#anyway i was right before so counting on being right again

[piastriprincess]

diamond  bright  ,  kiss  me  right ⸻  lando  norris  x  reader  .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  new(ish) relationship , love  confession  ,  reader  is  dramatic  as  hell  but  we  love  her word  count  1.8k author’s  note  requested  by  anon  !  i  have  basically  thought  about  nothing  but  law  school  for  the  past  two  days  but  i  was  missing  being  creative  and  wanted  to  give  you  all  something  fun  .  as  a  number  one  lando  defender  i  LOVED  writing  this  .  i  firmly  believe  he’s  a  little  bit  of  a  simp  when  he  really  likes  someone  …  very  precious  TO  ME  !  as  always  come  tell  me  what  you  think  or  send  me  a  request  !  okay  now  back  to  my  finals  studying  cave  .  love  you  all  <3  title  is  from  claws  by  charli  xcx  !

It was never supposed to be serious. 

You knew Lando Norris. The party-boy reputation, the DJ sets, a different girl at every circuit. When he sidled up to you at a bar in Monaco with that charming grin on his face, those blue-green eyes sparkling like the Mediterranean behind him, you didn’t expect much. An evening of harmless flirting, maybe. He’d buy you drinks. You might go home with him, if he wasn’t unbearably cocky. (You had a feeling he might be.) He was a player — you’d written him off in your mind before he even opened his mouth.

Turns out, you didn’t know Lando Norris at all. 

You didn’t know he would talk to you that entire night, looking ridiculously pleased every time he made you laugh, like he’d won a prize he hadn’t dared to hope for and couldn’t believe his luck. You didn’t know he would walk you home, and instead of asking to be invited up, asking if he could take you to dinner, hands stuck in his pockets so you couldn’t see the way they trembled. You didn’t know that one date would turn into nearly six months of good-morning texts, of coming home to bouquets of flowers on your doorstep just-because, of slow kisses that burned you up from the inside. 

It was like trying on a dress that looked ugly on the hanger and finding it fit you so well you never wanted to take it off again. To make a long story short, dating Lando was kind of your favorite thing. You liked everything about him. And lately, when you lay tangled in his sheets at night, his arms wrapped around your waist and his mouth pressed softly to your shoulder, breathing in his clean, boyish scent, you thought maybe your feelings were more than simply liking him. 

You couldn’t tell him, though, not yet. You cringed at the thought of the awkward silence that would stretch between you if he didn’t say it back. You trusted Lando — he was sweet to you in a way that made your chest ache sometimes, in a way that you couldn’t imagine being fake. But what if the thrill for him was all in the chase, the reckless desire to get something he thought he couldn’t have? What if now that he had you, now that he really knew you, the shine had worn off?

So you kept it to yourself. Let him slow dance with you in his kitchen to a song you’d never heard, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at you. Let him text you stupid jokes and ridiculous strings of emojis in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Let him scrape his teeth over your collarbone and whisper your name like a prayer into the darkness. Loved him quietly, secretly, in the private corner of your heart he hadn’t quite found yet. 

You told yourself it was fine. Things were good between you. Great, even. You weren’t going to mess it up by saying it first. You would wait until he did. 

If he ever did. 

—

The most embarrassing moment of your life starts with a phone call. 

You’re weaving through the aisles of the grocery store, looking for the pasta. Lando’s had a long day of sponsor meetings and media, but insisted that he wanted to see you anyway for your regular date night. You agreed, on the condition you could make him dinner; you like the idea of taking care of him for once, instead of the other way around.  

Your phone starts buzzing, and you pull it out of your pocket, greeted with Lando’s face — some ridiculous photo he’d taken of the two of you early on, your cheeks pressed together like two halves of a heart. You answer without hesitating, shifting the basket of groceries onto your hip. “Hey, you.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” His voice is light, but you can hear the weariness underneath he’s trying to cover up. “Just checking what time you were thinking of coming over. Zak added a last-minute meeting to the calendar, but I should be done by 7.”

You prop the phone between your shoulder and your ear, grabbing a carton of eggs. “That’s fine. I’m just picking up the stuff now, I’ll stop at home and then come to yours.” You lo- You like the domesticity of the conversation. You wonder if someday, you’ll make grocery lists together, wander through the aisles side-by-side.

“My little chef,” he says, warmth in his voice. “Give me a sneak preview of the menu. What are you making me?” 

“Oh, I thought I’d whip up some sushi,” you tease, grin on your face. You can imagine him on the other end of the phone, crinkling his nose in disgust, and the thought lodges in your chest with a far-too-familiar fond ache. 

“Right, I actually have plans. Can’t have you over anymore,” he deadpans, like clockwork. 

You let out a bark of laughter, throwing a box of pasta into your basket. “I’m kidding. Do you think I don’t remember your freakish aversion to fish?”

“Wow. My own girlfriend, bullying me,” Lando sniffs. “Might just die now. Wasting away, starving and alone, with no one to comfort me.” 

“I’m making carbonara, you big baby,” you snort, pressing the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you inspect two different wedges of Parmesan. “And maybe cookies, for dessert.” You place the cheese in the basket, heading for the checkout lane. 

“How’d I get so lucky?” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Oh, you’re a goner. It does something stupid to your heart. 

“Guess the universe knew you needed me,” you reply, unpacking your basket onto the conveyor belt. You’re moving a little slowly; you only have one hand to unpack while the other holds the phone.

He laughs. “Score one for the universe.” His voice drops a little lower, a little softer. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too,” you reply, fumbling for your wallet as the cashier eyes you with increasing impatience, tapping at the card reader. A line has grown behind you, you realize. “Shit. Lan, I gotta go. I love you, bye.” Click.

You slide your sunglasses over your eyes as you step out of the air-conditioned grocery store. The weather as you walk home is warm. The late-afternoon sun hangs low and golden in the sky, and— 

You nearly drop the bag you’re carrying, catching it just before the eggs shatter over the Monaco sidewalk.

You told Lando you loved him. And you didn’t even realize it. 

—

By the time you get home, you’re seriously considering faking your own death.

You stand slumped against the wall of the elevator, cheeks burning with humiliation. You’ve spent the entire walk thinking up what feels like a thousand different ways to play it off — jokes, sarcasm, pretending you were talking to the cashier instead of him. They’re all stupid, all equally unlikely to work on Lando. Maybe the best option is to cancel tonight in favor of lying facedown on your carpet and never moving again. 

The elevator doors ding and slide open. You step off, turn the corner down your apartment hallway, and there’s Lando’s standing on your doorstep. 

For a minute, you think it’s a hallucination, because he can’t actually be in your hallway. He lives on the other side of Monaco, practically, and there’s always traffic. You stare at him, taking in the ruddy cheeks, the way the sweat beads at his temples, how he’s still trying to catch his breath.

He ran here, you realize, heart thudding wildly in your chest. He ran. 

The silence is terrifying, stretching between the two of you like a chasm. Then:

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

“You’re supposed to be in a meeting,” you blurt, eyes wide. 

“Fuck the meeting,” he rasps, gaze trained on you. “Did you mean it?”

You have an out, now. You could lie, say it was unthinking, a force of habit from calling your mother, your friends. You could stay where you are, with those three little words rattling around your head every second of every day, and pretend it doesn’t kill you to hold them back now that you know what it feels like on your tongue. 

Or you could tell the truth, and take the chance that you’ll lose something, because there’s a possibility you could get everything. 

You look at the wild-eyed boy in front of you, who ran across Monaco just to see your face, and you already have your answer. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice small and heart in your throat. “Yeah, I meant it.”

He closes the distance between you in two steps, cups your cheeks in his hands, and smashes his lips to yours. It’s desperate, wild — your teeth knock together, and when you gasp against his mouth, he slides his tongue against yours in a way that makes your knees buckle. You pull him closer, closer, hands fisting into his shirt like he might disappear if you let go. 

“I love you too,” he gasps when you finally break apart, like it’s paining him to hold the words back. “Fuck. Been wanting to tell you for weeks, but I didn’t want to freak you out.”

You laugh wetly, forehead pressed against his. “I love you,” you say, and his whole face cracks into a smile so bright it’s like you’re looking at the sun. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. The look on his face is so obvious, all soft and awestruck. You wonder, distantly how you ever thought he didn’t feel the same.

“I love you,” you repeat, every syllable deliberate, and his arms wrap around you so fiercely it knocks the air out of your lungs. You yelp as he lifts you off your feet, laughing against his neck, your legs kicking uselessly for a second before you just give up and cling to him instead. He carries you to your door like that, arms steady and warm around you, and for one dizzying moment you think you could stay like this — weightless and safe and stupidly, overwhelmingly in love — forever. 

Maybe it was never supposed to be serious. But when he hugs you from behind while you stir the pasta, whispering I love you into your ear for the hundredth time that night like a promise he intends to keep, you seriously don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing it.

[narnian-neverlander]

One Night Stands Only [Jason Todd x GN!Reader]

Summary: It’s obvious Jason only has one night stands - right?

Genre: fluff, tiny bit of hurt/comfort

Word Count: 4,6k

Warnings: none

A/N: Came across the DC Valentine’s special again and… yeah. Decided to do sth about it 💁

If you use any of my works for AI I will hunt you down for sport 😬

“You were right, it’s a nice place.” Bernard nods appraisingly, glancing around the newly opened bookstore, little café situated right in the middle. It’s not a new concept by any means, but the high ceilings and big windows allow the little natural light Gotham has to brighten the entire place and the cozy couches and booths scattered between shelves make for a nice and different respite from what the city usually has to offer. Tim hums in approval as he glances over the menu again. “Yeah; quiet, comfy, good coffee selection. I should thank the person who recommended it.”

“And who was that?” Bernard asks over his shoulder before greeting the girl working the counter and placing their order. Tim’s brows immediately furrow. “It was… I heard about it from… Uhm…” The blonde chuckles as he steers his boyfriend towards a nearby table, eyes flicking towards a corner sofa. “You think it might’ve been your brother?” Tim snorts. “Which one?” He receives a gesture at something behind him as an answer and finds Jason sitting on one of the couches a little further back, book propped open in his lap and a few more stacked on the small, round table in front of him and Tim nods. “Okay, sure, that tracks.” Bernard watches over Tim’s shoulder a few moments longer, then a small smile forms on his face. “I mean, yeah, it is a nice place for a date.”

Tim’s head snaps back around so fast it’s comical, a disbelieving, almost scandalized ‘Date?!’ out of his mouth before he can stop it. Sure enough, someone else has joined his brother, just in the process of placing two cups on the table - or trying to anyways; an almost impossible task with the amount of books already occupying the small space. And while he might not be able to hear either of you, he wouldn’t be part of a family of world class detectives if he couldn’t read lips.

‘Okay, should I just get like, a whole teapot now? How long do you plan on being here?’

‘Eh, not long.’

‘Jay, even you can’t read five books at once.’

‘Watch me.’

A cocky grin and an eyebrow waggle, which earns him an eye roll from the mystery person, albeit attached to a fond smile, followed by a shooing motion to scoot further down the sofa and make space, to which he obliges immediately. Tucked into Jason’s side, his arm coming around your shoulders entirely too naturally as both of you go back to your books, seemingly all settled and content to simply be in the other’s presence like this.

Tim turns back to his boyfriend with brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line and fingers tapping his chin in thought - and Bernard knows exactly what that look means. “Tim, switch outta detective mode. Your brother has a date, so what?” But the gears are clearly already turning and not stopping anytime soon. “It’s just… Jason only has one night stands.” It’s a look somewhere between surprise, disbelief and even offense before the blonde speaks up again. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? You don’t know if—“ Tim vehemently shakes his head to interrupt him. “No, no, I mean that’s literally what he told me; what he tells anyone from the family who asks, as far as I’m aware.”

Bernard’s eyes move over to the couch again, simply observing for a few seconds before he shrugs. “Well, one night stands don’t exclude a date. Or maybe he’s changed his mind. People are allowed to do that, you know.” he says with an easy grin right as the little round sensor on their table starts vibrating, indicating their order is ready. He snatches the device up and stands, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder, effectively gaining his attention. “Either way, I don’t think it’s anything for you to lose sleep over. Or any of your business, to be honest. If he is in a relationship and you don’t know, I’m sure he has his reasons.” He grabs the hand Tim has been busy biting the cuticles off of and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Just let it go, detective.”

With that he’s gone to pick up their drinks, meanwhile Tim almost turns his head to look at the couple again, but ultimately decides against it, instead racking his brain for wether or not any of his other siblings ever mentioned Jason having a partner, but nothing comes to mind. Fingers drumming against the table, he’s one spiraling thought away from getting up and going over there to satisfy the annoying itch of curiosity, but then he watches Bernard walk back towards him, a coffee cup in each hand and a happy smile on his face, his own heart skipping a beat at the sight, and he realizes that his boyfriend’s right. It doesn’t matter right now, nor is it any of his business; if this is someone, important to Jason, he would tell them - in his own time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay I had my doubts, but that was pretty good.” Stephanie states as she stretches her arms over her head, following the crowds out of the theater into the big entrance hall. Cass grins and nods enthusiastically in agreement, while Babs only shrugs and hums in thought. “I mean, sure, it was good; solid storytelling, breathtaking visuals, but—“

“I still think the book’s better, though.”

They all know it’s exactly what the redhead was gonna say, but it doesn’t come from her. Even so, the voice is familiar and all three of their heads snap up almost in unison to look for the source.

A joyful laugh, from around the pillar a little ways in front of them, followed by, “That’s the most Jason thing you could’ve said, ya know.”

Now that voice isn’t familiar to any of them, neither is the person who appears in their field of view a second later, hands linked with someone still hidden by the pillar - not that it’s still much of a secret who it is.

“So? It’s still true.”

The soft grin on the stranger’s face morphs into something more mischievous. “Riiight. I’m sure you hated every second of this. That’s why I saw some tears during a scene or two.”

A squeak as the person gets yanked forward, disappearing from sight again; then laughs can be heard accompanied with, “It was dark, you didn’t see shit.”

The three girls exchange glances, all wide eyes and raised brows. Then they watch the couple walk out into the open of the entrance hall, towards the exit, one of Jason’s arm’s wrapped tightly around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Cassandra is the first to shake off the stupor, a soft smile spreading across her face. “They’re cute together.” she signs. “Yeeeaaahhh…” Steph starts, staring at the doors the two had just left through. “Too cute. And definitely too familiar to just be a one night stand.” The wicked grin is a telltale sign of trouble and Barbara pinches the bridge of her nose because it doesn’t bode well for anybody.

“Just leave it alone, Steph.”

“Oh come on!” the blonde complains. “He’s the one who’s been telling us for ages that he doesn’t do relationships and now he’s out here all sweet and cozy and lovey dovey with someone? And you’re not the least bit curious? I say we investigate!”

Barbara levels her with a blank stare. “And you don’t think that might be the exact reason he doesn’t tell us anything?” Stephanie narrows her eyes at the redhead in suspicion. It’s unlike her, unlike Oracle, not to want all the details of a situation. “Did you already know?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“Because you know everything. And wouldn’t you—“

Barbara doesn’t let her finish. “Would you want a date to be interrupted by your siblings just cause they feel like annoying you? Pestering you about your partner? Jason isn’t the most open, conversational person at the best of times; what do you think is gonna happen if he catches onto your little investigation?”

Steph is about to argue back that sure, while there’s some personal entertainment value involved, she just doesn’t like the idea of someone she cares about being with someone she doesn’t know. What if they’re not a good person? What if they end up hurting him? What if—

Her thoughts are interrupted by a hand on her shoulder and she turns to find herself looking straight into Cass’ dark eyes, her expression serious.

“They really like him, don’t meddle.” she signs.

That takes some of the wind out of Stephanie’s sails and she visibly deflates a bit. “You, uh… you could tell, huh?” The black haired girl nods eagerly and Steph runs a hand through her hair in contemplation. People are an open book to Cassandra, without her ever having to have exchanged a single word with them. If she says you’re fine, that you truly like Jason and have no bad intentions, then… then Steph could leave it alone with an easy conscience. For now, anyways.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you for the assist, Master Richard, but I assure you, while welcome, it was not necessary.”

“It’s fine, Alfred.” Dick reassures while loading the last of the groceries into the back of the car. “I know you can handle the regular grocery shopping just fine, but it’s rare to have that many people at once at the manor; I’m glad to help out.”

The older man gives him a grateful smile in return, then plucks a piece of paper from inside his coat pocket and checks it over. “Oh dear, I do believe I’ve missed something.” he mumbles and hands the list over to Dick. “Master Richard, would you mind looking our current purchase over again, just in case? I’ll be right back.”

He watches Alfred hurry back towards the store, someone else exiting when he’s a few feet away from the entrance. A short exchange, quick thanks presumably, as the person holds the door open for him. Then you steer left, in his general direction and—

Hold on. He wasn’t here when him and Alfred got outta the store a few minutes ago.

The parking lot is situated lower than the actual store, some stairs to his right leading up to the higher level, so Dick takes a few steps backwards and cranes his neck back slightly, a leafless hedge partly blocking his view, but the tall, broad stature clad in a leather jacket and the black and white hair are a dead give away. He’s about to call out, surely his brother just didn’t spot him yet, but someone beats him to it.

“Okay, let’s go home.”

The person who’d just left the store. Most definitely talking to Jason. And you seem more than a little annoyed and exasperated.

Meanwhile his brother looks like he’s trying not to burst out laughing.

“What?” the mystery person barks, eyes narrowed at the tall man suspiciously.

“I know I did not just watch you whack an old lady over the head with a magazine cause she tried to take the steak from you.”

“It was the last one!” you complain and the tension bleeds from Dick’s shoulders as he realizes that this is in no way a serious altercation. “Besides, Constance had it coming, not the first time she tried to pull a stunt like that; she’s a fucking menace to everybody.”

Silence for a few long seconds. Then, “If you laugh right now, I swear to God I’m leaving you out on the street tonight, Todd.”

Jason snorts. “And then who’s gonna make the food you fought so hard to get? Sure as shit not you; last time I left you alone with the stove, I thought Firefly had broken into the apartment.”

Dick watches his brother’s conversation partner huff, arms crossed over your chest in defiance as you stare Jason down - until your shoulders sag in defeat and you break eye contact, because apparently, he’s right. “You’re lucky you’ve got other talents besides just being pretty, you know that?”

Jason takes the bags from you, met with only mild complaints, as he grins. “You think I’m pretty? Aw, thanks, babe.” You roll your eyes at that, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips either way. “Leave the corny flirting to Nightwing, it doesn’t suit you.” And Jason actually has the audacity to scrunch up his face in distaste. “Hey now. I was only teasing you; comparing me to him is a straight up insult, take it back.”

“Make me~” you taunt with a sing-song voice and a mirthful smirk, then take off full speed in the opposite direction, past the store, with Jason hot on your heels not a second later.

And Dick hasn’t seen his little brother wear a smile that big in such a long time, he almost forgets to be offended.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian isn’t sure why he’s even here. It’s not like this has any actual academic value for him.

That’s Chrysaora fuscescens.

Over there, Hippocampus hippocampus.

And that one’s Anguilla dieffenbachii.

He’s studied all these creatures and more before and even if he wouldn’t learn anything new about aquatic dwellers, his father had insisted on him going on this field trip. Something about a chance to ‘improve his social skills’.

Tt.

If that’s the mission he’d been given, he’d succeed. Even if he thought it utterly unnecessary. At least he could do it in the presence of one of the most beautiful creatures on the planet, the mighty—

“Shark! Jason, look, there it is!”

With the level of excitement, one would think it’s coming from a child, but no, it’s very much an adult, standing in front of the big glass tank, in the company of Todd of all people. Damian slows his steps to a halt, coming from one of the smaller side entrances that lead to the huge room, and simply observes from a safe distance.

“Uh huh, I see it. And I feel like now would be a good time to remind you that you have plenty of shark memorabilia and that we’ll simply be walking past the gift shop later.”

An inelegant snort, as the person side eyes him with amusement. “Would now be a good time to remind you that we both know that’s not happening?”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose as he heaves a sigh, but Damian detects no true malice in it. He’s seen him truly irritated, angry - this is nothing of the sort. Fond exasperation, if anything.

“I know they’re nowhere near as dangerous as the media likes to make them out to be,” Jason starts, “but I’m still not sure how you can look at something decidedly dangerous, built for killing, and think it’s… cute.”

The look he receives in return is one Damian can’t quite identify and apparently neither can his brother.

“What?”

“Really? You can’t figure that out?” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head to the side in thought. “Well, I think you should meet my boyfriend, then. Cause ya know, he’s pretty dangerous and rough around the edges, too, and I still think he’s cute.”

Jason mimics your stance as he responds. “Oh, do you now?”

You nod eagerly, grinning ear to ear. “Of course. When he gets up all groggy with a bed head cause he works late? Cute. When he pretends to get annoyed at his best friend cause he called him a silly nickname? Cute. When—“ That’s as far you get, interrupted by your own squeal, as Jason brings one arm around your shoulders to pull you in and smoosh your face against his chest, the other around your waist so you can’t escape. “Yeah, yeah, got it; I think I’ve heard enough about that guy now.”

Meanwhile you’ve managed to gain enough wiggle room to loop your arms around his neck and pull back to look up at him, lopsided, lovesick smile plastered all over your face. “Sorry, I can’t help it sometimes; I love him very much.” And it’s embarrassing, Damian thinks, how fast Jason breaks, all affectionate grin and soft eyes, just because someone is batting their lashes at him. “Well, he’d be a fool not to love you back.”

Damian turns away in disgust right as the couple is about to share a kiss and retreats down the hallway he came from. He’d never taken Todd for a particularly… honorable man, but courting someone he knows to be in a relationship with someone else? That’s a vile breach of trust that he won’t stand for. And, if he bothered to be honest with himself, not something he could actually see Todd engaging in. Despite his many flaws, he’s proven himself a loyal man often enough. But Damian can’t ignore what he heard with his own ears, that would be disregarding incriminating evidence, so he’ll need to have a talk with his father as soon as he gets home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re curled up on the couch book in hand when the front door all but flies open, your boyfriend hurrying inside and immediately locking the door behind him again. Before you even get a chance to greet him, he’s speeding through the rest of the apartment, making sure all the windows are shut tight and locked, too. You’ve put the book away, instead staring at him over the back of the couch with raised, quizzical brows when he comes back down the hallway into the living room, finally kicking off his boots at the entrance and hanging up his jacket. Then he beelines for the sofa, lifting up your legs to make room and plop himself down, settling your legs in his lap before he tips his head back and scrubs his hands over his face with a groan.

“Okay, Jay? I need you to talk to me; what kind of apocalypse should I be preparing for here?”

He doesn’t answer for a few long seconds, simply drops his hands from his face, his fingers coming to draw anxious patterns into your thighs instead. “Yeah, we’re totally busted. They know about you now.” And as miserable as he looks, as much as you know that spending time with his family is often draining and challenging for him, you can’t help the relieved laugh that bubbles up out of your throat, because with they way he’d just put your apartment on complete lockdown, you’d been expecting something - or someone - way worse.

Still chuckling, you grab one of his hands and squeeze. “Sweetheart, your family literally consists of detectives. In my opinion, we’re damn lucky to have even made it this long without them knowing.” He sighs, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I’m not convinced Babs didn’t know before tonight. That woman knows everything.” While you’ve only heard stories and seen some pictures of the redhead, you have absolutely no trouble believing that. “So what happened, anyways?”

He mulls it over for a moment. “Well, I think it started when Damian tried to have me disowned.” You almost choke on nothing but air, a sound somewhere between a snort, a cough and a laugh leaving you. “Okay, you’ve completely lost me, babe.”

“Honestly, I was mostly just surprised I’m even still in the will.” A not so gentle nudge of your foot, an annoyed whine of his name because sure, you’d play along for now. Let him get the jokes and sass out of his system and pretend that you don’t see that the lazy grin he gives you is forced. That you don’t feel one his feet tapping the floor anxiously. That you don’t notice the way his eyes keep flicking towards the window and the door, like he’s expecting them to be kicked down any second now. “Apparently Damian saw us at the aquarium together and somehow assumed I’m your, uh, your mistress? And thought it dishonorable enough to bring up disowning me because of it.” Admittedly, picturing that elicits a real laugh, one you try to hide, but the next part still comes out as more of a wheeze than anything else. “And he just… what? Brought that up casually over dinner?” Jason shrugs. “Basically. Tried to talk my way outta it, but turns out some of the others saw us together, too, and things just spiraled from there.” It’s quiet for only a moment, then you, very much still intent on helping him distract himself from whatever it is that’s truly eating at him, but mixed with just a tad of entertained curiosity now, hit him with, “Well, yeah, makes sense; you have been getting sloppy.” His head shoots up from the back of the couch so fast you’re afraid his neck might snap and he actually looks offended. “How exactly is this my fault?”

“Come on, Jay. First couple of months of this relationship you wouldn’t even leave the house with me. Now? Grocery shopping, the movies, café dates, the aquarium - we’re barely apart, so it really was only a matter of time till they figured it out.” Rolling his eyes, he slides further down his seat and pouts, fully aware that technically you are correct - doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Great, helpful as ever, darling. And what do you, in your infinite wisdom, suggest we do about this now?” You regard him in silence for a moment: how he fiddles with your fingers, the set of his jaw, the furrow in his brows, the way every muscle in his body seems tense.

“Hey…” you murmur gently, interlacing your fingers. “Why do we have to do anything about this? What are you so worried about? I promise not to bite them when I meet them. Unless you want me to.” Careful prodding, still interlaced with humor - to let him know he can talk to you about it, but only if he wants to. He huffs out a quiet laugh, giving your intertwined hands a squeeze. “You can be such a gremlin sometimes, do you know that?” Bringing a hand to your chest in mock offense, you grin at him. “Oh, you do not get to call me a gremlin when you’re the one who consistently feeds me after midnight and gets me plenty wet.” The following eye brow waggle from your side is what breaks him; a full blown, joyful laugh as he shifts, picking you up and depositing you on his lap sideways, his arms encircling your middle, some of the previous tension visibly leaving his face. “See, that’s the exact kinda shit I don’t need you saying around them, cause I’ll never live that down.” Humming in thought, you get comfortable in your new position, resting your head in the crook of his neck. “Sounds like a you problem, though.” It earns you a playful pinch to your sides that has you batting at his arms and hands to try and get him to stop; a fruitless effort of course, but he eventually settles his hands back on your hips. In turn, you place a hand on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat; most definitely too fast for simply fooling around with and teasing you. He’s not just worried, he’s scared, so you decide the time for games is over. “I’m being serious, though, what’s the matter? This isn’t anything you actually need to be concerned over, is it? It’s really not that big of a deal. So what if they know about me? So what if I eventually meet them now; not like it’s gonna change anything between us.” It’s small and if you didn’t know him as well you did, you probably would’ve missed it or written it off as irrelevant: the way he ever so slightly flinches at the last part.

Bingo.

But you don’t push, you know better. You let him get his thoughts in order, shifting restlessly beneath you while he does and let him answer in his own time.

“It’s stupid…”

“It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.”

A sigh, then you feel him rest his cheek on the top of your head.

“I dunno. Being around you is always so… easy. Comforting. Being with them isn’t. It’s complicated and it’s messy and overall just exhausting, most of the time. It’s not all bad, just…” He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to get rid of an onslaught of memories; good or bad, you’re not entirely sure. “I guess I just don’t want them rubbing off on you, is all.” Pulling back to look at him, you find his eyes elsewhere, anywhere but you, desperate to avoid your scrutiny. “In other words, you’re worried your relationship with them, their opinions of you, are gonna affect mine, right?” He still can’t bring himself to look at you when he mumbles, “Basically…”

You shuffle about until you get your legs back under you, straddling him and cupping his face in your palms, running your thumbs along his cheek bones until he willingly brings his unnaturally green eyes back to yours and you feel like your heart might crack at the uncertainty you find there. “You’re forgetting that, aside from you, I’m probably the most stubborn person in this city; once I’ve made up my mind, it’s hard to change it. If anything, you should be worried about me not shutting the fuck up about how amazing and wonderful you are around them.” He scoffs and tries to turn his head out of your hold, but you refuse to let go and press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose instead, effectively stunning him into obedience. “Uh uh, you’re not going anywhere, I’m not finished yet. I’m on your side, okay? Even if it feels like nobody else is. I’m judging you based on my experiences with you, not theirs. And sure, not everything’s been great; you’re not perfect and neither am I, but that’s human. We live and we learn and we fuck up and then we try again. And I know you try, Jason. Every day, I know you’re trying. Trying to navigate a second life you never asked for. Trying to live in a body that never feels right, no matter how much time passes. Trying to mend the bonds with a family that more often than not still sees the ghost of a boy looking back at them, instead of the man you’ve become. Trying to make things better in this city, so that no one has to go through the same things you did. And nothing your family could say or do or show me is ever gonna change what I see with my own eyes.” He’s been silent this entire time, letting you speak, but you watched his shoulders slump, the tension that’s kept him wound up like a spring finally dissipating, and his own hands are now gently holding onto your wrists.

“And what do you see?”

It’s barely above a whisper, so quiet, you almost miss it despite how close you are.

You don’t have all the answers. You don’t actually know what meeting his family is gonna be like, how it might affect your relationship, but this? Oh, this you can answer just fine.

“A man who’s scarred and deeply flawed, but is still trying to do better, to be better. A man who wants to make up for the mistakes he did make, but sometimes nobody cares to listen. A man who, for all his efforts to appear ruthless, is still the most caring person I know. I see a man who, despite life never having been kind to him, retained a kind soul.”

And with the way he’s looking at you right now? Nothing but wonder and admiration and affection written all over his face? How could you not be sure about what you’re gonna say next? Sure that no one, absolutely no one, would ever be able to change your mind about him.

“I see the love of my life.”

[b1eedthefreak]

reader with bf daryl who is obsessed with her tits and loves to suck and play with them, but also likes to lay his head and squeeze them in a non sexual way?😇

⌇ Lay Right Here

⌇ Daryl Dixon x Reader

summary ⌇ Daryl comes home tired and needy, and your chest just happens to be his favorite pillow

warnings ⌇ fluff, cuddling, Daryl being obsessed with reader’s chest in a very non sexual way

⌗ word count ⌇1.5k

a/n ⌇hello everyone i am trying a new layout this is my test post if this looks ugly i’ll cry. anyways i had fun with this request

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You were stretched out on the couch, flipping lazily through an old magazine someone had scavenged a few weeks back. The late afternoon sun was spilling through the windows, painting everything golden, and you were so lost in the soft quiet that you didn’t hear Daryl come in at first.

The front door clicked shut and heavy boots padded across the floor. Before you could even turn your head, a familiar weight dropped down next to you. You smiled when you felt Daryl’s scruffy face nuzzle into your chest, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like he hadn’t seen you in months.

“Hi Daryl,” you laughed, setting your magazine aside. “Rough day?”

He just grunted, burying his face deeper into you.

You giggled and ran your fingers through his messy hair, feeling the way he melted instantly under your touch. “You’re like a big dog, y’know that? A big dirty dog.”

He mumbled something against your skin. You caught pieces of it , “Tired.” “Missed ya.” “Smell good.”

You smiled even bigger, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer. His hand came up, sliding lazily over your side and finding its way to your chest, giving it the gentlest squeeze like it was his favorite thing in the world.

You shook your head fondly. “You’re obsessed,” you teased.

“Damn right I am,” Daryl muttered without missing a beat, squeezing you again for good measure. “Best pillow I ever had.”

You laughed so hard your shoulders shook. “I’m serious! You’re worse than a teenage boy.”

Daryl finally lifted his head, just enough to look at you. His blue eyes were heavy lidded and warm, the corners crinkling from his sleepy smile. “Ain’t just ‘bout sex. Jus’ like holdin’ ya.” His hand squeezed again, this time more gently, like he wanted to prove it wasn’t about anything dirty , just comfort.

Your chest ached in the sweetest way. You cupped his jaw with your hand, stroking your thumb across his stubbled cheek.

“I like holdin’ you too,” you whispered.

Daryl’s smile widened a little. He dropped his head back down, pressing a soft kiss right over your heart through your shirt. “Could lay here forever,” he mumbled, his voice low and rough and full of something so tender it made you want to cry.

“Don’t let me stop you,” you said, closing your eyes and letting your fingers tangle in his hair again. “Not like I was gonna get up anyway.”

He chuckled against your skin. “Good. Stay right here with me.”

You stayed like that for a long time, just breathing together, the house warm and silent around you. Every so often he would mumble something — little praises you barely caught. “So soft…” “Smell like heaven…” “Mine…”

At one point, you shifted a little and he immediately grumbled, tightening his arms around you like a possessive bear.

“You gonna let me move at all, Dixon?” you teased, laughing.

“Nope,” he said stubbornly.

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “God! you’re needy.”

He smirked into your chest. “Only for you baby.”

Your heart practically melted into a puddle. You kissed the top of his head, feeling the way he smiled against you.

Minutes turned into hours. The sun started dipping lower, painting the room in shades of orange and pink. Neither of you moved, not wanting to break the spell.

After a long stretch of silence, Daryl finally spoke again, his voice rough and quiet.

“Gonna marry ya someday.”

You tilted his chin up gently so you could see his face. His blue eyes were serious, his mouth soft and a little nervous, like he was scared you might laugh.

Instead, you smiled so big it hurt and whispered, “Yeah? You better.”

His whole face lit up, the tiniest smirk tugging at his mouth. He ducked his head back down, hiding it in your chest again like he was a little embarrassed.

You hugged him tighter, running your fingers over the back of his neck. He stayed there, holding you close like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

When he spoke next, it was even lower, just a breath against your skin;

“‘M gonna take real good care of ya… startin’ with gettin’ you upstairs… and outta this shirt.”

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[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

The GDA scrambles to recoup losses. Relationships begin and end- badly.  [Invincible Variants x reader]

TW: I dunno. It's! Uhm! Ref, you shouldn't say that!

[Part one]  [4]  [Ao3] [6]

5 * Godspeed, Kid [8k]

"You broke my heart, 

I hope you die,

Emptier than how I feel inside,

And when you lay your head to rest at night I hope that you,

Never fall asleep when you think of all the things you do."

Plate Glass Apology - Apes of the State

        "He's not even gonna see it." Your nosy co-worker says. 

        "It's the principle." You say, pouring the milk slower, getting to the bottom of the pitcher where the thick foam sat. "Can't work up the guts to say something so," your words ebb as you delicately shake the pitcher, letting a glob of foam sit atop the caramel latte, "I'll do this until he notices." With a flick of the wrist, you strike the glob through. Leaving a heart of milk foam you hide under a white lid. 

        "Black Americano, London fog, and a caramel latte for Nolan." You push the drinks out all at once. A teenage boy slides off a tall chair at the center table in the lobby. You avert your gaze as he grabs the order, muttering thanks. You watch him walk away, feeling heat in your cheeks and butterflies in your belly. 

        He slides into the chair, passing out drinks. Not taking the lid off the cup, not noticing again. It's whatever, you're too scared to say what you want. Too shy. What were the chances anyway? Cute boy and a yearning barista? 

        His brick wall of a father catches your eye. Mustache twitching up at you before he turned to his son. He speaks low, so low you can't hear.  "I think that girl likes you, Mark." 

        Mark stiffens, going bright red. "T-there's no way you know that."

        Nolan sips his Americano. Nothing close as good to the real thing, but passable for a peaceful morning with his family. "Oh, I know."

        His mother laughs into her palm. The order printer spits out a ticket, you get back to work. 

        At some point, your manager sets you behind the register. The Saturday mid-morning rush is killing you. Understaffed, flooded with orders. The customers keep coming with no end in sight. You're the only cashier, and the people are getting impatient. 

        You can feel the waves of contempt wafting off everyone behind your current customer. Some middle-aged nobody who was currently driving you insane. "I want something hot, no, cold, wait, mmm, maybe hot." You make recommendations. "It has to be keto. Are any of your syrups gluten-free? What's the calorie count per squirt of syrup? Do you have sugar-free milk?" You try and try to steer her in the right direction but she won't listen. The line is growing and honestly, you want it to move so you can talk to the boy in line. Holding his cup, blushing, looking at his feet, then at his parents for moral support. 

        You shouldn't do it. Using your powers in public was a terrible idea, it always was. People don't much like mind-fuckers. You'd been demure using them. Controlling people wasn't right, it felt icky. You were determined to be good and very, very normal. 

        But you have no choice. She's not shutting her fat lip and you wanted to flirt. 

        You lean forward past the register, whispering, "You're gonna get a black coffee. Gonna love it so much you'll tip me twenty bucks. Then you're never coming back."

        Her eyes glazed. "One black coffee, please."

        "Coming right up!"

        He's two customers behind. You get them out of the way. Lean on the register, like you're too cool for fast food- or is it fast coffee? 

        He sets the cup down, looking anywhere but at you, "Tell me if I'm being weird or crazy or whatever but uhm..." He lifts the lid. The heart had melted into the latte. Oh, he hadn't seen it, had you just forgotten the caramel syrup? He didn't actually want to talk to you. 

        Across the cafe, his father loudly cleared his throat. 

        Mark forced himself to make eye contact. "Uh. I just wanted to say this is like, the best latte I've ever had and I uhm- wanted to give you something." He fumbled with a scrap in his back pocket. Pushing it into the tip jar. You see numbers hastily written on the back of his dad's receipt. Then he's flipping open his thin wallet, "I'm also gonna actually tip too don't worry, I'm not that full of myself."

        Your fingers fish the number out the jar. "This is more than enough for me." The words hit him like a mallet. He almost jumps out his shoes. Horrified a girl actually flirted with him.

        And that's how it started. A nudge from Nolan turned into texting late at night about shitty minimum wage jobs. Turned into his mom driving you to the theaters, to a first kiss for you both, after seeing a terrible adaptation of a comic book. Turned into wanting to go to college together, you'd never even thought about college before. Turned into him saying he'd help you figure out the money situation. You lived alone as a teenager, circumstances, life and powers you didn't tell him about. Turned into a single job for Machine Head, offering enough money for tuition.

        The funny thing was, Mark gave you his number the same day you caught Machine Head's camera eye. Hell, in the same five minutes. He'd been right behind the lady you'd hypnotized. Came up to the counter when the rush died two hours later. Long after he'd left, come back just to give you a sleek business card. His number, the address of his high rise suite.

        "If you ever wanna actually do something with your life." He'd said. And with him and Mark, you actually started to consider it. 

        ***

        He's leaned over her body, bandaged and still. Pulse slow but strong. Leg in a sling hung off the ceiling. His new mask resting on the edge of her bed. Not looking up when Cecil walked in, followed by you. 

        "I already told you, I'm not leaving her." He says. Back moving as he speaks. So much wider than when you knew it. Voice deeper, matured, and so tired. 

        "Yeah, yeah, they could come busting down the door any minute to kill her to get at you." Cecil says, "But I just hit them with all I've got and they're fine, Mark. So please, turn around and talk to us."

        "No."

        Cecil turns to you, jutting his jaw toward Mark. Telling you to talk. You already know your powers won't work on him. You were still weak from Narcan. Exhausted from being passed around and almost dying. So God forgive you if you don't speak with good faith.

        "You're pathetic."

        At that, he whips around. Brows twisting. "Who-" He stares, taking seconds to process, too long. You're almost unrecognizable. No light in your eyes. No teenage awkwardness. No smile. "If you're bringing her out to convince me, the answer's still no." He turns back to Eve. You're not important enough to look at longer than twenty seconds. There was none of the barely contained want you saw in the alternate Marks, no immediate recognition. 

        Your fists ball. You were just a chess piece of Cecil's to him? 

        "He almost fucking vaporized me with nukes and they're fine." You would play the role of pawn just fine. Your anger at the situation was genuine, leading you right into Cecil's trap. "If that won't work, nothing will. The planet needs you."

        "Then Eve needs me more than ever." He says hollowly.

        You want to vomit. All over him and his puppy-dog eyes. All over her and her pretty face, and altruistic personality- always thrown in your face on the news. 

        It had nothing to do with the current happenstance but it comes ripping out of you.

        "Do you even care that you ruined my life?" He doesn't respond. You want to hit something. Break someone's bones. You remember Seventeen falling to the ground dead. The swirl of emotions you felt. You think if you did it again, there'd only be one emotion. 

        You go on, watching for a reaction. A shoulder slump, a sigh, anything. "I owed Machine Head after the job because I didn't deliver. You threw me in jail. He protected me. I owed him more, and if I didn't pay up, he'd kill me. Do you even know what I had to do? Did you ever think about it? I never even got to finish High School, Mark!"

        He doesn't flinch. Braced for a lashing. You realize then and there. He'd must've known you'd gone back. He worked for the GDA long enough for someone to fill him in. Flew over the city all the time. Knew people who knew people. He'd have heard it through the grapevine at some point. He'd only come looking the once. Maybe thinking to himself in his stupid puppy brain that you were better off without him. That you could make your way in the world. That you didn't want to see him and weren't totally drowning and in such desperate need of saving.

        "Look at me." You try to grasp for power that doesn't come, you could make him, but you can't. Your lips wobble. Cheeks burning with humiliation. Not only because he wouldn't look at you but Cecil was there, witnessing the whole thing. You turn your mind to something more pressing, another thing that makes you so angry you want to rip off heads. "If you're gonna fuck the planet over, have the decency to look at me and tell me you're not helping."

        His head dips. Leaning closer into Eve's orbit. "No. The answer's no. I can't leave her."

        He won't look at you. You're nothing but an unimportant memory. Something in you breaks. The onslaught of Marks you didn't even know cared about you more. But what had you been expecting from him? Hope for a romance re-lit? Hope to have the balls to kill him? You don't know.

        You hold back tears. Force your quavering lip into a hard line. "Fine. You won't do shit? I will." Cecil looks at you, brow raised as if he wasn't wanting for one of you to step up.

        "I'll figure it out." You tell him as you storm out the room. Unable to hold the tears any longer. 

        ***

        You're gone. Gone. Blasted to dust. Dead, again.

        He knew the trap was coming, but he couldn't stop it and save you at the same time. He thought he could be stronger, faster, but that damn noise got him. Made his ears pulse and bleed even with the noise cancellation device in his suit. Hell, part of him hoped since the others seemed to care so much, maybe they'd stop the bombs.

        Now he's in the pit that used to be an island. Ocean water roaring down the ledge. Looking for pieces of you. But there is nothing but water and rock.

        He checks his tracker, coming to his senses after minutes of reeling. Your dot doesn't appear. Your vitals no longer showing in the corner of his lenses. 

        He wants Angstrom to appear. Wants to rip that engorged brain off his scalp. He should've known it was a ruse, a sick joke because you were dead everywhere but here, and no way in hell would he- or any of them- be so lucky as to hold you again. 

        Angstrom doesn't come. Nor do anymore bombs. The planet is out of defenses. 

        One by one the Marks give up. Speeding off the to nearest city to level or person to kill. Blaming this world for false hope. Leveling it more than it already had been. Suppose that's what Angstrom was planning. For that, he'd kill the bastard whenever it was time to meet at the rendezvous.

        ***

        There is nothing to do but wait. Cecil withheld the remaining heroes in safe houses across the globe. The ones that didn't listen, the ones that thought letting the Invincible's scourge the planet was stupid, never came back. Cecil's plan was simple, wait for it to be over. He'd tried taking them down one by one, tried en masse, tried everything but only a handful fell. The remaining were too much for any defense the planet had and the real Invincible wasn't lifting a finger to help. 

        So Cecil made every other hero follow suit. Biding his time. Waiting to launch the rescue missions rather than offense. 

        He did things where he could. Trying to contain. Remotely launching tear gas specially compounded to fuck up a supe, but of course it did nothing to Viltruimtes. Playing that awful sound that made Mark weak. Except most speakers on the planet couldn't play it at the correct pitch, so the most it did was cause a minor annoyance before the speaker was smashed.

      Psycopomp watched as you avoided everybody. As you went unpunished for your crimes, many of the same things she'd done, but shit. Making people do as you said was just immoral. At least with the dead, they couldn't feel or even know what was happening. 

        Cecil wanted Psychopomp to help. To zap her into areas under attack for her to raise the re-dead re-animen. She refused because he let you walk free. 

        Then he'd laid it on her like this, "There's only a handful of people on the planet left with a chance of killing any of the alternate Mark Graysons. She took one out single-handedly, that's not for nothing. Listen, if you help us we can think about opening an investigation on (Y/n) but as long as this lasts, we need her." 

        Psychopomp agreed. Glazing over the word think. She was sent into the field, one disaster after another raising the dead undead. Watching them get killed again and again. Being zapped back to the GDA just to be sent somewhere else in the next five minutes, rinse, repeat. 

        Day one was bad, day two was worse, and on the dawn of three the destruction started to lull. Cecil lost more employees than he'd thought possible. The hospital wing keeping Eve alive was down to three staffers working round the clock. They'd drop of exhaustion any moment and they'd all be fucked because Mark, the real Mark, would be so angry he'd finish the destroying the planet before his alternates could.

        Then there was you. 

        Hovering around the remains of the GDA headquarters like a ghost. Useless because you didn't understand military strategy. Petty gangwar bullshit didn't apply anywhere here. Nowhere else to go because there's nowhere to go, as if Cecil would let you leave anyway. Keeping you around as a last resort, plans tumbling around in his balding head. Nothing solid enough. 

        So he let you wander, let you have time alone in the one working bathroom, washing your body with hand soap and mineral thick water. Didn't bat an eye when you pulled the armor off a guard's corpse. Even down to the white tank top undershirt and shorts he wore under. Least you had the decency the put the guy's hands over his dick.

        Cecil wasn't blind or stupid. You dressing yourself in the black and green armor of a GDA solider was no coincidence. There were plenty of dead lab techs to take normal clothes off. 

        You looked for nearly an entire day for a pulse rifle that was fully loaded and still shot. Most of the dead guards fought for their lives before being cut down. You could shoot, but had no idea how tech this advanced was reloaded. Hell, just holding the rifle felt awkward compared to your six-shooter. It wouldn't be enough and you knew it. But you didn't know what else you could do. 

        You practiced firing, using guns with less ammo. It was the only thing that felt useful to do. The only thing that felt right, because marching into the hospital wing and shooting Mark wasn't an option.

        The last of the engineering staff reverse-engineered the remnants of the cuff they'd broken off your ankle. Barely. The signal was spotty, and his location was never exact but they had an estimate of where one of them was at all times. 

        It rose alarms when his signal was stopped above the Grayson household. Cecil cut to the closest working cameras he had, which happened to be real close since he had dozens of eyes on the Grayson's since Nolan went rogue. 

        The tracked one wasn't alone. Hovering over his childhood home was Mark, Mark, Mark, and Mark, and a handful more Mark's. They were speaking so far from the nearest micro-mic the sensor could barely pick up the words.

        "--s taking him so lon-"

        "How is he late? He--  -teleport."

        "Stop whini--"

        You push off the wall. You'd been waiting. Watching. Hoping a handful of them would group up again and you could kill Mark over and over and over. All you could think about these last two days was Mark. His back toward you. How long it'd taken him to recognize you. The memory of meeting at your shitty job. The anger boiled you alive. Made you stupid enough to stay with the GDA and not move into a safe house. Though Cecil never suggested you did. Part of him hoped you could do something.

        Their conversation carried on. You moved to Cecil's side, pulling the dead guard's helmet over your head. "I'm going." Your tone leaves no room for argument.

        He should argue. You're barely a real adult. So much to live for. So easy to kill in a Viltrumite's hands. But he doesn't, because he knows you killed one of them, you could kill more. Rest and rage have fueled you with diesel and you're ready to light the match. 

        "Are you sure?" Donald turns from the screen, monitoring the Marks. "There's no guarantee we can get you out once we send you in." The teleporter was fixed for a few hours, but sending in all those re-animen for the bombing? Fucked it over again. The first few times they sent out Psychopomp, she was fine, but the last trip went bad. You vaguely heard she refused to go back out into the field. That the teleporter didn't work when it was supposed to, that she got hurt by one of them.

       But at least she found Caligula while running for her life. Fuzzball came bounding up to her, happy to run beside her. She was smug when she'd come back despite shaking and being paler than an eggshell. Caligula sometimes came to you for love, but it wasn't enough to heal the chasm that'd opened in your chest. You shooed him away, no love to give. Psychopomp took the role of mommy dearest.

        Fine by you. 

        You weren't actively suicidal, just angry. Spiteful. In your wildest dreams, you thought of people praising you for bravery. Cash prizes and a penthouse. Everyone knowing Mark didn't go to the final confrontation, but you had. He let you go alone so he could be sad at his girlfriend's bedside. 

        Then again, you didn't give two horse shits about saving the planet. You knew you wouldn't live to see glory and that was fine. You wouldn't know how to live with glory. To uphold a shiny new hero status. You were bad and couldn't conceive of any other way you could be. 

        "I'm sure." You tilt your head toward the teleporter, "Are you going to let me go or not?" 

        Cecil's scarred lip twitched. "It's a death sentence." His words weren't meant to convince you away. They were a warning label slapped down for legal reasons.

        "I know." You made your way to the teleporter. The men trailing behind you. 

        You look back at the screen. The Marks chatter on. You let the rifle rest on your knee while your hand goes to your pocket.

        "You should know drugs like that don't actually enhance powers." Cecil nods to your soldier pants where you'd stuff the last two bottles of codeine atop your phone, wallet, keys, other odds and ends. As if you'd need them where you were going. Old habits, they say.

        "They do for me." Your foot hovers over the teleporter edge.       

        "We've done extensive testing on drugs combined with powers. Enhancements are always from a placebo." Donald says, robo jaw clinking. 

         You don't want to believe him, but you do. Because the 'power-up' was never consistent. You drop the bottle back into your pocket. Just another thing you had hoped for that wasn't true. "Well, thanks for ruining the placebo."

        "Doesn't help anyone if you overdose," Cecil says gruffly.

        A wry smile ticks your lip under the gray-tinted visor. "You saying you believe in me?"

        "You're the last chance we've got, so I have to." He can't see but you roll your eyes.

        Your foot comes down on the teleporter platform. You turn to the tech running the thing, "Get me close enough to shoot but not close enough to immediately die." They nod. 

        "Hey!" Her voice cuts the room, the finality of the moment. Psychopomp weaves around Cecil and the techies. Right side of her supersuit torn away. Banadages wrapped tight around the stump that came a few inches off her shoulder. Entire arm gone. You hadn't noticed, so lost in your own head.

        "You said there'd be an investigation." She says before Cecil tells her to go lay down. The medical staff barely saved her life yesterday. 

        "I said I'd think about it." Cecil says, waving to a tech to get started on powering up the teleporter. 

        She snarls, rearing on you. "So what? You're just gonna leave on some suicide mission before telling me where my brother is? Like it'll make up for all the shit you've done? You a hero now?"

        You blink slowly at her. Unbothered because so much worse had happened these last days you couldn't bring yourself to care. Around you, the machine rattles and glows. 

        "Tell me!" She snaps. 

        "If he wasn't dead before, he's dead now." Not an admission, by any means, but enough for her to put the puzzle pieces together.

        Just before you're zapped away to your early grave, Cecil says, "Godspeed, kid."

        The light around you apexes. You can't see anymore. "Fuck you."

        You hear her voice, not letting you get the last word in, "No!"

        You're shoved backwards. A hand on your arm. Then you're both gone. Leaving Cecil to care for the cat, already winding around his legs.

        ***

        Back-first, you hit the pavement. Head cracking against the ground. Armor absorbing the blow. 

        Psychopomp peeled herself up wobbily on her one arm. Shoddy supersuit no match for the unpaved road.

        She's going to scream questions about her brother. Going to call their attention to you. You do what needs to be done-  crack the side of her head with the rifle's butt before she can even open her mouth. Her eyes roll back as she goes limp on top of you. You look to the sky and find nothing. Carefully, you slide out from under her and begin to walk that painfully memorable trip to the Grayson household.

        You'd recognized it immediately on the GDA screens. Remembered making out on Mark's bed. Dinner with his family. Texting him while you were in the same room, giggling about it.

        The world around you is ashes. Most of the fires already gone out, all the houses eaten up. You withhold a, "Jesus Christ." Keeping the gun's muzzle tight to your body. You wonder from where Cecil watches. 

        You peak around the corner of LeBolt Street and Green Drive. Sure enough, the last house on the left stands on its last white legs. Car gone from its driveway, making you remember Debbie. You liked her, hoped she wasn't dead even though her son was a prick. 

        Above the ruin, they wait. You can't hear their conversation. You count, one, two, three... eleven. Fucking eleven. You took down one because the others were distracted, but distracting ten to remove one? Seemed impossible. 

        You were afraid, not in the traditional 'oh shit I'm going to die' sense, because you had felt like that for the better part of five years and it was easy to tune out. The feeling that filled you was more final, a righteous 'I need to kill at least half these people before I go to hell'. You figured it was best to start small, experimental. You hide in charcoal rubble and fire a single blast into the curbside in front of your hiding spot. 

        "Oh great, somebody left a survivor." Mohawk bitched, "No wonder he won't come, he's too afraid someone else is gonna see his fucked up head."

        Some of them snicker, most don't.

        "I've got it." A voice says, "Gotta work out the kinks in my back still, think that kid actually knocked a disc loose."

        "Who cares, just do it." Someone snaps.

        He's at the curb in a flash. Falling on his haunches, flicking at the still smoking debris. His swim-capped head gleaming from the distant sun's glow. "Alright guy, come out. I've got worlds to take over and I really-"

       You dare not speak for fear of being heard even at a whisper. Your arm comes out, fingers beckoning. He'd been looking in your direction. Lazy smile playing on his lips before the control sunk it's claws in.

        He hobbles over and crouches in front of your hiding spot.

        Before, you'd have drunk codeine and given it the credit but now? Credit was given to the rage this place brought you. Walking around this very block, talking about nothing and everything. Hope for the future. Mark's back to you. 

        You point through the charcoal of the shuddered window you'd been hiding behind. His eyes follow, landing on Scars. Your finger goes to your throat, crossing it in a slow, deliberate line. Kill him.

        You wish there was a universal gesture for 'come back when you're done so I can tell you to murder these other freaks'  but there wasn't. Unless he knew ASL, which you highly doubted.        

        He blasts off the ground. The shudder falls and you barely duck out of the way before it could pin you to the ground. You find another hiding spot to watch from.

        Someone already murmuring, "Took you long enough," at his return.

        Knowing these freaks, they'd jump on Swimcap the second he attacked. He'd be the one who wound up dead. Sex offense poster boy would be a nice bonus. Then they'd come, searching for what drove Swimcap kill crazy. You'd use them to kill each other. Make the last one standing snap his own neck- if you got that far, if your power didn't drain.

        Scars opened his mouth, "I didn't hear a scr-" His teeth clacked shut on his tongue. Blood filling his mouth as he's shot a mile into the sky. You watch Swimcap shoot up after him. Your puppet got above Scars head before he could regain his bearings and balled his fists over his own head before bringing them down on Scars' chest. He came back down to Earth like a meteor, smashing the remnants of the house. Sending shockwaves through the busted neighborhood.

        Swimcap flew down, feet extended, aiming to sever Scars head from his neck. Scars catches him by the ankles, rolls, and slams Swimcap  facedown into the foundation of the house. "Fuck's wrong with you?" He doesn't wait for reply, climbing atop the other version of himself, letting fists rule. 

        The others lower in the sky, curious. 

        "You can't double cross me, I was going to double cross you." Scars snaps between blows.

        Swimcap finally regains his bearings, catching one fist then the other. Four teeth knocked out of his mouth, blood vessels burst in his eyes, the lenses of his cap broken. Scars catches the look in his eye, the glaze of control before a knee slams into his dick. Swimcap gets on top.

        You lean forward. Smiling like it was the best movie you'd ever seen.  

        A fist is raised. Then grabbed by a red glove.

        "We're supposed to be working together, not killing each other." Omni-Mark says. 

        Scars sneers, "Like we weren't going to turn on each other at some point."

        Swimcap brings his free fist down. Snapping Scars head to the side. 

        "Stop it." Omni-Mark says, "Or I'll be forced to act on the aggressor."

        "I can handle this myself!" Scars hands come up to either side of Swimcap's head. "He just surprised me!" The muscles in his arms bulge, veins on his hands pulsing as he presses and presses and presses. Swimcap's jaw ticks, goes unnaturally to the side, eyes go redder, bleeding tears before they pop out, dangling on his cheeks. Then the top of his head pops up, brains squirting up in a pressurized blast. Chunks landing on the front of Omni-Mark's suit, much to his distaste.

       Scars shoves the body off, not minding the blood. Omni-Mark lets his limp wrist fall, holds out his newly freed hand to help Scars up. He slaps it away. "Didn't need your fucking help."

        "Really?" Mohawk's scratchy voice calls down, "Cuz it sure looked like you needed it to me!"

        "Shut up." Scars says.

        Together, the landed pair rejoin the group in the air. 

        "Any idea why he did that?" One of them asks.

        Looks and shrugs are shared. "Guy blew his load too early, I guess." Mohawk says. A minute passes. He speaks again, "Seriously, what's taking that guy so long?"

        "This would pass a lot faster if you'd shut up," Emperor says.

        "He knows he can't deliver on his promises anymore." The bald one looks from version of himself to version of himself. "He's scared shitless."

        "No way he can't deliver me more universes." Scars spits. 

        "Don't act like you weren't losing your shit when she died." Mohawk jerks in the air. Tense all over. Waiting for someone to come at him so he could hit something hard as he could.

        "I think it was fitting." Scars tone is all confident sarcasm, but he won't look at anybody. "Bitch deserved it."

        Two of them look at each other. A Mark in his old blue-yellow uniform, no mask. The other in what looked like a tracksuit with a fluttering mask covering his face. Puzzlement crossed between them.

        Mohawk was on him, fists twisted in the bottom of Scars mask. "I was gonna kill you eventually, but I think now's a great fuckin' t-"

        "Dregs! Dregs, you bitch! Where the fuck are you!?" Screeches through the neighborhood's exposed bones. So many of them go rigor mortis stiff. Then the sound comes again, "(Y/n)! I know you're here!"

        You peek out of your hiding spot. See Psychopomp shambling down the street where you'd popped into existence. Blood streaked down her pallid forehead. A snarl on her thin lips. 

        She's stupid. You think. She's suicidal. You think. She wants to get me killed.

        She throws her head back, "Come out!"

        Phantom is the first on top of her. Grappling her hard by the shoulder and stub. "(Y/n)? You said (Y/n)? You said (Y/n) is here?" Desperation pierces through the modulator. That of someone teetering on the edge of an endless chasm. 

        "Who-" She tries to slap his hands off and finds she can't. She switches gears, fighting not an option. She'd already seen what happened back in New York with the other contingencies. Remembered just who had ripped her arms off before Mercy healed them. Her voice held a quiver, "Yes, did you see her?" 

        "Obviously not." Emperor lands beside her. "You said she's present?"

        "We came together." Psychopomp breathes out. A nervous sweat shone on her cheeks, like she finally realized what she was doing. "Knocked me out and left."

        Jesus Christ, she'd switch sides if it meant getting at you.

        Lensless is next to touch down. "Uh, I saw those bombs go off like, right in her face. She's dead. You just know you can't escape without us catching you. I mean, shit, I'd do the same thing but-"

        In goes a breath, out comes a hateful scream, "Dregs!"

        You don't budge. She ruined everything on purpose. Most of the Marks had come from above the house to swarm around her. Only three remain above the house, impassively watching. The maskless one, the tracksuit wearer, the white-clad warrior. Eyes in the sky. If you even put a finger out of your hiding spot, they'd see. It was best to stay put, make her look crazy, let her die, then resume the plan.

        Except Phantom had sensors in his lenses. A sensor he used to scan the area, quickly picking out the outline of your crouched form behind a wall. He was on you. Tearing off the GDA helmet before you could attempt to shove him off. 

        It was you. Oh God, it was really you.

        The helmet falls out of his hands. He hugs you quick, almost imperceptibly so, before the other versions of himself round the corner with Psychopomp in tow. 

        "Stay where you are." The command is for them, not her, as if it'd work anyway. You had no idea how long they'd hold. You're not coming off Narcan so probably more than a millisecond. No longer than forty-five seconds at best.

         You dip down, snatching the helmet, pulling it back on over your head. But they'd all seen. The helmet was a matter of protection and anonymity of emotion. Protection that'd do little against them but still, it was something.

        The collective paused. Marks stiff, most of them anyway. A few seem unaffected, just waiting to see what would happen. Blood is already starting to pool at the top of your nasal passage.

         Psychopomp prowls closer, stopping when she sees a gun the size of her thigh cradled in your arms.

        "Where is Digby?" She demands. Ah, the whereabouts of her heroine skinny brother. That old chestnut.

        You watch the Marks for signs of a cracking hold. Look at Psycopomp, pale with yesterday's bloodloss. And run. 

        You can't deal with all of them at once. This was a one-by-one operation. You needed, "Cecil!" To get you the fuck out of dodge. You needed to regroup. Come back later. Not have Psychopomp fucking ruin everything.

        But the teleporter light doesn't consume you. You are not saved.

        You are grabbed from behind almost soon as your legs started pumping. Arms tight around your midsection. Pulpy eyehole pressing to the side of your visor.

        "Jeez, you're slow." Lensless says.

        "Let go."

        He does. But your control on the others had gone. They could converge on you whenever they wanted and "Cecil, God damn it," won't, "help me!"

        Help doesn't come. Rescue doesn't come. 

        Scars laughs, wiping bloodstains off his suit to little avail, "You're on your own. He never comes if it means his own neck." Just like Cecil had warned.

        Psychopomp moves through their ranks. Not accepted in, but so insignificant there'd be no point in killing her. They all had to wait for Angstrom anyways. 

        "Where is he, Dregs?"

        You're on your own unless you convince her to work with you. "Last our guys saw, he fell into the lava pits when Invincible fought Doc Seismic." You lie through your teeth. The first thing you could think of while tying in Invincible. 

        "Bullshit!" She calls. The Marks frame her back. Watching. Curious about you, your life, your enemies, your petty human squabbles. "He couldn't be in Washington, he couldn't drive."

        Crossed arms tensed over a red-white chest. "Keep speaking to my wife like that and your other arm is gone." 

        Psychopomp looks. Visabily shaking at the Omni-Man impersonator's presence. 

        You ignore him. "Machine Head sent him to do mule work there to pay off his debts." You go on, rolling with the story. "Best not to tell you so you couldn't bail him out again." 

        Her eye twitched. "I was the last person who saw him alive in New York, Dregs. Don't lie after you said that cryptic shit at the GDA. Don't I deserve to know- don't you still care about me a little bit?"

        No, but you don't say that. Instead, you pivot, "If those motherfuckers behind you don't die right now there'll be no justice system to help you find out what happened."

        Mohawk cackles, "Hah! That's so code for she killed that guy!"

        "Is it?" Psycopomp asks. 

        "Don't listen to them." You insist, fingers tightening around the pulse rifle. "They destroyed the planet, Psych. Don't be stupid. Work with me here."

         "If the planet's already destroyed, how is she going to take you to court? 'S better if you just get revenge right now." Scars grins. Knowing exactly what buttons he's pushing. 

        You have to tell the truth. Make her so blind with hatred that waiting years for supe-prisons to be rebuilt just for you to rot didn't even seem like an option.

        "Alright, fine." Your breaths come short and humid under the visitor. You're not sure you should be saying this. Before it'd definitely get you killed for sharing confidential business information, but Machine Head was out of the picture so who was going to punish you- God? "Digby's somewhere in the Colorado River." At that, her face falls, a single tear slipping hot down her cheek. His death had always been a suspicion, no evidence, no confirmation. No CCTV. Nothing. All set up by Machine Head's men. But now it was confirmed, after two years of searching, wondering. 

        "So he's..."

        "Dead, yes."

        "And you..."

        The sorrow is morphing, unstable, but in a state so fresh and raw you could mold it to your advantage. The only card you had left to play. "I had to. You know how our line of work is. If you want to kill me, I get it but if you want the actual privilege of doing me in yourself- help me deal with these assholes first." You knew the undead civilians would do nothing to them, but a minor distraction was the best thing you could pull out of this situation she'd forced you both into.

        She blinked. Tears coming faster, faster. "You..."

        You see one of their fingers twitch, wondering when he should step in. 

        "You can't kill me if they do first, Michelle." Her name is a slap to the face. Only passed about in private, such as your apartment air mattress. Anger reddens her. She's shaking her head, mentally trying to ward off your manipulation. Hands are flexing now. 

        "Kill you? What? No, babe, I'm here to take you home." Mohawk says loud and clear for all to hear. Taking a mallet to your plans.

        "He's lying." You say. "You saw that one," you nod toward Emperor Shoulder Pads, "had me by the throat. He's trying to trick you." Except you didn't think he was. 

        "You made me do it." Shoulder Pads replies. "But I wasn't going to k-"

        "Shut your mouth." You turn back to Psychopomp, desperate, "These people are not our allies or enemies of an enemy. They are going to finish the job and kill us both if you don't do something." 

        And Psychopomp saw right through your flimsy manipulation. "You're scared of what I'm going to do to you."

        She wasn't listening. You had to go in, hard, unnecessarily brutally honest. Full-on nuclear blast.

        "I didn't have to tell him to kneel." You say, telling the truth to her for once, "He knew he was screwed. You knew how deep in debt he was to Machine Head, but you just kept letting him use. Telling yourself he'd quit before he overdosed. He knew he'd never be able pay and never be able to stop." Her hands come up and start to glow. You hoped those zombies would be pointed anywhere but at you. "He wanted to die. He knew he couldn't give his daughter a good life and knew Shelly was too religious to abort."

        "Shelly-" She says, dimly remembering his brother's girlfriend. Remembering she hadn't seen her in years. The last time she saw her was with Digby. For awhile she blamed Shelly, then there was you. Machine Head. A tip from a friend. "-Was pregnant?"

        "Oh shit." One of them says. You don't look to see who.

        "Five months." You supply. "She didn't want to die but she walked in, couldn't be helped."

        "You killed my niece?" It was more a question than a statement.

        "Machine Head would've killed me if I hadn't, Michelle."

        "You killed my brother!" Her fingers curl, as if sucked in by the light vortexes of power in her palm. "My family!" The only she had left.

        Mouths twist into smiles and horrified frowns at your cruelty. 

        You don't know where to aim the pulse rifle. At them or her. "You can kill me when this is over. Fuck, throw me in the slammer even."

        "I don't give a shit about justice!" The houses around you stir with dead residents coming to life, "I'm going to fucking kill you- now!"

        "Listen!" You were losing control of the situation. Once the action started, you weren't sure you'd be able to escape. 

        "No! Jail isn't enough! I've seen what you can do. I've been there to see the kinda shit you make people do. There is something wrong with you, and you just need to die." She can't stop crying.

        The first of the undead shamble out of their broken homes. They aren't slow. On you in what feels like moments. You're forced to turn to fire green blasts into their heads. Stepping out of the way of their still reaching hands when they fall. 

        "God- Jesus- Damn it." You elbow, pistol whip, kick, and shoot at the growing horde but it's too much. You'll be overwhelmed soon. "Stop being stupid. They'll kill you." 

        They look like they will. Phantom surges forward to save you but is grabbed by the ankle by Scars.

        "I want to see this." He says.

        Phantom forces himself still. He must not reveal how deeply you'd infected him. So he watches, waiting for things to be dire enough to actually justify jumping in. As do the others, who felt that tickle of desire to play hero. 

        Some, Mohawk, Scars, Lesnless, watch because it's so nice seeing you kill. There were other approving glances, but so quiet and unnoticeable you didn't catch them in your panic.

        "I don't care! I don't fucking care!" The buzzed hair atop her scalp seems to bristle at the sight of you still living. Her palm glows brighter, extending her reach much as she can with the bloodloss. "Die! Just die!"

        No amount of coaxing will do it. You made a bet and lost. You had to take whatever winnings you could still scrap.

        You let decrepit hands hit the body armor. Forcing yourself through the crowd of gored families. Whacking heads and shoulders to make a clear lane for you to aim- and fire. The first shot is taken by a women with no eyes. She goes down. More zombies surge to block your shots. 

        The Marks twitch with nervous energy. Thinking of jumping in, but uneasy to show their weakness for you in front of the others. Deciding if you're not out in ten more seconds, they'll do something.

        You take a breath, steadying as your line of sight crowded with the dead. Their teeth gnawing at your arms and ankles. Weak fists at your back. And shot, once, twice, thrice through the bodies until the fourth blast goes through Michelle's head. Spitting her face from the top of her lip to her buzzcut. 

        Michelle hits the ground. Brains splattering on the pavement. Her minion's grip and teeth loosen. 

        Arms scoop under your knees, support your back faster than you can breathe. Taking off before you can think to scream. Shooting toward the clouds. The rifle falling out of your hands.

        He couldn't take it anymore. Seeing you covered in blood. Seeing you holding that weapon. You weren't supposed to be like that. Supposed to look like that.

        "I thought I lost you." You feel the rumble of his chest. Black and blue carbon fiber suit rubbing against your body armor. You have to force your head up against the sudden G-force. Mask covering all but the horror and relief in his tone. You can see the shell of your mask reflected back in those blue lenses. 

        You don't think just speak, "Let me go."

        He does. Involuntarily. Mortified that he did. Unmoving, waiting for your next command but you drop so fast, scream so loud, it never comes. He watches as you plummet five-thousand feet.

        "Catch me! Catch me now!" No one could hear you over the whistling of the wind. 

        All that fighting. Days of angsting, building up their deaths in your head. Only to kill one, then yourself on accident. Way to go, idiot.

        You see a white flash. Feel yourself stop. Your body jerks against the suddenness. Head snapping back, whacking against a solid arm. You are gone, nothing but black swimming unconsciousness. 

        "She's fine." You hear him say, Mark for sure, but in a tone you hadn't come to know. "To my understanding, humans can not withstand sudden changes in atmosphere."

        "Let me see! I wanna see if she's still breathing." Mohawk, definitely. "Hey, dickhead! You almost fuckin' killed her! You happy up there!? Yeah, you better stay away from me, pussy."

        "She is." The new Mark says evenly. 

        Another comes to volley. "We should get back to the rendezvous." 

        Green light penetrates past your closed eyes. Making them twitch and flutter open just in time to see him step into existence. Red lights screwed into his supermassive brain. Metal welded to his body. Power pooling at his feet, sustaining himself in the air. "No need." Eyes, one brown, the other milky with blindness, slide to you, "The location doesn't so much matter, as long as we have the guest of honor."

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

a/n: published this on wattpad a while ago. someone said i should upload it here as well so here it is :)

summary: natasha romanoff x married!reader; nat and you used to be in love. now, years later, you're married to a wealthy man and have a daughter with him. will running into natasha change everything? (not the best description but you get the point)

warnings: none (i think)

word count: 4.9k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— THE ART GALLERY —

Nude-colored stilettos hit the concrete, the ground underneath still slightly wet from the rain earlier. Two little feet, clad in white ballet flats, follow. You feel a warm hand slip into yours, tugging lightly.

Nina stares at you, her eyes wide and her hand clutching the little stuffed bear she carries everywhere. Despite being used to this kind of extravagance, she's overwhelmed — and you definitely can't blame her.

A long red carpet stretches out in front of you, leading up to the entrance of the art gallery. People with cameras everywhere, the frenzy of flashing lights and clicking noises enough to irritate you. Sleek entrance doors that are open wide, allowing the chatter of the people inside to waft all the way over to where you're standing.

The large windows of the gallery glow warmly, casting a golden light onto the lush grass surrounding it. It's a modern building, long and almost box-like. Not what you would've picked, but it's not like anyone's asking you anyway.

This is Ethan's dream. It's an investment he made. It's — just like you and the girl holding your hand — more of a status symbol than anything else. Theres not much passion behind this, as its main purpose is to project sophistication and attract alliances among elite circles.

Circles you never wanted to be a part of.

What are you even doing here?

You thank your driver before closing the door of the black sedan, then you crouch down in front of Nina. You smooth her hair down with practiced elegance, catching the look in her eyes.

"It's loud", she states, pulling the teddy to her chest. "Where's daddy?"

"He's inside, honey." You straighten back up, adjusting your silk slip dress. An emerald color, matching the deep forest green of Nina's velvet attire. "You ready?"

"Yes!" She grabs your hand again, suddenly seeming more like the usual, confident child she is. At least someone isn't completely dreading the upcoming few hours, which surely will be spent making pointless smalltalk and eating food you can't even pronounce.

You smile at her, then you take a deep breath. Silently steeling yourself for the evening, you finally make your way up to the entrance.

A few staff members in chic evening attire linger by the door, greeting arriving guests and bowing ever so slightly as they recognize you. You smile, hoping they can't sense how nervous you are. Nina stays close by your side, the soft padding of her feet the only thing that's keeping you grounded in reality right now.

Honestly, part of you doesn't know what you're doing here. You're supporting your husband, sure — but, again, this is his project. You weren't involved in this in the slightest. Hell, you didn't even know about it up until two months ago, when he suddenly confessed to buying this building in the heart of Tribeca.

You were confused, as you couldn't believe he'd keep this a secret for so long. It's a big investment, after all, and you thought he'd include you in something like this.

As always, his response was defensive; it was the usual shtick of "it's my money and I'm allowed to do what I want with it and you don't care about my work anyway" — something you've heard too many times. You eventually decided to drop it, finding that an argument at 6 in the morning would be pointless and only lead to more issues.

What you're seeing now is the outcome of his idea to invest in something that's even more extravagant than his luxury condos in Manhattan.

White walls and high ceilings, a clean and polished interior. Spotlights highlight the artwork — large-scale abstract paintings, photographs of New York landmarks taken at unique angles, vibrant pop art pieces.

Nina's eyes are even wider than yours. She starts bouncing on the spot, her hand squeezing yours.

"Mommy, mommy! A bear!"

Of course. That damned bear painting, displayed right at the beginning of the main wall. It's there because of Nina, because he desperately wanted to tell everyone how he kept his daughter's favorite emotional support toy in mind for this. It's both cute and infuriating, because you're well aware that your child would rather see her dad than some abstract piece of art that vaguely reminded him of that stuffed animal.

"Looks like Bearie, hm?", you reply, gently coaxing her further into the room. You're trying to get away from all the prying eyes. You're sure you've been recognized by now.

"Yes! But it's pink. Why is it pink? Bearie isn't pink."

"No, he isn't." You shake some older woman's hand, offering her a polite smile.

Nina keeps chattering happily, taking in all the sensations around her. Classical music floating from hidden speakers, the guests — a predictable assortment of New York's elite — all dressed in tailored suits and couture dresses. The laugher is quiet but rich, as expected; you don't hear a single genuine sound apart from your daughter's little voice.

"Mommy, look! It's shiny", she whispers with a small gasp, pointing at a twisting metal piece that's catching the light just right. She's enchanted by the sculpture. At least someone here is genuinely interested in art.

"Good observation, bug", you whisper back, gently nudging her further into the room.

Unbeknownst to you, a familiar redhead stands at the far edge of the gallery, her back to the crowd and her eyes scanning over the art displayed in front of her.

. . .

Ethan places his hand on your lower back, a gesture that feels like it's rather about keeping you at a distance than having you close. Nina reaches for his sleeve, pulling at it.

"Daddy? Can we-"

"Honey, I'm talking", he says firmly, briefly touching her hair before straightening up again. In front of you is a man who's (apparently) quite important. Richard Harrington, a renowned art collector and critic, balding and in his late 60s. "Mr. Harrington, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Y/N, and our daughter Nina."

"Pleasure to meet you", you say dutifully, shaking his hand. Nina just stares at him, slowly beginning to hide behind your leg.

"Likewise." Harrington glances at your child, who's clearly not fond of him. He clears his throat, plastering a small smile on his face. "I trust Ethan has been keeping you well acquainted with the art world?"

"Of course", you say politely, giving a short nod. You glance at Nina as her hand twitches in your grasp, her patience clearly waning. She's a child — environments like this one, forced and restricted, are the furthest from what fits her spirit. "Just a moment, sweetheart."

Nina huffs, giving the man another last, scrutinizing glare. Her hand slips out of yours during a short moment of carelessness — you're too focused on appearing both friendly and charming, trying to make this Harrington-guy think you're some picture-perfect family.

Then you realize that the warmth of your daughter's hand has gone missing from yours. Starting to panic, your eyes immediately sweep across the room. It's not that big of a building, but it's dark outside, and you really don't want to lose her in this flock of people. Thankfully, you manage to catch a peek of her velvet dress as it disappears behind a corner.

"Sorry, she- she loves art a little too much for her own good", you apologize, stepping away from your husband and the art mogul. Ethan clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

"Kids, you know", he says, smiling stiffly, as you've already started to go and catch up to your daughter.

Nina has always been a little artist. She carries crayons and small notepads wherever she can, drawing random stuff while sitting in the back of the car or while waiting for her food in restaurants. She'll stop whenever she sees a sculptures, asking increasingly specific questions until you're on the verge of despair. Her drawers are filled with 'art supplies' — leaves, buttons, washi tape — and the walls of her bedroom are full of her drawings. Her love for everything creative is the only reason why you appreciate your husband's decision to invest in this gallery.

Her eyes get stuck on the painting that a woman with red hair is looking at. Nina chews on her lip as she sees the info panel underneath, the amount of letters too overwhelming for her not even four year old brain to string together into words yet. She swiftly grabs the hand of the woman next to her, deep green eyes meeting her own.

For a moment, Natasha feels like she's looking at someone she met in what feels like another life. The same features, the same eyes, the same little frown on her face. So sweet, so familiar, digging up memories that she buried years ago.

Beneath the soft spotlights, Natasha's face is framed in surprise. Something vulnerable flickers through her eyes as she studies the child. She masks her surprise fairly quickly, but she still feels taken aback.

"Miss? Can you read this for me?" Then, sounding hopeful, the girl adds: "Please?"

Natasha nods, crouching down next to the child without thinking twice. This is surely a coincidence, she thinks, glancing over her shoulder. Then her eyes skim over the short text printed on the info panel, her hand still holding the girl's absentmindedly.

"It's called 'Whispers of the Wind'", she reads aloud, her usual detached tone softened. "Painted by an artist named Ciara Han. It's supposed to remind you of the sound trees make when the wind moves through them."

Nina smiles at her and Natasha feels herself falter once more. She knows that smile.

No, correction: knew. She knew that smile.

"Thank you!", Nina whispers like she's sharing a secret, still refusing to let go of the woman's hand. She has no clue who she is, but she was nice enough to read the info panel to her, and to her toddler-brain that automatically means she's a friend.

"You're welcome. But you shouldn't go walking around talking to strangers", Natasha says gently, her eyes filled with concern. "Where's your-"

"There you are!" You hurry over, breathless and apologetic, and put your hands on Nina's shoulders. The little girl looks up at you, only now letting go of the woman's hand. "You can't just wander off like that", you chide softly.

Ready to apologize to the woman next to your daughter, you look up from the child's face.

Nothing could have prepared either of you for this moment.

The eye contact sucks you back into a past you believed to be long buried, one you'd rather forget. Your breath hitches, her mask crumbles. Raw emotions, brief as the flicker of a candle, both of you too stunned to say something at first.

"Natasha", you finally say, still looking like you've just seen a ghost.

"It's been a while", she replies simply, straightening up. Navy blazer and a matching skirt, high heels that accentuate her calves. Red lips, red hair. Effortlessly stunning, as always.

You clear your throat, looking at Nina to distract yourself. "This, uhm- this is my daughter."

Nina looks back at Natasha, whose name she now knows. "Are you and my mommy friends?"

"Something like that."

You shoot her a small, bittersweet smile, gently tugging Nina to your side. "Didn't think you'd be into art, if I'm being honest."

Natasha smiles slightly, glancing at the row of paintings next to you. Han's 'Whispers of the Wind', Kozlova's 'Boundless Skies', Monroe's 'In the Absence of Time'.

No, she isn't into art. Never really has been, if she's being honest — she enjoys literature much more. A good book, maybe. That's her thing. She can't tell you why she's actually here, though.

"Didn't think you'd be, either", Natasha says, loosely clasping her hands together.

"I'm not", you admit, causing Nina to give you an offended look. "This art gallery? It's my husband's, actually. I'm just here to...support him, you know."

All of a sudden, it's like someone turned on a light switch in Natasha's head. A look of realization crosses her face. Y/N Bailey, wife of investment banker Ethan Bailey — she'd skipped that part carelessly, not deeming it of any significance. The name had been familiar, but the surname was enough to make her forget about it.

Now, she feels stupid for not checking.

"Right", she says slowly, looking at Nina again. Her eyes soften. "She seems to like it quite a bit, though."

"I know." You glance at your daughter, remembering how you found her; next to a crouching Natasha, listening to her as she read the info panel to her. "By the way, did you say thank you?"

"I said thank you." Nina nods earnestly. Natasha and you smile simultaneously, your eyes locking. Then, short lived lightheartedness of the moment vanishes like smoke.

You chastise yourself for even beginning to think that it's nice to see her again.

"Well, I'm not going to hold you up any longer. Enjoy your evening."

"You too", you say quietly, making your daughter look at you with a puzzled expression.

. . .

— BEHIND CLOSED DOORS —

Your days have been the same ever since Nina was born. More or less, anyways.

Coffee and checking the news while your daughter's asleep. Time that feels hollow, spent alone since Ethan leaves an hour before you wake up. You've convinced yourself that you're used to it, that it'll change eventually. He loves you, you love him — one day, you won't feel as lost as you do right now. All you've got to do is push through and fight for this.

Next on the agenda: showering. Waking Nina up and getting her ready for the day. Breakfast together, then driving her to preschool.

You miss her as soon as you're back in the car, her seat now empty. She'll be gone for the next few hours, which means that the hardest part of your day is about to start.

You'll do anything to kill time — go grocery shopping, do the laundry, make sure the house is nice and clean. You never envisioned yourself as a stay-at-home wife (and sometimes, you can't believe that this term is very much accurate now, whether you want to admit it or not), but here you are. Cleaning, picking up things for Ethan, doing stuff around the house.

You feel pathetic for despising a life you willingly chose. Guilt is a constant visitor, dwelling in your mind like an annoying little fly you can't shoo out of the house. Worst of all: you feel like Nina deserves better. You try your hardest to be the mom she deserves, but you can't help but feel like you're failing her in ways you can't quite put into words.

Frustrated, you buckle up and start the car. There's a sense of silent camaraderie as all the parents (mostly moms, of course) finally start to empty the parking lot in front of the preschool. Some of them are going to work, others are spending the day like you.

Despite the fact that you're not that different all, you still feel like a complete outsider.

You turn up the music as you continue driving without a specific location in mind. Your fingers drum against the steering wheel anxiously, betraying your quiet humming. Self-soothing never really worked for you.

Without your consent, your mind starts conjuring up images from last night. One thing they all have in common is Natasha.

You haven't seen her in so long. Six years, maybe even seven, have passed since your breakup. You spent all that time forgetting what you had, tucking it away so it's safe and sound, trying to get over her.

You are over her, aren't you?

You love Ethan, after all. You married him — the ring on your left hand is proof of that — and even had a child with him. He's everything you could desire in a person, but he's also nothing you ever wanted.

Sometimes, you have the feeling that you fell in love with an idea rather than the man himself. He's hard-working, ambitious, with a keen eye for prestige and profit. You secretly believe he thinks of his marriage to you as yet another achievement, something that looks good on paper. And while he does love Nina, it's also obvious that he just doesn't enjoy being a father the way you hoped he would.

Wealth, luxury, status — a family, held together by money and responsibility. Just thinking about it makes your skin crawl, especially when you remember how different it was with Natasha.

Natasha wasn't easy, and neither were you, but it was real. It was genuine affection, quiet understanding, raw love — soft and sweet and haunting.

There's a reason why it took you so many years to forget — and all it took was running into her for you to remember it all.

You look up, realizing where you've been driving. You slow down, your heart hammering, your eyebrows knitting in confusion.

The Avengers Tower looks different. The logo is gone, replaced by the words Stark Industries — glowing in neon lights, of course — and the building in general has changed. The logo, the sleek design, the parking lot where you once saw the Quinjet come and go.

Your stomach drops. You can't resist the temptation to pull over, so you do just that. Your fingers shake as you unbuckle, then you hesitantly get out of the car to confirm what you just saw.

The Avengers are gone. They've moved, moved on, moved to god knows where, a location you can't even begin to guess. You didn't keep in touch, you let the distance grow, and now there's no way for you to find Natasha.

Stop. You blink a few times, shaking your head and mentally slamming your foot down on the brakes. Your thoughts have taken an unwelcome turn, a dangerous one at that. You shouldn't mourn something that slipped from your fingertips years ago, not when you've finally settled into your own life.

Natasha isn't your reality anymore. She's your past — which is something no one will ever be able to take from you —, but nothing more.

The leather of the driver's seat is still warm when you sit down, but the hollow feeling in your chest won't leave.

. . .

"Look, mommy."

Nina is standing in front of you, holding out yet another drawing. You put the folded jeans aside before gently taking it from her, making sure not to accidentally crease the paper. The last time that happened, it ended with her throwing a tantrum.

"Wow, that's amazing", you praise her, still inspecting the drawing. It's your parental duty to commend every piece of art she hands you, but you're also genuinely impressed. The castle she drew is surprisingly realistic, at least if you consider the fact that she's not even four years old. "You even added a princess!"

"That's Rapunzel", she explains, her finger lightly poking at the blonde-haired figure. She even remembered to add that signature long braid. "Can I show daddy?"

You hesitate, passing the drawing back to her. "Daddy's working, honey."

"Please?", she begs, pouting. "I be quick."

"You'll be quick, huh?" You smile softly, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. You feel bad for her — Ethan came home early, but immediately disappeared into his office. He did hug the girl right after arriving, but even that seemed hurried. "Alright, fine. Come here."

You get off the couch and scoop her up, carrying her out of the living room. You walk up the two steps that lead to the small landing, then you turn to access the main part of the staircase. Clean, minimalistic hallways that feel almost sterile, a stark contrast to the homey feel of the living area downstairs. Maybe that's the reason why your husband spends most of his time up here.

You open the door to his office, just barely catching a glimpse of him shutting down his computer rapidly. He swivels around in his desk chair, trying to appear unfazed.

"You didn't knock."

You frown, setting Nina down on the floor. She pads over to him, waving the drawing in front of his face. He glances at it, making a halfhearted sound of approval.

"I need to knock?", you finally ask, slightly disbelieving. "Are you being serious?"

"I'm working", Ethan promptly replies, patting Nina's head before nudging her back in your direction. She huffs quietly, reaching out her arms for you. You set her on your hip, your jaw clenching as Ethan continues. "You can't just burst in like that. What if I had been in a Zoom meeting?"

"Were you?", you probe, shifting your hold on your daughter.

"Does it matter?!"

"Yes, it-" You cut yourself off, taking a deep breath. No fighting in front of the kid, you remind yourself — begrudgingly. "You know what? It doesn't matter, Ethan. It really doesn't."

He watches you, his lips set in a thin line. He contemplates what to say now, how to end this short argument without riling you up further.

You raise your eyebrows, still waiting. He sighs, leaning back in his chair and ruffling up his hair.

"I'll be downstairs in ten. Maybe we can watch a movie together?"

Nina's eyes widen when she hears that, oblivious to the fact that it's just a strategy to appease you. She quickly taps your shoulder. "Oh, Tangled! Mommy, please Tangled?"

You look at her and smile, your eyes softening. You feel bad that you're even thinking this, but you can't help yourself: thank god she didn't turn out to be like him.

"Sure, honey." You turn around and leave, your voice slowly turning muffled as you go downstairs. "Help me with the popcorn?"

. . .

— IN PLAIN SIGHT —

Natasha adjusts her earrings, her eyes locking on the silver jewelry through the mirror. She reaches for some lipstick — a more natural shade, one that doesn't stand out as much — and slides on a pair of glasses.

Her bag is just full enough to not raise suspicion. A taser, miniature bugs, a parabolic microphone, USB sticks and a multi-tool lock pick set. A compact mirror and smoke pellets, a customized phone — voice modulator and spoofing app included — and a cable launcher.

Does she feel bad? Only mildly.

Only because of your connection to all of this.

Still, she can't let old feelings and sentimentality stand in the way of this. People are getting hurt, whether he wants to admit it to himself or not. He's not the one who's pulling the strings, but he's financing it.

Natasha steps out of the car, inspecting the sleek office building in front of her. High-end, in the middle of Manhattan's financial district.

Her high heels clack on the polished floors of the lobby, her manicured hands keep a tight grasp on the clipboard in front of her chest. The elderly receptionist is too distracted to pay her much attention, so she swiftly dips into the elevator, joining a group of middle-aged men.

Natasha faces the doors of the elevator, her ears picking apart every detail of the men's quiet conversation. Nothing about an Ethan or Mr. Bailey, nothing that could be of use.

The elevator dings when it arrives on the floor where Bailey's office is located. She steps out, moving through the hallways with a confident elegance that makes it seem like she belongs here. Just another coworker that's on her way to start a day filled with issuing stocks and bonding shares, making rich companies even more money.

A name tag tells her that she's found what she's looking for. She hides behind a corner, pulls out her phone and matches her phone number to the lobby desk. Finally, she dials Ethan's number.

He picks up, his voice slightly irritated after he saw who's calling. "Bailey here. What is it?"

"Mr. Bailey", Natasha says, her professional tone mimicking the receptionist's perfectly. "There's a delivery for you in the lobby. The courier insists on handing it over personally."

"Is that really necessary? I'm busy."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "It won't take long. They said it's important. Something about a painting?"

"Right, right. I'll be there in a minute."

She can hear him jump up, the door to his office suddenly opening as the phone call ends. Footsteps make their way down the hall, turning quieter until they entirely stop. The elevator doors slide open with a soft 'whoosh', confirming his current absence.

Natasha puts the phone away, then she makes a beeline for his office. Door's open — how careless.

She slips inside, her eyes immediately scanning the office. It looks like straight out of a catalogue. Extremely clean, apart from his desk which is littered with files and documents. A single, lonely plant in the corner, one family picture right next to his computer. Nina's much smaller in it, maybe a year old, but you're the same.

Aside from that, nothing personal. Nothing Nina made in preschool, no drawings, no souvenirs or trinkets. It's cold, but that's not surprising.

She turns away, discreetly planting a listening device under the desk. A micro camera is hidden between the leaves of the plant, placed strategically so he won't find it even when watering it.

Natasha doesn't have much time. Getting to the lobby, asking for the courier, and then getting back in the elevator will take approximately three minutes. She quickly plugs a portable hacking device into his computer. It bypasses the encryption and starts downloading files as she simultaneously takes pictures of the documents on his desk.

Financial ledgers, contracts, and a suspicious invoice from a shipping company. She wants to take a better look at it, but the device has finished downloading data, so she unplugs it and starts cleaning up. She leaves the office, waits for Ethan to return, and then makes her way into the lobby again.

The elevator doors shut at the exact moment you close the car door.

One hand holding Nina's and the other carrying a white paper bag, you make your way into the lobby. Natasha spots you and quickly hides behind a corner, watching you through her compact mirror. The last thing she needs now is for you to spot her and blow her cover.

"Hey, Erica. Can you watch her for a moment?"

The receptionist nods, smiling at Nina. This is a regular occurrence by now — you'll come by to bring Ethan something, and Nina will stay in the lobby to avoid getting too distracted by her father. If she sees him, you know it'll be hard to leave.

"Be good for Miss Erica, okay? Mommy won't take long", you promise her, letting her sit down on the chair next to Erica's. Nina holds onto her bear tightly, her eyes immediately zeroing in on a sticky note that's barely clinging to the frame of the computer.

You go into the elevator, pressing the button to Ethan's office. Natasha makes sure the doors have closed, then she steps out of her hiding spot. She weaves through the lobby unnoticed — until a little voice cuts through the air.

"Hey! Hey, mommy's friend!"

Natasha freezes.

Fuck. She didn't think about your daughter, or that she would recognize her. She especially didn't think she'd bother enough to come over and greet her with a wide smile on her face.

Slowly, she turns around. Nina has already padded over, her eyes wide and her excitement impossible to miss. One hand clutches her stuffed bear, the other tugs at Natasha's arm.

"Hey, kiddo", she says, briefly glancing up as Erica approaches them.

"Do you know her, sweetheart?", the receptionist asks, studying Natasha carefully. She hasn't seen this woman before, so Nina's ecstatic reaction makes her feel on guard.

"She's Natasha. She's my mommy's friend!"

Natasha directs a slightly helpless look at the receptionist before crouching down in front of Nina. She tries to calm the girl down, not wanting to attract more attention than necessary. She should be annoyed that the child decided to just run up to her and make everyone aware of her presence, but she can't help but be softened by the smile on the girl's face.

"Yes, I'm your mommy's friend", she says, trying to politely disengage. "But I have to leave, honey. I have an appointment. You know what an appointment is?"

"I do." Nina nods, still holding on to her sleeve. Natasha takes a fleeting look at the elevator again, ensuring you're still upstairs.

"Good, you're smart." Natasha smiles, not hearing the elevator doors slide open. "I have an appointment soon, so I have to hurry. Be nice and wait for your mommy, okay?"

You step into the lobby without Natasha noticing, a frown forming on your face as you realize Nina isn't in her spot by the reception desk anymore. Your eyes sweep across the room — and then you see her. It gives you a sense of deja vu, seeing a crouching Natasha next to your daughter.

First the art gallery, now this. What is going on?

You hurry over without dwelling on the thought too much, a wary look on your face. Her eyes zero in on your boots, slowly trailing up your body until her gaze meets yours.

"Natasha?"

[after-witch]

Plucked at Midwinter [Yandere Winter Spirit x Reader]

Title: Plucked at Midwinter [Yandere Winter Spirit x Reader]

Synopsis: What's in a name, anyway? The winter spirit reveals a name to his sweet, his darling, his dear.

Word count: 700ish

notes: yandere, nothing else really

“What’s your name?”

He hums, first. His hum is low as frost and the laughter that bursts forth is tossed into the wind, drifting. 

“A name, my sweet?” His breath puffs, as yours does, but sometimes you think it’s only for sure. “I’ve been called many things by many people–and many not-so-people” 

You ought to take his answer for what it is. A sidestep, a riddle to settle into your stomach. But instead you draw your furs in closer, and press on.

“What names?”

He laughed, before, but now his smile takes on a twitch.

“My lovely, my dear… what names would you like to call me?” He claps, then, surely planning a game that would keep you occupied for hours. 

It’s best to think carefully when he does this–and so you do. You draw those beautiful furs, dead and yet warm, in closer and set your face as passive as you can.

“What names?”

He might have been mad. He might have huffed and said you’re spoiling the fun, being too nosy. He didn’t–he doesn’t.

Instead–

He coos at you. 

And oh, if his hum is frost, then his coo is the sound of crunching snow. Pleasant and crisp and breaking the silence of the forest. Yet underneath the sound of your own footsteps, behind the trees, is another set that you never see.

Then–he lists the names. Names that mean oh-so-many things. Names that mean frozen and death and hunger; names that make you think of the wailing of parents, the bleating of dying cows in the field.

Despite the fur, you shiver, and he blinks at you. What ice might be in his eyes crackles deeper blue and recedes, for a moment.

“Ah, but sweetling, I frighten you with these. I have some that are nicer, if you please…” And he continues, lighter, leaning back on the snow bank and digging his hands into the fresh white cold. 

Now, he tells you names that don’t make you shudder. Names that mean the first fallen snow of the winter, the unique pattern of a snowflake, and a name you’re certain describes the way snow sparkles in the morning. 

Names, names, so many names. He rattles them off so easily. But which one is truly his, which one is right? Perhaps you have it all wrong, perhaps he has no one name, but the one for a moment. 

“Today,” you insist. “Today… now… for me, what is your name? 

At this, then, he finally looks at you with something in his face that reminds you of how old he is–that he is not a human being, and never was, and never will be. 

“For you…” He tips his head back, snowflakes from a hundred winters ago frozen on the lashes, and stares up at the snow-coated branches above.

“Eirlys,” he says, perhaps–are you imagining it?--with hesitation. Then again, firmer. “Yes. That one is pleasant. Though it was last given ages ago.”

Eirlys–a snowdrop, then.

You let your furs sag, cold seeping around the edges, and he snorts out a smile at your vague gesture of supplication.

“Who gave you that name?” You ask, and this time, it’s all right if he decides to change the subject. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he digs into the snow, disturbing the glistening white until he’s at the dull mounds of brown earth. Rooting around for something that you don’t see. 

“A sweet thing,” he says, mildly. “A sweet thing who picked flowers at my doorstep–always late, I think, when I was perhaps ready to leave–and left me gifts in return.” He closes his eyes, remembering, then nods. “Trinkets, always. Silly things from a silly thing. But they were kindly meant.”

He does not say–the name was, too–but you hear it anyway and tuck it into your memory. 

“Thank you,” you tell him, when there is nothing left to ask. “I… wanted to know more about you, I suppose.”

He opens his eyes and suddenly taps your reddening nose; the dirt from underneath his fingernails offering a glimpse of the fresh pungence of spring to come. Though it won’t come for you. 

“Oh, dearest–oh sweetest.” His cold fingers tuck hair–and something else–behind your ear before he rises, brushing snow off his clothing. “Shall we move on?” He offers his hand as he has so many times before, and as so many times before, you take it. 

It’s only when you begin to walk, warm clothing brushing aside the winter chills that come with the breeze, that you feel behind your ear; to see what he left there, a gift, with the dirt and snow on his nails.

Of course–

A snowflower bud, white and pretty; unbloomed, kept hidden underneath the snow.

[gallavichsreddie1128]

If She Knew....3 (Joel Miller)

Description: Ellie freaks out on Joel after he confronts Ellie about her behavior towards her sister

Warning: Smut

Word Count:1,566

Part One Part Two

It was eating Ellie alive, her sister and Joel. She knew that eventually the truth would come to life but how long were they willing to take this? She watched as they laughed and talked, everything coming together. They acted like a couple all of the time and it was right in front of her face. “Has she talked to you?” Joel asked Y/N who was damn near on his lap. “Barely.” She mumbled, taking a sip of her wine. Joel shook his head, her not talking to him was one thing but to not talk to her sister actually made him mad.

Y/N was very upset over it and Joel hated to see her upset. Ellie was being very disrespectful towards them and he bit his tongue too many times. “She has no reason to be like that towards you.” He nearly growled. Y/N looked at him, he looked pissed. “Joel, she’s probably going through it right now. I mean Seth was being a dick to her and she’s probably embarrassed that we stuck up for her.” Y/N tried but Joel shook his head, “Don’t matter. You’re her sister.” He said. Y/N traced patterns on his chest, “She’s an adult now. I can’t always protect her.” “Well it isn’t bad that you try.” Though Y/N agreed with him but she understood Ellie being upset over it.

“I know but she could have handled that her-” “I don’t care!” Joel stood up, his voice booming. Y/N looked up at him in shock, “Joel.” She said but he shook his head. “She can act that way with me, sure but you? No, she’s not treating you like that! You’ve done a lot for her.” He exclaimed. Y/N slowly stood up and placed her wine on the table, she looked at Joel who was very upset and pulled him to her, “I appreciate you looking out for me but she’ll get over it.” Y/N whispered to him before kissing him. Joel hated how easy he folded when it came to her but she wouldn’t change it for the world.

Y/N pushed him down on the couch, a grunt escaping him as she climbed on him. She tried to keep kissing him but he pulled away, breathing hard. “You surely know how to distract me from serious shit.” He said and she giggled, “Yeah, it’s my talent.” She shrugged and kissed him again. She was already wet from this and he was barely touching her, her hips started grinding against his as she grew desperate. Ellie in the garage for the night, they had no worries of her coming inside, given the time so they weren’t moving.

“I need you Joel.” She whined against his lips, her hips moving faster. “Get off on my thigh.” He told her and she nearly stopped grinding, “What?” She asked and he smirked, “You think you can distract me like that and get my dick? No, you can cum on my thigh tonight.” Her jaw dropped, he never turned down sex but given her motives she understood why. His hands moved her hips so she was no longer grinding on his dick, she looked down and saw that she was now straddling his thigh. He had the perfect thighs for riding and the more she thought about it, the more wet she got. “Well?” She looked up at him and sighed, she wasn’t extremely happy that it wasn’t his dick but she wasn’t ungrateful.

Her hips moved against his thigh, her arms wrapped around his neck as she stared at him. Her PJ pants and panties in the way of feeling his rough jeans against her clit. But it felt really good anyway, “Fuck.” She whispered and her head fell back, Joel’s hands dragging her hips on him. “Bet your little pussy is drooling from this.” He said and oh he was right. She was soaked in her panties and needed to get out of them asap. “So good.” She mumbled and gripped his thigh, speeding up. She looked so hot, so pathetic humping his thigh.

He would cherish this view forever. “Joel, let me take my-” but her moan cut her words off and he stopped her hips. She got off his thigh and removed her pants and panties. His eyes widened at her panties that were drenched in her juices, how was she this turned on? He immediately pulled her back on his thigh, she gasped as her needy clit came in contact with his rough jeans, “Fuck.” She whispered. His jeans felt amazing, better than she thought it would feel and when he dragged her hips on his thigh she whined his name. “Does that feel good, baby?” He asked as he watched her face, knowing the answer.

She tried to speak, to form words but each thrust of her hips had her moaning. “So fucked out on my thigh, you can’t even talk.” He tsked at her but she didn’t care. All she could care about was the pleasure building in between her legs. His jeans were drenched at this point but the sight was so hot to him that he didn’t even care. Her eyes nearly rolled as she felt her high approaching, “J-Joel.” She tried to warn him but he knew.

He knew her body so well by this point that he didn’t even need to be inside of her to know, “Cum for me. Drench my fuckin’ thigh.” He whispered and watched as her hips stuttered and lost rhythm, he helped her drag her pussy as she came, moaning his name loudly. “Fuck. Such a beautiful sight.” He praised as she rode out her high. She was panting like a dog by the time she was down from her high and he smirked, “Now that was hot.” He said and slapped her ass. She gave him a tired smile and yawned, exhausted from her orgasm. She got off his thigh with shaky legs and grabbed her clothes going upstairs, “You coming?” She asked and he got up and followed her up the stairs. 

Ellie just got back from hanging out with Dina and her sister wasn’t in sight, it was just Joel who looked very disappointed in her. He had asked her in the morning while Y/N was still asleep if she would come down to his office to talk. She was hesitant but agreed, “You wanted to talk?” She asked him, standing in the doorway. “Have a seat.” He motioned for her to sit in the chair across from him. She rolled her eyes but did as she waited for him to speak. “Your sister is worried about you.” He starts, “She thinks you’re still mad at her for sticking up for you.” Ellie was over that and onto the fact that the old man across from her is fucking her sister.

“She’s doing her job. She loves you and cares for you. I think you need to get over whatever you are holding against her.” So, he didn’t play when it came to Y/N, Ellie thought. She chuckled a little bit and Joel didn’t like that, “You find this funny?” He asked and Ellie shook her head, “Not that, No.” She said. “You think it’s funny to disrespect her like that?” He asked her. She looked at him like he was crazy, “I’m not disrespecting her-” “You are! You’re barely talking to her over something stupid!” He yelled at her.

“You can act like that with me all you want but she’s your sister and you will respect her.” What Ellie said next slipped out in the heat of the moment but the look on his face was one not to regret, “So you think that just because you’re fucking my sister you get to tell me what to do? You think that you deserve her, that you’re family because of it?” Ellie asked. Joel’s face dropped more than it already was. He stared at her, not knowing what to say. How’d she figure it out? He had so many questions. Ellie smirked but it was a bitter one, she caught him off guard. “What?” He croaked out and she laughed.

“Yeah I know that you and my sister are sneaking around behind my back. That’s why I’ve been distant with you guys! I can’t believe you guys would do this! Why she would do this, why she would do you. You are an old man, Joel. She’s young and beautiful, naive it seems. It sickens me that she’s with you of all people! And the best part is you guys have rings so it’s obviously more than sex.” Ellie yelled, Joel stared at her. His eyes gave everything away, he was hurt by her words.

“Got nothing to say? No lies? No ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about?” She asked him and he shook his head. “I love her, Ellie.” She shook her head, “You wouldn’t even bat an eye at her in the real world.” Ellie said. “I get that you’re protective over her-” “No, don’t start that! She went behind my back too, you both did! I just hope she realizes that she can do better.” Ellie growled before leaving. Joel looked down, he was hurt by her words. What had he done to Ellie to make her think those things about him? How was he going to tell Y/N?

[heavens-whore]

RIDE

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel run away together for a fresh start, away from the town you both hate. Along the way, you start to have doubts about your decision, but Joel has a way of persuading you that it’s right for you.

A/N: this is my first fic ! It was inspired by a post my friend sent me that was just a pic of motel steps, captioned "need a cigarette here". And the scene unfolded idk. Also I don't really know how to make my posts look cute yet so please excuse this visual abomination for now. Enjoy!!

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: 18+, unspecified age gap, oral (f receiving), creampie, unprotected sex, cigarette smoking, not wearing a seatbelt (please wear a seatbelt fr), running away, getting fired, getting hated on

The sun shone through the dirty window of the truck and started to dip below the horizon, but the heat stayed hanging in the humid air. Your bare feet were resting up on the dashboard and your eyes watched the rural surroundings of the open road race past as you drove further and further away from your old life. The faint sound of 80s rock from the radio and the hum of the truck’s engine did little to silence the thoughts that tormented you- the thought that running away was a big mistake you would come to deeply regret.

You hated your hometown. The weather, the people, the way they talked, the way they dressed, the things they believed in. You even hated the buildings. So why was it all so hard to let go of? You had always wanted to leave, to run away and leave it all behind, start a new life out West and never look back. Joel was the only person who was willing to give it all to you. He never talked about it, but you could see it in his eyes every time you mentioned the idea of leaving. You knew he wanted this too- probably did from a young age. Some teenage pipedream of his that imploded when his daughter was conceived. So he stayed, started his family business, bought a house and raised her. But now she was all grown up and there was nothing to hold him back anymore. All he was waiting for was for you to say the word. 

And you did, after one particularly rough day. You had gone to work in the morning and come home in tears around midday after being fired with no warning. It didn’t matter, you hated the job anyway; but your parents were enraged, furious that you could let this happen. They called you a burden, said you had no ambition and no future ahead of you. In the early afternoon you had shown up on Joel’s doorstep with a bag packed and tears in your eyes, begging him to take you away from it all. And he did. 

He had one hand resting on your thigh, and the other on the steering wheel. His eyes strayed from the road to look over at you, seeing you gaze thoughtfully out the half-open window in your denim shorts and little tank top. He squeezed your thigh to get your attention.

‘You take your seatbelt off again?’ You looked up at him, your eyes wide and clearly swimming with thoughts. But he didn’t push it. You nodded. ‘Gotta put it back on for me, darlin’. We can’t have nothin’ happening, can we? Ambulance would take forever to get to us out here.’ You didn’t say anything, just took your legs down from the dashboard and pulled your seatbelt back on, the polyester squeaking as it unravelled. Joel’s eyes flicked back to the road momentarily but then returned to you. You were being unusually quiet. ‘You doin’ okay?’

You nodded again, but this time feigning contentment.

‘Yeah. Just hot in here.’

Joel’s dark eyes lingered on yours for a moment before flicking back to the road, definitely unconvinced.

‘Well we’re almost to the next stop anyway. Think this motel’s got a pool, too.’

The heat was definitely part of the problem, because when you finally got to the motel, the cool water of the pool lifted your spirits. You put on that new bikini you had bought at an earlier stop along the way and floated on your back, let the water cool your skin while you watched the sunset paint the sky with bright streaks of pink and orange. Joel watched you swim from the edge of the pool for a while before joining you. He splashed you with the water and pulled you beneath the surface, wrapped your legs around his hips and kissed you with such tender desire it made you want to cry.

Later in the evening, you lay awake beside Joel. His arm was wrapped loosely around your waist and he was fast asleep, but all you could do was stare at the chipping paint on the ceiling. Those regrets had started to creep back into your head, and it felt as though there was a war going on in your mind. You thought of your friends, your family, what the people back home would say about the young girl who randomly up and left one day to run away to California with the old man from down the street. You quietly untangled yourself from his grasp and stepped outside for some air. It was dark but the stars were bright, and the crickets chirped as you sat on the steps of the motel and lit a cigarette. You didn’t know what time it was or where exactly you were. All you knew was that it was late and you were far from home. You sucked in the smoke and watched the neon glow of the motel sign dance on the ripples in the pool. It was quiet, peaceful, but the war in your head raged on. It was impossible, trying to tell if this was just some optimistic dream you had cooked up- that you could run away and find your fresh start on the coast and live happily ever after. What if it all blew up in your face and you were forced to come back home to your parents’ fury, that you could be so reckless and believe in some big lie this dirty old man was feeding you?

The creak from the door opening snatched your attention away from your thoughts, and you turned to see Joel’s concerned eyes watching you. He sat on the step behind you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

‘What’s on your mind, darlin’? Been quiet all day, I know something’s up.’

You took another hit of the cigarette and flicked the ashes onto the steps below you.

‘I dunno. It’s… I dunno.’

He sighed as he watched your troubled expression.

‘We can go back if you want, y’know. Don’t want you to feel like I’m callin’ all the shots here.’

You shook your head.

‘I don’t wanna go back. You know how bad I want this. I just wish I could forget all about home.’

‘You will forget it, sweetheart. Once you see the ocean, you’ll forget all about that town. We’ll start over, yeah?’

You brought the filter back to your lips and inhaled again, your mind still not eased much.

‘What if we get there and we hate it?’

Joel rested his chin on the crown of your head as he held you from behind.

‘Then we’ll go back. Or we’ll go somewhere else. But what if we get there and we love it?’

He had a way of making everything sound so simple and it never failed to blow your mind. 

He plucked the cigarette from between your fingers and put it out, then pulled you to your feet and rested his hands on your waist. ‘S’just a fresh start, darlin’. Nobody’ll know us, nobody’ll look twice when they see us together, they won’t care. We’ll be okay, I promise. And if we ain’t, we’ll think of somethin’ else. Can always go back if we change our minds.”

It was true, but something in the back of your mind told you that you wouldn’t. Joel’s hand stroked your cheek gently, and his dark eyes sparkled under the neon sign as they gazed into yours, full of nothing but intimate affection.

The two of you went back to bed but didn’t sleep. The moonlight seeped in through the flimsy net curtains and illuminated your naked skin as you undressed each other. Joel laid you down on the edge of the bed and stood between your legs, his hands squeezed your breasts gently while his eyes wandered your body, a sigh escaping his lips. He leaned down to press feather light kisses to your neck and collarbones while his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and slid them down your legs. He gripped your thighs tenderly as he pulled them apart, and knelt in between them.

He licked a stripe up your center while moving your thighs to rest on his shoulders. He wrapped his thick arms around them while he lapped at your seam, the taste of your arousal dampening his taste buds. His tongue swirled around your clit, causing your toes to curl and your back to arch while he watched from his position, his boxers tightening with every second that passed until he couldn’t wait any longer. He pressed a tender kiss to your inner thigh and stood up, shoved his underwear down and lined himself up for entrance.

‘You want this, baby?’ He whispered, ‘You want me?’

You nodded eagerly, if there was one thing in this world you knew you wanted for certain, it was him. He slid into you easily, your juices and his saliva soaking him. Small whimpers and whines fell from your lips, as well as his name, while your nails dug deep crescents into his shoulders. He held still once he bottomed out to let you adjust his length. It didn’t matter how many times he had buried himself deep into your walls, he always seemed to stretch them out more each time, the dull ache blending with ecstasy. His eyes held your gaze and he watched your expression as it twisted in pain and pleasure.

‘You okay darlin’? You with me?’

You whispered a soft but adamant ‘Yes,’ and he pulled out before pushing back into you again with the same agonizingly slow pace, his jaw tense as he groaned in pleasure, the head forcing its way in even deeper.

‘Always so wet for me.. Such a good girl.’

Your little moans filled the night air as he started to gradually pick up the pace, speeding up slightly with each deep thrust. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in even deeper; and your arms wrapped around his neck, drawing him into a warm and passionate kiss. Joel’s tongue wetted your bottom lip, asking for entrance into your mouth, and you let it. The sound of his hips slapping against your thighs melted into your sweet whimpers of ecstasy as the heat from his body dampened your skin with sweat.

‘I love you, baby,’ He mumbled against your lips, his thrusts never stopping, ‘love you so much.’

You pinched your eyes shut as the stimulation started to overwhelm you. Each of his movements sent shockwaves through your body, and you could feel your legs start to tremble. Joel laced his fingers with yours and squeezed your hands gently, his voice soft and low. ‘Look at me, baby girl.’ Your eyelids fluttered open to see his eyes were burning into yours and sparkling with passion. ‘There’s those pretty eyes.’ He slowed down, reading your expression, and pressed a tender kiss to your lips. His face hovered above yours as he slowly pushed himself in and out, trying to draw this out as long as he could, before building back up to the same speed as before.

The tension in your stomach was growing, the coil tightening after Joel’s thrusts established a steady pace. He pulled back from you to watch your features contorting with pleasure, your back arching up into him, the moisture on your skin glowing in the dim moonlight. His grip on your hands tightened, and his brows furrowed like they always do when he’s close to the edge. You whimpered to let him know that you were too- no words needed. 

‘Where do you want it, baby?’ His voice was low and gravelly, dripping with hunger.

‘Inside. Please.’ You whispered desperately and squeezed his hand.

‘You sure?’ His jaw was tightening and his eyes were dark, and you knew you had to decide fast. But your mind was already made up. You nodded certainly, right on the brink of shattering.

You both fell apart at the same time. His hips stuttered as you felt his warmth blossoming deep within your core, and your desperate whimpers and groans bounced off the walls of the small dim room. Joel pushed himself somehow even deeper into you as your walls clenched tightly around him, choking his length. He leaned down to your face again, your lips meeting in a messy, loving kiss while he tried unsuccessfully to still his hips, continually pulsing within you and filling you up with his climax. 

He didn’t pull out- you asked him not to. He just rested you on his lap and rested his back against the cheap headboard of the bed while you were still intimately connected. The sun was starting to rise and orange rays shone through the parting in the curtain as Joel held you, his fingers running through your hair while drips of his release seeped out onto your inner thighs. It was quiet, the sound of the crickets had subsided and the only noise you could hear was the steady beat of Joel’s heart where your head rested on his chest. It was time to hit the road again soon, but this time your mind was clear, and you knew it was what you wanted.

[fadedpiink]

stay one-shot

best friend usopp x gn!reader

synopsis: something shifts between them, and nothing feels the same

contains: best friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, emotional comfort, first kiss, confession, sunshine x anxious romantic, 1.3k word count

author's note: ilove usopp so much guysOMGG

you weren’t sure when it started. maybe it was the night he sat beside you during a storm, both of you pretending you weren’t scared — him of the thunder, you of the dark. or maybe it was always there, tucked between the laughter and the long conversations, hiding in plain sight.

either way, it lingered.

tonight, the crew had gone to sleep early. dinner had turned into storytelling — luffy loud, nami sharp, sanji floating somewhere between flirting and frustration. usopp had stolen a little extra time, like he always did, just for you.

you sat side by side on the deck, backs against the railing, knees brushing. the ocean was quiet, just soft waves against the sunny's side. he was rambling about a sea king he'd “totally defeated” once, hands moving wildly, eyes catching the lanternlight.

you smiled, chin on your arms. “you really gonna keep telling that story like it wasn’t a crab the size of a barrel?”

“hey!” he shot back, offended but not. “you weren’t there, you don’t know what kind of monster i had to face. besides, it was biting me.”

“it nibbled your boot.”

“semantics.”

you laughed, breathy and warm, and his smile softened like it always did when he got that sound out of you.

“you always do this,” you said quietly after a beat.

he glanced over. “do what?”

“make everything feel… okay. even when it’s not.”

his eyes lingered on you, searching for something. “well… you do that for me too.”

you nodded once, not trusting yourself to speak.

because the truth was — you didn’t know when being around him had stopped feeling like just fun, and started feeling like safety. like home. like something you weren’t supposed to need but somehow did, deep in your chest, behind your ribs where the big feelings go to hide.

“you ever think about what happens after all this?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

he tilted his head. “you mean… after the one piece?”

“yeah. like… where we go. who we’ll be. who’ll still… stay.”

usopp was quiet for a moment. not in a way that made you nervous — in a way that told you he was really thinking.

“i think…” he started, voice slow, “i think i want to build something. a home. maybe a workshop. something that’s mine.”

you turned to him, surprised. “really?”

he nodded, eyes on the stars now. “yeah. i think i’m tired of proving myself. i just wanna be. y’know?”

you did.

you really did.

“and…” he continued, more careful now, “i think i’d want people i care about to be close. people who’ve always been there.”

your heart skipped.

not in a romantic, sweeping way — in a quiet, maybe this is a turning point kind of way.

he turned to look at you again, and this time he didn’t look away.

“would you stay?” he asked.

the question wrapped itself around your chest. not desperate. not dramatic. just… real.

“if you asked,” you said, “i would.”

a beat passed. maybe two. he looked like he was about to say something, lips parting — but then he just smiled, soft and a little sad.

“cool,” he whispered. “cool.”

you leaned your head onto his shoulder, and he didn’t flinch or freeze like you half expected. he just leaned a little closer too.

the moment settled.

you sat like that for a while, the night pressing gentle against your skin, like the world didn’t need to move if you didn’t.

but then, right before you both stood to go back inside, he said it — just loud enough to be real, just soft enough to pretend it wasn’t.

“i think i love you. but i’m scared to ruin everything.”

you didn’t answer right away. just looked at him, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere halfway.

and then, almost too quiet for the sea to hear: “me too.”

he nodded, once.

you smiled. it trembled.

he reached out and took your hand anyway.

and for tonight, that was enough.

the days after blurred together, soft and strange and a little bittersweet.

it didn’t happen right away.

after that night on the deck — after the trembling “me too” and the warm press of his hand — you both fell back into a rhythm. one that still carried the same laughter, the same late-night talks, the same easy closeness.

but now… there was weight.

like every shared glance had something unsaid behind it. like every shoulder touch lingered just half a second too long. and usopp… usopp didn’t hide it well. he never had.

you’d catch him staring sometimes. looking at you like he was memorizing you for a goodbye he hadn’t spoken yet. like he was still deciding if he was brave enough to have you fully — or if having you halfway was safer. easier.

and you didn’t push. not because you didn’t want to. but because you understood.

you’d seen the way he doubted himself.

you knew the stories he told weren’t just entertainment — they were armor. carefully spun shields against a world that had tried too many times to convince him he wasn’t enough.

so you waited. because loving him meant knowing when to hold on quietly.

but tonight… something was different.

the ship had docked for supplies. most of the crew had gone into town — luffy dragging zoro toward food, nami muttering something about needing more tangerines. you and usopp had stayed behind, both of you pretending it was coincidence.

the sun was just starting to set, sky bleeding gold over the water. you were sitting at the top of the crow’s nest, legs swinging over the edge. you heard his footsteps before you saw him. careful. steady.

“thought you might be up here,” he said, settling beside you.

you smiled. “you always find me.”

he didn’t answer right away. just let the silence stretch, the wind lifting pieces of his hair.

“i haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he said finally. voice low. like if he said it too loud, it’d break.

you didn’t ask what “it” was. you already knew.

“me either.”

he looked down at his hands, like they held the answers.

“i keep playing it over. that night. the way you looked at me.” he glanced at you then. “the way it felt like i could breathe again and not at the same time.”

you laughed — soft and sad. “yeah. it kind of wrecked me a little.”

his head tipped toward you, eyes wide. “really?”

you nodded. “in a good way. but yeah.”

he exhaled slowly.

 then:

“can i tell you something?”

you turned to face him fully. “always.”

he fidgeted for a second — nervous, but determined. then he said:

“i don’t want to be afraid anymore. not of this. not of you.”

and then… quietly…

“i want to kiss you.”

your heart cracked open.

not from shock. not even from the tenderness. but from the relief.

like every minute you’d waited — every slow burn second of holding back — had finally found its reason.

you leaned forward, forehead brushing his.

“then do it,” you whispered.

he didn’t move at first. like he wanted to memorize the permission. then — gently, almost reverent — his hand came up to cup your jaw. calloused fingers, warm and shaking just slightly.

and then he kissed you.

not perfectly. not like the stories. his nose bumped yours. your teeth clicked.

but it was real. soft and steady and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say.

he pulled back first, eyes searching yours like he was scared he’d broken something.

but you just smiled. and leaned in again. because he hadn’t broken anything — he’d finally let it begin.

the second kiss was better. less careful. more yours.

when it broke, you didn’t move far. just stayed tucked against him, legs tangled, hands resting over his heartbeat.

“what now?” he asked into your hair.

you sighed, content.

“now we keep going. same as always. but this time… you don’t have to pretend you don’t want to hold my hand.”

he laughed, light and warm and real.

“deal.”

and right there, with the sea whispering below and the sky burning above, something shifted.

best friends, still. but no more pretending.

no more almosts.

just you and usopp, choosing each other

masterlist hope you enjoyed! please like + reblog to show support, and feel free to leave feedback and comments through rb tags, anon messages, or dms!

© fadedpiink 2025

[moth-murdock]

Posture. (Matt x AFAB!reader)

A/n: thank you so much to @upended-jellyfish for helping me come up with this 🥴😵‍💫 I think @bunmurdock @pupmurdock @lambmurdock and @sharkymurdock will especially appreciate it too

Genre: smut adjacent?

Summary: Matt helps you fix your posture for good.

Warnings: disciplinarian!Matt, bondage, face slapping, posture correction in the fun way, Mean!Matt (I surprised myself with that tbh)

Other tags: in the new apartment :/, chest hair 😋,

Word count: 1.5k

You don't mean to slouch. You really don't. It just... Happens. But Matt notices. Of course he does. So he does what any loving boyfriend would do. He tries to help.

"sweetheart, you're slouching"

"no I'm-... How did you know?"

"I can, uh, I can hear your breathing. It's kind of labored."

"oh... Alright, thanks." You say as you straighten up.

For a while, he'd remind you like that. Polite, soft, helpful. Then he starts to get a bit tired of it the longer it goes on. He'll just clear his throat while putting a hand on your back. From there, it turns into putting one hand on your lower back and the other on your upper chest, then pushing. It's quick, and automatically gets you to straighten up.

"quit slouching, it's not good for you."

"alright, dad."

"I mean it, kid."

After a while of that, he still catches you slouching sometimes. He'll just flick the back of your neck, and you catch the message. He's just trying to help. And to your favor, you have improved.

Just not enough.

***

He had a rough day. The client was a laidback asshole who was lying left and right, with no respect for Matt or anyone else on the legal team. It pissed him off. Rubbed him the wrong way.

As he walks home, he can't help but be annoyed still. He enters the elevator, going all the way up to his top-floor apartment. He walks in the door, only to hear you slouching. He can hear you typing something on your computer, which is usually when you slouch anyway. He lets put an exasperated sigh, tapping his cane on the floor to get your attention.

"Matty? What's wrong?"

He says nothing, taking off his coat and his jacket. He folds up his cane, tapping it again on the table as he sets it down. He makes his way over to where you sit, cool and composed with measured steps. He still doesn't say anything as he reaches over and closes your laptop.

"hey! What the he-"

Smack

"Posture." He practically growls in a low, gravelly voice. Letting out a tired huff as he tugs his tie off, he quickly undoes the knot in the silk before gagging you with it, tying a tight knot behind your head.

You were still trying to process the slap, your cheek still stung and he had caught you completely off guard. You snap out of it when Matt throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, starting to carry you towards the bedroom. You start to protest, words not being an option due to the tie in your mouth.

Your next best option is physical protest, so that's what you go with. You squirm and kick and hit, which only earns you a smack on the ass so hard that you feel it even through the clothes you're wearing. You gasp out in pain and wriggle some more on his shoulder, but he can smell the truth. He can smell how wet you are, he heard your heart race.

He tosses you on the bed unceremoniously, quickly crawling over you both to avoid you getting up, and to start undressing you. You know that you could realistically give him the signal and he'd stop dead in his tracks. Just tapping that certain rhythm you agreed on. But youre in the mood to play along, so you do. You struggle against him, which is conveniently helping him undress you. Only once you're stripped bare does he get off of you, pressing a large hand to the center of your chest and holding you down.

"Stay." He commands as he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, like you're some mutt he found on the side of the road.

And like a dog, you listen. But that doesn't stop you from glaring daggers at him while he rummages one of his drawers for something. You expected a lot of things, but his white Muay Thai ropes was not one of them. The blood on them was no longer the deep crimson they were on that night, implying that he'd washed them since then.

"turn."

You do.

He uses one rope to secure your arms behind your back, wrists to elbows. The other goes around your neck, then connects to your arms, arching your back slightly.

"That's good fucking posture." He growls, tugging on the ropes to jostle you into a kneeling position, facing the foot of the bed.

"do you know what you sound like when you slouch? I can hear your lungs being compressed and squeezed." He starts as he gets off the bed, the mattress silently raising. He walks around to where you're facing, popping the first two buttons of his shirt to reveal his salt and pepper chest hair. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, the other resting on his hip.

He has a 'what am I going to do with you' expression on his face as he speaks again, pacing back and forth.

"not to mention that your back pops like goddamn bubble wrap when you finally stand up. You know that's why you have back pain, right?" He says expressively as he paces, the hand that ran through his hair now waving around and making gestures like he's in court.

You let out a whine around his tie, only for him to take two steps forward to slap you across the face again and grab your jaw right after.

"don't interrupt me. I'm not done." He says dangerously.

"I tell you time and time again to sit up straight, kid. But you just don't listen to me! All I'm trying to do is help you and you just. Don't. Listen. It feels like I'm babysitting you at this point." He huffs, taking a deep breath that was supposed to calm him, but only floods his nose with your scent.

"seriously?" He scoffs, stopping in his tracks.

"are you seriously getting off on this?" He asks, almost incredulously.

You whine and squeeze your thighs together, trying to hide your scent and relieve some of the ache between your thighs.

He steps forward and wrenches your legs open, and as if the waft of your scent wasn't enough, he runs his fingers through the mess between your thighs.

"do you really expect me to touch you, kid? After that? I'll tell you what, I have had a shit day at work today. I am not in the mood for you to be brat on top of it all. If you wanted something tonight, the least you could have done was act like a human being rather than an animal."

You want to cry. You're soaking wet, drooling onto the silk sheets and not with your mouth. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit like a drum, and you know he can sense it too. He takes another deep breath, jaw tensing and brows twitching.

"you are going to stay like this for an hour. Then I'm going to untie you and we will go to bed. Nothing else will happen outside of that. And so help me god if I see you slouching again after tonight, I won't be so kind."

You couldve cum just from that.

"do you understand me? Or did you go stupid like you always do when I don't touch you?"

You frantically nod, humming an affirmation around his tie, which is now soaked in your saliva.

True to his word, he leaves you there for another hour, your back forced into a perfect posture just waiting for him while he takes a long shower to decompress from the day and even treats himself to putting on the one lotion he can actually stand on his skin.

When he returns, there's still a bit longer left, but he ignores your whimpers and whines. You tried once to grind yourself against the sheets, but that was quickly shut down by him gripping your hair and pulling your head back.

"you said you understood me. I didn't give you permission for this. Last warning."

You whimper and nod, forcing your hips to still. After your hour is up, he starts to untie you with such tenderness that it confuses you for a moment. He tosses the ropes aside, massaging your arms and checking your neck for any signs he can pick up of strain or discomfort.

"nothing hurts?" He asks softly as he removes his tie from your mouth.

"no, Matty... I'm okay..." You assure him equally as softly despite the fact that you are still more turned on than you've ever been.

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He can tell you're still so turned on, but he told you he wouldn't touch you, and always keeps his bedroom promises. So he removes the sheet that you dripped onto and he grabs a spare blanket. You both crawl into bed, and you cling to him like he wasn't berating, degrading, and slapping you just an hour earlier. Because despite it all, he wasn't wrong.

He just wanted to help your posture.

My masterlist | fic recs

[sometimeslwish]

Please Be Rude

I was reading part 2 of Through The Flames by @xxsyluslittlecrowxx before I went out, then I listened to Please Be Rude by Gigi Perez (hence the title) and the combination of Sylus's internal thoughts combined with the lyrics of the song possessed me into writing this.

Also, honorable mention to @ittybittyfanblog 's fic for once i am small (in your arms) *mind the tags* it kind of inspired me. I didn't say much when I reblogged it on the other account (I was too in my head at the time) but it's been stuck in my head ever since and all the thoughts that I've had after reading it are finally having a way out in the form of this self indulgent little thing. So, thanks to the both of you for posting such masterpieces.

Word count: 1,202

Tags: Sylus x non-mc reader, gn!reader, hurt/comfort, childhood trauma, self harm tendencies that don't include cutting oneself because they are more subtle, mention of bruises, cuts and blood, implied abuse, rough sex, mentions of hair pulling and choking. Love is a double edged dagger.

The love you knew wasn't soft.

Not like a warm blanket, not like fine silk, not like plushies. It wasn't kind or gentle.

It was loud, sharp, ragged. It had teeth and fists and threw insults at you. It would stab and bruise.

It was overwhelming and suffocating, wrapping around you tightly and consuming everything within until you were nothing but a husk of your former self.

It would ache.

Quietly, following you everywhere.

Like your shadow, or a nagging thought at the back of your head.

A sting on the inside of your cheek from when you bit at the skin while thinking and didn't let it be.

A cut on your lip after biting it too much; one you'd aggravate over and over as it healed, pulling at the scab with your teeth and making it bleed over and over again.

A sore muscle you'd over exerted; one you would massage half heartedly, only so you could feel the ache swell up. One that would get you to repeatedly move the limb in the way that hurt, so it would flare up again.

Burning cuts and scrapes from when you were clumsy; on your knees and your elbows, littered over your body like forgotten paint or dirt. You never took care of those properly, not beyond washing the dirt out through gritted teeth and shaky breathing.

A bruise you didn't know you had until you discovered it after a friend pointed it out; one you'd press repeatedly and say "it doesn't hurt" when they worried.

Because it was true, it didn't hurt in a way that would make you flinch, it hurt in a way that made you seek it out.

They would roll their eyes, huff and mutter something about you having a pain kink. You'd smile and play the part, finally leaving the bruise alone, at least until you were home alone and it caught your eye again.

Then the conversation would steer into kinks, fetishes, bdsm and the dynamics, the worries about the new bruise forgotten.

Your friends had gotten accustomed to you taking over those conversations, no longer surprised about all the knowledge you had about those things.

(They had teased you a lot at first. Still kind of do, when they forget about your shadow because you're busy giving the world what it didn't give you; kind words, soft hands with dulled claws and warmth.

"They look so innocent but they aren't", "It's always the innocent looking ones", and once "Don't let that innocent face fool you, they're far from being an angel" when a new friend had been introduced and you'd gotten comfortable around them.)

But you wouldn't call it a pain kink.

It didn't feel right.

You didn't know what to name it, but you knew instinctively that wasn't it's name.

It was a weapon, in a way, one you wouldn't mind cutting yourself with when you played too much with it.

A double edged dagger that had been stabbed deep into your body, over and over again.

First and mostly by your mother, then by different hands and faces that you'd rather not remember but were cursed to do so anyways; because the heart is sentimental and likes keeping memories; because even though it hurt, there were good moments you still hold dear.

One you had learnt how to wield against your will, because you hated what the world did to you and you'd be damned if you didn't own it and use it to your advantage; because you'd be damned if people looked at you with pity or tried to twist it and use it against you; because your demons became your friends when the days were quiet and you were alone.

The love you knew is backhanded; sweet words followed by harsh actions.

So that's why you begged him, teary eyed and desperate under him. A little crazed because it hurt but you needed it to show, because you needed more, because you needed a physical reminder.

"Ruin me."

"Break me."

"Take me."

That's why you pleaded– pulling away from the kind touch and biting the hand that tries to soothe, only to lick where you bit and kiss it in a quiet apology.

"Bite me, bruise me; make it hurt."

"Please, I want it to hurt."

He'd been conflicted– unsure about how far he could take it, afraid of hurting you too much– but still followed your instructions because he wanted to please you; because he loved you, adored your very essence and wanted to see you shine; because he didn't want to say no.

"Rougher."

"Harder."

"Pull my hair."

"Choke me."

That's why you left scratch marks over his back and his arms, why you bit and marked him more than you usually did; why you pulled and clung and tore.

"Again, please, again."

"Make me take it, please, make me yours."

Your body ached by the end.

You didn't stop him when he held you gently, didn't beg for something else when he treated you kindly– like you'd break in his arms if he was any rougher.

You let him show you his love in the way he knows, the way he wants, and soaked it up quietly.

"Was I too rough?" He had asked, once you were both in the bathtub, your back to his chest and his chin on your shoulder.

"You were perfect."

"It wasn't too much?" You nuzzled your cheek to his, pulling his arms so they wrapped around you tighter.

"It was just what I wanted."

You asked the same when you lie back in bed, when you finally get to see what you did.

"Did I bite too hard?"

"You could've bitten harder, your teeth are dull."

"Was I too much?"

"No, sweetie."

And finally "Do you still love me?"

"I always will."

The love he shows you is kind, warm and gentle.

Playful and encouraging, but stern when he needs to be. It's liberating and soothing.

It's the type of love that you dreamed of when you were younger; the type that you ran away from at the beginning, because you didn't know how to take it. Not without feeling unworthy, not without waiting for the harshness of it.

You kept waiting for that pin to drop, for him to pull the curtain or reveal a hidden latch for you to fall through and never come out of.

He never did.

Even when mad, even when disappointed, there wasn't a single lashing directed at you. Not when you purposefully pushed his buttons, not when you argued.

He stayed his ever calm and collected self, with a voice that stayed just as calm, never once raised at you.

You had to beg and plead first; then ask, as he adapted; and finally, push his buttons in the way only you knew how.

And even in those moments, there's a quiet reverence in his touch. Even if he's condescending and gives you the roughness and pain you want, there's still warmth.

It's the kind of love you want.

Even if it isn't the kind of love you knew, because it's his kind of love and he's the one you want.

Playlist.

[shiro-s2e2-erukinzu]

Anime only watchers and people who aren't caught up with the Manga, BEWARE... Cuz I'm about to discuss Spy X Family Mission 115... You have been warned...! 👌

[SPOILERS AHEAD FROM THIS POINT ON]

OH MY GOODNESS, THIS CHAPTER!!! 😲 AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! 😵

As a wise, protein lovin', student boxer from Persona 3 once said: "I've been waiting for this!!" and indeed, I have...!! 👌😎 So let's talk about today's chapter, shall we...? 😁

When I first opened up Mission 115 and saw this guy:

I was like: "That's the guy from the SSS!! 😲 Where is he headed to...? 🤔" At first, I thought that maybe he might be going to pay Donovan Desmond a visit, but then I turned the page and saw...:

IT'S SHOPKEEPER!! OH MY GOD!!! 😱 (We haven't seen him since Mission 66...!!)

(Technically, we did see him again after that in Mission 79, but that was just in Yor's drunken imagination...! 😌)

And since I saw that Shopkeeper was in this chapter, I of course immediately thought:

"WE'RE FINALLY GETTING ANOTHER YOR ARC...! 😲 LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! 😆"

Anyway, back to the chapter!! 😁 Director Wilker (the SSS guy) has come to offer some targets apparently straight from the prime minister for Garden to take of...!! 👀 The first two are of no interest to Shopkeeper (though, the second one about a soccer match against the West sounds like it would be pretty dang hilarious...! 👌😌), but he does accept the third one that involves elk being poached because...:

Director Wilker is pleased by this and hopes that Garden will take on the rest, but Shopkeeper tells him this...:

After that, Director Wilker heads out and mentions to his driver before they leave that Shopkeeper is "loyal to a dead empire" (Very interesting...! 👀), then cut to Yor and McMahon in the garden next to some flowers:

YOR, YOU ARE JUST TOO SWEET FOR THIS WORLD!!! 💗👏😭💗

Then are introduced to not one, BUT TWO NEW GARDEN MEMBERS!! 👏😆👏😆👏😆

The tall, sexy one (that I may or may not have a crush on currently 😏) is named Hemlock, while the short one (that really reminds me of Killua from Hunter × Hunter 😁) is named Gympie!! 😆 Hemlock asks Yor why she hasn't been working lately, Yor says that she still is and McMahon chimes in to say that they only work whenever Shopkeeper commands them to, so McMahon believes that he must be taking on fewer tasks lately... Then Hemlock gives Yor this look...:

...Before Shopkeeper shows up to take everyone to the gazebo. Then, Shopkeeper debriefs the assassins on the new task and you can just tell that Yor and Hemlock have quite different perspectives:

Yor's first thought about is protecting the elk, while Hemlock's first thought is about killing the poachers...! As we all already, Yor is a very kind and caring person, so of course she'd be concerned about the elk; and while we don't much 'em yet, Hemlock definitely comes off as more of a colder individual... 🤔

Finally, Shopkeeper asks Yor and McMahon to take care of this task with the help of one other Garden member and Hemlock offers to tag along, so this is shaping up to be quite the interesting adventure...! 😅

And that was Mission 115, I AM SO DARN HAPPY RIGHT NOW!!! 😆 Not only are we getting another Yor arc, but we also two new Garden members to boot (three if count the name drop of someone named Thistle...!! 😁)

Yor and Hemlock are definitely gonna be at odds during this arc (more so Hemlock than Yor, if we're being honest here 😌), so I can't to what goes down...!! 😁 Right now, I'm very attracted intrigued by Hemlock, but if Hemlock continues to have issues with Yor, then I might have to beat thine ass!! 👊

Anyway, we'll see what goes down in the next exciting chapter, so until the next Mission... Take care, be safe out there and be kind to one another!! ADIOS AMIGOS!! 👋😄

[dirtyvulture]

Knight Falls - Part 3

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Wolverine!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk (Blood, violence, torture)

Summary: Your perfect life with Natasha isn't meant to stay that way with the Red Room still looking for her.

Word count: 3030

AN: It’s been 84 years since the last update, but I truly thank everyone for their recent interest in this fic and for giving me the motivation to keep going!

Click here to refresh your memory with Part 2.

“Again? Are you sure?”

“Why not? It’s not like she has somewhere to be.”

Dr. Cornelius’s bald head leans into your peripherals. He’s wearing his signature mirrored glasses so you can see your reflection in them: the hair matted to your forehead, the sickly paleness of your skin, the dilation of fear in your pupils.

“You’re our most generous donor,” Dr. Cornelius says, patting your arm with a heavy hand. You try cringing away from his touch, but you’re bolted to the table at every joint. The things you would do to this man if you were free. “Besides, you have to pay for your upkeep somehow, right?”

You growl in response to his words. You don’t try speaking to them anymore. They’d never listen to you anyway. 

In the background, metal scrapes against metal and the clanging strikes a chord of fear in your chest. It’s not easy to move your head but you still try, until you see one of the surgeons back at your side with a scalpel shining in the bright overhead lights. 

“What haven’t we taken today?” Dr. Cornelius asks. 

The surgeon shrugs, his expression unreadable behind a mask. You wonder if he takes enjoyment in this, or he’s just following orders. There’s a lot of each around here. All spineless cowards to you.

“How about the liver?” Dr. Cornelius suggests, pushing down on your stomach. You squirm uncomfortably, but no matter what you do, you can’t escape him. Ever since these sick psychopaths got their hands on you, they weren’t going to let you go.

“Sure.” 

Before you even have a chance to register the surgeon’s response, his scalpel presses into your side until it breaks the skin. Blood rolls down to the metal slab you’re lying on. You can’t block out the pain as he saws through you, but you’ve learned to disassociate from it. If they were going to treat you like an object, you needed to pretend to be one to survive.

***********************************************************************

You come to slowly, your head pounding like someone took a sledgehammer repeatedly to your skull. Light worsens your headache so you squint while you get your bearings. You find yourself strapped tightly to a table, heavy blocks of metal encasing both of your hands. There’s even some kind of solid muzzle over your mouth, restricting your breathing. 

Your first thought doesn’t go to the countless times you’ve been in this position before, it goes to the one that landed you here: Taskmaster standing over you with a gun pointed between your eyes. Your forehead throbs at the memory, but since you actually remember what happened, your healing must be functioning as normal, despite the extreme sluggishness that weighs you down. You pull aggressively at your binds, but you’re cinched tight to the table.

Panic builds inside of you.

Screaming doesn’t do anything. Neither does begging them to stop. Which is why you don’t do it anymore. You lie there like a fish, your eyes glazed over and unseeing, even though you are completely aware of everything happening to you.

Your skin tearing open. The blood pouring out of you that they don’t even try to staunch. Being ripped apart and put together more times than you can count.

The muzzle makes it impossible for you to take a full breath and the anxiety overrides your control. You hyperventilate frantically, but it’s still not enough air and the ache in your lungs starts to build. It feels like you’re drowning in fear and panic and you completely forgot how to stay calm. 

You never thought you’d find yourself in this position again. You promised yourself you wouldn’t let it happen. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and try moving your whole body, but your legs down to your ankle are held in place by metal restraints. A band over your chest presses down like someone’s knee in your sternum. The fear of not being in control is crushing like a weight of its own and you fight harder, until the metal starts cutting into your wrists. But you won’t stop, afraid that you might never make it out if you do. 

“Y/N. Y/N!”

Your head whips around painfully against the restraint locked around your neck. Natasha is crouched a few feet away from you, blocked behind a wall of jail bars. You try to speak but your words are muffled by the muzzle. 

She squeezes her arm through the bar, straining to reach you. Her fingertips barely brush your forearm, but her touch is instantly calming. 

“It’s okay. I’m here,” she says, trying to be brave for the both of you, but you can smell her fear mingling with yours. There’s a cut with dried blood on her forehead, but she seems okay otherwise. At least the two of you were together. You focus on your breaths again, forcing yourself to take them slowly and as deeply as you can. Your heart rate falls and the panic begins to melt away.

Natasha has never seen you like this before. The crazed look in your eyes when you woke up, the desperation in which you tried to unsuccessfully free yourself. She knows it must be traumatizing and embarrassing for you to be in a position of helplessness. She wishes she could be closer to you, to hold you, to tell you that everything will be okay, but she’s stuck behind the bars in a cage and can barely reach you. 

“I love you,” she blurts out, in case she doesn’t get a chance to say the words again. “I love you so much and I’m going to get us out of here, I promise.” You cannot speak, but you look at her with pure adoration and trust. 

“I’m not sure where we are,” she says, filling the silence. “I woke up a few times before they brought us in here. But I think we’re on some kind of aircraft–”

At that moment, your surroundings jolt and Natasha falls back in her cell. You know you aren’t going anywhere with the table bolted to the floor, but the motion is jarring and worrying. Escape would be a lot more difficult if there was nowhere for you two to go.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Natasha whimpers, curling into a ball. You can’t stand to see her like this, even more frustrated because you can’t do anything to assure her. A growl rumbles in your throat as you tug pointlessly at your arms yet again. “It should be me on that table. You warned me going after the Red Room would be dangerous, but I didn’t think it’d end like this.”

You grunt in disagreement. You had no regrets going to that Russian home with her and you wanted her to know that.  

“If we get out of here,” she continues in a lower voice, “Maybe I should leave y–”

Before she can finish her sentence, the door swings open and three men walk in, Taskmaster among them. Instantly, the hairs on the back of your neck rise in warning. The shortest man struts over to Natasha’s cell, and the scent of fear that rolls off her is so strong it nearly chokes you.

“Natalia,” Dreykov greets as Natasha shrinks back to the corner of the cell. “Glad to see you back in the Red Room.” You growl to get his attention away from her. “Oh.” He slowly turns as if he completely missed you lying there. “Forgive me for not introducing myself.” 

He comes to your side. He smells like cologne, sweat, and a trace of fear. It makes you feel minutely better that even though you’re strapped to a slab of metal and rendered nearly immovable, he’s still scared of you. “You may address me as General Dreykov, and I think you’re already well-acquainted with Taskmaster.”

An insult is muffled by your muzzle. 

Dreykov chuckles. “We’ve been waiting a long time to get our hands on the both of you. You certainly didn’t make it easy.” He steps back as Taskmaster opens Natasha’s cell door and goes inside to grab her.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams. You yank at your restraints again; you’re not above skinning yourself if you have to. If the two of you are separated, there’s no telling what this man could do to her.

“You stay right here,” Dreykov says, as Taskmaster drags Natasha by. She tries reaching out for you again but Taskmaster pins her arms to her sides. “Dr. Morozov is happy to keep you company.” 

“Natasha!” you try to scream, but it’s unintelligible. 

“Y/N, I’ll come back for you, I’ll–” Taskmaster carries her out of the room, Dreykov following behind. The third man, thin and tall, dressed in surgeon’s attire, is left alone with you. While his physical presence isn’t very intimidating to you, the fact that he’s in a total position of power over you scares you the most.

“I heard you’re in possession of a substance we are very, very interested in,” Dr. Morozov says, his voice high and squeaky compared to Dreykov’s. “I told General Dreykov I had to come see you for myself.” He disappears from your vision but returns, pushing a rattling metal tray of instruments. Panic surges through you again, but you swallow the fear and try to stay calm.

“General Dreykov tasked me with removing this adamantium from your bones,” Dr. Morozov says, sounding giddy with excitement as he picks up a scalpel. “He isn’t sure if it’s even possible, and will most likely kill you in the process, but that’s a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.” He brings the blade into your left forearm, cutting your skin from your wrist to your elbow. You snarl and struggle, but he presses the blade deeper and deeper until it clangs against metal. “Aha!”

You need an escape route now. You refuse to lay here and be picked to pieces by yet another crazed surgeon. Your breathing quickens again, but this time you’re totally in control. 

“General Dreykov said you had…hmm, what was the word he used?” Dr. Morozov goes on. But your arm is already healing, so he cuts it open again and uses a clamp to hold it open. Adrenaline rushes through your veins so strongly you don’t even feel the pain for a moment, and that’s exactly what you need. Dr. Morozov is so busy studying your left arm, he doesn’t notice you tugging on your right arm. 

You tense your bicep so hard it feels like it’s going to tear out of your skin. The restraints are too tight so they pinch into your skin as it bunches up at your wrist, but you keep pulling until it starts to cut through. With one last breath to ready yourself for the pain, you yank with all your strength and your skin peels off your hand.The loss of the top layer creates enough room to slip your hand through the restraint, the blood acting like a lubricant. 

“Claws!” Dr. Morozov says suddenly.

If you didn’t feel so sick you would’ve laughed at the irony as you swing your right arm up and release your claws into the center of his chest. Dr. Morozov is dead before he collapses onto the floor. You tear the muzzle off your face first, then use your claws to cut through the remaining restraints. By the time you’re free, the skin on your arm and hand has healed back. You stand up, overwhelmed with nausea and pain, but it passes after you steady yourself on the table.

You check if Dr. Morozov has a security badge of some kind and find one in his pocket, stealing it for your own use and leaving the room. You’ve been dressed in a white shirt and sweatpants, now stained with your blood. You’re not sure why you feel so sick, maybe you had been drugged or were still recovering from being shot point-blank in the head. Either way, you don’t have time to sit and recover. You need to find Natasha. 

Following Dreykov’s scent down the hall, you dodge around corners and climb a few flights of stairs. It’s a miracle you don’t run into anyone, but something tells you it had been specifically set up this way. You use Dr. Morozov’s badge to pass foot-thick security doors, cautious to stay on guard in case of an ambush. But you hardly have time to be concerned with your own well-being when Natasha is with Dreykov. 

The thought of that slimy, vile man putting his hands on your girlfriend makes your stomach knot into a pretzel. Natasha had told you stories of what he had done to her and made other Widows do. While you could no longer be surprised by the vileness of humanity, it broke your heart to hear about the horrible things Natasha had been subjected to. Finding the Red Room would be her way of getting closure from that, but it seemed like whatever plan she had had utterly fallen apart with the surprise of Taskmaster. You have to find her before anything worse can happen to her.

Dreykov’s cologne intensifies and you trace the scent to a large door cracked slightly ajar, where his and Natasha’s voices drift out of.

“Don’t tell me to stop!” Dreykov screams, and his genuine anger causes you to pause in alarm.

“If I don’t tell you when to stop, how will you know to shut up?” Natasha responds, then the unmistakable noise of flesh against bone. 

“Natasha!” you yell, going into motion once more. But before you can get through the door, a massive figure drops down from the ceiling and plants their feet against your chest, sending you flying back into a metal wall so hard it dents around your body. For a moment, you can’t even breathe and you’re certain your entire ribcage has collapsed. 

Each miniscule breath you manage is like swords shoved through your lungs and you truly feel the weight of the metal on your bones as you struggle to get up. You lose track of Taskmaster until he slams onto the back of your head. Your metal skull rebounds against the floor and despite its added protection, your brain was just as vulnerable as anyone’s. Professor Xavier had warned you numerous times how much more severe brain injuries could be for you because your brain was literally cocooned in a metal shell. 

You had never really believed him until now.

No thoughts pass through your mind as you teeth rattle like candy and your vision blurs like someone has taken an eraser to half of it. Taskmaster grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you back to your feet. You hate how he easily he throws you around. Very few people could make you feel like a ragdoll. The claws rip out from between your knuckles and you slash out wildly, but he drops you before you can land a fatal strike. You aren’t focused so much on actually hurting him as you are distracting him. You need to keep him at bay long enough for your brain to heal. 

But you have no awareness of your surroundings, out of your environment and in an already-weakened state. The floor trembles beneath Taskmaster’s weight as he closes in on you. You swing without being able to see and feel the pull of your claws as it strikes against something, but it isn’t enough. Taskmaster’s claws stab through your back and steal your breath. You fly through the air, this time colliding with the ceiling and punching right through, landing on the floor above. 

You’re so disoriented in the settling dust you don’t see Taskmaster emerge from the hole you came through, stabbing you in the leg to drag you back down. Rage overtakes the pain at the thought that this man has simply turned you into his plaything, so when you fall back through the hole, you give in to your animal instincts and attack him. 

You slash and punch and kick in an unpredictable pattern because you aren’t thinking anymore. Taskmaster falls into a defensive mode and you sense hesitation as he backs away from you. Gaining some ground back lulls you into a false sense of security, and you don’t realize until it’s too late that he wasn’t hesitating. He was studying you, picking up on your style and techniques instantly to use back against you. 

After a blow that scores three long gouges across his chest plate, he launches at you in a frenzy that rivals your own. You have no protection like he does, and his claws, although not made of adamantium, are still durable and sharp enough to take chunks out of you. Blood splatters the walls and you’re forced to play defensively again after he punctures your lung and cripples both your legs by slicing your hamstrings in half. You crawl away from him, refusing to beg for your life but too scared to fight him more. You’ve never fought anything like him. 

Taskmaster looms over you as you shrink down, wheezing, the last fire of a fight fading in your eyes. He grabs the scruff of your neck like he would to a dog, stabbing you in the chest until blood spurts out of your mouth.

Despite that you easily outweigh the average male, he easily drags you into Dreykov’s office and kicks the door open.

Natasha is standing over Dreykov at his desk, blood dripping from her crooked nose. You wish you had the energy to break free and punch Dreykov in the face, but you barely cling onto consciousness as Taskmaster drops you like a sack of bricks.

“Y/N!” Natasha shouts.

Taskmaster pulls out a gun and presses it into the back of your head as you struggle to get up. 

“Don’t,” Natasha begs. 

You grit your bloody teeth, wanting to tell her that a little lead wouldn’t kill you. 

“That is not for her,” Dreykov says, pointing at Taskmaster’s gun. “It’s for you.”

Before you can even blink, Taskmaster removes the gun from your head and aims it at Natasha.

BANG.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Sorry to leave yall on ANOTHER cliffhanger. But one more part to go :)

Please leave likes, comments, and reblog! Follow for more content. 🥰

[petit-papillion]

As a follow-up to some previous discussions regarding whether Charles was on board with Lewis coming to Ferarri or not:

I firmly believe Fred is at Ferrari because Charles wanted him there. And I think (again, all my opinion) Fred was asked to not only turn things around for Ferrari, but to build a team around Charles. Ferrari wants that dream of their homegrown, immensely likeable driver becoming their next WDC. Think Monza 2019 to the power of 100.

So Charles needs a teammate who will be able to help him get there, and it was clear that was not going to be Carlos. Different driving styles and setups, different comfort levels (when Carlos felt comfortable, the car did not perform well. When Charles felt comfortable, Carlos struggled to keep up.), and different attitudes (for Charles the team result always comes first, Carlos often wants to best his teammate).

I'm not sure who else Fred may have had his eye on to replace Carlos, but with John Elkann pursuing Lewis, I'm sure both Fred and Charles were in the know. And to have Lewis at Ferrari, I mean, come on! Look at the excitement it's created this week. It's a massive move by Ferrari to have two star drivers.

And yes, we know Lewis is (was?) hungry for that elusive 8 wdc, but he also dreamed of driving for Ferrari since he was a kid. So to be able to make that dream come true at the end of his career no doubt means the world to him.

Thinking about what this means for future (potential) championships: I think Ferrari has more to gain from Charles becoming the next WDC than Lewis getting his 8th. Yes, it would be another notch in Lewis's more-than-impressive belt, but it would mean so much more if it was their FDA-graduate, pseudo-Italian, lovable talent. Now they would have 2 WDCs to boast of. The boost in confidence it would give Charles would be huge. And his reputation at Ferrari would be cemented in history.

This doesn't mean I see Lewis as a number 2 driver. Absolutely not. More as equal partners with the common goal to lead Ferrari back to WCC, and eventually WDC. Ferrari will need two solid title contenders to steal enough points from alien-level Max.

Which also reminds me about how this move has put so much pressure on both Mercedes and Red Bull who now find themselves up against a team with a power duo of drivers. Red Bull only having 1 strong driver who's been single-handedly carrying their championships, and Merc is in an even bigger bind having lost their star driver. I'm sure George will be excited to be out of Lewis's shadow, but I think he still had a lot to learn from him. I guess he can still do so this year, but it won't be the same.

I firmly believe that, long term, Ferrari will be betting on Charles to lead the team, with Lewis having an important role as Ferrari's ambassador after he retires. Short term, they need two drivers who are on the same page with car development, driving capabilities, and team focus. I think that is exactly what they will have with Charles and Lewis.

[nimomo-mo]

vent

[quitedisastrous]

my mom told me i almost got diagnosed with autism as a kid (she says i wasn't officially diagnosed because the diagnosis wouldn't have been useful so i guess my symptoms were so on the fence that they didn't push for it) which. like i'm 100% sure i have autism but holy mackerel. she couldn't have told me this as a kid???? it's a good thing i'm both logical and oblivious so i didn't spend too much time thinking "something is wrong with me. what the fuck is wrong with me" but like. what the fuck?