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dilf-c0nn0isseur · 3 months ago

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Guilty As Sin - Logan Howlett x fem!reader

WARNING! MDNI! includes: age gap(legal!), oral(fem!receiving), p in v penetration & ejaculation, just a lot of smut tbh

word count: 5,094

a/n: i imagined x-men 2000s logan while writing this, ik the timelines kinda fucked but i love writing him like that so.

You had heard of Logan, or what he was better known as, ‘Wolverine.’ Anything you knew of him though was what you had heard during your time at the mansion where you attended Xavier’s school for the gifted. Your studies were short, as you had only attended the year you were set to graduate. Your mutant genes had manifested themselves slightly later than others. Now, a few years graduated, you had found a permanent residence at the mansion as a member of the X-Men.

You had not once met this man that everyone spoke of, but word amongst the mansion’s occupants suggested that he had gone off on his own for the last couple years. From what you’d gathered, he seemed to do just fine by himself.

After his rather drawn-out absence, Logan finally found himself back at the mansion. He was not troubled by the lack of company over his time away, but some part rooted deep down in him missed the sense of community this place provided. This was something he kept to himself. Vulnerability was not his style. His return was completely unannounced, but word quickly spread. Your curiosity to see Wolverine in the flesh was what brought you downstairs from your room, now leaning against a door frame to catch a glimpse of him without drawing attention towards yourself.

Your eyes focused on him as he pulled back from a welcome embrace with a member of the team, greeting his colleagues that he couldn’t have helped but missed while away. He sported an old, faded brown leather jacket that he unzipped to reveal a black t-shirt. You let your gaze wander to where his shirt was tucked into a pair of dark-wash bootcut jeans, a matching leather belt looped through the holes.

Then you realized how tall he was in comparison to those that stood around him. He practically towered over the crowd that formed around him. Just his presence took up space. He brought up a large hand to his dark hair and ran his fingers through it.

God, his fingers are long.

From that moment forward, you were irrevocably captivated by him.

No doubt he was much older than you. It was obvious in his appearance, the way he carried himself, his cadence. This fact did nothing but fuel your fixation. And so, you began on your attempts at his attention.

That afternoon, a few hours after his arrival, Logan had settled back in. He was content with returning back to his room, a space that was uniquely his. He got to work at unpacking the duffel bag that he had brought with him. There was not much to put away since he packed light. Everything he needed could often be easily found wherever he found himself escaping to. His travels had left him exhausted though, and he craved a glass of whiskey.

Logan made his way down to the kitchen, where unbeknownst to him, you had been waiting, expecting this to be the place that you two would be likely to cross paths for the first time. When his large frame appeared in the entrance to the kitchen, your eyes fluttered up, this time taking in his appearance much closer. Your stake-out at the table, however boring, was worth it.

He didn’t notice you right away. He moved swiftly to the bar, set on getting his drink. You watched as the tall, burly man located the whiskey and poured the amber liquid into a small glass. The proportion of his hands around the drink really put it into perspective just how large he was. How much larger than you he was.

You had to get his attention before he retreated back to his room. Sure, you may have spared the dignity to sit and wait for him to coincidentally walk into the kitchen, but following him? Too much.

“Hey.”

Your voiced appeared suddenly from behind him and caused him to slam his glass against the counter. He whipped around to see you, sitting at the table, arms folded across the wood in front of you.

“Shit, kid, can’t just sneak up on me like that,” he cursed. His fingers flew to the bridge of his nose and pinched it.

His use of the word ‘kid’ to address you should have annoyed you, but had the opposite effect. It reinforced that tempting age gap between the two of you.

“Sorry,” you apologized with a sheepish grin. “Logan, right?”

You had to play it off cool, casual, as if you didn’t know exactly who he was.

“That’s me.” He took a swig of his whiskey, the familiar burn against his throat soothing him from the surprise you just gave him. “Haven’t seen you around before,” he said after swallowing. “You are..?”

You introduced yourself. “I started here after you left. Heard a lot about you, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Logan tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. “Good things, I hope.”

You could tell he was more relaxed now, analyzing the way he leaned back against the counter, one hand propped behind him, the other holding his glass. “For sure. Heard all about your mutation. Pretty scary,” you said with a gesture to his hands. “But cool.”

As much as you were checking him out, Logan also examined you subtly, without you noticing. You looked young. Hell, a lot younger than him. But he could tell by the way you radiated comfort where you were that you were at least a couple years graduated. Most of the kids enrolled in classes were hesitant, not yet confident in their place at the mansion.

“Do they hurt?”

Your question brought him out of his thoughts. He nodded with his lips pressed to his glass again, setting it down as he finished it off. “Definitely took some getting used to.”

You were surprised at how casual he was. You didn’t really have an idea of how he was in person, but this wasn’t exactly what you expected.

He caught you staring, noticing the slight look of confusion etched on your face. “Kid?,” he prompted. There it was, that nickname again.

“Shit, sorry. You’re just different than how I pictured you.”

A look of amusement appeared on Logan’s face. “Pictured me, huh?”

His words almost sounded suggestive. Was that how he meant to come across? Whatever the intention, you continued.

“Kinda got the idea you were mean and scary,” you said in a teasing manner. “But you’re actually not too bad.”

“Mean and scary,” he repeated your words with a chuckle. “I guess there’s a time and place for that.”

His reciprocated banter made your confidence grow. He watched you carefully as you stood up from the table, closing the distance between the two of you and settling beside him against the counter. You reached for his hand that was placed against the cool countertop behind him, brushing your fingers against his knuckles. The difference between the sizes of your hands made your stomach turn. “Can you show me?,” your question insinuating his sheathed claws.

Logan was aware of the game you were playing now. His heightened sense of smell picked up the soft, aroused heat that now radiated off of you. The smell wafted up his nose and his grip on the countertop tightened below your hand that now rested on his. Your touch on his hand, your advancement, it turned him on in a way that made him feel almost perverted. You were so young, your experience had to be almost nothing compared to his. He had years- no, centuries on you. This was wrong. It was his job to stop it before it escalated. If someone were to walk in on the two of you right now, he could only imagine what they would think.

Coming into his senses, Logan shifted away from you, reestablishing distance between your bodies. His hand slid out from under yours.

“Another time,” he said, focusing his attention on turning to the sink and rinsing out his whiskey glass.

His change in demeanor puzzled you. You stared at his back, his muscles flexing underneath the white tank he was wearing as he placed the clean glass back into the cupboard above him. You wondered why his tone changed so suddenly. You pushed. “C’mon, just-“

“It’s getting late,” he interrupted you, now moving towards the hall to exit before this could go further. Before he let this go further. There was a tinge of annoyance lacing his words. “I’m heading to bed, and you should too.”

His exit was abrupt, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, replaying the interaction. You tried to understand his switch. If Logan was hesitant to make a move on you because of the gap between your ages, you were determined to convince him otherwise, show him that you yearned for a man like him. Someone who could really take care of you.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

The next day passed with no sign of Logan around the mansion. You had even repeated your camp out in the kitchen for a little while, but left only further disappointed when he never showed. At some point, you retreated to your room and took a nap out of pure boredom. This ‘nap’ turned into a 4 hour slumber that you awoke from feeling disoriented and groggy, surprised to see that the clock on your nightstand read 11:47 P.M. You forced yourself out of bed and into a change of comfier clothes than what you had fallen asleep in, and headed downstairs to the lounge for a change of scenery.

Expecting it to be empty because of the late hour, you were more than pleasantly surprised to see Logan sitting in one of the leather recliners, his arm draped lazily over the side with a half-smoked cigar dangling between his fingers. You paused in the doorway for a second as his attention was drawn to you.

“What’re you doing up?”

His question almost seemed accusatory. He narrowed his eyes at your shirt, some band he had never heard of. The collar was stretched and hung off one shoulder, revealing your prominent collarbone and bare neck. His eyes dragged slowly down your torso to your exposed legs. The shorts you were wearing were covered by the excessive length of the t-shirt. Were you even wearing shorts? Underwear? Wonder what color underwear. Logan’s mind clouded with questions that forced his gaze to the fireplace crackling in front of him, distracting himself with a long drag of his cigar.

You noticed the way he examined you. His prolonged stare, the way his eyes fell down, and then away in realization of his obvious staring.

“Just woke up from a nap,” you admitted.

His body tensed as you finally made your way in and sat on one of the couches next to him. “What are you doing up?”

He blew out one last trail of smoke and then put his cigar out on the ashtray that sat on the table in-between the couches you sat on. “Was just leaving.”

Logan’s rushed attempt at escape made you furrow your brow. You couldn’t let him slip away like he did the other night.

“What’s with you?,” you confronted him. His face wrinkled, a look that portrayed his shock that you would question him like that. “Whad’ya mean ‘what’s with you’?,” he shot back. You rolled your eyes as you gestured to him, standing up and trying to make a break for the door.

“You acted just fine yesterday, and now you’re being all stand-offish and weird.”

God, the nerve of this kid, he thought to himself. Logan was always astonished with the younger generation not having a problem speaking their mind. Instead of letting him answer, you pushed it yet again. “Can’t help but think I make you nervous.”

“Nervous? The fuck do you mean nervous?,” he spat, offended. His chest heaved underneath his snug black shirt. You stood up as a way to try and level with him. This was a silly move, because he still towered over your much smaller figure.

“I think,” you started, words insinuating, “that you don’t know what do with a girl, so much younger than you, hitting on you.”

Your blatant admittance of the situation made his eyes widen, momentarily stunned. He quickly regained his conscious and scoffed, still dancing around the accusation you just threw at him. “First off, you don’t make me nervous,” Logan said, staring down at you with his eyes slightly squinted in annoyance. “And second, kid, I know what I’m doing.”

His words were sharp, biting. His attempt to diminish you with youthful nicknames was mute. You took it as a challenge, and the insult went straight to your core, causing a wet pool to form between your legs.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” you snipped.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaled. “You’re too young.”

There it was. You had finally gotten him to voice his concern, the reason he had given you the cold shoulder.

“I’m an adult, Logan,” you said with a step forward, that gap between you getting smaller. His breath hitched in his throat at your new advancement. “You can argue with me all you want, but the bulge in you pants is very condescending.” Your eyes flicked down to his crotch and then back up to his, a playful ‘gotcha’ smirk now on your lips.

He was now fully aware of the growing hard-on against his thigh and choked on the breath he had just inhaled. You swear you could hear him mutter a ‘fuck’ under his breath. He wanted to give in, he wanted to throw you on the couch and take you right there, but he was still held back by some guilty conscious in his mind, convinced he was too old for a girl like you. “I’m too old for you, kid.” A final attempt at calling your bluff, seeing if you would suddenly realize your desire to get with him was just a silly fantasy. You could sense his guard coming down.

“Am I gonna have to make a move on you first?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed in on yours and his lips pursed together. Your question was not answered with words, but with a tempting look, like he was daring you to act on your words.

With one more step, you closed the gap between your bodies, a hand running up one of his muscular arms. You leaned up slightly on your tip-toes, your height difference still separating you from his lips. He didn’t move, expecting you to back out at any second, needing more reassurance that this is what you wanted.

Your hand found his shoulder, using it as leverage to lift yourself to meet his lips. They brushed softly and Logan struggled to maintain his self control. You felt a shaky breath escape his mouth and tickle yours. When he didn’t pull away, you pressed your lips firmly to his. This was the confirmation he needed and he gave in.

His hands left their previous spot, frozen by his sides, and twisted around your back. He gripped your waist with his hands, pulling you tight against him. God, it felt so wrong, a woman as young as you wanting a man so far in age. His grip tightened and his tongue forced it’s way through your parted lips, running over your teeth and against your own tongue. When he felt a hand caress the bulge in his pants, he groaned into your mouth, the sound muffled by the fiery kiss. This felt so taboo. And maybe, that’s what he liked so much about it.

Logan’s mouth left yours but quickly found your jaw, kissing it and licking a stripe all the way up to the spot just below your ear. He planted another sloppy kiss here before whispering, “my room?”

His invitation fueled the fire in your groin and you nodded desperately. “Yes, yes please,” you managed to gasp.

The tall, burly man swooped you up in his arms with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist. He hoisted you up against him and you could feel his hard-on throbbing against your aching cunt. The contact made you grind your hips into him as he carried you to his room with urgent speed. You kissed his neck, his beard tickling your skin. The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke clouded your senses, paired with an underlying musk that was unique to only Logan.

One of Logan’s hands, still holding onto you, grabbed the door handle to his room and twisted it, kicking it all the way open with his boot. Once he spun the two of you inside, he rushed to kick it closed again. His room smelled even more like him.

He found your lips again in desperation as he leaned down and placed you gently on his bed. He remained on the floor in front of you, kneeling slightly to trail kisses down your neck. One of his hands slid up your bare leg, creeping up your thigh until he was met with the hem of your way-too-short shorts.

“Wore these to get my attention, Bub?,” he muttered against your neck in-between wet kisses. He zoned in on one spot and sucked the soft skin between his teeth, a maroon bruise forming under his lips. You inhaled a sharp breath. “Walking around here in practically nothing, that’s how bad you wanted this?” His voice was carnal, a seductive growl.

“God, yes, so bad.” Your words were incoherent, your inability to form a complete sentence showing how much of a mess Logan had you already.

His curious hand continued it’s trek over your shorts, fingers curling under the waist band and tugging slightly. He waited for you to object, and when there was none, he pulled them down to where they pooled around your ankles. You hurriedly kicked them off to the floor next to him. Logan pulled back from your neck and took in the sight between your legs, the pair of lacy red panties that were damp with your arousal. You felt your face heat up as he drank you in. “Goddamn.”

He drew in a long breath through his nose to inhale your heated scent. He fell to his knees between your legs and began planting kisses against your thighs, inching up towards your center. “Logan, please,” you whimpered above him, entranced by the image of him between your legs.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours as he placed a kiss against the fabric of your underwear. “You want this?”

“I want this so bad.”

Logan’s intense gaze never left yours as he pulled your panties to the side and let out a hot breath against your soaking wet core. “Holy shit doll,” he exclaimed at your arousal. Your bottom lip quivered with anticipation.

When his lips made contact with your swollen clit, you threw your head back and moaned his name. Hearing his name on your lips sent waves of pleasure through his own body. Swiftly, he pulled your panties down and threw them to join your shorts on the floor. He reconnected with your clit quickly and sucked on it gently. You hissed through clenched teeth and your hand flew to the back of his head, gripping his hair in your fingers for support.

Logan’s hands found their way to your thighs and grabbed them, forcing them to stay apart for him despite your body’s instinct to close them due to the overwhelming feeling of pleasure between them. He licked a long, wet stripe up your folds back to your clit and lapped at it hungrily. Each flick of his tongue made your insides boil with arousal. His fingers dug into the soft, pillowy skin of your thighs and you were sure they were to leave bruises, a reminder of who was between them.

“Y’taste so good, sweetheart,” Logan mumbled against your pussy. The vibration of his words against you made goosebumps raise all over your body.

“Wanted you so bad,” you rambled, “knew you could take care of me.”

“Is that right?”

His teasing remark made you clench around nothing.

One of his calloused fingers traced intricate circles on the inside of your thigh, trailing down sensually before gliding back up. You felt his finger continue to dance softly around your upper thigh before you recognized the pattern. He was spelling out letters on your skin.

‘M-I-N-E’

That act of claiming you, the writing it against your thigh, it made your stomach flip. “Oh my god,” you whispered.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, his fingers that were just marking claim on your thigh found their way to your dripping pussy. One finger circled slowly around your entrance, the natural lubricant you had produced letting it slip inside. You gasped and arched your back towards the ceiling. “Fuck, Logan!”

His lips still working at your clit, he began pumping his finger in and out of you. “Feel good?,” he asked in a hushed, gravelly voice. You answered an immediate yes, wanting more. He sensed your craving and slipped a second finger in, earning a content sigh from you.

Logan’s long fingers curled inside of you and brushed against the soft, spongy spot that made you cry out his name, along with other incoherent profanities. When he felt you began to clench around him, your hips bucking up off of his bed, he pulled his fingers out slowly. The emptiness from where he once occupied made you ache. You sat up, disappointed. “Logan-“

“I wanna feel you cum around my cock,” he interrupted. You watched in awe as he stood up, biceps flexing as he unhooked the belt around his waist. He slipped it through the loops of his jeans and let it fall to the floor. Your jaw dropped when he grabbed at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. His body was even better than you could ever possibly imagine. The definition of each of his abdominal muscles, toned and glistening. Your eyes followed the trail of dark hair that lead down under his jeans. Logan caught your shocked look.

“Wait, kid, have you never-“

“Fuck, Logan, I’m not a virgin!” You almost laughed in surprise at his accusation.

“Y’sure?,” he cocked an eyebrow at you. “Cause you look lost.”

Your lips tilted in a downward smile, cheeks growing red. “I’m not a virgin. Just never been with anyone like you.”

His gaze softened and he shot you a small smile. “Ah,” he proclaimed. It was like he was self-aware of how perfect he was, you thought. “You wanna do this?”

You couldn’t believe he was asking again. “Trust me Logan,” you said slowly as you leaned forward, hands finding the button of his jeans. “I really wanna do this.”

His head fell back with a groan as you began pulling the zipper of his pants down, revealing the top of his boxers. You pulled them down to his thighs as he stepped out of his boots with a sharp stomp on the heel of each one. Once they were off, he let his jeans fall to his ankles and kicked them off to the side with the rest of your clothes. You tried not to show your astonishment at the size of his bulge, now even more prominent, tight against his thin boxers.

‘How is that ever gonna fit inside of me?’

Logan smirked slightly at the look on your face and pulled down the last article of clothing that was separating him and nudity.

You bit your lip as his cock sprung free, taking in the sight of it. It was fully erect, a single vein running along the underside where it met his soft pink tip that was leaking with pre-cum. Realizing that he was now fully nude, you pulled your shirt off slowly and let it fall off the bed. His eyes immediately dropped to your tits and his cock throbbed with need. His gaze swept up and down your whole body. “Fucking beautiful, sweetheart.”

His praise made you realize again how empty you felt without him inside of you. “I want you inside of me, Logan.”

He took his hard cock in his hand and pumped it softly, more pre-cum beading at the tip. “Lay down for me.”

You did exactly as he said and scooted up to the top of his bed, laying down with your head resting against his pillows. You could smell him even stronger here, the spot he sleeps every night. His scent flooded your senses and your eyes fluttered shut for a second, basking in it. You barely even noticed he was crawling atop of you until his hands were planted on either side of your head and his lips were back on your neck. Being caged underneath his much larger figure like this made you melt, a rag doll lying beneath him.

Logan nipped softly under your jaw, his sharp canines sending shock through your body. “Ready, Bub?,” he drawled against your skin. You nodded against the top of his head, your chest rising and falling with his.

He propped himself up above you with one muscular arm, the other moving to grip his cock and fix it against your entrance. You were practically leaking just at that. Your legs spread apart even further subconsciously, giving him more access. Both of your eyes were fixated on his cock as he began pushing inside of you, painfully slow. You gasped as you felt your walls stretch to accommodate him. A low groan fell from his lips as he continued pushing himself in, until he was halfway disappeared within your cunt. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered in his scratchy voice.

Your hand snaked around the back of his neck, fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want all of you Logan, please,” you begged. He brought his hand that was wrapped around his cock back up to it’s spot beside your head. “I wanna give it all to you.”

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled as you felt him pushing all the way inside of you, just what you had asked for. He bottomed out inside of you just as you felt the tip of his cock press against the spot that his fingers had just been curling into. “Oh my god, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitched at your words and he pulled out slowly before sheathing himself back inside you, warming you up to his thrusts. “So tight,” he grunted. You bucked your hips up into him, desperate for more. You knew how much he had to offer. As if reading your mind, Logan began building up to a steady pace, his thrusts making you rock against the bed frame. He watched as your breasts bounced softly with each thrust. His hands gripped the pillow next to your head and an animalistic sound built up in his throat- a growl.

“This what you wanted?,” he asked as his pace quickened. “Someone older who could fuck you right?”

His words went straight to your core where he was pounding into you. “Yes, fuck,” you gasped with a particularly deep thrust, “exactly what I wanted.” Your other hand flew to his back and you dug your nails in, leaving dark red marks that quickly healed over due to his regenerative cells. A guttural moan left him and he lifted one of your legs over his hip, pounding even deeper into your cunt. A sudden pressure on your clit made you realize his thumb was rubbing circles around it, increasing the pleasure. You were practically seeing stars at this point.

The pressure in your stomach built up and you could feel that familiar knot begin to tighten, threatening to release at any moment. Logan felt you clench around his cock and sensed your nearing orgasm. “Finish for me baby, wanna feel you cum around my cock,” he coaxed. His pleading words made you squirm beneath him, now not even sure what words were leaving your mouth.

With a deep, calculated thrust, you came undone around him. Your back arched up, tits pressing up against his firm chest. He continued his thrusts, praising you and brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Good girl, such a good fucking girl,” he said gingerly. “Look so pretty cumming around my cock.”

Your tightened grip around his cock as you came made him lose control of his steady pace, thrusts becoming quicker and more urgent. As you rode out your orgasm, he began to chase his. “Fuck, stay just like that,” he commanded while he worked towards his climax. Your body buzzed with overstimulation, but you took each thrust, eager to please. You thrust your hips up against his and he cursed, your compliancy sending him over the edge. “Where do you want-,”

“Inside. Cum inside of me.”

Logan moaned, the sound bordering on a whine as he spilled himself inside of you, each last thrust forcing his cum deeper inside of your pussy. You pulled his body down against yours, craving the closeness as he finished. With one final thrust, his cum dripping outside of you and down onto the bed, he let out a long groan and let his head collapse against your chest.

“That was the best anybody has ever fucked me.”

Your sudden, slurred words made Logan chuckle. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He placed a soft kiss in-between your breasts before pushing himself off the bed, going to grab a towel from his bathroom. He came back and parted your legs gently, cleaning you up with such care that made you wanna stay here, in his bed with him, forever. “Trust me, it can get better.” His eyes met yours from between your legs, still cleaning the mess the two of you had made. Your stomach fluttered. The insinuation that this was just the first time between you and him. That there would be more.

“I guess we’ll just have to see.”

Logan smiled at you before getting up once more to throw the towel into the bathroom and grab a shirt from his dresser. He crawled back into the bed next to you and lifted your arms up, sliding his shirt over your body. “Thanks,” you said softly, the fluttering feeling returning in your stomach.

“Course, Bub.” He pulled you into his arms as he laid down, nestling his head into the back of your neck.

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inky-duchess · 1 year ago

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Fantasy Guide to Ambassadors

How do different kingdoms negotiate when there aren't any phones or Microsoft Teams available? How can one government let another government how they feel? How can one monarch deliver an insult or compliment to another? Ambassadors, of course.

The Role of Ambassadors

Ambassadors are representatives of a government or monarchy who live in another country and communicates with their host nation on behalf of their own country. Ambassadors are there to make sure that their country's needs are met and that their host nation remains a friend - or at least they are there to remind the host nation of why it's a good idea to be friends.

Ambassadors tend to act as eyes and ears of their government/monarch, reporting back on all the goings on in the country they have been assigned. They can tell their boss the local tea, what the political climate of their host nation, who meets with the head of state and who doesn't. The Ambassador is there to pass on messages from their master and receive messages directly from the opposing head of state.

How to Ambassador Successfully & Not Start a War

The Ambassador must at all times be respectful toward their host nation. They must abide by their customs, behave themselves, act always in a professional manner and guard the information they handle with care and their lives. Ambassadors are welcomed into the country with a private audience with the head of state, wherein their references are accepted and their role is formally acknowledged. After this, they may only approach the government or monarch by appointment or after being summoned. Their boss would communicate their wishes and words to them and it would be up to the Ambassador to pass these things along, albeit more skillfully and more diplomatically.

The Perks of Being an Ambassador

Ambassadors can live at an official residence called an embassy like today or they can reside at court. They can take their families with them if they choose and are usually paid to establish a good sized household. Ambassadors are usually rewarded with honours and titles, if they are successful in their post or after a long posting. Ambassadors can also be awarded orders and honours by their host, along with places of honour for their family if they reside within them.

Ambassadors are usually welcomed and treated with great respect (if their country is an enemy, they are still treated well in hopes that things don't esculate). Ambassadors are invited to most important gatherings, included in the celebrations at court and spend much of their time at society events (i.e. intelligence gathering). Ambassadors can also get rich on their work, they could sell out their country's secrets to their host nation or even accept bribes to pass on false information to the boss.

The Downsides of Being an Ambassador

Ambassadors do have to leave their homeland for their job, this can mean a long posting away from family and from their own people. Ambassadors can be blamed for rifts or bungled international relations. They may even be accused of taking bribes or being corrupted. Ambassadors could also face being spied on, particularly in a nation that is hostile to their nation. Ambassadors can also be the target of violence from their country's enemies or the focus of emnity by the host nation itself. Very often in times of war of political turmoil, an Ambassador can be expelled from the country. When you're the symbol of a nation and you're in reach of enemies, you are in considerable danger (though it's not recommended to kill an ambassador, it's sort of against the rules).

Who can be an Ambassador?

Ambassadors are usually found amongst the nobility or within government. They are usually chosen by:

Pedigree: The better kind of person you send would mean a bigger compliment to the people the country want to make an ally. Sending a Duke would be a great compliment while sending a simple government official might be seen as an insult. To offer somebody high-ranking is to signal you trust the nation.

Skills: Communication skills are key. Knowledge of the languages and customs of the nation are required. Any ability for espionage, good social skills and a likeabilty would be recommended too.

Political Affiliation: Ambassadors are mouthpieces for their masters. It is generally smart to chose somebody who shares or endorses your view on politics. For example, you wouldn't send an Ambassador hungry for war to a nation you want to make peace with.

Loyalty and Uncorruptability: If you're picking somebody to speak for you and handle very sensitive information, you will chose somebody loyal to you and somebody you trust not to be led astray by the other nation or spies.

#Fantasy Guide to Ambassadors #Ambassadors #Writing ambassadors #Fantasy Guide #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #writers #writing advice writing resources #spilled ink #Writing reference writing resources #Writing resources writing reference #Writing help #Writing court politics #Royal court #royalty #Royals

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godihatethiswebsite · 2 months ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability.

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning.

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations.

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays.

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret.

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards.

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival.

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains.

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter?

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet.

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation.

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship.

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup.

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. “I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear.

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device.

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.”

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine.

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned.

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age.

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs.

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn.

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally.

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter.

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind.

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life.

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown.

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care.

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst.

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts.

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall.

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries.

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him.

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess.

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system.

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important.

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock.

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ‘getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart.

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions.

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame.

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness.

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it.

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once.

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left.

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react?

How did she react?

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?!

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

<< ✿ Previous ✿ <<

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jessamine-rose · 8 months ago

Text

⋆˚♱ଘ Requiem for the Damned ଓ♱˚⋆

*holds head in hands* Idk why Dottore keeps haunting me with writing inspo. And for this idea to manifest just before Holy Week….fuck it, I hope you all enjoy the blasphemous tale of Priest! Dottore x Demon! Darling _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):

Tw:: yandere, violence, death, religious abuse, dubcon, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion

♡ 2.7k words under the cut ♡

♡ Despite your status as a wandering demon, you have no place in human cognizance. Rather, you conceal yourself from mortal eyes in favor of close observations and whispered temptations. Humans, from your perspective, are interesting creatures—they are ambitious, easily influenced by spiritual beings, capable of both good and evil.

♡ And what better example than the one who summoned you on a starry night? Such rituals are not uncommon amongst heretics, but most only succeed in invoking the contempt of their fellow humans. And few would invoke your name, much less commit sacrilege within the walls of the Church.

♡ You sense danger immediately upon your appearance. Within the summoning circle, you take note of your sigil perfectly illustrated in blood against marble. Beyond it, what alarms you is not your sacred surroundings nor the fresh corpse mixed with your offerings of books and fruit. It is the figure standing over you, cloaked in moonlight, gazing at you with eyes the color of hellfire.

“My ritual is a success. Welcome to my humble church, o noble demon…or would you rather be addressed by your epithet? ______, Fallen Seraph, the Seeker of Forbidden Knowledge.”

♡ A glimpse into his soul is all it takes to strike fear into your heart. Within Hell, there are rumors of a small village in Sumeru. Its people are nothing of note, a congregation of simpletons whose lives revolve around the beliefs of their Church. The lone exception is the main priest, Father Zandik, better known as Il Dottore.

♡ The stories, passed through human voices, speak of a child ostracized for his unconventional beliefs and his interest in the macabre. Branded a madman, he was placed in the care of the Church elders who corrected his ways of thinking. Once he became of age, Zandik was given the choice to move out of the rectory or to remain as a priest; he chose the latter of his own volition.

♡ Since his ordination, Zandik has proved himself to be an exceptional priest. He educates the masses, reviews theological texts, performs exorcisms, and provides religious counsel for the doubtful. He even serves as the town’s doctor, fully gaining the acceptance of his community.

♡ The rumors don’t stop there. For Il Dottore earned his title by performing miracles. It is he who guides the people into religious ecstasy, he who cures the sick from mysterious curses, he who blesses the weak into “enhanced humans.” There are already whispers that once Dottore’s mortality catches up with him, he will surely be canonized as the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles.

♡ But spiritual beings such as yourself know the truth. That Dottore is neither a kind priest nor a devout believer, that his days in the Church only magnified his heretical inclinations. Disillusioned with God, Zandik decided to turn His religious sanctuary into his own laboratory, one where he could fulfill his lust for knowledge through a mask of holiness.

♡ He manipulates the people with false teachings. He triggers religious ecstasy with drugged incense. He singles out devotees to “test their faith” during the quiet hours of the Church. And what the town perceives as curses and miracles are actually scientific experiments in which Dottore plays god.

♡ It’s too late to escape. No matter your divine powers, nothing prepares you for Dottore’s traps. The incantations, the barrier of the summoning circle, an aura so holy yet sinister that it couldn’t possibly come from ordinary religious objects—all you can do is fall to your knees and beg for his mercy, all the while he watches you with a confident smile.

♡ His intentions are like that of any human: He summoned you to form a contract. In exchange for his soul, he demands your knowledge, your resources, your full servitude for so long as he roams the mortal plane. Your hesitation only triggers another wave of scorching pain, followed by panic as Dottore grips your horn and forces you to face him.

“Make no mistake, ______. The mere fact of your divinity does not make you indestructible. In exchange for your cooperation, you will bear witness to experiments of the same magnitude as God’s creations. What say you?”

♡ You have no other choice. And that is how, in the sanctity of the Church, you make a deal with the human named Zandik. Once the pact has been forged, Dottore admires the bright sigil on his chest, plucks a few feathers from your wings, and disables the summoning circle so you can leave. Thus begins your personal hell.

♡ It is easy for you to answer Dottore’s questions about the divine. The horror lies in assisting him in experiments, responding to his summons no matter the inconvenience, allowing him to extract your blood, tears, and feathers. No, what’s most humiliating is when he uses your body for his “research,” bending you over the altar and bringing you to physical ecstasy against your will.

♡ At this point, you don’t know who to pray to. One night, Dottore shows you a secret room in his laboratory. As soon as he lights the lamps, your eyes take in numerous bodies and skeletons of a different classification from his usual victims. The extra bones jutting from the scapulas, the amputated wings, the halos pinned to the walls, the holy aura you’d felt from his religious objects…instantly, Dottore’s powers make sense.

“This is my first specimen. She was my guardian angel…no, I jest. She was a mere messenger who implored me to repent for my sins. From her words, I deduced it had been within Heaven’s capacity to save me during my youth—and yet God only sent an angel to me after my first act of blasphemy.”

The angels…how many has he killed? Not even during your fall from Heaven did you feel such primal fear for your life. But you cannot scream—you have long been trained to resist fight and flight. All you can do is listen to Dottore’s explanation, watch as he approaches a pure white skeleton and wraps his hands around its fractured hyoid bone.

He gives you a calm smile. “Luckily, her body provided me with indispensable resources for my experiments and my procurement of her brethren. I believe her name was Sohreh.”

♡ Just when you think it can’t get any worse, Dottore points at the far corner of the room to reveal a space dedicated to demons. Four dead bodies, their causes of death vividly described. Horns, wings, and other body parts amputated in exchange for lives spared after exorcisms. And when Dottore returns to your side, tracing the wound from where he broke off your horn, you can only tremble and acquiesce to a checkup. It grows back fully by the end of the year.

♡ He has his moments of vulnerability, however. Perhaps it is due to your nature as a demon, a creature which represents evil, that Dottore does not hide his heart from you. Once, after his usual confessions—he always makes up trivial sins—he remains in the confessional until his fellow priest has left. Then he goes to the altar and summons you.

♡ What catches you off-guard is not his lack of greetings. Rather, it’s the way he pulls you close to his body, lips ghosting the curve of your ear. There, in the heart of the Church, he whispers to you every sin he has ever committed. Despite his normal tone of voice, his words have never betrayed a language so guiltless, so sincere, so human.

♡ He asks how much of his madness is to blame on the influence of demons, or if he had been born wicked. He asks if humans were truly given the mental faculties to withstand temptation regardless of their circumstances. He asks if the same can be said for spiritual beings, questioning why former angels like you were also created with the capacity to sin. He even asks if praying for a demon can offer them any hope of salvation.

♡ It takes you a while to answer his questions. It’s just like him to put your emotions in disarray, to make you feel pity for the very cause of your current suffering. Against your nature, you wonder if there is still a chance for Zandik, if he can somehow repent or find a way to save himself from your contract and all of his sins. Even if it is too late, He has always been more forgiving to humans than angels.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

“Do you know why I became a demon, Zandik?”

Your question is what prompts Zandik to pull away from you, though his touch lingers. His gaze, as always, is unfathomable; you can never discern what hides within those pools of crimson.

“No, I do not. Few demonological texts allude to your existence, and only the Lesser Key of Deshret cites your previous status as an angel of the highest ranking. I have made theories in relation to your epithets but I respect all possibilities. Now what would you, as the primary source, reveal to me?”

Now it is your turn to confess.

“Seraphim are the closest to God but for that reason, we are the most distant from His creations. Everything we know of the world is derived only from what He tells us, not our own insights. And so I defied His Word and ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, committing the same sin which condemned all of humanity.”

The tip of your upper wing brushes against Zandik’s face, while your middle wings encircle his body in a loose hug. As for your lower wings…they are nothing but twin scars covered in short feathers. After your descent, it seemed like a rational decision to chop them off, broken as they were. It helped that your wings had just outgrown their original purpose.

For once, you barely flinch at the sensation of his touch against your scars. Many times, Zandik has inquired about the loss of your lower wings and even asked if he could have them. They still remain in Hell, tucked away in a corner of your home, eyes forever closed.

It takes a few seconds for him to respond. “Do you ever regret your decision?”

You shrug. “It was difficult at first, naturally. Many of my eyes were blinded—yes, that is why I rarely open the ones on my wings—but those which still function have seen so many wonderful sights up-close. Neither must I cover my face with my remaining wings. And despite being what your kind and my former brethren would dub a monster…I’m happier now.”

“I see, I see.” His curiosity appears far from sated, however, a sentiment you can empathize with. “As I thought, God is incomprehensible. For Him to deny even His greatest creation of salvation…it confirms that there are limits to the forgiveness of that which humans call a ‘loving god.’ Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me.”

And just as quickly as he initiated his confession, Zandik steps out of your grasp and dismisses you. But you make no haste, silently watching him after you “leave.”

His expression is thoughtful. A gloved hand touches his chest, right above your sigil.

Such an interesting creature.

Honestly, you don’t know what to make of your feelings for this human. Much as you despise his cruel treatment towards you, he never fails to capture your interest with his experiments and philosophies. Whenever he speaks of God, you wonder if a small part of him still desires to be saved. But that will never be.

Zandik preaches salvation with the knowledge that he will never receive it. For the Church never taught him how to love.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

♡ Il Dottore never became the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles. Neither did he have a funeral mass befitting of a priest, nor a peaceful death from natural causes. Instead, he died young, laicized, once again denounced as a heretic by his community.

♡ You don’t know how his crimes were exposed, and why now. Perhaps it is God’s punishment for him, a blessing for his victims, or both. Either way, Dottore paid for his sins on a sunny day, burned at the stake before a disdainful crowd. Not long after his heart stopped beating, his belongings were thrown into the fire—research, tools, anything which carried his memory.

♡ You never left his side. After his last rites, led by an elderly bishop who condemned Zandik as he did in the past, you sat next to him and offered a final conversation. He didn’t express any fear nor sadness in regards to his imminent death, merely stating it a pity that his achievements could never be appreciated in his town.

♡ …He did ask if there is any chance of meeting again in Hell, but you reminded him that the punishment of sinners is out of your jurisdiction. Plus, it’s better that way—you have no desire to avenge yourself, and you’d rather not witness Zandik’s suffering for all eternity. You can only imagine the severity of his punishment, what more if he is assigned to one of the demons he exorcized.

♡ During his execution, you stood at the front of the crowd. You kept your eyes trained on him, for so long as his scarlet orbs remained open, whispering the prayers for the dead on his behalf. While a part of you felt liberated, another was mournful. You hope your last words to Zandik gave him solace in his final moments.

“Rest now, Zandik. God may never forgive your sins, but I shall.”

♡ And thus ends the life of Il Dottore. In the following days, the Church is purged of its holy, sinister aura, mainly because they discarded the religious objects tainted with angel remains. You continue your usual obligations as a wandering demon, but the humans you observe pale in comparison to your companion of many years.

♡ Not long after, you return to Hell for your other divine duties. As soon as you appear in your abode, however, something feels off. The sinister aura, the offering of books and fruit, your lower wings gone from their original place… The answer comes in the form of a hand grabbing you by the horn, pulling you backwards, twisting your body to meet a familiar gaze the color of hearth-fire. Only, this time, those eyes are brimming with pure joy, paired with a genuine smile.

♡ Apparently, Dottore’s soul did end up in Hell but not in the way you expected. In a proud voice, he explains that the Devil gave him a special fate. Whether it was due to vacant positions or everyone’s fear of the infamous “Demon-Killer,” you’ll never know. What Dottore does confirm is that as the demon bound to him via contract, you have to take responsibility and act as his companion in Hell.

“Rather than subject me to eternal suffering, the Devil believed that my talents would prove useful for the punishments of my fellow sinners. How wonderful is it for my achievements to be recognized in Hell? …Oh? I didn’t predict such a physical reaction from you. All of your eyes are wide open, and you seem to be on the verge of fainting.”

♡ You don’t know if you want to laugh or cry. To think your personal hell has been extended to eternity—are your sins enough to warrant such a fate?! But after confirming your misfortune, all you can do is sigh and tend to Zandik. He looks exactly the same, with the exception of a few burn scars on his body. And judging by the familiar black feathers on his person, he seems eager to discard his former religious attire along with his mask of faith.

♡ And when Zandik unfastens his scorched cassock, he takes your hand and places it on his unburned chest, right above your sigil. It glows vibrantly, brighter than any light you laid eyes on in Heaven. And beneath the flesh, you can feel his heart beating in sync with yours.

“Tell me, ______, do I still appear human to you?”

“You already know my answer to that question. But fine, I’ll admit it: Yes, you always have.”

♡

More Church AU here!! Capitano ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pantalone ๑ Pierro ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics who are not listed in my masterlist.

At long last, I am free from Priesttore…thank you to everyone. To my readers, to my fellow Dottore simps, to my mutuals who indulged my tortured DMs after midnight, to the artist whose fan art inspired this idea to begin with. May you all have a lovely day╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Tag a Dottore enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @mochinon-yah @diodellet @lcveaesop @oofasleep @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @boundinparchment @harmonysanreads @teabutmakeitazure @yandere-wishes @yanmaresu @nicebonescomrades @nimandu @lesanyanyas @moarar

#il dottore #dottore #dottore x reader #yandere dottore x reader #yandere dottore #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #tw: yandere #tw: dark #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: violence #tw: dubcon #spicy warning #mdni #g/n reader #jessamine-writing

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unholyhelbig · 11 months ago

Note

the oversight part 5? i love that series!

Title: The Oversight [Part 5/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Wordcount: 7589

Warnings: Blood, guns, general violence, empty threats, angst, and horrible grammar.

[A/n: Listen, I straight up just finished watching 'The Iron Claw' and if you value your ability to hold it together, I suggest not seeing it. But also... go see it because it's phenomenal. Oh, and Happy Holidays!, like with most things, I regret my direction on this.]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

Softly, you denied the small wooden bowl that was passed person to person, filled with numbers scribbled haplessly on strips of paper. There was a pit of guilt in your stomach for not bringing a white elephant gift- but as the honorary plus one of Darcy Lewis you succumbed to your fate. She’d drawn a middle grade number and sidled up next to you with her third vodka tonic.

You took a swallow of your own cranberry flavored drink, something that masked the sharp taste of alcohol. You were feeling fuzzy, but in the light way that would assure you’d get through the rest of party and the competitive game of gift swapping.

“Thanks for doing this,” Darcy said to you, nudging your shoulder “it was a little too fancy for my liking.”

She had stressed that she needed your presence to get through all the small talk about science. Darcy was an expert engineer but she could only go so far when it came to awkward co-workers murmuring amongst the twinkling Christmas lights and pre-paid meals. She got along well with most, but you could sense her anxiety well.

“Of course, you know I’d never turn down smoked salmon.”

Truthfully, it sounded a lot better than what your own work was planning. It took some quiet background checks and calling babysitting references, but you eventually conceded to a teenage girl that was certified in CPR and didn’t charge interest.

Your own holiday celebration at the Diner had been lackluster and consisted of much more alcohol. This was quiet and subdued, and a welcome break from the usual chaos that surrounded your life. You were more than happy to watch people tear paper from candles and blankets and ornaments.

“How much money do you want to put on Jimmy bringing some sort of magic kit?”

You hadn’t noticed the girl that hugged the side of the bar, waving down the bartender wordlessly. She was drinking something sweet and garnished with orange. She had a beautiful smile and the clearest eyes you had ever seen. Darcy smiled at her with familiarity and it eased you.

“I don’t bet on things I’m going to lose.” Darcy said with finality. “Y/n, this is Monica Rambeau.”

“It’s nice to meet you,”

Her grip was firm, and you squeezed her hand back with the same amount of pressure. Her smile widened at that before the bartender returned with a fresh drink garnished with another twirled orange peel. The two of you separated.

“So, Monica, what do you do?”

Something in science, the answer was obvious if she was at this holiday party. But she humored you all the same, turning her back to the counter and leaning close to you. There was pride in her answer, and it bloomed in her chest.

“I’m a mechanical engineer, specializing in astrophysics and astrobiology.”

“Don’t’ sell yourself short.” Darcy interjected with a watery laugh “She’s the head of our S.W.O.R.D division.”

Darcy had spoken about this before and the name rang familiar. Her company was looking at alternative fuel sources that could supply space exploration. All the while, they focused on vertical growing and bettering the community. From what you understood, this was a big deal. She was a big deal.

“Wow, that’s very impressive Ms. Rambeau”

Your voice was filled with genuine awe, but your conversation was cut short when the number sixteen was called out. Monica sheepishly pulled herself away from the bar and held her strip of paper up before approaching the table filled with wrapped gifts. She went for a medium-sized one adorned in reindeer.

“Oh wow!” She forced a smile, voice sweet like honey “A magic kit!”

The air in your room was stale and fought you as you pulled it into your lungs. You’d, at some point, kicked off your comforter and were splayed out on your sheets in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and an oversized shirt. Sweat hat soaked through both and the fabric clung to your skin.

On a blind instinct you grabbed at the gun under your nightstand, fastened by nothing more than duct tape. You could feel your heart in your throat and struggled to swallow it down again. You weren’t sure when this became second nature for you, something within the last two months of accompanying Natasha to the gun range for hours a time.

All the same, you held the tip of the weapon to the ground and rounded the corner of your bedroom into the dark hallway. You were unsettled from the dream you’d just had. The memory. Your subconscious had finally connected the woman who stood at Carol’s side. Her familiarity.

Monica Rambeau.

It was true, there was a stark coldness to her when you’d met at a Christmas party just the year before. It was only in passing and there were moments, like at the fair, when Darcy would mention her co-worker.

This changed things. Anxiety spiked haplessly, even as you diligently searched and cleared each room the way you had been taught. Keep your gun down, keep your eyes on the darkest corners of the room, ready to fire your weapon at any point. Especially if it was aimed at Natasha.

There was the slight movement of a shadow to your left and you quickly raised the gun, aiming it directly at the disturbance. Veronica stood on a chair in the kitchen, struggling to fill a glass with warm water, the only temperature that the faucet would allow.

You let out a quiet, mortified sigh before tucking the weapon into the waistband of your shorts. Your daughter blinked with wide eyes and that same guilty feeling flooded you at once, overtaking the anxiety.

“Baby,” You breathed, closing the distance between you and flicking on the overhead lights. You both flinched at their harshness but eventually blinked the shock away. “What are you doing up?”

You didn’t expect an answer, nor did you get one. Instead, you scooped her up under her arms and set her gently on the linoleum. There was water in the fridge, but she always had issues pouring it from the large jug. Ronnie was stubborn and shot you a frown at your intrusion.

“Don’t give me that look, kid.”

Her expression eased and you dumped the water down the drain before refilling the glass with something colder and more refreshing. Ronnie gulped it down eagerly, soaking the collar of her shirt with the liquid. She let out an appeased noise and wiped the rest of the water away from her mouth. She stood on her tip-toes and placed the glass in the sink.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh? Me either.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She blinked tiredly at you, your heart melting at the sight. It was easy to remember the words Natasha had trusted you with on the Ferris Wheel. Veronica would talk when she wanted to, but you had become quite good at reading her expressions and movements. Within the last month, you had stopped the long drives and the specialists. It eased you both.

“How about a sleepover?”

The exhaustion turned into joy and then combined within her look. You couldn’t help but chuckle as you scooped her up. She was getting too big for this, but you didn’t much care. You’d gotten stronger in the last few months and even if you hadn’t, you’d do the same.

With a show of dramatics you tossed her onto the bed and replaced the duvet that you’d flung off. Carefully, as Ronnie’s stare averted, you placed the gun in the drawer next to your bed. The last thing you did was prop the window open, letting out the flat air and letting in the sound of the city.

Ronnie was pulled flush against your chest in a matter of moments, though you had suddenly lost all exhaustion. You listened to the sirens, to the calls of people just ending their nights. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the horns of the boats that settled into the harbor.

“I love you so much.” You whispered into the small of her neck, “One day I’m going to get us out of here.”

Veronica didn’t respond, but the squeeze her little hand gave yours was all the reassurance that you needed.

Clint swallowed down steaming black coffee without blowing on it to cool it down. The nutty scent filled the cab of the car and warmed your nerves. He drank like your daughter did, but with the purpose of waking himself up before the sun. You never did get back to sleep and were wired enough to refuse the cup he offered you this morning.

He’d knocked on your door as the orange sun moved over the horizon. You were to accompany him to the docks to check on business. This somehow seemed less intimidating than the dinner you’d attended with Natasha.

“It’ll be easy. We have a chokehold on the harbor, we just have to check with a few of the vendors to collect their dock rent and call it a day. Everything else is done under the table. People aren’t too happy because at the end of the day, we’re the ones that take money from them. But it’s a necessary evil.”

You nodded and watched as the city went by. It was peaceful, quiet. There had been a single foster home that you stayed in that had a view of the entire skyline. You were too far away to see the bustling people and the everyday chaos that accompanied it.

There were, of course, moments of calm when you would work the early morning shift at the diner. But that would always shatter by the time you made the two minute walk from your apartment to the back door that was choked with the scent of garbage and cheap cigarettes.

“We have some invitations to hand out too. In the glovebox.”

You furrowed your brow and popped it open. His weapon (or his second, or third) sat upon a stack of manilla cards with elegant writing on them that had to be done by hand. You inspected them but didn’t’ dare separate the paper.

“What are these for?”

“Nat throws a party for her benefactors every single year. It’s real fancy, a suit and tie thing. Her renters are invited too and if they have the balls to show up, they always have a good time. She makes sure of it.”

“We’re expected to attend?”

He nodded, “It’s a requirement, really. As Natasha’s right hand. You go where she goes and once your probationary period is over, you’ll be on her like glue. Though, I don’t think that’ll be much of a problem.”

You frowned at his statement, his insinuation. Sure, you had gotten close to Natasha, had even grown to like her. She had a way of getting under your skin until it felt like she lived in it. Otherwise, you would have cut your losses long ago and let her slit your throat the first moment she met you.

There was a feeling of devotion that you felt the need to uphold. She had spared your life, after all. You’d spent the last two and a half months with her guiding you, teaching you how to obey her every word. Without fault, you would. Clint knew it, Kate and Yelena knew it. You knew it.

Instead of admitting it, you frowned and slumped further in your seat, struggling to ignore Clint’s own shit-eating expression. By the time he pulled to a stop, it had started to drizzle enough for him to flick his wipers on. The sound of them scraping against the window filled the silence.

You took careful attention to stay quiet and observe. Your gun was strapped carefully to your side and the invitations rested in your side pocket. You didn’t dare get them wet and let the ink run in a soupy mess. It had been years since you’d been out here and part of you was unsteady on the aged and slick wood.

“Sam is a cool guy. His family has hold on a good portion of the harbor. He likes to joke, so don’t pay him any mind.” Clint jabbed you with his elbow. “And loosen up a little bit, would you?”

You glowered at him and rubbed the stiff spot on your ribs but felt your shoulders lower a bit. There was a lot of weight behind this, that had been made clear to you the second you were inducted into this system.

Instead of heading directly down the long stretches of worn dock, Clint took a turn just before the asphalt ended. A small structure that looked less weathered than the rest of your surroundings rested at the lots end. The windows were thick enough to withstand the watery winds.

Clint stilled his large hand shooting out across your chest. It took you a few seconds to clock the shattered glass on the front door. Small smears of crimson pocked the shards that remained. Much like the evening before, you drew your gun on instinct, and Clint did the same.

He didn’t take care to hide your presence. Instead, he took the brunt of his large boot and cracked through the doorframe with the force of one kick. Wood splintered, raining down on linoleum and a desk that was easily from the 70’s.

You could smell the blood before you saw it, nearly sliding on the flooring. You caught yourself before that happened, heart pounding in your ears. “Fuck!”

“Jesus Christ,” Clint mirrored your sentiments.

Whoever had been here was long gone, but they’d left quite the mess. They’d torn through the filing cabinets, leaving legal papers and folders scattered against the desk and the expanse of cabin space.

You tracked the source of the pooling blood with little difficulty. A man- one that you had rightly never seen before- was laying on his back, facing the ceiling. From edge to edge of his throat was a long cut leaking an ugly red color. His stare was frosty, soaked into his sweatshirt.

It was like a car crash, something that you struggled to avert your eyes from until Clint physically grasped your chin and turned your attention to him. “Hey, you alright?”

“Yeah, yes. Good.” You answered cooly, swallowing whatever dryness was in your throat. “Who would do something like this?”

“Carol… one of her lackeys. This is an eye for an eye thing.”

Even if it was an act of revenge, this was extensive. It sent a clear message even if you didn’t’ exactly know all the specifics of the feud. Of course, you’d seen Yelena at work and even that was mild compared to the brutality of this.

The thought of Monica, if it even had been her, completing a task as unfeeling as this filled your veins with ice. You felt your nails dig into your palms, soft and stinging. There was a surge of anger, and sadness that mixed into resolution. Natasha was right to despise the Danver’s family. Any family that treated the world with this much cruelty.

Natasha was in the gym on the second floor. Large windows overlooked the backyard, and a prolonged view of the harbor. There were blue mats adorning the floor, and a few wracks meant for weightlifting.

You had never seen this part of the house before. Usually the weather permitted sparring outside, but the late summer rain had made that impossible. Sheets of water obscured your usual view, though, it wasn’t exactly trained on the windows.

Natasha had her back facing you, her breathing timed evenly with each punch she threw at an 80-pound bag filled with sand. She wore tight-fitting shorts and a sports bra that left little to the imagination. Not that you had imagined her in that situation before.

Her muscles tightened and relaxed with each movement. They were scarred in a deep orchid pink, long ago healed. At one point, she was lashed. You recognized the damage done by a leather belt and shivered at the memory of it.

Natasha was fit, she was coated in a layer of sweat that dripped across her strength. You had to be clear minded for this and the state of her wasn’t making it easy on you. Her knuckles were wrapped, and she would grunt with each thrust of her fist. For just a moment, you wished you were under her mercy instead of the punching bag.

That broke when she panted against the bag, stopping its swinging with a firm grasp on either side. “Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

Natasha had focused her green eyes on you through the reflection of the window. Of course, you hadn’t intended to gawk as long as you had. But you were leaning against the doorframe of the gym, practically drooling. You had forgotten yourself and you wouldn’t’ put it past Natasha to notice.

She turned to you, a wolfish smile on her face. “Take your jacket off. Holster too.”

You struggled to ignore the haughty expression on her face when you did exactly what she said without question, almost too eagerly, depositing them on the edge of the mat. You pushed your shoes off too, knowing not to track mud on any of Natasha’s carpets.

Her eyebrow lifted at the action. She’d moved closer during your actions, and you’d nearly run into her before noticing. Her presence was intoxicating. All-consuming.

“You’re here to tell me something,” She proclaimed “you’ve got that adorable look on your face. It’s good to know someone in this house still fears me.”

She was joking and it tugged at your heart to send that mood down to the ground before lighting it on fire. You’d expected her to be in poorer spirits after Clint had called her and let her know what had happened at the harbor. Instead, she responded in her same calculated coolness that she regarded you with now.

There was nothing about her demeanor that eased you, and suddenly, it felt like you were being scolded for a decision you had made. Even more so when she grasped your chin and forced you to look at her.

“That woman with Carol from the other night. I know her. Briefly.”

“Briefly?”

“As in, I met her at a Christmas party a few years back and… left with her.”

Natasha’s grip tightened against your chin, her thumb digging into your jaw. There was too much alcohol flowing that night and after making stinted conversation about how to disconnect two metal rings smoothly, the two of you went back to her apartment.

Before the sun came up, you left. There was shame in it, and the walk back to your own apartment punctuated with Darcy’s scolding was enough to make you forget the encounter altogether. It was one night- a fun night, but singular all the same.

Natasha let out a small noise of disapproval that sunk straight to your core. “Is that so?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Does she remember you?”

“It… didn’t seem like it.”

Her eyes narrowed, nose a short distance from your own. You could feel the hotness of her breath against your throat. How you had disappointed her. That much was clear from the lack of tenderness in her grasp. She eventually released you, trailing her fingers down the expanse of your neck.

She played with the small charm of your necklace, nothing more than a dainty gold chain with the tiniest whisper of a diamond in the center. Your skin prickled at the sensation, breath audibly catching as she worked her fingers over the length of chain.

“Well, I suppose this could be a problem. Especially with Carols violent behavior lately.”

Natasha sighed dramatically, and within an instant her nimble hand had tightened around your throat. She walked you the three steps backwards to the nearest wall. The small of your back landed with a heady thud and you used the last of your available breath to grunt out in protest.

Of course, you had seen her angry before, but it was never directed at you. Not like this. She wasn’t squeezing tight enough to injure you, not really. But the shock of the movement had made you think she would end you all the same.

“You should have come to me right away, pet.” Her grasp tightened; words growled. “And here I thought you were such a good, obedient, girl.”

Her words filled you with an immense shame for letting her down. Over the past few months, it had become impossible to be anything but perfect for Natasha Romanoff. The fact that you hadn’t connected the dots sooner was disillusioning.

The grip against your throat loosened ever so slightly as she leaned closer, her lips nearly ghosting your own. You could barely taste her, a strangled whimper escaping you. She pressed her body close. It was warm and overwhelming.

“I expect you to handle this on your own if it becomes a problem, darling.”

Before you could close the distance, Natasha pulled away from you entirely. It left you panting against the wall, wanting for something more. She knew exactly what she was doing. You craved her more than anything, and she had brought you so close to something you both wanted before denying it altogether.

Natasha sauntered, actually sauntered, across the gym and grabbed a towel from a nearby bench. She regarded you with flushed cheeks, her eyebrow raised as if nothing had just happened and you supposed that nothing did.

“Clint has told you about the party?” It took a few seconds before you found your voice, after her gentle urgings “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes ma’am. He did.”

She reached for a water bottle, exchanging it’s spot on the bench for the towel. She takes three hungry swallows, and you watched the way her throat moved in response to the water. Each of her movements seemed deliberate, nearly calculated to get a reaction out of you.

“Perfect. Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours about what to wear. I’ll lay a dress out in your room.”

“My room?” Your words were squeaked.

There was a short hum in response as she gulped down another helping of water before setting it down entirely. That anger had ebbed away from her almost entirely. The fire that had been within her eyes excited you, and despite yourself, so did her demands.

“You’re so skittish. Come here. We need to work on your lead hook.”

Natasha didn’t offer to wrap your knuckles, nor did you ask. Instead, you leaned into the bag, letting the course material cut into your knuckles with a welcoming sting.

There was great thought put into any Romanoff party that was thrown. Lights were wrapped around the banister, and caterers walked through the teems of people with unwavering silver trays of finger food that cost more than your old salary for a number of months.

Back storm doors were opened to the pool, lit up and buzzing with an equal amount of people. Natasha had hired a piano player who haplessly pressed down on keys and drew a small crowd with each song that would crescendo into the dining room.

The overlapping theme was a dark forest green that reminded you much of the paint color slathered on Natasha’s bedroom walls. Something you hadn’t seen in months, but remembered so fondly. It was clear that she wanted to present a united force, something strong and unwavering in their power.

Clint was dawned with a finely pressed suit and a deep green tie that matched the shade of Kate’s dress to the very hue. She wore something silk and modest, reaching down to her heeled feet but leaving her muscular arms entirely bare.

Yelena stunned in a dress of her own, a crushed sage velvet that had a dipping neckline and sleeves that met at her wrist. By the confidence of her stride, you had no trouble believing she had chosen the outfit with the thought of how many weapons she could conceal. Her devilish smile only confirmed your thoughts.

As of you, Natasha had picked out something a little more revealing. Much like the maroon number she wore to dinner the other night, the dress she chose for you hugged every inch of your body. Its fern color complimented your complexion, bringing out the redness of your cheeks.

A slit moved from the base of your dress to the middle of your thigh. A halter neckline clung to your breasts, nearly pushing them up and out. It had been years, high school prom, since you’d worn something even close to this. You felt your shoulders flush red when you descended the stairs and struggled to blend in.

Natasha was sidled up by the mantel in deep conversation with someone who was a stranger to you. Most of the people here were. Though, their hands gave way to their high-ranking positions in the city. Few had callouses or oil stains.

She was in a three-piece suit that was color matched to your own outfit down to the shade. There were gold accents on her jewelry and the neckline of her waistcoat dipped down the tanned expanse of her skin.

Kate let out a low whistle in response to your entrance as she offered you a hand at the base of the stairs. You’d almost missed the last one due to your shameless gawking at the woman of the party. “Quite the looker, y/n. Natasha chose this?”

“Naturally,”

She chuckled softly, a small sound “Nothing if not calculating. Do you know how to socialize at one of these things?”

“Mm, as the caterer, yes.”

This seemed to amuse her more than you’d like. Katherine Elizabeth Bishop was a name that you had reluctantly googled early on in your employment. She had grown up wealthy and well acquainted with gatherings such as these. Of course, that was before her mother wound up incarcerated for white-collar crimes. The skills seemed to benefit her here, however.

Kate did everything with practiced fluidity that you envied. She plucked two champagne glasses from a nearby tray. “Only one of these, nurse it like your life depends on it. That way they won’t keep trying to shove alcohol into your hands. This is work, after all.”

You followed her lead and took a small sip of the bubbling, sour liquid. It was more expensive than anything you had ever had before and far-from-palatable. It wouldn’t be had to keep the drinking at bay.

“The man that Yelena is schmoozing over there is Billy Russo. Jigsaw. He’s in charge of the lower quarter. The Romanoff’s and the Russo’s have a cordial relationship and Yelena is much more feared than him.”

“Why do they call him jigsaw?” You whispered.

“He tends to chop people into pieces until they’re impossible to put back together. And that’s if you find all the missing parts. He has a very nice summer home up in the Poconos, so don’t get on his bad side.”

Suddenly the drink in your hand didn’t look too bad, but you held it right where it was. Clint was laughing by the window, obviously pushing his charm on a woman that you had never clocked before. She was running her fingers up his tie, tightening it before letting her hands drop.

“Barton is with Ophelia Sarkissian, the Viper. She is known for her cunning leadership. She’s got a huge organization in Hell’s Kitchen. Something called Hydra. I wouldn’t worry too much about it though because Natasha is keeping a tight eye on it.”

“Mm, cut one head off, two more grow back.”

“What?”

“Greek mythology. Hydra is a big water snake that has nine heads. Each time one was cut off two more would grow back in its place. It was practically unkillable until Hercules came through the marshes with his nephew. Hercules would slice each head off while Iolaus cauterized the wounds so the heads couldn’t grow back.”

Kate blinked at you with shock in her eyes. You simply gave her a shrug in return. People constantly underestimated you and your intelligence. Besides, when you were a child, you had a morbid fascination with Greek mythology as a whole.

She stared beyond your shoulder, lilting her head to the side.

“I didn’t realize that Natasha’s new plaything was so knowledgeable.”

Ice ran thorough your veins. Your eyes darted to the window where Clint and Mrs. Sarkissian had once been. It was vacant now, and an expertly painted hand drummed past your arm. They were sharp and sent chills down your spine as she rounded you, sidling up next to Kate.

“Trust fund kid, leave us.”

Kate drew in a sharp breath, straightening her shoulders. She nearly opened her mouth to stay something but thought better of it before shooting you a look of apology and vanishing into the crowd in the dining room.

Ophelia was intoxicating in her presence. She towered over you and wore snakeskin heels to widen the distance. She wore a tight-fitted black dress that had cuts on either side, exposing her toned stomach to the world. What she wanted with you wasn’t clear, but her hand toyed coyly with the neckline of your own dress, adjusting it.

“Word travels fast in this city. I just couldn’t wait to see it myself. Hearing that Natasha Romanoff of all people expelled her Winter soldier for a… Summer Sentient. All seasons are temporary, I suppose.”

“Expelled?”

The word had slipped from your tongue, and you quickly thought better of it when she settled her splayed hand against your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. It was cold, unfeeling. Unlike the fire that Natasha had instilled in you earlier.

There was a demonic smile that spread across her face, both of her eyebrows lifting as she let out an exaggerated grasp. It was clear that this woman, this leader, couldn’t keep her hands to herself in any manner, including the internal affairs that she dangled in front of you like a prize.

“Oh, did Natty not tell you? She had Bucky under her thumb for years, nearly a decade. A few months back, he was just gone. There’s a lot of gossip in these streets and not much of it is plausible, but I’d put money on this one.”

Again, her fingers danced over your collarbone. “Miss Romanoff is not known for her mercy, but after beating the Winter Soldier within an inch of his life, she let him go. He ran like any sensible man would, of course. But he left a trail of blood behind him. I’m quite sure he’s somewhere out west struggling to move in an upper body brace.”

She laughed cruelly at the look on your face. There was no use in masking it. You knew that Bucky had been absent, but through your own turmoil you had forgotten all about it. Your stomach twisted in unease. What if Natasha grew tired of you? It was inevitable, really. You’ only prolonged your fate by bending to her whim.

“Ophelia,” Natasha’s voice drew your attention first, and then the heat of her touch on the small of your back. “Have you tried the lamb?”

The woman faltered, gritting her teeth “I was about to.”

“Oh, you must.” Yelena seemed to materialize out of nowhere, looping her arm around Madame Hydra herself. She pulled with intent. “I haven’t seen you since Moscow. We need to catch up!”

“I was never in Moscow.”

“That’s a shame. I can paint you a brilliant picture.”

Their voices faded away into the rest of the party. It was then that you noticed Clint by the door, his stance stiffened. Kate glowered next to him, not following her own rule and downing the rest of her drink before plucking another off the passing tray.

You stepped out of Natasha’s grasp, not wanting to be anywhere near her at the moment. Her perfume was intoxicating. Its floral scent made you dizzy and took away your ability to think straight. It was part of the reason you had been lulled this far into complicity. It scared you that you were willing to do anything for her.

“y/n,” she urged.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Natasha’s stare hardened. She gripped the back of your neck in a movement that would otherwise be familiar, sweet, even. However, the way she led you down the hallway made your stomach drop in a feeling of doom. “Not here, Malen'kiy krolik.”

Natasha’s office was strictly off limits, but you found yourself in the warmth of it in a matter of moments. There was no wall that wasn’t adorned with floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a large cherrywood desk was at its head. It was kept neat like the rest of the house.

There was a PHD on the wall, and an associates under that. Each bore Natasha’s name. She closed the doors behind her. Without regarding you, she went to a shelf in the back of the room, pouring herself a glass of bourbon, much like the one she was drinking when you stirred in her bed.

She swallowed it back, before pouring another. This time she sipped it. Your own back was against the far wall, heart pounding mercilessly through you. Yelling at Natasha had a lot more weight behind it than you anticipated.

“You’re going to do the same to me.” You eventually whispered.

Her body stiffened, muscles tightening and then releasing before she turned to you, her eyes reddened. “What?”

“I’ve been entirely blind to my purpose here. I’ve never… I’ve never understood why you chose me. Why not go for someone who knows what they were doing? Who knew how to protect you and care for you? You had that with Bucky.”

Her eyes hardened. “Don’t you ever mention that name in this house.”

“It’s the truth, Natasha! You could have let me die, just like that, and you didn’t. Instead, you took me in and trained me, and for what? Just to throw me into the harbor with cement blocks chained to my ankles.”

“That is an entirely outdated practice and frankly, it’s insulting.” Her words were soul deep, but they barely broke your skin. “I would never do that.”

“A bullet through the head, then?”

“No.”

You were gaining traction enough to pull yourself from the wall and take heady steps towards her. If you didn’t do it now, you would never. Part of you was certain that you’d never see the outside of this room again. That she’d snap and do exactly what you were imploring her to.

“He served you for years and within a singular night you nearly kill him.” Your breath shook, you were so close to her now. “What is stopping you from doing the exact same to me?”

“No, no” She reached up and grasped both sides of your face. There were tears against your cheeks, something you hadn’t realized dripped from your chin. “Malyshka, no don’t cry.”

Everything had come to a head; the months of non-stop training, the pressure of keeping this side of your life away from your daughter, away from Darcy. A true friend that you had been lying to. And now, knowing that it could be all for nothing. It was easy to dispose of someone like you.

There was no reason to show weakness in front of the woman who was training you not to feel anything at all. Above everything, you found yourself ashamed. She still held your face within her grasp.

“He hurt you.” Her jaw clenched and unclenched, there was a fuzzy vulnerability in her green stare. “I can show mercy, y/n. But I’ve learned, not when it comes to you. Even before all of… this, there was something that I saw within you. Something that made what I did to Bucky all the more worth it.”

You breathed in a watery sniffing sound that was replaced by nothing but a whimper. Natasha softened even more, letting her shoulders fall. She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“He was pulling back for months, and you were the final straw. I had never seen someone so resilient, someone who didn’t beg for their life but recounted it. In a moment of weakness, I let you go. I thought that training you, that making you mine, would absolve my sins but it’s only deepened them. My feelings for you have only deepened.”

Her forehead was pressed against yours, her ministrations, and God help you, her apologies were startling. Her lips were so close to yours; you could nearly taste the liquor on her breath “Natasha,”

Suddenly, she was all you could feel. Her hand was against you back, pulling you into her body to fit directly on hers. There was such a strong guiding power to her. Your shock was muffled by her mouth on yours, your whine swallowed in moments.

You melted into her, kissing back with enough fever to leave you both breathless. There were stars dancing in your vision, you lungs burning eventually pulling you both apart. She panted twice before pecking your lips once more, you nearly chased after her.

“Fuck,” she growled “you… are absolutely delicious.”

Your cheeks suddenly heated up and you hid your face in the small of her neck, letting out a small groan in embarrassment. You felt Natasha’s laugh rumble through her.

“No need to be timid, pet. There will be plenty of time for that later.” She raked her nails up your back, “Right now, I have a snake to behead.”

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife]

#Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x you #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanoff #Natasha romanov #Natasha Romanov x reader #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Marvel #Marvel Au #Mafia au #Kate Bishop #Yelena Belova #Clint Barton #bucky barnes

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greenandsorrow · 5 months ago

Note

I'm really curious about how you think Alastor would handle a deaf sinner (revenge plot gone horribly wrong). The reader is staying at the hotel.. actually, it'll probably be challenging for everyone! Reader (f/gn) can read lips fairly well, but when Alastor does the whole "face made for radio," shtick his mouth doesn't move.. can't be threatened if you dont know what's said. It looks weird, though! Reader uses a phone to communicate mostly due to convenience, doesn't use signs because deafness comes as a bonus with death, also carries a pen but rarely paper so ends up writing notes on arms. Habits that linger from life are low self esteem covered masterfully with sass and sarcasm, humming and singing to themselves, remembering perfect pitches and how they felt to sing, can also match pitch by matching a vibration and drumming or tapping hands when needing to focus or is anxious.

Platonic relationships all round, not looking for romance here, just a place to belong for a bit, familial/sibling ribbing and sass!

I'm sorry in advance if it is a lot, but you do ask for details!

"This face was made for radio."

The Hazbins with a deaf!sinner!reader

You'll never forget the day you landed in Pentagram City. The world around you on mute... It will always stay carved in your memory... the way you had screamed until your throat ached and then had come to the conclusion that even though your voice worked fine, your ability to hear hadn't come with you to the afterlife.

Your sass did save you on multiple occasions that your lack of hearing left you with double the insecurity you carried from your days on Earth. The good news is that, eventually, you learnt to read lips and use your phone to communicate, making your afterlife a bit safer and easier.

However, some -Charlie- would say that your biggest achievement is willingly asking for residence at the "Happy Hotel"! It was a welcoming change to the constant battle of survival, that the streets of the City of the Damned are.

You have your own room and belongings. You have access to food and even made... friends. With your little notepad and pen you scribble your thoughts and answers when interacting with them. In all honesty, you like your new neighbours more than you ever thought you would.

And the feeling is mutual amongst y'all.

You enjoy how Charlie is always putting on a show and how she sings more than she talks. Not only that, but she makes sure to let you know how impressive it is that you can match the rhythm of her songs, by tapping your fingernails on your notepad.

Vaggie makes an effort so you're always safe and that was before you even got close. She's a bit overprotective in your opinion, but then again... kindness in Hell is scarce and more than appreciated.

Seriously though, you're not handicapped, but it's no use explaining it to her.

Even the famous Angel Dust speaks slower when addressing you. Just like Vaggie, he's protective of you. It's rare for Angel to try to not make a fellow sinner uncomfortable.

In a way, the spider demon has adopted you and Niffty, concerning himself with your wellbeing. You want something but don't have your pen on you? He's willing to play pantomime just to make sure he can provide it to you.

And then there's Husk. The bartender is surprisingly gentle when it comes to you. Caution mixed with fondness. He doesn't mind that you speak too loudly in the rare occasions you use your voice. He doesn't mind having to wait for you to write down your jokes. He actually enjoys your company more than he lets on.

Just a detail, you became part of the crew around the same time Sir Pentious did. Consequently, in the beginning you two kind of stuck together, both seen as newbies.

You're so grateful for how he still washes your arms from the ink of your trusty pen.

To put it into a few words, all families are colorful and yours is no exception. Dysfunctions, disagreements and some sappiness are all part of your every day life. But the Hazbin Hotel has become your home and that's all that matters.

Noticed how I overlooked a very special sinner??

Yep. That's right. Alastor.

The radio demon didn't pay you much attention when you first moved in. You have come to the conclusion that your lack of hearing just underwhelmed him.

He's the radio demon. Sound is his weapon and you're immune to it.

Obviously, his animated personality didn't go unnoticed to your observant eyes. Still, the old radio effect of his voice, the static he produces and all those flamboyant aspects of him are thrown out of the window when it comes to you.

He can't intimidate you. Not that he's tried. Not yet.

You have kept to yourself and maybe even subconsciously avoided him during your settlement in the hotel. It's not out of fear. But what fun is a fellow sinner that speaks more than he moves his mouth? Thank Lucifer he's expressive, otherwise he'd be muter to you than you're to yourself.

And that permanent grin doesn't help either. You've discreetly been relying on his shadow's expressions to make out what's going on in his antlered head.

Today is no different.

He's just stranding there. Black cane, an ignorant and simultaneously arrogant aura, the same infuriating smile and Pentious's egg-bois around him.

Meanwhile, you're sitting in the lounge, inspecting a very 2000's looking camera. It's a way to kill time, watching your surroundings through the lens. At some point the camera lands on Alastor's figure.

It immediately starts glitching.

You burrow your eyebrows in confusion. When you look again, Alastor isn't where he was a few seconds ago.

You sigh.

"What do you think you're doing there, dear?"

Silence. No reaction. You keep looking through the camera at the place Alastor occupied just a few moments ago.

Alastor narrows his eyes. He's standing almost next to you.

But of course you didn't hear him.

The intensified static in his voice... wasted.

He clears his throat loudly, but to no avail.

Eventually, he gives in and taps your shoulder. You blink, lowering the camera to your lap and looking up at him, head slightly tilted.

Taking in your expression, Alastor secretly enjoys the animated scrunch of your brows, a clear indication of confusion.

He's not saying anything, so you shrug to yourself and absentmindedly focus the camera on him once more.

Alastor's eyes narrow with a sadistic glee as the camera suddenly breaks, fume coming out of it, the lens now cracked. You drop it, a bit startled but not on the degree he was hoping.

You don't bother standing up but you do glare at him in exasperation.

"Well, well... Aren't you a brave one?"

Finally! Something you can make out coming from his razor sharp jaws.

You pop the lid off your pen, but before you have time to write "What's that supposed to mean?" on your arm, he has already dimmed the lights and leaned down so he's at eye level with you.

"Let me tell you something while we're at it."

His neck bends unnaturally and his eyes turn black. It's not exactly a sight to enjoy, but it doesn't matter since you're too focused on trying to read his lips.

"This face was made f......"

For?

For what?

What could it have been made for?

His mouth stopped pronouncing the words before the sentence was finished, so it's not your fault that you're chuckling now.

Alastor's chest literally deflates at your reaction.

His ears droop.

It wasn't even full on laughter but his pride took a big hit.

While he's frozen in shock at your lack of fear, you finally scribble down at the back of your hand "Was made for what?"

You extend your hand for him to read with an apologetic gaze. He does look kind of wounded.

Alastor takes in your words and accepts that you didn't laugh at him on purpose. Not to humiliate him at least.

Placing a gloved finger under your chin, he makes you look at his face before speaking slowly, moving his lips almost comically.

"This face was made for ra- di- o."

You let out an "oh" of realization.

Your eyes have a new light of interest in them as you write down your answer.

"I used to listen to that, when I was alive."

"Mhm, that's a pleasant piece of information my dear!"

From that day on, every time before he broadcasts, he makes sure to give you his notes to read, even making them more elaborate just for you.

For him, the only downside of your loss of hearing is not being able to enjoy his radio show.

At least you now get along.

Hazbin Hotel masterlist ❤️

Tips are highly appreciated! (PayPal)

Shout-out to @buggieluv79 for helping me with the deaf POV 💌 I also want to point out the fact that the wonderful being that made this request is both kind and patient, having waited three months for me to write this and supporting me in the process❣️

I'm open to writing for a deaf!reader again, whether you want it to be the same person we met in this fic or a different one. (Wait till reqs open again please!)

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socaltickle5 · 1 month ago

Text

Not sure who amongst you tickling/kink friends needs to hear this right now…Please Reblog and comment if you feel inclined and agree! Maybe your interaction with this post will reach and help someone in need in our great Tickling Community!! At the very least, hopefully it will help warmly welcome any new/exploring community member!!

But, in a recent conversation with one of my favorite people from the tickling/kink community (who I care deeply about), she told me that she was a lurker for a long time because of fears and inhibitions she built up about immersing herself in the community and her tickling desires. Those fears were:

1- Of herself, and how she’d be perceived/desired within the community. From her attraction, to her laugh/smile, to her ticklishness and others, there was fears of how she was to be perceived.

2- The safety aspect and the general ‘stranger danger’

3- If there are actually any humans that she could have an organic connection she needs from a potential play partner within the community.

4- Just the myriad of unknown scenarios when entering a kink community.

5- Fear of rejection

I’m here to say all of that is okay! That’s human nature to find comfort and safety in protecting yourself from the unknown! You are validated in your feelings, and validated in any approach you take towards your participation level within the community! I myself was VERY overwhelmed with anxiety and shame and fear of the unknown! I felt a ton of shame and taboo about my tickling kink/Dom desires! I felt those feelings over a decade ago (when I first decided to participate), and those fears and inhibitions and anxieties will never be forgotten by me because of how real/deeply I felt them!! I felt all 5 of those fears I listed above!

But, I’m also here to say that I’ve personally never felt happier than when I took that leap! I had to put aside my inhibitions and fears! Our inner peace is everything, and I felt most balanced and proud of myself for allowing my desires to be explored! All of us GET the privilege of being DESERVING of our own happiness! And, with that comes the fact that we are all WORTHY of exploring our desires without shame!! There’s no right or wrong way to enter or approach the tickling community other than what works for YOU!

Through many messages on tumblr/fetlife/reddit and other kink social medias, I’ve been told endlessly over the years about these same scenarios/fears/inhibitions that are preventing someone from their own desires. I know many of my followers on here are struggling with those same feelings currently. YOU DO YOU! And, when you embrace your desires on your own time and at your own comfort level, I’m sure you’ll be proud of yourself as well! And, the best part is, the majority of this community will welcome you with open arms! I, for one, am happy to talk with anyone (no minors) if any of you need comfort, or just someone to talk about all of this with! I admittedly don’t have all the answers, but I am coming from a place of experience and shared feelings/concerns.

Please, always prioritize safety and vetting as well! You cannot allow your enthusiasm for play to mask 🚩 that pop up with potential partners! PROTECT YOURSELF!

To sum this all up, YOU ARE WORTHY OF YOUR OWN HAPPINESS. We cannot control or change the past! Nor can we worry about what we’ve missed out on. You’re the author of the next chapter of your own life, I encourage you to write it your own way with your inner peace and happiness as the focus of the plot!

#tickle content #tickletorture #tickle thoughts #tickle tickle #tickle #tickling #ticklish #tickle scenarios #extreme tickling

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meldingintheunderdark · 3 months ago

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Halsin's ending is not a beautiful, pain free dream

I don't know if this opinion is unpopular because my return to tumblr is so recent, but hear me out. I will not speak about Tavs since I don't ever play them. My post will be solely focused on Halsin solo romanced by the Dark Urge, i.e. Sszazar who fought tooth and nail for redemption.

Rationally, I understand that some players are satisfied with his ending, yet I find it soul crushing all the same. It's the perfect example, nay, the quintessence of Halsin's problems. A messy knot of unaddressed traumas, of questionable decisions, the embodiment of his perpetual fuite en avant (rushing ahead to avoid something, to repeat actions that led to a first crisis).

His project is a clear attempt to fulfill needs forever denied: to have a family of his own, a community where he's at long last free from the shackles of leadership, or even to follow his own path as a druid, away from the suffocating traditions of the Emerald Enclave. A commendable project, but too ambitious for one man.

Indeed, Halsin's plan is his and his alone. Although he spoke of his desire to have a family or to help the unfortunate children, the PC is not directly involved in preparing the commune. They are kept in the dark until Halsin is ready to leave without them.

Halsin single-handedly shoulders the planning and the responsabilities that the future settlement entails. Needless to say, for centuries now, he has favored a paradoxical approach of avoidance and obsessive behavior combined with extreme guilt trip to deal with his own troubles, even distorting traumas to make them palatable. In my opinion, his solitary preparation is the expression of said approach.

They won. Faerûn is saved. The shadow curse is no more. It could be the ideal time to slow down, to assess the extent of damage after such a nerve-racking adventure. Yet Halsin is already rushing into another long lasting project involving countless settlers, among them nine whole wagons of children. He's restless. Instead of turning inward to acknowledge his shortcomings, to simply heal, he barrels along at full speed, continuing his never-ending cycle of avoidance. What about his failings as the archdruid of the Emerald Grove? A group of haggard tieflings and his absence were sufficient to let hate and cruelty fester amongst his druids. How did he fail to notice the rampant corruption? Were the Shadow Druids manipulating his people under his nose? Why did he welcome the refugees, exhausted and traumatized, only to abandon them because Aradin was going to the shattered sanctum?

Halsin must do everything alone. He welcomes the tieflings. He leaves with Aradin because he must deal with the shadow curse. Survivor guilt. If it's about himself, his most vulnerable side, then Halsin oft deals in absolutes.

Ironically, he cannot save Thaniel and his realm on his own. Although far-fetched, I personally interpret Halsin's personal questline as his reflection.

Halsin's questline is his reflection

He's obsessed with the shadow curse, without a true confident for a good century, and neglects his druids and the tieflings he decided to shelter. Out of the blue, he chooses mercenaries to support him in his irrepressible, compulsive endeavor. Unfortunately, wrong team, they fail. He is then caged like a rabid animal, at the mercy of goblins who don't communicate with him at all. There is nobody to listen to him, to his worries, to his needs. He's once again alone, like he had been with the drow captors.

The PC gives him his freedom back when no one else would, thus he faces his main fixation obsessively with this newfound support. And yet... Who listens to him? Who finds Art Cullagh? Who finds the lute? Who finds Oliver? Who kills Ketheric? The PC.

He goes to the Shadowfell to find Thaniel, alone, protected by his allies. He wants that light, that friendship, that support. (The portal with a warm, comforting glow attacked by shadows, the fact he can die if the portal is destroyed while he's seeking Thaniel… The portal could be a representation of Halsin, of the positive changes he yearns for, but he cannot progress as he's attacked by doubts, old pains, traumas.) He comes back with Thaniel, split in half. Thaniel and Oliver are reunited by the PC who, if the right options are selected, encourages Halsin to soothe Oliver.

During the last push to chase the shadows, if he's in the team to vanquish Ketheric, he's supported and led by the PC.

I know my interpretation is highly disputable, nevertheless, his questline is so him. That positive side, Thaniel, hollow. The darkness, Oliver, deeply lost and lonely, surrounded with shades that are his pseudo friends. Thaniel and Oliver are stronger together, however the curse is still overwhelming. The PC carries Halsin all the way till the shadow curse is lifted.

And the very last cutscene is all about Halsin and the PC watching nature blooming once again. Hope for a better, brighter future.

Halsin: I don't deserve you, my friend.

Halsin needs support. Don't get me wrong, he's a capable adult. He can take care of himself. Yet the glaive (though it was in EA) ended in a lone, secluded vault. Out of sight, out of mind. Halsin has been alone for so many years that he craves the support of his trusted equal to progress. It doesn't make him weaker or less of an adult. It's merely a lot less wearing to be helped by someone who reciprocates care happily and willingly.

The consequences for the commune and the orphans

All that scarcely credible yapping about his questline to say that Halsin tends to shoulder responsabilities alone, too many, far too many, with little to no self-empathy. That, without proper support, he tends to fail and hurt himself, to repeat situations which have already wounded him in the past (cf. my post about the drow twins). So, what does it mean for the commune?

I assume he will fail to nurture an environment without a vertical organizational structure at first. The hierarchy won't be similar to the Grove's, however he will become the de facto leader because he cannot for the life of him acknowledge his deepest, most painful shortcomings. Case in point:

Halsin: All these months, and I haven't been away from what we built together. There's a whole community out in Thaniel's realm that has never known a day without our presence. Halsin: Being away from it... I cannot help but worry how they will fare in our absence.

He will surround himself with like-minded people, nevertheless, we must not ignore the fact he's an archdruid, a 350 years old elf as he loves to repeat, and one of the saviors of Baldur's Gate. His experience, his fame and his tendency to burden himself are a recipe for disaster. Six months after the Elder Brain's defeat, the commune depends heavily on him. He fled leadership, only to become a leader again.

Halsin: At last count, there were nine whole wagons of children in tow. They are my duty now. 'Daddy Halsin', they call me. Who am I to tell them otherwise?

The Daddy Halsin has been "memed" to death. From my point of view, it's jarring. When Halsin reveals his plan, he barely mentions adults and doesn't associate them with the kids. His statement is crystal clear. The nine wagons of children are his duty. He's their caregiver, their new father figure. Not one parent, or one guardian among many, but the one they call Daddy. From his point of view, the concept of family seems to be eminently traditional.

Halsin: I just hope the children get by without me there for their bedtime stories...

Ultimately, the orphans will be neglected temporarily because Halsin cannot provide the necessary parenting, the emotional support nor the individual time any child deserves on his own. Furthermore, these children are extremely vulnerable. Abandoned, parents and siblings killed by the Absolute forces, who knows? It may last a week, but Halsin needs to realize first that he cannot be their only Daddy, otherwise he will hurt them. Not out of malice, not on purpose, just because he's deeply entrenched in his views and his longings.

The Dark Urge

Halsin is overly positive about the refugees wishing "to praise the savior of Baldur's Gate", adding that "quite a few little fans will be overjoyed to make your acquaintance". I won't ever believe that every single settler will be in awe of The Dark Urge, a war criminal, a murderer and a former Bhaalspawn. I can't imagine no one would demand revenge, swift and brutal justice, that nobody would directly conflate Sszazar and the destruction of their home, the death of their friends, their lovers, their families. That everyone will be levelheaded, willing to forgive and forget, or downright clueless about his identity. Not everybody will be magnanimous like Alfira. Would Halsin choose to lie by omission or be truthful about his lover's bloody past? A commune built on such a massive lie won't withstand the revelation of this ugly secret.

Henceforth, people who suffered because of the cult will be exposed, day after day, to the sole surviving Absolute mastermind. The cause of their plight is their next-door neighbor. At first, it will surely go beyond petty disagreements. Some may leave and never return. Halsin's reputation may be tarnished since he loves and shelters a war criminal. He sold them his dream without the Dark Urge because he was persuaded to be unworthy of commitment and love.

All in all, I don't think his dream will crash and burn, but I believe the canon scenario forces the happy ending devoid of nuances upon the player. Truth be told, I imagine the commune will go through a rough patch, especially if the Dark Urge is present. I won't even talk about the logistical side of the commune. Tending the crops, buying tools, managing resources, so many details... With luck, Thaniel is a real powerhouse and can heal his realm in the blink of an eye. I doubt it.

Halsin's ending is, as depicted in game, a beautiful nightmare.

[09/15/24 - edited for clarity, grammar and to highlight that I hc Halsin's failures as temporary]

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 halsin #halsin #Halsin Silverbough #bg3 meta

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multiplicity-positivity · 2 months ago

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Here’s some positivity for systems who have doubles!

Doubles, or introjects who share the same source individual, are a common occurrence in the plural community, and may be common within a single system! Most introjects are unable to choose their source, and there is nothing wrong with having multiple introjects of the same person, character, object, being, or concept in your own system. This post goes out to all the systems with doubles out there!

👯 Shoutout to those who feel like their doubles are their kin, siblings, twins, or family members!

⚔️ Shoutout to doubles who used to be at odds but are learning how to get along better!

🍃 Shoutout to those who are dating, married, or partnered to another double inside or outside their own system!

🎶 Shoutout to doubles who have varying source memories, and to doubles with no source memories at all!

🖇 Shoutout to doubles who advocate for solidarity and camaraderie amongst doubles in systems everywhere!

✨ Shoutout to those who have been called proshippers for dating fellow doubles, or who have had their relationship dubbed “selfcest” by others!

🐾 Shoutout to doubles who are incredibly different and share nothing but their source!

🍂 Shoutout to doubles who are together or individually trying to separate from their source for their own comfort and safety!

🪺 Shoutout to those who feel like they are doubles due to one member being a fictive and another being an introject of the person who created their source character!

💕 Shoutout to those who greatly enjoy being able to engage and connect with their doubles!

We hope every introject out there who has met or interacted with a double, inside or outside of their system, can have a wonderful day! There is absolutely nothing wrong with two headmates sharing the same source individual. You should feel welcome to live your lives in the ways that you choose, without feeling like your choices are being policed or dictated by others!

Doubles, not only are we wishing you ample agency and autonomy in your lives, but we are also wishing you happiness, comfort, and self-acceptance! Rest assured, you are wanted, you belong, your relationships are meaningful (yes, even if they are with other doubles!) and you are unique and special in your own ways. Please do your best to take care of yourselves and each other, and have a wonderful day!

#plurality #pluralgang #multiplicity #actuallyplural #plural positivity #system positivity #plural pride #system pride #introjects #fictives #factives #doubles

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arcane-vagabond · 1 year ago

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The Beginning

Stranger Like Me: The Beginning

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: From a young age, the animal kingdom had fascinated you, and maybe that's why you chose to pursue that passion. You quickly became a force within the field, becoming the leading expert on ape social structures, which is how you found yourself on an expedition into the African jungles searching for a troop of gorillas. What you weren't expecting, however, was to run into the local wild man on one of your excursions... (Tarzan!AU)

Trigger Warnings: Talk of loneliness, Inaccurate scientific descriptions and terminology, Flirty Jake, Allusions to loss of parents, Talk of reintigrating someone into society...I think that's it.

Word Count: 1,263

A/N: Here it is! I hope y'all don't mind me making you wait too long! This blog is 18+ ONLY! As always, reblogs and comments are welcomed and encouraged!! Find me on AO3 under arcane_vagabond where all of my stories and drabbles are posted!

Series Masterlist || Moodboard 1 || Moodboard 2 || Moodboard 3

You had a running theory that there were two types of people in this world: plant people and animal people. You? You were most definitely an animal person. Growing up, you visited the zoo frequently, the employees practically knowing you by name. You did your best to memorize as many facts as you could about the different animals in each exhibit, knowing from an early age that you wanted to work with animals for the rest of your life.

You’d spend hours at the primate exhibits, watching the way the different apes and monkeys interact with each other, and you wished you could fast forward to the moment where you got to study it day in and day out.

So, you worked hard, graduating high school with honors before moving on to study zoology in undergrad, and then skipping straight to your doctorate program after that. It had been a long, grueling road that left little time for much else, but it was your passion, and once you had been greeted with the title of “doctor,” you knew it had all been worth it.

That didn’t stop your bouts of loneliness though. While your friends all went out to party, you were usually found with your nose buried in a book. And it wasn’t like you wanted to go out partying, but it still hurt when your friends stopped asking.

And then there was Jake Seresin, your handsome best friend of several years who knew he looked good and never failed to own it. The two of you had met in the early days of undergrad, having been partnered up in a biology lab, and you had hit it off immediately. Jake wasn’t interested in primates, his focus turned towards botany of all things, but he loved to tease you about your love of great apes.

“A cute girl like you studying monkeys?” He had chuckled with a shake of his head, mossy green eyes glimmering with mischief. “You must have had a wild fascination with Boots the monkey, huh?”

“First of all, peabrain,” you scowled at him, fighting back the smile that threatened to take over your face as his jaw dropped, “I study apes, not monkeys. Second of all, my fascination with Boots is none of your business.”

“Whatever you say, Boots.”

And the nickname had stuck. It followed you through undergrad and all the way through to your now budding career as one of the leading researchers in gorilla social structures. Which is also how you found yourself invited to the North Island Research Camp in the Republic of the Congo.

The camp wasn’t some grand research center, but it was well respected amongst the scientific community for gathering the most up-to-date research and hands-on experiences between researchers and local fauna. The camp was run by Dr. Pete Mitchell and Dr. Tom Kazansky, both legends within the field and rarely opening up their camp to other researchers. You had been thrilled to receive the invitation, and even more thrilled when you found out that Jake had also received an invitation to the camp to continue his research on tropical plants.

The two of you had made plans to fly out of San Diego at the same time, even choosing to stay at his place the night before your flight.

“The early bird gets the worm, Boots!” He chirped, loading up the trunk of the Uber with your luggage. How he was so cheerful at three in the morning was beyond you.

The flight to your destination was uneventful, choosing to catch up on some of your reading as well as sleep for the majority of the flight. The two of you were greeted by a bespectacled man once you departed the plane, his demeanor relaxed but his face shy as he helped you with your bags.

“I’m Bob,” he said, loading the back of his jeep with your belongings. “I’m helping out Pete and Tom with their research. The other researcher is already at the camp. He got here about a month ago.”

“Who is it?” You asked him, hopping into the front seat of the car as Jake clambered into the back.

“Javy Machado,” Bob answered, already making his way through the city and towards the jungle. “He’s doing research into termite colonies.”

“Javy’s gonna be there?” Jake asked, leaning forward with a grin. You rolled your eyes at him. Javy and Jake almost went as far back as you two did, having first met in a chemistry course their junior year of college. While you and Jake had gone to the same university for your doctorate programs, Javy had ventured elsewhere, making a name for himself within the world of entomology. The two together was almost insufferable.

“You two better behave,” you groused, settling into your seat with a glare in his direction.

“Boots,” he gasped, placing a hand over his heart in faux hurt, “I am absolutely shocked that you think we would be anything other than complete professionals.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” you snapped, turning to face Bob who glanced at you two wearily. “Those two are going to be a nightmare, I’m just warning you now.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he chuckled.

The three of you settled into a comfortable conversation as Bob continued to drive towards the camp, the jungle becoming denser the longer he went. Soon, the sun was hidden behind the canopy, and you got the sense that you were truly in the wild.

“Are you sure about this, Mav,” Ice hummed, hands clasped firmly in front of him as he eyed his fellow researcher. Mav spared him a smile, running a hand through his hair as he sat on the bench opposite his companion.

“He’s been on his own for decades, Ice,” Mav grimaced, glancing into the trees. “He deserves to know companionship beyond just us.”

“He has Bob and Javy.”

“He deserves more than just four other people in his life,” he amended, rolling his eyes. “We’re lucky we found him when we did, otherwise I’m not sure he would have survived on his own. Besides, Nick and Carole wouldn’t have wanted this for him. They would have wanted him to see the world, to meet other people.”

Ice hummed at that. Of course, Maverick had a point. They couldn’t keep the boy isolated for forever. He was already butting heads more and more with the troop leader and spending more nights in the observation tower as a result. It also wasn’t like Ice wanted to keep him isolated for selfish reasons. No, quite the opposite in fact. The kid had spent most of his life right there in the jungle, never having contact with another human being until the two men had opened up the research camp once more ten years before.

And that’s what had Ice so apprehensive. The boy had little to no experience with humans, and what he did have was from the time spent with the two older men who weren’t exactly the greatest of company at the best of times. How would he react to a camp full of people his own age? Would it be too much for him?

“Bradley is smart, Ice,” Mav continued, knocking his knuckles against the table. “He’s already been asking questions about the people in the movies and photos he sees. He wants to know about the outside world. Let’s let him have that chance.”

Ice didn’t answer. Instead, he sighed, leaning back in his chair. This would be good for Bradley. It had to be.

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster imagine #rooster fanfiction #top gun rooster #rooster top gun

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greensagephase · 11 months ago

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New Year's (Nonviolent Communication One-Shot)

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x SpiderFemaleReader (colleagues to friends to lovers; currently in the friendship era, so no romance.) Summary: New Year's with your spidey friends and Miguel. Word Count: 7,526 Warnings: A little bittersweet at the beginning; Reader eats meat (sorry to my readers that don't consume meat; I just realized I've included so many meals throughout the fic with meat and never thought of nonmeat eaters); terms in Spanish are included but translations can be found at the end; some crying but they're happy tears; soft Miguel; fireworks Short A/N: This is a one-shot for my Nonviolent Communication fanfic but can be read as a standalone. Masterlist

Happy New Year!!

You close the door of your apartment, making sure it’s locked before you walk down the hallway. You make your way down the building, fixing the scarf you threw around your neck earlier since your city is experiencing strong winds today on top of low temperatures. You could’ve easily just stuck to swinging around the city for what you’re doing but you remember that it has been years, since your Peter died, that you’ve walked the streets of your own city on New Year’s Eve.

The two of you used to go out each year, holding hands amongst the crowd before you found your way to the center of the celebration, joining other citizens to welcome the new year. Peter always held you close, your back pressed to his chest to keep you warm as the two of you enjoyed the performances of artists. And then at midnight, you’d welcome the new year with a kiss and a “I love you.”

“Did you unplug the lights?” a feminine voice asks as you reach the lobby of your apartment building.

“No,” a second voice, a woman, replies.

“Girl, you know the landlord said to not leave the lights on for long periods of time because of a short circuit.”

“It’ll be fine,” the second voice responds.

You turn sideways as you hear the young women join you, coming from a different floor than yours. You face the front again, not paying attention to their discussion as you’re lost in your thoughts regarding the last New Year’s Eve you shared with Peter. It was so long ago, and you silently wonder, where did the time go? If you try hard enough, you can almost feel Peter’s lips against yours; so sweet, so tender, so gentle… So Peter.

At last, you exit the building with the young women behind you and go in a different direction than them. You fix the scarf once again, but this time closer to your neck as you immediately feel the chilly breeze on your skin. You walk the street, hands in your coat’s pockets as you move alone. The sun is already setting even though it’s early in the afternoon, and the streets are, as always, busy and filled with so much energy. As you walk past people, you take it all in, the realization hitting you more now. You’re walking the streets on New Year’s Eve again after years.

In the last few years, you went out to patrol, watching from rooftops in solitude. You managed to cut your friends off in a short amount of time following Peter’s death, so the first holidays without him were spent completely alone, and every year after that was the same. You never stayed out close to midnight, especially on New Year's Eve, for you couldn’t bear the sight of kissing couples. It hurt too much. Instead, you found yourself at home, settled in your once shared bed, alone. That’s the way it was, until last year, when the Morales family invited you to their building’s party and then found yourself once again in Miguel’s penthouse because Mr. and Mrs. Morales asked if you could take him food just like you had for Christmas Eve.

You head to your usual flower spot, picking up a variety of them before you head to your destination. When you reach the cemetery, you find other people, visiting loved ones one last time before the year ends. You find your parents’ graves and change their flowers from last week before you move to Aunt May’s, and at last, to your Peter’s. On one knee, you kneel on the cold and frozen ground after you move some snow away, and proceed to clean his grave like you did the others. You clear away snow and find last week’s flowers, frozen. You replace them with the fresh ones, arranging them nicely for him.

“Happy New Year’s Eve, Peter,” you whisper softly. You look around slowly, the figures of other people meeting your gaze before you return it to Peter’s grave. “So, last night when I was out on patrol, I heard one of the craziest things I’ve ever heard. I think it would’ve made you laugh…” you start as you talk to him like you always do, telling him about your patrolling. You always focus on the night shift because the nights are always the craziest. You tell him about what happened over the week, the universes you went to, the missions, the little moments between you and your friends, all of it.

By the time you’re done, the sky is fully dark. You sigh softly and look up, noticing that you’re alone at the cemetery now. You rub your cheek softly, feeling the coldness. The kneeling has created a cold and damp spot on your pants, allowing you to feel it on your skin. You can almost hear Peter telling you to stand up and go home, to shield yourself from the cold.

You smile softly as you hear his voice in your head. Sometimes you like to imagine that he sits in front of you or on his stone, smiling at you as he listens to you talk, maybe even adding his thoughts despite you being unable to hear them. You know better than to do that, but it used to bring you comfort in the first months after his death.

“I miss you,” you whisper. “I always do, Peter.”

You imagine Peter now, returning the words you’ve whispered.

“I miss you more, love.”

You smile in the darkness of the cemetery, the wind blowing against you, causing you to shiver.

“Go home, darling. It’s too cold. Go home, please.”

You stand up and pull your pants at the knee to relief yourself from the unpleasant cold sensation and sigh. “I do need to go home. As I’ve told you, I have plans,” you tell him with a smile. “I’m meeting with the group and then with Miguel. He insisted on cooking. Again,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I don’t know what he’s making but I just know it’s going to be amazing. He’s an amazing cook, Peter. I’ve already told you about it but he really is great... In many ways,” you state softly as you look down at your wrist, where your gizmo rests. Your fingertips touch it delicately.

“From what you’ve told me, he sounds like a great man, love.”

You smile softly and nod at no one, feeling an ache in your chest. You’re uncertain if it will ever truly fade.

“I love you, Peter,” you whisper pressing a kiss to your fingertips before pressing them to the gravestone. “I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

“I love you, darling. Forever. Never forget that.”

You straighten up and sigh again, feeling the winter breeze biting your skin. You pick up the frozen flowers that you’ve collected from all the graves to dispose of them appropriately and nod at Peter’s gravestone.

“Happy New Year, love. We’ll see what this new year brings, hm? I look forward to it. I know you’ll be there with me along the way.”

“Forever, darling.”

You nod once again before you head home, keeping an eye out for any threats but there seems to be nothing amiss. You return home and prepare your belongings. You baked some cakes for the party at Miles’s universe and one more on top of other sweets for when you head to Miguel’s.

You head to the first universe, where you spend close to two hours. As soon as you arrive, you're welcomed by Miles's neighbors who have grown to know you, or at least the version all the spider members agreed you'd play, Miles’s school mentor. You're eventually greeted by Miles and his parents and in a matter of minutes, you find yourself with a plate full of food and sitting under the water tower with all your friends. The ambiance is lively with outside twinkling lights hanging all across the rooftop. The scent of food fills the air and the building's DJ is keeping the mood light with their song choices. You have a great time, listening and talking with your friends about the year, recalling memories you've made over the three hundred and sixty-five days.

At last, you depart from the party, but not before giving each of your friends, including Mary Jane, Mayday, and Gayatri, a hug for the new year since you most likely won't see them until later tomorrow. You head back to your universe to pick up the last baked items and then head to Miguel's just on time.

You immediately find yourself in Miguel's living room. Music fills the air thanks to Miguel’s new record player that you gifted him just a few days ago for Christmas. The thought of him already using it so much warms your heart.

“Hey.”

You turn to the voice. Miguel. Your smile grows at the sight of him as he stands at the entrance of his living room, looking cozy as always in a beige turtleneck sweater. He gives you a soft smile with pink cheeks, probably from the heat of the kitchen since he cooked dinner.

“Hey, Happy New Year’s Eve,” you say.

“Happy New Year’s Eve. May I take that?” he asks, gesturing to your reusable bag with baked sweets.

You nod and walk closer to him, he meets you halfway and takes the bag from you gently.

“I baked a cake and a few other things. Also, Mr. and Mrs. Morales sent you food. I packed it in there as well. They wish you a Happy New Year,” you tell him, passing on the well wishes from the Morales family.

“Thank you for bringing it. I’ll be sending them a thank you card this week with Miles,” Miguel answers, still smiling.

He tells you to follow him as he leads the way to his kitchen and dining area, the scent of food immediately surrounding you. Like always, Miguel places your bag of baked sweets on the counter before he turns and gestures to your coat. He offers to help take it off, and you let him, finding some relief once it’s off. After hanging your coat, Miguel leads you to the stove to show you everything he’s cooked.

“Una taquiza,” Miguel says. “I cooked different meats like carne asada, chorizo, al pastor, and two more, **so we have options. I also made three different salsas, and of course there’s the toppings, like cilantro and diced onion, and a few other things.”

You smile at Miguel’s set up and tell him what kind of tacos you want. As always, Miguel serves you your food, asking you to take a seat once you tell what you want. He moves through the kitchen with ease as he prepares your food, talking quietly with you as music continues to fill the air. Not long after, the two of you sit side by side, enjoying delicious tacos topped with cilantro and diced onion and the salsas Miguel prepped, even with some grilled banana peppers and a glass with agua de Jamaica.

All throughout dinner, the two of you talk about the year and other things. You even share with Miguel that you visited your loved ones earlier, which leads Miguel to tell you about his own visit to Conchata and Gabriel’s resting place. Noticing the look on his face, probably about Gabriella, you change the subject to the record player, which instantly lights up his eyes.

“I’ve ordered more records,” he says, as the two of you head to the living room, after taking care of dishes. “I got you a few that I remembered you like as well. They’ll be arriving in a few days.”

You glance at him, smiling softly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he says quietly, hands in his pockets as the two of you stand in front of the record player.

“Thank you,” you answer, equally quiet.

“Always.”

You sigh softly as you listen to the music. It’s a record from your universe that you gifted Miguel so he could start his own collection. The two of you hang out in his living room, listening to music as Miguel tells you about the records he bought. You can’t help but smile as you see his excitement about them, making you feel more than satisfied with your decision to gift Miguel his own record player.

An hour later, the two of you sit in his living room. You’re each on one of his couches, the music still playing, yet it’s a different record now. The fireplace is on and outside, the citizens of Nueva York are already setting off fireworks. For a few seconds, you both stay quiet, listening to the music and fireworks until Miguel breaks the silence.

“What if…” Miguel starts, thinking about something that’s been on his mind.

You look at him, wondering what he’s going to say.

“What if… we go to Miles’s universe?” he asks quietly, meeting your gaze. “So, we can be with them as the new year starts.”

You stare at him, blinking softly as you realize he said “we” not “you” meaning…

“You want to…?” you start but trail off, trying to confirm that you’re understanding what he’s saying.

Miguel continues to hold your gaze with a soft smile on his face. “We can find a nearby rooftop…”

“One that’s empty so we don’t attract attention,” you finish, smiling.

“Yes. Do you want to?”

You nod, smiling. “If you’re up to it, yes but - please don’t feel pressured to if you’re not comfortable with it.”

Miguel shakes his head. “Last year you didn’t get to exactly see them as the new year started. You were here with me. I know how much they mean to you, and how much you mean to them. I don’t want you to… choose,” Miguel explains. “As long as it’s an empty rooftop, I’ll be fine. Promise,” he adds to reassure you as he notices your concern.

“Okay, but if at any point you don’t feel like it any more, please don’t hesitate to tell me and we can come back,” you reply softly.

“Will do,” he tells you with a soft smile.

“Alright, but you want to bundle up. It’s freezing. Go on and put more layers,” you tell him.

Miguel continues to smile, finding your concern for him regarding the weather sweet. “Alright, I’ll be right back,” he says before he heads upstairs to his bedroom. He quickly goes through his closet, finding a coat that he slips on in seconds. He grabs a scarf and throws it around his neck before he grabs the mittens you gifted him just a few day ago. In a minute, he’s on his way back downstairs.

You turn from a window just as he steps back into the living room. You find yourself unable to tear your eyes away at the sight of him in a coat. For some reason, the sight makes you feel something you can’t quite pinpoint in the moment but you brush it off. Your eyes move to the mittens, the ones you gifted him a few days ago, in one of his hands before he leads the two of you back to the kitchen where he places the mittens on the counter. He walks towards the cupboards.

“I just thought that we could use something to keep us warm,” he says as he pulls out two thermos.

You raise an eyebrow in curiosity before you watch him open a pot that’s been sitting at the back of his stove, one that he didn’t open earlier. You smile as you guess what’s inside, and sure enough, Miguel confirms your suspicions as he begins to pour café de olla into one thermos before moving to the next one. He turns around to face you, holding the two thermos now.

“Ready?” he asks as he hands you one before he grabs his mittens with his free hand now.

“Ready,” you reply as you hold your thermos, already wearing your coat and your other accessories since you put everything back on while he went upstairs.

The two of you head back to his living room where Miguel opens a multidimensional portal to Miles’s universe. In a matter of seconds, you’re both standing on an empty rooftop. You lead the way to Miles’s building, knowing your way around more than Miguel does. You swing from rooftop to rooftop, with Miguel behind. He follows you closely, grinning to himself as you sneak past rooftops with people having their own parties until at last, you stop on the closest empty rooftop to Miles’s building.

The two of you stand side by side, looking across to where your group of friends are. As always, they’re hanging out by the water tower, away from the crowd to avoid raising suspicions, especially with Noir and Spider-Ham. You wait a few seconds before you notice their spidey senses go off, causing them to turn towards Miguel and you. You wave at them as they stare back with shocked faces. You grin as you realize the reason, turning to look at Miguel, who stares at them as he holds his thermos. His face is relaxed. There’s no smile or grin but there’s also no glare.

“Miguel… If you-” you stop when Miguel turns to look at you.

“It’s alright… I’m alright, don’t worry. I’m just thinking about how it’s actually really cold. Are you okay with your coat?” he asks, glancing at your attire with concern in his eyes.

“Oh, yes. I’m okay, don’t worry,” you reassure him just as you notice your friends swing towards the rooftop you’re on.

“Well… this is a surprise,” Peter B. says as he places Mary Jane down, who nods while holding Mayday.

“A big surprise,” Pav adds, as he lands with Gayatri.

The rest of the group lands on the rooftop, staring at Miguel and you like you’ve grown an extra head. You give them a subtle look, asking them not to stare because you don’t want Miguel to feel uncomfortable or overwhelm when he’s trying. Thankfully, your friends catch your drift, hiding their surprise as they begin to greet the two of you.

“You guys hungry? There’s still so much food left, we could all probably eat seconds,” Miles says offering.

“Is there still some of that flan left?” you ask with shiny eyes, which Miguel notices.

“Yeah! I can bring you guys some food. To be honest, I feel kind of hungry myself,” Miles says with a little frown.

“You know… Me, too,” Noir replies.

“We’ll get some food, then” Miles says. “Be right back.”

You watch as Miles, Hobie, Margo, and Gwen swing back to the other rooftop. You watch in amusement as you see webs flying around, gathering food.

“And no one notices,” Miguel says amused as he notices the webs, too.

“Everyone is too busy talking,” you murmur softly, turning around as Noir and Spider-Ham approach Miguel.

“Nice mittens,” Noir tells Miguel. “Helpful for a piercing, cold night like this.”

“This kind of weather takes me back to when…” Spider-Ham begins, sharing some story from his universe with Noir and Miguel as you’re suddenly but gently pulled backwards.

“Um, hi?” you say as you find Mary Jane and Peter B., each holding on to one of your arms and tugging you away from Miguel.

“So…” Mary Jane starts, holding Mayday, who also seems to be staring at you with curiosity.

“So?” you repeat, sounding more like a question.

“How did you do it?” Peter B. asks.

“Did what?” you ask confused once they stop pulling you. You look around them to see Miguel. His back is to you as Spider-Ham is still talking. Noir gives you a quick glance before he turns his attention back to Porker. You suddenly feel like this is some little plan.

“How did you get Miguel to agree to attend? He never likes to go to anything, even HQ events,” Peter B. says, confused.

“I… Didn’t. He offered.”

“Oh,” Mary Jane simply says.

“What?” Peter B. says.

Mayday laughs in Mary Jane’s arms.

“Are you guys okay?” you ask.

“We’re perfectly fine,” Mary Jane says with a glance to Peter.

“Yeah, we’re fine. Just… chatting,” he replies.

“Right…” you answer, giving them each a glance.

You turn to Mary Jane as she’s called over by Gwen, who has returned to the rooftop with some food. She heads over, carrying Mayday away and leaving you with Peter B. alone. You raise an eyebrow as he stares at you. He shakes his head and smiles, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

“Kid… I don’t know how you did it but… I’m glad,” he says as the two of you stare at Miguel. He’s still caught up with Noir and Spider-Ham, but seems to feel the gazes because he looks over his shoulder. His eyebrows furrow as he realizes you’re not near him anymore. Peter looks away, trying to hide the fact that he was staring. You, however, continue to stare back at Miguel. He meets your gaze before his eyes, subtly and without your knowledge, follow Peter’s arm around your shoulder. He gives you a slight nod before turning back to Noir and Porker.

“He offered. I didn't ask him,” you tell Peter B. quietly once Miguel has turned his attention back to the two men.

Peter nods, smiling. “He's… I'm just really happy for him and for you.”

You smile at him, remembering his talk from Thanksgiving, when he told you that he was happy you and Miguel were moving forward and had each other after being closed off and distanced from others for so long.

“Thank you,” you whisper and he nods.

“I just hope… You know what this means. It’s a big step for Miguel, Y/N. A very big one. And I’m so proud of him. And of you. The two of you have come so far and - ugh, I’m growing sentimental, aren’t I?” he asks with a soft groan. “I already had to stop myself earlier, just thinking about another year passing and Mayday growing up too fast for my liking but I just - I’m proud of Miguel, you, and all of us. And, I feel good about the future. About this new year, you know? I think we’re going to be okay,” he says as the two of you watch the other spiderlings swing back to the rooftop. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“I have a good feeling, too,” you answer before you repeat his words. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“Hey! I got the flan!” Miles says, waving you and Peter B. over.

You chuckle and nudge Peter B.. “C’mon, your favorite. You better hurry up before I eat it all.”

“I’ve already eaten two slices, I don’t think I can - or should - eat another one,” he replies with a frown.

“More for me,” you answer as the two of you head over to the group where food is being passed out.

You end up taking a seat on the edge of the rooftop with a plate on your lap. Once settled, you gesture to Miguel to join you and wait for him, shivering slightly as a cold breeze hits you. You’re surprised when you feel something being wrapped around your neck before the fabric rolls down your front - a scarf, Miguel’s to be specific. You look up at him as he takes a seat next to you, opting to sit on the side from which the breeze is coming from, and not by accident. Miguel purposely chooses this side to shield you from the breeze with his own frame.

“Your scarf,” you tell him quietly as you hear your friends talking in the back, though you pay no attention.

“You’re cold,” Miguel simply answers as he brings a piece of flan to his mouth with a fork, avoiding your gaze.

You nod. “If you need it back, please let me know.”

He turns to look at you again, nodding. “This flan is amazing. No wonder Peter had two slices.”

You chuckle as you bring your own fork to your mouth but stop halfway as Miguel’s words truly sink in about Peter and the flan. Did Miguel hear what Peter and you were talking about previously? You look over at him but his face reveals nothing.

All your friends end up sitting on the edge of the rooftop to eat, joining Miguel and you. You notice Miles sits on Miguel’s other side, keeping enough distance to respect his tío’s boundaries. You look at yourself, realizing you’re too close to him, so you subtly shift over, moving closer to Margo, who raises an eyebrow at you. You shrug and keep eating as someone says there’s only forty minutes left before the new year.

As you eat, your friends share funny things that have happened so far after you left the party earlier with Miguel and you. You’re so engrossed in the conversation that you don’t even notice it until you bring your arm down from eating that Miguel seems to have moved closer to you. It becomes clear when you brush arms with him. You keep your gaze on the party scene, listening to the music the DJ is playing for the night. Your face reveals nothing but you’re silently thinking about Miguel’s scarf wrapped around your neck, the warmth from him being near, and how he’s blocking the cold breeze with his body, which makes you wonder if he did it on purpose. You realize, he did.

Your attention is redirected when you spot Mr. and Mrs. Morales from across the rooftop, waving at all of you. You greet them with a smile and a wave before looking sideways, finding Miguel giving a wave of his own and a nod of appreciation before he turns to Miles.

“Please give my gratitude to your parents for the invitation and the amazing food, mijo.”

“I- I will, tío. Thank you. I can already tell you they’re happy you’re here,” Miles replies gently.

Miguel gives Miles a nod, a hint of a smile on his lips that leaves Miles with wide eyes.

You turn away and continue to eat, smiling to yourself.

“I think I’m going to grab another slice of flan,” Miguel mutters to you.

“I think - I probably shouldn’t. I’ve eaten way too much sugar today and I’m going to pay for it later when I can’t sleep,” you reply with a grin.

“Well, you have the day off tomorrow, so you can stay up without any worries,” he replies, meeting your gaze. “I’m probably going to stay up late, too, so...” Miguel trails off.

“Staying up on nights like these is fun, especially with… amazing people.”

“I think so, too,” he replies, giving you a soft grin.

Caught up in your own little world, neither of you notice Miles’s parents still watching from across the rooftop, with a smile on their faces.

“Mira, she did it,” Mrs. Morales says with a soft smile as they watch you and Miguel sitting side by side, talking like nothing, even noticing the small grin the leader and founder of the Spider Society gives you. “I told you,” she adds, as they turn around to head back to the party.

“Well, we’re yet to see it fully happen” Mr. Morales responds.

“Con esas miradas… Jeff, be honest here,” she replies, eliciting a laugh from Mr. Morales before he pulls her closer.

“Time will tell, mi amor.”

Shortly after, you look at the time on your gizmo. There’s only twenty minutes left until the new year. You sigh softly as you look down at the next building. You decided to climb up to the next rooftop just for a few moments, especially when Miguel was approached by Spider-Ham again, apparently he didn’t finish his story earlier. You smile and shake your head as you notice Miguel’s eyebrows creased in concentration, looking down at Porker as the latter tells his story.

You look up at the sky, knowing that in a little while, it will be lit up by fireworks, welcoming the new year. You pull your coat closer, trying to shield yourself from the wind as you reflect on the year. It’s your first full year in the Spider Society and only the second year that you’ve spent with friends, with family, after being alone for three years following the death of your Peter, who was the last bit of family you had in your universe. You glance down at your friends, hearing their laughter and chatter as they move about the rooftop and before you know it, tears spill down your eyes.

You quickly wipe them away but more roll down your cheeks, making you turn away to prevent anyone from seeing you. However, a pair of red eyes have been looking after you from the moment you left the rooftop and they immediately notice your tears.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you - do you mind if I just - I need to check something,” Miguel says to Porker. “I’m sorry,” he adds as he’s already heading towards the wall, climbing it within seconds using his webs. He finds you on the other side of the rooftop, your head hanging low. “Y/N?” he says softly, approaching you.

You turn sideways and quickly clean your tears. “Hey, I’m just…” you manage to say. “I think this wind got to me, that’s all.”

Miguel frowns, walking closer to you. “Y/N…”

“I’m okay, Miguel,” you reply softly as you finish wiping your tears, turning to face him at last. You give him a small smile, eyes a little red.

The sight makes Miguel’s heart ache. He’s not okay seeing you like this and it shows on his face as his frown deepens.

“They’re happy tears, I promise,” you say at last. You walk over to the other side, looking down at your friends again. “I was just thinking about… All those years I was alone,” you whisper so softly, your tone carrying some sadness.

The sight of your teary eyes and the sound of your voice makes Miguel wish he could take your sadness away and make it his own.

“I went from having my little family and friends to having no one, and I’m to blame for that. I pushed my friends away, hoping that they’d be safer away from me. I don’t regret my decision but… I won’t lie. Some days felt… Some days were not great but now I have this,” you say pointing down at your friends. You turn to look at him. “I have…”

Miguel holds your gaze, his face expression softening. He gives you a nod, knowing that you’re deciding whether or not to say what you want to say and encouraging you to.

“I have you. I have all of you in my life and I’m so - thankful for it,” you reply with a smile as a few more tears roll down your face. “I’m sorry - I don’t know what got into me,” you apologize, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

“Don’t apologize,” Miguel whispers as his hands balled into fists. He can’t stand the sight of you crying, even if it’s “happy tears” as you said. He wishes he could reach over and dry them with his hands. “It’s okay… It’s understandable,” Miguel says softly, understanding what you’re going through for he was thinking about it earlier. This year has been so different, so much better than previous years have because he’s had you by his side and the others when he has let them. “They’re…”

“A little family,” you answer and Miguel nods, smiling softly.

A little family. One that neither of you ever expected to have but you do.

“I’m sorry. I guess - I’m feeling a little sentimental especially after going to visit my loved ones,” you say, wiping some tears away and turning to face your friends below.

“It’s okay…” Miguel reassures you, stepping closer as you keep your gaze on the next rooftop.

You nod, trying to blink out the last tears. You don’t want to make Miguel uncomfortable nor dampen the festive mood, even if you’re not sad but just filled with gratitude for the amazing people you have in your life. Your thoughts are interrupted and you’re filled with surprise once again when you feel soft fabric pressed to one of your cheeks.

Miguel stands near you, looking at you with a soft expression on his face. He tried to fight it but in the end, his need to comfort you won over. Now, he gently dabs his scarf, the one still wrapped around your neck, over your cheeks to dry them.

You stand still, frozen by the act, as this is the most intimate gesture Miguel has ever done for you. You feel the softness of the fabric, and how gentle he dabs your skin with it. Even though there’s no skin-to-skin contact, you’re silently overwhelmed by the gesture - by the milestone - Miguel has reached just minutes before the new year arrives.

Noticing your cheeks are dry now, Miguel lets go of the scarf, letting it fall against your coat once again. He takes a step back, avoiding your gaze.

“I…” he starts.

“Thank you, Miguel,” you whisper softly, offering him a small smile of gratitude.

Miguel nods before his red eyes meet yours. You can’t help but notice his red cheeks, and wonder if it’s from the weather or from something else.

“Always,” he replies gently, giving you a soft smile.

“Mayday, this is how you throw a snowball, sweetie. See?” you hear Peter B.’s voice. “Now your turn. You grab it like this and - wait! Look out!”

You turn just as you see a snowball heading your way, straight to your face. You lift your hand to cover yourself but the snowball never hits your hand. Instead, it hits Miguel’s hand because he placed it on front of yours to shield you.

“Peter,” Miguel says, looking down at him.

“I’m sorry - I was trying to teach Mayday but man - she’s got a throw, doesn’t she?” Peter replies with a grin before he laughs, picking up Mayday over his head.

You laugh softly and shake your head. “She’s already so strong. Imagine in a few more years,” you say.

Miguel turns to you, happy to hear you laugh. He smiles. “It’s going to be interesting but… we’ll be there to help out with her. She’ll have great mentors,” he says as he notices Peter offering Mayday to Hobie to carry. The younger Spider-Man accepts, giving her a little salute.

You grin. “That’s true.”

“You guys coming down from up there or?” Hobie asks, glancing at the two of you.

You share a glance with Miguel before you both jump down, joining the group again.

“Five minutes left!!” Gwen announces as she pulls out little hats and glasses with different years printed on them.

“It’s the 2020s here. I forgot,” someone says.

Miguel raises an eyebrow at this. You turn as you hear Margo realize it’s the 2020s in Miles’s universe.

“You’re going to get to celebrate the 2020s,” you tell Miguel, since the 2020s in his universe took place decades ago before he was even born.

“That’s… true,” Miguel answers, realizing it as Gwen passes out hats and glasses with everyone’s year printed on it. He hesitantly accepts his from Gwen before she moves to you, handing you your designated year. You thank her and place the hat on your head, saving the glasses for later.

You look around as everyone puts on their little hats and glasses, finding Peter and Mary Jane fixing Mayday’s but she keeps taking it off. You smile in amusement before turning away to look across the rooftop, to Miles’s building. You can feel the energy change as everyone starts gathering in a group. Someone calls out the time over the the music, which is still lively. You sigh softly. Another year has come and gone but you’re excited about it. You weren’t lying to Peter B. earlier when you told him you have a good feeling about the new year.

Everything is going to be okay.

“Two minutes!” someone says.

You glance at Miguel. He’s still holding his hat and glasses in one hand, staring at the rooftop with Miles’s family and neighbors. There’s a thoughtful look on his face as he silently recalls years when his childhood home hosted large gatherings like this one. He also thinks about the one New Year’s he spent with Gabriella. She was so excited about the fireworks, tugging his sweater for him to look, much like his brother Gabriel did when they were kids. He sighs softly and turns his gaze to you.

“One minute,” Miles says just as everyone gathers around Miguel and you.

You smile at Miguel and give him a little nod as your friends start counting down out loud. He looks at your little hat, grinning softly at the sight.

“Thirty.”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Ah, man. She keeps taking it off, Mary Jane,” Peter complains softly from somewhere.

“We should just leave it,” MJ responds.

You glance back, noticing Mayday in Mary Jane’s arms as she plays around with the glasses. Peter B. holds on to her hat, giving up on trying to place it on her head.

“Fifteen.”

“Fourteen.”

“Thirteen.”

“Twelve.”

“Eleven.”

“Ten.”

You turn back to the front, waiting for the fireworks to illuminate the night sky.

“Mayday!” Mary Jane calls out before you sense something coming your way thanks to your spidey senses.

“Seven.”

You turn and catch Mayday just in time, causing her to laugh. You laugh softy before she flies out of your arms and towards Miguel, climbing up his torso to his shoulders. Miguel looks equally surprised but ready to catch her just in case she falls.

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One! Happy New Year!”

You hear your friends and Miles’s neighbors and family yell just as Mayday slides a pair of glasses on Miguel’s face with the year “2024” on them. She doesn’t do too well of a job, making the glasses dangle from one of his ears. Muffled laughter fills your ears and when you glance around, you find your friends trying not to laugh as Miguel stands there with the standard new year’s eve glasses hanging from only one of his ears while Mayday sits on his head, giggling at the fireworks.

Miguel raises an eyebrow that sends everyone to the edge of the rooftop, pretending that they’re no longer laughing at the sight. You, however, don’t hide your smile even when Miguel turns to face you. Seeing your smile, Miguel’s own lips twitch into a grin.

“Smile!” a voice says out of nowhere. “Got it!”

You turn and find Lyla, floating in midair just a few feet away from the three of you. She very quickly displays the photo, showing Miguel and you smiling at each other with Mayday on his head and the 2024 glasses danging from his face.

“Lyla,” Miguel says, shaking his head.

“The first picture of the year, Miguel! For my new photo album. Happy New Year!” she calls out to everyone, appearing in front of your friends and quickly snapping some photos before she disappears. At the same time, Mayday swings away towards her father’s arms, who quickly wraps his arms around her in a protective embrace.

“She said new photo album. I haven’t found the other one,” Miguel says as he finally slides the glasses off, shaking his head softly, yet there’s some amusement in his voice.

“I’m sure one day she’s going to show it to you. Knowing her,” you reply with a chuckle and he nods, agreeing.

“You’re not wrong… Happy New Year, Y/N,” he says quietly to you as your friends are all hugging now, with a soft smile on his face for your eyes only.

“Happy New Year, Miguel,” you reply, smiling. “I wish you a wonderful year.”

“I wish you a wonderful year, too,” he answers before you receive the first hug from Gwen and Margo.

Miguel watches as you’re hugged one by one by your friends. The gang knows Miguel is not open to physical touch, yet, so they stick to wishing him a happy new year verbally.

A few minutes later, with everyone back on Miles’s rooftop to meet Mr. and Mrs. Morales, Miguel and you stand side by side watching Peter B., Mary Jane, and Mayday, who are in front of the two of you. The Parker's point at the sky for Mayday, showing her the fireworks. You smile at the sight, distracted by it.

“Your thermos,” Miguel says, taking your attention from them.

You turn to accept it, remembering the thermos just now since you placed it on the ground at some point during the night to free your hands. You smile as you reach for it with your gloved hands, careful not to drop it or touch Miguel’s hand out of respect for his boundaries regarding physical touch. You notice he has his mitten off on this hand, probably storing it in his coat’s pockets. As you reach for the thermos and slowly wrap your hand around it, you feel it. Despite your precaution to not touch him, you feel Miguel’s pinky wrap around yours softly. He gives your pinky a gentle squeeze before he releases it, letting you fully grasp the thermos and retrieving his hand once he feels you have a good grip of it. He looks down and retrieves his mitten, sliding it on again before he grabs his own thermos from the ground.

You turn to the fireworks, smiling softly to yourself as you think about Miguel’s gesture. You suppose this was his New Year’s “hug.”

“Happy New Year, Y/N,” he says softly.

“Happy New Year, Miguel,” you reply as the two of you continue to watch the fireworks in Miles’s universe for a while longer before you both return to Nueva York.

And just like Miguel said, he stayed up the whole night, with you keeping him company in his living room, and the record player playing soft music. **More café de olla was drank and more of your baked sweets were eaten as the hours went by in his dimension.

You don’t return to your own universe until after you have breakfast with Miguel, due to his invitation. When you return home, you make your way to your bedroom and hang up your coat. You change into fresh clothes and are thinking about taking a short nap as you start putting your gloves and scarf away. It’s then that you realize that you still have Miguel’s scarf. You forgot to give it to him when the two of you returned to his universe. You hold it in your hands, appreciating the softness of it before you tentatively pull it closer to your face, his scent filling your lungs. You put it on your bed and shake your head at yourself in disbelief before you enter your bathroom to freshen up.

At last, you climb into bed and set up an alarm even though it’s still morning. When you pull the covers, you accidentally pull the scarf, too, but instead of putting it away, you pull it closer before you settle down. You fall asleep shortly after, softly inhaling Miguel’s scent from his scarf. 🎆🎆🎆🎆🎆🎆🎆

Next Part

Translations: Una taquiza - this is a like a taco buffet; the main dish are tacos and you can choose whatever meat and toppings you want Carne asada -grilled meat, usually beef Chorizo - pork sausage Al pastor - marinated pork meat; Agua de Jamaica - hibiscus tea café de olla - coffee made from a pot Flan - a dessert; custard topped with caramel tío - uncle mijo - literally means "my son" but is used as an endearment term friends, too Mira - Look Con esas miradas - With those gazes mi amor - my love _________

Posting this at around 10pm on my time, just before the new year. Wasn't planning on writing this but here we are! This is officially my last writing piece of the year. Just wanted to say thank you for all the support and love for Nonviolent Communication. I never expected for it to get this much support and love, so THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! It truly means a lot to me and it has been amazing having the opportunity to write especially for a character I've grown really fond of. I also want to thank all the amazing readers that have created fanart for the story. I just saw someone posted a new one and I'm SO HAPPY AND THANKFUL FOR IT <<<<<<3. I will get to it in a bit as I'm getting ready to hang out with my family but just wow. 🥺 I'm so honored and grateful for every single piece of fanart that has been made. If you haven't already, please go and check it out and show some support to the artists. You can find the fanart here! THANK YOU AGAIN!!

Also, thank you for the lovely asks and comments. I always enjoy reading and responding to them!!

Thank you for everything and I'll be back with part 12 very soon. I wish you all a Happy New Year, filled with all positive things!!! ❤️

-Alondra

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lizzaneia-elizalde · 10 months ago

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What about a yandere king x reader (make or female) and reader is basically a spy, making the king fall in love with them to get information etc, and reader basically tries to kill the king in his sleep but he lives cause he's a warrior at heart 💪(bbg energy lol) and basically what the king would do in that situation

An extremely cliche scenerio

Yandere! Male! King x Gn! Spy! Reader

Ugh Uni just started last week, and it was not... Fun.

One of our classes start at 7:30, and my Uni is like 30minutes-1hour far from my house so AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Anyways, there's no classes today so I got to actually write.

I got quickly uncomfortable writing this HAHAHAH damn. So, if noncon is not your tea, or you're looking for a fluffy fic, I suggest you don't read this one. I'm serious. This is not romantic in any way.

Yandere! King name: Soma

TW: NonCon

At Saphiri, there's a lot of Kingdoms and Sultanates, and a handful of Empires. One of the Kingdoms is called the Caelum Kingdom.

It's a newly established Kingdom, and was once a sizable city without a nation. Built from the foundations of a trading center.

It's a Kingdom formed on an archipelago separated by streams of salt water and fresh water in between their islands. A tight knit community, they thrive in tourism, trading, and textile export. They were honestly on a breakthrough to become an Empire, and it was just a matter of time.

Caelum has been led by the Elara family for generations upon generations. They were the first to discover the island, to establish itself as a city, and a kingdom as they led and oversaw the whole archipelago.

And currently, it's led by Soma Elara, the 3rd born crown prince and now the King of Caelum.

Soma, being the 3rd born, didn't really have that much chance on the throne. That, and his siblings, especially the first born, were smart and all had a chance at taking the throne.

He hated it dearly.

His mother, the second Queen after the previous died, is a greedy woman.

She sees Soma as a tool, and wanted him to succeed the throne.

If not... Let's just say the back of his legs will have more scars decorated on them.

Soma suffered abuse at the hand of his mother who wanted him to catch the attention of the King. And him, conditioned by his abusive upbringing, caught the want for power from his mother.

Ego and Pride. Those two prospects were pummeled into Soma's mind. Nobody can become the King. Only he is worthy of the throne.

So, he became the perfect prince. Nevermind that he orchestrated events in which it would humiliate his siblings. That's irrelevant. What's important is him.

The perfect gentleman with the wits of a genius, he became the crown prince when the selection came.

And, to solidify his place...

His older siblings were pronounced dead due to "freak accidents". One was devoured by sea monsters, the other was torn apart by demons. The younger ones were lucky, they only got to be a bit disabled due to "their own faults at being clumsy".

To not raise suspicion, of course Soma got hurt. Dead almost, but he miraculously recovered! How delightful!

The poor scapegoat is the youngest. And, as she got executed, Soma had a cold look of arrogance on his face.

The Queen?

She's afraid of the monster she created. She wanted a King, not a tyrant.

And, as she trembles when her friends tell her how good of a King her son is, Soma glares at her coldly from the balcony, daring her to speak ill of him.

Years passed, and Soma is now of marriageable age at 25.

His advisers told him to find a Queen, but he refuses to do so.

He's thinks having a Queen would make him look weak in the eyes of people.

So, why get a Queen when he can be an absolute Patriarch?

His Pride cannot allow for a potential weakness.

Not until a certain new person entered the palace as a stableperson...

Soma is welcoming foreign envoys to his palace, in which they would have a inter-country peace talks about a certain Emperor who is wreaking havoc amongst other kingdoms in search of a knight. They said that she was the supposed to be Empress, but fled the Empire.

Even one of the Dukes there, Duke Eros, is here to talk about the man.

As Soma guides the envoys to the palace grand meeting room, a certain servant caught his eyes.

They were frolicking with his horse, who was known to be too stubborn for its own good. Heck, this horse needs coaxing from Soma even just to let him ride on it.

But this stableperson was just... Hugging and petting his horse without any kind of violent reaction.

Honestly, Soma's ego was bruised.

His eyebrows furrowed as he led the envoys to the meeting hall once more.

He needs to know who this person is.

After quite the gruelling three hours of a collective disbelief over the actions of the Emperor Callisto, Soma got out of the meeting room and bid a good day to the envoys. Without any more distractions, he marched to the stables to find the person.

There, he saw you. Brushing the coat of his horse ever so gently and with a hum.

Oh he's annoyed.

Again, how can this pride filled horse just... Let's you be?

"State your name."

Your head, that was hidden due to being on the other side of the horse, popped out of the frame and he lets out a confused look.

You look so... Cute and innocent with those sparkling eyes that held so much affection for the horse in front of you.

"Oh! Your majesty!" You bowed. Even your voice sounds so sweet. "My name is Y/N. I'm not unworthy to meet you but..."

You looked up at him, eyes sparkling once more but now, with affection for him.

Oh?

"But I am so glad to meet you, your majesty."

Your voice held so much affection and love for him.

He cleared his throat, a bit awkward.

Sure, people admired him, but these people always held reverence and respect first. But here you are, projecting your affection like this.

His ego was fed immensly.

"You're bold." Soma smirked, "I like that."

He didn't miss the way your eyes widened subtly. Your face glowed with radiance of happiness that he was so sure he got blinded.

"Oh! Oh my..." You held your blushing cheeks, shy. "Thank you, your majesty... Um Oh..."

You bowed and ran away, fully embarrassed.

Soma, surprised, let his guard down a bit as he laughed gently at your antics.

You were like a deer that was curious, then runs away when get caught.

He liked that.

Immensly.

Yet, what he doesn't know, is that you were smirking as you ran away.

You knew that a prideful man like him wouldn't like a strong independent person.

That would just clash with his personality.

But, what if that person was cute, innocent, shy, friendly... Someone who is easily protect-able. Someone who loves them immensely and is shy about it?

It would inflate his ego wildly seeing this naive person love them without a care.

You're a spy sent by the Emperor Callisto in order to find his darling knight here. And, if you can't find her, you just need to send the Emperor information, so that he can infiltrate the Kingdom and wreck havoc just to lure out the knight.

Honestly, the Emperor scares you. Who's crazy enough to wage countless wars just to find his woman?

Or does he delight in bloodshed and finding his darling is just an excuse?

Who knows, but you knew you have to kill Soma after you extracted enough information from him to start the war inside the Kingdom.

Starting with capturing the heart of the Prideful King.

"Soma!"

You ran to Soma and hugged him tightly. A happy smile on your face with a blush well orchestrated that you know he loves.

Soma smiles and kisses the top of your head before continuing to talk to his Prime Minister.

In those two months that you were here, you painstakingly captured Soma in your hands. Continuing to act as the naive person who doesn't know noble etiquette, you were a breath of fresh air in the uptight palace.

The servants love you, the other nobles look longingly your way, wanting to act as carefree as you.

And Soma? He's head over heels for you.

Yet, in his mind, you were the one in love. Not him. He loves having you by his arms, with you just loving him affectionately and being there to relieve his stress.

You were promoted to consort immediately once you confessed to him fully, and was now a precious being inside the Kingdom.

After all, this King who doesn't want marriage, with ego so high people swore it was through the heavens, suddenly had a consort on their way to become his royal partner.

Soma gave you everything. He loves giving you gifts, asserting dominance as he spoils you greatly.

And, as his reward, you would pour your affection to him while asking about information that he willingly gave.

After all, the foolish king still thinks you won't betray him.

You were only a stableperson, who in their right mind would betray him? Someone who's such a catch?

Sure, he's really handsome. People were lining left and right for his hand in marriage after all. And he spoils you greatly. You won't betray him. He knows it.

But, why are you straddling his lap now, in the middle of the knight, with a knife raised up high?

You were staring at him so coldly, he swore you are a different person.

Anguish, that's what Soma felt first.

He wanted to ask you why, but anger immediately filled him as you swung the knife down.

You're fast, but not fast enough.

He grabbed your hand and gripped it hard, making you seethe and drop the knife hilt down on the bed.

"WHY?!" He screamed, trying to clutch your body to submission. "HOW DARE YOU BETRAY ME!"

You gritted your teeth and tried to thrash away from his hold, not saying anything.

When he got you pinned down on the bed, he grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him.

"Who sent you." He chillingly said that you gulped and shakily answered.

"Emperor Callisto."

Soma stopped, eyes darkened to a degree.

Yet, the words that came out of his mouth was surprising for you.

"So, you're doing this for a man other than me?"

He threw his head back, laughing wildly as his pride got pummeled fully.

First, you made him dance on your palm. Make him spill information and secrets. Let him spoil you greatly. Let you love him freely! And this is how you pay him? A betrayal for another man?

You're such a greedy fucker.

"Oh, cuz he's an Emperor, isn't he?" He spat out, eyes wide with extreme jealousy and unbridled rage. His squeeze on your waist was hurting you immensely. "And i'm not? Is this it? Do you spread your legs to men of higher status huh?"

Your heart dropped when you saw him take off his dress shirt, displaying his carved out muscles that once brought you lust, but now it brought you fear.

Soma gripped your shirt, eyes dead with no light. His mouth a thin light as he captured your lips in a frenzied kiss.

He's no one with pride now. His ego gone.

The betrayal made him crazy as you made him crazy for you.

Placing a palm on your abdomen, he smirks. An evil intent on his eye.

"I'm gonna fuck/breed you into submission." He growls out, grinding his hips against yours. "I'm gonna make you forget the Emperor. I only want you to only live for me, sing and dance for me, I want you to only love me."

And as he relishes in the fear in your eyes, he smirks.

You're his.

And he will break you into being his if you try to get out of his clutches at all.

Remember that.

#lizzaneiaelizalde #yandere writing #yandere imagines #yandere boyfriend #yandere male #male yandere x reader #tw yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere fic

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