sighed and rolled your eyes, “Fine.”

You took your own coat off, movement slowed due to your injury. Then quickly pulled Myunggi’s over your body, it was a bit larger than yours, but not by much. In an odd way, wearing his sweater made you feel comfortable, more comfortable than when you were in your own.

When Myunggi pulled your coat over his body, he flinched at the damp, cool feel of your blood. He glanced at you, wanting to say something but deciding not to. Instead just muttering a; “Thank you.” before walking away.

But of course he couldn’t walk back to his bunk in peace.

“Yo Myunggi!” An all too frustratingly familiar voice called out. Myunggi rolled his eye’s as he heard the footsteps of the voice’s owner come closer up behind him.

“What?” Myunggi asked, not even bothering to spare Nam Gyu a glance.

“Dude- Did you just give that chick your sweater?” Nam Gyu asked with a laugh, asking the question stupidly. Nam Gyu’s arm finding way around Myunggis shoulders.

“So what if i did?”

“Dude, you are totally whipped aren’t you?”

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Kang Sae-byeok / Player 067

It was after tug of war. When you guys won and were back on the elevator, your sweater got caught. You didn’t notice- so when you tried to leave the elevator, you completely tore your sweater.

It was practically useless to wear it now- It did nothing to actually keep you warm, which sucked considering how cold the dorms usually are, especially at night. Paper thin ‘blanket’ doing nothing to keep you warm.

So you were crawled into yourself, trying to keep yourself warm while eating sweet potatoes and chugging back water. Still pretty tired from the energy you exerted during the tug of war game.

“Hey.” Sae-byeoks voice cut through your thoughts as you glanced at her, quickly swallowing your food.

“Hey.” You smiled friendly towards her, then noticed her jacket in her hands. A confused look crossing your face.

She followed your eye’s then spoke. “Do you want my sweater? I know you think it’s cold here.” She glanced at her sweater then you.

You raised your brows, surprised she remembered that little fact about, but nodded nonetheless, sitting up more. “Well uh- sure, if you want. But what if you get cold?” You asked with a hint of concern.

“I’m warm blooded.” Her response was simple and dismissive as she handed you her sweater, and you took it. Smiling and chuckling at her response.

“Well, thank you.” You thanked simply and pulled the sweater over your head. Watching as Sae-byeok just mumbled a ‘mhm’ and turn to leave, about to go back towards the group before she stopped.

She thought for a second before speaking, turning to look at you. “Come.” Her words were simple, but you knew exactly what she meant.

You were a bit taken aback and unsure, especially since you didn’t really know any of them. Would any of them even want you over there? “Are you sure?” You mumbled out hesitantly.

As if she could read your mind and knew exactly why you were hesitant, she spoke. “We didn’t know almost anyone else who’s over there.”

You took in her words, thinking to yourself before nodding, getting up and following her over towards where your tug of war group sat.

Ji-yeong glanced towards Sae-byeok as she heard the footsteps approaching, then her attention diverted to you.

A grin immediately made way to her face when she saw you trailing behind Sae-byeok, evidently wearing her sweater by the white numbers, ‘067’ that were across the chest.

She glanced at Sae-byeok to see her already looking her. Her grin widened more as she raised her brows slightly, ignoring Sae-byeoks death glare. Silently teasing her through looks.

⟡ ݁₊ . written by harkovsangel, 2025 on tumblr! © do not repost on any third party website or repost as yours. Doing so will result in me blocking you and reporting.

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faeylayn · 1 day ago

Text

Some commotion permeated from outside the windows.

Ugh.

The shouts pierced the air as clearly as the morning rays, and brought about as much clarity as the multicolored glare reflecting off the assorted jars, flasks, and odd skull and other glassware scattered about the workbench across the room. At the very least that meant morning had arrived, but the fuzzy headache told Garnet that it was still far too early for any of this.

Do we really need another festival every damned week?

Garnet slowly rolled and sedately leaned to an upright position, swaying momentarily as an empty gaze and a heavy sigh were directed towards… nothing in particular.

Every week there’s something else the Duke wants to gather all the peasantry for, some reason for a tournament. It’s always on about appreciating the fighting men of the realm, or training or something similar, but it’s really just a distraction for the peasants from the fact that the hamlets of Riverford and Knotwood still haven’t been rebuilt since the Death Lord’s armies laid waste to the countryside, and that the fruits and wines from Ameryville have stopped flowing into the Ducal Seat. Even with deaths being rare, the combat sport seems to be enough a distraction to prevent anyone from getting too uppity.

It’s such a bore and a waste of Garnet’s god-given talents of healing magic to be called out for this over and over and over again, but the Duke demands little more than to perform support, and given in return is enough comfort to delve into the… uncomfortable. So be it, let’s put on a smile.

Garnet grabbed the garb from last week’s tournament, it was hardly worth looking pristine for any of this and stood before the mirror schooling their features into a smile until the pained boredom was nowhere to be seen under the glinting teeth and bright eyes.

The teeth and eyes used to be much more genuine, The teeth weren’t really expected to keep up with the particularly rough diet that became a necessity in wartime though studying bonework has been quite a boon at polishing them daily, and the twinkle of ambition dimmed many years ago, as did most hope of actually helping most of the common folk nowadays. A rare day it was that Garnet would see anyone besides the Duke’s family for any ailment, though that was routine enough to keep busy.

The shadow of a breath of a raging glare passed over Garnet’s face before they could hammer the expression back into obedience. Is any of this really doing any good? Is this what I want to be doing?

Garnet shook their head and walked towards the door, putting those thoughts well behind. Now’s not the time for any of that; we have a performance to put on for the masses.

As they stepped out they stumbled momentarily when the tournament fields were completely empty. If a series of games were happening, there would be vendors and throngs bleating at each other and coating the entire field before the knights arrived. So where the hell is all that racket coming from?

Mere moments of curiosity brought the answer as a sea of unwashed mobery gathered near the front gates. And they seemed rather angry about something. No, wait….. fear.

For a moment Garnet looked to the keep, this most certainly is not their problem and the town guard was already on the scene. The news would definitely reach the murmurings of the sniveling suckups that always surrounded the Duke, so there’s no chance Garnet would not find out what this was all about there.

But something gave them pause. A curiosity. And if one looked close they could see the glimmer in their eye wasn’t forced for just a moment.

The gathered mass of humanity parted at his arrival, some trust in the authority of the court physician being enough to turn the fear back from the edge of boiling into violence. The Captain stood before with two figures surrounded by guards as Garnet approached. The figures were still coming closer to the gatehouse but it took a moment for the details to begin to resolve.

A skeleton warrior lumbering toward the town gates, unarmed, holding a wooden sign: “I come in peace. Need a necromancer to take a look at my friend.” Behind him, a second skeleton is missing a head and trying very hard to keep up.

The captain standing next to Garnet motioned for them to stop, which the one with the sign did immediately, only for the trailing skeleton to collide into it. “It may have been years since the Death Lord was defeated but I do not see any chance of you coming into this town. Nor do I think we would have any way of assisting you even if there were. Be Gone!”

The Skeleton seemed to take that in for a moment staring vacantly at the Captain. Then there was the slightest shift as the Skeleton seemed to notice Garnet and immediately dropped to its knees, hands clasped above its head as it crawled directly at the healer.

Oh no.

A skeleton warrior lumbers toward the town gates, unarmed, holding a wooden sign: “I come in peace. Need a necromancer to take a look at my friend.” Behind him, a second skeleton is missing a head and trying very hard to keep up.

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timsrins · 2 days ago

Text

“i grew one centimeter.”

you look up, deadpan. rin is standing there just past your bedroom door. he stands like a ghost, no greeting whatsoever, just straight to the point. as blunt as his brother’s bangs.

“nice to see you too, rin. hello. yes, i missed you too. i haven’t seen or heard from you for fourteen days. i thought ego sent you off to war. i already got my stationery prepared, i was about to write you a letter confessing—”

“i grew. one centimeter.”

he says it again, like repetition will make it more meaningful. like the metric system is the most important thing in the world right now. he’s still by the door, arms by his side, shoulders stiff, and his bag hanging on his back. you don’t know whether he’s proud or just incredibly weird about measurements.

“as i was saying,” you continue, undeterred, “if you didn’t tell me beforehand that ego sent you guys training, i would’ve thought he killed you off for some petty reason. but then i thought, no, ego isn’t that bad. he’s actually a really good mentor. so you getting killed off was out.”

“i said i grew a centimeter.”

you finally lower your phone, staring at him like your brain has frozen halfway through processing. there’s a beat of silence. one. two. maybe three. hell, might as well take five.

“…okay,” you say slowly. “what do you want me to do about it?”

he meets your gaze without blinking. not a hint of irony. voice low and flat and utterly serious.

“praise me.”

you just stare.

nothing comes out of your mouth. you physically cannot form a response because what the hell did he just say to you. you refuse to believe this is happening. what the hell happened? where the hell did ego send him?

your eyes narrow in pure disbelief. like you’ve accidentally walked into the wrong conversation. like you’re still waiting for the punchline and realizing, with growing horror, that there isn’t one.

“praise you?”

“i worked hard,” he says, cutting you off like that explains everything.

“... for growing?”

“sleep schedule, posture work, morning trainings, meditating, yoga.” he says it with that same mechanical efficiency he uses when analyzing plays on the pitch. “ measurable progress.”

you just keep looking at him.

he looks back, completely unfazed.

he’s serious. itoshi rin is dead serious.

this man walked straight to your apartment as soon as training ended just to tell you that he grew a single centimeter and expects verbal validation for it.

“you’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

but your body betrays you—because even though your face is blank and your tone is flat, you reach up a hand and let him bend down and touch his head to your palm. you press your palm to the top of his head like you’re measuring it yourself.

okay, maybe he does feel the tiniest bit taller.

you drop your hand and sigh in defeat. as always you can never say no to him. curse you and your soft spot for one itoshi rin.

“congratulations on your one centimeter progress. growth arc of the century. it’s very impressive and inspiring.”

and like that, rin just plops onto you.

literally. like gravity ceased to exist for a moment and he decided your body was the most suitable mattress in the world. you grunt under his weight, your back hitting the couch cushions as he crashes on top of you like a human plank. his duffel bag falls to the floor with a thud, completely ignored.

“rin—”

he doesn’t say anything.

doesn’t have to.

his arms slide around your waist with zero subtlety, his face burying into your shoulder like it’s instinct. you’re still half-frozen from the whiplash of the past five minutes. your brain hasn’t even recovered from the praise me incident, and now he’s lying on you like he lives here (he does.)

you feel him breathe out. slow, deep, and heavy. the kind of breath someone takes when they’re finally safe. when they’re home.

and then—he bites you. not hard. just enough to feel his teeth graze your shoulder. no warning, no reason. like a cat acting out affection.

“did you just bite me?”

he hums. that’s a yes. completely unapologetic.

you tilt your head, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you clarity. it doesn’t. “you’re insane.”

“missed you.” rin says it so quietly. mumbled into you skin like he’s etching his word in your being and it makes your heart do its stupid backflips.

he presses closer, like he can’t get enough. like fourteen days was fourteen lifetimes.

and just when you think he’s settled, he mumbles again:

“…still want that praise.”

you close your eyes. not in annoyance, but because itoshi rin is exhausting (affectionately) and unfortunately, yours.

290 notes · View notes

eyekoninurarea · 2 days ago

Text

Your Idol

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

word count: 4.2k

summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. Even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. But the moment the music hit, everything changed.

authors note: please have mercy on my poor soul. i just want more fics of daniela and watching kdh gave me ideas and i needed to write it immediately. this is total rookie writing✍️. I had to split this into parts because I hit the text limit for tumblr lol 😞. This might be more than 3 parts so 🥰. Also, I'll release part 2 after this so...

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): fluff, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works

You sometimes still feel like you're in a dream.

And it's not even the glittery and sparkly one. Oh no, it was the clowns-are-chasing-me-and-I-can't-run type of dream. Rather than dreaming about swimming in money, you felt like you're dreaming about swimming in shame as you stood in class with your pajamas after mistaking it to be “pajama day”.

But still, it was a dream.

How could it not be? You were supposed to be a songwriter. Just a dork in barely professional clothes writing songs for hot people to perform. And yet, instead of just writing songs in a dark corner, you're thrust into a room with mirror walls, cheap speakers, flickering fluorescent lights, and sweaty movements.

You're still not sure how it happened. You just knew it started with a dare. A drunken dare.

You were two shots into a cheap bottle of soju and knee-deep in a karaoke rendition of “Meant To Be Yours (Heathers) ” when your best friend dared you to send in a demo to Venari Entertainment. They had opened submissions for original songs, apparently hunting for tracks for a “secret girl group project.”

“I bet you won’t,” your friend had slurred, finger wagging.

“Bet I will,” you’d slurred back, totally serious and chewing on a pocky stick like it was a cigarette.

And you did.

You didn’t even have a good mic. You recorded the vocals into your phone and produced it in your pajamas. A soft, slow-burning track called “Ocean’s Jaw.” Lyrics about falling in love with something deadly, something beautiful, something that sang only for you, something that's unapologetically yours

You hit send.

You forgot about it.

Until two weeks later, you got an email that changed your life.

Everything was a blur, if you were going to be honest. You remember thinking it was fake. You thought, At most, they want to buy the song.

Imagine your surprise when one minute you were nervously sipping water in a freezing conference room, wondering if your socks matched, and the next you were standing outside a practice room with a woman who introduced herself as Chae: the creative director of something called Project: Siren5.

You bounced on the heels of your shoes nervously; no one said anything to you, no orientation, no guides, just told you to be here at this time. And as you stared at the peeling mahogany door that Chae started to open, you found yourself with your mouth agape.

When you imagine a dancing room, you imagine a cutthroat, sterile and bright environment made to mold artists and stars to perfection. Yet when you stand there, suddenly painfully aware of your mediocrity, with bass blasting into your ears as four women dance to the lyricless beat, you find yourself out of breath. It wasn't professional at all. It was comfy, roomy, and lived in. There were scattered water bottles, neatly folded towels, cheap speakers, peeling paint, cracked mirrors, loud ass ac, and that damn blinking light. Your eyes darted around the room, wondering if they'd mind if you spent your time writing here.

You accidentally made eye contact with the blonde woman with sharp eyes through the mirror that they were practicing in front of and you found yourself clutching the hem of your ill-fitting button up shirt in sheer gay panic and nervousness. You seriously were about to fucking puke your guts out.

“New dance coach?” she asked, skeptically eyeing your outfit. It honestly made you squirm.

“She’s not tall enough.” the hazel haired deadpanned, reaching for her towel as soon as the music stops

“She’s cute though,” the blue haired girl said from the floor, mid-stretch, blinking at you upside down.

“She’s the songwriter,” Chae said dryly. “We asked her to come in.”

“She dance?” Your eyes darted to the last woman. She seemed calm, like a black haired surgeon.

“Not... really? Maybe in my nightmares” you offered.

“Perfect…” the blonde girl grinned. “...We needed another project.”

And that jump started your hellish training period. Your label wasn't rich by any means, in fact the project was a last ditch effort at making money before they ran out. You still had time to finish your studies, graduating while training to be an idol wasn't part of your plans.

Not that you had any.

You found out that they were trainees for a 10 months before you showed up, you’d learn they were skeptical of you. Why wouldn’t they be? You were this nervous little outsider who stammered through her introduction and said “Hi, I like bread” instead of your name.

The silence was deafening when they stared at you, their eyes blinking owlishly as the tips of your ears began reddening. You actually considered digging a shallow grave with your bare hands and just... vanishing.

Then a snort tore through the silence, it was loud and it was followed by boisterous laughter. It was sudden and sharp, and the blonde immediately crumpled to the floor like someone had hit her with a tranq dart.

“Bread?! That’s your opening line?” she wheezed out, damn near choking with tears.

“I panicked!” you said, mortified.

“Dude.” the hazel-haired one muttered, rubbing her towel over her face, “You could’ve said literally anything else.”

“I mean…” chirped the blue-haired girl, now cross-legged and beaming, “...bread is very likable.”

The last girl, the calm one, the leader-looking one, finally cracked a smile.

“Okay. Bread girl. Let’s start over.” You were sweating bullets as she walked over to you, stretching a hand out as she opened her mouth to speak again.

“I’m Hana. I do vocals and lead things. Try not to be annoying.”

“Cami,” said the blonde, still grinning, “resident menace. I dance. I flirt. I ruin lives. Soon, at least.”

“Amara,” the hazel-haired one said, voice flat but eyes sharp. “I rap. I glare. Sometimes I say things that hurt, don't take it to heart, it's a love language”

“Rina!” the blue-haired girl said brightly.

“Maknae. I eat snacks. I drink blood and souls.” she continued, smiling brightly up at you.

The training began at 6 AM the next day.

Not figuratively. Literally.

You're suddenly in the building with the lights turned on too bright, shoes laced too tightly, Water bottles clearly labeled. Rina tried to climb back into her locker once, sobbing “I’m a mole person!” The trainers pulled her out by her ankle. No one blinked, except you who stared at the scene with a bewildered face.

You were used to late nights, not early mornings. Your body hadn’t exercised since high school P.E., where you once faked an asthma attack to avoid Zumba. So when they said “light cardio” you didn’t expect a 5k run followed by strength circuits and core holds while singing scales.

Your lungs? Betrayed you.

Your legs? Jelly.

Your soul? Left the group chat.

But you felt yourself smiling genuinely, for the first time in quite a few years, you admitted to yourself you're having fun. Even if your body felt like it was in hell.

“Stand up, bread girl. We're not even halfway our schedule yet.” Cami chuckles, only slightly out of breath as she takes a slow sip of her water

“What do you mean?” You choked out, dry heaving into the green grass as Rina pats your back with mild concern, handing you your bottle.

Hana quirks a brow before passing her phone to you, on a wallpaper of her clearly scheduled schedule.

6:00–7:30 AM: Conditioning + Vocal Warmups on the treadmill (yes, while running)

8:00–10:00 AM: Dance Rehearsals (with Chae yelling “YOU’RE A WAVE, NOT A ROBOT!” at you)

10:00–12:00 PM: Stamina Training ft. Chaos™

Lunch

1:00–6:00 PM: Line Dissection, Stage Presence, Character Building (Cami called it “becoming sexy school”)

7:00 PM–???: Solo Practice, Self-Critique, Vocal Journaling (Amara’s favorite part. Your personal hell.)

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You groaned out

“Oh that's not the worst part of it.” Amara spoke out, a slight smirk on her face.

And then out her mouth came the most cursed thing of all:

“SINGING. WHILE PLAYING. SPORTS.”

You thought it was a joke. Like a prank to haze the new girl.

It wasn’t.

It was mayhem.

Volleyballs were flying overhead. You were screaming. Someone was harmonizing while diving for the ball. A staff member did a perfect jump serve while belting an adlib. You got hit in the face mid-chorus. Rina laughed so hard she dropped her mic pack.

But the weird part?

You kept going.

Your voice cracked. Your legs wobbled. You forgot the entire verse.

But the girls cheered anyway.

“Breathe from your diaphragm, not your trauma!” Cami shouted.

“Don’t aim with your face!” Hana barked, her smile amused

“You’re getting better!” Rina chirped, hugging you even as you collapsed.

“You didn’t throw up this time,” Amara nodded. “Proud of you.”

You collapsed onto the mat after training that night, soaking through your third shirt, arms jellied, throat raw.

“This is... a cult,” you gasped out, barely able to move.

Laughter rang out of the practice room that day.

Months passed since that first training and you were slowly getting used to the steep training schedule and you were actually keeping up. Not to mention your vocals were “passable” according to Hana, which to you by then was high praise. Yet you found yourself stumped with the choreography.

Oh god, the choreography has you dry heaving like a choking racoon, the choreography has you tumbling around like a newborn deer in a washing machine. You can't count the amount of tears you shed from frustration and the amount of tears Cami shed from laughter.

She laughed so hard once she had to lie down on the floor.

You cried crocodile tears.

She still cried harder, from laughing.

“Stop sobbing,” she wheezed. “You’re making it funnier.”

But they didn’t give up on you.

Not once.

Hana slowed down the steps for you after hours.

Amara practiced with you in silence, counting the beats with gentle nods.

Rina tried to teach you muscle memory by choreographing a routine to a frog song because, quote, “maybe you need a little bit of amphibian energy.”

And Cami, when she stopped laughing, pulled you close, rested a hand on your hip, and said:

“You move differently. Don't force yourself to fit in, it's not bad. You just haven’t learned how to make it yours yet.” She smirked at you flirtatiously, before guiding, no, she maneuvered your limbs to move to the beat.

You blushed. Furiously.

The first time you stayed late with them like really late, it wasn’t for training.

It was because the pipes in your apartment had burst and Hana had said, “Just sleep at the practice room.” with that signature quirked brow as if what she said was totally common sense

You assumed she meant alone. But then she showed up with her pillow. And then Amara with a box of strawberry milk. Then Cami with a bag of stolen hotel slippers and Rina with her entire plushie collection.

And suddenly, all five of you were crammed together on a makeshift pile of mats and blankets under the fucking annoying flickering fluorescent lights surrounded by Rina's plushie cult.

Rina was drawing on Cami’s arm with a glitter pen. Hana was braiding Amara’s hair. You were staring at the ceiling, quietly debating whether your thighs had exploded from squats or if this was what being twenty felt like.

“We really need to fix that damn thing. It's gonna worsen my eyesight.” You mumbled, absolutely wrecked from the arduous training you just endured

“You're practically blind, darling. I doubt it'll get worse.” Cami teased, turning over to face you as Rina nodded at her words.

You let out a chuckle, turning over to face her as well.

“You’re weird” Cami then said, poking your cheek.

“So are you.” You snapped back, a joyous grin plastered on your mouth

“Yeah, but I make it look hot.”

“You're delusional.”

“And you're obsessed with me.”

You snorted. Back then, you were still getting used to this, the way they touched you without thinking, teased you like they’d always known you, like you weren’t just the awkward girl with decent lyrics anymore.

Because you weren't. Not anymore.

At some point, the conversation shifted.

It always did, when you were all too tired to keep your guard up.

You were fiddling with your phone, playing old vocal takes from a project you abandoned last year, when Hana sat up straight.

“Pause. Who is that?” she spoke sharply, mouth slightly agape.

“Me.” You mumbled, chewing your lip in nervousness

“That’s you?” Amara blinked.

“Yeah?” You're beginning to frown, anxiety filling your veins as your brain kicks into overdrive

“Wait, play that again,” Cami said, suddenly wide awake.

You did.

And the room went silent.

It was raw. A little breathy and raspy. But full… like salt and honey. A layered harmony that you’d built piece by piece, night after night. It was something warm and sad and huge.

“That’s what you sound like when you’re not trying to imitate someone else, when you're not forcing yourself to fit in.” Hana said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“You keep singing like you're trying to sound... soft. Pretty. Delicate. But that’s not what your voice wants to do.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No,” Amara said, sitting up beside her. “It wants to punch people in the face. In a good way.”

You blinked.

“So... what? I should sing like a... hot butch?” You spoke jokingly, tossing a chip into your mouth

Hana shrugged. “I mean, if the shoe fits.”

“Yeah,” you said before you could stop yourself. “’Cause I’m gay.”

A beat.

Then Cami threw her slipper at you.

“BABE. We been knew.” she damn near shrieked, laughing hysterically

“Girl, we are too,” Rina giggled, rolling onto her side.

“I literally call my girlfriend Mommy during phone calls. You thought you were the only gay one? ” Amara said, raising an eyebrow.

“I have a rainbow tattoo on my tit,” Cami declared proudly.

“Okay,” Hana said, smirking faintly. “First of all, ew. Second of all... finally.”

You laughed so hard you nearly cried. It wasn’t even coming out, not really. It was the acceptance that you hadn’t realized you were waiting for. That these girls weren’t just bandmates.

They were like your people.

Your family. No matter how cringe or cliche that sounded.

Since then, you started belonging in ways you didn’t even notice.

You laughed during warm-ups. You stole bites of Rina’s snack stash. You fought Cami over who was more masc-coded in the new choreo. You helped Amara build harmonies. You stayed late with Hana to rewrite the bridge of a new song, not because anyone asked, but because you wanted to. All 5 of you bonded by watching random shows while melting into Hana's couch (Her apartment's the biggest one). Rina would throw popcorn at you and start a food war and then Hana would explode because you dirtied her couch.

But that was only half your battle. Your vocals still sucked and your movements are clunky like a giraffe that's learning how to tap dance.

“I'm pretty sure you won't survive Dream Academy” Cami teased you one time and Rina laughed, even Amara's lips twitch into a smile.

“What's Dream Academy?”

“Oh. My. Fucking. God. Am I about to introduce you to Dream fucking Academy?!”

It was then that the random shows you guys watch on day offs turned into watching Dream Academy and crying whenever absolutely anyone gets eliminated.

“They all deserve to be stars! They all deserve to debut! We deserve to debut!” Rina would sob uncontrollably in Cami's arms as Amara hands her tissues.

You, however, had your eyes trained on one woman, and one woman alone. Daniela Avanzini.

The first time you saw her, your jaw dropped so far that Cami had to manually close your mouth unless you start drooling because Hana would make you all run 5 kilometers if her couch gets dirty again.

Your eyes would sparkle everytime Daniela would appear on screen, and your eyes would immediately snap to her even if she's just in the background. You would stare so intensely at the screen whenever she performed like she was both your muse and your training manual. Cami's teasing was endless, it was to the point that she edited and printed Daniela into photocards just to mess with you, only for you to cry because: “This is the sweetest thing someone ever did for me”

And it was just… printed pictures of your celebrity crush…

It was then that the girls swore that they seriously needed to up your standards.

Not that you'll ever know.

Because the more you watched Dream Academy, the more you watched her perform, your hunger grew. Suddenly, you had a muse.

And really, what's an artist without a muse?

Venari Studios Practice Room. 6:37 am. Training Day 789.

Sweat clung to your back as you stared at the mic. You could see yourself in the mirror, oversized tee, hair tied up into a bun, eyeliner smudged.

Not soft, not cute. But authentic.

You inhaled deep, rolled your shoulders back, and sang.

It was the same verse, the one you'd been practicing for weeks with the girls but this time, you didn’t hesitate. You let the weight sit in your lower register. You bit into the vowels like they owed you something.

You imagined standing there, flashing lights, people screaming your name, but your eyes are only ever focused on her.

The sound that filled the room was rich. Smooth like honey, dark like salted espresso.

And when you hit that high note, your tone didn’t flutter nor did it shake, it jumped out of the ocean like a surfer conquering a huge wave.

“That’s it,” said the vocal coach, stunned, a little breathless. “That’s your color.”

“Holy sh—” Cami choked from her seat in the corner. “I think I just came a lil”

“Disgusting,” Hana muttered, though she was smiling.

Amara merely hummed in approval.

You laughed, shaky with relief. It was like your lungs finally learned how to breathe.

But then you realized, vocals weren't the only thing you struggled with.

Choreography was a whole ass war.

Your groupmates moved like silk, all elegant curves and effortless allure. They were trained to seduce with each step, to smile and destroy with a wink. And next to them, you felt... off.

Too sharp. Too grounded. Too clunky. Not enough float.

You were practically groaning in frustration every move.

The choreographer paused the music and raised an eyebrow at you.

“Why are you dancing like you’re afraid to take up space?” he snaps a little, yet his tone was still gentle. He sounded like an old woman when the neighborhood kids trampled her garden.

You flushed. “Because I feel like a fridge next to a fleet of Ferraris?”

The room laughed, lovingly.

Cami slung an arm around your shoulder.

“Babe, you’re not a fridge. You’re a Tesla. Dangerous. Sexy. Expensive.”

“Please stop complimenting her with car metaphors,” Hana groaned.

“I think it fits,” Rina grinned. “She’s sleek. Strong. Kinda intimidating.”

“A little bit gay,” Amara added.

“A lot,” you corrected.

“And please never refer to me as a tesla again, I might actually puke in disgust. The amount of rage when I see a tesla cyber truck in the wild is concerning.”

The next time the music started, you tried something new.

You didn’t copy their fluidity. You moved with weight. You didn’t melt, you solidified, with sharp jagged edges. Where the others flicked their wrists, you dragged yours with intention. Where they arched like flames, you stood solid like smoke, filling the empty spaces that your girls had.

You weren’t soft. You were sharp, yet somehow fluid.

And somehow, by miracle, it worked.

You didn’t drown in their intensity.

You were a contrast. A pull.

You made them shine, and they made you burn.

The choreographer clapped.

“There she is,” he said, pride dripping from his tone.

“Choke me, mommy.” Cami playfully moaned like a pornstar with her rent due.

Her moan knocked you out of your zone, you choked on your own spit as you felt all the heat in your body rush to your face.

“She's mommy but she's confused.” Rina guffaws, high-fiving Cami as she joins Rina's laughter.

Amara, unfazed, calmly stepped over you like you were furniture. Hana didn’t even blink as she passed you a towel.

“Good form,” she said, her tone monotone but there's a soft look in her eyes that made you grin joyfully.

You were wheezing from a mixture of embarrassment and pride, eyes still wide, brain still echoing “mommy” like a curse.

But your body, your body was still humming from that last run. You were sweaty. Out of breath. Absolutely wrecked. You hoped for a little rest. But Hana just had to open her mouth.

“From the top,” Hana said quietly.

“Wait—” Rina muttered, already out of breath.

“Too late,” Cami grinned, hopping back into place.

Amara rolled her neck, you swear you heard her bone crack.

You stood up pulling your shirt away from your damp back.

The music clicked on. And just like that, they moved, you moved, like waves crashing against cliffs.

A few months later, while your group was once again rehersing like your life depended on it, just outside the room, unseen and unknown, two women stood watching.

The cracked door to Studio B let out just enough sound to spill the track into the hallway.

Chae, arms folded, jaw set. She’d been with them since day one. She knew their rhythms. Their hunger. Their passion.

Beside her, Mirae, Geffen’s A&R rep, stood still, one hand loosely curled around her phone, but not recording. Just watching. In utter disbelief and awe.

Inside, the music looped back into the chorus.

Five girls moved in perfect sync.

Not polished, not poised, but real. Undeniable, uncontrollably feral yet sensual.

“How long have they been like this?” Mirae asked without looking away.

Chae exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath for two years.

“They didn’t start this way. 4 years maybe, give or take. 2 years of breakdowns.”

Mirae nodded faintly.

“They’re not even trying to be a girl group. They simply just are.” She remarked, letting out an exhale she didn't know she held.

“They move like no one’s watching,” Mirae murmured. “They think no one is. They think they’re not worth the audience.” Chae replied.

A pause.

“They’re going to change things…” Mirae said, softly, fingers tapping furiously against her phone.“...A group like this? Queer? Sharp? Messy? Human? They’re going to hit hard.”

Chae didn’t say anything. Just stared through the glass.

“Good,” she thought.

“They deserve it.”

Inside, the girls stumbled to a stop. Their bodies are sweaty, their lungs breathless, half-laughing.

You flopped down to the floor, clutching your towel like a lifeline.

Rina rolled into your side, comfortably laying on your bicep.

Cami dramatically lay flat like she’d been shot.

Hana handed out bottled water with silent efficiency.

Amara leaned against the wall, arms crossed, humming through her cooldown.

Just another day.

Just another run.

Or so you thought.

#katseye x reader #daniela avanzini x reader #daniela avanzini #katseye daniela #daniela avanzini imagines

390 notes · View notes

salemlunaa · 10 hours ago

Text

LETS TALK ABOUT REVISION

ready to rewrite your life?

i used to talk about revision while operating from different beliefs, however i thought it would be great to talk about it now as i get so many asks about the subject.

In actuality, revision is an illusionistic concept. Why is that? because time isn’t real. You are SO powerful that you are imagining a “past” for yourself on the fly, and can sift through “memories” in a matter of seconds. But because we only live in a now moment, those memories are only made real by your awareness. If you were to take your awareness of a certain moment in time, it would cease to exist, until you are to bring it back to life by again putting your awareness on it.

How revision works: I’m going to use the words “train of thought” instead of “past” as the past is really just a train of thought you believe to have happened, all you have is now. There are infinite realities out there, you shift every second to a slightly different one following every decision you make. Let’s say Julia broke up with her boyfriend, that circumstance is being imagined by her, she has a train of thoughts (from finding problems in the relationship, to breaking up with him) which practically tell her she broke up with him.

Although, there is another version of her with another set of thoughts/ “memories” of her and her boyfriend being in a loving relationship. If she regrets the “decision” of breaking up with her man, she needs to shift her SELF to the person with the train of thoughts that tell her she IS in a relationship with her boyfriend, and because imagination is reality, that’s what will folllow.

A lot of you may use revision for one reason or another, but the main reason that so many seek revision is because they either regret doing something or are in a shitty situation. And i’m going to tell you that revision is just like anything other manifestation meaning: creation is finished. Regret is not a real feeling, it is an imagined feeling, that you generate because you are so fooled by the delusion that decisions are final. Once you see that none of this is real and the past doesn’t matter, you will remove all the regret from your mind,

And i know how regret feels, before coming to terms with who i actually was, it was a feeling that ate me up inside, it’s a horrible feeling, but it is illusionistic, it is only there to solidify the illusion that events and the physical is solid. Which they aren’t.

Please do not be fooled, the past is changeable because there is no past. All you must do is shift to the now version of you that had the desired “past” you wanted. There are people who have revised deaths, diagnoses, fucked up things they did, there’s even a girl on my page sharing a success story about her regret of moving schools, so she simply shifted to a timeline where she never moved! And i have many more dms with successes too, someone who revised their grades when they were a few days away from a parent teacher meeting telling them to repeat the year, one who revised her breakup days before prom. if they can do that why can’t you “revise”? i don’t care what it is. It. Is. Changeable. And that’s because you are everything and You are changeable so ALL is changeable.

✰✰✰✰✰

Another piece of advice is not to look outward for advice. I’m going to give you links to the only revision posts i would recommend!(one two three four five six-probably so much more amazing material, but you don’t need it, stop with the need to over consume). But other than that, a lot of “manifestation coaches” have A LOT of limiting beliefs. For example: “you have to remember that manifestation can’t overrule the law of physics and time”, “changing the past isn’t possible, but you can change how you feel about it” ew…… anyway…..

YOU are god, not them. please do not let their limitations affect you. That’s like the biblical god going to cry in a corner because Moses doubted him. Why are you letting mere humans depict what you can and can’t do? You have the authority, total authority. Which is why i don’t want you to get rattled seeing these beliefs. But wouldn’t the person who has their revised be enjoying life, instead of looking for youtube posts like a junky needing a fix??

To revise all you must do is see beyond the illusion that this life is solid. See beyond the concept that time is set in stone and that time is linear. This circumstance isn’t real, use whatever techniques you like to live from the state of the person who is in the timeline you want to be in (I personally love revising the day using SATS, inducing the void state, visualising and rampages, recently loving robotic affirmations too!)

I hate using the word “delusional” because the only thing that is delusion here is you thinking you can’t do this, but you need to be so far removed from what was, live completely and 100% in your imagination, that’s the only real thing. “But salem, what if i’m living in my head and circumstances still take their course?” If you have to ask me that you aren’t 100% living in the imaginary. And that back and forth, that pathetic attempt at serving two masters is what has you “waiting”. You cannot serve two masters, you are either in your desired timeline, or you’re the loser dealing with circumstances you don’t want, it can never be the two, you have to pick which one you want more.

Also remember that you can never be given things you don’t already have: reality is totally mental, not 50% not 99% but 100% mental, if you still operate from the person who is regretting their life, you aren’t thinking from the state of being in the timeline you wanna be in. You have to know that you have it first, before it can reflect. It will only be hard when you say it is, failure is not a real concept, it’s being imagined by you, remember that. For some of you, your circumstances will slap you right in the face and that is not failure it’s feedback, showing you that you aren’t truly thinking from that version of you.

You are the only person in your way from instantly jumping to your desired timeline. Get rid of that deep belief in time. You are the only reason you have to wake up and deal with unfavourable circumstances again. YOU are the only one that can give it to yourself. And first you have to GIVE IT TO YOURSELF, try to make that make sense. The food is right there but you choose to starve because you are so fooled by the illusion there is no food at the table.

it’s already done, there’s nothing to regret, creation is finished, the second you wanted another outcome a reality was formed. THATS how powerful you are. You are there now.

Shifting to your desired timeline is instantaneous, it will materialise when you finally see there was nothing to do to get there in the first place.

I believe in you, so so so much

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nwarrior777 · 17 hours ago

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i would say that you can have also "fuck you i am leaving" factors but its more about not having "i can't quit" things

and one of these things is job connection. and it's hillarious (in sad way tho) to me that you are more free and more likelly can say "fuck you" to your boss working as janitor than any other position, like save you god if you are some idk, artist in industry

i worked as cassier, i working now as janitor. then i worked as cassier i didn't sell people condoms because it was food shop in god damn russia and you just know that quality of these is not even questionably bad there. and its place where you can buy normal ones right next to the shop - so i refused to sell it.

once a male manager noticed it and said that i have to sell it like, what am i even doing.

i said "man, until you don't have uterus with chance of not planned pregnancy i am not listening you on this topic"

i also quit because they didn't want to give me day off on my birthday

as janitor i quit last place of job because manager did some weird move like he think being manager is being the boss guy from "the office" or smth. he did this toxic shit once, i thought "oh lol. wow. nope" and quit next day

can you do same, with no hesitation and in one day if you work on Big job? the answer is mostly - very very no

imagine you spend your life, education, tons of money resource, time resource imagining yourself working in art industry

and then you finally close to this or even in some studio you realize that all "magic" is just a facade and all big industries are capitalistic hell, especially today. art industry will not give any magic, only crunches, awful environment and there is no way you will find company which don't use ai in any parts of it's pipeline, it may be not you but coders will spent their 6 hours work day by one time clicking on "make me code" prompt in gpt (yep, they do that) so if you are in - your art is selled to this

so it's just hell, but why we have people in industry then still - because of "but i spend all my life for that" thing

people tied to their jobs with their entire life. tied to capitalism itself

so you will work in awfull conditions, being afraid to say things to boss then he talk absolute shit, and will do awfull things and participate in awfull projects in industry, selling your soul because you just train at this point on the rails and red flags going and going but good luck on stopping train by rug. you can go off rails but damn if it will be hard (it will, at least psyhologically)

what you do if you work as janitor and notice awful conditions - you say "oh wow. lol. nope", quit and take same position in next building on the street in a week

the more of you is tied to your job - the less "i don't like it, fuck you all, i quit" freedom you have

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dreamauri · 3 days ago

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♪ — 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗪𝗘 𝗡𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗖𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗧 lando norris x olympic athlete! fem! reader ( angst ) fic summary . . . Your relationship with Lando has never fit into a box—blurred lines, late nights, and something dangerously close to love. But when one moment changes everything, you're forced to face what’s been there all along (1k words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

You and Lando were always a bit . . . blurred.

Not lovers. Not just friends.

You’re not sure what to call a relationship where you go halves on takeout and condoms. Where you’re the first call when he podiums and the last face he sees before bed. Where he lets you borrow his hoodies without asking, and you know the passcode to his phone and the way he likes his tea—no milk, one sugar, left to steep while he forgets about it.

The lines dissolved years ago. You sleep in his bed more than your own, his hand knows the curve of your hip like it was made to rest there. He’s kissed your bruises after late training sessions, held you through sore ankles and skating heartbreaks, made you laugh on days you didn’t think you could. You’ve stopped pretending it’s temporary.

It’s easy. Familiar. Home, in a way that nothing else is.

And now you’re pregnant.

And it’s not easy anymore.

You tell him in the kitchen—because that’s where things like this happen. Where you’ve danced barefoot on cold tiles and argued about who forgot to buy 2% milk. Where comfort lived. Where reality now sits between the toaster and the empty cereal bowl.

He’s standing by the counter, half-dressed, sleepy-eyed, holding a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.

You say it. Quiet. Barely a whisper.

“I’m pregnant.”

He stares at you.

The words just hang there. Then the box slips from his fingers and hits the floor. Cereal spills everywhere—like some kind of cruel celebration.

He doesn’t even blink.

“Lando,” you say, stepping forward.

But he’s already moving—hands dragging into his curls, pacing like he’s searching for a door that doesn’t exist. His movements are frantic, unsteady, like his body is trying to outrun the weight of your words.

His chest starts to rise faster, breath catching in shallow bursts.

“I ruined it,” he mutters, more to the floor than to you. “I fucking ruined it.”

You take a small step forward. “Hey—”

He flinches. Doesn’t look at you. Shakes his head hard like he’s trying to shake the whole thought out.

“No, you don’t get it,” he says, louder now, voice scraping at the edges. “You don’t get it. You were supposed to go to the fucking Olympics, Y/n.”

Your name leaves his mouth like it hurts to say.

“You were gonna compete in Milan. You’ve trained for that since you were five. That’s your dream. That’s all you’ve ever talked about, and I got you—” He swallows hard, jaw clenched, words drying out mid-sentence. He couldn't bring himself to utter the word pregnant. It made it all too real. Maybe if he doesn't say the word, it never happened.

His eyes are glassy now, but he’s still holding it in. Like crying would make it real.

“I didn’t mean to take it from you,” he says, quieter this time. And it’s that quiet that guts you.

“You didn’t take anything.”

“Yes, I did!” His voice spikes, sharp and cracked. He’s not yelling at you. He’s yelling at himself. At the mistake. The reality.

“We were stupid. We didn’t think. And now you’re the one stuck with it. I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve pulled out. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve—should’ve protected you better.”

“Lando, stop—”

He turns away sharply, both hands bracing the counter like he might collapse without it. His back heaves with a breath that doesn’t come easy.

You hear him exhale. Once. Twice.

Then another breath stutters, breaking on the way out.

His fingers grip the edge of the marble. White-knuckled. Rigid.

“I just…” His voice is thinner now, stretched and shaking. “I don’t want this to be your life. I don’t want you to give everything up because of me. You were gonna make it. You were so close. And now—now it’s all just... gone.”

He presses the heel of his palms into his eyes, like that might stop the water building there.

You take another step, slower this time.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, barely audible. “I never meant for this to happen. And you’re too young, Y/n. You’re twenty-three. You have everything in front of you. Everything.”

His voice breaks completely then—soft, shattered.

“And I’m just some idiot who couldn’t keep it together.”

And finally, the tears come.

Not in a sudden collapse—but in a slow, miserable unraveling. His breath starts hitching. His shoulders tremble beneath the weight of it all. He doesn’t sob—not yet—but it’s coming undone at the seams.

His hand covers his mouth like he’s trying to keep the noise in. But you hear it anyway. Quiet, awful sounds that split you open.

You move to him without thinking. Kneel down beside him on the cold tile, cereal crunching beneath your knees. Your hand finds his jaw, warm and shaking, your thumb brushing just below his eye.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you.

Can’t.

Because if he does, he’ll fall apart completely.

But you’re already watching it happen.

And still, somehow, you’ve never loved him more.

“Why do you care this much?”

His eyes finally meet yours, tear-streaked and wide. “Because I love you.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it. He’s told you before—drunk in Monaco, half-asleep on a plane, after you beat him at poker. I love you, mate. You’re my person.

But this time it’s different.

This time it lands right in your chest, sharp and certain.

And you realise you love him too. Not just in the we-share-a-bed way. Not in the you-steal-my-charger way.

In the real way.

In the I’d-choose-you way.

The I’d-raise-this-child-with-you way.

“I love you,” you whisper, terrified and honest. “I think I always have.”

His mouth opens, like the air’s been punched out of him. “You do?”

You nod. “I don’t know what happens next. But I want you there.”

You’re both crying now. Not because it’s fixed. Not because it’s easy.

But because it’s real.

And somehow, in this cracked-open moment—surrounded by crushed cereal and grief and possibility—you realise this isn’t the end.

It’s the start.

You’ll figure it out. Together.

Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts.

You’ll build something out of the blur.

Something that finally has a name.

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natsarrownecklacx · 1 day ago

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A Little Unsteady

Zora Bennett x Reader

Word Count: 2,553

Summary: Your years of hard work and study pay off when you are asked to go on a once in a lifetime mission as the head paleontologist. Your girlfriend isn't as excited about the prospect as you are.

Warnings: Death, blood, broken bones, general violence. Possible incorrect information about dinosaurs. This does not follow the plot of the movie directly, there is some deviation.

⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 𖠰. ݁⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 ݁⋆ ݁

The last couple of hours were hell. Absolute chaos. You’re not sure you’d ever run so much in your life.

People died. Two of your friends, killed right in front of you.

None of what happened will be easily forgotten. You’ll never forget the screams, the pain in their eyes.

You’ll never be able to sleep soundly again, the memory of one of your closest friends calling for you as they were torn to pieces surly haunting you.

Even now, as a helicopter comes into view, you can’t help but let the screams plague your mind. Help is coming, a way out of this hell within reach. But it’s come all too late to save some of the people you loved most.

——————————————————

Zora forbade you from going on the mission. She didn’t care that you were the best for the job, didn’t care that it was unfair of her to deny you this. She refused. You simply wouldn’t be put in harm's way. She wouldn’t allow it.

You argued back, stood your ground. Told her how unreasonable she was being. That it had been your dream since you were a child to see a real live dinosaur up close. That you had worked for years to get to the top of your field in palaeontology. That you had been recruited by the person running the whole operation personally.

Plus, she was going. You pointed out many times how hypocritical it was for her to say it would be too dangerous for you while planning on going herself.

She would always argue that she was trained in combat. You’d always say you know more about the animals and their behaviour than she did.

This back and forth went on for days. Until she finally relented, seeing how much this truly meant to you.

You squealed, threw your arms around her and thanked her profusely. Promising to do exactly as she said, no questions asked.

Zora’s arms were tight around you, her face dropping into the curve of your neck, breathing you in. She was nervous, out of her mind with worry at the thought of bringing you into such an environment. But how could she look you in the eye knowing she took your one opportunity to live out your dream.

She swore to herself she wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Even if it meant putting the mission in jeopardy.

—————————————————————

Things started off simple enough. You’d all made it to the island with no casualties. You’d even gotten to watch your girlfriend in action, the sight of her at the front of the boat, gun in hand as she fearlessly took on the mosasaurus memorising you.

Once the whole thing was done she’d strode towards you, a wide smile on her face. “You impressed?” She teased and you couldn’t help but lean in to kiss her. “Always.” She’d laughed, her eyes shining as she leaned in to kiss you again.

Everyone made their way into the jungle and you were in awe of everything. Any time you caught even a glimpse of a dinosaur your eyes lit up, hand tugging excitedly at Zora’s to draw her attention.

She’d always glance at the dinosaurs, only sparing enough of a look to determine if they were a threat, before fixing her eyes on you. She loved seeing you so happy, loved the look of pure joy on your face, the sparkle in your eyes.

Not long into your journey you all stumbled across a triceratops. It seemed lazy, unbothered by your presence but friendly all the same. You approached it slowly, keeping in its eye line as if asking permission to get closer.

The moment your hand touched the animal you could have sworn you felt your heart glow, ready to combust any moment. It was everything you’d ever dreamed it to be.

You turned to Zora, the widest smile on your face, the beginnings of tears in your eyes. She was at your side in seconds, one arm around your waist and the other being guided towards the animal.

She felt the rise and fall of the animals breathe beneath her fingers and for the first time understood your love for the creatures.

“Bella.” You murmured, eyes fixed on the triceratops as you ran your hand over it in a soothing manner. “I’m gonna name her Bella.”

Zora smiled, because of course you’d name the animal. You leaned forward, your whole body leaning against Bella’s and she let out a sound of contentment.

“She likes me.” You whispered, voice filled with so much emotion.

Henry stepped forward, camera raised as he told you to smile. Zora had her arm around you, a smile on her face as she looked at you. You’d probably scold her when you saw the photo, because she wasn’t looking into the camera. But she didn’t care, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from you.

You cried when it was time to leave. Bella whined as she mourned the loss of her new friend.

—————————————————————

Jane was the first of your friends to die. She was brought along as your right hand man, someone to talk to who understood as much as you did. Someone to help strategise.

She wandered off, going against every rule set forward and basic common sense. She’d seen a stegosaurus, not too far from where you’d all been resting. She was only curious, too enthralled with the idea of seeing the animal up close to think better of going alone.

She didn’t realise her mistake until a swarm of Compsognathus surrounded her.

You’d all heard her scream. Each and every one of you on your feet and sprinting in the direction of the noise as soon as it reached your ears.

By the time you got to her there was nothing left. Your friend was gone.

Zora’s arms were around you before you had the chance to break. Her voice grounding you as she pulled you away from the bloody scene.

Jack was the next to die. The man that you’d known since childhood. The one who introduced you to your girlfriend.

You were inside a cave, mid way down a huge cliff, collecting samples from pterodactyl eggs. Zora stood over you, her eyes glued to the way you skilfully manoeuvred the instruments.

Jack stood watch at the entrance to the cave, machine gun held tightly in his grip. “Nearly done in there?” He called.

You smiled. “Always so impatient.”

You felt the gust of wind enter the cave before you saw it, the huge pterodactyl making its way inside.

Jack raised his gun, bullets flying towards the angry creature but none of them stopped it. Not a single one even slowed it down.

The creature lurched forward, large mouth wide open as it reached for Jack, locking its jaw with a sickening crunch.

You screamed, running towards the man. You grabbed his arms, trying to pull him free as the prehistoric bird tried to wrangle him away.

Blood poured from its mouth, staining your shirt. Jack cried out, fear and pain clear in his eyes.

Zora drew her gun and aimed at the animal's heart. She shot once, twice and a third time but the thing didn’t even flinch.

“Y/n.” Jack screamed, his grip on you tight enough to leave a bruise. “Please don’t let me die.” He begged, tears streaming down his face.

You wanted to promise you would never let that happen. Reassure him that he would be alright. But the monster clamped down on him again and in his shock and pain he let you go.

The pterodactyl was in the air before you could get a hold on him again. Jack screamed for you and you tried to run towards the cave entrance.

Zora stopped you, her arms holding you back as you fought against her. “We have to do something. We have to save him.” You screamed, trying to break yourself free from your girlfriend’s hold.

“He’s gone, baby.” She said sorrowfully. “I’m so sorry. But he’s gone.”

She didn’t loosen her grip on you until you lost all fight, your body going slack in her arms. She pressed a kiss to your forehead, heartbroken over the loss of her friend but selfishly so grateful that you were still alive. “”It’s gonna be okay, y/n.”

—————————————————————

You were running, all of you. Zora only half a step ahead, her head turning to seek you out periodically.

The helicopter came into view and you all stopped, a wave of relief going over everyone. Zora turned to you, a wide smile on her face. “We’re going home, baby.”

You smiled back at her, exhausted and covered in dirt. The first thing you wanted to do when you got home was shower then sleep.

The helicopter landed, the sound drawing Zora’s attention for all of ten seconds. It was then that you wished you’d just listened to her and stayed at home.

Zora hears you scream. Loud, piercing, filled with agony. Her blood runs cold, every bone in her body screaming at her to react.

She spins around, gun already drawn and pointed at the raptor standing over you with your leg in its jaws. She barely has a second to let the shock of the scene wash over her before she empties a clip into the animal, not stopping until it falls limp and unmoving beside you.

Her legs carry her to you faster than she’s ever moved before, her knees dropping to the ground with little care for the uneven gravel beneath her. “Y/n?” She cries, hands gripping your shoulders. “Can you hear me?”

Your eyes are barely open, your breathing shallow. You manage a weak nod. “My leg?” You whimper.

Zora moves down your body, eyes scanning you to take in the damage. “It’s definitely broken. But still there.” She says, making quick work of taking off her belt to make a turner kit. You could tell she was downplaying how bad it was, you could feel it. Sharp, ragged pieces of bone ripping into muscle and skin.

“Yay.” You try to joke, smiling half heartedly. Your intention to ease the tension is lost as Zora lifts your leg to wrap her belt around you. You gasp, hands reaching to grasp anything they can.

Henry drops beside her, his eyes wide and filled with shock and fear. “She’s losing too much blood.” He says, voice shaking as he takes your hands in his own. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

“We need to stop the bleeding.” Zora’s voice sounds strained, so far from the loving tone you’re used to.

“Zora-“

“Ready?” She asks, one hand flat on your thigh and the other gripping the belt. You whimper, knowing this will only increase the already unbearable pain but nod anyway.

She tightens the belt around your leg and you scream, your whole body lurching as your vision goes white. Henry’s hands fly to your shoulders, pushing you back toward the floor to steady you. You shift, something wet soaking your clothes beneath you. Blood, you realise, your blood spilling all over the floor. A wave of nausea hits you and you have to fight against yourself to stop from getting sick.

She secures it quickly, making her way up to hover over you again. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry.”

“We need to move, Z.” Duncan calls, gun held tightly in his arms, ready at a moment's notice to fend off another raptor attack. “It’s not safe here.”

“Y/n I need to pick you up okay?” Zora says, sliding her arms under your knees and back. Her eyes are wide when you look into them, filled with panic.

“No no no. Please- agh.” You cry out as she hauls you up from the floor effortlessly, holding you tight against her.

Another wave of pain shoots through your body. You feel yourself slipping into darkness as Zora runs with you in her arms. Her voice sounds muffled as she pleads with you to stay awake.

You don’t feel it when she lays you down in the helicopter, all senses dulled to the point of near oblivion.

The last thing you hear before you black out is Zora yelling at the pilot to inform the mainland that there has been an accident and a medical team needs to be on standby for your arrival.

—————————————————————

You wake in a hospital bed. The bright, unforgiving lights hurt your eyes. Your mouth feels dry. Your bones feel stiff. But you're alive. You're not sure you have the ability to properly process how you feel about being alive right now.

You shift, moving to sit up. Zora appears beside you. Her eyes wide, the beginnings of tears welling in them. “You're awake.” She breaths, her hand finding your cheek. “I can’t believe you're awake.” A tear slides down her face and your heart breaks.

You try to speak, to tell her you're okay, to promise you wouldn’t leave her. But your mouth really is so dry. She notices, because of course she does and gets you a cup of water.

“I’m sorry.” She says as you drink, her head dropped between her shoulders. “Y/n I am- I am so sorry.”

You stare at her, at a loss for words. None of this is her fault. You insisted on going. You all but baggered her for weeks. “Zora.” You call, voice so resolute it draws her attention straight away. “This wasn’t your fault.”

The blond only shakes her head, hands joined in front of her, knuckles turning white. “I should have protected you. You could have died, y/n.”

You sit up, rising on shaky arms before slumping back against the pillow. “It was my decision to go, Zora. I stand by that decision even now. None of what happened is on you. I don’t want to hear you saying otherwise.”

She takes a breath, her eyes looking anywhere but at you. “I thought you were dead.” She whispers. “By the time we got you to the hospital, you’d lost so much blood. You were barely breathing, y/n. You were dying and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I just had to watch you get worse and worse and I-”

A sob breaks through her lips, all of the pent up fear and grief from the past few days finally coming out.

You call her to you, shuffling over on the bed to make room for her. She climbs in beside you and immediately rests her head against your chest, needing the comfort of hearing your heartbeat. Some reassurance that you really are alive.

“I’m okay.” You murmur to her, hands running over her back to sooth her. “I promise. I’m okay.” You hold her until she calms, her breathing slowing to match yours along with her heartbeat. You both lie there for a while, just enjoying the comfort of each other's presence.

“Hey, Zora.” You break the silence after a while. She hums against you, hand drawing patterns over your stomach. “I do still have my leg right?”

Zora laughs, turning her head to smile against your skin. “Yes, baby. You’ll be back to forcing me into long walks in the woods in no time.”

⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 𖠰. ݁⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 ݁⋆ ݁

A/n: Not my favorite thing I've ever written but wanted to try something new, hope ye like it :)

#zora bennett x reader #zora bennett x you #zora bennett #jurassic world rebirth #Zora bennett x female reader #Scarlett johansson x reader #Zora bennett is so cute but so hot help

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