synopsis. only satoru gojo would be jealous of himself pt 2
contents. fluff, lovesick!gojos, time travel inaccuracies probably, dilf!gojo vs highschool!gojo
notes. this is a second part to a similar fic i wrote a couple months back. this thought has been plaguing in my mind lately—i just know gojo would go insane at the thought of you fawning over the dilf version of himself.
you swear you’re cursed.
not by an actual curse, though that would be easier to explain, but by sheer cosmic inconvenience.
you were supposed to meet gojo for training this morning. emphasis on supposed to, because, as usual, he texted you “i’ll be there in five minutes, swear on my six eyes,” and then wandered off somewhere between minute one and minute two.
so now you’re standing alone in the courtyard, stretching half-heartedly, considering whether making him run laps for ditching you counts as character development.
that’s when the air in front of you ripples, and there is a flash of cursed energy that makes you pause. a ripple of light bursts through the courtyard, momentarily blinding you.
the cursed void snaps into shape and someone steps through it
not just anyone—gojo satoru.
but even upon first glance you can tell that he is not the loud, lanky, and insufferably smug boy currently driving you insane.
this version is older, taller, broader in the shoulders, hair slightly longer, and he wears a blindfold. his expression is calm in a way you’ve never seen on him before. you can’t help but gawk at the way his flexed muscles look in that black compression shirt that he wears. you hate to admit it, but not even wrinkles that lightly map his face or the look of pride on his face make him any less attractive.
conversely, he looks at you like you’re the first drink of water after a desert.
“so this is what you looked like at eighteen,” he says, voice low and thoughtful. “i forgot how cute you were.”
you blink at him. “i’m sorry, who are you?”
you know this isn’t your gojo. he is not the one that was supposed to meet you in the training yard five minutes ago.
before he can answer, someone skids into the courtyard behind you, kicking up dirt.
“hey! hey, i’m not late, you’re early,” the familiar voice calls. “don’t glare at me—i brought you—”
your gojo freezes mid-sentence.
his gaze slides from you—to the older version of himself—then to you again. and his expression folds into something between shock and deeply insulted confusion.
“…are you kidding me?” he mutters.
older gojo lifts a hand in a casual greeting. “yo.”
younger gojo stares at him with the same look of a man staring at his own funeral.
“why do you look like that?” he asks, voice flat. “why do you look like you have your life together? since when did my traps get that big? is that a blindfold? where did you come from? why are you here?”
“time hiccup,” older gojo says simply. “don’t worry about it.”
“i’m absolutely worrying about it.”
the older version turns his attention back to you, and the shift is so gentle it makes your chest tighten.
“sorry if i startled you,” he says. “i didn’t expect to land this close.”
“you didn’t expect to land at all,” younger gojo mutters mockingly. “you look like you planned it.”
older gojo brushes that off. “right, because i definitely choose to tear open time and space before breakfast. i have three kids and a beautiful wife waiting for me in bed as we speak.”
“with that ego? sure you do.”
you watch the two of them banter. it’d comical, the way they argue in the exact same voice pitched at different levels of arrogance—and your head spins.
older gojo notices you watching and smiles. it is something much warmer than the cocky grin that you are used to.
“it’s good to see you [name],” he says.
you blink. “you… know me?”
“mm.” his smile deepens, soft around the edges. “very well.”
younger gojo bristles on instinct. he steps slightly in front of you, annoyed. “okay, hold on. hold on. she doesn’t even like me yet. how do you know her ‘very well’?”
older gojo tilts his head. “because eventually, she stops running away from me.”
your face heats at the tone of his speech while younger gojo’s entire soul visibly leaves his body.
“i’m not running,” you mutter.
younger gojo groans loudly and drags a hand down his face. “is this what i become? a reflective bastard? do i start journaling too?”
“would it kill you?” older gojo asks.
“probably.”
you can’t help it and laugh quietly, but it’s enough that both of them turn toward you.
younger gojo brightens immediately like he thinks the laugh is for him.
older gojo’s eyes soften like he knows it isn’t.
the difference makes your stomach do something strange.
“okay,” you finally say, rubbing your temples. “i need someone to explain what exactly is happening.”
“i slipped,” older gojo says.
“you slipped?”
“through a time seam.”
“you slipped,” younger gojo echoes, unimpressed. “like zurumon, but through time.”
older gojo shrugs. “more like the water tiger.”
you sigh at their childish references. “can you get back?”
“maybe,” he says. “in a bit. the seam should settle soon.”
“great,” younger gojo mutters, “so he’s stuck here long enough to ruin my life.”
older gojo’s brow lifts. “ruin? i’m just talking.”
“that’s the problem! your talking is suspiciously effective. she’s looking at you like she’s… i don’t know… impressed.”
you scoff. “i am not.”
older gojo gives you an amused look, and it’s little too intimate for someone you supposedly don’t know yet.
“sure,” he says softly. “you never were very good at hiding it.”
your breath catches and you feel an unfamiliar heat rise up to your face. it was strange, the effect he had on you.
and you hate that it makes something in your chest flutter.
“don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice lower, quieter, meant only for you. “you figure it out eventually.”
“figure what out?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
he doesn’t answer, letting the silence serve as an explanation.
and behind him, your gojo stands stiff, his jaw tight as he glances between the two of you.
older gojo seems content to let the quiet hang for a moment, studying you with that unbearably soft expression that feels like it has no business being directed at an eighteen-year-old stranger.
well. stranger to you.
“you said you have a wife,” you say suddenly, grasping at the only neutral thread you can find. “and kids?”
younger gojo snaps his head toward him. “i still can’t believe you’re married”
older gojo’s face changes, and now he’s wearing the kind of look people get when something they love crosses their mind at inopportune moments.
“very,” he answers.
“very?” younger gojo repeats. “why ‘very’? what does that even mean? you can't be 'very married.’ it's binary.”
older gojo ignores him, gaze still on you.
“my wife,” he says, slow like he’s choosing every word, “she is incredible."
your heart stumbles against your ribs.
younger gojo’s face twists. “you’re doing this on purpose.”
older gojo shrugs. “talking about my wife?”
“in that tone,” younger gojo hisses. “stop sounding so sappy.”
older gojo finally glances at him, smile faint and maddeningly serene. “i am a man in love.”
younger gojo looks like he’s about to throw a rock at him.
“you love her?” you ask before you realize your mouth has moved without consulting your brain.
older gojo’s eyes soften in a way that steals your breath.
“more than anything,” he says. “she’s the only person I’ve ever met who makes me feel whole.”
younger gojo chokes.
older gojo ignores that too. “she’s stubborn. too stubborn for her own good. always pretending she isn’t interested when she is. makes me work for everything.”
your pulse jumps painfully.
younger gojo notices and zeroes in on you.
his eyes widen in horror.
“wait—no. no, no, no. you’re not falling for him.” his voice drops. “you are not falling for him.”
“I’m not,” you say instinctively, too quickly and too defensively.
older gojo laughs softly at that.
“you always say that,” he murmurs.
your entire body warms in one terrible, treacherous sweep.
younger gojo looks between you two like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion. “what is happening right now? why is he being—like this? why are you—like this?”
“like what?” you shoot back.
“like you’re two seconds away from eloping.”
you flush. “we’re not—! he’s married, you freak!”
older gojo smiles into his hand like he’s all too familiar with the argument that unfolds before him.
"my wife also denied everything," he says. “she swore she didn't like me and insisted I was annoying.”
younger gojo points at him triumphantly. “she says that about me!”
older gojo pats his shoulder sympathetically. “and she meant it.”
you bury your face in your hands.
younger gojo collapses to a crouch, grieving the loss of something he never had. “unbelievable. i lose to a blindfolded loser. this is humiliating.”
older gojo hums thoughtfully, toying with the dark piece of cloth. “the blindfold grew on her.”
“you must really love her,” you murmur.
his gaze lingers on you for a long, impossibly still moment.
“more than you can imagine,” he says quietly.
your chest tightens.
younger gojo watches the two of you for three seconds before snapping.
“enough.” he jumps to his feet. “don’t look at him like that,” he mutters.
“like what?” you ask.
“like he’s a man.” he grimaces. “i’m a man too.”
older gojo snorts. “you grow up, you know. eventually.” he leans in slightly, voice low, teasing in a way that curls warm around your spine.
“you will,” he says. “for her.”
younger gojo freezes. “for—?”
“my wife,” older gojo says lightly.
your breath stutters.
younger gojo goes silent.
you look between them, utterly doomed, heart beating far too fast.
this is bad.
you should not be attracted to a mysterious older version of your classmate.
you should not be wondering what his hands would feel like if he cupped your face the way he keeps almost doing. and you really should not be wishing time law violations were less strict.
younger gojo watches the way your eyes drift back to the older one, and his expression darkens in real time. “stop looking at him like that,” he mutters. “look at me like that. i’m right here.”
you ignore him, because the air around older gojo shifts. it’s subtle, like a breeze curling in from nowhere.
he notices it too.
his head tilts up slightly, blindfold catching the light. “ah. there it is.”
“what?” you ask.
“the seam,” he answers simply. “it’s pulling.”
the air distorts again, thin lines of refracted light flickering at the edges of his silhouette, like something trying to reel him back.
you take a small step forward before you realize you’re doing it.
“so… you’re leaving?”
“not by choice,” he says lightly. “time has a terrible sense of timing.”
younger gojo throws his hands in the air. “it’s too early in the morning for this! who just casually gets yanked through space-time?! fix it!”
older gojo ignores him entirely, turning toward you instead. “don’t look so tense,” he says. “this always snaps back.”
“always?” you echo.
“well,” he amends, “most of the time.”
“how reassuring,” younger gojo deadpans.
older gojo continues, “i’ll drop back where i came from. five seconds will pass there. maybe six. i left in the middle of brushing my teeth.”
you blink. “you time-travel while brushing your teeth?”
he shrugs.
younger gojo glares. “i hate that that sounds like something i would do.”
the distortion builds, light threading around older gojo’s arms, shoulders, like invisible hands pulling him.
he steps back, one foot already blurring at the edges.
but he pauses long enough to look at you again and it’s something calmer, something knowing.
“don’t overthink any of this,” he says quietly. “you won’t get answers by tearing it apart.”
your breath catches. “then how am I supposed to get them?”
“you’ll get there,” he says. “or i guess… i’ll get there.”
the seam tugs harder, swallowing him up to the waist.
“wait,” you blurt, “do we—do i—do we meet again?”
older gojo’s mouth lifts in the faintest smirk. “from my perspective? we already have.”
younger gojo swears loudly. “STOP SAYING CRYPTIC THINGS IN MY VOICE.”
the light snaps sharply and older gojo disappears like he was never there at all.
you’re left standing in the courtyard, staring at the space where he vanished, the air still humming faintly like it hasn’t figured out he’s gone yet.
and younger gojo, somewhere behind you, whispers in horror,
“did you just imprint on future me?”
then younger gojo rounds on you, expression horrified.
“you were basically swooning the entire time!”
you choke. “i was not—”
“your face,” he says dramatically, “was doing that cute thing.”
“it was not doing anything.”
gojo narrows his eyes, leaning in too close. “if you fall for him, that counts as falling for me by extension.”
you shove him back by the forehead. “please go away.”
he stumbles back with an offended yelp.
“are we training or not?” you interrupt.
he blinks, thrown off. “…you still want to?”
“yeah,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “unless you plan on crying about your future biceps all morning.”
he straightens immediately, ego snapping back into place like elastic. “please. my biceps now are clearly thriving.” he makes an attempt to flex his muscles. you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that you have spent more times checking them out than you’re proud of.
“uh-huh.”
“and,” he adds, stepping closer with a smirk, “just so you know—whatever he said? i can say it cooler. eventually.”
you give him a flat look. “…you literally cannot.”
“watch me.”
he cracks his knuckles, summons a flicker of cursed energy, and grins at you like he hasn’t just had an existential crisis.
“alright,” he declares. “let’s start. and don’t go easy on me just because you’ve seen the deluxe version.”
“if anything,” you say dryly, “i’m going harder.”
“i knew you liked me.”
“i don’t.”
“sure,” he singsongs.
you sigh, drop into your stance, and pretend your pulse isn’t still a little off-kilter.
older gojo is gone, the seam closed, the future sealed back where it belongs.
but younger gojo looks at you and you can’t help but fear that maybe he has a shot at becoming that guy.
Summary: Driven into a cave by a sudden thunderstorm, the unspoken tension between you and Neteyam finally snaps. What starts as sharp bickering turns dangerous when the rain forces silence, and he admits to a secret he’s been burying for far too long—a filthy secret.
Tags: smut, angst, fluff, neteyam and reader are in a perv off, porn with a plot, reader is lowk a brat, flustered neteyam, cocky neteyam?, scent kink kinda, witty banter!!, pent up horniness, injury, humping, slow burn, friends to lovers
a/n: heres part two!! not proofread so I apologize for any typos, enjoy :))
—————————————————————————
The week that followed, human scientists and Na’vi alike argued over me as if I were a riddle that demanded solving. I was passed between cold lab lights and sacred Eywa spaces. My renewed existence temporarily overtaken by blood tests, scans, and long, grueling rituals commanded by the Omatikaya—rituals that lasted hours on end.
Spider’s reaction stuck with me the most.
When he first saw me, his face lit up with genuine excitement. He laughed and cracked a joke, "I've gotta stop missing these fishing trips!” And for a moment, it felt normal. Like we were still just us.
But I saw it. The hesitation. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The jealousy he tried so hard to bury beneath humor and impassiveness. He was happy for me, truly. But it was tangled with something painful, something implicit.
In the nights that followed, I kept expecting to wake up human again, like this was all a dream and to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But each morning, I woke with thick black hair spilling across my face. With the quiet weight of my tail curled against my hip, its tip brushing my skin like a reminder.
This was real. And I was still here, and the first time I saw myself in the mirror gave me a feeling I knew I would be chasing forever.
I still looked like myself. The same dimple curved into my cheek when I smiled too hard, the slight unevenness of my nose remained, the small beauty mark that kissed my cheekbone. My reflection was unfamiliar. But unmistakably mine. I would never see a human face staring back at me again. The thought should have terrified me. It did, a little. But beneath the fear was something else—something warmer, steadier. And for the first time in my life, I truly felt beautiful.
—————————————————————————
Amidst more lab tests and evaluations, the Omatikaya elder women demanded I come with them, prying me away from the cold hands of the scientists. Their purpose was sacred, they said. I needed to be bathed.
It was a ritual reserved for new women of the clan, most often performed when individuals from other clans joined in mating with the Ometikaya. But with my current situation, and my existence defying tradition, the elders did not know how to name what I was. So they chose the closest truth. They treated me as a newcomer.
They led me to a tent on the eastern edge of the grounds and guided me inside. At its center laid a rocky pool embedded into the ground itself—whether the tub had been shaped by nature and honored by the Na’vi, or carefully constructed around something ancient, I didn’t know. I didn’t ask. Honestly, I was still in disbelief that this was my life, so I didn’t have the energy to question the construction of a bathtub.
One of the women brought me to a woven divider within the tent and guided me into the private corner. Once settled, she gently nudged my shorts down, until they were on the ground. I stepped out of them, one foot after the other. I should've felt vulnerable in this moment, having a stranger undress me like this and see my body. But I didn't. Really. And what was coursing through my brain was less barren thoughts of my usual self-consciousness, and more so my new found curiosity. The elder woman left, leaving me alone behind the divider. I used this opportunity to take off my top and set it aside.
By that point, I was completely naked. I already knew the basics of Na’vi anatomy—Norm had kept very detailed anatomical diagrams pinned in his office for as long as I could remember. Growing up in the lab meant there were very few surprises left in that department… So I wasn’t expecting anything shocking when I looked down.
Still, I was curious. Curious to see if anything was… well, different.
I started with touch. I rested a hand against my breast, feeling familiar weight beneath unfamiliar skin. They were still mine, just Na’vi-proportioned, and blue instead of my old human complexion. My eyes fell to the faint stripes tracing along the underside, fading as they reached the center of my chest. My hands moved lower, reaching the curve of my hips then stopped when I felt the inner-part of my thigh. That was when I finally looked down.
I was completely hairless, which I hadn’t expected—but I wasn’t complaining. I gaped at all the markings on my skin; various shades of blue, scattered with more familiar beauty marks. Small bioluminescent freckles were glowing softly, catching the light as I shifted, even more prominent when I opened my thighs slightly.
And… as I expected; my vagina was still very much me, just… painted in Pandora’s palette.
Focusing way too hard on my new blue private parts, I heard the divider shift and shot my hands to my sides. The elder woman had returned, holding a wooden bowl filled with dusty red powder. She signaled for me to move my hair behind my shoulders, and I did so diligently. With a practiced touch, she dashed red powder on my collarbones, then licked her finger and coated the tips into the powder, gently stippling the red paste on my sternum and tracing a line down to the notch of my belly button. She waved her arms in a spiritual upward motion toward my shoulders, closing her eyes then bringing her hands back behind her, signaling that this part was finished. She then motioned for me to excavate the divider and walk towards the edge of the thermae.
I stepped in, submerging myself, the warm water greeting me as I relaxed into the tub. Two other women came inside from the tent's opening, forming in alliance around the pool and whispering soft prayers over me while the eldest massaged the powder into my scalp.
After the bathing ritual was over they patted me dry and began dressing me in traditional forest garments. A woman with a large feather boa came from another cove within the awning, and held out a loincloth with intricate beading lining the waist line as well as a leaf woven vestment—strings and more beads fringing the bottom edge. She assisted me with tying the garments, teaching me specific knot styles that were snug and secure. She then rubbed oils firmly into my skin; topnotes of salt, lavender, and sweet fig filled the surroundings. I've never smelt something more heavenly.
I shuddered as I remembered the piercing ozone scent that fried my nostrils every time I entered the lab. That chemical air being the only smell I could associate with my human life.
So, as I drew in the beautiful aroma emitting from the oils, a small smile bloomed on my lips.
They finished with a few brief prayers, and with one last spritz of oil, the eldest woman turned to me and said, “You are Omatikaya now.”
Back at the lab the humans explained what they could, about how the hell all this was possible. They clinged to biology like a lifeline. The scientists described it like this: It was as though the planet itself had grown me from the inside out—like a seed bursting from the forest floor. My molecular biome had been completely re-coded. My cells reshaped, my DNA altered entirely.
But it was undeniable, Pandora had rewritten me. And after seven days of being treated like a scientific miracle, the lab finally let me be alone and just sit and take in the events that had transpired. Finally able to deal with the toll my “first week alive body” was enduring. Though instead of resting, all I wanted was to see my friends—to be with them now that I could finally keep up.
—————————————————————————
Neteyam was waiting for me at the watering hole, a spot we used to play in as children just a ten minute walk from the lab. He was facing away from me in a crouched down position, his hands in the water—bringing them back up to his face.
I kept my distance—just to watch for a moment, the muscles on his back flexing and shifting as he went through the motions. The band around his arm hugging his bicep, working over time not to snap every time his muscles grew taut.
There was something so captivating about the way he moved. His strong stature—so overpowering yet in perfect harmony with his delicate nature.
I walked forward, my foot stepping on a twig making a stiff crack sound. Neteyam whipped his head around, his expression defensive, then his eyes met me, he softened.
“Just me Tey, relax.” I chuckled, kneeling down to the spot next to him on the edge of the watering hole. I began mimicking his action, dipping my hands in the water and cleansing my face with the cold liquid.
He didn't respond to my remark, his tender expression eying me with interest as I continued to wash. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel butterflies at the notion of his focus being on me, only me. He was still so quiet, the sound of his breathing hitching as I finally turned to look at him. He looked away immediately, that cheeky grin tugging at his flushed cheeks.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, then quickly closed it again.
“Are you having an aneurysm?” I teased, though burningly aware of the way his tail flicked, the crimson on his cheekbones deepening, the way he couldn't look me in the eye, or stand still without fidgeting with his arm band.
A sly yet proud feeling crept over me– was I making Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan, enrooted with stoicism, the mighty soldier and son of Toruk Makto… flustered?
That thought fizzled away as quick as it came—my false confidence turning into bashfulness. Because as much as I want to believe that my transformation opened his eyes for me, I was still me, and Neteyam was still the most sought-after male in the clan.
I reminded myself—he has options, many options.
He finally managed to speak, “So I see that you finally gained a fashion sense.” Motioning to my new Omatikaya loin cloth and woven top that was gifted to me by the elders.
I splashed water in his direction. Smartass.
Ignoring his jab, I asked where the others were. “Where are Kiri and Lo’ak, I thought they were hunting with us?”
Neteyam rolled his eyes, “Skxawngs decided to ditch us for Spider. I asked if we could come along but they said ‘younger siblings only,’ and then flicked me off. So!”
I giggled, “I remember when we used to be the cool kids, everyone was always bothering us and following us around.”
He laughed, shaking his head—putting a hand to his heart as if reminiscing the good ol’ days.
“Their loss. We always have fun, just us two anyway. C’mon.” He took my hand. Those words almost making my legs wobble as I stood with him.
His tall frame was still peering down at me, though nowhere near as craning as when I was a human. “This is still so trippy, seeing you like this,” he exclaimed.
“Yeah…I know.” I agreed. Grabbing my tail and admiring it.
His lingering gaze focused more carefully now, as if he was fixating on something. I looked up, squinting back at him.
“Neteyam?” I snapped, waving my hand in front of his eyes.
“Sorry,” he chuckled, blinking hard. “It's just— you have that same dot, the one on your cheek, it didn't go away. That's good.” He lightly touched it with his thumb and flashed me a smirk, his golden eyes meeting mine, before breaking and turning on his heel toward the forest.
I just stood there for a beat, trying to contain my lewd thoughts.
Several feet ahead of me he yelled, “Still can't keep up huh!” Tail flicking.
“Oh—screw you! I'm coming!” I joked, trying to shield my awkward energy. I took a deep breath and began to trail behind him.
—————————————————————————
The hunt started off promising. We were making steady movement, tracking through populated areas, but then halfway through the sky darkened suddenly, and heavy rain began drumming over us.
“y/n there's a cave across the stream, we can take shelter there until the storm passes—are you even listening?!” Neteyam yelled over the loud thundering. His sight shifting toward me struggling to wrestle a plant twice my size, attempting to break off one of the leaves to turn it into makeshift umbrella.
“What are you doing you mad woman!” He huffed as he pried my hands off the plant.
I shot him a cold miserable look.
He strapped his bow across his chest. “We’re going to that cave across the stream and waiting this out.” He concluded as he pressed on.
I was freezing and drenched. “Wait it out?! Let’s just go back to the village—we’re soaked, and my hair is already ruined anyway!" I whined. My fresh braids freeing themselves loose from the downpour. Neteyam’s jaw tightened, and he stomped back toward me, clearly not amused by my outburst.
“The storm is going to get worse before it gets better. Look at the clouds.” He said, voice strict. I looked up and groaned. He wiped a strand of wet hair out of my face, “We're waiting it out. Or, you can stay here throwing a tantrum.”
I scoffed, then shoved him aside, proceeding across the stream in the cave's direction when a sharp twig whipped through the windy air and clipped my ribs.
“Ah—” I yelped.
Neteyam stiffened, his eyes falling to the faint line of blood dripping down my waist. “You’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” I snapped, cutting him off. My nerves were frayed, the pelting rain giving me a headache, and I didn’t slow as I resumed pushing on toward the cave.
He followed a few steps back, giving me space. Muttering intelligible words under his breath.
Once we approached the entrance, I set my bow against the edge and stepped inside. The rain and wind still howling behind me as I entered.
Neteyam moved ahead, water droplets glistening on his back that caught my eyes for a little too long. He turned to face me. “This should work until the winds subside.”
I plopped down on the wet floor, irritatingly wringing water from my hair.
The cave walls were glistening in condensation, making the air thick and sticky. “Of all the caves, you pick the damp one.” I muttered.
Neteyam laughed in half-amusement half-annoyance. “You are very hard to please, you know that?”
I gave him a fake satirical laugh, but a sharp pain in my ribs made me immediately wince. Neteyam came to my side, holding his palm on my stomach as I flinched. Glancing down, I saw that it was bleeding less—but it still hurt like hell.
“Tey I said I was fine—”
“You’re in pain. Stop being so stubborn; I’ll be right back.” Neteyam left the cave and returned, clutching a pile of soil and a leaf.
I was already shaking my head in refusal, “No. No! There's no way you're actually rubbing dirt into my wound.” Neteyam ignored me, crouching down at my side. “This will feel weird, but it won’t hurt, okay? So if you cry out in pain, I’ll know it’s just you being dramatic.” I scowled at him, then tilted my gaze to the cave ceiling, lifting my arms over my head; a silent signal that he could do what he must.
He began packing the soil against my cut—and he was right—it did not hurt, just felt grainy against my skin. He lowered his head, his mouth becoming achingly close to my rib, and I froze, unsure what he was doing. His breath ghosted over my sensitive skin, then he opened his mouth just above the cut. As if he were going to… bite me?
I jerked back fearfully, gawking at him. “What the fuck Neteyam! We're stuck in a cave for five minutes and you're already trying to cannibalize me!”
He shook his head trying not to laugh, then placed his hand on my thigh, holding me in place.
“Im not trying to eat you—” He emphasized, slight rasp behind his voice. “I need to wet the surrounding area, saliva is the best adhesive for skin.”
Neteyam’s eyes widened at me, as if this was the most obvious piece of information in the world. “By Eywa… you've got a lot to learn.” He murmured, shaking his head and holding back a laugh as he turned his attention back to my wound.
I relaxed, though doubt still reeled through my brain.
He began to decline his head again, his soft tongue delicately skimming the skin around the gash. I shivered at the sudden coldness, though it was oddly soothing, and I could feel the pain fading almost immediately.
He continued licking and I was practically quivering at this point.
He was just helping me heal… I cautioned myself. But the intimacy of his actions, the way every single one of my senses heightened… I felt as though I was going to burst.
His palm still rested on my midsection, and there was no hiding how fast my heart was pounding. Of course, he noticed.
He whispered into my skin, “y/n. You're too tense. Relax your body.”
His tail swayed bluntly as I felt him lightly blow into my side, the heat of his breath sending a shiver straight to place I definitely didn’t need it.
Stop it. Don’t make this weird.
I tried focusing on anything else. The rocky walls to my right, the storm outside to my left—but the deepening warmth between my legs intensified, growing hotter with every lick and every breath he graced upon me.
And as if he could sense my growing lust, he immediately stopped.
Neteyam pulled back, his ears twitching as his eyes locked on mine. His expression was unreadable, a mix of agitation and something else I couldn’t place. Slowly, he reached for the leaf and pressed it against my wound, his face still flashing emotions of distress.
“You alright?” I asked and sat up. His change in behavior putting me on edge.
Neteyam rose to his feet, this time no longer hiding his apprehension. He turned away from me, running his hands through the sides of his hair and muttering to himself in frustration.
What the hell?
I stood and stepped toward him, reaching out to rest my hand on his shoulder. “Neteyam?” I said softly.
At my touch, he flinched, then out of nowhere flashed me a small mean hiss, shrugging my hand off of him.
I was taken aback, deeply offended.
Did this asshole just hiss at me?
I now had no courtesy in me to de-escalate this exchange and nearly barked at him, “What the fuck is your problem!?” My chest rising and falling with rage. This made him turn around.
His eyes were dark and unblinking, and he was about to speak, but I didn’t let up. “You’re over here having some mysterious fucking pity party, and when I politely ask what’s wrong, you hiss at me? Seriously?”
He just stood there, taking it, his tail whipping aimlessly.
“What the fuck is wrong! Did I do something?” I said, my words coming out more scratchy and desperate this time. His big eyes met mine when he finally spoke up,
“Yes… I mean no, not really—fuck I don’t—”
“So what the fuck is it then?! Because I don’t recall doing anything to warrant that reaction.” I interjected, my anger not allowing him to finish.
He didn’t move or speak, remaining rooted in place. His eyes shifted to the ground, shoulders tight and fist flexed at his sides.
My impatience hit it’s peak and I let out a sharp breath, “I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you, Neteyam. I’m over this—I’m going.” I snatched up my bow and stomped toward the cave entrance, fuming, when suddenly he broke the silence.
“I can smell you.” Was all he said.
I grew irritated, what the hell was he talking about?
“Yeah, I can smell you too, and you stink. What’s your point?” I snapped, still fixing to leave before he chimed again, more urgently time.
“No y/n. Do you not get it? I can smell you.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, the blood rushing from my face.
Oh god.
My bow fell from my hand, the dull cluck of wood against stone filling the space.
“What.” I sneered. Turning around and standing before him.
He looked away, but I nudged his face back toward mine, firm and unyielding, forcing him to meet my gaze. “Talk.” I demanded.
“I-“ his jaw tightened, my eyes glaring at him as he was bracing himself. He stood straighter, and his voice sank as he began to explain,
“I can smell you. When you are in heat. When you're aroused. Even when you were human. I could smell you—It. Every time…Even right now.” He paused before uttering those last three words.
Fuck.
Humiliation soared over me. I know the expression on my face was nowhere near civil. I could feel the warmth creeping up my cheeks, exposing that I was not taking this information in any way close to nonchalantly. My tail flicked in panic— Neteyam observing my behavior before cutting in quickly—
“It's out of my control.” Sharp unease behind his poise.
“I—I try to ignore it but sometimes I can't." He clarified, “so before you freak out on me, it’s a Na’vi pheromone thing… And only I can smell it—and I cant fucking help it, okay.”
Now his cheeks were deep violet, whether in frustration or embarrassment, I couldn’t decipher.
“What do you mean only you?” I insisted quietly.
He was breathing heavily at this point. His face as dark as ever, brow bone furrowing as he kept his gaze on me. He defeatedly raised his shoulders, knowing there was no need to elaborate.
He was right, he didn’t need to speak. I knew. I already understood how pheromone connections worked in Navi biology, how male Na’vi mentally imprint on a female, only smelling their pheromones, their desired mate. Though my will to fully grasp how he quite literally just confessed his primal attraction towards me was overtaken by my horrifying shame.
I attempted to form a coherent reply, “so you mean to tell me…oh my god.” He tried looking away again but I nudged his head. Harder this time. So he was forced to keep his eyes on mine. “you’re telling me that you can fucking smell when I— Every time?! You’re a… You’re a pervert!”
That last line I shot out before I could stop it, my mortification taking over my words. I was breathing heavy now too.
Neteyam’s eyes grew wide at my low blow, “oh–I’m the pervert!?” He shot out cunningly.
He paced closer to me, his torso nearly touching mine.
This time I looked away, dreading what he was about to say as well as intimately aware of the way my breast lightly skimmed his chest every time he inhaled.
His hand met the side of my face inching towards the back of my neck, pressing gently to guide my head in his direction, so that now I was forced to look at him.
his jaw tightened, “I’m the pervert huh…” A snicker slipping out.
“Y/n… You get wet when I barely touch you…” Those words almost knocked me flat on the ground.
“And I can smell it. Every. Single. Time.”
I tried stepping away, to escape his grilling and his towering frame looming over me. But he grabbed my wrist, holding me in place, forcing me to listen. “It’s strong—and you're not very good at composing yourself either.” He gave me a smug look. “When you were human, the moisture would cling to your undercloth… and it lasted all day…”
I didn’t know what to say. I was breathless, and embarrassed, and— “You’re still a… perv…” was all I could manage to choke out. Though he could sense my body, the way his words were making me wetter by the second.
Heat started emitting from between my thighs, and as if on que, Neteyam looked down. A smirk gracing his lips. He closed his eyes, inhaling my pheromones, hissing faintly.
I knew my face was beaming violet.
“Is this funny to you Tey?” I huffed out. Appalled by his forwardness.
I tried forcing my legs together, to hide myself—to shield my embarrassment but before I could act Neteyam nudged his muscular leg in between mine, commanding them to stay open.
I couldn’t fight the gasp that escaped my mouth, “Neteyam! what are you— ” I whispered desperately. My voice coming out more hoarse than expected.
His pupils dilated as he tilted his head, “Please y/n,” he whined, his dominant demeanor dropping slightly. “Just let your body feel it… It’s just me”.
It’s just me.
He bit his bottom lip, canines shining. My breasts were pushed flat against his torso now, our tails lashing fiercely as we both became more flushed. His hands felt like fire against my skin, igniting everything I had been restraining. I’ve never seen this side of him, so wretched, so primal, though I could feel his unsteady breath, see the way his ears twitched at the slightest noise I emitted.
He was nervous, holding back… And it made me carnal.
Without comprehending what I was doing, I moved my hips forward, closing in the final space between us. His large thigh pressing firmly on my cunt. I bucked my hips slowly, feeling him grow stiff against my pelvis. Neteyam hissed at the impact, sending a shiver that curled deep in my core.
He tilted my head as he began to trail wild kisses down the side of my neck, occasionally stopping to catch his breath—his teeth caressing my flesh in the process. I relieved my hips again, the friction of his thigh causing me to let out a small moan. He groaned in reaction, pulling me closer, kissing my jawline repeatedly. I used this opportunity to wrap my arms around his upper body, fully embracing him before pulling back in a breathy daze.
I put my hand on his chest to keep distance. Safe distance. His chest was trembling beneath my palms.
I rested my forehead against his, our heavy breathing falling into the same rhythm. “What's happening Neteyam…” I said barely above a whisper. His eyes were closed, our lips mere inches apart.
Neteyam scrunched his nose, his expression growing in penitence. “I–I apologize y/n. I–” He quickly inhaled, “I don't know what came over me, I'm sorry, im so sorry”. His hold on me loosened though his stance halted. He was still close, so close. If I leaned in just a hair, my lips would’ve met his.
But then suddenly, he stepped away, and my chest tightened.
He was already turning his back when I grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“Neteyam…” I called softly. He looked at me, and for a heartbeat, the storm, the noise, everything outside faded. There was only him, here, in front of me.
I had ached for this closeness, craved it–and now that it was here, there was no way in hell I was letting it go.
Aerion Targaryen x photographer! reader (Modern F1 AU!)
Aerion Targaryen, aka Brightflame.
One of, if not the fastest, F1 racers to date, no one could beat him. And no one dared to. Aerion’s prize car was a silver Ferrari, sleek and dangerous. Their family’s company logo was plastered on the side of the metallic beast, a three-headed dragon, printed in chrome detailing, glinting in the sun as it sped by its predecessors.
His father, Maekar, owns one of the biggest companies in the world, known as Anvil Industries. Selling car parts, computer hardware, and the occasional arms dealing between militaries.
And with that money came their Formula One team, and since the company is reaching in the billions, it was a well-invested side project. They even have their own tire brand, Targaryen Tires.
Aerion has been a racer for almost a decade now, known as one of the most dedicated and cocky drivers of this era. And he loved it that way.
His cousin, Valarr, was his partner on the track. Though Aerion insisted he didn't need to be traded out during pit stops. He was always like that. Too self-absorbed to know that even men could wear out just as much as machines can.
Though Aerion was one of the top racers in Formula One history, he was still a menace on the track; his anger was shown through his speed, his car just as furious and aggressive as he was.
The growl of his car was one of his favorite sounds, but not as much as the cheers of fans as he sprayed champagne on the tall pedestal. Girls holding up flimsy signs, ‘MARRY ME AERION.’ ‘I LOVE DRAGONS.’ All that nonsense spurred him on more than it should.
Over the course of his career, he began gaining more and more sponsors. Even made a name for himself with an energy drink brand called Wyldfire, one of the top-selling energy drinks that actually seemed to work. ‘Fuel for Dragons’ was the motto for the million-dollar business.
His face was on billboards and magazines, his brand was in supermarkets, and digital ads in New York City. He had fangirls and a booming social media presence, with news outlets watching his every move; a fist too tight or a grin too wide next to a woman would make headlines almost immediately.
A whisper of a girl would spread through the world like spilled oil.
Aerion stood with his arms crossed in the garage, the whirr of bolts being driven into aerodynamic metal could be heard while Aerion scrolled through his phone. He was in Monaco for an upcoming race, and he had to have his car in shape beforehand, according to his wishes.
The car was already perfect, sleek black and red decal with a dragon detailed on the side of the car. It was one of many of his prized vehicles. They all had to be in top condition. Polished and ready for a race he’s going to win no matter the odds, that was in his mind at least.
He scrolled through the most recent headlines in Italian and French articles.
“Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen battles for the throne once again!”
“The Dragon of the track returns for blood.”
“Will the track's favorite Playboy break more records than hearts?”
He smirked to himself, looking through the pictures that paparazzi tried to get like hungry dogs. He walks down the street with his sunglasses, at a diner, flirting with a girl on the other side of the counter, and him standing on the balcony with the same girl dressed in his button-up.
Gods, he loved his life. He clicked off his phone when he heard his father's voice boom nearby, his stern tone echoing through the garage like a warning.
He put his hands in his pockets and watched his father storm over. This couldn’t be good.
Aerion leaned back against the wall and waited for him to stand right in front of him. Maekar stopped at arm's distance.
“What the hell are you thinking?” It was the first thing that came out of his mouth.
Aerion wasn’t phased, but he knew what he was talking about—the press conference.
It was casual at first, the reporters eagerly shouting for him to answer the question for their mediocre paper, and he couldn’t help but read because of how much they fawned over him.
But someone asked a question he was tired of hearing, “Does the racing superstar ever have time to find someone long-term?”
It didn’t sting, but it didn’t make sense either. Aerion was used to having a girl on his arm for a weekend or two and dropping their number before they could ask him, ‘What are we?’ over text.
Aerion clenched his jaw, rubbing the stubble that wasn’t there, and sat up straight in his chair. The rest of the table looked at the silver-haired racer with tension; they knew his temper, they experienced it firsthand on the track.
Aerion leaned up close to the mic, a slight smirk on his face, a very unkind one. He poked the inside of his cheek before answering.
“If I had any girl with me, it was only because my bed was getting cold.”
A flurry of questions and some enraged comments burst out almost immediately. Aerion just grinned and got up from the table, tabloids snapping photos of him as he left, pulling his team's hat over his head, shading the heat in his eyes.
Aerion looked back to his father and grinned, “They asked a question, I gave them an answer. I didn’t lie.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything at all! The press is wondering if you’re actually the fuckboy with his daddy’s credit card in his wallet.”
Aerion rolled his eyes, “I’m not the world's boy toy if that’s what you’re saying.”
“Then prove it,” he gritted out, “Prove you’re not some bratty nepo baby who can’t help his impulses, and start acting like a racer.”
Aerion didn’t have to prove anything; he was a fantastic racer on the track. Why should he worry about the public and the girls he liked to hook up with? Aerion didn’t say anything; he just sat back on his heels, eye-level with his father.
Maekar stared at his son with a disapproving scowl, “Alright, if you won’t change your act, I’m cutting you from the team until I say otherwise.”
The mechanics who were snooping on their very heated conversation stopped in their work before quickly going back to whatever they were doing to avoid a lecture.
Aerion’s eyes went wide, and his jaw tightened imperceptibly. “You can’t do that,” he said, his tone low. Makear scoffed, “Yes, I can, and I will. Just because you're my son doesn’t mean the consequences are any different.”
Aerion sputtered, “Then who’s going to drive?” thinking it would win him the argument.
“Valarr, of course, he has the talent.”
Aerion let out a laugh, “Valarr hasn’t won a single race in over seven months.” “Because you,” Maekar poked his chest, “are playing your way behind the wheel, you never give your cousin a chance.” “We’re not children fighting over toys, father,” he laughed dryly, wishing this could be over.
Maekar growled under his breath, ignoring his obvious retorts, “Quit messing around, and I’ll let you back in the race. You have a month,” and his father left without another word.
Aerion watched his father leave, his advisors tagging behind him like lost ducklings.
He gritted his teeth and kicked the nearest thing he could, a toolbox, the contents rattling inside at the contact of his shoe.
You were on the other side of the media world.
You were a student photographer in Monaco for the summer before school started again at Harvard. Your parents were on the better financial side, but you got the scholarship to your surprise; it would be your second semester at Harvard, studying cultures, photography, and poetry. It was more of a creative pursuit than a business one, like your parents wanted. You were to be a lawyer, a doctor, or a scientist, but the freedom you had would be stripped away from you if you continued the path your parents tried to lead you on.
But that was years ago; now you were going around the world and documenting your journeys the best you could.
You stood on the sidewalk of Monaco, and the warm city was such a spectacular sight. The terracotta villas, the stone fountains in the plazas, the seaside with sailboats on the glimmering coast. This had to be your favorite trip so far.
It was racing season, so the TVs in the cafes and bars constantly played the races and interviews.
The announcers are describing the events of the race in rapid Italian, and sometimes cutting away to the racers. You loved F1 ever since you could remember. The thrill of it was your favorite part, watching the speedsters battle for the cup, the tires screeching on the asphalt, no matter the condition; the camera tracking their every movement like it was nothing. You watched from the cafe's front counter, the TV suspended over the bar, as the names of the races went up and down on the placement chart. She recognized some names, but none of interest. But one stuck out.
TAR 1st
His spot on the track never changed; even if it was for a split second, he still went back to the top. ‘Who is this guy?’ you thought. You followed his car, curating his turns perfectly; nothing miscalculated, if he had an advantage, he took it without question.
If your uncle were sitting next to you right now, he would note everything he did and could do; he was the one who introduced you to this adrenaline-filled spectacle in the first place.
“Aerion Targaryen,” you stiffened when you heard a voice next to you. You turned your attention to the man sitting next to him. His posture was straight, curly salt and pepper hair, his suit was a light brown with a honey yellow tie, and he had a cappuccino cup held with golden ringed fingers. “Excuse me?” you asked politely. You could tell he had some wealth, based on the expensive golden watch and gold-rimmed sunglasses on his head. “Aerion Targaryen is the man leading the race, has been for years, actually.” He took a sip from the cup, his eyes on the TV before looking at you.
“Forgive my forwardness, my name is Lyonel Baratheon.” he stuck out his hand for you to shake; you did so. “(name) Waterstone,” he grinned, “Hm, sounds rich, vacation?” he asked, setting the cup to the side and letting his elbows rest on the polished counter.
You smiled, “Not exactly, I’m a photography student at Harvard, I’m just going around Europe and taking photos before school starts again.”
He hummed in understanding, “Scholarship?” he questioned. You knit your eyebrows together, “How did you know?” He simply just smiled, “If you were a bratty rich girl, you would’ve scoffed and told me to go elsewhere. Trust me, this place is filled with snobs.”
You knew this; you had a run-in with what looked to be a drunk frat guy, a polo shirt tied around his neck, thinking you were a waitress, and asked for a drink.
You politely told him you didn’t work there. The guy cursed at you for two straight minutes before his friends had to drag him away.
Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to talk, and you found that you didn't mind it.
He told you about the race circuit, the politics behind it, the money, and the feuds that never made it to print. He had the easy, unhurried manner of someone who had been wealthy long enough to stop performing it. You liked that.
"Targaryen Tires, Wyldfire Energy, Anvil Industries—the boy is his own economy," Lyonel said, gesturing loosely at the screen where Aerion's silver Ferrari carved another perfect corner. "But don't let the brand fool you. He's genuinely fast. Frighteningly so."
You lifted your camera from where it hung around your neck and looked through the viewfinder at the TV. A habit. The world made more sense framed.
"He drives like he's angry at the track," you said.
Lyonel looked at you sideways. A slow smile broke across his face. "Yes," he said, somewhat delighted. "That is exactly what he does."
The race cut to a commercial, and you lowered her camera. The café hummed around them—espresso machines, the clatter of ceramic, rapid French bouncing off the low ceiling.
"You should photograph the paddock," Lyonel said, swirling the last of his cappuccino. "If you can get access."
You raised an eyebrow. "That's not exactly a student press badge situation."
"No," he agreed. "It isn't." He set down his cup and pulled a card from the breast pocket of his jacket, sliding it across the polished counter toward you. It was heavy stock, cream colored, with gold lettering. Lyonel Baratheon. Baratheon Motorsport.
You looked up at him.
"I'm a sponsor," he said simply. "I can get you a paddock pass. Consider it a commission—I've been meaning to update our press materials with something that doesn't look like it came from a stock photo library." He tilted his head. "That is, if you want it."
You turned the card over in your fingers. You thought about your camera roll—cobblestone streets, flower markets, a fisherman on the harbor at five in the morning whose face had made your breath catch. Good work. Real work. But a Formula One paddock in Monaco?
You pocketed the card.
"When do I start?"
genshin boys reach for the same item as you (part 2)
premise. fate doesn’t always strike like lightning; sometimes, it brushes your fingers against someone else’s. when you and a certain someone meet by reaching for the same thing at the same time, you both realize you might’ve found something you didn’t know you were looking for.
part 1. read here [cyno, kaeya, albedo, kazuha, heizou, wanderer, xiao]
itto
The prize is ridiculous—nearly the size of a small child and shaped like a giant, sparkly Onikabuto with a smug little face. You spot it at a summer festival in Inazuma City, sitting on the highest shelf of a street vendor’s prize rack. It’s the sort of thing no reasonable person actually needs…which means you want it instantly.
You step up to the counter and reach for it just as a much larger hand—warm, calloused, and tanned from the sun—knocks against yours.
“Whoa-ho-ho. Hey there, festival rookie,” a voice says, full of cocky amusement. “That there’s my Onikabro. Been keepin’ my eye on him all evening, bonding from afar. You can’t just swoop in and steal a man’s destiny like that.”
You turn your head and find yourself looking up—way up—into the grinning face of a horned man with wild white hair and an energy that practically vibrates in the air.
“Your destiny is a plush beetle?” you ask dryly.
He gasps like you’ve insulted his entire bloodline. “Not just a plush beetle! That’s the Shiny Supreme Super Onikabro. And he’s been calling to me—‘Itto, my dude, win me, take me home, we’ll eat sweet sakura mochi together.’ You know, stuff like that.”
You raise a brow in challenge. “Funny, he’s been whispering the same thing to me. How about we see who actually wins him?”
His grin widens. “Ooh, I like you. You’ve got guts. Alright, lil’ challenger, we’ll make it a ring toss showdown. First to five rings takes Onikabro home. Loser…” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a playful drawl. “…has to buy the winner dango milk.”
The match draws a small crowd, mostly thanks to his running commentary about how you’re “surprisingly scrappy” and “not bad for a newbie,” which makes you throw even harder just to make him eat his words.
When you land your fifth ring before he can get his fourth, he goes completely still. “No way... No. Way.”
You take the beetle from the vendor and hug it to your chest. “Looks like you’re buying the dango milk.”
He recovers quickly, flashing a grin. “Alright, alright, you win this time, lil’ beetle champ. But next festival? I’m winning you—uh, I mean, winning against you. Yeah.”
You smirk and walk away with your prize, feeling his eyes on your back. Something tells you this won’t be the last time you cross paths…or the last time he tries to rope you into another “totally fair” competition.
diluc
You had never been to Angel’s Share before. The tavern’s glow was always something you passed by from the street—too loud, too crowded, too full of people who seem to belong. But today had been unbearable, and against your better judgment, you push open the door and step inside.
The noise of conversation presses in, the air thick with alcohol and laughter. You slump onto a stool at the bar, keeping your head low, and order the first drink that comes to mind. The glass sits mostly untouched in front of you as you stare down into it, hoping the warmth of the tavern will dull the day. It doesn’t. Instead, your vision blurs, and you realize with horror that tears threaten to spill over. You try to blink them away, pressing your lips tight. You are a stranger here. No one will care, but no one should see.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a plain wooden box of tissues sitting at the far edge of the counter, the kind kept there for careless wine spills. You reach for it quickly, desperate to hide the crack in your composure. At the same moment, a gloved hand slides it toward you.
You freeze, your fingers brushing the edge of the box just as his do, warm fabric against your skin for the briefest instant.
The bartender clears his throat quietly and lets go first. “Here,” he says, low-voiced, as if speaking too loudly might draw more attention than you want.
You mutter a thank you, pressing a tissue to your eyes. The silence that follows isn’t the oppressive kind anymore but something gentler. Still, it unsettles you how steady his gaze feels even when you refuse to meet it.
“Rough day?” he asks finally.
You give a watery laugh. “Something like that.”
He nods once, as if that answer is enough. Then, in his hesitant way, he reaches behind the counter. A moment later, a small plate of pastries appears in front of you. “On the house. It…helps sometimes.”
You look up, startled. There is no trace of teasing in his expression, only a quiet sincerity that somehow makes your throat ache more than before. And for the first time all day, you feel a little less alone.
tighnari
It’s the last packet of flowering true indigo seeds in the Grand Bazaar’s apothecary stall, destined to unfurl into delicate, spindly stems crowned with clusters of dusky pink blossoms that thrive in dappled forest shade and enrich the soil. You’ve been hunting for them for weeks. Your fingers brush the paper just as another hand reaches in.
“Ah, pardon me,” a man says, voice even but polite. “I’ve been looking for these for a specific restoration plot in Avidya Forest.”
You look up and immediately recognize his uniform, the Forest Watcher insignia at his shoulder, the green scent of rain-damp foliage that clings to him. “You’re a Forest Watcher.”
His ears twitch, and he inclines his head. “Tighnari. And yes.”
You hesitate only a second before sliding your hand back. “Then you should have them. You’re out there taking care of the forest every day, making sure it even has plants like these. I can wait.”
His hazel eyes soften in clear surprise. “That’s…rare. Most people would argue their case. Especially if they’ve been looking as long as you have, judging from the way you lit up when you saw them.”
You laugh faintly. “I just figure you’ll make better use of them. I care about nature, but you’re actually protecting it.”
He takes the packet, then sets it back on the stall counter. “Then I’ll propose something better. There’s a small grove near Gandharva Ville where these seeds will do the most good, but I can spare a section for cultivation training. If you want to help plant them, you’ll get more than you would from a garden plot here in the city.”
Your eyebrows rise. “You’d let me help?”
“Only if you listen to instructions,” he says, but the edge of his mouth tilts upward. “And if you can handle the trek. It’s humid, there are fungi everywhere, and I might quiz you on leaf identification along the way.”
You smile. “Sounds fair.”
He pays for the seeds, tucking them into a pouch at his waist. “Meet me at the eastern bridge to Gandharva Ville tomorrow morning. We’ll see if you still think so then.”
You walk away feeling oddly light, already wondering what other rare plants might grow in that grove and what it might be like to see the forest through his eyes.
childe
You’re killing time in a small tea house on the quieter side of Liyue Harbor, savoring a cup of jasmine tea and watching the harbor cranes swing against the setting sun. At the next table, a man in civilian clothes lounges with an easy posture, idly tapping his fingers against his porcelain cup. His reddish hair catches the light, and though he is dressed simply, there is a strange sharpness to the way his gaze tracks people coming and going.
You don’t have long to wonder about him before the front doors bang open. Four Treasure Hoarders storm in, weapons drawn.
“Empty your tills and hand over the lockbox,” one snarls at the shop owner. “Now.”
The room tenses. You scan the room for something—anything—you can use to defend yourself and maybe help the poor owner. Your eyes fall on a sturdy wooden serving tray leaning against the counter.
You lunge for it at the exact same moment the redhead does. Your fingers collide, the wood trapped between you. He looks at you with a flash of surprise that quickly melts into a crooked grin.
“Oh? Didn’t think anyone else here was about to join the fun.” Before you can answer, he pushes the tray into your hands. “You take this. I’m better up close.”
The Hoarders are already moving. You swing the tray at the nearest one, smacking his weapon clean from his grip. The redhead—who clearly hadn’t been bluffing—is suddenly a blur of motion, driving an elbow into another’s stomach and sweeping his legs out from under him. One lunges at you from the side, but the redhead intercepts, twisting the attacker’s arm until he drops his blade. The last one tries to make a break for it, but a well-aimed kick from your newfound battle companion sends him sprawling.
When the dust settles, the four groan on the floor. The tea house owner peeks out from behind the counter, wide-eyed. The redhead saunters up to you, brushing a fleck of dust off his sleeve.
“You fight well. Not bad for a first-time tag team.” His tone is light, but there’s appraisal in his eyes.
You smile faintly. “Thanks for the assist. Though I’m starting to think you didn’t actually need me.”
He chuckles. “Maybe. But it was more fun this way.”
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small calling card, sliding it across the table to you. The name reads simply: Tartaglia.
“Next time you see trouble,” he says with a wink, “save me a seat at your table.”
ayato
The garden lanterns glow warm against the evening, casting shifting shadows over the polished stones of the Inazuman noble’s estate. Guests stand in neat clusters, voices low and careful. Every laugh is measured, every smile calculated. You aren’t here for the wine or the polite conversation; you are here to listen. Rumors say negotiations between several noble houses have soured, and something is about to give.
The sharp chime of porcelain breaking cuts through the air. Several guests turn in time to see the host’s wife gasp, one hand rising to her elaborate coiffure. A delicate hairpin—a slim, antique piece inlaid with mother-of-pearl cranes—has tumbled loose, glinting as it spins across the stone. You step forward instinctively, only to realize someone else has moved at the exact same moment. Your hands reach the hairpin together. His touch is cool and precise, withdrawing just enough to let you grasp it first.
But the instant your fingers close around it, you feel something wrong: a sliver of metal beneath the decorative head, sharper than it should be. It is a narrow blade, spring-loaded into place, with the faintest trace of an oily sheen along its edge. Not a hairpin—a weapon.
Your eyes flick to the man beside you. His expression is unreadable, but the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests amusement, or perhaps warning. Without a word, he extends his hand. You hesitate before placing the hairpin into his palm. His fingers close over it smoothly, concealing the dangerous edge from view.
“I’ll see it returned to the lady,” he says in a voice pitched but carrying the weight of one accustomed to obedience. Then, with a polite bow, he slips back toward the host’s wife.
You expect him to hand it over immediately. Instead, you notice, just barely, that he palms the hairpin into the wide sleeve of his kimono before producing a different, harmless ornament from somewhere else and presenting that to her instead. Her relieved smile suggests she has no idea.
The rest of the evening passes in a haze of cautious conversation, but when you glance toward him again, he is gone. It isn’t until you are leaving that you find him waiting at the outer gate, hands folded loosely behind his back.
“I suspect,” he says lightly, “that someone as observant as you won’t be able to resist wondering why the host’s wife was wearing an assassin’s blade in her hair.”
You open your mouth, but he steps closer, lowering his voice until only you can hear.
“If you’d like an answer,” he says, “come to the Kamisato estate tomorrow at noon. If not…” He steps back, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Then I’ll assume our paths will simply cross again…in less favorable circumstances.”
And with that, he turns and vanishes into the night, leaving you with a choice and the unsettling certainty that you’ve already made it.
alhaitham
You slip quietly through the towering shelves of the House of Daena, hand trailing a row of paper spines with a purpose not entirely scholarly; today, you weren’t hunting knowledge but a book thick enough to press a handful of blossoms you’d collected earlier on your morning walk. Nothing fancy—just a practical volume you could carry back to your desk without attracting attention. At last, you spot it. A slender, unassuming book, tucked neatly among tomes of far heavier consequence. Your fingers graze the spine just as another hand closes over it from the other side. You glance sideways.
Tall. Sharp eyes. Slate-green hair catching the light from the library’s stained-glass windows. His Akademiya uniform is immaculate, and something about his composed presence makes him stand out even here.
For one fleeting moment, your brain rehearses the polite, academic response: Oh, you can have it. You hadn’t needed this book specifically, after all. But then the stranger tilts his head, assessing you with the faintly dismissive air of a scribe cataloguing a particularly unremarkable footnote, and states, “I’ll be needing that.”
Any civilized instinct you had vanishes. You tighten your grip on the spine. “I got here first.”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face, almost imperceptible. The silence stretches, charged, his eyes locking with yours in a quiet battle of wills until, at last, you relent with a huff.
“Fine, take it. See if I care.”
He slips the book free with disarming ease. “Wise choice,” he murmurs, not smug so much as matter-of-fact.
You’d just managed to convince yourself to brush it off and search for another suitable book when his gaze snags on the flowers peeking from your satchel. One blossom slips loose, tumbling soundlessly to the floor. His brow creases.
“Botanical specimens. You intended to compare them against the taxonomy in this volume?”
You stoop quickly, plucking the flower back into your palm. “Not exactly.” Then, because honesty had always been your downfall: “I was going to press them with it.”
The effect of your admission is immediate. His composure cracks for a single, glorious second, eyes widening, mouth parting as though you had announced an intent to burn the Akademiya’s archives for kindling. Shock, disbelief, and something that might even be personal offense wage battle across his face.
“You…were going to use an Akademiya manuscript as a botanical press?” His voice, usually so steady, pitches upward. “Do you even realize—” He cuts himself off, drawing in a slow breath as though the act of restraint costs him dearly.
The corner of your mouth twitches. “What? It’s heavy. Flat. Reliable.”
He blinks at you like he’s visibly recalibrating his entire worldview. For someone so famously composed, the disbelief written across his features is nothing short of priceless, and for reasons he probably doesn’t care to examine, he’s just a little intrigued.
neuvillette
It rains the way only Fontaine can: fine mist one moment, sudden downpour the next, the whole city glistening as if it has been dipped in glass. You are not sure why the weather turns so suddenly; the sky was clear just an hour ago.
You duck into a small, book-lined shop, shaking water from your coat. The place smells faintly of ink and salt air, and at the very back, tucked high on a shelf, is exactly what you are looking for: a rare, illustrated compilation of Fontaine’s aquatic folklore. You reach up just as another hand—graceful, long-fingered, and gloved—extends from beside you. Your eyes follow the sleeve of his dark coat up to a tall man with silver hair that catches the lamplight like rainwater. His gaze lowers to you, unreadable but courteous.
“Ah,” he says softly, as if the word is an exhale. “It seems we have similar tastes.”
“Looks like it,” you reply, fingers still touching the book’s spine. “First come, first served?”
His lips curve in the faintest ghost of a smile. “Ordinarily, perhaps. But this particular volume is not for casual reading.”
You tilt your head. “You think I’m a casual reader?”
“Only that most people,” he says with deliberate slowness, “don’t seek out myths of the sea unless they’re…invested.” His eyes flick toward the rain-smeared window. “Or, unless they understand the weight of what’s in them.”
Without thinking, you remark, “Sometimes the rain feels like it’s crying for you.” It isn’t something you mean to speak aloud—just a passing thought you’ve had on days like this, when the downpour seemed almost sentient.
His gaze widens, the faintest ripple of surprise breaking through his composure.
You let go of the book, curiosity outweighing your claim. “Did I get it wrong?”
“...No,” he says at last, his voice quieter now. “It’s not often I hear someone phrase it that way.”
When you step back, he takes the volume, but after a moment’s thought, opens it to a page adorned with a watercolor of a great dragon weeping over an endless ocean.
“This one,” he says quietly, as if speaking of something personal, “tells of a guardian who watched over the waters for centuries, unseen and unthanked. The people forgot his name. They say when he mourned, the skies mourned with him, and the rain fell until his sorrow eased.”
A soft, almost imperceptible note of sadness lingers in his voice. Outside, the rain continues, steady and unrelenting.
He glances at you. “If you’re willing to walk with me to the Court when the weather calms, we can read the rest together. I believe the discussion will be enlightening.”
Something tells you this won’t be a quick exchange of trivia over tea. It will be the kind of conversation that stays with you, the kind that might explain, one day, why the rain sometimes feels like it is falling for someone.
heizou (bonus version)
The busy chatter of Ritou’s morning market fades beneath the thud of something hitting the cobblestones. A cream paper envelope sealed in red wax skids to a halt between your boots. You bend at the same time as a stranger on your right, nearly knocking foreheads. He catches himself with a grin, quick as a fox.
“After you,” he says, though his gaze is already dissecting the envelope.
You pick it up, turning it in your hands. Thick paper, expensive; no address, no name, just an embossed Windwheel emblem in one corner.
“Not Inazuman,” you murmur.
“Foreign import,” he agrees instantly. “Probably Mondstadt. But see the faint smudge of salt on the wax? It’s been carried by sea recently.”
You nod. “And the faint citrus scent means it spent some time in a crate with fruit, probably to mask whatever else was in the shipment. Which suggests…”
“The sender wanted it to pass customs without inspection,” he finishes, his brows rising slightly.
The merchant who had dropped it is now halfway down the pier, walking with a subtle limp.
“Right shoe sole is worn more than the left,” you note aloud, “and the knees of his trousers are dusty. Either he kneels a lot, or—”
“—he’s been prying open crates,” your new associate supplies. “The ink on his fingers wasn’t from bookkeeping, then.”
You hand him the envelope, but instead of pocketing it, he tilts his head at you. “You’re good at this.”
“And you’re wasting time,” you return, already stepping toward the pier.
His grin widens as he follows. “What’s your name, partner?”
You don't answer—partly because you aren’t sure why you're getting involved, and partly because you enjoy the spark of curiosity that flickers in his eyes when you keep him guessing.
contains: degrading, kaiser calling you poor, slut, etc. kaiser is a bit ooc, smut. 18+
kaiser, who degrades you in all sorts of ways that you don’t even think is normal.
you’re currently ontop of him in bed, somehow convincing him to let you ride, but he doesn’t see it as you being dominant. he just sees it as a way to ‘prove yourself’ to him. whatever that means.
“micha.. you’re so.. fuck—big,” you gasp, trying to focus on your body control, but he’s just so large it hurts.
“tch. you can take it, can’t you, schatz? or are you too weak for that?” kaiser smirks, cocky, and mean.
you glare at him, clearly trying to get rid of the discomfort and pain, and he notices, his smirk dropping.
“what’s wrong, hm? too big for you?” his eyes narrow, his arm gently laid over your waist while the other had his head resting on his hand lazily.
you shake your head stubbornly, as if you hadn’t complained about his size no more than a minute ago. you lean down, your forehead resting on his bare chest.
while you leaned down, you grasp with your hand on one of his biceps and the other on the sheets below you both, taking control now. kaiser stares at you, wondering what you’re trying to do.
you progressively speed up your pace of thrusts, your hole squeezing him tight and practically milking him. he hisses as a response, one of his muscular thighs twitching a bit, and he leans his head back on the pillow.
“t-there you go, liebling. you almost got it. pathetic, but you’re getting there.” kaiser’s smirk comes right back up.
“s-shut up, michaaa..” you whimper, your hips hypnotizing his body, and his dick only gets harder.
he growls, “you’re taking far too long.” he suddenly grabs your hips, one arm holding your waist tight around you, and the other resting on your ass. he pulls you a bit further up so you were face to face with him, and he shoved his cock all the way in, forcing a moan out of you.
“see? you’ll never,” thrust, “get,” thrust, “on,” thrust, “my level.” he chuckles in your face, before speeding up completely, his smirk fading yet again. he took pleasure very seriously.
kaiser’s stamina is impeccable, which wasn’t surprising since his legs were crafted by angels themselves.
he makes sure your arms are still holding you up, so that you could make direct eye contact with him, and he doesn’t even break it at all. he’s staring straight into your soul, his eyes pulling you in like a spell.
it’s scary how much he can stare into your eyes emotionless but predatory, while also fucking you with insane energy.
“look at me, schatz. don’t you dare look away, or i’ll stop.” his voice had gotten so much deeper, almost as deep as his cock driven into you.
you look into his eyes, the difference was yours was bundling with tears while his was dark and watching you like a hawk. “m-micha.. it’s too.. too much, c-can’t—”
“shut up, you broke slut. you’re taking it, whether you like it or not,” kaiser spits out.
you moan at his words, which you shouldn’t have since he’s literally insulting you, but it only made you wetter. and he knows.
“ah, look at you. only getting tighter and wetter. you’re such a whore for my cock.” kaiser speeds up, grinning.
“m-micha, f-fuu—fuck! t-too fast, slow down!” you practically drool on his shoulder, and he’s angry.
“don’t ruin my precious skin with your filthy mouth, schmutzige sache. only i can ruin you.” kaiser scowls, slapping your ass so hard that it stings and slowly forms a pink mark in the shape of his hand.
“s-sooo goooddd, michaaa..” you whimper, grabbing onto his bicep, his arm flexing against your body.
“scheiße, clenching onto me so fucking hard—”
“-i-i’m gonna cum, micha, d-don’t stop..”
he mutters a whole lot of german curses under his breath, before his sharp eyesight catches one of your hands reaching down to your clit.
kaiser slaps your arm with the same hand holding your ass, “no. absolutely not, selfish shit. hold yourself together.” he groans, pressing your arch to bend further, loving the way your ass moves when he thrusts up into you.
“you’re so fucking.. wet.” he chuckles to himself.
his dick twitches inside of you, indicating he’s close as well.
before you could open your mouth to speak, he holds onto you tight with both arms pulling you close, his eyes closed shut and he rams into you harder, before moaning and spilling inside of you, your hole becoming a canvas for him.
he doesn’t stop though, using his own liquids as lubricants and fucks into you like a dog. your walls grip him, as you finish after him, crying his name out in one long moan, tears falling down your face.
his hips stutter and eventually slows down, before completely letting you slump on him.
kaiser pants, his breathing hoarse and rough.
your cheek is smushed against his hard chest, sweat and tears trickling down your face onto his body.
“..told you that you could take it, pretty thing.”
you manage to hold yourself up to look at him, and you analyze.
his cheeks are pink, his eyes narrow and tired yet still dominant. his hair is a bit messy, some strands sticking out more than the others, and that makes you giggle a bit, reminding you that he’s also a human as well and not some torture machine.
“what’s so funny?” he raises a brow, suspicious.
“nothing.” he suddenly reaches a hand up to your face, wiping your tears away. he’s speaking again, “you look a mess.”
“..can i peg you—”
“no.”
written by @wizzperrrs, do not copy, steal, translate, or repost on another site.
When he'd first been paired with his new roommate he'd been dissapointed. He had hoped for a guy he could bro out with, but Brian wasn't that, not in the least. The dude was a homebody who always had his head in a book. He refused all of Greg's offers to go work out with him, and never wanted to watch a game, let alone play sports.
Needless to say, Greg was at his wit's end. There was no way to change roommates now, and he couldn't handle a year of this. Roommates were supposed to be bros, right?
But Greg was an enterprising fellow. So he spent most of his savings on a spellbook he found online that promised to turn his roommate into someone more bearable. (He looked up reviews first to make sure it was legit: he wasn't that dumb, even if most of his grades said otherwise.)
That afternoon, he gave Brian one last chance. Multiple ones, really.
"Bro, come lift with me."
The other teen shook his head, engrossed in his reading. "You know I'm not into that, Gregory." Ugh that pissed him off too, he had told the dude multiple times it was Greg! He was super standoffish.
"At least come with me to baseball practice later. Maybe you'll be inspired by my killer performance and decide to join the team."
"No thanks."
Okay, that was it. Time to get serious.
"Alright Brian; time to turn you into a better roommate. JOCKIFY!"
And holy shit, magic was real. Greg watched as the energy poured from his hand motions, enveloping Brian like a lasso, a cloud quickly surrounded him. Greg grinned; he couldn't wait to see his new, improved roommate.
And then the cloud vanished, and the guy was...exactly the same?
"Hmph. Nice try."
"What?"
Brian looked up then and gave his stunned roommate a smile, the first one he could recall gracing his surprisingly cute face.
"How dumb do you believe me to be? Half my friends in high school were turned into dumb jocks; its practically a hazard for quiet and anti social students like myself. If it wasn't the gym teacher changing us it was the football team deciding it wanted the perfect new player, and this way seemed to produce better--and quicker--results than tryouts ever did. Needless to say, I developed protections to prevent this fate from befalling me."
"What are they?"
Brian rolled his eyes. "Well I'm not going to tell you that. Nice try, though."
"Fuck, nerds are smart, right..." Greg muttered.
Brian returned to his work, but a new idea filled Greg's brain. In truth, this was the first time he had seen this cocky side of Brian, and it was kinda hot. He could work with this.
"Fine, I'll just make you my boyfriend. If I can't work out with you I'll at least make out with you." He blew the other boy a kiss, and a heart shaped pulse of energy sailed towards Brian and entered into him. Any second now Greg would be looking up at him with adoring eyes...
Greg did not look up. "I'm also immune to sexuality change as well. Another common hazard I learned to avoid."
"DAMN IT!" God, this year was going to suck.
"That said, while I'm largely straight I am a bit bicurious." Greg admitted. "But if you want anything from me you will need to court me the old fashioned way I'm afraid."
"Ugh... how do I do that?"
"Start reading about the Perusine War." His roommate said, handing him a thick book. "Once you're done with the first chapter, I'll quiz you. Every question you get right will lead to a reward." Brian's crestfallen look made him smile, and man, he did have really nice dimples. "What can I say, knowledge is my love language.
"But if you need further incentive," he sighed, miserable, "I suppose if you prove an engaging enough conversation partner I'll be willing to watch one of your sporting events. Watch, not engage in. Relationships do require compromise after all."
And those terms were enough for Brian. He dived into the book.
This was going to be a long year. And maybe it would look different than he had first thought.
And maybe that was okay.
A/N: Just a shameless little piece I was inspired to write. Pure self indulgent fluff, forgive me. My more serious stuff will return soon.
🤍 Summary: When a familiar face returns to WWE, old wounds and unresolved feelings resurface, forcing you to confront the one person you’ve never quite been able to forget.
🤍 Pairings: Cody Rhodes x CM Punk x Fem Reader
🤍 Warnings: All of my writing is 18+ only, but none yet!
🤍 Word Count: 2.3k
🤍 Links: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
🤍 Notes: This is based on a prompt by the spectacular @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling Thank you for trusting me with your idea! I hope it is everything you imagined and more.
The sliding glass doors of O’Hare International Airport parted with a hiss, welcoming you to the bustling chaos of Chicago. A warm breeze hit you as you stepped outside, your carry-on slung over one shoulder. The hum of idling cars and the distant screech of airplane engines filled the air, but your eyes were scanning for one person.
It didn’t take long to spot him.
CM Punk leaned against a sleek black SUV, his arms crossed casually over his chest. He looked every bit the rockstar he was known to be, tattooed arms on full display in a sleeveless cutoff shirt, a red Blackhawks cap on his head. As you approached, the smirk playing on his lips widened, his dark eyes sparkling.
“Finally,” he called out, straightening up as you broke into a jog. “I was starting to think you got lost.”
“Missed me?” you teased, closing the gap between you. Before Punk could respond, you leaped into his arms, your laughter echoing across the parking lot. He stumbled back a step but caught you easily, his own laughter joining yours.
“Careful! I’m old now,” Punk joked, setting you back on your feet.
“Oh, please,” you retorted, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You’re still in better shape than half the roster.”
“Damn right I am,” he said with a mock cockiness.
He reached into the car and pulled out a coffee, handing it to you with a flourish. “Black, two sugars. Figured you’d need it after that flight.”
“You are an angel,” you said, cradling the cup like it was a gift from the gods. You took a sip, sighing in relief as the warmth spread through you. “How’d you know I was running on fumes?”
Punk shrugged like it was obvious. “Because I know you.”
His tone softened just slightly, and you found yourself glancing away, unsettled by the casual intimacy of the statement. Then, after a beat, he added, “So… Cody’s back.”
You froze mid-sip, your heart stuttering in your chest. You lowered the cup slowly. “Oh. Yeah, I heard.”
Punk raised an eyebrow, his smirk sharpening. “And?”
“And what?” you asked, feigning nonchalance as you walked around to the passenger side of the SUV.
“And are you ready to see him?” he pressed.
You turned to glare at him. “Why wouldn’t I be? Cody and I are just friends.”
Punk snorted, shaking his head as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Right. Old friends. Totally platonic. No unresolved feelings there at all.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, sliding into the passenger seat and buckling your seatbelt.
He shot you a sidelong glance as he started the car. “I’m just saying, don’t let him off the hook this time. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t see what’s right in front of him. But you? You deserve to go after what you want.”
You stayed quiet, staring out the window as the city rolled by. Punk’s words settled deep in your chest, mingling with the nervous energy already swirling there.
Cody was back. And you had no idea what that meant for you. Go after what you want. If only it were that easy.
You and Cody had been inseparable for years, a bond forged through the chaos and camaraderie of WWE. It started when you both joined the roster around the same time, fresh-faced and eager to prove yourselves. What began as friendly competition soon evolved into a deeper connection, a shared understanding of the pressures and sacrifices that came with chasing the dream.
Late-night drives between towns, endless hours in the gym, and post-match dinners turned into a ritual. Cody was your rock, and you were his. Whenever the grind of the business threatened to wear you down, he was there with a quick joke or a knowing smile that reminded you why you both loved wrestling in the first place. You were his confidante, and he was yours. Everyone backstage knew you two were thick as thieves.
But somewhere along the way, your feelings shifted. What started as friendly affection deepened into something more. You found yourself lingering a little too long when he hugged you or holding your breath every time he smiled at you. It scared you how much you cared for him, how much you wanted him. You weren’t sure if he felt the same, and for years, you kept your feelings buried, terrified of ruining the friendship that meant so much to you.
Then came the day he announced he was leaving WWE.
You’d been blindsided when he told you. The two of you were sitting in catering, tucked away in a corner to avoid the chaos around you. He laid it all out, the frustration, the creative roadblocks, the desire to prove himself outside of WWE’s shadow. He spoke with conviction, but all you heard was the sound of him walking away.
“You don’t have to go,” you blurted out, your chest tightening as you saw the determination in his eyes.
“I do,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “I can’t stay here and keep being… this. I need to bet on myself.”
Panic bubbled up inside you. If you didn’t say something now, you knew you’d regret it forever. “Cody, I… I care about you. More than a friend should.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and unshakable. For the first time since you’d known him, Cody looked at you like he didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, then closed it, running a hand through his hair.
“I… I didn’t know,” Cody finally said, his tone unsure. “I... God, this is a lot.”
Your heart sank. “I’m not trying to make this harder for you. I just thought... maybe if you knew how I felt...”
“I can’t,” he interrupted, his voice strained. “I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”
He left before you could say another word, and with him went the easy friendship you’d shared. He threw himself into his career in other arenas, and you stayed in WWE, pouring everything you had into your work. Over time, the texts and calls grew less frequent until they stopped altogether. You told yourself it was better this way, but deep down, the void he left was undeniable.
Now, years later, he was back. And you weren’t sure if you were ready to face him again, or the feelings you’d never truly gotten over.
The hum of backstage activity surrounded you, production staff weaving cables through hallways, wrestlers joking loudly as they prepped for their segments, but it barely registered. Your focus was elsewhere. Your heartbeat quickened with every step, every door you passed. Cody Rhodes was somewhere in this building, and after all these years, the mere thought of him made your heart pound excitedly in your chest.
“Hey! Look who’s here!”
You barely had a chance to orient yourself before Sami Zayn bounded over, his arms wide open. You laughed as he pulled you into a warm hug.
“Sami,” you said, patting his back. “I’ve missed you!”
“Missed me or my jokes?” he teased, pulling back to look at you. “Because I’ve got a killer new set I’ve been working on.”
“Well, now that you mention it... neither,” you deadpanned, earning a mock gasp from him.
Before Sami could reply, Jey Uso and Kevin Owens joined in, their faces lighting up when they saw you.
“Look who’s back on RAW!” Jey exclaimed, pulling you into a quick hug. “It’s 'bout time they brought you over.”
Kevin nodded, his expression less excitable but no less warm. “How you settlin’ in?”
“It's been exciting, nerve-wracking… the usual,” you said, trying to sound casual.
But the subtle glance Kevin exchanged with Sami didn’t escape your notice. Sami grinned, leaning closer. “By ‘nerve-wracking,’ you mean Cody.”
“What?” you said too quickly, your cheeks heating up. “I’m not... why would you even say that?”
“Oh, come on,” Jey said, laughing. “Everyone knows.”
“You’ve only been pining for him since… forever,” Sami teased.
You groaned, rubbing a hand over your face. “Can we not do this right now?”
Sami shrugged, but his teasing tone didn’t let up. “Hey, we’re just saying... if you’re nervous, it’s okay. He’s in his dressing room, by the way.”
Your stomach flipped. You glanced toward the hall, feeling a knot form in your chest. “Is he really?”
Kevin nodded, his voice more serious than the others. “Yeah. And look, you don’t have to talk to him if you’re not ready. But if you are… now’s your chance.”
The group fell silent for a moment, and you knew they were waiting to see what you’d do. Finally, you took a deep breath and squared your shoulders.
“Okay,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll do it.”
Jey gave you an encouraging pat on the back. "You got this."
As you walked down the hallway, each step felt heavier than the last. The closer you got to Cody’s dressing room, the louder the sound of your heartbeat became. You paused just outside the door, your hand hovering over the handle.
It had been years. What if he didn’t want to see you? What if the distance between you was more than just physical now?
You took another deep breath, steeling yourself. There was only one way to find out.
You hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly. “Cody? It’s me.”
The door opened almost immediately, and there he was, Cody Rhodes, looking as polished as ever in his sharp suit and perfectly styled blonde hair. His blue eyes widened slightly when he saw you, his expression softening.
“Hey,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.
“Hi,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.
“You look good,” he said finally, his lips curving into a small smile.
“Thanks,” you said, trying to keep your composure. “So do you.”
The room felt smaller with him in it, and the tension between you was obvious. For a moment, neither of you spoke, just taking each other in. Then, almost instinctively, Cody pulled you into a hug. It was warm, familiar, and achingly bittersweet.
“I missed you,” he said, his voice muffled against your hair.
Your breath caught. “I missed you too.”
When he pulled back, his hands lingered on your arms, his gaze searching yours. “I’ve been meaning to—”
The words died in his throat as he glanced down at his tie, which was slightly askew.
“Guess I still can’t get this right,” he said, his voice tinged with self-deprecating humor.
You seized the moment, reaching up to adjust it. You smiled, grateful for the distraction. “Here, let me.”
Closing the distance between you, you reached for the tie, your fingers brushing against his chest as you straightened it. His cologne was subtle but intoxicating, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. Your hands trembled slightly as you adjusted the knot, but you kept your focus on the fabric, unwilling to look up and risk meeting his gaze.
“There,” you said softly, stepping back to admire your handiwork. “Perfect.”
Cody didn’t move. His gaze lingered on you, his blue eyes searching yours as if trying to decipher some unspoken message. His hand moved slightly as if he wanted to reach for you but stopped halfway.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Your hands lingered on his chest for a beat too long before you finally looked up, and that was your mistake. His eyes were already on you, deep and searching. Neither of you moved, but the space between you felt like it was shrinking by the second.
His gaze flicked to your lips, just for a moment, and your heart leaped into your throat. He leaned in hesitantly as if waiting for you to pull back. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Your body betrayed every rational thought, tilting closer to his, your lips parting instinctively as you felt his breath mixing with yours.
Time seemed to slow. His hand rose, fingers brushing lightly against your arm, sending a shiver down your skin. Your faces were so close now, close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction of an inch, it would happen.
Then, a sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.
“Yo, you decent in there?” Punk’s voice called out from the other side.
The sound jolted you both like a snapped thread, breaking the moment in two. Cody stepped back abruptly, his hand falling to his side as he let out a shaky exhale. You blinked, your pulse racing, trying to process what had almost happened.
You swallowed hard, stepping back toward the door and pulling it open just enough to see Punk leaning casually against the frame, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, his eyes flicking between you and Cody with thinly veiled amusement. “Just wanted to say hi.”
Cody gave him a tight nod. “Hey, Punk.”
You mumbled something about needing to get ready for your segment and quickly slipped out, your heart hammering as you walked away. But as you reached the hallway, you paused, unable to stop yourself from lingering just outside the door.
Inside, Cody’s voice was low but clear. “I was such an idiot for leaving.”
Punk said something in response, but it was too muffled to hear.
“I’ve always wanted her,” Cody continued, his voice carrying a raw, vulnerable edge that made your chest tighten.
Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering in your chest. Not trusting yourself to stay any longer, you turned and hurried down the hall, Cody’s words echoing in your mind.
y/n l/n — datprettymf, thmsteezo, notyn
2001 | trans masc. the loudest silence in the room. charismatic, cocky, and emotionally unavailable until a verse says otherwise. the “face” of THM — the one everyone blames, praises, or thirsts over depending on the day. despite the chaos, their work ethic is unmatched, and their vision keeps the group orbiting around something bigger than ego.
josh levi — levisjeans, joshlevi, realnigga
1998 | THM’s anchor. polished, precise, and fiercely protective of the group’s sound. known for his perfectionist tendencies . he’ll redo a single note thirty times if it doesn’t feel alive. while YN draws attention, josh keeps the ship from sinking. He’s the reason the collective sounds cohesive.
destin conrad — destinCONRAD, destinconrad, ihateyn
2000 | soft-spoken, sharp-minded. his pen bleeds empathy; he writes with the kind of honesty that makes everyone else uncomfortable. he’s the group’s emotional compass, grounding the chaos with lyrics that read like therapy sessions.
dominic fike — fominicdike, fikeism, user38483925
1995 | the wildcard who never planned to join a group.. until he stumbled into one. he drifts between frontman and background, shaping THM’s sound with his raw tone and genre-bending instincts. every verse sounds like a confession he shouldn’t have recorded. the internet calls him “the problem child.” the group calls him family.
stella quaresma — stellaquaresma, stellaquaresma, leavemealone2
2001 | the live-wire. her sense of rhythm and tone turns performances into experiences. known for her whip-smart humor, subtle shade, and tendency to speak fluent sarcasm on livestreams. fans call her the “energy bridge” between yn and josh. she knows how to de-escalate and stir the pot, often at the same time.
jorja douglas — JorjaDouglas, jorjadouglas, ynsgf
2002 | THM’s vocal powerhouse. when she opens her mouth, everyone shuts up. her runs are surgical, her tone unmistakable. she handles most of the big chorus moments and emotional climaxes in songs. outside of music, she’s a walking hazard sign with a soft spot for gossip and a dangerous knack for ragebaiting too well.
renée downer — reneedowner1, renee_downer, ugh
2002 | the quiet power of THM. she layers harmonies like a scientist, turning rough demos into cinematic moments. Off-stage, she’s the group’s mediator, usually found rolling her eyes while everyone else argues about setlists. her voice has that rare warmth that can make any track feel like home.
