#emotionally repressed

“Tommy’s Lucky Star” part seven

click here for previous parts

Long gone are the days you believed Tommy and you could have a future together. But when he re-enters your life years later, you're still the only girl he looks for in the crowd when he fights.

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Warnings: angst, 18+ series, minors DNI!

Present Day—Sparta Tournament, Atlantic City

The roar of the arena crashes back into you like a wave. People are on their feet, screaming Tommy Riordan’s name after the knockout he delivered only minutes ago. The lights over the cage burn white and violent against the dark ceiling of Boardwalk Hall. Beer sticks to the floor beneath your heels. Girls behind you keep chanting Tommy’s name like a victory song. You ignore all of it.

Ten years.

Ten years since you last saw Tommy. That morning you woke up to him gone, ingrained in your memory. Carved into your bones in a way that sticks. The way he’d left you there—still asleep—while he decided to step into a future that didn’t include you.

Years spent pretending you forgot him. Convincing yourself that eventually he’d become nothing more than a dull ache in the back of your mind. The open wound he left would fade into an old scar. But seeing him like that. It takes you right back. Like he’d taken a knife to the scar and left it raw.

You try hard to cling onto something steady as the next fight begins. You’re fine. At least externally you seem fine. You just need to remain composed, at least for Maya’s sake. You’re in no rush to explain to her that the boy who broke your heart years ago is back, making you feel like nothing’s changed. Even when you worked so hard for things to be different now.

Just pull yourself together long enough to sit through this stupid MMA event. It’s not about him; it’s about being here with Maya. Who cares if he’s here. Still doing this to himself.

His match is over. From here on, it’s just other fights. You won’t have to see him again. You exhale a shaky breath.

You’ve survived grieving Tommy for ten years. You can survive a few more hours.

But then you see who comes out next. It really is some sort of sick prank. You really, really should have read that godforsaken programme.

Brendan Conlon walks out rolling his shoulders, trying to settle the tension in them. You’ve never met Brendan. Only ever seen the letters he sent and a photo of him on Tommy’s old desk he claimed he was getting rid of but never did.

Something tightens in your chest as he walks towards the ring with a slight bounce on his feet. He has Tommy’s eyes. Or the way they used to be. Before loss carved something colder into them.

This is the brother Tommy blamed for staying behind.

The crowd roars for him. Their favourite underdog, as Brendan’s nickname goes. He’s up against a brute of a guy called The Dane. You drown out the commentators again as your eyes stay on Brendan. Why are both brothers fighting here?

Maya is practically vibrating with excitement beside you, completely oblivious to the way you feel your heart crush more every second you stay in this claustrophobic arena. The guy on her right has already started talking to her about brackets and odds and how insane this tournament is. He throws her heart eyes as she says she’s ready to place her bets on Brendon. You stay frozen in your seat, eyes on the match but unable to take in any of it.

For a split second, a wave of nostalgia hits you. Your chest squeezes painfully. You see yourself being eighteen again. Safe from the harsh stares of the world. Wrapped in Tommy's arms. Or talking to Lesley and Sophie, who would know exactly what to say right now. The pitiful look Lesley would throw you way if she seen you like this. Still so affected by him like he only left yesterday. Even now, after everything.

Which is why you can’t see him again. Ever. You decide in that moment to settle on hating him. It’s easier than figuring out the rest. Simpler to go back to your life like this—pretending he doesn’t exist.

You zone back into the fight to see Brendan block the first few hits well enough. Then the Dane starts landing more aggressively. A hook to the ribs, another to the jaw. Brendan staggers back against the cage, breath knocked out of him. The crowd roars louder at every hit. You flinch as the punches keep landing.

Maya startles you when she nudges you, saying your name. “You listening?”

You turn to her, not having heard a word she said. She laughs gently. “I asked if you were enjoying yourself?”

You’re startled for a second, before you catch yourself and plaster on an award-winning smile, nodding. She buys it instantly. Good. At least you know you’re good at acting. That you do your job well. You need to focus on that, on the life you built as an actress and not on some guy who should’ve stayed in the past.

You quickly turn away from the fight as you see a clearly already half-beaten Brendon taking another punch that almost makes him stumble. That's enough.

“Think I’m going to get some air,” you mutter, unable to take anymore. Maya must think there’s something wrong with you. Whatever, fresh air will clear your head and make you feel better.

You step past knees and spilled snacks. People roar louder at every hit, soaking in the violence as if it’s nothing more than a show. The sound makes your stomach twist. You used to cheer for this. Used to cheer like that for Tommy.

A few people try to greet you, some saying your name as you walk past. You smile and nod as you make your way out through the back door to avoid more attention.

It’s all under control, you lie to yourself. At least you’re not hyperventilating the way you were earlier. Just choosing to leave calmly because the arena feels like somewhere you might drown.

You greedily breathe in the cool night air as you finally manage to step out, leaning against the rough cement wall at the back of Boardwalk Hall. The ocean is only a few metres away from this side of a building. Dark waves crash against the shore. The wind carries salt through the air. The sound of the sea calming you. You wrap your arms around yourself, staying there against the concrete.

Your life is just fine the way it is. You didn’t wait for him. You have your work. Your friends. Your apartment in Chicago. You built something real. Became someone. You can’t allow him to unravel it a decade later, just from one glimpse. One moment of him stepping into a stupid cage.

Ten years ago, you were the girl who woke up that morning and learned how to survive being left by him. You survived that. You can manage this.

You stand there long enough for the past to creep in like the tide against the shore. Glimpses of him ingrained in your mind. How he used to hold you, touch you, choose you. The way you used to be with him before his absence.

Inside the arena, you hear the crowd roar as Brendan’s fight ends, and another begins shortly after. You don’t care. Don’t care about any of it anymore.

The wind lifts your hair as another wave breaks against the shore. Your breathing steadies for the first time all night. You feel calmer. You can go to your hotel now, sleep, get the first flight out of here tomorrow.

You glance out towards the sea one last time, about to leave, as the emergency door behind you creaks open. You stop in your tracks, pulse rushing up to your ear the moment you hear footsteps hit the concrete.

You don’t turn. You don't need to. You know exactly who it is. Who came out here looking for you.

You let out a steady exhale, keeping your eyes fixed on the water. Don’t react when his footsteps stop a few feet away from you.

Tommy’s still wearing the same black hoodie he wore earlier before stepping into the cage. His breathing is heavy, knuckles split and wrapped in white tape. He has fresh cuts on his face, his hair is damp. Sweat clings to his skin. Like he came straight from another fight. You already know how it went. You know he won that one too.

He gets closer and the scent of him, still so familiar, makes you step away before you can stop yourself. He notices. Doesn’t speak, though he watches you. Sees the way you refuse to look at him. You should leave. Now. You shouldn’t torture yourself by standing beside him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he finally speaks. “Looked around.”

You take in his voice. Lower than you remember. Grittier. His breathing still heavy.

“Yeah…was just about to,” you reply.

His jaw tightens as he puts a hand on the railing.

“So… Riordan now, is it?” you ask. Another reminder you don’t know who he is anymore. Not even something simple like a name.

He nods once, turns to look towards the sea like he’d rather not elaborate. The sky is darkening behind it. The waves fill the silence neither of you can.

He stays planted where he is, cautious to keep a respectful distance between you. As if he’s already decided not to get any closer. Especially after he saw the way you moved away.

You close your eyes. Let yourself picture it. Only for a moment. The way you would walk home with him after every match, hear him try not to laugh at your jokes. The way you used to ramble for hours, and he’d cling to every word. Looking at you like you were all he ever needed. Touching you like you were his. You open your eyes.

“You didn’t stay long,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

He accepts it with a simple nod. Doesn’t mention how you used to be so excited to see him fight. Now the image of him stepping into the cage again makes you feel nauseous.

The breeze picks up again, this time lifting your hair around your face. He stills as he sees it. Then he steps a little closer—still a careful distance away, but close enough as if to instinctively block the worst of wind away from you.

“You stayin’ nearby?” he asks. And it’s the way he asks—like you’re a stranger—that’s the worst part.

You nod.  “Just wrapped filming. Wouldn’t have come if I had known you’d be here.”

He doesn’t do press, photos, interviews…how is anyone supposed to know he’s fighting?

“I know,” he replies, “that you wouldn’t’ve come if you knew.” He doesn’t elaborate. Though it feels like there’s more underneath he’s not telling you.

You steal a glance at him. You regret it as your mind replays how he left. But even now, you still want to talk to him. About all of it. How you heard that his mom died four years ago. You’d felt so awful, wanted to contact him, but he’d changed his number shortly after leaving you. You’re about to bring it up, but you stop yourself.

You see his fingers twitch from the corner of your eye. Your breath catches as you follow the movement down to his wrist. To where his thumb brushes over the edge of a blue band tied around it. A habit he doesn’t even realise he still has. Your stomach drops the moment you fully take it in.

The bracelet. The one you made for him. Still hugging his wrist. It looks weathered now, barely recognisable. The little star that used to be golden is now dull and rusted. But you recognise it instantly. The one you gave him for luck. And now he’s worn it so long the skin beneath it is paler than the rest of his wrist. Like he never took if off.

Something bitter rises in your chest. After all these years, he kept that stupid thing. Wears it under his boxing gloves as if it really is his lucky charm. He kept it but he let you go.

“You ever—” you stop, shake your heard. “Did you ever look for me?”

He freezes at your question, seemingly unaware of what you just saw.

“Yeah,” he finally replies as he lifts his head slightly. Your heart stumbles as he meets your gaze.

“Before or after your mom died? Because I knew her too Tommy.” You see the way it surprises him, then hurt slips through his features before he masks it. You don’t care. Let him, for once, feel a fraction of the pain you felt.

 “Tried to find you after that,” he says.

“After what?”

“After she died,” he responds. “After…all of that.”

 “And?” you swallow.

His gaze drifts away from your face towards the sea. “Didn’t knock.”

After his mom’s funeral. After Iraq. After his time in the marines. After everything he came to Chicago for you. Saw you through your apartment window. Thought you looked fine without him, happy even, and didn’t knock. Didn’t even give it a chance.

“Just left again, huh,” you scoff.

His jaw tightens. “Figured you were better off, y’know?”

You shake your head, step in front of him before you can stop yourself. Up close, hits you properly. Your breath catches—like your body recognises him before your mind can catch up. His shoulders are impossibly broad, his body thick with muscle that wasn’t there when he was nineteen. There’s a faint scar cutting through the edge of his brow now. The boy you knew is still there somewhere in the shape of his face, but everything about him feels harder. For a second, it overlaps. What he was and what he is now. It makes your chest ache.

“You don’t get to decide for me,” you say, “You didn’t then. You don’t now.”

You push down your anger, though it seeps through the edges anyways. “Stop being so fucking noble Tommy.”

“I ain’t,” he responds. A flicker crosses his face before it’s gone again. His shoulders lift slightly, like he’s bracing for something he won’t let hit. His eyes roam over your face, studying you like you’re something sacred he needs to carve into his mind before it disappears.

“You with someone?” he asks. It comes out unexpected. Rougher than he means it to.

“That,” you snap. “Is none of your business.”

“Right,” he says with a small nod. Puts his tongue in his cheek like you were right to call him out on it.

The wind picks up, stronger this time, lifting the hem of your dress slightly. He exhales sharply, eyes dropping down before he looks away instantly. Like even looking at you like that is a line he cannot allow himself to cross.

“You coming tomorrow?” His voice sounds strained now, trying hard to distract himself from how badly you’re affecting him.

The Sparta finals, you think. Two more fights if he wants the price money. You let his question hang in the air. He doesn’t look at you while he waits for your response. Watches the sea instead, both hands fully propped against the small railing now.

You look at him again, this time past the fighter, the myth, the marine as you take him in more. Beneath all of it, behind the walls he’s put up, there’s a sadness you can’t quite place. You still know him well enough to know something else happened. Something weighing at him that he won’t talk about. But you know it’s not your job to try break down his walls. Not this time.

“No.” you finally say. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come tomorrow.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw as he nods. Something flickers in his face before it’s gone again. He turns away, like he doesn’t trust himself to look at you for too long, but after a moment he glances back, searching your expression as if trying to decide whether you mean it. You give him nothing, keep your face blank.

Somewhere inside the building you hear the faint sound of the crowd erupting. It’s so distant, as if it’s part of another world now. His world, not yours. You move away. From all of it. From him.

“Well,” you say, steadying your voice, “Good luck then.”

You mean it. You won’t go through it again. Won’t have him hurt you again. Or watch him hurt himself. You want him to succeed, but you won’t be there to see it.

You give him one final glance. Engraining this new version of him into your mind. Layering it over the boy you knew. Replacing it. Now he’s this. And you realise you don’t know him at all anymore. You nod once more, then turn slightly, angling your body to leave.

That’s when you feel him. The shift as he steps closer. Close enough for you to catch his warmth. Close enough that the scent of him clouds your mind.

His fingers graze your wrist. Soft, barely a brush. Like he wants to hold you back, stop you from leaving. He pulls back his hand like your touch burned him. Like it didn’t happen.

“Doesn’t matter if you’re there,” he says quietly. “I still fight like you are.”

You almost stop. Ten years ago, that would’ve been enough for you.

“Stop that,” you say, barely above a whisper, “Because I’m not there anymore.”

The words land. You see it. His expression falters. It’s gone just as fast. His fingers curls against the railing, knuckles whitening as he looks away, jaw set hard. He doesn’t stop you. Not this time either.

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All this unresolved tension just kiss or something bruh😾 Anyways thanks for reading lovelies♡

Pairing: Adult!Damian Wayne/Reader

Summary: Reader's father and Bruce arranged for her and Damian to marry. However, before Reader's father could truly sit and explain to her his decision he passed away. And Damian never thought to question his father's decision at all.

Reader's mother only saw dollar signs for this arrangement and forced it to happen much quicker than ever anticipated. Now it's just two strangers that have been forced together and trying to navigate the expectations of becoming the new IT couple of Gotham while trying to keep their secrets under wraps as Reader learns what it means to be the new Wayne Matriarch since the death of Martha Wayne.

Still Breathing, Still Burning

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Overpowered Reader, Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff with Angst, Chaos Gremlin Reader, Found Family Undertones, Multiversal Elements, Mutual Pining, Soft for You Dynamics, Emotionally Repressed, Cosmic Horror (light, implied), Alternate Timeline Elements, Protective Characters, Slow Burn, Bittersweet Undertones, Dramatic Tension, “You Scare Me But I Love You” Dynamic.

Warnings: Mentions of near-death experiences, Alternate timeline death (Lesson 16 reference), Emotional trauma, Betrayal (non-graphic), Magic-induced physical harm (briefly mentioned), Mild body horror (magic backlash implied).

The Ring of Light hummed softly around your finger, tethering a thousand cosmic oaths into something that vaguely resembled sanity. The air aboard the Astral Express shimmered every time you walked by, as if the fabric of the universe had to breathe in and hold its breath for you.

Lucifer and Alastor become friends. They go to bars, trying wine, etc. Visit Jazz clubs, spend time.

So, Alastor, shows up at Lucifers bedroom door. Which no longer has No Alastors allowed sign. He knocks, waits, then hears a noise inside that startles him. Going inside he finds Lucifer sleeping with a man.

Thinking, due to the painful? Sounds he heard, he thinks the sinner was 'forcing' Lucifer. He attacks him, which Lucifer stops. Sinner leaves, they have a horrible fight.

Alastor is plagued with feelings he doesn't understand and due to this he starts treating Lucifer badly. Being cruel and petty. Worse than before. Lucifer is hurt and doesn't understand what he did.