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sweetromanova · 10 days ago

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Fur Better or Worse: Part Three🐈‍⬛

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has survived aliens, norse gods and the world ending and now her cat is apparently on a mission to ruin her life, one litter at a time.

Chapter Three (The Final)

The door had barely clicked shut behind Wanda when the quiet returned, folding over the apartment like a soft blanket. Nova stirred slightly, her nose twitching as she nestled deeper between you and Natasha, clearly content but restless.

You shifted your hand a little, fingers brushing through her soft fur, feeling the faint but steady rhythm of her breath. Natasha’s arm tightened ever so slightly around your waist, her touch grounding you in the stillness.

Neither of you spoke. Words felt heavy and unnecessary.

Minutes passed. You listened to the quiet hum of the city far below, the distant murmur of life that felt miles away.

Then Nova’s breathing shifted, sudden, shallow, uneven.

Your heart seized.

Natasha’s eyes snapped open, sharp and alert in the dim morning light.

“She’s just. moving,” Natasha whispered, although her voice was taut with restrained urgency.

Nova let out a soft, strained meow and pawed restlessly at the blanket, her belly twitching.

“Could this be it?” You breathed, already reaching to support her.

Natasha shook her head slowly. “Not yet. But close.”

You both watched her, tension creeping in, the fragile calm dissolving.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The briefing room buzzed with low murmurs and the soft clatter of keyboards. Maps and schematics flickered on the big screen, pinpointing the latest mission gone sideways. A recently promoted agent had gone in alone, with junior agents and the intel was all tangled up.

You sat side-by-side with Natasha at the long table, eyes trained on the data scrolling by. The team was gathered around, expectant but a little skeptical, you could almost hear their thoughts.

Natasha’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the table, her expression unreadable as she scanned the schematics. Finally, she spoke, voice cool and exact.

“Intel shows the target’s movement erratic, almost like a diversion. But if you look here-“ She tapped the screen. “-the signal overlap from their comms is inconsistent. That suggests a relay point nearby, possibly a decoy.”

You leaned forward, catching her meaning immediately but adding your own spin. “Right and if the relay’s a decoy, maybe the target’s hiding in plain sight, blending with the crowd. The stress markers we got from civilian chatter suggest someone’s been acting out of character, nervous but careful.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Emotional intel. I wouldn’t have prioritised it but it fits.”

“Exactly.” You smiled, energised. “If we combine the comms anomaly with the behavioural shifts, we might narrow down the location faster.”

Natasha glanced over, a flicker of approval in her eyes.

“Agreed. If the new agent had noticed that, this wouldn’t be a mess.”

You smirked. “We’re here now. Let’s clean it up.”

Back and forth you went, Natasha’s precision balancing your instincts. The room’s energy shifted, the team watching you two trade insights, complementing each other like clockwork.

When you finished, Natasha stood and addressed the group with that rare edge of warmth. “Plan’s solid. We adapt the route to cut off the relay point and use behavioural cues for extraction. We’re not just relying on tech. This mission needs eyes and instincts.”

One of the older agents shifted, voice grudging but impressed.

“You two... you actually work.”

Natasha’s smirk was quick but genuine. “Who knew? Teamwork can be useful.”

You reached out, lightly nudging her arm. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Last time someone got comfortable, it ended with my cat up the duff.”

“Again you speak of having my babies.” Natasha tutted, with a smirk. “You know you just have to ask.”

“That ship sailed, grandma.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, sharp and playful. “Whatever. Good work guys, I’m heading for a much deserved coffee.”

“Yeah, go on.” You joke. “Keep taking all the glory.”

She leaned in just slightly, voice low. “Only if you keep surprising me.”

The rest of the room might still be shocked, but right then, it was just the two of you. A perfect, improbable team.

Once she returned, armed with another coffee for you. You had cracked on again, other agents twiddling their thumbs and spinning on chairs as they tried and failed to get a word between your immaculate plan.

“Ok guys, go rest. We have an hour before launch.”

The briefing room emptied fast, agents rushing off to prep and gear up. The hum of urgency faded into a quiet buzz, leaving just you and Natasha behind, the glow of the screens casting soft shadows across her face.

She crossed her arms but didn’t move to leave. Instead, she gave you that rare, direct look, the one that always felt like a challenge and a dare all at once.

“Surprised?” She asked, voice low, a half-smile tugging at her lips.

You shrugged, tilting your head. “Not really. Just surprised we didn’t knock anyone’s socks off earlier.”

Natasha stepped closer, the space between you narrowing just a fraction. “I prefer to save the good stuff for when it counts.”

You matched her tone. “I like your style. Quiet but lethal.”

Her eyes darkened, amusement flickering through them. “Don’t get cocky. I’m still the one who keeps you grounded.”

“Yeah?” You smiled, stepping in just a bit more, matching her breath. “Who says I want to be grounded all the time?”

Her hand lifted, fingers brushing just along your jawline, light, teasing but deliberate. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You leaned in, barely closing the gap, voice low and smooth.

“Maybe I’m here for that too.”

She pulled back just enough to grin, eyes sparkling with that familiar fire. “Careful. Flirting with me is dangerous.”

“Good.” You whispered. “I like danger.”

The moment hung between you, electric and unspoken until Natasha’s smirk broke it and she turned toward the door.

“Get ready. We’re on soon. And don’t be late.”

You laughed softly, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the mission. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The night was quiet, the Tower’s usual hum toned down to a soft, distant murmur. You sat cross-legged on your bed, a book forgotten in your lap as your thoughts tangled and unwound with the gentle flicker of the bedside lamp.

A soft knock echoed at your door.

You glanced up, surprised. Who would be visiting this late?

“Hey.” Came Natasha’s voice, low and careful. Behind her, a small, plaintive whine made your heart tug.

You swung the door open to find Natasha standing there, Liho pressed against her leg, eyes wide and shimmering with worry.

“Can we come in?” Natasha asked quietly.

You stepped aside without hesitation. “Of course.”

Liho darted past you, immediately settling on the bed and nudging your hand, his little body trembling slightly as he circled Nova.

Natasha’s eyes flicked to Liho, then back to you, her voice soft but steady. “He’s upset about Nova.”

You nodded, understanding the worry beneath the words. “Yeah, I noticed. She’s been restless all evening too.”

Natasha gave a small, almost shy smile, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t want him to be alone… or you with her. She’s a handful at the moment.”

You blinked, heart skipping.

“That’s… nice.” You managed, your voice quieter than intended.

Natasha stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. “I mean I know I’m here for Liho and well I guess technically Nova too but I-“

She paused, hand brushing against the doorframe. “I mean I just thought- Well she’s a handful and you-“

You almost stayed quiet, let THE Natasha Romanoff struggle to structure a sentence, her brain not wiring as she tried and failed to find an excuse.”

“I just- I guess it’s about both of us.” You felt the weight of the words in the air, the unspoken care threading through them.

Liho crawled up, settling between you both and you reached out, fingers brushing against Natasha’s as they rested near the his head.

“You don’t have to say anything more.” You whispered.

Natasha’s lips curved in a tender smile. “Good. Because I’m terrible at that.”

You laughed softly, the sound a balm in the quiet room.

“I know.” You laughed. “I- I- I-“ You mocked, laughing louder when she shoved you further back. “I’m kidding!”

“Yeah, yeah, put Netflix on.”

You scanned through the options, pretending to be indecisive but secretly hoping Natasha would just pick something so you didn’t have to decide.

“Anything in particular?” Natasha asked, her voice teasing.

You gave her a look. “I was hoping you had a secret guilty pleasure show you’d finally admit to.”

She laughed quietly, the sound low and genuine. “Guilty pleasure? Me? I’m practically an open book.”

“Sure, Natasha. Open book with a few locked chapters.” You winked.

She nudged your shoulder playfully. “Fine. Maybe I like those ridiculous reality cooking shows. You know, where the chefs dramatically chop vegetables and argue about sauce consistency.”

You pretended to be scandalized. “That sounds… terrible.”

“Exactly. It’s the drama you live for.” She said, smirking. “What better way to end your night by watching a chef call someone an idiot sandwich…”

“Now I know where you get YOUR attitude from.”

You settled back against the couch cushions, reaching out to run your fingers through Liho’s fur. “But, you’re saying you’re basically a reality show fan at heart?”

“Only if you promise not to tell anyone,” Natasha said, mock serious.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

For a while, you both just watched the screen, the glow flickering across your faces. Between episodes, you traded jokes, little quips about the characters and quiet observations about the day’s events. The world outside melted away until there was just the soft sound of the TV, the occasional murmur of the cats and the steady, comforting presence of Natasha beside you.

At one point, Natasha’s hand brushed yours, fingers lingering a beat longer than necessary.

You caught her eye, and she gave you that subtle, knowing smile, the one that said she was exactly where she wanted to be.

“Thanks for letting me crash here tonight.” She whispered.

You shrugged, heart full. “You’re welcome anytime.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Morning light filtered softly through the curtains as you stretched, already feeling the subtle tension in the apartment. Both Nova and Liho were unusually restless today. Nova prowled around in small, anxious circles, her belly low and heavy, while Liho padded after her with a concerned whine.

You sat up in bed, rubbing your eyes and glancing over at Natasha, who was already scrolling through her phone with a focused look.

“You’ve been googling again, haven’t you?” You teased, watching her furrow her brows.

Natasha looked up, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, I figured I should probably be prepared. Pregnancy in cats isn’t exactly my area of expertise but there’s tons online about signs, labor, what to expect.”

You nodded, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement. “Anything important?”

“Mostly just that they can get restless before labor and some fresh air might help calm her down.” Natasha said, nodding toward Nova, who was now pawing at the rug in a way that looked part frustration, part discomfort.

“Fresh air sounds good.” You agreed. “Maybe take them for a quick walk in the gardens? Get them out of here for a bit.”

Natasha’s phone buzzed quietly on the nightstand but she ignored it, already moving with quiet purpose.

“Yeah let’s take the elevator. She can’t do stairs and I don’t fancy having my arms ripped to shreds carrying her.”

“You’re dramatic. C’mere angel.” You grabbed a soft blanket and carefully wrapped Nova, who gave a resigned little meow as she settled in. Liho hopped into Nat’s arms with a hopeful purr.

“Nice try Liho, you’re not the one pregnant.”

Together, you headed for the elevator, the soft thrum of the building’s morning routine humming beneath your feet.

The doors slid open and you stepped inside, Natasha right behind you.

The elevator hummed quietly as it descended, the soft glow of the overhead lights casting long shadows on the walls. You breathed out, trying to soothe Nova as she shifted restlessly in your arms. Natasha stood close, her eyes sharp and alert even in the small space.

Suddenly, with a violent jolt, the elevator shuddered to an abrupt stop. The lights flickered wildly once, twice and then snapped off, plunging the cabin into a suffocating darkness. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the faint hiss of the ventilation and Nova’s quickened breathing.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as panic flickered beneath the surface.

“Okay…” Natasha said, her voice calm but firm as she immediately started looking at the machine on the wall. “Power’s out.”

You swallowed, the blanket around Nova warm against your chest but your heart suddenly heavier.

“Stay calm.” Natasha said, reaching out to steady the side rail.

Liho meowed sharply, sensing the tension.

“We’ll figure this out.” You said, trying to believe it yourself as Nova shifted restlessly in your arms.

Before you can fully process the blackout, Nova stiffens in your arms again, her small body trembling violently. A sharp, urgent meow pierces the silence, a raw, desperate sound that sends a cold spike through your spine.

“She’s in labour.” Natasha whispers, voice low but edged with urgency.

Nova’s breathing quickens, shallow and ragged, her tiny paws clawing at your shirt as if searching for something to hold onto. A ripple of tension shoots through her belly, subtle at first, then rolling in stronger, relentless waves.

You brace yourself, trying to keep calm, but the dark space feels suffocating, every second stretching unbearable.

“Okay, okay.” You murmur, your eyes filling with tears and hands trembling as you gently stroke Nova’s fur. “We’ve got you, we’re right here.”

Natasha’s hand finds yours in the dark, fingers tightening in silent support. The elevator remains eerily still, an unyielding cage around you as Nova pushes against the pain, the first of the kittens on the way.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The elevator was a tomb of darkness, silence thick except for Nova’s laboured breathing and the soft, urgent meows that rippled through the still air.

You crouched low, cradling Nova close, your heart pounding with every tremor that shook her tiny frame. Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you stroked her fur, desperate to soothe but terrified of what was coming.

“She’s going to be okay.” You whispered, voice breaking. “Right? She’s going to be okay.”

Natasha crouched opposite, her expression calm but her eyes sharp, scanning the small space as if plotting an escape route while grounding you with her steady presence.

“Focus on her breathing,” Natasha said quietly, voice firm but gentle. “Match it. Slow, steady. Breathe with her.”

You tried, inhaling deep, but panic clawed at your throat. “What if something goes wrong? What if-“

“Stop,” Natasha cut in softly but with iron resolve. “We don’t know that. Right now, she needs us to be calm. You can’t help if you lose it. Labour happens all the time in animals, she’s not hurt, ok?”

You swallowed hard, nodding, forcing your breath to slow even as your mind raced.

Natasha reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead. “Look at me.” She said, voice low but grounding. “We’ve handled worse. Alone and together.”

You met her gaze and for a moment, the chaotic fear inside you softened.

Nova’s meows grew louder, a fierce urgency behind them. Your chest tightened watching her struggle, but Natasha’s calm became an anchor, steady and sure.

“We’re right here.” Natasha whispered, squeezing your hand. “We’ll get through this. One step at a time.”

You nodded, gripping Nova tighter, the warmth of Natasha’s hand a silent promise in the dark.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The elevator was suffocating, the dim emergency light casting long shadows that danced as Nova trembled beneath your hands. Her breathing quickened, shallow and urgent. Liho was restless too, pacing the tiny space with soft whimpers, the tension palpable.

“Okay, okay.” Natasha murmured, voice calm but steady as steel. “We’ve got this. Just focus on Nova and I’ll do the rest. She needs you to stay calm.”

You nodded, though your chest felt tight, words caught somewhere between panic and hope.

Nova’s body tensed suddenly, a low whine escaping her lips. Then, unmistakably, she tensed and she pushed.

The first tiny, slick kitten slipped free, fragile and squirming. You caught it from Natasha instinctively, warm and wet, eyes barely open as she immediately went to coax the next.

Natasha’s hand found yours, fingers tightening around your wrist like an anchor. “You’re doing great.”

Your voice cracked as you crooned softly to the newborn, heart pounding a wild rhythm in your chest.

Nova wasn’t done.

Another contraction hit, harder and faster. You could barely think, just feel, just be.

You watched as Natasha slid her hoodie off, laying it down on the floor like a next and signalling for you to lay the kitten down where doting dad Liho immediately jumped into action.

Another kitten emerged, and then another. The air was thick with urgency, the confined space suddenly too small to hold the weight of the moment.

Your knees ached from kneeling on the cold floor, sweat trickled down your back, but you kept your hands steady, soothing, catching.

“Almost there.” Natasha said, leaning close, her breath warm against your ear. “We’ve got you.”

You don’t know if she was taking to Nova, the kittens or you.

Finally, the last kitten slipped out, a tiny, mewling bundle that fit snugly in your palm. Nova sagged, exhausted but alive, her eyes soft and trusting.

Then, a sudden jolt. The elevator shuddered, lights flickering desperately back to life.

The doors slid open to a flurry of movement, medical personnel, Dr. Montgomery, and the rest of the vet team rushing in with blankets, equipment and calm voices.

“Let’s get them to the med bay, now!” Dr. Montgomery commanded, gentle but urgent. Wanda must have sensed what was happening and immediately called for her.

You barely had time to blink before gentle hands lifted Nova from your arms and and the kittens from the safety of Natasha’s hoodie. You sat back on the floor, breathless and shaking.

“Where are they taking her? Is she okay?” Your voice was barely a whisper as you turned to Natasha, eyes wide and unsteady.

Natasha slid down beside you, pulling you into a steady, grounding embrace. Her voice was low, soothing.

“She’s going to be okay. We did everything we could. And she’s not alone.”

You looked up, searching her eyes, finding a fierce, quiet promise there. And in that moment, tangled on the cold elevator floor, you knew everything would be.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Later, in the softly lit recovery room, Nova lay curled up with Liho, both cats nestled into a cozy nest of blankets. Nova’s breathing was steady now, her eyes half-closed in peaceful rest. Liho gently groomed his girlfriend, a quiet guardian in the calm after the storm.

Natasha and you stepped inside quietly, drawn toward the tiny kittens resting in a heated incubator just across the room. The little creatures twitched and stretched, their translucent pink skin shimmering faintly under the warm light.

“They’re so tiny.” You breathed, reaching out a trembling hand to gently stroke one of the kittens’ soft heads. Despite being a little early, they were healthy and strong, their tiny heartbeats steady and strong beneath your fingertips.

Natasha smiled softly beside you, watching you with a calm that made your heart ache. You felt overwhelmed, relief, exhaustion, and a flood of emotion too deep for words.

And then the tears came again.

You blinked furiously, hoping to stop them but the floodgates had already opened.

Natasha nudged you gently, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Well, would you look at that… the soppy grandma shows herself again.”

You couldn’t help but laugh through your tears. “Shut up.”

She smiled wider, and her voice softened. “You’re doing great. Nova’s doing great. And you- you were incredible.”

You looked up, voice barely above a whisper. “Me? Natasha, I think I cried more than the one pushing kittens out. I need to thank you, I couldn’t have done it without you. Honestly... thank you. For everything.”

There was a pause, thick with unspoken words and then Natasha leaned in slowly, her eyes searching yours with warmth and something more.

Before you could think twice, you closed the space between you, your lips meeting hers in a soft, tentative kiss.

It was gentle at first, then steady, grounding, a promise and a thank you all wrapped into one.

When you pulled back, Natasha’s smile was a little softer, her hand warm in yours.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

When you pulled back, Natasha’s smile was a little softer, her hand warm in yours. You stayed like that for a moment, fingers entwined, the quiet hum of the room wrapping around you both like a comforting blanket.

The tiny kittens stirred in their incubator, one letting out a faint, almost imperceptible mew. You glanced back, your heart swelling at the sight of new life so fragile yet fierce.

Natasha leaned her forehead gently against yours, her breath warm and steady.

“Looks like we make a pretty good team. Again.” She whispered.

You smiled, feeling the tension of the day melt away, replaced by something light and bright. “Yeah. The best.”

A sudden giggle burst from just outside the door, startling you both.

“Oi, lovebirds! I don’t know if I’m talking to you painful idiots or the cats!” Wanda’s cheerful voice rang out. “Anyway, Aunty Wanda is here!”

You both broke into laughter, Natasha squeezing your hand before calling back.

“Wanda, keep it down! Some of us are trying to be romantic.”

“Too late!” Wanda chirped. “I’m officially your number one fan. Bring me those kittens, I need to document this epic moment!”

You exchanged a glance with Natasha, laughter still bubbling up between you.

The day had been nothing like you expected, but somehow, it was perfect.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers lounge was unusually full, a mix of coffee cups, throw pillows and six grown superheroes trying very hard not to squeal over a box full of newborn kittens.

Natasha sat beside you on the couch, arms crossed but the softest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Nova was perched proudly beside the carrier, tail curled protectively around Liho, who seemed to have decided that fatherhood meant staring at anyone who got too close to the babies.

“Alright." You said, standing, dramatically holding up a notecard. “As promised. Official kitten name reveal.”

“Finally,” Sam groaned, sipping from a mug that said World’s Okayest Avenger. “I’ve been placing bets for hours.”

“I told you the white one would be named after me,” Tony said, adjusting his sunglasses indoors. “Because obviously, they saved the best for last.”

You cleared your throat. “Okay, first up, this little ginger one, who screamed like a banshee during delivery, his name is… Captain. Because he’s clearly the leader of this wild bunch.”

Steve gave a small nod of approval.

Next, you pointed to a sleek, grey kitten with a small tuft of white on his chest, currently curled around Nova’s tail.

“This little ninja with absolutely no chill is Winter.”

Bucky blinked. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or deeply uncomfortable.”

“He bit Steve’s sock and vanished under the couch with it." Natasha deadpanned. “It fits.”

“Fair." Steve muttered, eyeing the sock thief with a healthy amount of suspicion.

You leaned forward, reaching toward a pale gray tabby with wide, curious eyes. “This fearless little explorer who tried to climb out of the box earlier? Meet Scarlett.”

Wanda gasps, immediately scooping her on. "My little Scarlett."

“Y’know, this one does look like she’s planning his own SHIELD infiltration.” Clint mused, offering the kitten a tiny paperclip to play with. “He can have my locker.”

You grinned. “Now, this one here, tiny but dramatic. Meows before, during and after every nap. I give you… Arrow.”

Clint smirked. “I like that one. Direct hit.”

"This one is Thunder." Natasha smiled, lifting up the grey kitten and letting Thor take her from him. "Careful, she's loud."

She joked but true to her word, the tiny kitten let out a large meow that even had Liho stand up to look alert.

"She is small but she is mighty." He cheered, holding the tiny animal that basically looked like an ant in his huge arms.

“Next." You said, holding up a bold grey and white fluff ball who was busy swatting at Sam’s sleeve. “Para. Named for our resident airborne ace.”

Sam grinned. “Hey, respect the paratrooper.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “And me? I get what?"

"Don't be impatient."

"I can barely wait!" Tony groaned. "Give me!"

"Ok so this white little angel is... Salt."

"Salt? Salt, really?!”

Natasha gave a smug smile. “Yes. Salt.”

Tony groaned dramatically. "WHY?!

“So now Salt and Pepper have you under their thumb.” The room burst into laughter as you and Natasha fist bumped.

"And you really like Tequila. It goes well."

"And finally, we have..." Natasha went on, holding up the little white ball that has a black patch of fur over his left eye. "Fur-"

"-Widow."

"I thought we said Fury-"

You held up the smallest kitten of the bunch, showing the almost hour glass shape on her belly of dark fur.

Natasha blinked, hand frozen mid-pet. “You really want to name a kitten after me?”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “She’s small. Stealthy. Judges people. Sleeps like a brick. Remind you of anyone?”

“She also clawed Sam when he tried to boop her nose.” Wanda added, smugly.

“She booped me first!” Sam protested.

Natasha glanced down at the kitten, who yawned, stretched, and promptly turned her back to the group. “I like her.”

You leaned in with a grin. “Thought you might.”

Thor clapped his hands. “Now we must forge them tiny armour. And perhaps give them titles.”

Tony nodded seriously. “Agreed. I’ll have JARVIS print out a kitten command center by morning.”

“Please don’t.” Steve said, already pinching the bridge of his nose.

Wanda, kneeling beside the box with her phone out, panned the camera toward the team. “Everyone say ‘fluffy vengeance!’”

“FLUFFY VENGEANCE!” They all chorused, with varying degrees of commitment.

You and Natasha watched, shoulder to shoulder, as your friends descended into chaos, clinking mugs, arguing over kitten rosters and trying to convince Liho to let them pet the babies.

Natasha turned to you, voice low. “Still think danger’s your favourite part of this?”

You smirked, nudging her knee with yours. “Nope. This is.”

She tilted her head, considering you for a moment before replying.

“Well,” she said. “Good. Because I’m not raising six Avengers cats on my own.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry. We’re in this together.”

Natasha leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple, while everyone else pretended not to watch. Except Wanda, who was giggling behind her hand that wasn't holding her kitten.

“Teamwork." She smiled. “Told you it was useful.”

#natasha romanoff #black widow #fan fiction #natasha romanov #fanfic #marvel #natasha romanoff x female reader #natasha romanoff x reader #light angst #natasha romanoff x you #fluff #wanda maximoff #kitten #cats #natasha x reader

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kit-screams-into-the-future · 3 months ago

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redrew issue 15's cover! idw please hmu

alt version/og cover/explaining the changes under the cut:

i didnt know if i preferred the expressions on the evil martys or not so here's the version without them

the coloring on the outfit marty wears in the og cover is kind of mid ill be real. the purple also kind of blended in with the bg so i made him green instead

also about his coloring almost all of his colors aren't seen in the other martys, just so he stands out a little bit more from the rest of them! yeah theres a little bit of overlap but that's for the color cohesion. the rest of them have warm colors + blue so i would like to think the green and grey is a lot more noticable

i changed the two outer marty's outfits so that all of the Evil Martys are wearing something that marty wears in the movies at moments where he could've died. one could argue that the 2015 fit fits into this criteria but i thought getting shot by buford was a little more significant than getting his lights knocked out by griff seeing as the movie built that one up a lot more than the other

also it's a fullbody shot bc. i wanted to

the original rightmost marty is so funny to me. there's fits from the movies and then just a completely random outfit. why is bro colorcoded like the prowler from spiderman? or even doc from the cartoon which actually is a lot more related than the prowler from spiderman so maybe i should've listed him first. i think maybe this suit was actually supposed to be the one he wears when he almost fades out of existence at the dance but the colorist didn't get the memo so that might explain it. maybe i should've drawn that one instead of the 1955 leather jacket but whatever. we ball

also his fist is just Up. he's trying he wants to be included

#back to the future #bttf #bttf fanart #marty mcfly #kit does an art #downloaded a bttf font for this one ehehhheehe #it slants in the opposite direction but whatever.#not the happiest with some of the proportions but we ball. i like it a lot!#might cave and start redrawing some comic pages too gkbgjkgjk #LIVE KIT REACTION #but not really this is just my bttf comic tag now ig

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kjhbsies · 2 months ago

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A Minute Too Late

navigation | main masterlist | rules

join my 500 celebration!

Smallville Clark Kent x reader

synopsis: She ignored his warning, and he let his anger push her away. But love doesn’t disappear that easily, especially not when he’s ready to make it right.

wordcount: 3, 061

note: angst to fluff. clark was kinda mean here :<< based on this request.

You and Clark came from different worlds. Sure, his rise in popularity after joining the football team had gained him attention, especially from girls. But your circles never overlapped. Not really. His friends were known for being in everyone's business, especially Chloe, who had earned a nickname "nose sticker" for her relentless digging into Smallville's strange happenings.

Your own friends didn't hate them. There wasn't some vendetta against them. But to put it, their interests just didn't align. Investigating meteor freaks and tracking some unexplained phenomena didn't exactly fit into weekend spontaneous trips or late-night parties. So no one expected you and Clark to become... anything.

But one fateful physics project threw you together. And slowly, bit by bit, you and Clark started to understand each other.

To Clark, you were intimidating. He'd talked to girls before— hell, he'd even dated a few. But something about you has made his throat go dry and his words stumble out half-formed. You weren't loud or cruel as the stereotypes had painted you to be. You just... carried yourself like you didn't need anyone. And your smile? Oh, it went straight to your heart. You presence was magnetic— he hated how drawn he was to you.

But you weren't dating. Not officially... yet. You two were just figuring things out together. Letting the moments between you speak louder than any labels ever could.

So when you invited him to your friend's party, he hesitated. Not because he didn't want to go out with you, but because something didn't sit right. Chloe and Pete were surprisingly eager, ready to mingle and blend into your world for once. You were thrilled, too. But Clark was reluctant.

The next day, you were glowing with excitement. You picked out your dress, chose what hairstyle you'd do, and what type of makeup you'd wear.

Until Clark texted you.

Don't go to the party. It's dangerous. Something bad is going to happen.

You stared at the messages. Confused. Alarmed. But mostly hurt.

He wouldn't answer your calls. Wouldn't explain anything. And part of you thought— maybe that was his way of bailing. After all, he seemed adamant about going. Maybe this was his way of saying no without saying it. You tried to shrug it off, tried not to let the disappointment wash over you. So you went anyway. You told yourself he was just being overprotective. Or paranoid.

But he was right.

Not even thirty minutes in, chaos ensued. A creature— something inhuman— crashed the place. Screams filled the air. People ran in different directions. Smoke, fire, glass shattering— a havoc unfolding before your eyes.

You were nearly trampled on the way out. But then, strong, unrelenting arms scooped you from the crowd and carried you out.

Clark.

His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were burning.

"Clark—"

"Save it." His voice was low, sharp, and cold. He opened the passenger door and gently placed you inside. Despite everything, his touch was still careful. Still him. "I asked you for one thing. One damn thing. Stay home."

"Without telling me why?" You shot back, breathless and shaking. "What did you expect me to do, Clark? Blindly obey?"

He turned, grabbing the first aid kit from the back of his truck. "I was busy. Trying to prevent the incident. I didn't have time to spell it out for you."

Ouch.

You softened. "Clark... how was I supposed to know? I just..." You swallowed hard. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

He didn't answer right away. He placed a bandage on the scrape on your cheek, his touch gentle despite the fury in his bones.

"Won't it?" He asked, voice low. "You were so eager to go with your friends. To fit into that world. How do I know you won't do it again next time I told you to?"

You parted your lips to say something. But nothing came out.

He closed the kit and placed it on the back again. His words were quieter as he started the engine. "Just say it. Say that you trust your friends more than me."

"I don't..." You whispered, eyes stinging, but he didn't meet your gaze. Not even once in the whole ride back home. You turned your face towards the window, letting the tears fall silently. Not that it mattered. He won't even look at you.

When you reached your house, Clark got out and opened your door. Still not saying a word.

You stepped out, eyes red, and looked at him one last time. His expression hadn't changed— still serious, unreadable. Though a small flicker of worry passed through his eyes as he saw your face through the dim light. Still, he didn't say anything.

"Goodnight, Clark," You said softly. "I'm sorry."

You tiptoed and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek— barely there, trembling— and he didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Didn't stop you from walking away.

The next morning, you went to the Kent farm. To be honest, you didn't even know what to expect. An apology? A hug? Some kind of warm smile that gently said, 'It's okay now.'

Maybe.

All you knew was that the ache in your chest hadn't gone away since he dropped you off last night. So you went, because it hurt too much to sit and do nothing. You need to see him. Talk to him. And fix whatever's going on with you two now— if there's even anything left to fix.

When you knocked on their door, it was Martha who opened it.

"Oh, sweetheart. Clark's in the barn right now." She said, offering you a kind smile.

You made your way across the yard, trying to rehearse the words in your head. 'I'm sorry again. I should've trusted you. Can we talk now?' You tried to stay optimistic. Maybe he'd cooled off. Maybe last night's anger dissipated today, and he might understand you now.

But when you reached the barn and found him there, standing with his back to you— working on something, you hesitated.

"C—Clark," You said gently.

He didn't turn. Didn't even pause on what he was doing.

"I'm busy," He muttered and then walked away.

Just like that.

You stood there, stunned. The air felt heavier at this moment than it did during the chaos of the house party. Because, at least then, he held you. Now? Now, he wouldn't even look at you.

Still, you didn't give up. You tried the next day— approaching him after your shared class. But he walked too fast the moment the instructor had dismissed it. Like he was in a hurry. Like he couldn't even stand being near you within a minute.

The day after that, you waited by the bleachers during football practice. You sat there the whole time, under the scorching sun, hoping he'd glance your way. It's impossible that Clark didn't see you. Of course, he did. But he didn't glance at your way, at least, not without you knowing. He kept throwing the ball with more force than usual, almost enough to make his teammate stumble whilst catching it. And when you stood up and waved at him, he turned his back. Again.

You approached him in the hallway when he was with Chloe and Pete. He didn't even acknowledge you— just kept walking. It was Chloe who answered when you asked him how his leg was after practice. Pete gave a sympathetic smile and a gentle tap on your shoulder. But Clark said nothing.

It went on for days.

A week.

A week of chasing. A week of trying. Of questioning your worth. Wondering if you'd been stupid enough to think he'd ever cared. For ever believing you could mean something to someone like him.

And then, one afternoon, you saw him at the library.

It was at the same corner table where you two worked on the physics project that had started it all. The table where he first called you brilliant without flinching. The place where you two brushed hands and laughed at the same dorky pun.

For a moment, you thought about walking over. You even took a step. But when he turned his head, you panicked— ducking behind some shelf like some child playing hide and seek. You peeked, quietly, heart hammering in your chest as you watched him gather his things and quickly joined Chloe and Pete.

There was a voice in your head urging you to try again. To say something, anything. Maybe this time, he'd listen. But another part of you— the bruised, part— told you to just... stop. To let go.

Maybe it wasn't just meant to work. Maybe whatever's going on between you and Clark has burned out. You wanted it to be him— God, you wanted it to be him. To feel his arms around you again. To laugh and be the best version of yourself that existed around him. But maybe... wanting him isn't enough.

So, you stopped sitting beside him in class, found a new seat between your friends, and started showing up to your hangouts, more movie nights, just to keep yourself busy. Just to distract yourself from the fact that your eyes always drifted to where he was. That you still waited to hear the sound of his voice.

But you didn't chase him anymore. And in a strange, bittersweet way, it was freeing. To stop obsessing. To stop waiting for his presence.

But the what-ifs kept haunting you.

What if he had turned just in time to see you at the library?

What if you just waited a little more?

What if he had just... tried too?

Meanwhile, Clark noticed. He always noticed.

He saw how you stopped walking towards him after class. How your seat stayed empty beside his. How your laughter echoed from across the room, distant now. Like a sound haunting his mind and dreams.

He told himself that it was what he wanted. Maybe it wasn't just meant to work between you two. But the hollow in his chest had said otherwise.

"So, what's up with you and Y/n?" Chloe asked casually, as the three of them were seated in the bleachers.

Clark opened his mouth to say something smart, but the glare Chloe had sent him had shut him up.

He sighed, "I got mad at her for going to the house party. After I told her not to."

"That was last week, Clark." Chloe snapped. "You still haven't talked to her since?"

He shrugged, trying to look unfazed. "I mean... yeah."

But even he could hear the sadness in his voice.

"You're dumb as hell," Chloe said bluntly.

"Wow, thanks." He muttered.

"May I remind you that Y/n doesn't know about your..." She gestured vaguely at him. "Superpower alien situation? She's not psychic. And I bet you didn't even explain anything. You just shut her out."

"But still, shouldn't she be trusting me and not be so hard-headed on insisting on going to that house party?" Clark threw his hands helplessly,

Pete, who had been watching, stretched his legs and stood up. "Man, I get that you're scared people will find out. But seriously? Y/n was clueless. It's not fair for you to get so mad when you never told her the real reason you didn't want her at that party."

Clark exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "I was just trying to protect her."

“And you hurt her instead,” Chloe said quietly. “And now? You’re the one walking around like you lost something important.”

Because he had.

Maybe you weren’t just pulling away.

Maybe he had pushed you out.

And maybe— just maybe— he wasn’t sure how to get you back.

Once Chloe's and Pete's words had hit him like a truck, he realized what he'd done— what he'd lost— if he didn't try to fix this immediately. He thought his powers could solve most of his problems: with his super speed, strength, and even flying when necessary. But somehow, he couldn't get to you.

He would walk around the halls, searching for you after class, but you were already gone. A blur of motion, always just out of earshot, your laughter fading behind a closing door or around the hallways. He would show up to your next class, waiting, only for your friends to steer you towards another room, another place far away from him.

He watched you from a distance, every part of him aching. You still smiled— just not at him. You still spoke— but never to him. And he hated himself for the relief that flooded his chest every time you looked at him, even if briefly, like it was a muscle memory. Like a small piece in your heart still remembers him.

One afternoon, he thought he finally had his chance. You were sitting on the grass outside the campus cafe, and Clark had approached you slowly, heart thudding like a human's for once. But just as he neared, you stood up— and your friends were already calling you over.

"Y/n! Come on, let's go shopping!" One of them laughed, waving the keys in the air.

You hesitated, looking over to where Clark was. "I— I-uh..." You gulped, you didn't even know why you were stopping.

"Come on, you promised!" Another friend teased, pulling at your arm.

He tried to call your name weakly. But it caught in his throat.

You looked back at him— really looked—and he could feel the war going on in your head. He could see the part of you that still wanted to stay. But you didn't.

He even tried going to your house one night. Showing up on your porch like a teenager in a romcom movie, holding a bouquet of flowers— sunflowers— because you said it reminds you of summer.

But your mom answered with an apologetic smile.

"She's not here, honey. Sorry."

He left the flowers anyway, hoping you'd take them. But they withered before you ever saw them.

Pete had also been giving him side eyes, full of sympathy but also that quiet judgment.

"Maybe just give her time, man." He said. "You broke her heart."

"I didn't mean to." Clark quipped back.

"Doesn't mean it didn't happen."

"Karma," Chloe said. "You avoided her for a week, and now you're acting like she was the one who owes you the time of the day?"

Clark sighed. "I just... I need her to know that I'm sorry."

"Then stop waiting for the perfect moment. Just talk to her. Tell her what she means to you."

And he did. He tried.

One day, he got lucky.

You were alone near the field. The late afternoon sun was hitting the trees just right, golden and soft, and there you were, leaning against the wooden fence, watching the breeze move through the grass.

Clark walked towards you immediately.

And when you turned around— and when your eyes met his— he nearly broke.

Because there you were. The girl he hurt. The girl he likes. The girl he missed the most.

"Y/n," He breathed, voice cracking.

You tensed. You watched him with careful eyes, but you didn't move one bit.

"I've been trying to find the right time," He said, stepping closer. "But I guess... there isn't one. So I'm just gonna say it."

You opened your mouth to say something— but then a loud honk stopped you.

Your friends pulled up in a small car, grinning, waving at you.

"Y/n! Let's gooo!" One of them yelled. "Golden hour photoshoot by the lake!"

You looked back and forth— at the car, then Clark, who was standing now in front of you, desperate.

"Please," He said softly, reaching out to take your hand. His touch was gentle, like he was afraid you'd pull away. "Just a minute. Please, I need to talk to you."

You look at your friends, biting your lip. "You girls should go."

"Alright. Go on, lovebirds!" They yelled, grinning like idiots as they waved off and pulled away.

You turned back to Clark, and he didn’t waste a second.

“I was stupid,” He said. “I was scared, and I shut you out. I told myself I was protecting you by not explaining everything, but that’s not fair. You deserved honesty. You deserved more than silence.”

You blinked, but your throat was too tight to speak.

“I was angry at you for going to that party, but the truth is, I was mad at myself for not telling you why it scared me so much. Because I’m not just some guy who’s overprotective— I’m someone with… secrets. Big ones.”

You looked up, eyes searching his. “Secrets?”

He nodded, eyes filled with guilt.

“I’m not normal, Y/N. Not in the ‘I have baggage’ way— more like, I’m not even from here. Not really. I have powers. I can run faster than sound, lift tractors, and hear conversations from miles away. I’m different. And the idea of something happening to you when I wasn’t there— when I couldn’t protect you…”

He exhaled, voice trembling.

“It terrified me.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Processing.

“I wish you had just said that,” You whispered.

“I know. I should have. And I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me now. I messed everything up. I ignored you. I hurt you. And I regret it more than anything.” He stepped closer. “But I miss you. Every day. And I’d do anything— anything— for a chance to make it right.”

You looked at his face. Red-rimmed eyes. That clenched jaw. The way he was holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“I still like you,” You finally whispered.

Clark’s breath hitched.

“Really?”

You nodded, a small tear slipping down your cheek.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” You admitted. “I’m tired. I don’t want to keep getting hurt.”

“You won’t,” He promised, stepping closer, hands now cradling yours. “You won’t. I’ll prove it every day if I have to. Just— please, let me try again.”

You looked at him for a moment longer.

And then you threw your arms around his neck, hugging him tight.

He hugged back immediately, like his entire soul exhaled the moment he held you again.

“I missed you, too,” You murmured against his shoulder.

©kjhbsies

#smallville clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x fem!reader #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent angst #clark kent fluff #tom welling #tom welling x reader #kjhbsies #smallville!clark kent x reader

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wordpress-blaze-130067063 · 2 hours ago

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Favoritism: Brokenness that Begets Brokenness

REAL LIFE APPLICATIONS

Jacob outwitted his brother twice. When he fled to his Uncle Laban’s home and subsequently fell in love with Laban’s youngest daughter, Rachel, Jacob’s father-in-law substituted Leah, Rachel’s older sister, as his bride. Jacob worked an additional seven years for Rachel. In the years following we read in Genesis 31:41 that Laban changed Jacob’s wages ten times.

Jacob, the deceiver, was not only tricked multiple times by his father-in-law, but was later deceived by his ten oldest sons when they brought back Joseph’s coat of many colors—red with the blood of a kid goat. Naturally, Jacob assumed the worst and said in Genesis 37:33, “It is my son’s coat; an evil beast hath devoured him; Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces.”

God, in His sovereignty, does not let deceit slide forever. Even though it may appear the one getting the upper hand wins, God settles 10 the final score. In Jacob’s case, this certainly held true. He was deceived many more times than he deceived others.

When Jacob finally decided to leave Laban, he did so in secret. As he neared the territory of his brother, he knew he would need far more than his wits to survive. He needed God. Desperate for divine help, Jacob started praying earnestly. While praying, he encountered “a man” in the darkness with whom he wrestled for several hours. Somehow, Jacob knew he needed to hold on for his blessing. Toward morning, “the man” touched Jacob’s side and dislocated his hip. Wrestling with a hip out of joint is next to impossible, yet Jacob persevered and got the blessing he desired.

Our brokenness, whatever it is, eventually catches up with us, at which time we may feel our case is hopeless. Our spirit will feel “out of joint” as we wrestle with God. However, if we keep holding on, as Jacob did, God will give us a new name that signifies the blessing He gives us. Our old name of brokenness will be forgotten. Praise God!

“Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for your promise to replace my brokenness with strength and power. Help me to hold on until the blessing comes. Amen!” —Clifford L Cole

REFLECTION by Fari Matthew

Many people excuse their brokenness with statements like, "My father was this way," or "My grandmother was like that; this just runs in our family," or "...but you don't know what I've experienced in life!" Jacob could have had those same excuses, and maybe even had them for a while! He could have tried to justify himself by thinking, "God, you made me this way! I've been a deceiver since I was in the womb! I had no control over that!" However, after reaping the rewards of his scheming, Jacob finally came face to face with his brokenness and determined, "I want to be whole!" In desperation, he wrestled "a man"—whom many of the commentators are convinced was our Divine Redeemer in human form—until he was changed! I'm inspired to share here a few lines of a song titled "The Broken Vessel" by Andraé Crouch.

The Potter saw a vessel That had been broken by the winds and rain, And He sought with so much compassion To make it over again; And I, oh, I was that vessel That no one thought was any good, But I cried, "Lord, You're the Potter, And I am the clay, Make me over again today."

Then God picked up the pieces Of my broken heart that day; And He made me a new vessel, And revived my soul again.

O weary soul, maybe you also feel that you are broken. Maybe your vessel looks okay on the outside, but deep inside, there are cracks that belie your wholeness. If you want to be restored, there is One who can make you completely whole. Like Jacob, you can be healed of brokenness and have "power with God"!

—Fari Matthew

Another Workday at National Campgrounds of the Church of God was held Saturday July 12th:

Many people gathered to prepare the grounds for you to come and join us in worship to our Lord and Redeemer. You are invited to join us at the camp this year July 18-27th at Monark Springs (Neosho, Missouri) You are loved, you are invited, you are wanted.

This big ole tree, broken and gnarled, on the camp grounds captured my attention. See more pictures at the end.

NOTE: To read the Bible passages related to this lesson, click the various links in the heading. For the complete Bible Lesson, go to: www.churchofgodeveninglight.com/bible-lessons/ This time, you can not only read the reflection on this lesson written by a guest writer at the Church of God Evening Light link, but also in this blog.

You can also download the quarterly Bible Lessons to print at the above location. If you would like printed copies mailed to you, please contact us. We would love to hear from you.

Be sure to subscribe to this blog to get the weekly BIBLICAL APPLICATIONS IN REAL LIFE. To be part of the "Mustard Seed Math," like and share this blog on the form of social media of your choice.

If we never meet again in this life, let's plan to meet over there to worship our Lord and Savior -- The ONE who died for our sins and rose again to empower us in this life.

Cliff and Vonda

Though we've weathered the storms of life and have had our fair share of bumps and bruises, we can always look away "unto the ONE who can help make us whole again."

Source: Favoritism: Brokenness that Begets Brokenness

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makingfanfictionstosleep · 13 days ago

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presenting mr and mrs qin

smut || sylus x reader || alternate au || oneshot || inspired by mr. and mrs. smith || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || not for kids — MDNI — minors dont interact || story masterlist : love and deepspace

The Perfect Lie

You sat across from Sylus in the overly soft chairs of the marriage counselor's office, the beige walls doing nothing to soothe the tension humming between you.

Dr. Laney Brooks, with her kind but probing eyes, clicked her pen. "So, Sylus, you mentioned a lack of... excitement in the relationship?"

Sylus merely arched a brow, his gaze, as ever, a fathomless pool that revealed nothing.

"Excitement, Doctor, is a subjective term. Our life together is... structured. Predictable. Like a well-oiled machine."

His voice was a low purr, a deceptive calm that always hid layers of intent. He then turned his head, his eyes meeting yours with a familiar, almost challenging glint. "Wouldn't you agree, sweetie?"

You adjusted the silk slip beneath your conservative skirt, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the simmering heat within you. You offered a polite, practiced smile.

"Structured indeed, Sylus. Some might even call it efficient." You avoided the word "dull," but it hung heavy in the air.

For five years, this had been your dance: a flawless performance of domesticity for the outside world, a quiet, almost sterile companionship behind closed doors.

You were the meticulous curator, he the charming CEO. Each believing the other was entirely unremarkable in their ordinary life.

Evenings often ended in hushed, polite arguments about the optimal temperature for your rare orchid collection – a collection Sylus had surprisingly taken an interest in, though you suspected it was less about the petals and more about the precision required.

You'd share a glass of expensive wine, discussing bland market trends or the optimal viewing angle for a documentary on ancient civilizations. The tension was always there, a low thrum beneath the surface, a constant, unspoken question of what if.

Overlapping Targets

The alarm blared in your private apartment, a shrill, unwelcome sound in the pre-dawn quiet. Not the tasteful, gentle chimes of your regular alarm, but the emergency one from your agency.

You were out of bed in a flash, pulling on your standard mission gear – sleek, dark, practical. Your mind, however, was already two steps ahead, piecing together the fragmented intel.

Target: Dimitri. High-value. Located in an abandoned warehouse district on the outskirts of N109 Zone. Standard procedure.

You moved like a shadow through the pre-dawn city, the hum of your personal stealth vehicle a familiar comfort.

The warehouse loomed, a hulking silhouette against the paling sky. You dismounted, your senses already extended, your Evol humming with anticipation. This was your element – the cold, calculated precision of a hunt. You breached the perimeter, ghosting through the shadows, a specter of efficiency.

You found Dimitri first: a trembling data broker, cornered amongst dusty crates.

As you moved in for the final strike, a sudden, blinding burst of Dark Matter exploded near the target, throwing them back. Your reflexes kicked in, you rolled clear, weapon poised, your jaw tightening. Someone else was here.

Your mission had been compromised.

Then you saw him.

A flash of a familiar dark coat. The glint of a custom-made weapon. The unmistakable aura of Dark Matter twisting in the air, rippling like oil slicks in the dim light.

Sylus.

Your breath hitched.

'No. Impossible,' you thought.

He was supposed to be at that boring corporate gala, charming investors with his usual blend of menace and charisma. Yet here he was, moving with the same deadly grace you only ever glimpsed in the dark, during your nightmares, or when he’d cornered you playfully in your shared living room.

He turned, alerted by something only his enhanced senses could detect.

His eyes, the color of crimson, widened fractionally as they met yours across the dusty, chaotic warehouse floor. The elegant, detached amusement he usually wore was replaced by a raw, predatory surprise.

"Well, well," he purred, his voice low, yet carrying perfectly across the distance, cutting through the silence of your shock. "If it isn't my dear, unassuming little kitten."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face, not the polite one from dinner, but the one that promised delightful chaos. "Playing dress-up tonight, are we?"

Rage, hot and sudden, flared through you, pushing aside the initial shock. Unassuming? Little kitten? After all this time, all the elaborate charades, the careful distance, the pretense of a normal, if boring, life?

"You bastard," you hissed, your voice laced with ice, your own Evol flaring, the world around you sharpening, every detail coming into crystal-clear focus. You were no 'little kitten'. You were a hunter. "You lied."

He chuckled, a dark, rich sound that echoed in the vast space. "Lied? My dear, I merely… omitted certain details. As did you, I presume?" He gestured with his weapon towards the terrified, sweating Dimitri. "It seems we're after the same prize."

The data broker, Dimitri, seeing two lethal figures distracted by their sudden marital dispute, seized the opportunity and bolted, disappearing into the maze of the warehouse.

Neither of you noticed.

The air crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the years of carefully constructed lies now shattering around you.

Every polite dinner, every shared laugh that was just a little too knowing, every accidental touch that lingered a fraction too long… it all replayed in your mind, painted now in the stark, brutal colors of betrayal.

"You're in my way," you snarled, ready to unleash the full force of your power.

His smile widened, sharp and thrilling. "Am I? Or are we simply… perfectly aligned?" He took a step towards you, a shadow stretching from his form, seeming to taste the air between you.

"After all, kitten, the game has just begun."

The Marriage Contract : Termination

The next day, your secure comms link, usually reserved for mission updates, chimed with an unexpected, ominous tone. Your handler's voice was grim. "Target Dimitri compromised. Operative overlap detected. Marriage contract terminated. Effective immediately."

Your heart hammered. You knew what that meant. Him. They knew.

A cold, analytical part of your mind tried to process it. An overlap like this was a massive security risk. Two top-tier operatives, married, unknowingly working for rival factions? They'd both be deemed liabilities.

The only clean solution was mutual elimination.

As if on cue, the front door chime echoed through your seemingly perfect, silent home.

Sylus.

You met him in the pristine entryway, the polite smile you usually wore feeling like a grotesque mask. His eyes, usually unreadable, held a dangerous spark you'd never seen directed at you personally.

"Sweetie," he began, his voice still a purr, but laced with something sharp, "it seems our respective... employers... have issued a rather unique directive."

He held up a data slate. The image on it was a classified profile. Yours. With a red "TERMINATE" stamp across it.

Your own data slate was already clutched in your hand, displaying his profile.

You didn't need to say a word. The air crackled with the sheer impossibility, the horrific absurdity of it all. The man you shared a bed with, the man whose morning coffee you brewed, the man you were supposed to kill. And he, you.

"So," you breathed, the tension so thick it was suffocating. "This is it, then."

His smile was a slow, deliberate unveiling of fangs.

"It appears so. A rather unconventional approach to marital counseling, wouldn't you agree?" He stepped closer, his presence a dark, overwhelming force. "Tell me, kitten. Were you truly ready to end it all tonight? To extinguish such... potential?"

The Domestic Battlefield

The ensuing fight was less about taking down a target and more about tearing into each other, a raw, brutal tango of long-suppressed frustrations and deadly skills. The polite veneer shattered completely.

This wasn't about a mission; it was about the years of lies, the cold distance, the simmering desire now exploding into violent passion.

A priceless vase exploded as his Dark Matter lashed out, throwing you against the wall.

You retaliated, your Evol letting you anticipate his next move, dodging his precise, dangerous counter and sending him crashing through your antique coffee table.

Splinters flew, but he barely flinched.

He recovered, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he pushed himself up from the splintered wood.

"Such a temper, kitten. I always suspected you held more... fire... than you let on."

He tossed a throwing knife, not to hit, but to pin your silk slip, which you’d discarded earlier, to the wall beside your head, a suggestive, possessive gesture.

You pulled the knife free, your eyes blazing.

"You have no idea," you growled, and a sudden, sharp clarity settled over you. You were tired of the games. You stalked towards him, every step deliberate.

He met you in the center of the living room, gripping your wrists, pulling you flush against his chest. His breath, warm against your ear, sent shivers down your spine.

"Feisty, aren't we? I always did admire a woman who knew how to push back."

"Get off me," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and something dangerously close to desire.

Your hands were pressed against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric, the erratic thump of his heart, mirroring your own.

Your Evol hummed, struggling to control the chaos of your own emotions.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.

"Or perhaps," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you, "you prefer to be… restrained?"

His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there, promising forbidden tastes. The air between you was thick, almost suffocating, with the weight of years of unspoken longing and dangerous secrets.

You kneed him, hard, not quite enough to injure, but enough to make him grunt and loosen his grip. You twisted free, creating distance, panting, your eyes locked on his.

He watched you, his smile a thin, cruel line, yet his eyes held a smoldering intensity that made your breath catch.

The fight continued, destroying more of the apartment.

Yet, as each blow landed, as each near-miss sent adrenaline surging, a strange understanding bloomed. You weren't trying to kill him. Not really. You were expressing years of pent-up desire, frustration, and a dangerous attraction.

And he, it seemed, was doing the same.

Finally, you both stood panting amongst the debris, exhausted but strangely exhilarated. Neither of you could deliver the killing blow.

"This is... unsustainable," you gasped, a wry laugh escaping your lips.

Sylus wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, his eyes alight with a feral triumph.

"Indeed. A clear stalemate." His gaze roamed over your disheveled form, a possessive warmth entering his eyes. "Tell me, darling, now that we've truly expressed ourselves... what comes next?"

You and Sylus stared at each other, breaths shallow and heavy.

In a heartbeat, not knowing who moved first, your mouths were on each other, frantic and hungry.

Sylus tore off your clothes from your body, the silk ripping under his powerful hands, while you pawed at his buttons – they flew everywhere, clattering against the shattered floor.

He pushed you on top of your dining table, the solid wood cold against your back, hands gripping your waist so tight you knew it would bruise.

You wrapped your legs at his hips, his hard length grinding against your core, a desperate friction while he latched on to your nipples after ripping off your bra, his mouth hot and possessive, while he tugged his pants and freed his large length.

You heard another rip – you knew it was your underwear – and not long after, Sylus entered you, hard and violently.

You bit his lip, not caring if it bled, your nails marred his skin, feeling his violent and powerful thrust, the dining table creaking ominously from his relentless movements.

He shifted, holding your leg on his shoulder, his thrusts deeper, pushing his hand on your lower abdomen and feeling his own length move under his palms.

He groaned, his brows furrowed in the intensity of your fucking.

You arched your back against the hard wood, his large hands on your waist keeping you steady, making you meet his every thrust.

You don't know how many times you came, but his movements became sloppy, his rhythm faster and erratic, a desperate scramble towards release.

Not long after, he came inside you, and you followed, milking him of every last drop. He collapsed on your chest, both of you breathing erratically, your guns and weapons laying on the ground along with your discarded and torn clothes.

Then he smirked at you and said, "Truce?"

You nodded, still panting heavily, and breathed, "Truce."

Unconventional Alliance

Your comms buzzed, both of them this time. The message was clear: because neither of you had eliminated the other, you were both now rogue, active threats. A joint directive had been issued: Terminate the Qins.

"Well," Sylus purred, glancing at his buzzing device, "it seems they're rather determined to see us... disposed of." He met your gaze, a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes. "I suppose this means our date night is officially cancelled." He then lowered his voice, the amusement fading to something colder, more calculating. "And that little informant, Dimitri? He was merely a lure. Designed to force our hand. A rather elegant, if brutal, method of employee restructuring."

"They set us up," you stated, your mind already processing escape routes and strategic points. The pressure was immense, but a strange calm settled over you. This was familiar territory. The only difference was, you weren't alone.

"Precisely," he said, stepping closer, his hand subtly brushing yours. "Which means we have two options: die separately, or live... together." His fingers laced with yours, a firm, undeniable grip. "I prefer the latter. It promises more... diversion."

You squeezed his hand. The idea of fighting with him, not against him, sent a thrill through you that dwarfed any fear. "Lead the way, CEO."

He grinned, a genuine, dangerous flash of teeth. "As you wish, darling."

The city became your battlefield. Every alley, every rooftop, every crowded street was a potential trap, or an opportunity. You worked with a chilling synchronicity, your Evols complementing each other perfectly. Your precise movements, anticipating threats, were met by his overwhelming force, bending shadows and energy to his will, a dark storm that engulfed enemies. You covered his flank, he cleared your path. A dance of death, perfectly choreographed after years of silent observation and simmering tension.

"You move well when you're not constrained by societal expectations," he murmured during a brief pause in a darkened alley, his voice a low rumble. He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch light, yet possessive.

"And you're surprisingly less annoying when you're not pretending to care about my orchids," you retorted, though your heart hammered against your ribs. The danger, the shared purpose, the sheer intimacy of fighting for survival side-by-side... it was intoxicating.

Renewed Vows

The final confrontation came at a massive, abandoned home decorating superstore – a sprawling labyrinth of rusted shelves, broken display furniture, and towering stacks of empty boxes.

Both of your former organizations had pooled their resources, sending wave after wave of elite operatives. This was the last stand.

"They're thorough," you noted, reloading your weapon, your breath coming in sharp gasps. Sweat slicked your skin, but your focus was absolute.

"Indeed," Sylus agreed, his voice calm, even as his Dark Matter coalesced into protective shields around you both, shifting to deflect incoming fire.

"But they lack... vision." He turned to you, his eyes locking onto yours, intense and unyielding. "Are you ready, kitten? To truly embrace the chaos?"

You met his gaze, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across your face. "Born ready, Sylus."

The store erupted in gunfire. You moved as one, a blur of motion and power.

You were the eyes, the precision, the quick, lethal strike amidst the aisles of shattered ceramics. He was the force, the overwhelming presence, bending shadows and energy to his will, a dark storm that engulfed enemies, tearing through drywall and display cases.

You covered his flank, he cleared your path. A dance of death, perfectly choreographed after years of silent observation and simmering tension.

Amidst the chaos, surrounded by the fallen, he grabbed your arm, spinning you to face him.

His eyes burned with an intensity that was raw, untamed. "You fascinate me," he breathed, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his grip on your arm firm, possessive. "All this time... you were exactly what I needed."

"And you," you whispered back, your fingers curling into his coat, pulling him closer, "were the dangerous secret I couldn't live without."

The sounds of distant gunfire echoed, but in that moment, nothing else mattered.

He leaned down, his lips brushing yours, the long-held sexual frustration finally exploding in a searing kiss that promised a future far more dangerous, and infinitely more exhilarating, than any you had ever imagined.

This was the real you.

This was the real him.

And the game, as he said, had only just begun.

The New Normal

Months later, you found yourselves back in Dr. Brook's office, the same overly soft chairs, the same beige walls. Only this time, the tension was different. It wasn't the stifling silence of a lie, but the crackling energy of a newly forged, dangerous truth.

"And how are things now?" Dr. Brooks asked, her pen poised.

Sylus interlaced his fingers with yours, his thumb idly stroking your skin.

A gesture he never would have dared before.

"Remarkably... stimulated," he purred, his eyes twinkling with a knowing glint only you could truly decipher. "We've discovered a great many shared interests."

You smiled, a genuine, untamed curve of your lips. "Yes," you agreed, squeezing his hand. "Turns out, an honest partnership can be incredibly... efficient."

The memory of last night's 'business trip' – a coordinated infiltration that ended in a shared, breathless escape across rooftops – made your blood sing.

The mundane arguments about orchids had been replaced by intense debates on optimal demolition charges or evasion techniques.

Life was no longer dull.

It was a constant dance on the edge of a blade, a thrilling, dangerous, and intensely satisfying bond. This marriage, forged in fire and betrayal, was finally, truly, alive.

#love and deepspace #lads #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus lads #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x you #love and deepspace fanfiction #sylus smut #love and deepspace au #lads au #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader

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chrattvibe · 2 months ago

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៹Somewhere else... rapper!chris.

slow burn (kind of), long asf, be patient. strangers to something, flirting, soft tension, co-worker!matt cameo.

She rang the bell on the eighth floor, exhaling through her nose like she was about to face something more important than a casual dinner.

Matt's voice came through the intercom, sounding a bit more cheerful than usual.

"It's open!"

The buzzing sound unlocked the building doors, and she stepped inside. The elevator took a few seconds to arrive. As she rode it up, alone, hands in the pockets of her light jacket, a few inevitable thoughts crossed her mind.

I could’ve said no.

But something had piqued her interest. Matt’s message in the group chat had been kind, no pressure:

"Reminder! dinner at my place tonight with the office crew. Super chill. Come by if you want."

And here she was. Eighth floor.

It wasn’t like she didn’t get along with her coworkers. She just… didn’t fully connect. Her job wasn’t awful, but it didn’t represent her. It felt like a loop of repetitive tasks that someone else could easily do. She's actually a photographer and as a kid, she dreamed of adventure, travel, going from place to place. Now she sent emails, had meetings, and uploaded photos to the drive.

Maybe that’s why she forced herself to come. To see if, for a few hours, she could break the loop. Get to know her coworkers a little better. Maybe get something good out of this job.

From outside the apartment, she could hear voices, laughter, and music soft enough not to bother the neighbors. Nerves hit her stomach hard.

When she stepped inside, Matt greeted her with a short hug, and her coworkers smiled warmly, clearly happy she’d actually come.

“Come on in, make yourself at home.”

The place was cozy, filled with overlapping conversations and half-empty plates. People offered her food, drinks. Everyone moved around Matt’s apartment like they lived there. It made sense—she usually skipped social gatherings unless they were in a bar or somewhere she could easily blend into the crowd and disappear at any time.

But something surprised her: the conversations weren’t about reports or deadlines. During dinner, people talked about movies, travel, pets, absurd high school stories. She chatted with coworkers she’d never exchanged more than a “good morning” with. And she laughed. More than once. She actually liked them.

“Alright,” Matt said with a grin, standing up after opening a bottle of beer, “I reserved the rooftop for a bit. The weather’s nice, and I want to show off the city lights.”

There were cheers and the scraping of chairs. Everyone started picking up plates, cups, a leftover tray or two. The apartment slowly emptied.

She pulled on her light jacket, grabbed her glass, and followed the group down the hallway, climbing the building’s internal stairs. The rooftop was nice. Well-lit, with some sofas and tables. While a few people busied themselves setting out drinks from a makeshift cooler and arranging snacks, she stood off to the side, chatting with a couple coworkers. Well, not really chatting. She stared out at the view while half-listening. The city lights, the buildings, the cars, the people... well, one person. From the rooftop, she spotted someone who looked exactly like Matt entering the building. She found it curious.

Chris, a few minutes earlier, had been driving through the streets of Los Angeles, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily resting on the window. The music was low, letting the night speak a little.

He’d left the studio not long ago. Solid session—smooth, relaxed. Not one of those draining days. He’d had fun and finished a song. His stereo cut out when the low battery warning popped up on his phone.

Fuck... He was supposed to swing by Matt’s place earlier to grab his forgotten charger. Of course, he forgot that too.

He could’ve asked Matt to drop it off at his place for him, or waited until the next day. But he was already in his car, it wasn’t much of a detour, and he had no real plans tonight. Matt was probably doing nothing—like always on a Friday night. Worst case, he’d grab a beer and beat him at fortnite.

He parked on the usual block, crossed the street with his usual calm air, and walked into the building like he owned it. Used the code Matt had given him ages ago and pushed the door open. In the elevator, he adjusted his hair beneath his cap, glancing at his reflection.

When he stepped into the eighth floor hallway, he heard muffled laughter in the distance. He walked up to Matt’s door and knocked a couple of times with his knuckles. Nothing. He took a step back, debating whether to knock again or just call him, but before he could pull out his phone, the door opened.

“What are you doing here?” Matt asked, half-surprised, half-amused.

“Left my charger.” Chris raised an eyebrow. “Was gonna grab it tomorrow, but I was nearby.”

Matt stepped aside to let him in.

“We’re up on the roof. Come up if you want.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked off, the bag of ice in his hands starting to get way too cold.

Chris frowned. What does he mean by "we"? He shrugged and stepped inside his brother’s apartment. Smiled slightly at the sight of empty plates on the counter, half-eaten pizza boxes, open bottles.

He grabbed a slice of untouched pizza and went straight to Matt’s room. Found the charger, pocketed it, made sure the door was locked behind him, and headed to the rooftop—still unsure what was waiting for him, but knowing it had to be more interesting than his nonexistent Friday plans.

She didn’t hear the metal door open. She was facing away, leaning on the railing, her eyes lost in the city. Glass in hand, her body slightly turned—more comfortable watching than participating. Disassociating.

Chris stepped onto the rooftop without saying anything, biting into the slice he’d stolen from his brother. He scanned the group—lots of different people—until he spotted Matt and headed over.

“So? What’s all this?” Chris asked, finishing his bite. He brushed crumbs off his hands.

Matt, setting the bag of ice on a low table next to the beers and sodas, turned toward him with a half-smile.

“My coworkers. Remember that contract I told you about?”

“The one that’s been driving you nuts for weeks?”

Matt laughed softly. He was right.

“Yeah. We signed it. We’re celebrating.”

“Oh really? That’s great. Congrats man.” Chris said, and they exchanged a quick handshake.

Chris raised his eyebrows slightly, taking a better look at the group. He recognized a few: two or three were Matt’s regular friends. The rest... not so much. Mixed ages, styles. One guy with an obnoxious laugh. A girl with glitter on her eyelids. Another pouring herself a drink while texting.

Plenty of new faces. A few looked at him like they were trying to confirm he was who they thought. Others didn’t bother hiding it.

He was used to it. They didn’t always know exacly who he was, but they knew he was someone. And while it didn’t bother him, it did bore him a bit. Just ask him, y'know?

He was about to make a comment, but then he saw her again.

Still leaning, still calm. Like she hadn’t even noticed he was there. Like she didn’t care.

“Think I’ll hang out for a bit, if that’s alright with you.” Chris said, grabbing a soda from the table.

“Of course. Just don’t embarrass me.” Matt joked, and they blended into the crowd.

The night kept its pace. Chats here and there, drinks and snacks being passed around.

She and Chris exchanged a few glances. For once, he was the one trying to figure someone out. He even caught himself looking away first—which unsettled him. That was weird. He needed to make a move. Fast.

He saw her laughing at something another girl said. For some reason, that was it. Enough for him.

He adjusted his cap, grabbed a beer, and walked over like it was casual.

“Noticed you didn’t have anything,” he said, holding out the can. “My brother’s a terrible host… lemme boost his score.”

She finally looked at him. Up close.

“I’d take it, but I don’t drink. Sorry.” she said with a half-smile.

“Oh—really?... Sorry. I- I should’ve asked.” Chris laughed a little awkwardly, setting the can down on the nearest table.

Why the fuck is he nervous? Get it together, man.

“You’re fine. Thanks for noticing.” she smiled. A pause settled in, filled only by the soft music playing from the speakers.

“So… you’re Matt’s brother?”

“I am. I’m Chris.” he nodded, placing a hand on his chest. “What’s your name?”

She introduced herself. The string lights on the rooftop caught Chris’s blue eyes and the ring on his index finger. He looked good. Dangerously good.

"Nice to meet you… well, meet everyone, honestly." Chris said, leaning casually against the railing. “Matt doesn’t really talk much about his work.”

“He doesn’t? Wow. He seems like the workaholic type.” she laughed, mimicking his posture. “I don’t know him that well tho', to be honest.”

“Then you’ve got some catching up to do. He’s actually pretty cool.” Chris replied, flashing a half-smile.

She raised an eyebrow, amused.

“And you? What do you do?”

Chris hesitated for half a second. He was used to that question putting him in a different position. But with her, he didn’t know what to expect.

“I make music,” he said eventually, without bragging.

“Oh. Like a... producer? A DJ?”

Chris laughed softly. It was genuine.

“No, I sing. Or well, I rap, really. I’m pretty bad at singing,” he joked, making fun of himself.

She nodded slowly, like she was taking a mental note. Like she didn’t know him, but wanted to.

They kept talking. First about music—just lightly—and then about other, looser topics. Shows, where they grew up, anecdotes that didn’t sound rehearsed.

At some point, they drifted slightly away from the group—not far, just a few steps closer to the railing. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.

Every now and then, someone would join the conversation—one of her coworkers, a friend of Matt’s. They’d say something, laugh, then leave. As if they understood, without anyone saying it, that this conversation was meant to be just between them.

They spent about twenty minutes like that, in some sort of parallel hangout. Comfortable. Like talking was easy. Like they already knew each other but still wanted to keep finding things out.

“You’re less serious than you seem,” she said with a half-smile, spinning her empty glass in her hands.

“I'm gonna take that as a compliment."

"It is." She smirked.

"And you’re more direct than I thought," Chris replied, narrowing his eyes, amused. “I like it.”

She laughed softly and looked up.

"You like being challenged?"

“Maybe I like being challenged by you.”

Chris didn’t look away. Somewhere in the conversation, his confidence had returned.

“I like not knowing what you’re going to say next. It’s weird,” he added, leaning slightly toward her, without overstepping. "It makes me pay more attention to you."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that felt charged with something more. Like part of the conversation was happening without words.

The night slowly started to wind down. Some people had already left, and even though there were still about ten people left on the roof, the air felt calmer, more intimate.

She waved at a girl who was heading down the stairs, then turned back to him.

“I think I’m heading out,” she said, pulling her phone from her back pocket.

Chris nodded. But he didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her for another second. Like he was trying to guess if she wanted him to say anything else.

He confirmed it when he caught a quick glance at her screen and saw she was on Instagram instead of the Uber app.

Chris quickly searched for his brother in the crowd—who, by chance, had seen that last interaction. Chris held his gaze for a second, like asking for permission without words. His brother gave him a subtle, knowing smile. Barely noticeable. A silent green light.

“Want me to walk you downstairs?” Chris finally asked, his voice free of pressure.

“Just downstairs?” she replied with a sideways smile, now looking straight at him again as she tucked her phone away.

Chris let out a soft laugh, defeated in the best way.

“I live a few blocks from here…”

She pulled her coat over her shoulders, still wearing that mix of challenge and playfulness on her face.

“Let’s go.”

Chris stepped ahead, heading back inside and calling the elevator, giving her a chance to say goodbye to her coworkers—and then they left.

No rush.

Like there was nothing left to confirm. It was already understood.

—Chrattvibe.

masterlist.

taglist.

#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #rapper!chris au #rapper!chris sturniolo #rapper!chris #chris girl #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #co worker!matt #chrattvibe #chratt

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graci3sb0w · 4 months ago

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Maroon

Gracie Abrams x Female Reader

Summary : could you be the one? Or could it be just a mistake, an accident?

Warnings : sad ending, angst, crying

You never meant to stay this long.

It was supposed to be a quick stop—an innocent visit to Gracie’s apartment, maybe an hour or two of talking, some music playing in the background, and then you’d leave before the night swallowed the city whole. But time slipped through your fingers the way incense smoke curled toward the ceiling, hazy and ungraspable, until you were both sprawled out on the floor, giggling over something neither of you would remember in the morning.

Gracie’s record player hummed softly from the corner of the room, the vinyl spinning endlessly as if it, too, had lost track of time. Your feet rested in her lap, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your ankle as she laughed at something you said. The wine bottle—Audrey’s cheap-ass screw-top rosé—was nearly empty, and the evidence of your carelessness stained the front of her T-shirt in a deep burgundy. You had knocked the glass right out of her hand while telling a story, and for a second, all you could do was stare at the spreading color before the two of you dissolved into breathless laughter.

“How’d we end up on the floor anyway?” Gracie asked, voice light with amusement.

You shrugged, barely able to contain your grin. “I think your terrible wine might have something to do with it.”

She nudged your leg in mock offense, but the smile on her face betrayed her. “Rude.”

You didn’t leave that night. Nor the next.

Somewhere along the way, your presence in Gracie’s world became less of a guest appearance and more of a permanent fixture. You saw her every day, your lives overlapping in ways you never anticipated. Mornings blurred into afternoons spent wandering through the city, stealing moments in coffee shops, whispering secrets in bookstores. Nights were filled with music and laughter, your voice blending with hers in quiet harmonies only the two of you understood.

One evening, you found yourselves barefoot in the middle of an empty street, the New York skyline stretching above you. The night air was crisp, electric, and the city lights reflected in her eyes as she pulled you closer.

“I chose you,” she whispered, her fingers tangled in yours.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just squeezed her hand, hoping she could feel the way your heart was threatening to escape your chest. The world faded away as you danced, feet skimming the pavement, the stars above bearing witness to something too big for words.

Lazy Sunday mornings were your favorite. Waking up to the scent of coffee, Gracie curled into your side, her hair a mess against your pillow. She would murmur sleepy protests whenever you tried to move, her arms tightening around you. The two of you would stay like that for hours, wrapped in warmth and quiet laughter, music playing softly in the background.

But not all nights were kind.

There were moments when silence crept between you, heavy and suffocating. When words failed, when distance grew—not in miles, but in the space between two hearts that once beat in sync. You would find her standing in the hallway, eyes hollow, fingers gripping a bouquet of carnations she had mistaken for roses. A metaphor too painful to ignore.

“How did we lose sight of us again?” you asked one night, voice barely above a whisper.

Gracie didn’t answer. Instead, she crumbled, her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. You wanted to fix it. To fix her. But some things weren’t meant to be repaired, no matter how much love was poured into them.

The fights were never explosive, never loud. They were quiet, simmering, unraveling you both in ways neither of you knew how to stop. Nights spent lying in the same bed but feeling miles apart, your hands twitching with the desire to reach for her but your pride keeping you still.

Then one day, she was gone.

You lost her.

The city felt different after that—colder, emptier. You still woke up with the ghost of her touch lingering on your skin, her memory woven into the fabric of your days. The rust between telephones grew, the space between you becoming insurmountable. She had been your home, your safe place, and now all you had were echoes of a love that once burned so vividly.

You would see reminders of her everywhere. The bookstore where she once ran her fingers over the spines of novels, the café where she used to order the same iced coffee, the street corner where she first grabbed your hand. And every time, your chest would tighten, grief pressing into you like a weight you couldn’t shake.

But even in her absence, she remained. The burgundy stain on your old T-shirt, the bite-mark she left on your collarbone, the laughter you could still hear when the city grew quiet.

A legacy, real and undeniable.

It was maroon.

#fanfic #gracie abrams #gracie abrams x reader #gracie abrams x female reader #fluff #marsie speaks #cute #gracie x y/n #light angst #maroon #taylor swift #angst #sad ending #Spotify

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fafodill · 1 month ago

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Yeah ok, I’ll make my case for Snape/Shacklebolt, I've a completely sincere soft spot for them.

Shacklebolt’s an honorable guy, but he’s very much a manipulator. Dude’s introduced lying to his superiors that Sirius is in Tibet! He can talk down Vernon and blend in in a muggle government office! He plays double-duty working for the Ministry and the Order and he does it so well that he gets elected minister in the aftermath! He’s the “face” that gets initial post-war reforms past a staggeringly conservative government and population! He’s also highly competent. This is the exact sort of guy Snape tends to attach himself to (Voldemort, Dumbledore… heck, I’d even count Lucius and imperius-specialist Mulciber among the good-at-his-job manipulators. Obvs Voldy and Dumbles are the most competent, but even Lucy is quite good at what he does before Voldemort rugpulls him!) Snape, of course, has the rare-among-wizards gift of logic and common sense (…usually) and has a strict set of morals (even if they seem incomprehensible from the outside sometimes), which makes him an anomaly in the setting.

Some sort of post-war setup where Snape survives could frankly have them being stabilizing influences on each other — Shacklebolt has this “functional adult” thing on lockdown and has absolutely dealt with worse tantrums, and Snape has the ability to look him in the face and be like “that’s absolute bullshit” when the situation calls for it, their traumas do not seem to overlap, they can keep up with each other mentally without feeling like they’re encroaching on each other’s specialty… it’s downright nice and peaceful. They realize they don't have to lie to each other, since Shacklebolt knows Snape was a spy and Snape knows at least the general gist of what the post-war reform plan is, and then they bond over shittalking everyone in private and being the smartest two people in any given room (now that Dumbles is dead), and then one morning Snape wakes up to the shocking revelation that he’s been in a relationship for like two years and has never once been asked to be useful about it.

… Also polite, charming, ex-auror and gleefully public-facing politician Minister Shacklebolt with his bitchy dark arts-obsessed unwilling war hero of a husband is just a fun mental image.

You know what, Snackelbolt!anon? I dig it.

It does sound peaceful. A bit like Tonks/Moody. They just vibe and aren't riddled with overlapping trauma.

And I suppose Snape would still be triggered and weakened from the war but I could imagine Kingsley (being a functional adult) being able to 1) protect him from the press and prying eyes after the war to help him heal, 2) be able to get through Snape's fits of anger without flinching too much and deescalating the situation quite well (he's a politician) and 3) be one of the very few people who could convince him after a while to go to therapy.

And they develop a true respect for each other and slowly it evolves and one night Severus is at Kingsley's place (like every Thursdays) and they're talking on the couch and there's a silence and they look at each other and there's something in the air you know (even Severus can feel it and that makes him super nervous) and Kingsley is very chill about it (he's aware of what's been happening for a while he's in no rush).

And they kiss but Severus stops it because he's overwhelmed but most of all he's anxious about changing their relationship because it's actually nice and he values it and he doesn't want to loose that.

But Kingsley is chill. And it takes its time (a bit like in 'Second Life' if you know you know) and then I love the idea of 'it's two years later and Severus realizes he's in a relationship and hasn't been asked to be useful in any way.'

Yeah, I dig it. I'd like to read that first time on the couch.

#I'm opening my hands #someone #drop a fic #I say every two posts while I have no time to read at the moment #but damn #you made a good case anon #thank you #kingsley shacklebolt #severus snape #ship discussion #I'll add it to my earlier post #snackelbolt

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karaageandtarts · 2 months ago

Note

🔆anon

Hi, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you make Vinny’s sprites? They look like they’re from the game itself and it’s really cool

Ah, hello! First of all, thank you!! That's really flattering,,

Tbh, idk if I'm the right person to go to- I've seen some super cool artists who have outright made rigs of theirs, so they can move n stuff, plus there are people who take commissions and add way more detail. My process is kind of convoluted and not the cleanest per say, etc etc BUT!!!

(I use Ibis Paint and a pen set up btw lol, that might have some effect?)

It's a whole lot of tracing and referencing! I started with merging Azul and Riddle's sprites together. For Vinny, it was easy since he's supposed to be a blend of Azul and Riddle's traits, which means it's easier to just mash them together to get a result. (Like you can see here, it's Riddle's main body with Azul's background arm and smile and his tie/chest plastered on to get rid of the bow.)

A completely original character like Corwin was a little harder to do, since he has his own personality that's supposed to show through his pose- a lot of characters just have a hand on their hip while the other relaxes, though!

And then I block out the main parts! Each color seen here is a different layer in accordance to what they are, I guess- the shirt collar, the jacket, the vest, the shirt itself. I do this by outlining the edges manually and then filling them in. It's not exactly shown here, but I start with the head as well!

For the face itself, I used a thin brush for the mouth and additional details, but I used the lasso fill tool to wing my way with the eyebrows and lid creases- I did have the reference face beneath it, but it came out more naturally to me to make a few quick swipes following the guide and erasing any excess.

For Vinny's face, I copied Azul's eyes but made the "irises" bigger, like Riddle's, just by rounding them out. Ibis paint has a brush shape that looks exactly like the pupils the sprites use, so I only pasted them on and adjusted them.

I'm ngl I mixed up the order at some point. While the first Vinny sprite has a dark base with lighter highlights, the newest one has a light base with dark shading. But I locked the layers, color picked the lightest shade from my reference sprites and filled the layers in. The tie may be tricky since it doesn't really stand out unless you're doing a bow.

From there, I added smaller details like the buttons, the crease lines, the belt, etc, then color them in as well.

twst sprites have a lot of gradients to them, so this is where I pull out the airbrush lol- this time picking the darkest color on my reference and using a clipping layer/mask to add the color. The gold trim and buttons on Vinny's vest are also a clipping layer/mask, for convenience.

For the hair, I... kind of just went for feeling? (And a lot of referencing the original sprites) Using the lasso fill tool, I used a multiply layer in places where the hair is darkest and overlaps, then played with the opacity until I was satisfied, then did the same thing but at an even lower opacity. Did it a third time, but this time with an airbrush. The highlights are pretty simple, but you'll notice more complicated hairstyles like Azul or Epel's have more highlights around the edges of their hair to help distinguish the layers. I used the lasso fill tool for these again.

The face/neck is kind of like this too- shading color for the inner ear/neck, some slightly along the "jaw", and a lighter layer with airbrush where the nose should be.

I do use folders! This is why Vinny's hair remains the same throughout the three I've made— I copied the hair folder to make it easier on myself lol. In theory, you could make folders for each body part and have an actual posable sprite instead.

I do hope this wasn't too rambly anon!! 🛐 I may make more sprites in the future so maybe writing down my process will help me in the end too lol.

#cephalotyrant text #twst #twst oc #vinny 🪼

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weeeyotch · 2 months ago

Text

Between Shadows & Steel: CH. 2

⊱ Word Count: 2.6k ⊰

⊱ Warnings: Mentions of abuse & violence ⊰

⊱ BS&S Masterlist ⊰

Taglist: @reckless007 @reemoony @cjand10

Bucky stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his dress shirt and tugging on the collar as though it were choking him.

The shirt fit fine. Even the navy-blue jacket had a great fit, accentuating his broad shoulders and muscular arms in a way that turned heads–subtle enough to be admired but not questioned. Sam had convinced him to buy it in the obscenely bougie boutique shop in DC’s city center, claiming that, “It’s time to stop looking like a washed-up assassin past the prime of his life, and more like someone who actually pays their taxes.”

The more he tried to adjust the shirt, the more his tie felt like a noose. A small part of him silently prayed that it would become tight enough to choke him and leave him unconscious on the marbled floor.

Bucky rubbed a hand down his face and exhaled sharply.

This all felt wrong.

It felt wrong to trade in his uniform for a suit and tie; to swap battlefield tactics for policy debates, and to fight his enemies with words instead of fists.

He had spent decades detached from his own consciousness–a weapon that was forged by war and sharpened by violence. As the Winter Soldier, he never had to command the attention of a room of politicians to explain the political change he would enact; he would simply be the change, with nothing but a commanding silver fist.

Countless countries and regimes were sent spiralling into political turmoil and violence under the blood-soaked barrel of his handgun. Entire governments collapsed with a pull of his trigger, their leaders never seeing the ghost in the shadows before he towered over their dying figures. He had toppled democracies, instilled tyrants, and silenced revolutionaries–all without blinking an eye.

But now, as he stood in front of the brightly lit mirror, dressed in a freshly dry-cleaned jacket, he was supposed to be someone else entirely. A man with a voice instead of a silencer. A congressman instead of a killer.

Just beyond the gold-plated door, dozens of voices chattered in anticipation. Their conversations were muffled, but he could feel the sense of excitement, dread, and anger that hung heavy in the air. Allies and enemies alike waited on the other side, waiting eagerly for his appearance.

Bucky sighed and adjusted the polished pin on his lapel. Beads of sweat rolled down the tracks of his calloused palm, and he wiped it against his pant leg before straightening his stance.

This isn’t a battlefield, he reminded himself. This isn’t a warzone.

So why, as he reached for the door handle, did he feel like it was?

That same rush of adrenaline and fear that he felt as a young soldier in 1943 coursed through his veins, causing his muscles to coil and his heart to start pounding. He forced a final, steadying breath through his nostrils before finally pushing the door open.

No bullets will fly. No blood will spill. No orders will be barked. Nobody will di–

A barrage of deafening camera shutters blinded him in a wave of white light. It was his body’s first instinct to tense up and slightly jump as Bucky felt momentarily disoriented. The cameras kept flashing in succession, with frenzied reporters calling out for him. It became difficult to concentrate, as their fanatic overlapping voices soon blended into an unintelligible roar.

Bucky forced his shoulders to relax as he marched towards the courtroom. Only a singular red-velvet rope separated him from the crowd of hysterical reporters that swarmed him like angry bees. They all ran after him, stumbling upon each other, reaching their microphones across in hopes that he would acknowledge at least one of them.

“Congressman Barnes!”

“Do you have anything to say about the bill hearing?”

“Congressman, do you think Congress will pass your bill?”

“Congressman Barnes, do you have any comments?”

He kept his head straight and his gaze focused only forward. Anything that he had to say to the press had already been said and done before. All that was left to do now was make one of his final arguments to a chamber full of his judgemental and overly-scrutinizing peers.

Bucky pushed ahead, his pace measured and his expression unreadable.

One foot in front of the other, he thought to himself. Nice and steady.

The mask stayed on.

He had learned long ago how to mold his features into something impassive, to appear unaffected as the chaos thundered around him. As the cacophony of voices clawed at him and the flashing of the lights burned his retina, something flowered deep in his gut–something heavy, something unshakeable.

Finally having approached the grand marble doors that lead into the congressional chamber, a familiar voice sliced through the madness like a knife.

“Congressman Barnes!”

Bucky hesitated at the doors as his gloved hand reached for the handle. He had mastered the art of selective hearing, tuning out everything around him that was not critical to the mission. But the voice came clear again, seemingly closer this time, shrill and sharp as the first time he had heard it.

His jaw clenched.

“Congressman Barnes, how can you justify advocating for the Broken Arrow Initiative when you were once an assassin yourself? Don’t you think that people, including your constituents, would see this as you protecting HYDRA agents?”

His fingers curled into a fist at his side but he forced them to relax. He turned with a deep exhale through his nostrils, coming face-to-face with the source of the question.

A woman stood among the reporters, her turquoise suit pristine and a near eye-sore in the ocean of grey and black. She held her microphone steady with the right corner of her crimson-painted lips tugged upwards in a smirk. Knowing damn well that she hit a nerve, she stood waiting for his answer.

Sam’s words echoed in his head. This job won’t be easy, you know. You’ll be met with a lot of resistance. You’ll make a lot of enemies. But God, if it isn’t rewarding, then I don’t know what is.

Public enemies. He wasn’t kidding.

In front of him stood Charlotte Monroe, chief editor for the Washington Post–Bucky’s number one opposition. She had been a hardline critic of him ever since he first announced his campaign for congress, composing painfully eloquently written hit articles that questioned his every move. Bucky had seen her on television, spewing the same bullshit rhetoric about national security, about how congress needed to conduct an investigation into him for possible corruption; about how men like him can never be truly trusted.

Charlotte had a history of denouncing anything and everything to do with HYDRA. Her hatred for the organization was nearly admirable to Bucky.

Nearly.

A dozen other microphones shot forward, waiting eagerly for his response. He could already see the news headlines forming in his head: Congressman Barnes Loses Cool Before Congressional Hearing. Winter Soldier Lashes Out at Press–Shocking or to be Expected? Ex-Assassin Struggles to Defend Self-Serving Controversial Bill.

Bucky took another breath. “I think,” he said with a steady voice, “that no one understands the necessity of this bill better than I do.”

Charlotte lifted a brow, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. Rather, he shot her a pointed look before turning back to the ominous chamber doors, pushing them open without another word.

Inside, the atmosphere was even more suffocating.

With its towering majestic marble pillars and sculptures crafted from the finest gold, the congressional chambers felt more like a courtroom on judgement day than a legislative floor. Rows of wooden desks curved in semicircles, all facing the front of the room where the Chairperson would sit. Fluorescent lamps decorated the upper walls, bathing those that sat underneath it in its blinding and off-putting light.

The room was filled to the brim with hundreds of congressmen. It was an endless sea of grey and black, and Bucky feared that it would swallow him whole. The sounds of keyboards clacking, pens anxiously tapping against wooden desks, and monotone voices carried through the air.

Everything in the room felt tense.

This day would be one of the most important days to come in recent history; the proposition of a bill that would hold up a bloody and cracked mirror not only to the American government, but to the governments around the world.

It was a day that would finally challenge their cruelties.

As soon as Bucky walked in, silence fell like a guillotine.

Conversations died out, pens were forgotten on the tables, and hands were frozen over keyboards. Everyone turned to stare at Bucky–looks of anger, fear, and vacant stares greeted him. There were some allies, however, scattered in the sea of foes. They could only offer him curt nods of acknowledgement. But as he glanced up to the seats on the second-floor gallery that overlooked all of Congress–saved for reporters, staff, and guests–he was met by a confident nod and a half-smile.

Sam. Watching. Waiting.

That nod, filled with conviction, reminded Bucky as to why he was there. Why he hadn’t backed out despite every voice in his head screaming at him to run. Sam believed in this bill. He believed in Bucky.

Bucky moved quickly to take his seat. His vibranium arm rested carefully on the polished desk, fingers clenched and motionless. The placard in front of him read: Rep. James B. Barnes (D-NY).

The world around him seemed to drown out as the only thing he could hear was the sound of blood rushing through his ears. Even the movements of the other members of Congress seemed to all blend together into a large, neutral-colored blur. With the anxiety coursing through his veins, he felt both painfully hyper aware and nonexistent; he felt like a ghost in his own flesh.

The only thing that brought him back to reality was the sound of a gavel hitting wood. He finally came to, focusing his vision on the chairwoman of the Judiciary Committee.

She sat high above the rest of Congress. Her gray hair was tied into a sleek knot with not a single loose strand of hair. It complimented her gaze–sharp, judicial, and impassive.

“This committee will come to order,” she announced, her voice clear and firm. “Today, we will hear testimony regarding House Resolution 8471–the Broken Arrow Initiative.”

Her eyes landed squarely on Bucky. Although he didn’t flinch, he could feel the heavy weight of them.

“We welcome the bill’s sponsor, Representative James Barnes of New York. Congressman, you may proceed. You have five minutes.”

Bucky stood slowly.

He held his opening statement with his vibranium arm, fearing that his regular arm would tremble too much. Clearing his throat, he lifted his gaze and finally spoke–not as the Winter Soldier, not as a reformed assassin, but as James Buchanan Barnes: a broken man who still hoped that something good could come out of his overextended life.

“Madam Chairwoman, members of the committee…” he began, voice low but steady. “I was thirteen years old when I first heard the words ‘collateral damage’. I was too young to understand what they meant. I only learned their true meaning until I became it. Until I inflicted it.”

“I’ve been called a weapon. A ghost. A murderer.”

He glanced up at Sam as those words left his mouth. Bucky took a shaky breath before lowering his gaze back down to his paper and continuing on.

“For a long time, I believed that’s all I was. I believed that I didn’t deserve a second chance.” He paused as his eyes fell to his left hand, where the gold patterning shimmered beneath the harsh chamber lights. “But then, someone gave me one.”

Bucky glanced towards the balcony again. However, he wasn’t looking at Sam anymore–he was looking at the others who filled the seats. Citizens, journalists, law students, veterans. People who may have seen and felt the damage he caused, either personally or through their television screen. People who had survived.

“But this someone wasn’t just anyone. It was a country. A government. A team of people who looked me in the eye and said, ‘We won’t forget what you did–but we see who you are trying to become.’”

“There are hundreds of others like me. Hundreds who had undergone illegal human experimentation, who were taken advantage of. Hundreds whose minds were ripped to shreds and forced to partake in unspeakable acts by the same people who inflicted horrors upon them. There are many people who fell victim to HYDRA and similar organizations. There are countless others, however, who fell victim to governments–some foreign, and some their own.

There was another flicker of movement on the floor. Whispering, people shaking their heads, people shifting uncomfortably in their seats. All were listening.

“This bill, the Broken Arrow Initiative, is not about erasing the past. It’s not about hiding what happened in the HYDRA labs or behind the closed doors of governments in the name of national security. It is about telling the truth. It is about protecting the next generation from suffering in the ways that we did. It is about dismantling the systems that turn people into property.”

“We owe it to the victims. We owe it to the survivors. And we owe it to ourselves.”

His voice grew steadier now.

“I stand here before you today not as a soldier. Not as an assassin. Not even as a congressman. I stand here as a man who was irrevocably broken by war and is still choosing peace.”

A hush fell over the chamber. He let the silence stretch on just long enough to make it feel almost unbearable.

“With this bill, I propose the establishment of federally funded therapy, counselling, and trauma recovery programs for individuals who were systematically abused and experimented on. I want to grant refuge and a clean slate to those with verifiable evidence of their pasts.”

His eyes dropped to the next paragraph. His hand tensed. He knew what was coming; the match that would quickly light the chamber on fire. With a deep exhalation, he went on saying:

“Finally, I call for a full audit of the American government and its affiliated branches. I call for those found guilty of systemic abuse and human experimentation to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

The uproar was immediate.

Chairs scraped back. Voices clashed. Some congressmen yelled at Bucky while others began to argue with each other. Laptops snapped shut. Fingers were pointed across the aisle.

The chairwoman slammed the gavel. She called for order but it barely registered.

“For far too long,” Bucky raised his voice over the storm, “the United States government has sanctioned human experimentation and abuse, then buried the evidence six-feet underground. Many of those victims are still alive today, living in fear and trying to navigate a world that turned them into weapons and discarded them.”

He took a final breath, firm and unwavering.

“This bill is about justice. It is about recognizing what was done in the shadows. It is about giving those people–not assets, not numbers–the right to reparations. Whether that be legal, monetary, or simply having their stories shared with the world. I believe that this bill will open a new chapter in American governance–one that is filled with reconciliation, accountability, and forgiveness.”

Nodding once, he finished with, “Madam Chairwoman, I yield my time.”

Bucky’s legs collapsed under him as he fell back into his seat, dizzy and out of breath. His heart pounded as pride and fear coursed through his veins.

Maybe now, he thought to himself. Maybe now, things might finally start to change.

The chaos still raged on around him. Fists slammed against desks. Everyone continued shouting. Some even stormed out.

But Bucky didn’t move. He remained stoic.

The Chairwoman kept hitting her gavel and demanding order. The debate would be coming soon. Bucky cringed internally at the thought of having to defend himself against the burning scrutiny from hundreds of his peers.

The hardest part was only just beginning.

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