#face and body art instructor

[nouearth]

hear me out.

dick grayson x male reader.

summary: dick pushes you to your limits in the gym, and your animosity towards him slowly transforms into unexpected admiration (and unlocks months of concealed pining).

wc: 7.2k. genre: smut. warnings: top!dick, dom!dick, bottom!reader, bottom!reader, sub!reader, one sided rivalry (reader's end), enemies to lovers(?), brief fighting, reader and dick are working out, physical fighting (with boxing gloves), envious!reader, insecure!reader, hotheaded!reader, uncut!reader, public!sex, gym!sex, dirty talk, praising, guidance, handjob, fingering, kissing, spitting, lots of sweat, body worshipping, reader will be walking funny for the next week.

Your shoes squeaked after every thump from landing on your feet. One foot chased after the other in a pursuit, and your knees raised past your navel as the cable rope cut through the air with a turn before hitting the ground. You huffed after every snap of the rope, a burn scalding the muscles in your thighs and wrists with every rotation, tensing as if you’d been hit, as if your coarse throat would feel the remnants of the whip afterward. 

“Five…Four…Three…” 

Sweat dripped off your forehead, off the locks of your bouncing hair, in anticipation of a merited water break. The water bottle sat on the seated stationary bench, pooled by its own condensation. You could taste it with your eyes, a ravishing sight that pushed you harder. You sped up, raised your knees higher, and endured the pain for ten seconds more. Your gut was sucked in, engaging with your core, and your breathed out in methodical puffs, your chest rising along with it. Everything was burning, muscles tightening into flaming knots that would render you frail by tomorrow morning. If the floor was lava, your body was the volcano erupting it. 

Holy bells rang once you finally counted down to zero, and you immediately came to a halt, the weight of your gratification breaking your movement with an echoing thud as you instantly marched forward to quench your thirst. 

“Fuck.”

Your nostrils stung more than usual. Flared with every inhale as you were catching up to your breath, and more so when you cooled down with several sips of water. Breathing had never felt so good, an absolute fiend you turned out to be after every workout.

You’re getting weaker. Breathing harder. Quicker. You’re losing control on your breath. How are you going to keep up with the team? If you feel this fatigued after a warm up? You let them down last time. Got knocked out and Dick—

He was getting to your head. Again.

Dick. 

The name rolled off your tongue bitterly. A foul taste of metal and battery acid lingered in your parched mouth before it was drowned out by another gulp of water. Another. 

And another. 

And another, as the aforementioned man across from you halted his ropes, stopping in his tracks. 

He’d been doing this since you’d arrived. Mirroring you like a reflection, copying your every move as if you were an instructor. If you were doing strength training, he stopped his cardio to take the machine next to you. Pushed when you pushed, groaned—louder—when you did. 

Needed to stretch your hips? He made some lame excuse about how his legs were too tight, and felt the need to join you on the floor, stretching himself beyond the limits of what you could achieve. It colored you impressed, but you would never say that out loud. Though, you did silently admire the view of his ass, and that especially, would be kept a secret between you and the floor.

Now, it was with jump-roping. The two ropes swung from either corners of the gym like the gears working silently in your head. There was a need to compete with you for some reason.

A satisfied smirk rolled a drop of sweat off his face, and seized his naked torso with glitter as he took a step under a light that lit his body like a podium, or—and you hated to admit it—like one of the sculptures you remembered fawning over in Art History. From his broad build, you could tell that Dick was sturdy, toned, and undoubtedly beautiful. 

His fringe clung onto his forehead, but you could see the gratification he got from outlasting you, smiling while he squeezed a stream of water into his mouth. You noticed how much more capable he was with the calmness of his breath, and felt his adrenaline pumping through the room. In turn, it possessed you—his energy–maneuvering you to the center of the room where a foam mat was placed, and to which Dick expectedly trailed after you.

“Wanna have a go, partner?” Dick said while rolling his shoulders back before picking up a pair of boxing gloves, then another without your confirmation. 

“Seriously—“ He tossed the other pair towards you, an accurate shot that landed into your arms. “Are you going to be doing this all day? Copying me?” You silently thanked him because you began kneading one glove like a stress ball, the rubber foam absolutely gratifying with every scrunch of your hand, as well as consoling as it kept you sane for a little longer.

“I don’t see the problem—“ You began approaching him with the gloves fitted snug over your fists. “Well, actually. I do see the problem. You’re not training hard enough.” Marching with heavy stomps, your nose flaring with every breath that he casually spat out. 

“You give up as soon as you feel tired. I mean, no amount of water breaks are going to help you. You think we have the time to sip water when we’re rescuing a town? A city? The world?” 

His voice, soft and smooth yet it was grating to your ears. The constant talking. Rambling. It gave you a headache. It made you see red. Hearing him berate you. Mock you.

“You’re breathing too hard too, which is taking up all of your energy. And your emotions? You need to control them better. Not only does it affect your combat, but your relationship with your team. You shut yourself off when you don’t do well on a mission.” 

“What are you, my therapist now?”

“Listen, it does no one any good if you’re—“

And it stopped with a strong swing towards his left cheek. His head snapped to the side when the rubber foam smacked him like a whip. 

If red hadn’t blurred your vision, you would’ve noticed the tiniest smile he mustered up from the corner of his lips. A crooked, slanted one that was followed up with a chuckle.

“Not exactly fair play, but…” He raised a hand to rub at his cheek before adjusting the gloves onto his wrists, cracking his neck and stretching the muscles in his back with one more shoulder roll before positioning himself like you were: knees bent and fists raised with the gloves fencing off your face. 

“I’ll give it to you. You can throw a good punch. Beginner’s luck?”

The comment made you swing at his left, and he snapped his head to the right. You missed. There was a precision to his move, something that you lacked in as he snuck a punch to your right cheek. A grunt was stifled, and then let loose in a cough when you felt another beat to the left of your abdomen. Sputtering breath, when Dick scored another hit to your jaw. 

“Fuck—“ Your eyes locked on him while he held your gaze. Your perception seemingly widened, heightened as you’d noticed the smallest movements from Dick, twitching upon instinct as if he was about to strike, but there was nothing. Just the taunt of his arms, and Dick’s teasing smile to garnish, to taunt.

He was circling you. You were circling him. It was the same movement, following each other like two predators unwilling to share the last morsel of food. You felt as much as a leader as Dick was, but from the outsider’s perspective, it was telling who was following the other’s lead. 

Who was the experienced leader of the two sparring men.

Dick feigned a punch with a raise of his arm, and you immediately buckled, jerking back to nothing but a bluff of a hit. You were then greeted by an obnoxious chuckle before he landed a successful sneak to your head, a hit impactful enough to rattle your knees and knock a scoff out of you.

“Be observant. I punch better with my—”

Another swing to his left cheek. Successful, and harder this time, as it managed to stumble him from his stance. You could feel the impact of your fist on Dick, even if it was cushioned by foam. 

It was exhilarating.

“Fight better with your mouth closed too.” You spat, raising your arm to strike the same cheek again. Dick detected it before you could attack, and ducked lower to the right, where he met a sudden fist to his jaw, a calculative undercut that sent him falling onto his back.

“Shit—“

Something unleashed in you. The red in your vision had scorched, burned blue as it reached its highest temperature. You immediately seized the opportunity to straddle him, to face the source of your belittlement, to look at the leader that everyone on your team had silently wish you were, that everyone had admired, to somehow stare and pierce him long enough with your eyes that you were able to tear into his body and take his incredible abilities and mold them into your own, becoming that someone that you had undoubtedly admired as well. 

You threw another blow to his face, enough to knock a groan out of him. It was pleasing to your ears, the low trembles of his voice because of your touch, they twitched with gratitude. But you needed more, a beg from Dick, a plea for you to stop. You threw another punch, and then another as you became blinded by rage. It was out of your control, your arms had a mind of their own as they continued wailing on Dick, even if he had shielded himself with his arms for the last minute now.

You breathed hard, tossing your gloves off as you held him down for a stronger grip and prying his arms from his face. A need to touch him, to feel the impact that your gloves had been restraining you from. You pinned him by his bare and sweaty shoulders that made the grasp all the more slippery, but you nonetheless held him anywhere you could, by his biceps now, and stared into him. You peered into those brown eyes that mysteriously settled your fury until you’d succumb to the beautiful tranquility of his orbs, quietly pacific compared to his mouth.

Dick’s chest was rising. Up and down like your own, recovering from the pummeling you had given him. His eyes were widened as he watched you—studied you. No marks on his face, thankfully due to the cushions you were begging to be replaced with stone a tantrum prior. 

It was humiliating to prove him right, about your emotions, and you sat still, on his lap, breathing. Your fists had stripped you of the little energy you had left, and turned it into mush, but you found support in the warmth of Dick’s body, still breathing. Your grasp had loosened, but remained on his biceps. Warm skin, and ever slightly kneading because of your own envy of Dick’s strength.

You felt your eyes closed, shutting yourself off of the supply of Dick’s silent consolation as the adrenaline pumping through your veins had slowed. “I can never be you, can I?”

“Who says you have to?” Finally, Dick’s voice hadn’t grated your ears like it had in the past. It was gentle as ever, but this time, there was a warmth to it that you wished you could be bundled up in if it had a physical body. A spirit that could temper you with just its warmth, rather than the toxic heat that had just boiled your rage.

“Because—they’ve seen you, Grayson. They know how you operate with the Titans. I can see it, you know? The way they look at you, then the way they look at me. It’s just…”

“You know, my team looked at me like that when they saw how Bats ran the Justice League.” 

“With disgust? Contempt? Disdain? All of the above?”

“No,” He laughed, gathering himself half-way up with the support his elbows. “with... relief?”

“That’s… not helping?” You rolled your eyes, and then felt yourself flush upon coming to realization upon your current position on his lap when he sat halfway up. “Sorry—“ Without making eye contact, you brought yourself off Dick’s hips, but found yourself suddenly pulled back by the waist.

“No, no. What I meant was…” He cleared his throat, sitting up as he positioned you back on his lap again. His hands interlocked against the small of your back, a devise to keep you from abandoning him on the lone mat, but to also pull you closer, hip to hip. 

“Batman… is impressive. You’ve seen him, right? How he has this presence that automatically appoints him as leader. Commander, really. I don’t know anyone that can plan better than him, but that’s not to say that he doesn’t have his faults. He’s all business, little relations. So are the others. You’ve seen them too. Supes, the Lanterns. I respect it. They respect him because of that, and vice versa. But… that’s not how my team works. Not the Titans.”

“I see…” You shifted, nodding every now and then as you listened.

“It’s just… My members are more than co-workers, you know? This isn’t some nine-to-five job that you’ll probably quit after five years. It’s… our lives now. And with them, they’re with me every step of the way. So, they’re more than co-workers. You don’t protect co-workers. Not saying the Justice League don’t care about each other… But what you do protect are friends, families. Yeah, they’re my family, so I treat them as such. And maybe… that’s why they seemed relieved they were part of my team. And…”

“I just have to find what works with my team?”

“Yeah. I mean, you guys are just starting out. Everyone’s still adapting, still getting to know each other, still figuring out each other’s powers, right? Things are bound to be a little more destructive in terms of chemistry.”

“I don’t know… I just… I don’t know if I can lead them like you guys can. I’m not like you guys. In terms of skills, in terms of leadership, in terms of—“

“Then work on that with your team. That’s what a good leader does, they seek out help from their teammates and let them know that their opinions and help are valued.”

It sounded absolutely simple. Something that shouldn’t have taken you this long to figure out, but Dick was right. Rather than seeking for your team’s help, you thought you had to endure whatever situation had arisen on your own. It weighted heavily on your shoulders, until you couldn’t muster up the strength to push your own weight. And in turn, that affected your team. You needed them, just as much as they needed you. 

“And here you are…” Dick continued, suddenly bursting with a smile. “Instead of spending time with your team, you’re with me. I know I’m quite charming, but geez, (M/N), can a guy get some alone time?”

You scoffed and lightly punched at his chest. “Did we forget that you were the one joining me in the gym when you have your own in the tower? Copying my every move? What’s up with that?”

He shrugged, kneading nonchalantly at your sides. “Knew you’d be alone. Knew you were probably blaming yourself, moping around. Thought I would give you a little push.”

You shifted again, your hands keeping close to yourself as you couldn’t muster up the strength to complain about his wandering hands.

Or rather, find anything about his hands to complain about.

“Push as in to annoy me?”

“Well, I was supposed to be teaching you some things, but, uh… you were playing whack-a-mole with my head earlier.” 

“That’s because—“ You sighed, dropping your head low in embarrassment. “Sorry. I don’t know. Everything started happening so fast and—“

“No, it’s fine. It gives me the perfect opportunity to introduce you my first lesson of the week.” He was sincere, smiling up at you, almost as if he had mistaken your brief fit of rage as a game of tag.

“What’s that?” You asked, meeting his eyes once again.

He pondered for a moment,, pursing his lips as he was lost within his thoughts before speaking again. “How To Communicate To Your Team 101.”

“How is that even going to—“

You felt a sudden press to your lips. A softness that awakened your five senses by tenfold, and a desire that you had kept vaulted in the back of your mind; now beginning to unlock to its freedom the longer Dick had his lips on you. It wasn’t right. No, it wasn’t like it was morally wrong, it was just…

You hesitated, conjuring up all the reasons in your head on why kissing Dick wasn’t a good idea. But it was futile. Everything had been resolved within this moment; the way he let you use him like a punching bag, the way he didn’t spare a single second to share his empathy for your concerns, the way he tended to your wounds days prior despite your brazen disregard to his kindness. 

You were being selfish again, guarding yourself off with ice like you had done with the others. When in reality, you wanted him. 

No, you desperately needed him.

You felt him open up his mouth, assuming he was about to speak, but you seized his breath with a slot of your lips, and kissed him. One hand came up to rest on his cheek, to finally feel the slight scruffs you had delivered on his skin, and you caressed tenderly across textured skin, to the slow rhythm of your lips, whispering, “Sorry… again.”

“Don’t be. Without it, you wouldn’t have been on my lap. And… I wouldn’t be kissing you right now.” Dick muttered, a satisfaction to his voice like he had gotten his wish fulfilled. He ran a lone hand up your back, then back down your spine, bone tingling once he repeated again under your hoodie, and gazed across your bare skin.

“What are you doing to me…” It was a genuine question, something you wished could be answered because you didn’t know yourself. And yet, you were scared of the answer if Dick was to ever give you one. It’d been a while since you felt like this, with someone else.

For the past few months, you hated him. Couldn’t stand the sight of him. And now, you feel like you couldn’t tear yourself apart from him. From the softness of his lips and to the warmth of his body; the longer you endured him, the more you realized you had been captivated by Dick all along.

“I don’t know, but… I like figuring you out.” Dick’s speech was slurred from dragging his lips down to your jaw, nipping at your sweaty skin. “Like how you push me away, but you can’t help but tolerate me whenever I’m in the room.” He breathed you in, sucking at the corner of the sharp bone. You pressed your head into his neck, silently letting him take you. “How you’d sneak glances at me and roll your eyes, only to keep on staring… and staring… until you hadn’t realized that I was looking back at you. Because you were too busy looking at me.”

Nothing but the truth came out Dick’s mouth. Remarkably candid, because you thought you were more covert about your conflicting feelings for him. It brought a bloom of heat to your cheeks, and you hid your face inside his neck, groaning because Dick began licking at your neck, and because you felt stripped, absolutely vulnerable.

“Dick…” Something was rising in your shorts, tightened around the center. Warm and pulsing, even when Dick had unzipped your hoodie and thrown them to the side. A chill was felt across your bare back, most likely a draft from the vent, and Dick held you closer, sandwiching the heat, and suddenly your erection, between his body and yours.

“I knew you never hated me.” There was something about your chest that he loved. How smooth it felt. A few hairs had grown at the center, raised from the feelings Dick was supplying to your body. They tickled his cheek whenever he rubbed himself against it until they were then flattened with a long, fluttering lick as he maintained eye contact with you. “Always right.”

The taste of your sweat was salty yet delicate on his tongue.

“Hate is a strong word...” Your fingers threaded through Dick’s locks, scrunching them into your fist when he started toying one nipple at a time with his tongue. The wet muscle flicked deftly, then he suckled, and then tugged, like he had known your body, like he had explored your body before. It was strange, how he knew the right thing to say, and the right thing to do.

Maybe he was ‘always right.’

“Whatever it is, it’s not stopping you right now.” His hands dropped to the waistband of your shorts and he pulled away from your swollen nubs. It was unwilling. You could see it in his eyes, the thirst to ruin, and it compelled him to bring another suck to your nipples, a few seconds more that almost pulled a dangerous whimper out of you before he ultimately paused. “Nor is it stopping me.” 

With a gentle push on your chest, he leaned you back onto the mat while lifting your hips up, smoothly sliding your shorts off. They joined the pile containing your hoodie soon after, and then your briefs to top.

“R-right here? Aren’t there cameras or something…?” Your hands instinctively came down to cover yourself, cupping that embarrassing erection that Dick was thirsting for. The head of your cock peeked out from your clumsy gasp, and his hands instantly came up to pry your hands off.

Dick had that same look in his eyes when he was circling around you earlier. A rapacity blaring the pupil of his eyes. His piercing gaze alone kept your hands from coming up to cover yourself again. You knew you wouldn’t stand a chance against his strength.

“I doubt anyone is watching the gym… Private for a reason.” Your legs were then wrapped around his waist after pulling you by the ankles. His presence was commanding. You knew to keep your arms to your side, hands forbidden from obstructing the view of your hard, throbbing cock.

“No wonder you’re so stressed. Look how hard you are.” Dick muttered, seemingly speaking his inner thoughts because he was too distracted by the veins of your erection. Thick and pulsing as he wrapped a hand around you, and stroked, fascinated by the stretch of foreskin unfolding from the head of your cock when he pulled back, then rolling back up when he pulled forward. “This okay?”

“Fuck—Yeah… Feels good.” One arm was raised to wipe the cold sweat off your forehead,  but it then rested against your forehead, shielding yourself from Dick’s gaze as he slowly pumped you back into breaking another round of sweat.

“No,” He paused, suddenly squeezing your foreskin over the tip of your swollen glans. You whimpered. Not only did he squeeze you tight, stripping you of a friction that you desperately had been needing more of. But Dick was teasing, threatening with the dull movement of his thumb as he pressed and rubbed into the fold of skin, polishing the head of your cock  in a thick sheen of pre-cum as his grip would draw out a generous amount from beneath. “I want to see you properly. Look at me.”

You reluctantly met his demands, only after you felt the tip of his thumb prying into your slit. Was this supposed to be a punishment? Because you could’ve allowed it to go on for longer, knowing how much Dick marveled at how much pre-cum you were leaking out.

Your body felt hot, and your hands—they needed something to hold, something to grip. When Dick began resorting to quicker strokes to your cock, you were clawing at the mat at first, etching your presence with indentations of your nails as your warning came in vain. “I’m going to cum if you keep doing that, Dick—“ 

“Use your words I’m telling you.” He spat in his palm after a millisecond of a break before lubing your cock in his own spit and churning you into the tight, yet slippery friction of his fist. Dick’s gaze had been fixated on you, never once had it torn away to look at something else. Not even a peek at your cock deliciously fucking into his fist. Because in case you forgot, he liked figuring you out. “Gotta communicate with me.”

The stoicism you had worn with pride, only ever fragmenting from anger upon defeat; Dick had discovered another facet to its escalating submission, and it was delightful watching you unravel in real-time. The slick of his hands; one beating off your cock while the other massaging your balls; your expressions had given yourself away on how to break you down. Maybe it was because you had given up keeping up the facade. Or maybe it was because it was Dick, who has done more than enough to earn your trust, that you found yourself nearly crumbling.

He had studied you, his hands continuing to wander, explore every part of you while silently cataloging the right spots to make you crack. You were close, hanging off the edge with one hand, nails dulling over a cliff as you desperately prevented gravity from pulling you down under. When his hand had left your balls in favor of suddenly pushing a finger inside of your tight hole, Dick knew you had completely submitted.

Your body was writhing, hips desperately thrusting in the air despite Dick pinning them down to properly stretch your hole and fill you up with another finger, and another. Your expressions were ravishing, conflicted with pleasure and tension, and your mouth opened to politely tell Dick to stop, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to utter the demand. Instead, all that came out of your mouth was a whimper of his name, a stutter that rang delectably in Dick’s ears when he interrupted you with a deep push of his fingers, curling and then pumping in and out of you, and another whimper would secure the deft removal of the rest of his shorts and briefs. All because he couldn’t contain himself anymore. 

He had absolutely no right to teach you about control, for the reason that he was on the brink of losing it himself. You looked absolutely wrecked, all from the stubborn grip around your cock, the tight fit of his fingers, and Dick couldn’t imagine what you’d look like if he was in you, his thick cock fucking you, making love to you.

“Seriously, Dick—I’m about to—“

You couldn’t help it. Dick’s demand to control yourself was absolutely absurd with his reign on your body. The wet, sticky sound his spit made as Dick’s fist was being screwed by your pulsing cock drove you nuts. And then came the view of Dick’s thick cock, throbbing, pre-cum dripping heavily off of his swollen head as he watched you untouched, begging to be touched. You swore you almost surrendered had it not been for his wrist slowing down, a delicacy you begged prior, but now desperately wanted to vanish.

“God, you know I always loved it whenever you accidentally let a smile slip. But this? You’re so beautiful like this, (M/N).” He paused despite your silent pleas for him to otherwise. Though, all was forgiven when he leaned forward to kiss you on the lips. Sweet and bountiful like his words had made you feel, and you kissed him right back, an eagerness compared to his own movements, but then gratefully countered with an impatient swipe at your crack. His cock, plump and heavy, then wet and sticky as he smeared his pre-cum over your hole. Your legs remained wrapped around his hips, but Dick pushed his body weight forward until they folded with your knees touching your chest, his cock dangerously pressing at your entrance.

Dick spat in his palm again, reaching down to coat himself in the sticky layer of spit, and you felt him press. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, anticipating with an accelerating drum of your heart as he teased, slicking your pucker with the gentle, smooth circling of his tip.

“Please… I need it.” You had a gentle grasp around his nape, pulling him down until his forehead rested against yours. You’ve never seen him like this, so up-close and intimate. A mole, a freckle on his face that you’d never noticed, and you instantly yearned for what could’ve been all this time, had it not been for your stubbornness.

“What do you need? You need me inside of you?” Dick clarified against your lips, a whisper into your mouth as you parted them open to welcome his tongue. Hot and heavy, you let your tongue wrap around his for a tingling moment before pulling away, a string of spit webbing a path between your lips and his. “Use your words.”

“Need your cock, need you… Need everything. As long as it’s you.” You marveled at Dick, drunk off of the mutual endearment you have for each other. He regarded you with a warm smile, followed by a dazzling glint within his gaze, then relayed the turn of his mouth to yours with another kiss, a gentle warning, before Dick pushed his hips forward and slipped his cock inside of you.

“Good boy.”

“O-oh, fuck.” 

Your body tensed as soon as you took the first inhale of breath since he’d breached you, sharp and abrupt, just like the pain that had jolted the muscles in your body to squeeze around him. You were playing defense, impeding the foreign introduction inside of your body with a clamp, yet Dick resisted. Rather, he thrived on your strain, adoring the suctioning feeling of his cock as if you were conflicted about inviting him in or pushing him out. It didn’t take much to figure out that it was the former. During the meantime you were adjusting to his cock, Dick was thrusting the few inches that had slid inside of you. Small and short movements to aid in your stretch, and then eventual pleasure as he gradually pushed himself deeper until you’d blossom completely open for him, like a bud in the Spring.

“Fuck, you’re so tight… So good, your ass is so good.” He was satisfied with half of his cock inside of you, rocking into you slowly until you felt comfortable enough to have him harder, faster. Till then, it was perfect like this. Breathing in your whimpers, holding your face like it was the last vestige of your sanity, before kissing you again, sweet on the mouth, tender with your tongue, to hold a fragment of your sanity within him and sealing it where no one could ever take it from him.

“T-too big, Dick—Fuck…” You whimpered again, closing your eyes from the uncomfortable detection of already feeling completely full, yet you and Dick both knew it wasn’t a complaint. Rather, it was a simple observation that had rendered you speechless, an inkling you’d disappoint Dick for not being able to take him properly, to not let him in like you had done for all these months.

“You’re doing great, baby. Doing so good… You can take it, I know you can.” His words were so warm, so kind, so gentle in your ear, low and sinking in your neck as he marked you as his with constant licks and kisses, and immediately, he dialed up your confidence by tenfold. You felt yourself relaxing, the tension in your body melting the longer he rocked half of his cock into you.

Just breathe. Breathe. You found it helpful following Dick’s breathing pattern, exhaling when he pulled out, inhaling when he pushed in, and gradually, you felt yourself opening up for him, taking him in longer strides, with little breaks, faster, harder, until you felt thoroughly plugged when he pushed once more to cork his cock inside of you, balls-deep.

“S-shit, Dick—Fuck—So good—“

Dick trembled with a moan sinking into the underside of your jaw. His cock had never felt so wanted, so warm in another’s body. You took him in without a single complaint, and it was a spectacle, an absolute wonder when Dick leaned back to watch himself completely unsheathe out of you like a dagger out of its scabbard. 

“Look at that… Fucking beautiful.” Your hole was gaped open with the diameter matching the girth of Dick’s cock. Blinking, puckering desperately as it painfully endured the loss of heat, the loss of his desire. You’d never felt so exposed, completely powerless as Dick had you bending your legs further back with one hand, and the other spreading your cheeks apart to further see how much more you could stretch. 

The color of your flesh was enthralling, and if the marks on your neck had not been telling that you were Dick’s; he pressed a kiss to your pucker, gentle nibbling and licking at the puffy rim before abruptly spitting inside of you, and another for good measure, the glorious designation would remind you now.

“Dick—No more, I need you, please—“ You reached down to spread your pucker with the spit dribbling out of you using two fingers, then pulled back to taste him, sucking on them before your craving for Dick would return with a vengeance, body-writhing and mind-numbingly so.

“Tell me. What do you need, hm?” Dick tapped his cock against your hole. The plump head slid smooth over the spit-covered flesh, mixing with his pre-cum, while he watched you with a grin, each swipe of his cock taunting to pull completely away unless you spoke.

“Need you. Inside of me. Fucking me. Holding me. Kissing me. Touching. I don’t know—Please, please. Just need you.” Your wishes were long-winded, but sincere. The gaze you had given him, an imploring look that Dick would take a moment to hold for a little longer despite your begging.  Cherishing it, not knowing if this would be a fluke you’d later regret down the line, but in the end, all that mattered was that  you let your guards down at the mercy of Dick’s guidance. Then utterly defenseless, when he gave into your wishes, a chaste kiss to your lips while doing so, and pushed himself deep inside of you with one smooth thrust.

You stiffened in Dick’s arms when they slipped around you, digging your nails into his skin. Squeezing his waist with your legs, you held onto him when he pushed the rest of his body weight over you, bending you further while keeping his lips connected to yours. He was stabilized on the tip of his toes, thrusting into, past, and against your inner muscles all at once. You clenched around his cockhead, the pleasure unbearable to resist as each dip of his hip successfully knocked a gasp from your mouth. 

“So good, so tight like this…” Dick’s cock was in heaven, burying you deep until his heavy balls pressed flushed to your taint. He would stay motionless whenever he did; to catch up on his breath, to draw out his nearing high for a little longer, and to feel you, luxuriate in the warmth of your walls squeezing him tight, pulsing with dilemma, and ultimately refusing to let go. “Think I can come just like this, you squeezing my cock…”

He looked down at your face, a brief check-up. Your lips moved as if you were about to say something, but no sound came out. Only a stutter of a gasp, little sounds that Dick found incredibly magnetic, to which he found increasingly difficult to keep his lips off of you. He failed with little effort on his end, in hopes to steal those tiny sounds and keep it for himself. 

Your pupils were blown when they weren’t rolling back from the smallest movement of Dick’s hips. In addition, with your lips swollen and lids heavy, you gazed up at Dick like he had saved your life, as if he had guided you towards a better place. Your life seemingly were in his hands as he held your cheeks and kissed you once more. Sweet again, rocking into you steadily, sweat sticking his skin to yours. 

And maybe he did.

“Say something. I want to hear you.” A merciful demand upon your lips. You were trembling, barely swallowing down moans while Dick continuously impaled you with his cock—up into you now, when Dick leaned back until he was sitting up, and brought you back onto his lap like before, pushing your hips towards the rate of his thrusts.

Mesmerized by Dick, your mouth parted open and your throat immediately began emptying itself of all the harbored moans and groans that you had been holding hostage. “F-fuck me, keep fucking me. L-like that. No—Harder, harder—“ They rattled in volume, bouncing in sync with the way your ass had been doing against Dick’s cock, and then louder, because your marvelous sounds emerged an addiction out of Dick.

Sweet Jesus. He couldn’t stop. Watching the desire in your beautiful features, hearing your pleas reflect your want, stroking your cock awaiting for its release, marking every flesh of your skin his mouth had come in contact with. At the level of intimacy; from the pull of Dick’s hair, the sloppy, open-mouthed kisses you two shared, and the mutual passion you had for each other; you no longer felt like his disciple, but rather, an equal to Dick’s being—a derivative blessing, that would course correct each other’s life.

Your hands could barely hold onto his shoulders, but you worked with your strength, the slip of his skin, and locked your hands around his nape. Forehead to forehead, you and Dick breathed moans into each other, heavy and thick with yearning as you two pressed close, stuck to each other like glue. He cataloged the tiniest details on how your face contorted with pleasure; the scrunch of your nose, the roll of your eyes, the part of your lips. Your fist tightened around your cock, pumping it rapidly to the pace of Dick’s thrusts, churning it until your biceps had distractingly flared with veins. 

You did the same. You watched Dick’s mouth agape with rapture. The scrunch of his brows when he fucked into you faster and to the root. The clench of his jaw when you squeezed tight around him, suctioning his cock until he sounded delirious with pleasure. It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and you knew he found you beautiful as well, the beautiful loss of reality from the mutual pleasure, and that was all it took to make you spill your load without a single warning. 

You smashed a guttural groan to his lips and unraveled your fingers, leaning your body back to let your cock release where it pleased to afterward. “Oh, fuck—“ 

“Holy shit.”

Thick shots rained on Dick’s sweaty body. Three spurts to the center of his chiseled chest, and then another four splashing high in the air when Dick powered up on the sight of your cum alone, and drilled you harder, your cock dribbling in cum as he did so. His nails dug into your ass cheeks, spreading them apart, then cushioning them back around his cock to somehow press your walls against every vein pulsing through the thick of his erection.

Dick fucked you like you’d begged him to. Long, strong thrusts, to the brim on each stroke, undoubtedly hitting your prostate at every turn from the way you would jolt forward with widened, rattling, yet blissful eyes. A sight Dick would have forever ingrained into his memory, because you were officially, utterly, and completely wrecked.

It was heaven. The crown of Dick’s cock sliding over the spot, the depth of his cock rendering you immobile and dazed. Again, he’d repeat. A new addiction, surging powerfully through his veins. You let out a sob. 

Again. You squeezed your eyes shut. 

Again. You dug your nails into his shoulders. 

And again. Dick smacked your ass at the delirious state he was in. He had completely breached inside of you, explored every inch of your hole with the circle of his hips. A thrust. A slam. A rut. He had traversed through every option to dismantle you, and like clockwork, your snug hole all but sucked on his cock, begging for him to come inside.

He couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Baby, baby…” Dick’s large hand smothered his warmth around your throat. You could feel the callous in his palm, a gentle abrasion to your smooth skin, and he rubbed your seed all over your body, then his. He fucked harder to the sight of the sticky sheen layering your body. The smell of musk. The stick to his hands. Filthy. Your body and his were filthy together. Filthier, when pleasure burst from the base of his shaft, and in turn, flooded your insides with a large load. He moaned, and you arched into him, into the stick of his body, anticipating for the rupture of your doing. 

Your cock throbbed once, straining forward with its swollen head aiming towards the ceiling, and you spat thick shots of white seed into the air, eventually course-correcting to land on your body and Dick’s.

It was wonderful. You could feel Dick’s cock pulse as his seed rushed up the shaft and buried you deep into your guts with thick and heavy shots. Upon impulse, you squeezed as well, clamping around the peak of DIck’s orgasm until it must have crested with the stillness of his breath. “Don’t pull out.”

“Wasn’t planning on it…”

If he hadn’t thought it enough, you were beautiful, he was keen on calling it a mantra because it meant that he was still here, on this very earth, breathing and witnessing your very existence. Your body was weakened, barely mustering the strength to hold your chest up without the aid of Dick’s arms around you. Limp, after your second orgasm. All of you, you were so beautiful. From your rim hugging the base of your cock, your softening cock dripping, your swollen nipples, the smooth planes of your cum-stained chest, and parted lips. You were a banquet to Dick’s eyes, a feast that could muster up another around to have at you, to have you completely devoured if he had really wanted to.

But no, this was perfect. Watching you in silence, surveying up at you while you peered down at him, panting, breathing slow, in a case of wonder of how one could have such an effect on him without a morsel of effort. 

“So… lessons? You always do this to new recruits?”

“Only if they absolutely suck at their role.” An exhaustion in his smile, you wanted to capture it in between your lips, and replenish him with gratitude.

“Hey— Asshole…” You muttered, a gentle knock to his chest, to which he laughed off, and then held on, to pull you in for a blissful kiss.

With the way you fit into his arms as if you’d always been meant to be there, warm where he was cold, and cold where you were warm, he knew he didn’t need his question answered.

“Kidding. Let’s just say… it was curated for a special someone. And hopefully, they liked it as much as I liked teaching it.”

“I have a good feeling that they did.” 

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[atzhrts]

　　 　 ⠀: ・ෆ・┈・┈・ᕱ⑅ᕱ・┈・┈・ෆ・ : riize individual masterlist two ・ෆ・

　　 　 　⠀˖　⠀˙⠀　｡ (s) = smut , minors dni⠀˖　⠀˙⠀　｡　⠀

⠀⠀⠀ ᯓ★ ⠀⠀⠀ osaki shotaro

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ taking you to japan

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ play fighting

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ taking a bath together

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ dick size (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ loving big tits (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ cuddling

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ perv yoga!instructor (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ riding his face (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sexting with bsf!taro (text) (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ buying you lingerie (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ jerking him off (s)

⠀⠀⠀ ᯓ★ ⠀⠀⠀ song eunseok

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ fucking while you’re gaming (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ moans (s) more

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ gym sex (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ blowjob in a public restroom (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ his man boobs (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ body worship (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ coming home drunk (suggestive)

⠀⠀⠀ ᯓ★ ⠀⠀⠀ jung sungchan

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ size kink (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ “it’s always been you”

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ fucking mc!sungchan (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sucking him off (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ soft!sungchan and rough sex (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ gentleman in the streets and freak in the sheets (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ after care

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ riding his abs (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ car wash (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ himbo (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ frat president!sungchan

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sucking on his fingers before fingering you (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ messy hair (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ rough sex (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ bsf!sungchan humping you during sleepovers (s)

⠀⠀⠀ ᯓ★ ⠀⠀⠀ park wonbin

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ opening condoms with his teeth (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ fucking you so good you struggle to kiss him back (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ romantic sex (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ shy nerd!wonbin (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ letting you use him when you’re ovulating (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ making out

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ college boyfriend (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sexting (text) (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ bondage (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ gentle boyfriend

⠀⠀⠀ ᯓ★ ⠀⠀⠀ hong seunghan

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ watching him practice (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ eating you out (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ smiling at you when he cums (s)

⠀⠀⠀ ᯓ★ ⠀⠀⠀ lee sohee

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sending you jerk off videos (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ body worship (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ fingering you in front of a mirror (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ taking off your makeup if you’re too tired

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ loser x popular girl

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ virgin!sohee (s)

⠀⠀⠀ ᯓ★ ⠀⠀⠀ lee anton

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ more on curly haired reader (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ fucking while he’s gaming (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ fucking you so good you struggle to kiss him back (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ type of boyfriend || more || more

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ making out

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ idol!reader x idol!anton sneaking around (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ food play (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ tying him up (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ needing to get used to his size (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ cumming early by being called a good boy (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sub!anton having a size kink (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ cum eating (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ pervy masseur!anton (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ jerking him off to relive stress (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ using sub!anton as stress relief (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ mutual masturbation with virgin!anton (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ masturbating in face time (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ face time

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ fucking in between concerts (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sexting bsf anton (text) (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ “you’re in no position to tease” (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ using a dildo on you (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ somnophilia (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ big hands (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ spit kink (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ soft sex (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sassy (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ edging & hyperspermia (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ size kink (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ex boyfriend being a naked model for your art class (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ snowballing (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sending you audios (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ watching you study

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ spider-man costume (suggestive)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ being called puppy (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ condescending (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ himbo (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sex in his childhood bedroom (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ daddy kink (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ touching himself while eating you out (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ sitting on his lap & making out // humping your foot (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ birthday sex (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ mean!anton (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ fucking you in cute pyjama sets (s)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ hot tub sex (s)

[vxnuslogy]

— to you, who finally saw the sun.

pairing: sunday x gn!reader

premise: to you, who finally saw the sun, i bid you one final farewell.

— warnings: angst (kinda, i also dont know), bittersweet goodbyes, they do kiss yippie, written before the 2.7 update.

— author’s notes: in honor of getting e1s1 sunday, have this actual final stellaronhunter!sunday fic. art credits to 隐世樱yyy on weibo. also, fun little easter egg, colored texts are a reference to previous stellaronhunter!sunday fics i've made, so yeah!! maximum emotional damage!!!!!| ~2.8k words.

— tags: @ryescapades @mitsvriii @https-sourlimes @dazaisms @st6rly @pneumosia @tetrachrxmacy ; if you'd like to be tagged, please fill out the forms on my pinned or post or send me an ask off anon!!

how long has it been since sunday played the piano?

he can’t quite remember the last time he pressed a finger to the delicate white notes and let its noise resound in the room. but he does recount the harsh judgemental stare his instructor had whenever he made a mistake—a note lingering too long and going off course, it always led to the snap of a ruler to his wrist.

“do you play?” a voice from behind asked.

sunday turned around to capture the stars in your eyes. when he met your gaze halfway, a gentle smile grazed his lips before his golden eyes skidded to the instrument once more. “yes, i do. though i have not played in years.”

he heard the click of your shoes as you approached. sunday took a peek from the corner of his eyes as you longingly stared at the grand piano in front of you both. your gloved hands gliding over the polished wood before you eventually sat down by the small stool. you turn your head to him, hair fluttering with the wind as he feels the remaining breath in his lungs be taken away because of your smile. you patted down the space beside you and sunday reluctantly took it.

“will you play me a song?” your request was nothing but a small plea, one exhale away from crumbling. sunday didn’t know about that—he never will. you mask the desperation in your voice when the first note rang and sunday looked at you with a smile.

“i apologize if it sounds rusty,” he looked bashful and bare in this light. drapes of white clouds, dark blue galaxies, and golden suns hang from his body and you couldn’t help but stare. the wings behind his ears flutter in embarrassment with your silence so you laugh—forced, melancholic, and unlike you. 

“i’ll love anything you play, sunday.” and you weren’t lying.

when the following notes soon echoed in the empty music room that was once reserved for only kafka, you let your desire to be close to him consume your entire being. sunday flinched slightly when your head fell on his shoulder, but didn’t shrug you off. with a flustered clear of his throat he continued.

sunday played the piano like it would be his last performance—forever caging himself to the audience after this performance to never take the stage again. he felt your emotions like they were tangible items courtesy to the halo behind his head, because the following song, he briefly muttered “for you” under his breath.

you both relished the moment spent by each other’s side. 

to sunday, this song was dedicated to the person who dragged him onto the stage once more. despite all his reluctance, difficult attitude, and past grudges, he will always bathe you in a golden light like the followers of xipe. singing choirs about your greatness till the end of time as he remained as your faithful follower. this was his thank you to you, and he felt it would never quite repay the kindness you’ve given him.

but to you, this was goodbye. each note, though filled with tender affection and cherished dreams, pinched at your heart like tiny pins and needles. you looked up to gaze at his face—calm, moved on from the past, and freed. though not fully, his contract with jade still remains, he was as free as the express travelling the cosmos. 

this was goodbye.

“will you play a song for me too, sunny?” a voice from the entrance joked.

there stood kafka, in her usual attire but without the coat, leaning by the door frame with arms crossed over her chest. you chuckled as sunday hid his embarrassed and flushed face, finding an excuse to say “no.” because everyone knew—order or finality—that sunday will only play for you.

“nothing to worry about angel,” kafka seemed solemn as she cleared her throat. she motioned for both of you to get up and follow her. “new mission is here. be sure to do your best, m’kay?”

sunday furrowed his brows as his wings twitched in confusion. kafka only took a few steps forward before leaving you two alone once more. you shook your head as you took his gloved hand in yours and tugged him in the direction of his new home. even though it's been a while since he joined, sunday still never voiced his worries—a habit you hope will slowly die out once he arrives at the boarding station.

“where are we going this time?” he asked. now he only realized your new attire and he feels his eyes wander. a black undershirt and pants, layered with a white asymmetrical coat. the gold cuffs of your sleeves caught the moonlight and casted a faint glow of your tears. sunday doesn’t get the chance to say something when a body crashed onto his back.

“good luck, mister,” silver wolf buried her face onto his back. arms tightly wrapped around his waist. if you looked closely, you would notice the way she slowly started stepping back—trying to prevent sunday from going out the doors he once entered from.

but sunday only chuckled. he turned to face the girl, patted her head and squatted down to her height as he slowly tried to pry the arms hiding her tear stained face. “it’s going to be alright, i have [name] with me, remember? they’re elio’s favorite, remember?”

the girl gripped the sleeves of his coat with an iron grip. sunday frowned in sadness, he hated seeing the girl so upset over a mission. and all you did was stand there, motionless as the clock by your waist continued to tick.

“sunday.” you call and you don’t know what shattered you the most: silver wolf’s fresh tears, or how sunday cradled and shielded her from your harsh reality.

silver wolf eventually peeled herself away. with a harsh motion, she wiped away all her tears and returned to her quirky self, “you better beat the final boss! if you don’t, then don’t bother to show yourself to me ever again!”

sunday nodded and once he reached your side, he waved the silver haired girl goodbye and fell into the same steps as you. each turn, each stairway taken to reach the skies, it drowns your lungs in realization. and like the time when you were both drenched in the rain, the ticket in your back pocket suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“leaving without as much as a word?” 

you both stopped in your tracks and turned around. the hallway was dimmed, your only witness being the moon in its full glory. sunday was the first to break the delicate silence with a soft utter of ignorance, something you never realized could happen.

“a mission that requires both of us,” he replied, a sketchy smile on his lips as he slowly shielded your vision of the immortal man from view. “we won’t take long. it won’t end like it did back in the capital of passion. i promise.”

you felt blade’s judgeful stare before he let out a heavy sigh. he threw a small journal bound by beds of stars onto his hands and handed you a sheathed sword. “i expect you to be back before dawn.”

sunday nodded and you don’t have the heart to tell him that blade wasn’t speaking to nor about him. 

“sunday wait!”

right when you were about to board your car—a testimony to your genius in engineering, sunday still wondered how you got it to work like the express. firefly ran out the door with nothing but her sleep attire. she clutched a small item to her chest as sunday looked at you. you hated the look of expectation in his irises, but you still relent. with a heavy sigh, you muttered, ‘5 minutes’ before you entered the car. sunday nodded like an obedient servant and met firefly halfway.

“i–!” she tried to find the words to say, but they always fell short by the time a sound escaped her lips. but sunday was understanding, he was kind, so he waited. like a dutiful older brother letting his baby sister come out of her shell.

beats of silence passed before firefly settled on a simple goodbye, “please take care on your mission.” she took his hand and handed him a small pen. his name delicately engraved on the fountain pen’s cap in her handwriting. 

the wind howled and she shivered. and like a moment right before a mission started and ended, sunday took off the white hood over his shoulders and draped it over her. “thank you, firefly. i’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

sunday wished firefly told him the rest of her thoughts, but he saved them for another time he will never have. even as he buckled the seatbelt in your car and drove off, firefly tried to chase after you. and if he looked close enough, soft glimmers of hopeful tears would be seen.

“you never answered my question.”

you looked at him from the rearview mirror. the way he carefully placed the fountain pen in the journal and the way he softly grazed the cover—afraid that the small book would shatter under his fingertips.

“it must have slipped my mind. what was your question again?”

“where are we going?”

you wet your lips and tighten the hold on the steering wheel. you don’t answer immediately. instead, you let your vehicle warp through space like a nameless traveler through the stars. when you start unbuckling your seatbelt, sunday follows shortly and you both get out.

“penacony.”

sunday feels his vision blur and merge into one giant puddle. he feels you drape another hood identical to the one he gave firefly as you harshly tugged it over his head. your hand finding its way to his and tug him towards a familiar direction.

“h-hold on!” he cries out in a desperate plea, but you don’t turn around. “what business could we have in penacony?! and,” sunday’s eyes wander again over your figure and feels dread start to bubble in his stomach—you weren’t wearing a disguise like you did in past missions.

you don’t answer and sunday feels his wings hug his abdomen tighter and tighter. he can already imagine the ghostly hands of the family—even under robin’s guidance—do unspeakable things to you. sunday can’t have that, he will never allow you to be caged in their clutches like they did with him. so with all the force he could muster, all the while being mindful of your comfort, he caught your wrist in a firm hold and turned around. tugging you in the direction of your home.

“sunday.”

“apologies, but i promised blade. bare with me for a moment longer.”

“sunday.”

“[name], please.”

“sunday.”

“cease the uttering of my name! do you not understand the position we are in right now?!”

sunday never shouts—not in anger, but in worry. he takes gulfs of air into his lungs as if he’s being dragged to the bottom of the ocean as he looks at you with blown eyes. his wings flapping erratically, fanning the reddening of his face as the pair by his waist briefly flutters. if you close your eyes and listen carefully, you can hear the soft clinks of the golden exoskeleton you created just for him.

“sunday,”

“i believe this is where your journey ends, mister sunday.”

“our story is over.”

you feel the world still as small orbs of danger surround you both. a man with whiting hair stands behind him, a cane glowing in pink as you feel your body grow heavier and heavier. welt pushes his glasses up and lets his eyes fall to you.

“[name].” he says in a tense tone. the grip on his cane so tight you’d argue beneath the gloves he wore, his knuckles were turning white in confusion.

“mr. yang.” you reply back, calmer than the loud beating inside the column of bones inside your chest. “please let him go.”

the older gentleman debated in his mind. before sunday could raise a hand, you step forward and force him to face you. you feel your body go back to normal and you sigh. sunday on the other hand, remains on guard as the golden eyes you grew fond off stared at you with emotions that could only be named as betrayal.

“the express misses you, [name].” welt says, “it won’t hurt to say goodbye to them.”

you only nod bitterly. “thank you, mr. yang. but there’s really no need.”

“what do you mean our story is over?” you hear sunday murmur.

you take a shaky deep breath, of all the ways he could ask, why did he do it as if he was about to cry? you shut your eyes tightly, you let your desires consume you again as you interlace your hands together in one final hold before you relax and exhale. when you open your eyes, you feel tears drop one by one like idrila’s blood. welt stays motionless behind him, looking at you both in confliction.

“welt,” you lower both your hands, stepping in front of the angel. “i know this isn’t the reunion you had hoped for. but please believe me when i say that we come in peace. i’ve come to return what is lost.”

welt’s frown deepens, “i take it you aren’t talking about yourself.”

“no, and i never will.” you feel sunday’s arm snake around your waist and his head fall on your shoulder. and suddenly, it felt like your shopping trip with the rest of the hunters was today.

“please wait for us by the golden hour.”

“no…” sunday weakly protests. “i can’t leave, i won’t allow myself.”

“welt. please.”

“mr. yang, please don’t.”

“welt–”

“i’ll wait.” the older man says in a rushed tone. he was quick to turn around and start walking away. it was unlike him, but you don’t blame him. after all, the missing child of the express was now found and the previous head of the oak family were together—with conflicting convictions to top it.

his steps grew fainter and fainter until all you could feel was sunday’s tears and his quiet whimpers, begging you to not let him go.

“sunday,” you mutter, slowly facing him. “our story is over. you need to go.”

“what about you… will you stay behind?”

“i have to.”

“no you don’t!” his volume rises as his arms tighten around your waist. “you can come with me. they’ve been looking for you, they’ll accept you! so please, don’t make me lose you, too.”

you chuckle, and for the first time tonight, you smile genuinely. “silly bird, you’re not going to lose me.”

“but i already have…”

you frown. you try to pull away from his embrace but he still keeps you caged in his arms. “sunday, will you play me a song?”

“enough, please.”

you pat down his hair, pull away just an inch, and cradle his face. “sing me a song about adventures and stars. can you do that?”

“will you come with me if i do?”

you shake your head no and he dives his face into the crook of your neck again. you laugh in disbelief at his stubbornness. it reminds you of the time he first started to try and take flight. how long ago was that memory? you can’t quite put a number on it but it no longer matters.

“sunday,” you sing his name like a song to be remembered. reaching into your back pocket, you take out a golden ticket and gently lay it flat on sunday’s palm. when you meet his eyes again, his wings obscure half of his face. you gently push them away and rub away the tears staining his cheeks and press your foreheads together. “perform. not for me, but the world. your stage is set, all you need to do is step on it.”

his gloved hands hold yours, you feel his head turn for his lips to meet the palm of your hand as presses a soft kiss that leaves the spot tingling. “will you watch me play?”

you drag a knuckle down his nose, an action too affectionate for people who claim to be just “comrades.” suddenly it dawns on you that kafka’s teasing, firefly’s giggles, silver wolf’s eye rolling, blade’s huffs and elio’s script all align for this moment. with a careful step forward, you invade the line with the words “comrades” and look up. you feel his breath on your lips and you smile.

“for all eternity, my eyes will always be yours.” you stand on your toes and press your lips together in a final goodbye. his arms hug your waist just a tad bit tensely as sunday tries his reciprocate—but in the back of your mind, you know he doesn’t have to try. sunday loves you like it's as easy as breathing.

“sunday, congratulations. you’ve finally seen the sun.”

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[sorceresssundries]

The Githyanki Initiate

A Lae'zel prequel story

Art by the incredible @orangekittyenergy - please send her some love for it <3

Warnings: Violence, death, angst

Nestled deep within the Tears of Selûne a hollowed-out asteroid drifted silently through the sea of night, Its silhouette stark against the luminous backdrop of stars and swirling cosmic dust. This was no place for outsiders; it was a sanctified bastion of discipline, a fortress where tradition and honour were etched into the very stone.

Within its confines, the children of Gith were hatched, raised, and forged. Their raw, untamed potential was shaped by discipline and fire, hammered into the tempered steel of seasoned warriors. Here, the weak were culled without mercy, and only the strongest emerged, tested by relentless trials to serve Vlaakith, the eternal Lich-Queen and their pitiless God. 

Not just a training ground; it was a crucible where the young were stripped of weakness, reshaped by pain and perseverance, and reborn as the relentless warriors who would one day take their place among the stars; destined to continue the eternal war against their enemies. Every stone, every shadow, and every breath pulsed with the legacy of a people determined to conquer all, driven by a history of enslavement and a future of unyielding conquest. 

In Crèche K’liir the strong survived, and the weak were forgotten. 

At its heart was a vast chamber filled with the gruelling clang of clashing blades and the grunts of exertion. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the crackling energy of psionic power, as recruits of all ages, from the youngest initiates to those on the brink of joining the Githyanki’s elite, honed their deadly skills under the vigilant eyes of seasoned instructors, their Varsh. The training grounds were meticulously divided into specialised sections, each designed to forge different aspects of combat mastery. Sparring arenas witnessed fierce one-on-one duels, where every strike could mean victory or death. Obstacle courses twisted through the grounds, designed to test not only physical agility but the recruits' strategic thinking and endurance. 

Every failure was a death sentence, and every success a stay of execution. It was barbarous, it was impersonal, it was necessary.

In these unforgiving environs, a lesson was unfolding - one that would be the most challenging, the most pivotal, ever taught to young Lae’zel of Crèche K’liir. 

She was ten years old, and she was about to be changed forever. 

Today, the weight of expectation pressed heavily on Lae’zel’s shoulders as Kith'rak Urlon, a towering figure of authority and unyielding discipline, observed the lesson. His cold, piercing gaze swept over the recruits, measuring their worth with an unreadable expression.

Lae’zel felt the intensity of his scrutiny, every movement of her body under the sharp focus of his eyes. She knew this was not just another lesson - it was a test, one that could define her path within the crèche and into the great beyond. If she was to become a Kith’rak and sit astride a Red Dragon, if she were to bring honour to her race and blaze the legacy of the Githyanki across the stars, it would all start here. Now.

There were no training swords, nor were there lighter, smaller blades meant for the soft hands of younglings. Lae’zel was an initiate of the Githyanki, and she would have her glory, or she would die chasing it. 

With the precision of a seasoned warrior, she sparred against her peers, her blade a blur of calculated strikes. One by one, she disarmed her opponents, her skill evident in the fluidity of her movements and the sharpness of her mind. Finally, she faced a young boy, a cousin from her clutch. Their clash was brief but brutal. With a swift, decisive strike, she brought him to his knees, his weapon clattering to the ground.

As the boy gasped for breath, Lae’zel stood over him, her heart pounding not from exertion but from the realisation that all eyes were on her. Kith'rak Urlon stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor, and stopped before her. His expression was inscrutable, but his words were laced with a cold, hard edge.

“Impressive,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Your ferocity and tactics are commendable, Lae’zel.”

A flicker of pride surged within her, though she kept her expression neutral. “Thank you, Kith'rak.”

“Tell me,” he continued, his tone more probing, “have you made your first kill?”

The question struck her like a physical blow. Though her training had prepared her for this moment, she hadn’t expected it to come so soon. Still, she met his gaze unflinchingly. “I have not, Kith'rak, but I eagerly await the day my blade is baptised in blood.”

He remained impassive. “That day is today,” he declared. He gestured to the boy she had just bested. “Kill him.”

For a heartbeat, hesitation flickered across Lae’zel’s face. The boy knelt before her, his breath ragged. The weight of the command, the finality of it, pressed like too-tight armour against her chest.

They were children. And as her eyes met his, memores stirred within her, bittersweet and fleeting, like a ghost from a time that no longer belonged to them.

She knew him well, he was from her clutch, the same group of young Githyanki raised together from the time they could toddle. They had studied the same ancient texts, shared the same meals in the cold, cavernous mess hall, and endured the same gruelling lessons. There were nights when, after the day’s brutality, they had found moments of quiet together. They would sit at the edge of the great asteroid, looking out at the vastness of space, watching as the lights of far-off worlds twinkled in the distance, promising future conquests. In those quiet moments, they had shared all the possibilities that were waiting for them. The battles they could face, the precious knowledge they could gather.

Entire worlds were theirs to conquer, they had the pride of the Githyanki and the impenetrable imagination of children. 

“What will you become?” Lae’zel had asked him, as she dreamt of her own future. 

He had paused for a while, before answering her. “Whatever I want.”

This was before sharper blades had been pushed into their gentle little hands. Before their futures had been decided and they still had the sweet, innocent privilege of being able to dream one for themselves and to get lost in the bright adventures of tomorrow, the way children often do. But, time has a way of sharpening the softness of youth. What was once a world of limitless possibilities slowly narrowed into a path they had no choice but to walk. Their laughter became battle cries, duty replaced dreaming, and wonder, which had once been boundless, was now shackled, locked away, and eventually… forgotten.

She stared at him now. He was steady, unafraid, despite the certainty of what was about to happen. Knowing him made her proud. Knowing him made her hesitate. Only for a moment, but long enough. 

“Perhaps I was wrong about you, Lae’zel,” Urlon said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Perhaps you lack the ruthlessness required to honour Vlaakith”

His words were a dagger to her pride. The very idea that she could fail, that she might be deemed unworthy in the eyes of her people and their queen, ignited a fire within her. She could feel the eyes of her fellow recruits on her, the raw heat of their judgement. The pressure was immense, suffocating.

“If you cannot fulfil this command, then perhaps you are the one who needs to be culled.” He gestured to three other initiates, waiting patiently at the sidelines.

 “Execute her,” he ordered them coldly.

Something pulled tight snapped within Lae’zel. This would not be the end of her legacy. Her grip tightened on her blade, and without a second thought, she whirled to face the approaching students. Her eyes narrowed as she assessed the threat, she had the calculated mind of a warrior who knew she was outnumbered and outsized… but far from outmatched. 

The first initiate charged with a war cry and Lae’zel dropped into Hrath Ajak, the battle stance known for its precision and fluidity. Her muscles coiled like a spring, and as he brought his sword down in a sweeping arc meant to cleave her in two, Lae’zel darted to the side, her body a blur of motion. His blade met only air, and before he could recover, she was inside his guard, her blade flashing up to slice across his unprotected thigh. With a quick pivot, she thrust her sword into his side, between the plates of his armour. He collapsed, his eyes wide with shock as life was snuffed from them. 

The second initiate lunged at her with a snarl, his blade slashing toward her with well-honed viscousness. Lae’zel twisted her body, just barely evading the strike, but the tip of his sword slashed down her face, leaving a burning line of pain. Blood welled up from the cut and trickled into her mouth, and she spat scarlet onto the floor at his feet and hissed at him in response.

The pain was a whetstone, and she sharpened herself against it.

He advanced, each step deliberate, each swing of his sword aimed to overpower her. Lae’zel danced backward, her movements fluid, conserving her energy as she let him tire himself out. She was smaller, lighter on her feet, and she used it to her advantage. She ducked under a wild swing and darted around him, her blade flicking out to slash at the back of his knee. He staggered but didn’t fall, turning to face her with a growl of frustration. Before the growl was finished, she drew her blade across neck, silencing him with a swift, ruthless strike. He was still spluttering blood as the third soldier attempted to approach her from behind. 

He was the largest of the three, and Lae’zel knew she couldn’t match his strength, so she did not try.  He pressed his attack, striking harder each time, trying to crush her beneath his superior size. Lae’zel’s breath came in short, controlled bursts as she parried his blows, her arms shaking from the force behind each of his hits.

As he brought his sword down in a powerful overhead strike, Lae’zel dropped to the ground, rolling beneath his swing and coming up behind him. She darted around him, her movements quick and unpredictable, her blade slashing at every exposed piece of flesh she could find. Finally, she saw her chance. As he brought his sword up for another heavy blow, she leapt upwards, and thrust her blade under his chin and out through the top of his skull.

Lae’zel stood amidst the fallen, bloodied but unbent, her chest heaving with adrenaline. Salt from her sweat dripped into the gash across her face—it stung fiercely, mingling with the taste of iron on her lips. She felt the pain but did not acknowledge it.

She turned back to the boy, her cousin who she had once gazed at the stars with and asked about his future, and In a single, fluid motion, she drove her blade between his ribs and into his heart. 

His corpse slumped to the ground with the others. 

Kith'rak Urlon watched her with a neutral expression. 

There was a beat where she expected the swing of his sword to drive her to the same fate, but she was spared. 

“You will make a fine soldier, Lae’zel. Report directly to me tomorrow and we will continue your training.”

Lae’zel, still breathing heavily, bowed but did not bother to wipe the blood from her blade as she sheathed it. Let the blood of her kin stain the floor beneath her feet. She cast one last glance at the bodies on the ground before leaving them behind. 

Something had ended today, and something else began. There was no going back. 

Later that night, she sat alone in the Great Library of K’liir. Her ten short years were but a single, unpolished stone against the tower of ancient knowledge surrounding her. She was small, a solitary figure in the vastness, the low orange candlelight throwing shadows that loomed large behind her. In her small hands, still caked with the blood of her kin, she gripped a Githyanki Disc - her gold eyes danced over it, reading the story of her people as though it were a fairytale. To a frail and fanciful human, it might have seemed just that: knights clashing with dragons, the slaying of monstrous horrors. But, this was her history, and her future. She would be a hero to sail the astral sea and bring glory to her kin. She would drag a mind flayer’s severed head through the halls of her people and mount a dragon whose fiery breath would set the stars alight.

She would not just be a part of history; she would make it.

She read the disc in her hands for the third time. 

There is no other race as proud, as fierce, or as deserving of the stars as the Githyanki. We are the survivors of enslavement, the conquerors of our oppressors, and the raiders of countless worlds. We, who have risen from the chains of the Illithids, stand as the eternal guardians of the Astral Plane.

Without our vigilant guardianship, the Illithid parasites would spread like a blight across the cosmos, an uncontrollable plague that devours life and enslaves our people. These soulless creatures would have turned the stars themselves into a wasteland. It is by our hand, our unwavering resolve, that such a fate has been averted. While other races allow their emotions to cloud their judgement, we possess the strength to cast aside such weaknesses and do what must be done. A Githyanki does not falter.

Our brutality is not born of cruelty for its own sake, but of necessity. We do not shy away from the hard choices, the difficult actions that must be taken to preserve the balance of power. It is our destiny to bring order to the chaos that lesser beings have allowed to fester. 

We are the blade that cuts through decay, the fire that purges weakness, the storm that reshapes worlds.

Vlaakith gha'g shkath zai.

After reading it so many times the words became etched in her mind, she walked with aching muscles and a heaviness in her bones over to the great statue of Vlaakith that stood vigilant over the room where the history of her people was held. 

The Lich-Queen’s carved eyes seemed to pierce into Lae’zel’s very soul, demanding her fealty, her submission, her all.

She let herself have one final, mournful thought of a cousin who she had once sat with and talked of the future, before gripping the pommel of her blooded sword and vowing to never hesitate again. One day her sword would be silver, and she would be tethered to no-one, only Vlaakith.

Never again would she sit idly and watch the sun and stars with another, nor let the colours of a hopeful sky warm her days or glimmer with promises of what could be. There was no more colour, no more softness. There was only the red of blood and the black of death.

Lae’zel of Crèche K’liir, was a child no more.

[bratbby333]

jjk camp counselor au

nsfw brain dump, multiple x reader feat: satoru, suguru, nanami, toji, sukuna, shoko + choso summary: you're a camp counselor trying to make the most of your summer

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

satoru would definitely be the one to lead the rallies each morning, he's so charismatic and domineering. he'd also be in charge of the 15-17 year old group (obvi). he'll blatantly flirt with the other female counselors in front of you to make you jealous, sneaking away to the woods while the kids are eating lunch to apologize to you while balls deep inside you...summer fling energy fr

"i-im sorry...promise...it was nothin...meant n-nothing 't me" he pants out, seeing the irritated look on your face as you glare at him from over your shoulder, arms bracing your body against a tree, your jean shorts down by your ankles, panties shoved to the side. "shut up and keep fucking me, satoru," you roll your eyes in response. "show me how sorry you are," your demanding voice wavering slightly, stifling your moans so he doesn't know how good it feels, trying to keep up your annoyed facade. but god does he feel amazing, his tip stimulating your sweet spot with every stroke. he fucks you so much better when he thinks he's in trouble...he's a whining, whimpering mess for you power bottom!gojo supremacy

suguru is most definitely the chill instructor, leading the more creative activities; arts n crafts like tie-dye, making jewelry, etc. all the kids love him, too. he'd beam with pride as they run up to him to show him what they were able to create. he'd profess his feelings for you with a handmade, beaded bracelet.

you sneak out of the women's cabin in the middle of the night to meet up with suguru, finding him sat on the crest of a hill with a blanket laid out to watch the stars "suguru...this is precious," you gasp, eyes bright with adoration, taking a seat next time him, your legs kicked out in front of you and your arms propping you up. - "what about the kids? what if they see us?" you ask, concern plastered across your face, your legs wrapped around his waist, hands secured behind his neck, fingers tangling in his long hair. "don't worry, love," he breaths out, pausing his strokes, his strong arms positioned on either side of your head, "nanami's watching mine and shoko's watching over yours...plus we're so far from camp, no one's gonna see us", he reassures you with his pelvis flush against your core. "you just look so beautiful like this, i couldn't resist" he'd moan out, returning to his initial pace, thrusting deep and slow, the blanket he had laid out now disheveled. the moonlight bounces off your skin in the most ethereal way, and suguru can't get enough of you.

nanami would be in charge of the whole camp, carefully organizing everyone's permission slips, allergy forms and medical records (which were alphabetized and given to shoko), the payments from parents, the whole nine yards; ensuring everything ran smoothly. he would also be the one supervising the obstacle courses. he'd carefully and methodically strap the kids into their harnesses, surveying everyone intently...do you really think he'd trust the other dummies he works with to do so?

and of course he'd find a way to repurpose the harnesses as restraints in the privacy of the men's cabin with you, the two of you slipping away during one of satoru's overly energetic pep rallies. "ken...what if someone catches us?" you moan out, your arms secured behind you, your back arched, and your chest pressed against the mattress. his deep, purposeful strokes continue, his voice steady as he repsonds. "don't worry, love. we made the mistake of giving satoru the mic, he'll talk for hours if you let him...now hush and let me take care of you, yeah?" you nod back before moaning loudly, the depth of his cock in this position is hitting spots you didn't know existed. "you're taking me so well. such a good girl for me," he groans out, his trust speeding up, the sounds you're making for him spurring him on.

toji would be in charge of the more physical intramurals; dodgeball, kickball, archery, and life guard on duty for the water activities.

and god did he look good while patrolling the waters, his broad shoulders and tanned skin glowing under the summer sun, his wet swim trunks clinging to his thick, muscular thighs. you watch him from your beach chair, legs clenching and core pulsing at the sight of his sternly focused face, his eyes running up and down the lake, his body glistening from the droplets of water trickling from his damp hair. you're glad shoko is more attentive with the kids because your mind is elsewhere (and for a valid reason, too). - after the kids are sent to get changed into their dry clothes, he absolutely obliterates you in the boat house. "saw you watchin' me the whole time...this what you needed, love?" he'd ask through gritted teeth, his thrusts hard and deep, his thick cock stretching you out perfectly. you whimper in response, eyes low, mouth agape, nodding profusely as his fingers dig deeper into your hipbones. "uh huh..needed you so bad, toji," you whine out. baywatch!toji has me putting my fist in my mouth

sukuna would not get hired because the organizers were afraid that he'd try to create a child army and illicit a rebellion to overthrow the camp counsellors, creating a dystopian society where the kids tend to the land and run his errands for him. bummer... ruined his summer plans.

shoko helps you run the girl's cabin. she also works the first aid tent during the day, her long hair tied back to keep her cool. you lean up against a tree, admiring her beauty. you're pulled from your daydream when gojo elbows you in the side, shooting you an amused look; "go make a move, she likes women, ya know?" wiggling his eyebrows at you before running off to frolic in the water with his group.

the two of you sneak away during the bonfire, finding yourself in her bunk, laid on your back with her soft tongue attacking your clit. "sho, i'm close," you gasp out, your hands tangling in her auburn hair. she hums in response, the vibrations pushing you even closer to your release. you cry out for her, the pleasure coursing through you is overwhelming your senses. she uses one hand to cover your mouth, the other swipes between your folds before inserting two finger into your dripping cunt, curling slightly to massage your g-spot. your hips buck against her mouth, before you spill all over her tongue from the added stimulation. as you try to regain your breath, she leans over you and places two fingers against your neck. you gaze up at her through dazed eyes, shooting her a questioning look. "just checkin' your pulse, thought i was losin' you," she laughs.

choso takes his job very seriously, basically a helicopter parent while watching the kids...he's so protective of the children, treating them as if they were his own siblings. he stops dead in his tracks when he first lays eyes on you, watching you interact with your group; you are so sweet with your kids, tenderhearted and caring...he falls in love almost immediately and all he wants is to get close to you.

his soft, slow strokes make you giggle into his ear. everyone's in the mess hall for dinner, leaving the cabin empty, the once silent building now filled with your moans. "cho, you can be rougher with me," you sigh out, pulling him deeper into you, groaning at the stretch of his fully engulfed member. he buries his head into the crook of your neck, a long moan leaving his parted lips as he bottoms out against you. his cheeks flush to a bright red...you swear you can feel the heat emanating off them. "i know...jus' scared i'll cum fast if i go harder...you're just so pretty...so fuckin' sweet, angel," he whimpers out. he paws at every inch of you, his strokes getting more frantic, kissing your cheeks delicately and whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

author notes: this made me giggle so much while writing. i love doing short form AUs, theyre so entertaining to me. sorry about sukuna's i was feeling unhinged when i wrote it

if u have any requests, feel free to send them my way! here's the link to my inbox ☺︎ leave an emoji if you want to be added to my anon club, or send it with your url and i'll credit you!

i really liked this idea and im considering making it a longer story, but i only wanna focus on one character x reader...leave a comment with who you'd want it to be with! (counselor!gojo is calling to me, but what do y'all think?)

thank you all for your love and support on my work...i literally tear up when i get the notifications. i'm so honored that y'all find my writing enjoyable enough to interact ❤︎

© bratbby333 on tumblr. all rights reserved. please do not distribute. 2024.

[pirateprincessblog]

Daddy Chronicles

𝘾𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉! 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘼𝙍𝙀 𝘼𝘽𝙊𝙐𝙏 𝙏𝙊 𝘼𝙋𝙋𝙍𝙊𝘼𝘾𝙃 𝙄𝙎𝙉'𝙏 𝙎𝙐𝙄𝙏𝘼𝘽𝙇𝙀 𝙁𝙊𝙍 𝙋𝙀𝙊𝙋𝙇𝙀 𝘽𝙀𝙇𝙊𝙒 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙂𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝟭𝟴｡

𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲? ↳ Go Back ↳ Nah, I'm good

The boys are all aged up, I do not mention the exact age anywhere, so you are free to imagine whatever you want.

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝟏𝟎𝟎% 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭, 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐟!𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐳!

read for me

park seonghwa ➳ bookworm!reader, ceo!seonghwa, bestfriend'sdad!seonghwa

synopsis: best friend's father has a rather big book collection, and you are a big bookworm who has started losing touch with reality. he shows you just how real it can get away from the covers and pages.

one

two

three

in vino veritas

kim hongjoong ➳ artist!hongjoong, dilf!hongjoong

synopsis: hongjoong loves art, wine, and pretty girls. how convenient that on the opening night of his art gallery, as he sips his red wine, his eyes land on you.

one

player 9

jeong yunho ➳ footballplayer!yunho, coach!yunho, aunt!reader

synopsis: you always thought that your nephew's football coach was handsome, and when he invites all the parents and families to come watch him play a big match, you struggle to keep your cool while watching his clothes stick to his body and his face and muscles glistening with sweat.

one

three is a crowd

kang yeosang ➳ swimminginstructor!yeosang

synopsis: a tragic event in your childhood created an aquaphobia for you. at pool parties, beaches, and camping, you are always the one to stay out of the water. until your father finds you a swimming instructor, who solves one problem, but creates another one.

put on a show

song mingi ➳ ceo!mingi, fashiondesigner!mingi, model!reader

synopsis: your ceo is to die for. drop dead gorgeous, aged like fine wine, a figure you’d kill to have. his only problem? he might be the meanest person you’ve ever met in your life. then why are you enjoying his degrading words as he makes you take every inch he has to give you?

silver band

choi san ➳ collegeprofessor!san, student!reader

synopsis: choi san is a married man, and the hottest professor you’ve ever seen. you feel unnatural amounts of jealousy and hatred each time he opens his laptop to start the lesson, showing everyone through the projector the desktop picture of his wife while he opens the files he needs to teach. you want a taste of him so bad, but he shows zero interest towards you. or anyone else. so how will you pull this off?

white dress

choi jongho ➳ dad’sbestfriend!jongho, bride!reader

synopsis: you don’t love this man at all. he is a cheater, he hits you, he flirts with other women in front of you. what has gotten into your father’s mind and is forcing you to marry that bastard? maybe his best friend has a little more compassion and will notice your silent cries for help.

20% off next buy

jung wooyoung ➳ cashier!wooyoung, pervyneighbour!wooyoung, innocentexploring!reader

synopsis: never in your life did you see a dildo this huge. it’s so… big, so purple, and it’s staring right back at you. the cashier seems to notice your horrified face with each isle you walk down, and he can’t help but offer you help. how can he help, when even you don’t know what you’re looking for?

[tyunniebbang]

keep dreaming , swan | y.jw

a dancer dies twice — once when they stop dancing, and this first death is the more painful.

jungwon finds you again to bring his dancer back to life.

content: taekwondo player!jungwon & ballerina!reader

warnings: small mentions of blood, mentions of a past injury. i did not do ballet, i apologise in advance if the technique names are off...

♪ playlist: xo (piano version) - enhypen (from the ending of r:u concept film)

the day you lost your ability to dance, was the day your world fell apart. it all came crashing down, sitting in that hospital chair. it felt paralysing, helpless, lost.

what do you do when someone tells you that you can't continue your life's calling anymore?

to create art, to perform on stage. just like a fallen swan, destined to never succeed and fly.

ballet class on friday evenings were replaced by physiotherapy. getting into that white suffocating room every week was your worst living nightmare, watching your body detach from itself. your feet doesn't move like how you could anymore.

you can't do it.

it's easy to lose love and passion for your art.

"one, and a two! beautiful, continue~"

you watch jungwon skim across the wooden floor, his leaps graceful and elegant. his eyebrows slightly furrowed from focus, yet a little smile plastered on face. when he lands a good jump, his satisfaction shows as the corner of his lips pull up even more.

jungwon moves like a butterfly, so light and precise. he matches the music with the pianist as his toes pad on the wooden floor.

tap, tap, tap.

a spin, a run across the stage, pose and that's the end of this variation.

you know it all by heart.

as he finishes up the moves and scurries off to the applause of the other dancers, jungwon finally notices you. standing at the other end of the room, panting with both arms on the side, his eyes meet yours and glimmer bright.

"noona, so you came." the boy plopped down beside you, flashing you a toothy grin. he swipes off the sweat running down his forehead, catching up his breath from the previous dance. "mrs lee was happy with our progress today. she even asked me if i had you teach me about today's variation!"

it hurts so much to know how some people still have trust in you. when you were in your glory days, mrs lee was your instructor who wanted to see you dance for years and years to come. she was this old lady with a young soul inside her, and a brimming passion for ballet. watched you danced from a small child and never gave up on you.

jungwon was your inseparable twin. he was the brawns and you were his beauty. well on his way to become a national taekwondo player, winning competition by competition. growing up, you always came home to find him in his white uniform, sometimes stained with blood, stepping into a shower after a day of practice.

for every competition of his you attended, he came dressed to the nines for every recital of yours.

and at the door always sat your pair of worn out pointe shoes, and his black taekwondo belt.

so when you fell on that fateful day, jungwon came rushing into the emergency room, eyes pink and uniform frazzled. he had to find you. his other half suddenly felt so empty in his heart, like he lost you so quick.

"what? jungwon, you can't!"

"y/n, love. i'm in pain seeing you yearn for your dreams on stage. let me do this for you."

"who suggested this to you? is it mrs lee?"

"it doesn't matter, noona. i made the final decision myself." jungwon assured you, "i chose to dance. i want to honour your dreams."

his arm reaches out for you, softly dabbing away your salty tears brimming out of your widened eyes. in a cold harsh hospital room, he makes it feel so warm in his embrace.

how did we grow up so fast?

_

deep breaths.

in, out, in.

your feet feel so uncomfortable.

not in that way in which it's too small, or it doesn't fit. these shoes haven't had their owner worn them for a year. the pink has washed out, ribbon slightly loosing up with its individual strings. you feel like a vintage doll trying on her parts for the first time in decades. and your ankles are equally as rusty, not finding back its original flexibility and reach.

"come here, noona."

jungwon, in his full black tights and his graphic band t shirt, he had no class for the day. he offers you a hand previously on the bar, waiting patiently for you.

grabbing his hand would mean opening back the doors of your past, embracing ballet again. jungwon, the boy who wants to bring you back.

so you take a leap of faith.

"see, that wasn't so hard. now plié."

you aren't sure if your thighs tremble, as you try to bend down and feel the chills run up your spine. the warm grasp on your right hand is everlasting, holding you steady and reliable. the blonde boy hums as you finish your simple movement, watching over you as if his life absolutely depended on it.

his gentle voice starts, "what goes after that? you know, noona. the basics, hm?"

you glance back at him, wide eyed. how he had so much trust in you to finish it, even if you had just recovered. giving yourself slow, small steps off the bar, raising your arms up to gain back that familiar feeling.

"last one, noona. just an en pointe for me?" he boldly steps out into the center of the room, a prince waiting for his princess to dance ball. his swan, his beauty.

he's never tough on you, always so loving. your feet approach him, lifting up to feel that familiar, slight flash of pain between your toes and the shoe box. little steps turn into little wobbles.

jungwon holds you like his special musical box ballerina. his elbows lock against yours, making sure to hold on tight so you never trip.

as you glance into the mirror, you dance in tandem with jungwon, feet never clashing, hands touch with affection and love. the moment feels like the starting of a disney movie, two lovers dancing their hearts away from the crowd. your silhouettes merge beautifully, and you watch how jungwon manages to tenderly spots you as you dance as a pair for the first time.

he makes a wonderful dance partner, and you've never felt this safe dancing. everything feels just right. it reignites a past emotion, unlocks what you've buried in your heart months ago. it was ready to stay hidden forever, yet the answer to all your worries was right here. just like he promised: he let you spread your wings again.

so when jungwon sets you back down on your flat feet, both of you feel the shift in the air. you watched your cloth-clad feet, watched how they worked again and felt how the cold practice room air feels when you dance. how the strain of your muscles, how every pant feels so satisfying again when you finish a good move.

jungwon looks at you nervously, his eyes swirling with lots of anxiety and hope. both of you join in a tight embrace, tears escaping, and sniffles through each other's chest.

"thank you," you hiccup. "t-thank you, wonnie."

"never stop dancing, noona. never stop dreaming, i'm always here to hold you."

a/n: this fic is purely a passion piece, something written from my heart :'). i've recently found back my love for dance, and losing it can be very very scary (don't worry, i didn't get injured). partly why this fic took so long (5 months since mama happened... whoops) was because of how emotionally draining it was to write something so similar to what i feel. but nothing makes me happier, so like wonnie said, don't stop dreaming <3 thank u so much for reading.

[serenadeofastros]

Painter Regulus that’s been suffering from an art block so Pandora convinces him to go take an art class to hopefully bring his passion back. So he goes and takes the class, without knowing that day they were doing nude painting. He sits behind his easel when the most gorgeous man walks in from the side room, a midnight blue robe covering his body as he takes a seat on the stool in the middle of the room.

He tries not to look, he really does, but when the man starts disrobing himself Regulus can’t keep his eyes away from him; lines and lines of skin revealed, silvery scars running through the expanse of his chest, his legs, his arms, and a few, smaller ones, across his face. They don’t make him less beautiful, if anything they enhance his honeyed hair, his deep green eyes and his lean figure. He still looking at the man, who seems to be a little older than Regulus, when he looks up after carefully leaving his robe on the floor and they make eye contact.

Regulus is certain the whole world fades away as his focus is zeroed in on the gorgeous man, and those green eyes, and suddenly his mind bursts with a hundred million ways he can imprint this man on a canvas. Make him long lasting, make him timeless. As his mind keeps running through those ideas, the voice of their instructor cuts through the haze, telling them they can begin with the assessment.

And as Regulus starts imprinting the image of the man sitting in front of him, the first of many, on his canvas, he realizes he’s found what many artists long to have, the only thing many spend their whole lives searching for: his muse.

[redroomreflections]

Paint It Black Chapter 3

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary: Natasha learns who to trust in the Red Room

W/c: 5.2k

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Someone I once loved gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift - Mary Oliver

You'd learned a lot of party tricks since you became Dreykov's best girl. You'd been trained by some of the world's deadliest martial artists and snipers. You knew how to make an arrow pierce through the toughest skin. You could crush your enemies' windpipe without your bow's help. You could use a man's tie against him and bring him to his knees in seconds.

You had learned early on that survival in the Red Room wasn’t just about strength or precision—it was about illusion. It was about shaping yourself into whatever they needed you to be, bending and twisting your identity until you could barely recognize your reflection.

When you were twelve, one of the older Widows taught you makeup—not just how to wear it, but how to weaponize it. Lipstick wasn’t just a shade; it was a story. A bold red screamed confidence and control. A soft pink whispered innocence. The faintest hint of gloss could disarm even the sharpest of men.

The etiquette classes were the worst. Hour after hour of balancing books on your head, learning the perfect angle for a smile, the exact tilt of your chin that would make you appear approachable but not too eager. You were drilled in dining etiquette, how to sip champagne without smudging your lipstick, laugh at jokes you didn’t find funny, and dance just close enough to your target to keep their guard down.

They taught you how to pretend to be smart—not too smart, but just enough to stroke a man’s ego without intimidating him. You mastered the art of asking questions you already knew the answers to, of feigning curiosity to keep the conversation flowing.

Every lesson was a reminder that you weren’t being prepared to live. You were being prepared to infiltrate, to seduce, to kill.

You still remembered the first time you saw yourself in the mirror after they finished with you—a little girl’s body dressed up like a woman. The makeup made your face look older, the heels forced your back straight, and the dress clung to you like a second skin. You didn’t recognize the person staring back.

"You’ll grow into it," the instructor had said, adjusting a curl in your hair. "By the time we’re done with you, you’ll be perfect."

Perfect. That’s what they wanted. A perfect soldier. A perfect spy. A perfect party trick.

And they had almost succeeded. Almost.

You had become everything they wanted you to be, yet somewhere deep inside, you had kept a piece of yourself hidden—a touch of defiance, a spark of who you were before they took you.

You didn’t need a party.

You didn’t need their approval.

You needed freedom.

And one day, you were going to take it.

****

After the meeting with Dreykov, you felt a wave of exhaustion wash over you. You tried not to scratch at the skin of your arms. You tried not to focus on the places he’d touched. You walked briskly through the cold, sterile hallways.

As you reached the nearest bathroom, you pushed the door open and slipped inside, grateful for the reprieve from everyone. The bathroom was small, with harsh lighting and chipped tiles, but it felt like a sanctuary compared to the outside world. You leaned against the cool metal sink, slowly closing your eyes to collect yourself. Opening them, you felt heavier than before. The mascara smudged as you rubbed at your eyes.

Your reflection in the mirror looked exhausted, pale, and drawn, as though someone had taken a paintbrush and erased all the color. With one hand, you gripped the sink, and with the other, you shoved it down your throat.

You gagged as bile rose into your mouth, hot and burning. Your stomach contracted and heaved.

This particular party trick only helped you.

********

She hadn’t seen you in a while. Four days, thirteen hours, and twelve minutes, to be exact. It wasn’t like she was counting. You weren’t friends or anything. Widows in training came and went all the time, whether for training, on missions, or worse.

Death.

Natasha had learned not to become attached. Your presence had annoyed her since the first time she spoke to you. You were like an unwelcome buzzing in her ear. You didn’t listen like the other girls. You talked back. You were defiant. You got into trouble. You had resilience and determination in ways the other girls didn’t. Something she wished she could be. Natasha had drive and determination. She was the best in her class. She moved up an age group since returning from Cuba. She was good with a gun, she was fast on her feet, and she could quickly pick up new skills. The one thing she hadn't mastered was her poker face.

Her eyes scanned the room as she ate alone. It was time for a day meal. An hour where the girls were able to let loose just a little. Everyone sat near their favorite colleagues. The word friend should never be in a Widow’s vocabulary. Natasha didn’t have many. None that she wanted any. It made things more painful when she had to pull the trigger.

As she ate, she looked for two people in the room and didn’t see either of them as expected. The first one is you. Your absence had caused quite a stir in the commons. The widow's gossip about you and what’s become of you. Some girls in your age group had mentioned dishonorable things that Natasha didn’t care to replay in her mind. Though she thought nothing of you, she refused to believe bad things. The other person was Yelena. It had been a few months, and her former mission mate would be seven now.

In the years before, Yelena’s birthday was spent in the comfort of their own home. Alexei would grill burgers. Melina would decorate the den with balloons, streamers, unicorns, and pony things that the little girl liked. Natasha was always in charge of keeping her sister occupied. They would run around the backyard until the parents, Melina and Alexei, would come out with a cake and candles for her to blow out.

It was a good memory that Natasha allowed herself to hold onto. It was stupid. None of it was real. Yet everything about it warmed her heart. Memories like that kept her sane. One day, she would be free, and she could make memories like that again if she got the chance.

Natasha looked down at her tray. Lunch consisted of Pirozhki, a stuffed roll with minced beef and rice. There were also a ton of vegetables that Natasha wasn’t fond of. While the Red Room was another hell on earth, the girls were fed well. Their bodies needed it to remain healthy and strong enough to fight.

Natasha took her time biting into her food. Despite the lump in her throat, she chewed her food while keeping her eyes up. She only ate half before she decided it was not for her. She stood, walking over to the trash bin, before clearing her plate. She wiped her hands against the leg of her black sweatpants. She eyed the two guards at the entrance of the cafeteria. Demetri and Igor. They’d worked there for as long as she could remember. She approached the door with an excuse already at the tip of her tongue.

“Kuda ty idesh? (Where are you going?)” Igor’s hand pressed against Natasha’s shoulder, his voice sharp.

Natasha paused but didn’t look at him. “I am going to the infirmary,” she said in English, her tone clipped. Since returning to the Red Room, she had refused to speak Russian unless necessary. It wasn’t defiance—not entirely—but a quiet rebellion against a country that allowed men like Dreykov to exist unchecked.

Igor’s brows furrowed, and he exchanged a glance with Demetri. “Zachem? (Why?)”

“I have my period.” Natasha’s voice was steady, and she met their gazes without a hint of embarrassment.

Both men immediately looked uncomfortable. Demetri muttered something under his breath and opened the door. Natasha didn’t wait for a formal dismissal. She slipped through before they could change their minds, her steps quiet on the worn linoleum floor.

The hallways were dimly lit, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic. Natasha passed several doors before she reached the infirmary. Her hand hesitated on the knob. She shouldn’t care about you—not here, not now. But she did.

Turning the knob, she opened the door just enough to peek inside. Voices drifted through the crack, low and tense.

“You need a break,” Nora’s voice was firm, though tinged with concern. “She’s been pushed too far, Madam B. Her body can’t keep up at this rate.”

“She’s fine.” Madam B.’s tone was clipped, her frustration evident.

“Widows are made of marble, is that it?” Nora countered, sarcasm dripping from her words. “She’s not marble. She’s flesh and blood, just like the rest of us.”

“Enough!” Madam B. snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “We do not coddle here, Doctor.”

“She’s still a child,” Nora shot back, her voice firm and determined. “A growing girl who needs her rest if you want her to carry out any of her duties.”

Madam B. stilled, her lips pressing into a thin line. The word child hung in the air like a taboo, an unwelcome reminder of the humanity the Red Room sought to erase.

“She ceased being a child the moment she stepped into this place,” Madam B. said coldly, her eyes narrowing.

“And yet her body hasn’t caught up to your expectations, has it?” Nora’s voice softened slightly, though it didn’t lose its edge. “You can push, break, and mold them—but they are still human. Y/N needs time to heal, or she’ll collapse in the middle of your next mission.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Madam B. said sharply, her gaze flickering to you where you sat on the infirmary bed, silent but seething.

“I wouldn’t,” you said defiantly, your voice cutting through the tense exchange. “I don’t need a break. I’m fine.”

Nora turned to you, her expression softening. “Y/N, this isn’t a competition. It’s your health—”

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, your hands balling into fists. “Widows don’t need rest. We don’t break.”

Madam B.’s gaze lingered on you long before she returned to Nora. “You see? She understands the stakes. Weakness is not an option.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Nora muttered under her breath, though not quietly enough.

Madam B.’s sharp glare returned to the doctor, but a quiet creak drew their attention before the tension could escalate further.

The infirmary door was slightly ajar. Natasha stood frozen in the opening, her green eyes darting between the women.

Madam B’s eyes narrowed as she glanced toward the door. “Watch her,” she commanded Nora before letting out a sharp huff and storming out of the room. The door slam echoed through the infirmary, leaving a tense silence.

Natasha pressed tightly against the wall outside and held her breath. Her heart pounded as she strained to listen for footsteps fading down the hallway. She waited—one second, two, three—until she was sure Madam B had left.

Carefully, she peeked around the corner to ensure the coast was clear. Satisfied, she stepped closer to the infirmary door. Her hand hovered over the knob, hesitating.

Inside, Nora sighed as she adjusted the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around your arm. “You really need to care more for yourself,” she muttered as she scribbled notes on a clipboard.

“You really need to stop worrying about me,” you replied, shaking your head.

“I’ve been worrying about you since you were four years old,” Nora said sharply, her eyes meeting yours.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Nora had been the closest thing you had to stability in this place. Her care had always been a confusing blend of warmth and frustration, a kindness wrapped in thorns. You could never understand why she cared so much. Why did she care at all?

Before you could think of something to say, you changed the subject. “How’s this love story with the scientist going?”

Nora froze, her brow furrowing as she shot you a pointed look. “Melina Vostokoff is a respected Widow who is incredibly smart,” she began curtly. “There is no love story. And you know it’s dangerous to talk like that.”

“You know Melina?” Natasha’s voice cut through the conversation as she stepped into the room.

Nora spun on her heel, her expression hardening as her eyes locked on Natasha. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, her tone sharp. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Natasha hesitated, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I just—”

“You just nothing,” Nora interrupted coldly, stepping forward. “Do you think this is a game? That you can wander wherever you please? Do you even understand the danger you’re putting yourself in by being here?” She gestured toward you, her anger flaring.

“Nora,” you said softly, sitting up straighter.

Nora ignored you, her eyes still fixed on Natasha. “You have no idea what she’s been through—what we’ve all been through. And now you think you can just walk in here and—”

“Nora,” you said again, more firmly this time.

Nora finally looked at you, her jaw tight.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice steady. “Let her stay.”

Nora’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger dissipating into more like exasperation. She glanced back at Natasha, her eyes narrowing. “If anything happens, it’s on you,” she muttered before returning to work.

Natasha stepped closer to you, her movements careful, almost hesitant. Her eyes flickered to Nora, who was now busying herself with the clipboard, and then back to you.

"Hello," Natasha whispered.

"Dobro pozhalovat (welcome)," You said, not looking at her.

Natasha didn’t know why she came. Curiosity, maybe. Or something deeper she wasn’t ready to name. She stood stiffly in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as she scanned the room.

You were sitting in bed, your posture slouched but tense, eyes staring ahead as if avoiding any attempt to connect—whether with the walls, the room, or anyone.

“Are you sick?” Natasha asked, her voice soft, though her eyes were sharp as they scanned your body for any signs of injury. There were no bruises, bandages, or anything that would explain your absence.

“I wish,” you muttered with a sigh, fingers tracing aimlessly over a loose thread in the blanket that covered your lap. “Just getting evaluated,” you excused yourself, trying to shrug it off.

“You’ve missed all your training sessions.” Natasha pressed, her gaze intense as she approached cautiously.

“Keeping up with my schedule?” You raised an eyebrow, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Are you my new handler?”

“No,” Natasha replied quietly, her throat tight momentarily. “I thought we were friends.”

You didn’t answer right away, your lips pressing into a thin line. But you didn’t deny her, either. The silence between you two stretched, uncomfortable in its weight.

Nora kept her eyes on your chart from the corner, deliberately avoiding any direct attention. She'd never seen you regard anyone with such softness. You weren’t open with anyone other than her.

“You’re not going to go and report this to the other widows, are you?” You finally broke the silence, eyes narrowing slightly.

“The other widows are not my friends,” Natasha said, calm but firm. She let her gaze flicker toward Nora momentarily before returning to you. “You know Melina?”

Nora's response was clipped, her words tight and minimal. “She’s gone,” she said when Natasha asked about Melina’s whereabouts. “Don’t know where, don’t need to.” She didn’t look up from your chart as she spoke, not offering any more information. Her gaze remained focused on the paper in front of her, the lines of your vitals there, as if pretending not to notice the growing tension in the air.

After a long pause, she finally sighed, rolling her shoulders back as she stood up. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she muttered, making it clear she wasn’t interested in offering anything more.

With a curt nod to Natasha, she stepped toward the door, leaving you and Natasha alone in the sterile quiet of the room.

Natasha stood there momentarily, unsure of what to do, her thoughts swirling around the brief, cryptic exchange. She glanced back at you, her expression softening just a little.

“Is that your mom?” Natasha asked, her voice low and tentative, though the curiosity in her tone couldn’t be hidden. She didn’t wait for an immediate answer; she just leaned against the wall, her eyes still on you, waiting for a response.

"You see the resemblance?" You said flatly. "Nora is not my mother. Though she likes to pretend she cares."

"She seemed soft with you," Natasha offered, watching your reaction closely. "Not like the other Widows. Not like the guards."

Natasha shifted uncomfortably, her arms crossing over her chest as she leaned against the wall. She looked at you, her gaze unwavering but uncertain, as if trying to piece together her own reasoning for being there.

You huffed, shaking your head. “Softness is just another strategy. You know that.”

Natasha didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes flicked toward the door where Nora had exited moments ago and then back to you. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s different.”

You scoffed, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it. “Why are you here, Natasha? You’ve never been one to check up on anyone.” You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes as if trying to read her. “So why me?”

Natasha hesitated. It wasn’t a question she’d asked herself before walking into the room, but now it hung between you, heavy and unavoidable. She shifted her weight, her fingers brushing over the edge of the wall she leaned on.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice almost too soft to hear. She looked down briefly, her lips pressed into a thin line, before meeting your eyes again. “Maybe I was curious. Or... maybe I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why would you care?” you asked, your tone blunt but not unkind. “I’m just another Widow, right?”

Natasha shook her head, stepping closer to the bed. “No, you’re not. You’re... different.”

You raised a brow, leaning back slightly. “Different, how?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She stood there. Finally, she said, “You don’t let this place break you. I’ve seen it. You don’t let them win.”

Your gaze softened, but your walls didn’t crumble entirely. “And what about you?” you asked. “Are you letting them win?”

Natasha didn’t flinch at the question, but its weight settled in her chest. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I’m trying not to.”

"I am to train you,"

"You?" Natasha blinked, her surprise evident. "Aren't you too young?"

"They say I'm the best,"

"Then, why not use your talents on a mission?"

"Leaving this place is too much of a privilege," You shrugged. "I am meant to be here. I am meant to be his."

"Does he hurt you?" Natasha asked.

You paused, your expression unreadable. You didn't want to answer. It felt like admitting weakness, like giving in. "I'll live."

"That's not what I asked,"

Natasha frowned, her curiosity gnawing at her despite your apparent resistance. “You’re not like the others,” she said cautiously, watching for any shift in your expression. “He treats you differently.”

You let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You ask too many questions. You’ll do best not to in the future.”

“I just want to understand,” Natasha pressed. “How did you become so close with him?”

“If I had a straight answer, you’d have it,” you muttered, your voice low and even, your fingers absently fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “But if I were to guess, it’s probably because I’m a good fighter. Maybe the best. That’s all that matters to him.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “He doesn’t treat you like a child.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you replied, your tone sharp, almost cutting. “What is it that you really want to know? What happens when I meet with him? It’s private.”

“It’s not nothing,” Natasha said softly. “I can see it. It’s not.”

“No,” you agreed, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “It’s not. But it’s none of your business.”

“You’re too young to—” Natasha started, but you cut her off.

“I am young,” you said sharply, sitting up straighter, your gaze hard. “And I’m the best. That’s a gift and a curse. He gives me gifts, and I give him something of myself in return. I’ve gotten used to it.”

Natasha’s stomach turned at your words, but she didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure she wanted to push further, not when you were unwilling to share.

You sighed, your shoulders relaxing just slightly as you glanced at her. “I’ll train you,” you said, your voice softening, “but I won’t tell you things about my life. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Natasha hesitated, her mind racing with unspoken questions and uneasy thoughts, but in the end, she nodded. “Okay,” she said quietly.

*******

The door to Dreykov’s office loomed taller than Natasha expected, its dark wood heavy and foreboding. She hesitated before knocking, her fist pausing mid-air. No one talked about what happened inside. Girls went in and came out changed—quieter, sharper, colder.

The door opened with a groan, and Natasha stepped inside. The warmth hit her first, different from the biting chill that filled the rest of the Red Room. A space heater purred softly under the desk, and the faint smell of tobacco lingered in the air. She didn’t know what she expected—something barren and clinical, maybe—but this wasn’t that. Shelves lined the walls, packed with books she doubted he read. A globe sat in the corner, and photographs she didn’t dare look at too closely caught the light from the desk lamp.

“Natasha,” He greeted, not looking up right away. He sat behind a wide desk of polished mahogany, his large hands resting flat on the surface. His tone wasn’t harsh but didn’t invite ease, either. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit.”

Natasha did as told, tucking her hands into her lap.

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes roaming over her body before resting on her face. His gaze was unnerving. It reminded her of a hawk eyeing a mouse, calculating and cold.

“You’ve been doing well,” Dreykov began, lifting his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were sharp and calculating, making her feel like he could see through her skin. “Top marks in marksmanship. Hand-to-hand combat. Strategy. Impressive for someone so… young.”

“Thank you, sir,” Natasha replied carefully. Her voice was steady, even though her heart was pounding.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the desk.

Natasha hesitated. She didn’t know. Not really. “No, sir.”

Dreykov smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve caught my attention, Natasha. That is not an easy thing to do.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

“But,” he continued, his voice softening in a way that somehow made it more dangerous, “attention can be fleeting. Do you know what keeps it?”

“No, sir.”

“Loyalty,” he said, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the desk. “Obedience. Dedication. Do you have these things?”

“Yes, sir,” Natasha answered quickly.

Dreykov studied her for a long moment, the silence thick and uncomfortable. She wanted to look away but didn’t dare.

"You're familiar with y/n?" Dreykov asked.

She didn't know how to answer the question. She didn't know how much he knew. If he knew, she would be in trouble, too.

"She is a fighter and the best of the Red Room," Dreykov continued.

"Yes, sir," Natasha answered, swallowing hard.

"And do you respect her?" Dreykov's eyes bored into hers, unrelenting.

"Yes, sir," she said, forcing herself to maintain eye contact.

Dreykov was silent for a long moment as if contemplating her answer.

"She is to train you," He finally said, his gaze not wavering. "You will report everything back to me. Your training, your progress, her attitude and treatment of you."

"I don't understand," Natasha said, her brows furrowing. "Why?"

"Because you're special," Dreykov said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Because I have plans for you, and I need to ensure y/n does not interfere."

Dreykov’s gaze didn’t waver as Natasha processed his words, her thoughts running a mile a minute. How could you interfere? What could you possibly do to derail his plans? Natasha didn’t understand.

The confusion must have been written all over her face because Dreykov chuckled—a deep, humorless sound that sent a chill down her spine.

“Ah, you’re wondering, aren’t you?” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk. “How could she possibly get in the way?”

Natasha didn’t respond. She didn’t trust herself to speak, her jaw tightening as she forced herself to remain composed.

Dreykov smirked, the expression cold and sharp. “Y/N is… how shall I put this? A jealous little thing,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “She doesn’t like to share. Especially not with me. You trust her?"

"I do,"

"Don't. Don't trust anyone,"

"Not even you?"

Dreykov laughed. "Especially not me."

Natasha didn't answer. She didn't know what to say. Her mind raced, the warning ringing in her ears. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but the words stuck in her throat. A knock at the door broke the tension before she could muster the courage to speak.

“Come in,” He called smoothly, leaning back in his chair, his smirk firmly in place.

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside. Natasha barely recognized you. Gone was the confident fighter she’d seen earlier in the training halls. In your place stood a girl—more petite, somewhat more fragile, with your shoulders held high. Your dress was simple, patterned with tiny flowers, its soft colors highlighting your youth. You looked pretty. Beautiful if she dared to think it. For the first time, you looked your age: fourteen.

Natasha watched as you crossed the room without sparing her a glance. It struck her as deliberate. You kept your eyes forward, focused solely on Dreykov, and your expression was carefully blank.

His smile widened as his eyes roved over your appearance, a glint of satisfaction gleaming in them. “Perfect,” he said, gesturing toward you. “Doesn’t she look like a proper child, Natasha? A flower among thorns.”

Natasha’s stomach twisted at how he spoke and appraised you as though you were nothing more than a tool he’d shaped with his own hands.

“Someone will teach you how to blend in,” Dreykov continued, his gaze shifting to Natasha. “How to act like a child. Then, how to act like a woman. It’s a skill, you know. One you’ll need.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed. The idea felt foreign to her—learning to act like something she was supposed to be. “I don’t understand,” she said quietly, daring to speak despite the tension thickening in the room.

“Of course, you don’t,” Dreykov said, his tone condescending. “But you will. There’s a reason I’ve paired you with her.” He nodded toward you, and Natasha caught the faintest flicker of something—an emotion she couldn’t place—across your face before it disappeared. “She’ll show you. Watch her. Learn from her.”

You finally spoke, your voice softer than Natasha had ever heard it. “What do you need me to do, sir?”

Dreykov’s grin returned. “Everything you already do, my dear. And perhaps a little more. Natasha will shadow you for a time. Set an example for her. Show her how to be... convincing.”

You nodded stiffly, your movements almost mechanical. Natasha couldn’t tell if you were resigned or simply afraid.

She watched you with a growing sense of unease, unsure of what she was seeing. She couldn't pinpoint the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way you moved, the way you held yourself. You were afraid of him. Truly afraid of him. Every display of bravado she'd seen of you with others was thrown out of the window. You were small. Fragile. Vulnerable.

It scared her.

******

As the door shut behind you, the silence was almost unbearable. You walked ahead, your steps quiet and purposeful, refusing to meet Natasha’s gaze. She followed you down the hallway, barely able to keep up with the pace you set.

Finally, Natasha broke the silence. “Do you always wear dresses like that for him?” The words came out sharper than she intended, her voice laced with something between curiosity and accusation.

You stopped abruptly, turning on your heel to face her. You looked less fragile momentarily, the fire she’d seen in the training halls flickering behind your eyes. “What do you think?” you snapped, your tone cutting.

Natasha stared at you, searching for an answer, unsure of what she was looking for. “I don’t know. You won’t tell me anything.”

“And I don’t plan to,” you shot back. “You’re not here to know me, Romanova. You’re here to watch and learn. Do that.”

Natasha felt the sting of your words, but she refused to back down. “He thinks you’re jealous of me. That you don’t want me around.”

You flinched at that, just barely, but it was enough for Natasha to notice. “He doesn’t know anything,” you muttered, your voice quieter now, tinged with bitterness.

“Doesn’t he?” Natasha challenged, stepping closer. “He’s got you wrapped around his finger, hasn’t he? Playing dress-up, doing whatever he tells you to do.”

Your jaw tightened, and for a moment, Natasha thought you might lash out. Instead, you smirked, though there was no humor in it. “And you’re any different? Do you think he doesn’t have plans for you, too? You’re just another piece on his board, Romanoff. Don’t kid yourself.”

The words hit harder than Natasha expected, but she kept her expression neutral. “At least I’m not pretending I have control,” she said evenly, her eyes narrowing.

Your smirk faltered, and Natasha caught a flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or anger. “You don’t get it,” you said quietly, almost whispering. “You don’t know what it’s like to be... useful. To matter.”

Natasha opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. She didn’t know what it was like—not really. But she could see the weight of it now, the burden you carried. And for the first time, she wondered if Dreykov’s warning wasn’t about jealousy but the cracks in your armor that he didn’t want her to see.

You turned away before she could say anything else, your steps brisk as you returned to the training hall. “You don’t need to understand,” you said over your shoulder, your voice cold again. “Just keep up.”

Natasha watched you go, a knot tightening in her chest. She didn’t know if she wanted to follow yr fight you, but she knew one thing for sure: Dreykov was right. You were dangerous—but not in the way he thought.

[unholyhelbig]

part 4 mob boss mommy *i mean natty oops*

Title: The Oversight [Part 4/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Wordcount: 4325

Warnings: Gun imagery, heights, unecessary tension, horrible grammar, and funnel cake

[A/n: Heads up, I wrote this while I had the flu & a pretty bad fever, so it's not my greatest work. Thank you all for the postive feedback!]

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

“Hit me.” Natasha’s words were growled, a low rumble compared to the warm spring breeze that produced nothing but a balmy environment. Sweat glossed her collarbone, moved against expanses of skin that you had let yourself imagine, but had never seen. She was a distraction, despite being your instructor.

Her wrapped fist made contact with your jaw, a metallic taste coating your tongue. You let out a grunt of protest, fingers quickly working against the area to ease the throbbing pain. “That wasn’t fair,”

“You think they’re going to play fair? Focus up. Hit me.”

There was something about being this close to Natasha that formed a pit in your stomach. You were meant to have skin on skin contact, though most of your mornings for the past two weeks had been spent at the gun range, she had deemed you ready enough to learn how to fight. It was an art, you figured, not just something you could blindly go into.

For the first fifteen minutes of your day, you had watched Natasha and Kate spar. Yelena was standing next to you, a borderline predatory gaze on her face. You’d realized that it was one of the only emotions she harbored, and that Clint was rightful in his fear. Still, her attention was not focused on you, and that was good enough for the time being.

Instead, it was homed in on Kate. “I have been teaching her for nearly a year now.”

“She’s good.”

“You do not have to lie, y/n. She’s sloppy, reckless. Look how calculated Natalia is.”

Those emerald eyes were tracking every move the taller girl made. She’d initiated contact with Kate’s ribs, with her knees, and her shoulders. She’d fallen to the grass more times than you could count, but she still got up. That’s what seemed to count around here. Even as green a brown stained her workout gear, and as purple blotches of dead blood rose to the surface of her skin.

“It pays to learn fighting styles. That is something the Danver’s family does not understand. They hire whoever they can. Bodies over skill, it can work in some situations, but not all.”

“When did this… war start?”

“Mm, the power struggle has been raging for decades. Our parents, and their parents, and their parents before them. Both of us were trained to take over the family business. Men, they fight with their hearts and not their heads. When Carol and Natalia took up the mantel, things only got worse.”

You felt silly, growing up on these city blocks, and not realizing that a fight bigger than yourself was raging just within the shadows. You supposed that was a good thing. If you knew, you’d have taken Ronnie out of here in a second.

Kate hit the ground for a fourth time, the air knocked out of her lungs. She still had enough left to groan and prop herself up on her elbows. Natasha chuckled, the sound bubbling past her lips. This was much too fun for her.

“She is fragile.” Yelena nudged you with her arm. You frowned. Kate accepted the outstretched hand and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She looked dazed. “Do not tell her I said so, but she was looking for a project. You have to give it your all. For both of your sakes.”

You drew in a breath to respond, but Yelena clapped a hand on your back before taking a step toward the dueling duo. “Alright Nat! I think you’ve tortured Kate Bishop enough. Do not break her.”

Kate was bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet, her fists raised in a defensive position. Her lip was split, rusty crimson against the corner of her mouth. “I can do this all day.”

“You do not have to.” Yelena’s nose scrunched up “You stink. Go take a shower.”

The blonde shoved Kate playfully towards the house, trailing behind her and murmuring things in Russian. She’d left you alone with Natasha, something you had become quite accustomed to. In your workout gear, you felt more than a little exposed, her stare raking up and down your form before her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink than they already were.

The two of you had sat on the lawn chairs as she wrapped your knuckles, had you punch the palm of her hand to see how much blowback it would cause. You were holding back, and you both knew it. Her last command had been non-negotiable.

When you swung your right hand towards her jaw, Natasha wrapped her fingers around your wrist. She had flipped you onto the ground with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. You’d flailed in panic instead of going limp like Kate had.

You’d dragged Natasha down on top of you. Her body weight was warm from the beating sun, her elbows on either side of your head. Natasha’s knee was between yours, pressing into your core. You let out a small gasp at the sensation, pulling in her musky scent of sweat and clove.

Stray strands of russet hair framed Natasha’s face as she peered down at you, her chest heaving, each breath pushing her closer to you. Her nose was brushed against yours. The two of you were impossibly close, soul-crushingly so. You were certain that she could feel your heartbeat through your shirt.

She made a quite noise “Pet, if you wanted to get me on top of you, all you had to do was ask.”

Your gaze had given you away, and Natasha suddenly had a shit-eating grin against her lips. You hooked your legs against hers an arm wrapping around her waist. In a smooth move, you had her flipped against the grass, eyes reflecting the blue of the cloudless sky. She nearly seemed impressed, and you preened at the stare.

That was before her knee came up and knocked the wind out of you for the second time. You grunted, rolling off her. The two of you stared up at the sky for a few moments before she hoisted herself up and offered you a hand. You batted it away out of habit, rising on your own.

“When you fall, you fall with grace.” Natasha said, her voice stoney, right back to her serious self. “That way you don’t end up like we just were.”

“And if they ask?” you lifted an eyebrow at her, a hint of malice in her voice. She took a step closer to you, and that ever-intoxicating scent filled your lungs once more. Your ribs still ached from her kick, fingers massaging the sore spot. However, all of your movement halted.

Her voice was murmured and rusty. “I don’t want anyone else on top of you.”

“Okay,” You whispered, throat suddenly tight. “Then show me how.”

Veronica had the excited reflection of light in her eyes. They scanned the traveling fair that had been set up in the park bordering the harbor and a square city block. Each year, tents with local vendors would go up, rides and carnival games in their stead.

The scent of kettle corn filled your lungs, a mix of sweet and salty that reminded you of your own childhood spent here. It was the one constant that every foster family took part in. Sometimes you’d be given a stack of tickets, others, you’d get enough for a large cup of the best lemonade you had ever tasted.

Her hand tightened around yours, squeezing in excitement. Despite your current situation, you couldn’t help but smile. The soft sound of music and the light breeze was enough to make your forget about your aching muscles, and the light sweater that you had thrown on to hide the bruising against your shoulders, your arms, and collarbone. Natasha had really done a number on you.

“Jimmy is a nice guy, he really is, but the whole magic thing is driving me nuts.” Darcy used her forefingers to pinch off a bit of blue cotton candy, shoving it into her mouth. She talked around the melting sugar. “Seriously, he spilled my coffee all over my lap attempting a card trick and then attempted to mop it up with a never-ending handkerchief.”

You snickered at that, earning a look cut from glass. “What? I’m sorry about your drycleaning, but it is kind of funny.”

“Yeah, whatever. I just have to grow a backbone. He doesn’t try to pull that shit with Monica. No one tries to pull that shit with her.” She knelt in front of Ronnie, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re not going to tolerate stupid magic tricks, are you?”

She was met with a silent, but amused stare, her eyebrow lifted. You’d been leveled with that look more than once yourself. It dissolved you into more laughter. “Alright, alright. No magic for the kid. Does the Ferris Wheel count as magic?”

“Well sure, but only at the worlds fair.”

You rolled your eyes but effectively tugged them both into the line. It had always been one of your favorites. It gave you a good look at the city you called home. Of course, your view of that city had been stunted lately. It never truly changed the beauty of the lights and the way they reflected off the water.

Your shoulder came in contact with chilled leather, your attention having been trained on fishing through your pockets for the small red tickets. Your eyes shot up, ready to rush out an apology until the words stopped in your throat.

Seeing Natasha outside of her manor was jarring. She looked nearly the same, a tight-fitting black T-shirt and a leather jacket draped over her shoulders. Her hair was loose, unlike it was at training earlier in the day, cascading down her shoulders. Her make-up was light, her unripe stare pouring into yours. That bewilderment melted into her cool exterior as if it were never there in the first place.

“Natasha,” the word poured from your lips before you could stop it, and the corner of her mouth quirked up in amusement. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I can take a hit” She stated matter-of-factly. You were well aware of the fact, and you had to stifle a shiver as it worked its way down your spine. Hours before she had been nestled so perfectly on top of you.

Your cheeks heated up and you glanced sparingly at your friend, her own eyes going back and forth between the both of you. It was then that you noticed Clint, towering over Natasha with his arms crossed over his chest. He gave you a finger wave, and you lifted your chin in return.

“I’m Darcy, you are?” She was beyond forward, and it made you internally cringe. She reached her hand out to the very woman that ran the city. It was like sticking your hand in the lions enclosure covered in steak sauce.

“Natasha,” her words dripped with a subtle hint of her accent “This is Clint.”

“Howdy,” he knelt then, Veronica was clinging tightly to your leg, peeking around tentatively. She hugged you closer as he spoke. “You must be Veronica.”

The woman in front of you softened as you had never seen before. Her eyes grew brighter, though you could pin that on the circulating lights of the Ferris Wheel. There was a genuine smile on her lips as she looked at the girl who hugged you ever close.

“She doesn’t talk much, I’m afraid.” Your hand moved comfortingly to her shoulder. Ronnie seemed comfortable, if not excited about the rides that were teeming around them.  

Nat smiled at you “Oh, I’m sure she’ll speak when she has something to say.”

Ronnie’s death-grip on your leg seemed to loosen a bit as Clint straightened up. Darcy continued to scrutinize you and Natasha, something mischievous in her stare that you didn’t exactly care for. She rocked back and forth on her feet and directed her attention to Clint.

“How good are you at skeeball?”

“An absolute beast.” Clint replied.

“What do you say to a challenge? I bet I can kick your ass with the power of science. Winner springs for funnel cake.”

You picked up on the subtle look Clint gave Natasha and the even more subtle wave that she responded with. She blew an amused breath. Darcy stretched her hand towards Ronnie and wiggled her finger. “Kid, you staying or going?”

This time, Ronnie looked up at you for confirmation and you gave her a small, encouraging nod. She dislodged herself and wrapped her hand around Darcy’s. The promise of flaky and sweet funnel cake topped with powdered sugar was too tantalizing.

Admittedly, you were used to being left alone with Natasha at this point. Though it had mostly been in a business capacity. She seemed almost shy now, the line for the Ferris Wheel inching ever so closer.

“We can still go on, if you want.” She suggested.

“Yeah, yes. Of course.” You replied, “that would be lovely.”

“Your friend is very persistent.”

“She’s harmless, really.”

“And your daughter. She’s beautiful.” Natasha shoved her hands into her pockets, the two of you inching closer in line. “Just like her mother.”

Once again, you could feel the breath lodge in your throat, your cheeks flushing with fire. She was so bold at moments, and you remained silent in your conquest. There was no telling what was overstepping, though she blinked at you expectantly.

You fumbled dumbly with the tickets in your pockets, presenting them to the attendant. You both ended up in a cherry red car lined with nice leather cushions. Natasha’s thigh was warm against yours, her thick scent coating your lungs. Her arm was around the back of the cart, and a familiar sense of safety settled within you.

“You worry about her,” Natasha said to fill the silence as they loaded each cart. It lurched forward and back, making your stomach turn. “I didn’t start speaking until I was nine years old. My mother, she was so concerned that she rushed to be every specialist that money could buy. Whole days spent driving to different counties, just for them to say that same thing. Nothing is wrong, and I’ll talk when I’m ready.”

“What was that moment? The one where you were ready?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “The thing about being quiet, is that people tend not to notice when you’re in the room. My father protected Yelena and I from his world for as long as he could, but eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves, and others. I watched him give a man his last drink before shooting him between the eyes.”

“Fuck, Natasha.” You murmured.

“He doesn’t know I saw that. I ran as quietly as I could back to my room and hid under the duvet like a child. Something snapped in me that day and I no longer wanted to be silent. I suppose the fear of displeasing either of them ebbed the words from me.”

She was being vulnerable in front of you, a side that you had never seen. There were always her subtle touches, and her purred words that would hit the pit of your stomach. You’d watch as she gave unwavering commands to Clint, to Yelena and Kate. But this was different. This was her.

The city sparkled around you. Tricolored lights reflected off the blackness of the causeways that lapped listlessly at the harbor. If you squinted, you could almost make out the mansion where you spent most of your time.

The carnival buzzed below. Her scent was overwhelming, so warm and welcoming despite her danger. And dangerous she was. It was alluring, exciting. You looked at her, eyes pouring with emotion. Not so much pity, as she would snap your wrist at the fact. But a simple understanding.

Tentatively, you reached up and cupped her cheek. You both were too far above the ground to be realized and the simple gesture was one of good faith. Surprisingly, she leaned into your touch, making a quiet, relieved noise.

Your voice was whispered, “You didn’t deserve that. You were just a kid.”

She had closed her eyes, reveling in the warmth of your contact. Her features were so soft, so broken in this moment that you resisted the urge to kiss her frown away. Before you could contemplate it, the Ferris Wheel lurched and she gently took her fingers and wrapped them around your wrist, lowering both of your hands into her lap.

“She’ll talk,” Natasha gave your hand a squeeze “give her time.”

Natasha cleared her throat as the cart neared the end of its journey. She pulled away entirely, her arm still along the back of the seat. When she leaned closer, you could feel the weight of the gun in the inside pocket of her jacket. Seriousness had lidded over her eyes once more.

“We have a job tonight, and I want you to come along.” She said, breath hot on your collarbone.

You were suddenly snapped back to reality. Natasha was in fact the head of a crime ring that you had unwittingly stumbled into. Up until now, aside from the brutal beating, it had almost felt like child’s play. She’d relearned you how to shoot, and you knew the very basics of fighting. But, you were far from her Winter Soldier stand in. You weren’t even a toy soldier.

She sensed your hesitancy. “I have a meeting at a restaurant downtown. It’s not going to go south, but if it does, I need you there. You won’t be alone.”

“Clint?” You asked.

She shook her head “guys got a family of his own, he must spend some time with them outside of work hours. Kate.”

You fought back the noise that threatened to escape your throat. You didn’t doubt Kate, but you certainly doubted yourself. You didn’t have your own weapon, and the threat of leaving a restaurant with a bullet lodged between your ribs became very real, very quickly.

She chuckled at that, “I trust her. I trust you. Just stand there and follow her lead. Look hot and intimidating.”

“Is hot really a requirement?”

“Not really, but you pull it off.” There was a switch in her again, one that had been flipped effortlessly as she grabbed the collar of your sweater and pulled you impossibly close. You were nearly sitting in her lap. “Don’t fail me on this, y/n. It’s imperative that you do as you’re told.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You swallowed thickly as her hands wandered your side expertly. It took you a moment to realize that she had pulled the gun from her own coat and silently transferred it to yours before she released her hold on you. You had admit that you missed the touch instantly.

She stood from the cart when the attendant unlocked the door, reaching her hand out to you. You took it was ease, letting her help you onto the metal dismount. There were no words exchanged as you readjusted the weapon as slyly as you could muster, hands shoved into your pockets a moment later.

“I don’t know what to tell you, dude.” You could hear Darcy’s voice from within the crowds. It was easy to spot them, and you swore you saw the ghost of a smile on Natasha’s face. “The kid kicked both of our asses. Split the difference and pay up.”

“Yeah, fine.” Clint fished out his wallet and placed a couple of bills in Darcy’s waiting palm. “The price of carnival food these days is outrageous.”

Kate had presented you with a leather holster that fit snuggly around your chest and abdomen. She’d tightened the straps, your arms halfway raised. It felt a bit like a dressing room at the mall, her breath hot on your cheek as she tugged the center strap to make sure it was secure.

“Natasha likes us to be presentable.” She handed you a dark jacket to throw over the contraption. “Inconspicuous and deadly. But still presentable.”

You followed Kate’s lead. Natasha was to drive to the restaurant, and the two of you were to follow in a separate car. It was important to stay quiet unless you were spoken to directly by Natasha. Kate seemed at ease on the ride over, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel to an incoherent pop song.

The holster pinched you uncomfortably, but you were so deep into your own fear, your own reluctance, to pay much attention. Kate shot you a look, hard in her nature, and then softer when she glanced at you a second time.

“You’re much too tense” she flicked off the radio, delving you into a comfortable silence. “Lower your shoulders and relax. It’ll be an uneventful night.”

“Right,” you let out a shaky breath “uneventful.”

“Look, I can’t imagine how jarring this is for you. I would have shut down by now, changed my name and gone into witness protection if I was thrown into this life the way you are. Without a choice. But, we can make the best of it and do what we can to protect Natasha.”

“It seems like she can handle herself,”

Kate chuckled “Oh, she can. But she doesn’t keep us around just for protection. It’s a big city, she wants people she trusts. She wants a family. And I know it might not seem like it, but her welcoming you into her inner circle… it’s a blessing. Just like we’d go to bat for her, she’d do the same for us.”

You swallowed the dryness in your throat as Natasha pulled her car to the curb in front of a russet brick building. Kate did the same expertly, shutting off the engine. She clapped you on the shoulder, giving you one more encouraging smile. “One night at a time, y/n. Follow my lead.”

Kate opened the door for Natasha, and you had to keep your jaw from dropping on the ground at the sight of her. Her long leg stretched onto the sidewalk, her hand squeezing Kate’s in return as she helped her from the vehicle.

She wore a maroon dress, one that had a slit down the leg that left little to the imagination. The color matched the shirt Kate had given you earlier, everything orchestrated to a tee. The woman looked at you approvingly before she took striding steps towards the front of the building. Out of habit, you held the door open for you, another look sparkling in her dark eyes.

It was a restaurant that you had never set foot in. There was a sour, yet pleasant, scent of vinegar and cabbage masked with that of freshly baked bread and beef. The walls were painted deep green, black and white photos of rolling hills placed above empty tables.

It was clear what table you were to be led to. There was one in the center of the restaurant that was set up with a bottle of wine, and water. A candle burned in the middle, shading the woman who occupied it with shadows that stretched her delicate features. She wasn’t alone.

The woman had cropped blonde hair at the shoulders. Her hazel eyes were calculating, clocking Kate and yourself immediately. Kate pulled Natasha’s chair back, allowing her to sit before she took a step back. You flanked her sides, arms behind your back and stare trained straight ahead like a sentinel.

“Two,” the woman smiled devilishly, hiding it behind a glass of deep red wine. “Are you compensating for something, or someone?”

The woman who stood much like you did behind her boss was not masking her contempt towards you. She was familiar in an irking way that you paid no mind to. It was in passing, you were sure, but it was one of those itches that would worsen until you could scratch it with your whole hand.

“Not at all,” Natasha replied cooly, “I believe there was something you wanted to discuss?”

“Mm, there was. You know the Maroni property on the west side.” She leaned forward, placing her glass down. Her lips were stained in a dark red that matched Natasha’s dress. “I want it.”

“That’s a horrible way to say please.”

“Natasha, we both know it doesn’t serve you in it’s current position.” She put emphasis on the name.

“I fail to see how that matters. Just giving you the property is out of the question. That’s not how this works, but I do admire your gumption.”

“Then how exactly does, this work?” She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. Both you and Kate tensed. The vaguely-familiar woman behind Carol shifted on her feet in the slightest movement. “You kill one of my men and offer nothing in return?”

Natasha lifted her eyebrows “Exactly. This isn’t a bartering system, and it never has been. If I give you this building, it will change everything and I’m not much in the mood for a power struggle. What do you need it for?”

She seemed to falter “I don’t have to answer that. I’m offering to buy the property from you.”

“It’s not for sale.”

There was finality in her voice that rocked the room into silence. She hadn’t touched her wine, nor her water, and you figured she wouldn’t. Carol glowered at her, clearly not used to having her endeavors squashed with such ferocity.  

Natasha took a steadying breath. “Is that all? It’s late and I’m tired of your graveling.”

She let out a sigh and crossed her legs, drumming her ringed fingers on the cloth-laid table. The flames in the candle seemed to react to her impatience. Kate’s jaw clenched and unclenched as she leveled the woman behind Carol with a fierce stare.

“I suppose. I want you to remember this moment, Natasha. I offered you a deal.” She stood and dramatically sighed once more. “This could have been easy.”

Kate always kept her eyes on Carol, on the woman who followed behind her with her hands shoved into her pockets. The darkness of a previous scar littered her collarbone. She had the same stare that Bucky had, that same determined anger that came with years of meetings with higher stakes than this.

“Oh, and Nat.” She stopped just short of the door, turning to face the three of you.

Kate reached for her weapon, and out of a blind trust, so had you. It was warm from its housed place against your side. In that moment, you knew that anyone else in the room would be a quicker shot than you. Still, your heart was beating quickly in your throat.

“I don’t know where your Winter Soldier is, but this is a sorry excuse for a replacement.” She laughed, a mean sound. “A kid and a burn-out… you should’ve taken the deal.”

She left without another word, leaving you in a chilling silence. For a few long moments, Natasha stared at the table, at her reflection in the syrupy red wine. Her fingers brushed against the glass, frowning.

“I’m twenty-three.” Kate let out in a single breath, eyes drifting from you.

“Don’t look at me,” You whispered back, “I am a burn-out.”

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[horoscope1078]

:D

Gavi had done many difficult things in his life. He had faced aggressive defenders, played under pressure in front of thousands, and even survived a scolding from Xavi. But none of that compared to the challenge he was currently facing, teaching you how to drive.

“Alright.” Gavi said, sitting in the passenger seat of his car with his arms crossed. “Are you ready?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Totally!”

He squinted at you. “Are you sure? Because driving is serious. You can’t just press random buttons and hope for the best.”

You rolled your eyes. “I know that, Pablo.”

“Do you, though?” he muttered under his breath before straightening up. “Ok, first step. Adjust your seat and mirrors.”

You reached for the rearview mirror and turned it. “Like this?”

Gavi blinked. “Did you just... did you just move the mirror so you can see yourself?”

“Well, yea. I need to make sure I look ok while driving.”

He groaned, already regretting his life choices. “The mirror is for seeing the road, not admiring yourself like it’s selfie mode.”

“Relax, Mr. Serious.” you teased, fixing the mirror.

Gavi took a deep breath. “Ok, now put your hands on the wheel. Both hands. Properly.”

You lazily placed your hands on the wheel in a way that made him nearly combust. “Not like you’re holding a baguette! Ten and two, like this!” He grabbed your hands and adjusted them himself, muttering something about no respect for the art of driving.

You bit back a smile. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Of course I am! I take things seriously.” he said, puffing his chest out.

You rolled your eyes. “Alright, what’s next, driving instructor?”

“Now, put your foot on the brake and shift to drive.” Gavi instructed.

You did. Or at least, you tried to.

“Pablo… the stick thing won’t move.”

“Because your foot isn’t on the brake.” he deadpanned.

“Ohh...” you said, nodding like you had just discovered gravity.

Gavi smacked his forehead. “This is going to be a long day.”

After finally getting the car into gear, you pressed down on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, sending Gavi’s soul flying out of his body.

“TOO FAST! TOO FAST! BRAKE, BRAKE, BRAKE!” he shouted, gripping the door handle for dear life.

You slammed on the brakes, and Gavi nearly flew through the windshield. He took a shaky breath, staring ahead like he had seen his life flash before his eyes. “Are you… trying to kill me?”

You giggled. “Sorry, I got excited.”

“Excited? THIS ISN’T A GO-KART!” Gavi placed a hand on his chest. “You need to start slow. Like, gentle. Like you’re caressing a baby’s cheek. Not like you’re launching a rocket.”

“Ok, ok, got it.” you said, biting your lip to stop from laughing at how dramatic he was being.

You tried again. This time, you pressed the gas pedal gently, and the car moved at a reasonable speed. Gavi let out a sigh of relief.

“There we go. That’s more like it.” he muttered.

You drove in silence for a moment before you spoke again. “Hey, Pablo?”

“Hm?”

“What does this button do?”

Before he could stop you, you pressed a random button on the dashboard. BEEP BEEP! The car’s emergency lights started flashing, the windshield wipers went crazy, and the radio blasted a dramatic Spanish love song.

Gavi nearly jumped out of his seat. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING BUTTONS?”

“I was curious!” you defended, frantically trying to turn everything off.

“Curiosity is how people die, cariño.” he groaned, pressing the buttons himself to fix the chaos. “DO NOT touch anything unless I tell you to.”

“Fine, fine.” you said, holding up your hands. “No more buttons.”

After a while, Gavi calmed down enough to let you drive a little faster.

“You’re doing alright now.” he admitted.

“See? I’m a natural.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” he mumbled. “Turn right up ahead.”

You nodded, signalling for the turn. But instead of slowing down, you sped up.

Gavi’s eyes widened. “BRAKE! BRAKE BEFORE THE TURN!”

“Oops...” you gasped, slamming the brake at the last second. The car made the turn, but it was anything but smooth.

Gavi clutched his seatbelt, his entire body tense. “This is worse than playing against Real Madrid.” he muttered under his breath.

You gave him an innocent smile. “You’re being so dramatic.”

“I AM NOT DRAMATIC!” he barked, before realising how loud he was. He took a deep breath. “Ok. Maybe a little.”

You kept driving, and you actually started improving. Gavi was just beginning to relax when...

“PABLO, THERE’S A DOG!”

You slammed the brakes so suddenly that Gavi practically flew into the dashboard.

“AY DIOS MÍO, WHAT NOW?” he cried.

You pointed to the side of the road. A small dog was standing there, wagging its tail.

“IT’S NOT EVEN ON THE ROAD!” Gavi yelled.

“But what if it was? Better safe than sorry!”

Gavi let out a groan of despair, dragging his hands down his face. “I swear, this is taking years off my life.”

After what felt like an eternity, you finally made it back to where you started. You parked the car after Gavi had to correct you three times, and turned to him with a big smile.

“So? How did I do?” you asked excitedly.

Gavi just stared at you, his hair messier than usual from all the stress. “I need therapy.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh, come on! I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were terrible.” he said, shaking his head. “I deserve a trophy for surviving this lesson.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Gracias, mi instructor guapo.”

His ears turned red, and suddenly, all his frustration vanished. He cleared his throat, looking away. “Well… you still suck at driving, but at least you have good taste.”

You giggled, squeezing his hand. “So, same time next week?”

Gavi’s face went pale. “Next week? Oh no, I’m never doing this again. Ever.”

You just laughed, knowing full well that he totally will.

[dreaminofdixon]

Two.

I feel like this is super long, I'm sorry. :( But...it's the full scene, not just the snippet and it's only fair to give you the whole thing!!! It's the tiniest bit different because, as mentioned previously...constantly tweaking. It's that OCD thing. Nothing is ever perfect. You'd probably hate me at Christmas time. :)

I’d been completely naive to think I could do this by myself. I lasted just a few more days in my condo before the National Guard was sent in. They started shooting people in the hallways. When I heard the first gunshots, I grabbed my go-bag—guns, ammo, some clothes, and a little food—and headed out as quietly as I could.

Ever since then, I’d been bouncing around, trying to find places to hide.

Those things were scary as hell.

I’d only come face-to-face with them a couple of times in the last few weeks, but I’d learned some key things. 

First off, they didn’t just drop with a shot to the heart. Nope. A headshot was the only way to stop them.

Second, they were drawn to noise. So, the fewer gunshots I fired, the better. That’s how I ended up with a sharp knife on me at all times. The gun? Only for dire situations.

Third, they never stopped. Not like me. They didn’t tire out after running. They didn’t need to sleep. So, running from them only got me so far.

And then there was the most important lesson: trusting anyone was a damn death wish.

It reminded me of the COVID shutdowns when people were brawling over toilet paper, but this time? It was a hundred times worse. People were turning on each other with fear and violence—and I’d seen it firsthand. Watched people kill for the stupidest reasons.

This? Whatever this was? It had brought out the absolute worst in humanity.

Now, I was holed up in an abandoned lab building in downtown Atlanta. I hadn’t seen a soul in the couple of hours I’d been there, and for once, I could just sit still and eat a protein bar without having a panic attack. Rationing food was hard when you’d spent your whole life eating whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted.

I had definitely learned one thing: my life had been so privileged, I took it all for granted.

Soon, I’d have to learn another skill: scavenging for survival.

Then, I heard it. A noise.

I froze, pressing myself into the corner by the door, eyes scanning for any sign of movement. A moment later, I heard voices. My heart skipped, and I instinctively pulled out my gun, checking the chamber as quietly as possible. The voices got louder—definitely men.

Great.

The men I’d crossed paths with recently had all acted like they were entitled to everything—including me.

They learned real quick that not all women are easy targets. And they had chosen the wrong one.

Growing up, I had a stepfather who thought the same way. He’d felt entitled to my body. For years, I didn’t think I had a choice but to endure it. I figured it out eventually. I left, picked up shooting and martial arts, and swore no man would ever make me feel powerless again. 

Ever. 

Period.

The door creaked open, and the first thing I saw was the barrel of a gun.

I gripped mine tighter, both hands steady on the weapon.

My instructor once told me, “Squeeze the gun as tightly as you can. That’s how you control it. I’ve never seen anyone break a gun, but if you’re the first, I’ll gladly replace it.”

Well, I wasn’t the first. And I had made some embarrassing mistakes with guns—like the time I tried to clean my 9mm and thought I’d broken it because I got the slide stuck. I ended up watching a dozen YouTube videos just to figure out how to fix it.

Lesson learned. And I never made that mistake again.

I pointed the gun at the man who entered the room. He hadn’t seen me yet.

“Get out,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as menacing as possible, though I’m sure it came off more like I was ordering pizza.

His blue eyes shot toward me, and he swung his large revolver to point at me in the same motion. Great. Just what I needed—another person with a gun. And a Sheriff’s uniform, no less. How ironic. A man in law enforcement who, very likely, couldn’t be trusted.

“We don’t want any trouble,” he said, holding up his hands.

Liar.

“Are you alone?”

“Get. Out.”

He looked confused for a moment, then holstered his gun and raised his hands in surrender.

“We aren’t gonna hurt you.”

I’ve heard that line before.

“Are you alone?” he asked again, like a broken record.

“Last chance,” I warned, aiming my gun squarely at his forehead. “Get out.”

That’s when two more men entered. One was carrying a crossbow, and the other had... a red backpack.

What. The. Hell?

I tilted my head at the younger guy with the baseball cap. He was maybe in his early twenties. He looked about as threatening as a kitten, but then again, appearances could be deceiving.

The other guy, though? He looked like a walking redneck stereotype, and he was aiming a crossbow directly at me. The thought of being impaled by that sharp metal arrowhead was enough to make my stomach do a backflip. 

New fear unlocked.

“Put it down, Daryl,” the sheriff guy said.

“Not ‘til she does,” came the deep, gravelly voice of the redneck. 

It sent a strange shiver down my spine.

No way. Get a hold of yourself, girl.

“Then I guess we have a problem,” I said, unfazed. “That’s not gonna happen, so you might as well turn around and get the hell out of here like I told you.”

“Daryl,” the sheriff warned, his tone calm.

Daryl glanced back at him, then slowly lowered his weapon. He gave me a glare that could’ve melted steel.

“We have a group,” the sheriff continued, “with women and children. If you’re alone, we’d be happy to have you.”

“I’m sure you would.” I shrugged, hoisting my bag over my shoulder while keeping my gun trained on them. “Look, let’s just forget this happened.” I used the gun to motion them away from the door, then returned it to the sheriff’s forehead. “I’ll leave, and you guys can… do whatever you’re gonna do.”

Let ‘er go, Rick,” Daryl growled, his voice low.

Ooh… Get it together, girl.

“Wait… I know you,” the Asian kid said suddenly.

I stared at him. “What?”

"Yeah, the 40 West 12th building, right?” He squinted at me, clearly not sure if he was making the right connection.

The hell?

I pointed my gun at him, and he immediately raised his hands in defense.

“I’ve delivered to you before,” he clarified. “Pizza, mostly, but I also do grocery deliveries here and there.” He shrugged. “Well, did, anyway.” He gave a half-smile. “She tips really well, hard to forget that,” he said to his friends.

I lowered the gun slowly.

“How long’s your building been gone?”

I couldn’t decide whether this was some kind of trick or if he had genuinely recognized me. Was I obligated to him because I tipped well? Was he obligated to me for the pizza?

“Um… I think… it’s been a couple of weeks now,” I answered cautiously.

“You’ve been alone?” he asked, then saw the look I gave him and realized his mistake. “Sorry, I’m Glenn. This is Rick, and that’s Daryl.” He stepped forward slightly. “Look, we were alone too, until we found each other. Now we’ve got a group. Rick’s a sheriff, and his partner, Shane, is in the group too. Rick’s wife, Lori, and his kid, Carl. Daryl and his brother. We’ve got a couple of other families with us, too. We have a camp not far outside town…”

“Whoa, hold up,” Daryl cut him off, lifting his crossbow again, just slightly. “We don’ know if she can be trusted. Could be on ‘er way back to people that could…”

I rolled my eyes. “Do I look like I have a group waiting for me? Really? What kind of idiot would wander off alone if they had a freaking group?”

Daryl locked eyes with me, his glare so intense it almost made me want to look away. But I wasn’t backing down. Not this time.

“Like I said, you’re more than welcome to come back with us,” Rick said, looking at me with something like pity. “Our setup isn’t anything special, but we’ve got safety in numbers.”

“Ya sure that’s a good idea?” Daryl muttered.

I shot him a look that could freeze fire.

“Safety in numbers,” Rick repeated. “It’s getting late, we’re gonna finish clearing this building, and then…”

“There’s nothing else here,” I interrupted, lowering my gun but remaining on edge. “I’ve been through everything. The dead are mostly on the top two floors. The rest of the building’s been cleaned out. I found a couple of first aid kits, but there’s not much else.”

“Any food or…”

“Nothing substantial,” I answered, chewing the inside of my cheek as I did. My dentist would’ve had a field day. “I mean, I found some office snack-type stuff. Candy bars, granola bars. Instant coffee.”

“Well, that saves us some time,” Rick said, nodding.

“So, do you guys like… have an actual house or something?”

[noneatnonedotcom]

elaborating on the Highschool DXD/rwby idea me and weatherman came up with.

we're probably gonna have to start the story well before cannon, just because with the abilities of warlord jaune being natural to him I doubt he'd be an unknown for long.

so jaune's gonna be 12, along with most of the rwby cast living in America. ruby is 10

first up jaune, jaune arc is not at all related to joan of arc in fact his family has no heroic ancestry at least on a mythical level. his ancestors have been soldiers in the united states since the revolution. his powers quite literally come out of nowhere. when jaune realizes that he has spidersense and instant mastery of anyweapon he picks up as well as making the weapon glow white and gold and be way stronger he decides to become a superhero. unknowingly starting a one man war with the devils and fallen in North America. his family is not Christian and holds no gods instead the follow the ancient Celtic tradition that the cycle of reincarnation is an endless battle to prove honor and conquer everything you can before you die so you can do It all again in the next life.

ozpin: ozpin is a wizard who was obsessed with reincarnation and uncovering the mysteries of it. as a result of his experiments he made it that every time he died he would wake up in the body of a new born no memory lost, he does have to deal with growing up every time though. his current body is named oscar and while young his magical know how makes him pretty much the defacto leader of the American mystical defense league. he lives in Canada.

salem: an ancient princess who sought eternal youth, she succeeded and lives semi happily in the north American wilderness occasionally offering magical aid to those who find her. she's got a soft spot for romance as she grew up on ideals of courtly love. she's exceptionally knowledgeable but is enjoying her retirement from mystical bullshit.

summer rose: servent to salem she was the main protector of north America for a long time. she has a unique mutation that hinders magic connected to her silver eyes. intense emotions cause her eyes to flash removing all magic in her sight. with an enchanted axe she's quite capable of handling most threats in north America since the place is pretty dead magically speaking. easily able to take on low class devils and strays she worked with her team to take on the forces of darkness. her day job is a school teacher for a private school run by salem.

tai-yang xiao-long: a user of senjutsu his mastery is at a pretty low level, still more than enough to keep his friends safe his day job is a martial arts instructor.

qrow branwren: the scar qrow himself. qrow got a job working for the feds as he got older being sent out to investigate strange occurrences for the department of mystic investigation or the DMI as the only one who actually gets paid for looking into this bullshit his friends make him foot the bill for travel most of the time. he doesn't mind too much since he lives with tai and summer. taught by ozpin in his last life qrow's a pretty average mage. still more than enough to handle the threats he gets put up against. now if only he knew why those fallen assholes had such an interest in him.

raven branwren: currently working as muscle for whatever criminal will hire her raven is most well known for her enchanted katana that she stole and will never give back. it enhances her physical abilities and she's the main villain jaune faces as he tries to be a super hero. she's well aware she's not that strong in the grand scheme of things but she's got a talent for getting jaune riled up to fight and then leaving her enemies to deal with him, kid's too easy.

ruby rose: ten year old daughter of summer rose and inheritor of her eyes ruby was born with the sacred gear petal burst which being a dryad allows her to turn herself into rose petals and move at extremely high speeds. she prefers her magic shooting laser gun. but she can summon a rose themed scythe when in melee combat. she doesn't need to make it a scythe but she's a little edge lord.

weiss schnee: daughter of a wealthy buisness magnate weiss was obsessed with the occult secretly she wants to be a magical girl. her studies allowed her to buy a magical rapier that increased her abilities in combat. she's also a pretty good hand at magic though she'll need to be better to fight the forces of evil with love! she is also from the great white north.

blake belladona: nekomata who's parents are first generation immigrants to the united states, they came here for work and fell in love with the country. blake is a huge weeb and wants to be a ninja. she's currently studying senjutsu to better aid that goal. she will go out of her way to make mysterious entrances and exits. she has a ninjato her parents got for her that has been mystically enchanted to be able to cut anything.

yang xiao-long: daughter of tai-yang she also studies senjutsu but has a much greater talent for it. already well on her way to mastery she also has a sacred gear. burning vengeance is a dragon based sacred gear that absorbs kinetic energy and redistributes it. in time yang will learn to power it via her own punches as well as direct kinetic energy in such a way that she's practically invincible. but for now she's only just discovered it. it appears as a pair of gauntlets and grants her more power based on how hard she is hit.

pyrrha nikos: descendant of Achilles pyrrha was told from a young age she was destined for greatness. growing without pear she thought her only option was to be picked up by some faction of the supernatural and that would be it, instead she met jaune and for once fought someone just as talented. this lit a fire in her that hasn't gone out since she will find out just who this "huntsman" really is and she will have him join her. together they shall forge their own destiny.

she holds the spear and sheild of her ancestor. Diatrekhōn Astēr Lonkhē: Straightforward is sometimes the best way to go. Rather than rely on special capabilities that form the core of a fighting style, the best course of action is to have a reliable weapon that enhances what you can do even without it. The spear of Achilles does just that. A very well made weapon, with a sharp and sturdy design, with high capability for use as a spear and a throwing javelin. It has two magical abilities. The first is that the wounds created by the spear cannot be healed without very powerful magic, so long as the spear exists. the wounds this weapon makes become part of the normal state of any victim.

The second ability is to create a bounded field for dueling. A battleground is created where it becomes impossible for gods, outside help or luck of any kind to interfere in the battle between the two combatants. This created battleground is a separate dimension, divided in space and time from the outside world, ensuring any duel lasts just a brief moment to outside view. The duel rules are decided on by both combatants together, but enforced fully on agreement, and the battleground can only be summoned provided both agree with full knowledge of the details of this ability. Only once one of the two are defeated can the field be escaped.

Akhilleus Kosmos: "The shield made for Achilles by the god Hephaestus. Engraved with a detailed depiction of the Greek world, the shield, beyond being an effective indestructible object, is able to project a immensely powerful bounded field in response to any attack. the bounded field acts as if all of Greece was between the attacker and you when activated. Should an attack be incapable of piercing both through such a magical dimensional construct and lack the power to tear through an entire country, it will fail to reach you. However, not only does the shield’s bounded field cost energy to activate and maintain, it will prove far less capable against any attack particularly capable against ‘worlds’ or dimensional constructs like this."

nora: daughter of thor, nora was supposed to be at home learning to fight, she instead stole her father's chariot and went to America to see what kind of trouble she could get into. as a demi-god she's quite strong and can control holy lightning. she's the equal of pyrrha physically though because she likes to skip out on training she's not quite as skilled. she uses a hammer as large as she is. it's enchanted not to break under her strength but that's it. and that's all she needs.

her dad wishes she would stay put, he misses hanging out with his darling baby girl and making massive thunderstorms together.

Ren: son of a chinese sword master ren has been on the path of physical cultivation for as long as he can remember. meditating daily to put more and more energy from his senjutsu into his body strengthening it. as he father says muscles, unlike women, will never betray you.

after all technique requires a specific stance or situation to be useful, muscles will always be ready. he's been friends with jaune since they were little but only recently has jaune discovered his abilities.

ren's sword storm flower is a gift given to him by nora made in a Chinese style it is capable of cultivating with him being infused with just as much senjutsu as he is.

first arc: let's be heroes! jaune uncovers his powers and decides to be a superhero not knowing about the supernatural world. he ends up picking fights with devils who own his territory and between them and the criminals he has his hands full. he tends to just use whatever is on hand if it's a surprise attack but when he's going out in his costume (a pumpkin Pete hoodie with a mask he can pull up) he takes his baseball bat with him. while doing his hero thing he meets all sorts of people that he will later team up with and also starts to get the attention of various magical factions. second arc: this is mine now! jaune is able to weild a piece of the hold sword Excalibur. more than that he's now on the hunt for all the pieces the only saving grace is that he has school so his travels are only infrequent. ren pushes his cultivation further while helping his friend. and pyrrha creates her red huntress persona to try and get closer to jaune. nora joins in an becomes her side kick.

Weiss begins her decent ascension into being a magical girl. and knowing that the power of friendship is how to win brings ruby yang and blake with her. they mainly just beat up low level devils and mages but they have fun.

arc three: fake heroes! the hero faction tries to recruit our heroes will they succeed? and why are our heroes just mercilessly mocking the hero faction of the chaos brigade? isn't this just bullying?

not sure what to do for arcs past this leme know what you'd do

@weatherman667 @howlingday @heliosthegriffin

[shadeysprings]

YOU

—Art Collector!Steve Kemp x F!Reader

Summary — Your unexpected meeting with the famous art collector takes a dark turn when you learn the secret of his private collection.

Warnings — oral (female receiving), dismembered bodies, disrespect to the dead, entrapment, plots of killing, serial killer vibes, Steve being a calm psycho. There may be more I haven't mentioned but please read with caution.

Word Count — 5.4K

A/N — Story #1 for my FREAKtober Fest. The fic was heavily inspired by the movie itself and House of Wax. I'm happy to finally explore Steve's character in writing and I must say, I enjoyed every bit of it. The title was taken from the song You.

Gif by the amazing @steve-kemp

Shout out to @vellicore and @sgt-seabass for bouncing ideas with me and being my beta.

As always, your feedback is highly appreciated and your reblogs would be amazing. And of course, I hope y'all enjoy! ❤️

They didn’t come.

It was all you could think about as almost 2 hours had passed since your grad show started. Despite your parents’ — mostly your mom’s — disapproval of pursuing an arts program, you still invited them to the show. You hoped that if they saw what you were truly doing, they would understand your passion for paints and charcoal.

But it was a long shot, and you knew that. Though at least you tried…right?

You envy your classmates who carry bouquets while they present their artwork to their families and strangers alike. You were lucky enough to have a few come by your cubicle, delighted to explain the medium and process of your work. Some seemed genuinely intrigued while others, you can tell, only came by and endured your talk for the free stickers you offered at the end of your spiels.

Another hour passes by and you look up front when you hear an announcement being made by your instructor; a class photo. You’re reluctant to join, seeing no value in such a thing to be done as it’s obvious that once the day ends, they will be strangers once again. But another adamant call from your instructor has you heading to the front, a frown forming on your face when you’re pushed at the back, towered by your classmates—unseen once more. 

As parents and several others grab the opportunity to take a photo, your eyes suddenly divert back to your cubicle when you see someone looking over at your main art piece. You can’t put a pin on his face but you know you’ve seen him before. 

Once the group photo has ended, you immediately head back to your spot, catching the familiar stranger taking one of your stickers as well as a business card that sits beside it. It’s when you finally recognize him—and you’re in utter shock that he would be looking at your work. He finally notices you, a smile on his face as he holds out his hand. 

“Hi.” He begins, “I’m—”

“You’re Steve Kemp.” You finish for him, the confidence you suddenly displayed startling the both of you. But you push on when you see a smile of amusement on his face, taking his hand to shake. “You’re the famous art collector.” You wouldn’t have known it was him with how dressed down he looked with the corduroy jacket and navy jeans, but you’ve seen his face several times in art articles that you wouldn’t miss it.

“I wouldn’t say I’m famous.” He humbles himself but he lacks the conviction to make it believable. “I think I’m just skilled in finding pretty things—like this one.” He gestures towards your charcoal painting, the look of interest evident on his face. “What compelled you to incorporate a whale and an astronaut? What’s the story behind it?”

His question makes you smile. Maybe he is interested, you think to yourself and look towards your artwork before diving deep into your answer. 

“The artwork was inspired by the 52 Hertz Whale.” You begin. “Just to give you a little background; out of all the whale species, it’s the only one that makes a call with such a distinct pitch. Researchers had guessed that it could be a hybrid of two whale species but any attempts to search for the creature for further study have failed. Though some have been saying that it’s not a whale but an entirely different animal.

“Loneliness was the main theme of the piece—just like the whale, if it truly exists, it is alone in the vast sea; with no family to call its own and with it being different from the others, no one would listen or understand their cries. Akin to the lonely astronaut floating in the endless void of space. Though the flowers and the seagull represent hope and freedom—that one day, everything they thought to be true would change, that someone is there to listen and welcome them in their arms.”

You feel yourself shiver and your heart race as you end your interpretation. How the art piece truly mirrors your life and your cry for recognition from the people who truly matter. You try your best not to shed the tears that well in your eyes, presenting the collector with a smile and hoping he sees it as passion and confidence. 

But the look on his face startles you; there’s no judgment but you see a hint of amusement in his sapphire eyes. You think he’s about to say something, to comment on what you said, instead, he looks back at the artwork, seemingly appraising it. 

“How much?” The question stuns you. Did you hear correctly?

“I’m sorry?” 

“I want to buy your art piece.” He expounds. “How much are you selling it for?”

That’s the last thing you expected to be asked in a college grad show. Was he seriously wanting to purchase it? You try to answer, to tell him that you’re not really looking for buyers nor expecting to sell any of your work but no words come out of your mouth, still taken aback by his surprising inquiry.

“I don’t—” You stutter. “I’m not really—”

The chuckle he makes has you pulling on the cuffs of your oversized flannel, feeling slightly anxious at the thought that he’s making fun of your state of shock. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He says with a smile, one that you mimic if only to ease the tension building within you. “But I am serious. I do want to buy it.”

Still, you don’t know what to say. Do you just give him an amount and call it a day?

“Why don’t you sit on it? Let’s say two days and I can give you a call for your price.” He holds up your business card between two fingers, the smile on his face turning into a playful smirk. “What do you say?”

Under-dressed.

Not that it was a concern you realistically should have but the patrons of the bar made you feel as such with the men clad in suit jackets and the women, either in dresses or whatever you call the style of attire that was classier than your hoodie-jeans-sneakers combo. At least you brought a coat—that’s fancy enough, right?

You nurse your Bellini cocktail and thumb through your phone while waiting for Steve, popping your conversation thread with him every second or two just to assure yourself that he confirmed, or rather, planned the night of drinks to discuss your “Lonely Whale” piece as he coined it. It seemed odd at first but his determination was what compelled you to agree to meet him. 

The hiss of the straw fills your ears as you suck the last dregs of your drink. You shouldn’t have come early, you tell yourself, then you wouldn’t need to order another glass to accompany you on your wait. 

“Need a top-up?” A familiar voice from behind startles you and you look up to see Steve, decorated in a maroon wool sweater and that tantalizing smile he seems to always have. “I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic was bad coming here to this part of town.” He says as he takes a seat beside you in the booth. 

You scoot over to give him room, surprised that he didn’t take the one across from you. “Please, don’t be sorry. I wasn’t waiting long.” You assure him with a soft smile, tapping a finger on the rim of your glass. “The drink kept me company.”

“Are they any good?” He asks but he’s already called the attention of a server before you can even reply. He orders a Bloody Mary—quite peculiar, you think, but you’re not one to judge someone's preference. “And the lady will have another, please.” 

Silence envelops the both of you as you wait for the drinks to arrive, feeling shy and anxious when he rests his arm against the back of the booth and turns in his seat to face you. You’re not used to being seen yet here’s this man, well-known in the field you didn’t think to excel in giving you such unwarranted attention. 

“Uhmm, so I asked my instructor about the painting,” you begin as you try to break the ice, “and he said that—” but stop when he shakes his head and lets out a gentle laugh. 

You think he’s playing at your lack of knowledge of these types of transactions that it makes you second-guess your words. Maybe you should have come off more confident and prevented showing him an inkling of your cluelessness. But the smile he sends your way speaks of something different. There is no presence of ill-intent yet you still keep your guard up. 

“We can talk business later. I’d like to get to know the artist more first.” He says and for some reason, it could be how comfortable he seems to be around you, that you nod at his request, a soft smile forming on your lips. 

“Well, what do you want to know?”

Giggling. 

It’s been a while since you’ve done it but you guess after 4 glasses of the Bellini and a sip of his Bloody Mary, anyone would be in a lighter and more carefree mood. Just like how you are. 

The anxiety that filled you when you first walked into the bar seems non-existent with how well Steve carries a conversation. He listened to you complain and laughed at your sarcastic comments, throwing back another to keep the exchange alive. There was no dull moment to be recorded, only understanding when you shared the struggle of an art student living in a fast-paced environment. He’s probably the first person in your life who knows almost everything there is to know about you and even if he is a total stranger, he feels more familiar than any other. 

The night rolls by quicker than you’d hoped and the next thing you know you’re in his car, the alcohol messing with you as you begin belting out garbled lyrics to an Adele song. You’ve never felt so free and relaxed, and who would have thought you’d find it in someone who simply wants to buy your art project? 

You arrive shortly at your apartment building, a curious thought passing through your head as you don’t recall typing in your address in the GPS. But it goes just as quickly as it came when the passenger door is opened and Steve holds out a hand to help you out. 

He says your name, the syllables rolling like honey on his tongue and you don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the way the moon shines against his face, but you truly notice how his sapphire eyes glow brighter with how close he stands to you, his cologne permeating your senses and his warmth mixing with yours, keeping away the cold autumn breeze of the night that surrounds the both of you. 

“I had a lovely evening.” He breathes, allowing him to take your hand in his. “And I don’t want it to end just yet.”

And it doesn’t. 

You invite Steve into your apartment for coffee, something to help completely sober him up and drive home safe. But as soon as you close the door and toe off your shoes, his hands are on your face and his lips capture yours, a soft grunt escaping you when he presses you against the door. You’re too stunned to process that he’s kissing you, only finally realizing it when he breaks the kiss and looks at you with his eyes so blue. 

You think he’s about to speak, to apologize for his forwardness, but instead he smiles while his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek. You don’t understand what he sees in you to warrant such soft affection, or to even consider you as someone to kiss. 

He leans closer once more, this time you sense the apprehension in his movements and with the way his eyes linger on your face. You shut your brain off completely, not wanting reason and rationality to stop whatever force that was pulling you together. So you meet him halfway, hands resting against his chest when you press your lips against his, a moan escaping you as when you feel him pull you further into the kiss. 

To say he was a good kisser was an understatement with the way his wet muscle caressed your own and how his lips wrestle you into a passionate exchange. He chuckles when he bumps against a side table while walking backwards, blindly into the living room, hands pawing at each other, groping, touching, and you lift up his sweater as the desire to feel his skin blooms in your head. 

But he doesn’t give you that chance as you drop back onto your loveseat couch, Steve’s hands pushing up your hoodie to expose the tank top hidden within. His fingers tickle your skin, teasing, taunting, and in one swift move he pulls down the cups of your bra having your tits spill out from them. 

Mewls and moans are the only sounds that leave your lips, coherent words nonexistent with how his lips wrap around a mound, sucking, licking, and dampening the fabric to expose your stiff nipples which he gives his undivided attention to. You try to reach for him, to at least make sure that this is all real and not a dream, but his hands take yours, preventing you from even running your finger through his dark hair, the act only heightening your senses further. 

But his venture to your breasts eventually stops and you look down at him when he trails butterfly kisses against your stomach, hands releasing yours only to undo the button and fly of your jeans. The garment flies but your panties stay, and you swear you could almost combust just from the way he looks at you—his eyes swirling with hunger, eagerness, and desperation for a taste. 

Slowly, he trails kisses against your inner thighs, lips, and teeth meeting skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to feel. The nervousness swirls around you like twine, making your heart beat loudly against your chest as everything feels too new, too alien, despite this no longer being your first. But you’ve never encountered anyone as captivating as Steve and you feel as if he would run away once he sees you completely. 

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispers into the air, his warm breath grazing against your heated core. 

It’s only then you comprehend what he’s done, your panties pushed to the side to expose you completely before him and all at once you feel your body burn when he laves his tongue against your pussy lips, gentle at first, testing the waters which shift to intent as he pushes them apart with his fingers, your sacred bud caressed by his expert tongue. 

You whisper his name as he begins delving into your pussy, strong hands keeping your thighs apart and pushing them down against the couch with his groans of pleasure filling your ears and fueling your desire for him. You reach down to run your fingers through his hair which you end up grabbing as a gasp is pulled from your lungs when he begins to suck your clit. 

The room feels like it's spinning with the ecstasy that climbs higher within your body, your senses no longer feeling like your own as Steve pushes on with his pursuit, his mouth dancing beautifully against your clit, his fingers digging into the meat of your thigh. But he stops, and a small wave of panic arises in your chest. Though it washes away like footprints on the sand when he ventures lower, his thumb taking purchase of your clit, rolling and adding pressure while his mouth ventures lower, teasing your slit at first before slowly pushing inside. 

Oh, how your body sings. Your back arches from the coach and you call out his name, louder this time, turning into a moaning mess as his regard to your cunt never wavers. You then feel the dam filling up at the pit of your stomach and all you can do is buck your hips against his mouth, encouraging—no—pushing him to pull you over the edge. 

“Steve—” It’s all you manage to say, your breath catching in your throat. 

His actions then become erratic, as if he can feel you teetering towards your peak, pulling you more to his mouth and devouring you whole. Sloppy, wet sounds of his mouth echo from below your waist, Steve letting out a low and guttural growl which only sets you ablaze. His thumb pushes more onto your clit, the pressure digging into your pelvis and finally having the dam at the pit of your abdomen burst.

Your body shakes and you grab onto Steve as your pussy walls flutter from your release, choking a sob as your sweet essence flows out of you. His awaiting mouth then laps each and every drop you offer, the sensation making you shiver yet at the same time cocoons you in euphoric bliss. 

The alcohol in your system then appears, mixing with the pleasure that continues to loom around you, and your eyes begin to droop, a smile forming on your lips. Your limbs ache deliciously, cunt buzzing from the orgasm that has taken over. You feel tired all of a sudden but happy at the same time and you forget all, even Steve, as you’re ready to end the night with such a good note. 

But a tap on your thigh pulls you from the serene moment, startling slightly to see Steve looking down at you with a grin painted on his face. “Stay awake, Baby.” He says, his hand running up your side and grabbing the hem of your hoodie. “I’m not yet done with you.”

Nervous.

It’s all you feel as you stand outside of Steve’s home—if you could even call it that. With the modern exterior and floor-to-ceiling windows of the one-story home, you’d think you’re about to enter a museum. But it’s only reasonable for him to have such a lavish abode; he is an art collector after all. 

“You okay?” You turn your head to the side to face him when he stands beside you, his warmth brushing against your skin as he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close.

“A bit—but more excited really.” You tell him, the giddiness of seeing his private collection dominating the restlessness you felt earlier. 

“Only the people who matter have seen it.” The smile he gives you is so contagious that you give one back and follow him inside his home.

After the night spent at your apartment, your life slowly revolved around Steve. Mornings begin and nights end with him and his attentiveness—one that you found more endearing than suffocating, as what some people you assume would say if they knew of your relationship. 

You don’t even know if you both have a relationship as neither of you discussed anything about labels, simply enjoying each other’s company. But you know that Steve has rooted himself deep in you, and you know that no matter how hard you try if anything comes that would sever you both, you’d have a hard time letting him go. Steve is the only one who has truly seen you and accepted you as you are.

A chill brushes your skin when you pass through the threshold of his home which has you pulling your knitted jacket more around your frame for warmth, and the first thing you see are the gallery lights mounted on the wall, with each one shining down on art pieces of different forms. The ones that stand by the door are wax figures of a woman’s pair of legs, one on each side. You look at it closely, the craftsmanship so intricate that you’d think it was real. The ones that come after it are different sets of arms and hands of women, again, each one posed differently and elegantly, as if welcoming you further down the hall.

It gives you pause with how unusual of a collection it is—women’s body parts—but you suppose that the world of art is filled with oddities. There was even one you heard who collects glass eyeballs, not caring if it was worn or not.

What greets you next are several paintings—if you can even call it as such—that litter the wall just the same, though you’ve never seen anything like it; one is of a canvas that houses different strands of hair that form into waves. You’re in awe with how they mimic the raging seas and how detailed and time consuming it must have been to complete. There’s even an image of a boat topped over it, as you inspect closely, you assume is made of leather. 

There’s another like it, though this seemed more like a showcase of all types of tresses, spaced out perfectly in rows of five. Each one portrayed a distinct person, with colors ranging from blonde to black and textures from curly to the straightest you’ve seen. The urge to touch it grows strong, wanting to check if they’re real or not.

“They’re real,” Steve answers your unspoken question, and you turn back to face him, feeling shy all of a sudden when you see him staring at you. “I call it live art.”

“You made this?”

“Oh, no.” He smiles as he nears the artwork, Steve’s hands tucked inside his pockets while he looks up at it. “I had it made. Though I did provide the materials—volunteers donated the hair.” His explanation has you thinking; you never knew people would donate something so personal for art. “I’m hoping to add more to the collection—a prized one that can be my center of attention.” He says and you catch him looking at you from your periphery. 

“What kind of prized piece?” You ask, curiosity nipping at the back of your head. 

“Something I could never get tired of looking at.” The smile he gives you sends a chill up your spine but your mind flows out into a daze when he steps forward and takes your face between his hands, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. “Like you.” He whispers and you can’t help but feel your face heat up with how beautiful he makes you feel. 

“Come on. There’s more in the living room and I wanted to show you where I would place your painting.” He says, giving you one last kiss before taking your hand and leading further inside. But you don’t miss the piece that sits just at the end of the hall; a torso of a woman, the composition almost similar to Alexndros’ Venus de Milo, except this one was missing its head. 

The living room is a sunken living room and it’s just as exquisite as the front of the house with paintings and figurines scattered in an organized fashion. Two couches sit on either side of a low table with a small cart that holds an array of spirits. You look around, mesmerized at the beauty he keeps within but stop when you notice a small greek style column sitting in the corner of the room. 

“What’s that?” You ask, pointing at the unusual fixture. 

“That’s just a chair a friend of mine made.” He responds while pouring the both of you some drinks. “It’s pretty cozy even if it’s made out of stone. Why don’t you try it out? Pretend you’re an art piece.” He urges and the giddiness you feel allows you to humor him. 

Soft jazz music then begins to play as you run your hand against the top, having a feel of the material before you take a seat, grabbing onto the sides to properly set yourself on top of it. The smile you catch on Steve’s face is wide as he approaches you and hands you your drink, his hand reaching up to caress your face. 

“You look perfect on it.” He sips on his drink and so do you. 

You can’t help but look at his eyes, how soft they look yet full of amidst the muted lighting that surrounds the both of you. You feel his hands continue to linger on your skin, resting gently on your shoulder with his thumb caressing the expanse of your neck. 

“Dance with me.” 

It’s all he says and you don’t have time to respond when he takes the glass from your grasp, setting both of them on the shelf that stands nearby and he reaches for you, his hands taking yours and placing them over his shoulders while his own finds purchase around your waist.

It feels like you’re walking on clouds with how he sways the both of you, his movements in sync with the music that fills the air. He holds you close, feeling his fingers drumming lightly on your back and how your feet follow him aimlessly, blindly with each step he makes. You’re suddenly aware of the intimacy that slowly winds the both of you, much different from the times he’s slept on your bed, and you feel shy, eyes casting down to stare at the edge of his navy turtleneck.

“Don’t hide from me, Baby,” He breathes softly, tilting your head back when he pinches your chin and feeling the warmth of his breath ghost against your lips. “I want to see you.”

Giddy.

It’s the only feeling you describe as soon as you wake up, your body sore but in a good way and the sheets atop the mattress warm, not just because of you but from the man that sleeps soundly at your side. You turn to face Steve and examine his face, his beautiful pointed nose and his dark hair askew from the pillow underneath his head. 

You couldn’t believe your luck that someone like him would find interest in someone like you. You must have done something good in your previous life to feel such happiness that the neglect and disapproval you once received from the people you expected to love you is being provided by someone you’ve barely known for a week. 

Good things come to an end, you hear the pessimist in you say but you push it down, deep down where you cannot hear its cry. You’re going to enjoy this, whatever this is, and if time comes that it should indeed come to a stop—well, you’ll cross the bridge when you get there. 

You move to cuddle closer to Steve, wanting to feel more of his warmth but it’s interrupted by your need for relief that you settle on placing a kiss on his forehead before turning to leave the bed and find the restroom.

Washing your hands when you finish, you find a robe hanging at the back of the door and boldly take it, putting it around you to shield you from the cold that continues to circulate within the house and venture back to his room—back to Steve’s arms. Except the lone light that shines in the darkness catches your eyes and you glance towards the bedroom. You don’t want to be caught snooping but the call of the void is too strong for you to ignore. 

Silently, you pad down the hall and find yourself face to face with a staircase that leads to a closed door. Must be the basement, you think to yourself, taking one step at a time, you descend to your destination. You hesitate to hold the knob, not wanting to spoil your welcome but you soldier on, pushing through the barrier. 

A row of yellow muted light illuminates the entryway, and you see nothing but several black barrels neatly pushed against the wall and a few scrubs hanging from mounted hooks. You thought you would see more artwork but are left disappointed, deciding to turn back but the white light at the end of the room stops you, curiosity once more taking over your senses.

Fear then grips you tight when you step into the light, hands flying to your mouth and a gasp unwillingly escaping you when you see a woman laid down on a metal table with her lower half missing and her head free of her scalp. What hangs on the wall makes your stomach turn even further, body parts—arms, legs and a severed head coated in something you can only assume to be wax.

You run. Your heart beats hard against your chest as you make it back again to the door and close it as quietly as you can, not wanting to awaken your host—a monster you never thought him to be. Carefully, though quickly, you climb the steps and the only thing you could think of is to leave and run as far as you can where he cannot find you. 

Relief slowly washes over you when you get to the last step. Now all you have to do is go—call the authorities and—your thoughts take a dive when you feel someone grab you by the waist, trapping your arms along with it and a hand covering over your mouth as well as your nose.

“Where were you, Baby?” Steve’s calm voice forms from behind and your panic only rises further. You struggle against his hold, flailing as much as you can for him to let you go but he’s too strong and you feel the tears spill from your eyes as you think that this is the end. He’s caught you. You’re going to die. 

“You never should have seen that.” He simply says and you grunt when a stabbing pain forms on your neck, a cool sensation flowing through your veins. 

It’s then that he lets you go, your hand flying to where you felt the sting before turning to look at him. What did he do to you? You notice the syringe in his hand. Is it poison? Your vision almost instantly goes blurry, your limbs heavy and you drop to the floor, eyes cast to the ceiling as you try to make out your current state. The last thing you see is Steve, a sinister smile on his face and incoherent words coming from his lips before everything goes dark. 

You’re dead.

It’s the first thing that comes to your mind when you come to. Everything slowly comes into clarity; the room you’re in is somewhere you’ve not been and the cool metal you feel around your ankle only solidifies the fact that he’s successfully trapped you in the hell he dwells in.

A door opens and closes and you curl up small on the bed you lay in to hide yourself from him. You’re crying once again a multitude of emotions surge from within—is it fear? Hopelessness? Anger? Towards him for lying to you or to yourself for believing him. 

“I never wanted you to find out this way.” He sighs. “I never wanted you to find out at all.”

“Are you going to kill me?” You can’t help but ask, even though you know what the answer is.

“Not yet.” His calm in his voice brings a chill to your spine. “Despite what you believe, I meant what I said; you matter to—”

“Stop lying to me!” You shout and sit up from the bed, grabbing the pillow on the bed and throwing it at him. “Why are you doing this?! What did I do to deserve this?! Why me?!” You shout, the anger that was settling in your bones turns into a raging fire. You go to lunge for him, wanting to rip his skin with your bare hands but the cuff on your foot stops you, making you fall to the ground in front of him. 

He tuts and you see his leather shoes in front of you. A groan then leaves your tongue when he grabs you by your face, your hand taking hold of his wrist as you try to pull away from him. But he only pinches tighter, making you shout in pain that fades all too quickly when he shakes you and makes you face him dead in the eyes.

“The more you fight, the harder it’ll be.” He snips. “I enjoy you a lot—don’t make me kill you so soon.”

“Just fucking do it!” You spit. “Do it! Kill me now!”

The laugh he gives you is menacing. He shakes his head, his other hand moving to run his finger on the side of your face. You see the darkness swirling around the sapphires of his eyes and you question yourself why, for the many times he’s stared at you, you’ve never seen it before. 

“Soon.” He promises. “For now, I’ll keep you. I don’t mind that column being empty just a little longer.”

[yellowjackets96]

the way you do the things you do / angus tully x reader — part one

summary / chaos is only natural when barton's resident misfit strikes up a bond with the middle child of the school's most despised instructor.

warnings / none

word count / 1,300+

hii! this one goes out to the very wise anon who suggested a plot revolving around angus and mr. hunham's kid, which, i must say, is an utterly brilliant concept. however, it turned out to be a lot longer than just a mere one-shot like my first one had been, so it'll probably end up being two or three parts. i hope that's okay, lovely anon. thank you for sharing your brilliance with me!

Moreso than anything else, the relationship between the two of you started as an agreement. Well, an unspoken one, but an agreement nonetheless. Somebody had to look out for the two of you, on equal footing as outliers, as social rejects, as the odd men out. No one could be better for that role than you yourselves. 

To your utter dismay, ever since your parents made the decision to ship you off to Barton Academy in order to get you “the best education available” for high school (which was made possible by your father’s half-off tuition staff discount), you found yourself under a level of scrutiny that you never once faced at your old public junior high. It was not your intention to be perceived as the offspring of the most hated man there, either, but word travels quicker than a deer crossing the road at Barton. A concept introduced to the dean on a Sunday morning ends up widely-understood knowledge by a Monday evening. You’d already been written off as the ‘spawn of Satan’ before you even started your first class. Tough fuckin’ luck.

On the other hand, Angus’s isolation was entirely self-imposed. Following several years of what his mother had promised would be a “short-lived maintenance phase,” he became fed up with the entire process — the constant shifting and forced socialization and paperwork and meetings with headmasters. Lather, rinse, repeat, over and over until he felt utterly insane. He grew to resist society’s forced conditioning of him, lashing out the only way he knew how, through acts of adolescent rebellion. Due to how much you contrast from your stickler father, you eventually saw eye to eye with Angus on this. Once you had finally worn him down to the point of dragging a tragic backstory out of him, you understood why, because, of course no teenager could possibly be interested in the art of befriending their peers and engrossing themselves in a community at their third consecutive school. 

But it didn’t start off too swimmingly.

He entered your life on the strangest day of the week, during the least-interesting possible time of year — a Thursday in late February. You learned of his arrival through the grapevine, mere hours before you first saw him. Perched at a seat towards the very corner of the dining hall, you had become increasingly intrigued by the nearby nonstop chatter from a group populated by Georgie Jackson, Philip McNamara, Billy Wolfe, and Teddy Kountze, a rare sight in the seven o’clock breakfast setting, which was typically chock full of half-dead, completely exhausted teenagers.

“You wanna bet it’s gonna be another freak?” Teddy had grumbled, shaking his head dismissively at something optimistic Georgie must have said. “They’re half the school, at this point.”

He not-so-transparently nodded towards you, earning him in-sync laughs from the more agreeable Philip and Billy, and a halfhearted head shake from Georgie. “Christ, dude. And you wonder why we’re the only kids who tolerate you.”

Teddy threw his hands up defensively. “Hey, I’m just sayin’! We could benefit from someone actually cool and fun.”

“God, could you imagine how cool a girl would be?” Billy daydreamed, practically drooling.

The shaggy-haired blonde smirked. “You’re telling me. That’s all I wanted since I first enrolled here. Would be nice if old man Woodrup would do what the student body actually wants, for once.”

“Instead,” Philip piped up, wearing a dejected pouty frown. “I’m hearing this guy got kicked outta three different schools.”

Your curiosity piqued, you finally jumped in, against your better judgment. “What could possibly get a teenage boy tossed from not one, not two, but three schools? That sounds utterly ridiculous.”

The energy sufficiently changed as Teddy shot you a poisonous glare, you watched the trio of his small-time henchmen sink into their seats, seemingly anxious at how angry you were about to make him. His scrunched-up face twisted into a confident smirk, like he was one-thousand percent confident he could ensure you would never speak to him again. “What’s it to you, Walleye Jr.? You think I’d lie about some shit like that? Would you tell your daddy if I did?”

A scoff escaping your throat, you leaned back into your seat, slightly dejected. “Well, no, but-”

“That’s what I thought,” Teddy said, his lackeys chuckling in unison, practically on cue. “And you wonder why you don’t have any friends, loser.”

Just like that, enforced unnecessary social hierarchy had left you right back where you were before, with more questions than you could ever get proper answers for.

Once lunch period rolled around, you figured you may as well not try your luck again. 

Wrapping a gentle fist against the surface of your father’s door, you barely had to stand by for more than a few moments before he greeted you, the smile that he saved for you and the rest of your family plastered across his cheeks as he slung an arm across your shoulder, pulling you into a casual hug. Due to the academy’s policy of teacher’s children not being allowed to take their parent’s classes to avoid favoritism, you no longer spent time with him every day as you typically did with your mother back home. The reunion was definitely something you had been yearning for since you last saw him, even though it must have been no less than a week ago last Sunday. For the first time in far too long, something at Barton brought joy back to you. 

“How have you been, sweetheart?” your father asked, his reading glasses bouncing slightly on the bridge of his nose as he sat back down at his desk. He pointed to the chair on the other end of it, offering it to you. You gladly accepted, tugging the seat out and sliding into it.

You shrugged at the question, trying not to pay Kountze and his gang of blockheads too much mind. “Fine. Haven’t really done anything too notable or special.”

“Well, hey,” he offered, sliding a sheet labeled roll call across the desk to you. “Maybe this’ll brighten your spirits, despite how much the prospect of it annoys me.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, you instantly know what he was referring to, your eyes catching on the highlighted name sandwiched between Neil Sweeney and Todd Wedderling, bearing an emboldened word next to it — Angus Tully (NEW). And then, like it were on cue, the door behind the two of you swung open, revealing the sight of an instantly-enrapturing bearer of deeply brown eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Tully,” your father remarked, rising from the desk to greet him. “What a coincidence. I was just introducing them to you.”

Angus snorted. “All good things, I hope.”

“You’ve yet to prove us otherwise,” the older man quipped, before quickly turning toward you. “This is my middle child, the one Dr. Woodrup told you about. They’re a sophomore like you, so even though you won’t be in my class together, I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Picking up on the hint, you offer the other teenager a hand, which he casually shakes. “Pleasure to meet you, Angus.”

The brunette offered a crooked half-smile, enough to draw one out of you, too. “Nice to meet you as well.” Everything about him seemed natural — the way he didn’t force his grin, the warmth of his palm, the distinct waviness of his mud-shaded curls. This school left you perpetually surrounded by well-off jackasses, standing where they were currently placed via generational wealth, rather than strength and perseverance, working off of their own merits as your father had. Not to say that Tully was dissimilar in that manner, but he just felt so distinctly different, like he was not even trying to cultivate a phony persona in the effort of impressing others. If only everyone were like him. Maybe Barton would be bearable after all.

[crookedmadcrown]

Ever After High’s New Staff

Some old and familiar faces have been employed at Ever After High to help in the transition from the war. Though some of these teachers may have their own agenda for the school.

Headmistress Snow White

As many fairy tale characters do, Apple White gave up her old name and became Snow White once her story ended.

She was made headmistress of Ever After High when Milton Grimm could no longer perform his duties due to the stress of the war. He still makes appearances at important events.

Snow White also has been given ownership of the Storybook of Legacy and is keeping it safely secured under lock and key.

Headmistress White wants to ensure that their fairy tales continue and has gone to great lengths to ensure that another “silly rebellion” does not take place.

She was surprised to learn Ashlynn had a daughter, when she saw what rugged and harsh state she was in, she just knew the young Ella needed guidance to get back on the path of good.

Is very protective (cough controlling cough) of her daughter, only permitting classes that would help guide her in her role as the next Snow White.

Cedar Wood

Cedar is the Arts and Crafts teacher at Ever After High.

She allows her students to explore and express themselves in fun ways.

Is no longer wooden, having completed her tale before joining the rebellion. Just don’t put her in the wood workshop room, she still has trauma from being wooden.

Cedar is no longer under a truth spell, she is carrying some secrets that she is not willing to spill yet.

Faybelle Thorn

Teaches not only General and Advanced Villainy.

Was offered the position after completing her destiny

At first she said yes because she was bored, but now she's actually invested in creating the next generation of villainy and wickedness.

She still visits Briar even in eternal slumber and tells her about her day.

Holly O’Hair

Teaches both Princessology and Creative Storytelling.

Wrote a best selling book series while in her tower then got it published.

Holly encourages creativity in her classroom and for her students to think outside the fairy tale box.

There is a rumor think that she might have secretly been a rebel, but that would be ridiculous! She was in her tower the whole time during the whole war!

Duchess Swan

Serves as the Dance Class-ic instructor but also the faculty advisor for the more royal students.

Due to the war, her curse hadn’t fully set in, so she still remained human and was able to lead her kingdom.

A stern and harsh teacher who only hexpects only the best from her students, even her own daughter is not exempt from her constant critics.

She gets anxious whenever feathers begin to appear on her body and plucks them from her skin.

Might be in a secret relationship with the Muse-ic teacher, they appear very familiar with each other.

Sparrow Hood

The Muse-ic teacher who claims to only be teaching because he made a deal to trade his prison cell for a classroom.

He doesn’t appreciate pick pockets in his class though he does encourage them to try a little harder next time so they don’t get caught.

Will go on and on and on about his glory days as a rock star if someone asks.

Seems to have a soft spot for Regalia Swan, daughter of Duchess Swan, but that’s only because he and Duchess were such good friends and she’s her daughter…right?

Madeline Hatter

Owner of the Wonderland Haberdashry and Tea Shoppe in the village of Book’s End.

Teaches Chemythstry on her off days at Ever After High.

Is actually Lilith’s godmother and attempted to get custody of ‘Little Lily’ (as the Hatter calls her much to the young Queen’s mortification). She was unsuccessful but still keeps her eye on the young Queen.

She may seem her mad and Wonderlandiful self, but she’s grieving her BFFA just as much as everyone else in the Rebellion.

The only one who calls Headmistress White, Apple. (“You’re not a Snow, you’re an Apple and you’ll always be one!”). No one knows if this is meant to piss her off or she's actually being genuine.

Don’t ask her about Wonderland, she’ll change the subject every time.

Giles Grimm

Still waiting, still watching, still cursed with Riddilish.