#i don't want to get my hopes up. but also i very much do

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐛 & 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜

prequel to juno

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: someone asked about this and honestly thank you so much for doing that, i love the idea and have been obsessing over it for weeks now. hope this does the first part justice (also i couldn’t figure out which filter i used on the first fic’s header and now this one pisses me off bc it looks different 😔)

also, i’m totally in love with this dynamic. i might keep writing oneshots about these two specifically because damn 😭 i can’t let them go

summary: college!au, fuckboy!nat and reader trying to get her to commit

warnings: smut, tipsy sex, implied dubcon (very brief, not between reader and nat), exhibitionism, unprotected sex, cheating but not really, vomiting (mentioned)—not sure if there’s anything else, but lmk if you find something so i can add it

word count: 18.5k (ik it’s long and i apologize for that but i promise it’s worth it if i may say so myself)

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

The basketball hits you in the back of your head.

It's not the most painful thing to ever happen to you, but the impact is enough to make you stumble. A dull ache shoots through your skull and you turn around, glaring at whoever the offender is.

Red hair, basketball jersey, hands lifted in silent apology before you can even say anything. Natasha's been walking behind you for about five minutes now and, unbeknownst to you, she's been staring a little too much. Staring hard.

Short white skirt, baby pink lacy top, high heels — it's enough to make her lose her train of thought. Paired with the sun framing your body, the sight is lethal.

It's also enough to make her forget about Clint. Once he'd realized she's staring, he knocked the ball out of her hands and sent it flying.

All she wanted to do was check out whoever's walking in front of her. Suddenly, she has to deal with an angry, no less gorgeous girl staring her down.

Her thoughts falter. Her witty self is gone. All that remains is a mushy brain and the urge to somehow turn things around.

"Say something", you demand, rubbing the sore spot on the back of your head.

"...His fault, not mine."

You tilt your head, briefly glancing at her jersey. Natasha Romanoff — you know her. Not intimately, just in passing. You exchanged names once, during Welcome Week. You’ve seen her in bars, been to some of her basketball games. Usually, she's tangled up with some other girl.

Natasha picks up the ball again. She holds it out to you, almost like a peace offering. Your lips twitch and you lower your hand from your head.

"You ever play?", she asks.

You snort. "I don't think my high heels are gym approved."

"High heels or not, I think you'd look pretty good on the court." She leans in, voice dropping to a murmur. "Or against the lockers. Pick your poison."

Next to her, Clint rolls his eyes. He's seen her do this way too many times before. Find a girl, flirt with her, take her home. Then, complain about a hangover and a phone that's getting blown up with messages and voicemails. All it leads to is another girl who got ghosted by Natasha Romanoff.

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. You're familiar enough with her reputation and, truthfully, you like to protect your peace. No need for more drama, right?

But the sweat glistens on her biceps — she must've finished basketball practice not too long ago. Loose strands of red hair curl in the moist heat. Green eyes twinkle. You look away, at the parking lot stretching out next to you. Painfully uninteresting, but you're trying to keep your thoughts from wandering into dangerous territory.

"You're going to the cafeteria?", you ask, finally glancing at her again. Pull yourself together.

"Mhm", she says, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with one hand. "You, too?"

"No." You tilt your head, smiling sweetly. You step back and lift your hand, waving. "Have fun!"

You turn and walk towards the main entrance, skirt swishing and heels clicking against the pavement.

All Natasha can do is stare, eyebrows raised. The basketball drops and rolls away, causing Clint to curse and chase after it, but she's still staring. Only when he returns and punches her arm does she turn around.

"What?"

"You’re not serious."

"Oh, come on. That was harmless."

"That?" He wheezes, tucking the ball under his arm. "With you, it's never harmless."

Natasha lets out a dismissive sound, but her eyes have tracked you again. She's used to girls falling into her lap, not them walking away without so much as glancing back at her.

Nothing about this is, or will be, harmless.

. . .

Natasha's not the type to spend her Fridays studying, but she has no choice. That is, if the prospect of studying includes running into someone who seems to be avoiding her.

The lighting inside the library is dim. Pages rustle, keyboards click, people murmur softly. It smells like old books and the coffee you brought along in your thermos.

On the table in front of you, you've got a real setup — laptop, books, some notes, a few pens. You're distracted, which is good. You don't notice the people entering the library, don't notice the students making a little too much noise. This way, you can study more efficiently.

You also don't notice when Natasha walks in, but she notices you. All it takes is one glance in your direction, and suddenly, she's on her way to your table.

She slides into the seat across from you and stretches out. Her legs bump into yours. When you look up, she grins faintly and crosses her arms behind her head.

"You lost?", you mumble, directing your attention toward the laptop in front of you again.

"I'm right where I want to be."

"Doubt that."

Natasha steals one of your pens and twirls it between her fingers. She stays quiet for a moment, watching you, taking you in. Oversized sweater, off-shoulder. Lacy bralette peeking out from underneath. Hair half-up, slightly messy, and a delicate necklace around your neck.

You look up and your eyes meet. You tilt your head.

"Looks like you're staying."

"Am I not allowed to?"

"As long as you left your basketball at home", you say, reaching for a marker, "it's fine."

"I told you that wasn't me", she points out, stealing the marker from you. She flicks off the cap and draws a crescent on one of your notes. You look up, eyebrows raised and lips pressed together to keep them from twitching. She shrugs. "Matches your necklace."

"I almost got a concussion", you say, grabbing the marker again. "And you were right behind me. So I'll assume it was you."

"That's odd", she says. "Girls usually don't get concussions when I'm behind them."

You scoff, tucking some hair behind your ear. Natasha hums and leans in, arms crossed on top of the table. Her eyes are a deeper green now, courtesy of the dimmer light inside the library, but they shimmer just as much.

You shake your head and shift in your chair, fingers tapping against the book in front of you. "You're here to study or piss me off?"

"A bit of both. Multitasking, you know." She tilts her chair slightly, balancing it on its back two legs, making herself comfortable.

You're still not sure what she wants from you, but you have your assumptions. You know who she is. Everyone does. Star athlete, newest captain of the university's basketball team, current record holder of hooking up with the most girls. At least that's what everyone says about her.

You're certain they have a point, though. You're witnessing it with your own eyes. Natasha Romanoff is a flirt, a fuckboy, and you're her latest victim.

"I'm here to study", you point out.

"I can see that."

"And you...?"

"Keeping you company."

"Who's saying I want company?"

Natasha shrugs. "You haven't made me leave yet."

You sigh, conceding, then lower your eyes again. You skim the vocabulary list of French in front of you. If you'd paid more attention last semester, you maybe wouldn't be struggling as much now.

Natasha leans in, glancing at the vocabulary as well. Se doucher, s'habiller, être d'accord — she glances at you, at the slightly bored look on your face, and taps your arm with a pen. You look at her.

"Ton français est déjà pas mal", she whispers, "mais j'aimerais bien entendre comment tu gémis dans cette langue."

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks before you can stop it.

There's no way she just asked you to moan in French.

"You're way too fucking bold for your own good."

"Yeah?" She hums, getting up from her chair. She walks around the table and you turn your head to keep her eyes on her, but suddenly, her mouth is right next to your ear. "I've found that it works."

You look up, slowly, until your eyes are boring into hers. Her mouth is inches away from yours, heat radiating from her plush lips. Then, your eyes dart lower. You stare at them.

She notices. Of course she does.

A smirk forms on her face. Small, barely noticeable, but irresistible. It convinces you that maybe two can play this game.

"Alors", you mumble, "fais-moi gémir."

Natasha pauses, surprise crossing her features. But then you're packing up — stacking books and papers, putting your laptop into your backpack — and she almost puts her hand on your arm.

"You were being serious?"

"Hm?" You look up, head tilted and glossy lips shimmering. You shake your head. "Oh, no. I'm going home."

"This is the second time you're doing this."

You sling the backpack over your shoulder and glance at her. "Pretty sure it's not the last time, either."

She shifts on her feet, jaw clenched and hands tucked into the pockets of her sweatpants. Before you can leave, she quickly steps in front of you.

"There's this party", she says. "Next week. Pietro's place. Perfect spot for you to reject me a third time."

"Pietro?", you ask, raising your eyebrows.

"One of the Maximoff twins."

"Right." You nod. "Sounds lame."

"It won't be", she insists. "Just...come by. Have a beer. Maybe you know a few French party tricks?"

You exhale, trying to stop yourself from smiling. It's a lost cause, though, and the way your face seems to soften gives Natasha whiplash.

"We'll see", you say, brushing past her. "Guess you'll just have to keep an eye out for me."

"Okay", she mumbles.

You pause, arms wrapped around the books you're holding to your chest. You look at her one last time, then you step out of the library.

. . .

A steep staircase and dim lighting don't pair well.

One hand sliding along the railing attached to the wall to keep yourself from falling, you're slowly making your way down the stairs and into the basement. As soon as you've stepped inside, the stench hits you.

Air thick with smoke, smelling like vodka and sweat. Weed and cheap perfumes, pizza and something not unlike the sourness of vomit. You scrunch up your nose and glance at your friends.

Everything is exactly how you expected it would be. Neon LED strips, worn couches, a dying potted plant in the corner. The bass from the speakers is rattling the walls. Someone's rolling a joint on the coffee table.

In your tiny corset top and silk skirt, you definitely feel a little out of place. Then, you spot her.

Grey hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, basketball shorts, a bottle of beer in her hand. She laughs at something Clint says, then tips back her head to take a sip. As she's moving her lips from the bottle's mouth, she quirks her eyes in your direction.

What comes next seems to be the longest hour of your life.

60 minutes of tiptoeing around each other, of glancing across the room, of trying to distract yourself. You're tense, you both are, you're tipsy, and every time you try to focus on something else it fails horribly — which is exactly why a game of 'spin the bottle' is both a blessing and a curse. Looking at the expression on Carol's face, though, you feel like Natasha may have meddled in this.

You gather on the couches. You sit on the armrest, one leg crossed over the other, and watch Natasha as she sits down on the floor right across from you.

The bottle spins a few times, but you barely pay any attention. That is, until it's your turn.

You spin the bottle. You watch it almost land on Natasha, but then it stops too soon. Before you know it, you're kissing one of Clint's friends.

You're tipsy enough to not care too much, but Natasha's lips form a thin line. She lifts her bottle to her mouth and takes a swig.

The game continues. More kisses, some resembling pecks and others turning into full make out-sessions.

Suddenly, it's your turn again. You spin the bottle, watch it closely — and it lands on Natasha.

First, there's a beat of silence. Someone whistles. Heart racing, you clear your throat and put aside your drink. You get up, approach her, and end up in her lap. Her hands come up to rest on your waist.

"Not rejecting me this time?", she murmurs, looking at your mouth. Your lipgloss has been tempting her all night.

"Third time's a charm", you reply, running your hands along her jaw and up into her hair. Silky red locks, smooth between your fingers.

Natasha exhales quietly. She leans in, closing the distance and pressing her lips to yours.

It's controlled at first. Nothing but a firm press of lips. Beer and weed, lipgloss and strawberries.

Bass that's making the floor thrum. Warm hands and plush lips. You feel her heat against you. Natasha, dazed and undone, pulls you closer until your body is flush with hers.

Her hands sneak higher, fingertips grazing the hem of your top. Your fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie. Your lips part, and so do hers, and her grip on your sides tightens.

Your thighs are snug around her middle. Her hands move lower, to the part beneath your ass, and grasp at the soft flesh there.

Suddenly, it's desperate. You're tipsy enough to be bold, so you deepen the kiss further and further. Natasha goes along with it, because why shouldn't she? — This is what's she's been wanting for weeks at this point.

At some point, you're forced to remember you aren't alone. You pull away, breathless and flushed, need growing inside your buzzing body. Natasha stares back at you, breathing heavily, her shorts uncomfortably tight. You see a muscle in her jaw tick.

Swollen lips tingle, kiss bitten and slick with her taste. Her fingers twitch against your sides, the suppressed urge to get up and drag you away apparent.

There's no need to say it out loud. You both know you're getting out of there, and you're doing it together.

You get off her lap and sit back down in your spot. She keeps looking at you, her knees tucked against her chest to hide the issue the kiss left her with.

You last five minutes. You shift, glance at her, let your eyes sweep over your friends. Having decided you're done waiting, you get up and disappear in the hallway. Natasha's eyes track you down, then she scrambles off the floor and shoves her beer into Clint's hands.

"Don't wait up", she says, already chasing after your retreating figure.

You glance over your shoulder as you're going up the stairs. Sure enough, Natasha's following close behind.

You start pushing open doors. Bathroom? Occupied. Living room? No way. Anyone could walk in on you.

One of the bedrooms is empty. Judging by the looks of it, it belongs to Pietro. Messy desk, unmade bed, empty bottles on the nightstand. At this point, though, you really don't care.

You hear the door close and turn around. A few seconds later, you're tangled up with her. Hands roam your body impatiently, lips move in sync with yours. You try to walk her backwards, maybe push her against the wall, but she hoists you up by your thighs and carries you to the bed.

You're too tipsy to consider whether this can end well, but you're also horny enough that you wouldn't worry even if you were sober.

Natasha is almost sober — two bottles of beer don't have much of an impact on her at this point —, but she doesn't care, either. You've been on her mind for weeks. You've been that dirty little fantasy she jerked off to, that one girl that somehow managed to catch her attention in a room full of others. This is something she needs.

She spins around and sits down with you in her lap. You pull away for a second, only to tug at her hoodie. She peels it off, revealing a fitted tank underneath. Muscles taut, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her hands reach for your corset top, fumbling with the stubborn fabric.

"Fucking- how do you get this off?"

"Try being less rough", you mumble, smiling, and use your finger to tip her chin up. You kiss her. Her tongue sweeps past your lips.

The corset top comes off, and Natasha moves you onto your back. She tugs down her shorts just enough to get what she wants.

All it takes is one look at her, and you instantly realize this will hurt. You knew she's big — you felt it sitting on her lap. But looking at her now, hard as a rock and flushed and pulsing, your tipsy brain starts to grasp that making her fit will be a challenge.

"You'll be fine", she promises, having noticed you staring. She rolls on a condom and crawls on top of you. Her lips meet yours and she guides herself into place.

You moan into her mouth. Her hips roll against yours, easing it into you inch by inch. It stretches you out. You're soaked, but getting her fully inside you still proves to be difficult.

She keeps her eyes glued to your face, watching every little reaction as she buries herself in your swollen cunt. Your thighs wrap around her waist, trembling, and she bottoms out.

"Doing so good", she pants. She pulls away to bury her face against your neck. She starts moving her hips, fucking her throbbing cock into you. You mewl and whine, manicured nails raking down her muscular back. "Wanted this for so long."

"Yeah?" You moan, nails digging into her skin. Your hips rock against hers. The bed shakes underneath you.

Gripping your waist tightly, she pulls out and thrusts back into you. It's enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

"Yeah", she grunts, placing open-mouthed kisses along your neck. "Wanted you so bad."

Your eyes flutter shut. You lift your hips, meeting each of her thrusts. The orgasm builds up, and you come around her cock.

In the morning, you're up first. Sunlight is filtering through the curtains, the air smells like sex and sweat.

You roll over and see Natasha, still asleep and one arm behind her head. The other is tucked under your body. Once the fog in your head has cleared up, you realize you've just added yourself to her list of disposable one night stands.

'Not that serious.' That's the words she says whenever she's questioned about her hookup habits. Now you're part of that, as well.

You sit up slightly and pause. When she stays asleep, you slip out from underneath the covers and pad through the room. You grab your skirt, your underwear, and put your clothes on.

"Y/N?", she mutters, rubbing her eyes. You look at her as you stand there, slipping your high heel on. "You leaving?"

"It's not that serious, right?", you say.

You grab your purse and Natasha leans on her elbow, studying you. In the early morning light, with your hair messy and your lipstick smudged, you look even more tempting. If she was different, she'd beg you to stay. She'd try to make more mornings like this one happen. Maybe she'd even see if there could be more than sex to this.

But that's not who she is, or at least that's what she tells herself. Still, she clears her throat and shrugs, almost awkwardly.

"Not staying for breakfast?"

"Not today", you say, hand on the doorknob. "See you around?"

"Sure", she mumbles. The door falls shut behind you. Any chance at getting you back into bed with her is gone — for now, at least.

Natasha exhales slowly and sinks into the mattress again. She stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched and one hand fisting the bedsheets. She doesn't know why she's so frustrated. You said it yourself: 'not that serious'. Nothing is ever serious with Natasha.

After a few minutes of silent sulking, she decides it's the lack of sleep that's got her acting like this.

. . .

Natasha doesn't chase.

She tells herself that multiple times — usually when you make fun of her for getting clingy, or soft. When she asks for your number, when she starts texting you late at night. When the hookups become more frequent.

It's still just sex, but something more begins to build. Friendship, affection. Something that feels like love but can't be — or that's what you both tell yourselves.

When you get a text one evening, you expect it to be another booty call. You've been hooking up for a while now, and not a day goes by where you don't see each other.

It's not an invitation to come have sex, though. You look at your phone and raise your eyebrows.

Natasha: please tell me you

know how to take

care of a kitten — 8.37 pm

Natasha: Y/N im

begging you — 8.38 pm

*image attached*

You: what the fuck — 8.40 pm

Natasha: COME OVER — 8.40 pm

The sight you get when walking into her dorm is ridiculous in the best way possible. Natasha — all muscles and basketball shorts — and a little kitten clawing at her hoodie.

It turns out that Natasha, leaving the court after practice, heard something meow pathetically. At first, she wanted to leave — it was pouring rain, and she was tired, and truthfully, she can't take in every stray she runs into.

Then, she saw the kitten. Tiny, partially hidden in a bush, its fur soaked. It meowed again.

She tried to walk away. A few minutes later, she was stuffing the tiny thing into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.

"Aw, so cute", you coo, sitting down next to her. "I guess the kitten's cute, too."

She shoots you a glare, but the effect is destroyed by the little feline trying to catch one of her drawstrings. "You could try helping."

"No fun in that." You reach for Natasha's hands and start adjusting them. That little bit of contact is enough to send heat into her cheeks. "It's still wet. You need to dry it."

"I tried! It bit me."

"Yes, yes", you mumble, grabbing a random towel and silently praying it isn't full of sweat or other gnarly bodily fluids. "It fits in your palm, but it's so scary."

"It has knives for hands."

You dry the kitten off together. Once that's done, you show her how to hold it. But then, it knocks.

"Randy here", someone calls. Your resident advisor.

"Wait, let me-"

"No!" Natasha, panicking, grabs the kitten. All you can do is stare, stunned, as she yanks down her hoodie to stuff it inside. The poor creature lets out a pitiful mew, and your eyes widen in horror.

"Natasha!", you hiss.

"Shut up!" She grips the front of her hoodie when the kitten meows again, as if she can physically will it into silence.

You give her a bewildered look. Then, you remember.

Randy hates cats for multiple reasons. Mild allergies, bad encounters when he was a kid, general lack of fondness toward other living beings. Pets aren't allowed in the dorms, either way — but he'll even shoo the strays away. He's awkward, but he's not a pushover. If he finds out about this, he'll rat you out.

Another knock. More impatient this time.

"Uh, guys? It's Randy! Open up?"

"A minute", you call back, smoothing down your hair. Natasha is wrestling with the kitten inside her hoodie. She winces when it buries its claws in her chest.

Cheeks flushed and expression somewhat schooled, you make it to the door and open it. Randy stares at you. Clearly, he expected someone else.

"You", he says.

"Me."

"This is Romanoff's dorm, though."

You step aside just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her. You glance over your shoulder as well. When you see her flushed face and the wiggling hoodie prison, you quickly block his view again.

"What do you need?"

Behind you, you hear a muffled mew.

"Just wanted to pop by", he says, looking over your shoulder again. You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, chin lifted in silent defiance.

"We're studying", you lie. "So please leave?"

Another mew. Natasha is fidgeting, trying to keep the kitten and her hoodie in place. She could swear she's never sweated this much in her entire life. Her fingers shake as she gently adjusts the kitten.

This is the first time everything between you begins to feel different. You're not sure what it is — the absurdity of hiding a kitten? The panicked looks she keeps shooting at you? Her softer side, so unlike what she's shown you so far? —, but you feel yourself slipping into a dangerous situation.

Falling in love with Natasha can't end well.

Randy frowns and shifts, his head tilting. You scoot to the side, silently cursing his nosiness.

"I got a test tomorrow, Randy."

"Yes, just-"

"No", you say firmly, heart thundering with a mix of anxiety and thrill. He sighs. "Whatever it is, just come by tomorrow. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."

He gives you one last skeptical look, then steps back. You shut the door and turn around only to see Natasha barely holding back laughter. She's still shaking, the kitten finally pushing its head through the neckline of her hoodie. A tiny paw presses against her collarbone and your stomach flips.

Not the cocky athlete. Not the shameless flirt. Just a girl in her dorm, a girl you're starting to like more and more, freaking out over a kitten.

You cross the room before you know it. Hands cupping her face, heart rabbiting with exhilaration, you lean in and kiss her deeply.

It's the first crack that appears in your just friends-facade.

. . .

Most people expect the casual stuff to be less complicated than actual relationships.

In many cases, that's true. In others, it absolutely isn't.

The emotional intimacy is there, but there's no commitment. Neither of you has the right to get jealous, but it happens anyway. There are expectations, but there are no labels. Either of you could walk out at any given moment.

It's thrilling. It's terrifying. It makes every hookup, every kiss, feel like something worth chasing.

Then, you fight. Usually, it's nothing serious, but it sucks anyway. It creates this odd push-and-pull, this combination of cursing each other out only to end up in bed together. It leads to jealousy plays and spikes of irritation, sleepless nights and desperate text messages resulting from being lonely and horny.

This time, it started when Natasha flirted with someone at a bar. You were there with a couple of friends, and when you turned around to order another cocktail, a girl had approached her. Suddenly, you caught her flirting shamelessly.

It wasn't what made you fly off the handle, though. The nudes in her phone, hours after you'd had sex in her dorm, were.

Not that serious, she said. We're just hooking up. Casual, you know. I wasn't even interested in her.

You kept yelling, anyway. She glared at you, but it wasn't too intimidating. You know she's scared of you, for some reason, so you kept bawling her out. The night ended with you blocking her.

Almost a week later, you're still ignoring her. You're pissed, and it'll stay like that until she apologizes, so you keep her number blocked and your bed empty.

Wanda is the one who drags you to a sorority party. Mainly because she likes one of the girls there, but also because she thinks you need to get out of your dorm and find a rebound. Plus, the theme is 'movie characters', and she can't miss that.

The word rebound makes you frown, though.

"It wouldn't be a rebound", you tell her. "We never dated. No wounds I need to distract myself from."

"Y/N, honey, that girl always leaves a wound."

Maybe she has a point. Trusting her judgment, you end up going to that party. You step into the room, and the first person who looks at you is none other than Natasha.

She sees your costume and forgets how to function. A green, short dress, shimmering wings on your back, makeup flawless. Ballet flats with pompons on the toes.

Tinkerbell. Short and sweet — very on point.

Her thoughts are a mess. No way. She did this on purpose. To ruin my night. What if I ruin her, instead?

Fuck, I need to sit down.

Her hand tightens around the beer bottle. Her jaw clenches as she grinds her molars.

But you? You're barely paying attention to her. You're smiling already, talking to Wanda about everything and anything — some concert, the kitten she took in — while Natasha is losing her mind. You're sipping drinks, chatting with people, laughing.

You step closer to some guy in a Joker-costume. He leans in, mumbling, and you giggle. He reaches out to tuck some hair behind your ear.

It's barely something, but Natasha feels like she's witnessing a war crime.

She downs one more shot, her brain fuzzy, and then gets up. You feel her hand on your back, pushing you away from the guy. You're too surprised to react properly.

"She's not interested", she snaps when he tries to stop her.

"Since when do you speak for me?"

"Shut up", she mutters, wrapping her arm around your waist.

You stare at her, frowning. Is she drunk?

Maybe. Not necessarily. She could be completely sober and still act like an idiot.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to talk to you tonight, you know."

"Sure", she grunts. "That's why you're dressed like this. To piss me off."

You stop and tear yourself away from her embrace. She pauses, blinking.

"Not everything I do is for you!", you snap. "And I'm tired of you acting like it is!"

"Then why are you dressed like that?", she barks.

You glare at her, your back against the wall. She's walked you into some hallway — secluded, dark, but close enough to the party so you can still hear the music. The ground is vibrating, shaking beneath Natasha's feet, and her head spins with a mixture of anger and want.

Your costume isn't helping. The short dress, the sparkling material, the smooth skin of your thighs. Now she's not only drunk and pissed, but can also feel herself harden and twitch in her camo pants.

"Are you kidding? I'm dressed like this because I look good!"

"Obviously", she retorts, stepping forward. The dog tag around her neck dangles in front of you, her alcohol-warm breath fanning your mouth. "You always do."

Her hand comes up to press against the wall beside your head. You look up at her, expression forcibly blank. She leans in closer, breathing heavily. Her lips almost touch yours, but you push your hand against her chest.

"You're drunk", you say.

"I'd want you even if I was sober."

"You don't get to say that", you hiss. "Not after what you did."

"And what did you do?", she says, fingers curling and fist pressing harder against the wall. "I saw you, you know. With that clown over there. What do you even want from him?"

You stare at her, both of you out of breath. Something about this situation is turning you on — how close she is, how she smells like that one cologne you love on her. How you're alone, bodies inches apart. How her hips twitch, and her eyes both search and avoid yours. How, despite it all, she's actually jealous.

"It's just casual, right?", you murmur.

Natasha furrows her eyebrows. Her lips curl into a faint smirk. "That's something you worry about?"

"No."

"Liar."

You shove her. She stumbles closer anyway, grabbing your face and kissing you.

Teeth clash, bodies intertwine against the wall. Your hands grasp at the material of her tank top. Your back hits the wall, again and again, and her hands move to fumble with your dress. She bunches it up around your hips, her fingers quickly finding the front of your lace panties. She groans when she feels how wet you are.

"Who'd you wear these for?", she pants against your neck.

Your hips buckle into her touch, chasing friction. She rubs against you through the thin fabric. You moan and Natasha sees stars.

"Fuck- fuck, Nat-"

"Stop talking", she gasps, pulling you into another kiss. Her fingers nudge past the fabric and slide against slick heat. She works you open, filling the hallway with quiet squelching sounds.

Her fingers fuck into you. You moan, back arching, and reach between you to fumble with the zipper of her pants. You yank the fabric down enough to let her cock spring free. Pink-tipped and veins throbbing, oozing precum.

Natasha's breathing stutters when she feels your hand around her cock. You stroke her, slowly at first, and her head drops against your shoulders. Her fingers are still inside of you, but the movements become more irregular.

"Shit", she whines, burying her face against your neck. You smear precum down her length, lubricating it. Her fingers curl inside you and you almost let go.

She pulls away and tears her pants down. Not willing to waste any time, she squeezes your thighs together and pushes her cock between them. She fucks herself with your plush thighs, the shaft just barely grazing your clit, precum making your skin slick.

Beads of sweat roll down her temple. You stare at her, equally lightheaded and mesmerized.

Finally, she hikes up your thigh and aligns herself with you. She thrusts in, deep, and both of you moan.

Wet, hot, tight. Natasha's losing her mind.

"Tinkerbell, huh?", she pants, snapping her hips forward.

"Yeah", you moan, meeting each of her thrusts. She laughs roughly, pressing her lips to your neck. "Bet you've never fucked a fairy before."

"Can't say I've had the pleasure." She grunts against your neck, then lifts her mouth to your ear. The coil in your stomach tightens. "Wanna cum inside you."

Not thinking straight, you nod frantically. You grab the chain around her neck, keeping her close. Her cock throbs hotly inside you, and your clit is so swollen that it hurts each time her skin rubs against it.

She couldn't stop if she wanted to. She's so deep, so close, chasing it, and your soft moans and whines aren't making it any easier for her, either. Hot spurts of cum shoot into you, your own orgasm milking out every drop as your walls tighten around her.

Natasha sags against you, spent. Her cock twitches inside of you, a white and sticky fluid dripping down your thighs, and you exhale shakily. The noises from the party — muffled music, voices, the bass — takes you back to reality. Back to the dark hallway, the fight, the fact you just had sex without even considering you could be walked in on.

You're sticky, overstimulated. Dizziness is setting in. The music thumps, but it's nothing compared to your pounding heart. Natasha breathes against your neck, her arms still keeping you trapped against the wall, and you finally push her away.

"You still need to apologize."

"I just made you come", she says.

"You really think that's a smart answer right now?"

"No, but-", she says, but you shove her off and the words die on her tongue. She frowns, opening her mouth again, but then it shuts when she sees her cum drip down your thighs. She stares, her half-erect cock twitching once more.

"Don't even think about it", you say, glaring and straighten your dress. "Apologize, or I'm leaving."

"There's nothing to apologize for", she says after a few seconds of silence. She pulls up her boxers and cargo pants and zips up again. "We're not official."

Just like that, you regret everything that happened in the past ten minutes. You regret ever getting to know the feeling of her finishing inside you, of ever thinking things could change. You regret thinking you could be the odd one out, the one who makes her change.

You don't say anything. You step back, using your hands to remove most of the cum sticking to your thighs, and walk away.

Natasha's heart races as she watches your figure disappear. She doesn't chase. And yet, she runs after you.

She catches your wrist just as you're about to leave the house. She spins you around and pulls you into her arms, kissing you.

You want to shove her away. You want to let this go. You should let it go.

An hour later, you unblock her number.

. . .

Popcorn, soda and a horror movie at a flashback cinema.

It was Natasha's idea. She was the one who came up with it, thinking it'd be nice to see you squirm. Maybe you'd clutch her arm, hide your face against her shoulder, make her feel needed. Though, she obviously couldn't tell you that.

You couldn't say no, even if a part of your brain kept telling you to. Two hours, spent in a dark room, hearts racing and bodies too close to ignore the heat burning between you.

You were right. It is dark, and intimate, and you notice her stretch and put her arm around your shoulders. You roll your eyes. Way too cliche.

Her breath fans your ear. Her thumb slips under the shoulder strap of your top. She teases the skin there, listening closely to see if you'll react in any way.

You don't. But then, her free hand pushes up the hem of your top to touch your stomach. Fingers travel higher, graze the lacy bra, and then dip underneath the fabric.

In front of you, you watch Krueger kill Glen. A Nightmare on Elm Street — a classic, one that'd probably leave you with at least a week worth of sleepless nights, but you're barely able to focus.

Natasha cups your breast. Her thumb rolls over the nipple, flicking it, tugging at it, until it's pebbled against her touch.

Then, you feel her mouth on your neck. Her tongue darts out and licks a stripe over your throat.

Your thighs press together in a hopeless attempt at keeping the wetness at bay, but it's no use. You shift in your seat, hoping no one will notice.

On-screen, it's a bloodbath. Between your legs, it's like a dam broke.

"Scared yet?", she mumbles, twisting and rolling the bud until it's raw and almost painfully sensitive.

"Watch the damn movie", you hiss through gritted teeth.

"I've watched it twice", she says dismissively.

You'd ask why she picked it. You don't have to, though. It's obvious — she did it so she could feel you up under the cover of darkness.

You don't fully understand why. You could do this in either of your dorms. You'd have more privacy, more time. You wouldn't risk being caught and getting banned from this cinema.

It's a nice cinema, though. The speakers are loud enough to cover up the moans that escape you.

Your hands grasp the armrests, nails digging into soft fabric. Natasha keeps trailing kisses all over your neck, wet and open-mouthed, and your hips shift desperately.

Fingers curl. You're trying to keep yourself from grabbing her stupid hand and pushing it between your legs yourself.

In the end, you don't have to do that. Her hand comes up from underneath your shirt again. You feel it inside your panties.

Your thighs spread just a little bit. Just enough to allow her fingers to gather wetness before thrusting into you. Your hips nearly jerk off the seat.

She thumbs your clit. Her fingers piston into you, setting a fast, relentless pace.

"Got plans for spring break?", she mumbles, like she isn't fucking you stupid inside a movie theater right now. Like her fingers aren't drenched with your slick. Like she isn't about to rip through her own sweatpants.

You almost laugh, but then her fingers curl just right. You whine, hand jerking and knocking over your popcorn. Natasha gives a breathless chuckle against your neck.

"Taking that as a 'no'", she muses, voice a whisper, and pulls out only to thrust back in. Your hips buckle. "How's Miami sound, baby?"

"Fuck."

"You a fan?", she mumbles. "All our friends are going. Tony said he'd get us a surprise."

Your vision blurs. Your lower belly tightens, heat shooting into it. The pleasure builds up, relentless and overwhelming, and your hips wiggle in the seat.

People are being murdered brutally on-screen. Blood, screams, booming speakers.

The real horror? She pulls out.

The emptiness hits you suddenly. You gasp quietly, feeling the pleasure shift into an aching, throbbing sensation. For a moment, you consider shoving your hand between your legs just to get it over with.

"I'll fucking kill you", you hiss, grabbing her slick hand. "Finish that."

"I'm not a fan of exhibitionism."

"Want to end up like that guy on the screen?"

She snorts quietly and sinks back into her seat, not making a move to help you out.

You shift, again and again, the movement giving you some much needed friction. But it's not nearly enough, and before you know it, your hand is pushing past your underwear.

Natasha watches, wide-eyed, as your hand starts to move. Something about it makes blood shoot into her lower half.

"Jesus Christ", she practically moans, her hand flying down to press against the bulge in her sweatpants.

She watches you squirm in your seat, soaking your own fingers because she left you desperate. Your hips roll up into your hand, chasing that high, and when it finally comes, the noises that escape you are enough to make thick ropes of milky cum shoot into Natasha's boxers.

She wasn't even touched properly. Watching you was enough.

The aftermath is a mess. Both of you wrecked, panting, her boxers drenched and your thighs sticky.

You feel her warm breath against your ear.

"So, Miami?"

. . .

The entire campus — no, the entire city — knows Tony Stark is extra.

Still, you don't expect him to pull up with an entire bus the day you're going to Miami for spring break.

"It's like The Magic School Bus", you say.

Natasha's got her arm around your shoulders. You're both leaning against the wall in front of your dorms, the early morning sun blinding you. You lift your hand to protect your eyes.

The people around you, groggy from waking up at 6am, are rubbing their faces. Oversized hoodies and disposable coffee cups galore, none of you too sure whether this is worth it. It feels more like a school trip than spring break.

"Would love to see him in a Mrs. Frizzle getup", she mumbles.

Clint, standing in front of you, snickers. He's got his arms around his girlfriend. You eye his outfit, which consists of a Hawaii shirt and khaki shorts, and are silently glad Natasha decided to go with something less obnoxious.

Steve grunts as he closes the luggage compartment. A total of 15 people are going to Miami, and he had to haul every suitcase and duffel bag into the bus.

"Done? Took you long enough", Tony says, arms crossed. He nods at the bus. "Come on."

"20 hours", Natasha mutters, walking into the bus with you. You find two seats in the middle and sit down. "I'm going to lose it."

"They're taking turns driving. You can literally sleep the whole way there. You'll be fine."

She grunts and plops into the space next to the window. You sit down and she pulls you closer, hand slipping under your top and resting on your stomach. Smooth, warm skin, her fingers drawing circles.

Your friends are staring. You know they are. It's not everyday that they see Natasha cozying up with someone like this.

A 20-hour bus ride is long enough already, but time really starts to drag when you're spending it next to the person you can never quite figure out.

Hour 1. You talk, quietly, and share earbuds.

Hour 2. Tony apparently managed to find one of the few buses nearby that have a/c. You shiver, Natasha notices, and suddenly, you're wearing her hoodie. You breathe in her scent.

Hour 4. Bored and tired, you both stretch out your legs and accidentally nudge each other. She doesn't pull back, it turns into a mindless little game of footsies, and your feet tangle.

Hour 5. You fall asleep. You didn't mean for that to happen — but she's warm against you, and her hoodie's soft, and a sip of the vodka she brought along knocked you right out.

Hour 7. You wake up, slowly, to find out the seat next to yours is empty.

"Where's Nat?", you ask sleepily.

"Taking a leak", Clint calls from the driver's seat. Wanda turns toward you, a knowing look on her face. You roll your eyes.

A minute later, she's back. She slides into the seat next to you, arm immediately resting over the backrests of the seats, and hands you a little flower. You twirl it between your fingers, studying it, and Natasha gets that dreaded warm feeling in her stomach again.

"Hope this didn't hurt your credit score."

"Be grateful."

"I am."

Her lips press against your cheek before she can stop herself. Everyone stares, and Natasha mutters something about you 'just having fun.' Her words sting.

Hour 9. Golden hour. The playlist is slower, the bus quieter. Her fingers tap an absentminded rhythm against your thigh.

Hour 14. Sleep-deprived and travel-weary, the idiocy is hitting you at full force.

Natasha pulls you into her lap, hands roaming your middle. You curl into her, grinning stupidly. She smiles against your neck and drags her lips higher up, kissing your earlobe. Her tongue darts out, just barely touching the shell of your ear. You laugh, and the others stir in their sleep.

You both freeze for a moment. When everyone stays quiet, she shifts you in her lap until her mouth can press against yours.

Hour 19. You're two hours away from your destination. You're way too honest and tired to keep the walls up. Hands intertwine, breaths mingle. You're sprawled out on the seats, squished together, but you don't mind.

"You ever think about leaving?"

"Leaving?", you murmur.

"Yeah. Just leaving. No plans, no destination. No...bullshit."

You're not sure why she's asking you, of all people.

Hour 21. You finally arrive at the hotel. You each have separate rooms, but it's 5am, and you're exhausted and needy, and Natasha ends up in your bed. Head on her chest, you fall asleep.

. . .

Just friends, you've told the others. Just having fun, you know.

Friends — but you're not kidding anyone.

You spent the first day in Miami sleeping. In your hotel room, on the balcony, and now, on the beach. You're on a lounger, a beach umbrella protecting you from the UV rays. Her face is planted between your boobs, her hand resting on your ass with her fingers under the fabric of your bikini.

You're not alone. Your friends are everywhere around you, either napping or suntanning, drinking cocktails or swimming. You're not sure whether this is what spring break is supposed to be like, but it's nice. Peaceful, slow, quiet.

Natasha grunts in her sleep, nodding her head to push her face further into the plush heat of your body. Your arms wrap around her head.

So much to do, so many things to see — yet it still feels like she'd rather be wrapped around you than anything else.

You see Tony return with a bag of food. Your hand trails down her spine, an attempt to gently coax her into wakefulness.

"What?", she mutters, fingers curling.

"Stark brought cheeseburgers."

"Don't care. Let me sleep."

"I'm hungry."

Natasha looks up, eyes bleary. You smile faintly when you notice the light sunburn on her cheeks.

"I want food", you add.

She stares at you, eyebrows furrowed. Then she sighs and sits up, raking one hand through her hair. It's curled at the ends from the saltwater, with little grains of sand in it. She gets up like going to grab you some food is the most obvious thing to do.

You lean back, watching her. You're so lost in thoughts that you almost don't notice Daisy poking your side. Your head turns.

"What?"

"Her? Really?"

You shift, looking away again. "What about her?"

She shrugs, but silently, she immediately comes up with an entire list of reasons. At the top — the fact that Natasha's slept with basically every girl on campus and hasn't had a relationship last longer than a week so far. It's happened to her as well, but there's no way she'll tell you that.

"Nothing", she says evasively. "She's just got this whole...dumb and poetic-thing going on. Like, she has no clue what the fuck she's saying, but it sounds good anyway."

Natasha, crouched down in front of the greasy paper bag, grabs two burgers. Your head lolls to the side and you almost sigh when she looks up and puts her jawline on full display. It's too easy to want her, even if you maybe shouldn't.

"She's not dumb", you say, glancing at Daisy again. You hesitate. "But she's not poetic either. I mean, that sex joke she made yesterday?"

"You laughed, though."

"Huh?"

"You laughed", she repeats. You give her a deadpan look. "Seriously. You laugh at all her jokes."

You scoff, shaking your head. Internally, though, you're wondering whether she's right.

You watch Natasha return, two burgers and a soda in her hands. You scoot forward and she plops down behind you, letting you sit between her legs. Daisy doesn't say anything, but the look on her face is telling enough.

. . .

Logs and branches in various stages of burning, smoke curling into the air, sparks drifting upward. Embers glow, stars sparkle mirthfully, tequila burns your throat.

You're sitting on blankets, feet buried in the sand, and watch the bonfire. Natasha's next to you, roasting marshmallows and sipping tequila. You nudge her when she puts the bottle a little too close to the fire.

"Careful there."

"I am", she mumbles, looking at you. Her eyes roam all over your face, drinking in every feature. She has no idea how mesmerized she looks. She has no idea how helpless she looks. She's tipsy, and she's warm, and she's in love. The thought would scare her, but her brain isn't capable of much more than staring at you and keeping her awake.

If she had to choose between the two, she'd pick the former.

People are dancing, swaying around the bonfire. Music is playing on portable speakers. Her hand finds yours. Suddenly, you're stumbling through the sand.

"Hey, my marshmallow!"

"Screw that", she says, turning to pull you in close. There's that stupid little smile on her face, the one that makes you gravitate towards her. She leans in, hot breath fanning your lips. You tilt your head.

Hands smooth down your sides, the fabric of your bodycon dress silky under her palms. She leans in, nose almost touching yours.

"Bet you wanna", she mumbles, drunk and testing her limits. You roll your eyes, but don't pull away. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"Like this is funny."

"It is funny", you say. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you even closer. "You're ridiculous."

She scoffs, hands sliding down your sides. Hooking her thumbs under the hem of your dress, she starts bunching it up around your thighs. You swat at her hand.

"Not here", you say, glancing at your friends. Another knowing look from Wanda. You flip her off.

Natasha doesn't respond. Her head dips into the crook of your neck, peppering the perfumed skin with kisses. Wet, warm, worshipping. She's smitten and drunk and hard, and the ocean is right nearby, and if she tries enough...

"No."

She groans, her fingertips digging into your thighs. She presses against you, already straining against the fabric of her shorts.

"They're not even watching."

"They are", you insist. "You're the one who keeps telling them we're friends, anyway. So let's not go overboard."

Another noise of disapproval. She's drunk, and you're soft and warm, and she'd probably fuck you right here in the sand if given the opportunity.

Also, enough guys have been staring at you all night. She wants to give them something to stare.

You pull back and cup her face. You look right into her eyes. Her heart skips a beat. She's a goner.

Now everyone is staring. This time, neither of you notices.

(Because even drunk, she knows it's you.)

. . .

It's rare that you and Natasha part during that week in Miami, but it does happen.

She's at the bar, you're in your hotel room. She's ordering drinks, you're making sure your hair looks nice. She's chatting up some girl, you're twisting and turning in front of the mirror to see every angle of your body.

Natasha doesn't even know how it started. All she remembers is waking up alone, the memories of last night fresh in her mind.

A beach concert. You, in front of her, complaining about not being able to see. In hindsight, she knows you must've been exaggerating; in that moment, however, she didn't care. She grabbed you and hoisted you onto her shoulders.

People stared. Her shoulders felt like the top of the world. When you slid down, she didn't let go.

A few hours later, at 4 in the morning. You, tipsy, in her lap. Strong arms wrapped around your middle. A heart that beat a little too fast.

It's overcompensation. She's desperate to prove to herself that what she has with you still isn't anything serious, but she knows that's ridiculous. Looking at the girl in front of her — tiny bikini, full lips, messy eyebrows — she feels nothing. Just months ago, she would've done everything in her power to get her to sleep with her.

Now? Static. Boredom. Emptiness. It's frustrating and it's terrifying.

The girl leans in. She brushes her fingers along Natasha's bicep, down to her forearm and to her wrist.

Natasha swallows, trying to focus. Much to her dismay, she can't remember a single trick. She feels like she doesn't even know how to flirt anymore.

Then, you walk past. Black strapless bikini, a net wrap around your waist, tan lines on your shoulders. You walk past, barely noticing them, but Natasha jumps up and pretty much dumps the girl she was talking to.

You don't pay her any attention. It only makes things worse.

You round a corner, and Natasha puts her hands on your waist. You turn your head to look at her.

"I thought you had somewhere else to be."

Her thoughts falter. Then, she shakes her head.

"Nowhere else", she promises, kissing the back of your neck. "Where you going?"

"The pool", you say, adjusting the tote bag you've got slung over your shoulder. You weave through the crowds of half-naked people.

An hour later, you're both in the water. You haven't forgotten about her flirting at the bar, but she has. The second you walked by, that other girl was off her mind.

You're in the water, a drink in your hand and Natasha standing behind you with one arm circled around your waist. Her fingers slip under the strap of your bikini top, and she pulls at it to let it snap back. You glare at her, but she just smirks.

You're surrounded by your friends. Wanda is sitting on the edge of the saltwater pool, a cocktail in hand. Clint is snoring on one of the loungers. Sam jumps in headfirst, making Wanda squeal when she gets splashed with water.

Natasha leans in, lips against your wet shoulder. Water glistens on your skin. Hours pass, and the sun dips lower. Everything is washed in orange and gold. You're facing her now, arms wrapped around her middle. She runs her hand up your back and gently tugs at the clasp of your bikini, but this time, she doesn't let it snap. She just holds it.

You're staring. You both are. She's in way too deep.

The group asks whether you want to go to some club. You agree and go back to the hotel the change.

It's just the two of you now, hands brushing and skin sun-kissed, barely clothed. You both prefer this, but neither of you says it out loud. You step into the elevator, only in swimwear and with your hair damp and smelling like saltwater. Natasha so close, skin still damp from the pool.

The numbers on the panel tick. She watches your reflection in the elevator's mirror. You catch her eye and tilt your head. She pushes her hands into the pockets of her swimming trunks and looks away.

"You okay?"

"Fine", she mumbles. She's not one to get scared easily, but she's terrified.

You hum, unconvinced, but don't press further. It dings, the elevator doors slide open, and you step out. Natasha trails after you, noticing way too much. The strap of your tote bag sliding off your shoulder shouldn't be important. The water drops rolling down your spine shouldn't be important.

You shouldn't be important. This started as a fantasy, a hookup. Nothing that should've lasted more than a night or two. And yet, here she is. Not walking past your hotel room to get to her own, but stepping in right after you.

Inside, it's cool from the air-conditioning. Natasha plops down on your bed, hands tucked under her head and legs stretched out. She watches you as you dry your hair with a towel, and your eyes meet. It's quiet, way too quiet, and you clear your throat.

"We're leaving in ten", you remind her.

"We have to?", she asks. You glance at her, already in front of the mirror and changing into a dress. She swallows.

"You told them we'd go."

"Changed my mind."

"Well, I didn't." You adjust the straps of your bra. "What, you want to miss out on a night in Miami?"

"We have other nights."

You slip into a dress, but internally, you've slammed your foot down on the brakes. Natasha shifts on the bed, turning her head to look at the ceiling instead. You watch her through the mirror, something inside you twisting. You're not sure you want to leave, either.

"You okay?", you ask quietly.

Her head lolls to the side. "I'm good."

You hesitate. "We don't have to go, you know."

"It's fine. We said we would."

"I mean it." You pad to the bed and sit down beside her. She rolls onto her side, her hand trailing over crisp white bedsheets and coming up to rest on your thigh. "We'll order room service."

"No more cheeseburgers", she says.

You smile faintly. Tony has been in charge of getting everyone food a few times too many.

"No", you say, brushing some hair away from her face. "Anything else."

She hums. She glances at your face, then averts her eyes. Her head tips forward and her lips press against your knee. You reach out absentmindedly, running your fingers through her damp hair.

"Don't tell me you're tired", you mumble, smiling.

"Not tired enough", she says. She tugs at the hem of your dress. "So we're not going?"

You sigh. "Apparently not. Why?"

"May as well take this off."

You laugh, swatting at her hand. It's no use, though — she grabs you, pulls you down with her, keeps you trapped with her arms. You squirm.

"That's the real reason, huh?!"

"Maybe", she concedes, grinning. She kisses you, her hands moving to bunch up the fabric of your dress around your thighs. Hands roam bare skin, slowly, memorizing it. She pulls away and presses her lips to your shoulder, then her eyes drift.

For a moment, she just stares.

You nudge her.

"Natasha."

She blinks, meeting your eyes. Right — keep moving.

You're not used to her being this slow. Hands seem to move in slow motion. Lips drag across skin. Her nose brushes against yours.

The dress comes off and is tossed aside. You roll on top of her, feeling how warm and damp from the pool she still is.

"I should've gotten you a towel", you mumble, cupping her face. "You'll get a cold, with the a/c on."

Natasha just smiles. She tucks you against her body, forehead leaning against yours, and reaches into her swimming trunks. Hand around her length, she lazily palms herself before starting to pump herself to full mast. Not that much is missing, anyway.

"I'll be fine", she replies.

Her lips brush against your forehead. She keeps her hand around herself, but doesn't rush it. Her movements are lazy, unhurried. For the first time ever, you feel like your time isn't limited. It's a nice feeling. Maybe you'll let yourself get used to it.

She tugs off the swimming trunks, the fabric clinging to her skin. Finally, she rolls on a condom. Nudges your thighs apart, moves one to rest over her hip.

"Come here", she mumbles, one hand cupping the back of your head. "Let me feel you."

The head of her cock taps against your entrance, teasing you. You do have all the time in the world.

A breathless little moan escapes you. Her skin is cool from the a/c, with an undercurrent of heat beneath it. You press closer, making her strokes deeper. Her hips roll into yours, her arm stays wrapped around your waist. You meet every thrust, eyes slipping closed.

"Fuck", you breathe.

"You're good, baby."

Defined abs flex with every roll of her hips. You tug her closer, even deeper, and she grips your hip in an effort to stop herself from rutting into you mindlessly.

Your hand slips between your bodies. Your thumb finds your clit, swollen already, and circles it. Breathless little sounds escape you.

Natasha moans. She kisses you, traces your spine with her thumb, gently presses you down into the mattress. It's lazy, soft, and you've found a steady rhythm that works for you.

You're slick with arousal, but pulling out and rocking back in is still a challenge for her. Natasha grabs your thigh and pushes your knee to your chest, opening you up more. You whine and break the kiss, mouths inches away as you both breathe heavily.

"Not gonna last long at this rate."

"We got all night", she pants, thrusting her throbbing tip against something deep — so deep it makes it your hips stutter. "You got plenty of time to last long."

She's in so deep she barely has to pull back. She just grinds in deeper, cursing under her breath whenever you clench around her. Her cock is swollen, aching and twitching, and she can feel herself get closer to the edge as well.

Your hips jerk off the mattress when she rotates them with her hands. She laugh, voice rough, and kisses your throat.

"Yeah?"

You nod, clutching her biceps. "Right there-"

"You got it, baby. You got me."

Another roll of her hips. The pleasure builds, making all your nerve endings tingle with the approaching orgasm.

Breathy pants against your neck. A hand maps out your side, your thigh. Groans in response to whimpers, the sun outside disappearing from the horizon. A hotel room, darkened by the lack of sun and cold from the air conditioning.

The heat increases. She starts pounding into you, her nose nuzzling your neck. More kisses.

"I'm close."

"Me too."

"Wanna cum in you."

Your mind jumps back to the first time you did that. Back at the sorority party, after you'd had that fight. You remember the feeling, and a part of you craves it, but you also know you got incredibly lucky back then.

"Don't want to be a mom yet", you say, words punctured by little grunts.

Natasha whines at the mere thought. She loses rhythm before you do, her thrusts becoming sloppy and desperate.

She comes first — hard. You feel the way the condom swells when she spills into it. You feel her throb, feel the continuous twitching against your walls. It pushes you over the edge as well.

Thighs trembling and hips rutting, you moan. Natasha catches your mouth, swallowing every sound, and keeps rolling her hips until you stop.

Her hips twitch. She's wrecked, but there's no way she's pulling out. She kisses your collarbone instead, dazed and spent.

"Nat", you mumble, aftershocks coursing through you. "I'm full."

"Fuck", she pants. Her head drops forward and her forehead comes to rest on your shoulder. "Feel so good."

"Better than the club."

"Agreed."

You spend hours like this. Intertwined on your bed, in the shower, over the table. When you finally decide to call it a day, Natasha's too tired to think properly.

Her face is tucked against your side. Her hand is on the inside of your thigh. She nudges your ribs with her nose.

Two words make everything better and worse.

"You're different."

. . .

Things go both up- and downhill. Sometimes, everything seems perfect. She kisses you in front of others, tipsy and clingy. She sleeps in your bed. She washes the salt out of your hair and kisses the underside of your thighs.

Red lipstick on her shirt colors, her nails painted with your favorite nail polish. Risky snaps and smelling like your perfume. Secretive kisses, messy kisses that end in spit-slicked lips, smiling into kisses before pulling away just to hear you whine.

She loves every second. Every second of it terrifies her, but she loves it.

She doesn't know why she ends up ruining it.

There's something that feels way too serious about waking up under you every morning. About how defensive she gets. How she uses sunscreen to draw shapes on your back. Your friends teasing her isn't helping, either.

It's harmless at first. It hurts, but it's harmless.

She disappears at a party. You have no idea where she goes, or what she's doing. When she returns, she doesn't tell you anything.

She's always been touchy, and that hasn't changed. Her hand ends up on someone's thigh. Her arm rests over someone's shoulder. You try your best to ignore it.

Then, the text messages. They light up her screen at night, flashing names you don't recognize. Natasha grabs her phone and flips it over. You scoot away from her.

She ignores the people who text her, but she doesn't tell them to stop, and she doesn't block them, either.

During another party, she's without you. It's rare that this happens, and she knows it. But the others know it, too.

"Single again?", Tony asks, handing her a vodka shot. She rolls her eyes but doesn't respond, instead knocking back the shot. "Where's your girl?"

She rubs her eyes. They're tearing up from the alcohol. "Seriously, shut up."

"No, I mean it. Where's Y/N?"

"Maybe they broke up", someone adds unhelpfully.

"Can't break up if you were never dating in the first place."

"Were you dating? I mean, with your track record..."

Natasha averts her eyes, jaw tense. She leans against the wall and starts counting the cigarette butts on the ground. But she's panicking, and she doesn't get far.

"Come on", Clint says, nudging her. He has no idea just how much damage his words are about to cause. "You can tell us, you know. We'd love to know if someone finally got you to dip your toes in the monogamy-pond."

She has two options.

One: admit she's all in with you.

(Not happening. She hasn't even been able to admit that to you, or herself.)

Two: prove that nothing's changed.

(How the fuck is she supposed to manage that?)

Natasha drags a hand down her face. She feels hot all over, her cheeks tingling, her fingers numb. She steps away. They all start talking at the same time, a chorus of we weren't being serious and come on and take a joke, man.

She edges past a small group of men and bumps into some girl. Natasha barely pays her any attention, but the girl's eyes linger. She watches her slide onto a barstool and order a shot from the bartender.

She downs a shot, then another. The girl watches her for a while, then she sits down next to her. Natasha glances at her, barely reacting.

Sun-kissed skin, glowing. Wavy blonde hair. Red dress, barely-there and accenting every curve. Exactly the kind of girl she used to go for.

Glossy lips tug into a smile. She touches her bicep and runs her fingers down to her forearm.

"Alone here?", she asks quietly. Her head tilts. Natasha curses silently when the simple mannerism reminds her of you.

"Nobody else around me, is there?"

"I suppose not." The girl leans in. Her breath is sweet and fruity, with notes of alcohol woven into it. "Oh. But now there is."

Natasha smiles reluctantly. The girl is flirting, and she's about to let it happen. This is her opportunity to prove she's still herself, prove that nothing's too serious yet.

Too many shots. Too much alcohol, even for Natasha. She's not someone who likes to feed into stereotypes, but she's Russian, and she's been drinking for way too long. She can hold her alcohol — still, she ends up drunk and with some girl in her lap.

Natasha doesn't even know her name. She comes up with the genius idea to call her Blondie.

More alcohol. Suddenly, she feels unfamiliar lips press against hers. Ignoring the nauseating feeling of guilt in her stomach, she kisses her back harder. Her tongue gets sucked into the girl's mouth, hands squeeze and roam her biceps.

"Wanna get out of here?"

Natasha, drunk but still able to think, hesitates. Blondie cups her jaw.

"Getting shy on me?", she teases. That hits her right where it shouldn't.

They get up. They stumble to the hotel. They burst into the room.

Lips clash, hands unbuckle a belt. She hardens slightly, but it's nowhere close to what you manage to do to her. Blondie starts peppering her jaw with kisses, and her hand dips under the waistband of her boxers. Natasha's head is spinning, drowning in panic and vodka.

She wants to tell herself this doesn't mean anything. That this just proves she's still herself. But she knows the truth.

She feels her hand around her half-erect cock. She grabs her wrist.

"Wait", she says, swallowing. "I don't-"

The girl pouts. "I thought you wanted this."

Natasha shakes her head. Does she want this? No. Does she know what she wants, though? She's not sure.

She looks away. The girl starts moving her hand inside her boxers. Natasha's stomach turns.

The door clicks open.

For a moment, all you can do is stare. You don't even process it at first. It's too surreal. Natasha wouldn't do this. She's known for sleeping around, but those last few months couldn't have been in vain.

And yet, the air smells like alcohol and sweat. Natasha and some girl are half-naked, and they're clearly in the middle of something you don't want to know about. Hand still in her boxers, wrapped around her, touching what you had in your mouth just hours ago.

Your heart stops, then slams against your ribs. First, you feel nothing — then it's just pure anger. The other girl glances at you, lazily, and you'd love to do some serious damage with that chair to your right.

Natasha, immediately sobering up, curses and pushes the girl away. You're out of the door already, storming down the hallway. You hear footsteps behind you, and you change your mind about taking the elevator. Instead, you take a turn and rush down the stairs.

"Y/N, wait! Fuck-"

You shake your head, running faster. She's close behind.

You make it into the lobby. Natasha's running, shoving people aside. Her heart is racing, and for the first time ever, she feels like she truly fucked up.

She's done similar stuff before. Slept with girls only to ignore them literal hours after, ghost people, lie and cheat and hurt the ones around her. It feels different now. Worse.

Finally, she makes it. She reaches for your wrist, fingertips grazing your skin, but you whip around and pull away.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"Please, please just listen-"

"Listen? I'm supposed to listen? Go on then, explain!"

Natasha stops in her tracks. She starts babbling, face flushed and hands shaking. You're still in the lobby, and people are looking at you weird, but you block them out. You block everything out, everything except the hot, boiling feeling of disappointment in your veins.

You knew it from the beginning — falling in love with Natasha can't end well. Here you are now, four months later, and you realize just how right you were.

"Look, I- I regret this, okay?", she says, desperately, pathetically. "I didn't want it to happen. I just- I drank, I drank too much, and she was right there, and I was terrified-"

You let out a bitter, hurt laugh. "Oh, you regret it? Well, that changes things. I'm sorry for assuming."

"No, baby, I mean it", she says, eyes pleading, and grabs your hand. You draw back as if singed by her touch. "Please."

"No", you say. You can feel the moisture forming in your eyes, the tears way too close. "No. Seriously. Fuck you."

"Y/N..."

"You're so full of yourself", you spit, stepping back. She steps forward again, but you rebuff her attempt once more. "You really think you're worth any of this? That any sane person will keep playing this game for you?"

Her face falls. She shakes her head, trying to pretend like your words didn't cut to the bone.

"You're not worth it", you say. "You're not worth any of it."

Natasha has to agree. All she can do is watch as you leave.

. . .

You ignore her. You block her. You stay away from her.

And still, somehow, she's everywhere.

On campus, at parties, outside the library. In basketball shorts and hoodies, an iced tea or black coffee in hand. Apologies lay on her tongue, ready and waiting to be served to you, but you're not in the mood to listen to any of them.

Natasha knows she's being pathetic. She's gone from 'the girl who doesn't chase' to 'the girl who's sadder to look at than a blind puppy'. She used to get any girl she wanted, no matter who, but now, the one girl she likes can't even bear to look at her.

She's aware you don't want to hear it, but she keeps trying, anyway. In the hallways, when you're on the way to class (you start regretting ever telling her where your seminars take place), in the cafeteria (which you start to avoid going to), in the parking lot.

"Can we talk?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care."

"Y/N, please."

You whip around. "Can you quit that?!"

Natasha freezes, hands lifted. Your chest twists at the sight — almost half a year ago, not too far away from where you're standing right now. A basketball and a girl that was a little too cocky. If you'd known, would you've still taken that same route? Or would you have taken a detour?

"I'm sorry", she repeats, more quietly. "I don't know what to say. I don't know how to make it better. But I miss you, and I'm sorry, and..."

And what?, she thinks. And please take me back? And I've never been this miserable over anyone before? And I love you?

She still can't say any of it out loud. She just rubs the back of her neck and shifts on her feet.

You stare at her, waiting, not saying a word. You're letting her sweat because she deserves it. You're letting her hope that you might forgive her.

Then, you turn around. You leave abruptly, not even bothering to give her the satisfaction of a response. Natasha stands there, staring, before finally reacting.

"It wasn't that serious, anyway!"

You flinch. Just barely, but she notices anyway, and her blood runs cold. She can't fathom why she'd even say that — all of this is her fault.

You leave. Again.

. . .

It's midnight when something hits your window.

You're in bed, not doing much. Staring at the ceiling, scrolling through whatever social media app your finger clicks on first, trying to somehow fall asleep.

It's quiet, aside from the rain outside. It's been storming for hours at this point, but the heavy downpour has turned into a slightly gentler hissing.

Then, a thump against your window disrupts the near-silence.

You sit up with a start to look at it. Faint cracks have appeared in the glass, forming a suspiciously circular shape. You hesitate for a second — god knows who's throwing shit at your dorm window in the middle of the night. This is New York, after all. Tons of crazy people running around, even on campus. Maybe it'd be safer not to check.

Then, it hits you. You blink, slowly, before getting up and padding to the window. You open it and look down only to find out it's Natasha. She's standing there, basketball in hand and bottom lip briefly tugged between her teeth, her clothes and hair soaked from the rain.

"Can we talk?", she pleads.

You stare at her. You step back and close the window.

The second you're back on your bed, Natasha exhales in frustration. She's panicking, rubbing her face and clenching her jaw. She has to do this, though. She has to get you to talk to her.

She lifts her hands and aims again. The ball flies through the air and slams against the window again — this time, too hard.

Glass shatters, a basketball shooting straight into your room. You stare at it in disbelief, too shocked to react, before finally jumping up. You grab the first thing you find, which is a half-empty vodka bottle, and step in front of the window to hurl it at her.

Her eyes widen and she barely dodges it. It shatters on the pavement, clear liquid spraying.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!", you yell, grabbing the next object. Another bottle, this time a plastic one. She curses when it hits her shoulder.

"Y/N, please-"

"No!" You search your desk frantically. You grab one of your old French books. Natasha jumps aside.

"Jesus Christ! Can we not make this a pattern?"

"Oh, you're sick of patterns?", you yell. You see a pair of scissors and immediately know what to do. You return to the window, basketball and scissors in hand, and her jaw slackens. "That's funny!"

"Wait", she says, scrubbing her hand down her face. "That thing's damn expensive."

You glare at her, breathing heavily. "That's your priority right now?"

"I'm not saying that, but I do care about it-"

The blade stabs into the rubber. Air hisses. The ball deflates in your hands, and you toss it in front of her feet. Natasha winces.

"That was a limited edition, babe."

"I don't fucking care!"

Natasha looks up. For the first time all night, you feel something close to guilt. She's drenched, defeated, water dripping from her hair and down her face. Her hoodie is completely soaked, and her expression is absolutely wrecked. She's so unlike the cocky girl that hit on you not too long ago that she's almost unrecognizable.

In that moment, you hate her. Still, she's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters.

"Tell me how to fix it", she pleads. "Just tell me what to do."

You glare at her, still out of breath. The anger is making your blood boil, hotly and thickly.

"Get your ass upstairs", you hiss. "NOW."

Natasha looks like she just short-circuited. She's frozen in place, blinking up at you through the rain, water drops catching in her eyelashes. Slowly, she grabs her deflated basketball and starts moving to the front door of the building.

Wet sneakers squeak, her steps heavy. She walks up the stairs and finds your dorm — stickers on the door, ranging from Strawberry Shortcake and Tinkerbell to a lipstick kiss print and a heart with the words 'try me' inside. She hesitates before knocking.

The door opens. She slips into your room, clutching that stupid shell of a ball like it'll save her. You slam the door shut.

Your room is too you. She used to love it, in a way. Pink blankets, vanilla candles, lipstick marks left on your desk from that time she had you bent over it.

She turns around and her thoughts falter. A flimsy blue babydoll dress, lacy and short. Your thighs are on full display, distracting her a little too much.

Why did you have to wear this? How is she going to focus?

"And?", you prompt.

"Uh...", she says dumbly. She's staring, and she's not able to stop. "I, uhm..."

Natasha's soaking wet, freezing and humiliated. She came here to patch things up with you. And now, her biggest problem is that she wants to bury her face between your thighs.

It's too late when she drags her gaze back up. You've caught her staring.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me! You're still thinking with your dick?!"

"No, I-"

Her back thuds against the wall and she winces, but no complaints come from her. She's aware that she deserves this, so she doesn't fight back.

You shove her, again and again, letting her body hit the wall. She's bigger than you, towering over you, strong enough to grab you and haul you across the room. Yet, you've got the upper hand.

"Say something, you coward!"

You need her to react at this point. You need the silence to stop, need her to do anything else but stand there and take your rage like a kicked puppy.

Silence. Barely a reaction. You fist the front of her soaked hoodie and shake her. Your heart is thumping against your chest.

"You had a ton to say when you were hitting on me!", you shout. "Now you'll just stand there?"

She nods weakly. It's enough to make your chest burn as the desperation flares again. She can't be that indifferent.

Tears burn in your eyes, hot and stinging. You continue to shove her, keeping this one-sided fight alive. Because that's what it is — one-sided. It has to be when your counterpart is acting like a damn vegetable.

"Fucking fight me, Natasha!"

An order, or a plea. You're not sure.

She stares at you, gaze trailing to your lips. She shouldn't be thinking about kissing you, or about taking off your dress and keeping it slip to the floor. She should stay rational. If she does something dumb, she's done for. She—

"So we're not hooking up, I guess."

Oh.

Eyes wide, heart stopping for just a split second. Oh, she's dead.

If you were mad before, you're livid now. You slam her against the wall, making her let out an 'oof' for the first time since this started. It's not just a spat, it's a full blown fight. The worst one you'd ever have, if you think about it.

Your fists thunder against her chest, then you grip her hoodie again.

"I'll kill you, you fucking bastard!"

The back of her head hits the wall. She grunts, finally grabbing your wrists. But her grip is as gentle as possible, considering you immediately try to break free from her grasp.

"Hey", she says, out of breath and pleading. "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

"Seems to be a common theme with you!", you hiss, tears gathering in your eyes. "Fuck- let go!"

"Only if we talk!"

"Let go!"

She shakes her head. You struggle against her grip, twisting your wrists and kicking and fighting, then the tears break free. You sob, the noises tainted with frustration, and thrash against her.

"I hate you", you sob out. The words hit her right in the chest, like gunshots and needles all at once. "You led me on for half a year, and for what?"

"I wasn't leading you on", she promises, desperate to fix things. But god, it's hard to fix something you think has already shattered. "Please believe me. I just- fuck, I'm bad at this."

You shake your head, breathless and sobbing and furious, and slam your arms against her. "Stop talking! Fuck, just- just-"

Natasha's heart is beating so fast she thinks it'll jump right through her chest. Not a good idea. She's pretty positive that if that happened, you'd grab and squish it until it bursts like a balloon.

"Please hear me out", she begs. "Just for a moment. Fuck, Y/N, I- I-"

You sob, fists managing to hit her chest once more.

"You what?"

"I love you."

You freeze. There aren't many things you're certain of when it comes to her. Everything feels like an illusion, like something that could change tomorrow.

What you are sure of, though, is that she's never said these three words to anyone.

The question now, though, is whether this is an illusion as well. Whether she's trying to find a way out of this by telling you another lie.

"You think I believe anything you say?", you sob, the tears coming harder.

"I mean it", she says, squeezing your wrists and rubbing her thumb across your skin. Her eyes search your face frantically, trying to see if you'll listen for at least a second. "I love you, and it's fucking terrifying, but I do, I love you, and- fuck, I'm not used to this."

You shake your head, unwilling to let her words cut too deep. But they do, they cut, and not only to the bone but through the bone.

"If you loved me, you wouldn't have done that. You wouldn't have slept with someone else, you- you wouldn't have made me stay just friends."

She decides not to comment that, technically, she was about to sleep with someone but didn't go through with it. You're not hitting her anymore, but if she dared voicing that thought, you'd probably straight-up murder her just like you did her poor basketball.

"Because I'm not used to any of this", she says, voice quieter. "I've never been in an actual relationship, Y/N. I don't do that. I sleep with girls and move on. I don't- I don't just fall in love. But I fell in love with you, and I'm too fucking stupid to act right."

You stare at her, breathing heavily and swallowing. She sounds sincere. You feel like an idiot for thinking that, but fuck, she sounds like she means it. And that is the worst part.

You're certain this might end up killing you eventually. But your lips press against hers just as suddenly as she appeared in your life.

You kiss her. Hard, desperate, furious. Natasha, stunned, hesitates before putting her hands on your waist. You cup her face, grabbing it, and tug her closer.

Your lips slam against hers, again and again. You walk backwards. Natasha, confused and hardening amid all of this chaos, follows obediently.

You suck on her tongue. She exhales, shuddering against you. Her hands tighten around your waist.

You push your hand into her shorts. She pauses, startled.

"Fuck me", you say. "Do something right."

"Y/N, you-" Natasha cuts herself off, breathing heavily. Then she's all over you, pushing you down on the bed, kissing and sucking on your neck, teeth scraping against skin. Hands under her damp hoodie, nails raking down her back and drawing blood. Her breath stutters, her face is pressed against your neck.

She wants to fix this, fix whatever's left of you. Return to what you had and make it better this time.

She kisses down your throat and reaches your chest. Latching onto your breast through the thin fabric of your dress, her hands push your legs apart.

Lacy underwear comes off. Her fingers are cold against your slick heat, making them slide in easily. She sucks on your boob, leaving a wet stain on the delicate fabric. Your back arches.

You grind against her, head thrown back. "Not like this", you pant. "Get on the bed."

"What?"

"You heard me." You sit up, grabbing the front of her hoodie. "Come on, asshole."

Natasha doesn't let anyone boss her around. But it's you, and she's done enough damage, so she scoots off you and lays down. You lean over her, your hair creating a curtain around your faces, and kiss her. Your hands trail down her front, right to her shorts. You pull them down just enough to be able to straddle her cock, easing it into you and stretching you out.

You roll your hips against hers, the tears having dried on your cheeks. You stare down at her, both of you out of breath, and fist the damp fabric of her hoodie.

The bed creaks beneath you. Cold gusts of wind enter the room through the broken window. She feels the same — throbbing, filling you entirely, her hips thrusting off the bed — but something's off.

You push the feeling aside and bob up and down, moaning quietly, your breasts bouncing with every movement. Natasha watches you, both mesmerized and worried. The fight was intense. You were sobbing, thrashing — for good reason. But now, you're riding her like a you've forgotten about everything.

She opens her mouth, wanting to say something. You grip her hoodie tighter.

"Don't."

"Y/N, are you-"

"Don't make it worse."

She keeps her mouth shut. She grips your waist instead, fucks up into you, letting you take what you need.

Is this what you need?

It used to be. You're not sure anymore.

A few more thrusts. Natasha thumbs your clit. Watches you fall apart for a second time that night. Comes when you do. You ride it out, pulsing around her, feeling her hot seed spill into you. Three, four spurts, heavy and filling you up.

You shudder, thighs sticky, and lift your hips to make her pull out. Coldness surrounds what was once enveloped in tight heat. Natasha wishes she could make you sit back down, but she's not in the position to ask for anything anymore.

You roll off her and lay down on your back. Shoulder to shoulder, your feet right next to the middle of her calves. You're right next to each other, but there may has well have been hundreds of miles between you.

She hesitates before glancing at you. Your eyes are staring up at the ceiling, face blank, distant.

Her fingers brush your hand. You don't pull away. She intertwines them with yours.

"Nat?"

Your voice startles her, makes her breath hitch. She closes her eyes. "Yeah?"

"You should go."

Despite having anticipated this, her heart drops. It takes her a bit to get out of her frozen state and sit up. Part of her thinks like she'll never feel this again, so she just sits there for a moment.

The various shades of lipstick on your nightstand. The high heels next to your closet. The fucking shards on the floor.

You, in bed, refusing to look at her.

She gets to her feet and falters. This can't be it, but this is it. At least that's what it feels like.

Natasha leaves her deflated basketball where she left it, right near the door. She puts her hand on the doorknob, twists it, and steps out.

This isn't it. It can't be. She'll make sure of that. But for now, all she can do is leave you alone for once.

You look up when you feel her linger. She's watching you, her body already half-concealed by the door. Then, her mouth opens.

"It was serious", she mumbles. "It never wasn't."

The door shuts.

. . .

You and Natasha ending up in the same place is a coincidence.

You were just trying to distract yourself, and Natasha got dragged here by Stark. Clint would kill him if he knew — he's been trying to keep her away from basically every girl in existence. Tony, on the other hand, believes she just needs to get laid.

She's told him that that's the last thing she needs. That that's what got her into this mess. But he doesn't listen. He's very convinced she just needs to 'act like herself again.'

"That one."

"No."

He turns, then points the mouth of his beer bottle at a girl with blue hair. "That one. Dyed hair, meaning she's probably unstable, meaning-"

She kicks his ankle. "Stop being a pig."

He whips around, looking offended. It's a show, though. It always is. "Excuse me? May I remind you of that girl in sophomore year? When you made up that story because she-"

"Okay, okay. Got it, I'm a hypocrite. Now stop trying to hook me up!"

He smiles, eyes sweeping across the room as he tries to find another victim. "You're sure? Give me five and I'll find someone with daddy issues."

Natasha sighs, knocking back a tequila shot. It burns, but not in a pleasant way. Whatever bar Tony dragged her into — the alcohol they serve is cheap, the lights flicker, and it smells like something rotten. But, according to him, it's the least pricey one in the area. Which shouldn't be an issue, considering he's rich and likes to splurge, but for some reason, he enjoys the low quality booze more.

He keeps pointing out various girls. 'Insecure. I can tell by the way she adjusts her dress.' 'Got dumped. Look how she keeps checking her phone.' 'Hey, a slut. Your soulmate!'

She almost rams her elbow into his side. Then, she spots you.

It's been almost two weeks since that night in your dorm. Two weeks of little to no sleep, of resisting the urge to apologize again, of regretting every tiny thing that happened since that night in Miami.

You haven't been doing better. You've been trying to move on, but it's hard. Moving on from someone who feels like home is like trying to move mountains.

There you are now, sipping cocktails and listening to some guy go on and on about something. He's been buying you drink after drink, and truthfully, you've been going along. Getting drunk isn't the worst thing you can think of in that moment.

Natasha blinks and rubs her eyes. Her heart is beating faster, rabbiting in her chest like it's trying to escape and run toward you.

"Oh. Oh, no. Not again."

She turns, frowning. "What?"

Tony gestures in your direction. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Okay, man."

"Seriously. Better find a new heart to rip apart."

She grits her teeth, clutching the shot glass in her hand. You're still oblivious about her being in the same room as you. Although, you seem to be oblivious about pretty much everything else, too.

She's seen the look on your face a bunch of times before. Too many times to not realize. You're drunk.

And the guy next to you? Still talking, still flirting, still pushing drinks in your direction. Still hovering.

You sway. He touches your side, right where your ribcage is, and tries to pull you aside. Natasha snaps.

Shoving her way through the crowd, she's by your side before Tony can tear away his eyes from some strawberry blonde girl. She moves next to you, wrapping her arm around your shoulders and essentially nudging the guy's hand off.

"What the fuck, dude?"

"Take a hike", she barks. "Can't you see she's drunk?"

He scoffs. "She's only had, like, a couple drinks."

"She looks like she's about to pass out!"

"Nat?"

She glances at you, startled and worried. "Hey, baby. You good?"

You look at her lazily, eyes squinted and head spinning. "You're here."

"Yeah", she murmurs, softening.

Whoever that guy was — it takes one look at the two of you to realize that his little plan won't work out. He clenches his jaw and walks off, fuming silently. He'd fight her if he didn't recognize her face. Of course it's Romanoff.

"I'm dizzy."

"Let me get you out of here", she says, looking for your jacket. It's not even May yet, and the nights are cold. She finds it and tries to get you to put it on. When that doesn't work, she wraps it around your shoulders. "Still can't hold your alcohol, I see."

"Fuck you", you mutter. But you're drunk and safe and warm, and for once, you don't mean what you said.

Natasha rolls her eyes and helps you up. She turns around, and thats all it takes — you trip and crash into the bar, knocking over a glass of wine.

"Hey!"

"Oh, hush", Natasha says, shooting a glare at the upset girl and steadying you. "That shit's cheap as hell, anyway."

"Burns, too", you add, grasping the front of her letter jacket.

She smiles faintly, your arm over her shoulders, and leads you outside. She has to bend over a little since she's taller, but she doesn't really care.

The night is cold, and the way to your dorm is longer than it should be. When she's on her own, it takes two minutes. With a drunk you by her side, however, it takes fifteen.

You stumble. You curse her out. You throw up into a hedge.

Going up the stairs is easy. Getting you into your dorm, however, is not. You're on the floor, one hand grasping the metal rods of the railing behind you, and ignore Natasha's attempts to coax you into your room.

"Get inside."

"No."

"Y/N."

"I'm tired."

"Your bed is right there."

Eventually, she just grabs you and hoists you over her shoulder.

Pajamas, water, bed. She sits down, hesitates before tucking you in. You stare at her, still not sobered up.

Wet eyelashes — did you cry? She didn't see you cry —, oversized shirt, smudged lipstick. A mess if she's ever seen one, and you're usually so put together.

"You should sleep", she starts. Your eyes flutter shut. "You need anything, before I leave?"

"You know damn well", you mumble, face half-buried in your pillow. She swallows.

"Painkillers?", she asks, ignoring what you said. "For the hangover. A bucket, maybe?"

"Don't do that."

Natasha exhales, slowly. She rubs the back of her neck and glances at your window. At least that's fixed now. Everything else still seems to be in shambles. Even if she tried to pick the shards up, they'd cut delicate skin and draw blood.

"What?", she asks reluctantly. Absolutely no part of her wants to know the answer, yet she can't help but ask.

"Don't act like you care."

She opens her mouth, but you've passed out already. Guilt churns in her stomach, but there's no way to get rid of it. She can't apologize — you're asleep. And even if you weren't, you probably wouldn't listen.

No apologies, then. Instead, she cleans up after you. Puts aside your dress, your high heels. Orders coconut water and bananas from some local convenience store that delivers this late at night (good for hangovers, apparently, at least according to the internet) and tucks you in.

. . .

There's no trace from her when you wake up. Just a note next to some groceries, saying: good for your hangover.

It takes you a moment to remember last night. You're disoriented, hungover, and the entire room seems to be spinning. Once the memories have fought their way through the mess in your head, you freeze. Everything seems to go silent, even the birds and cars outside.

A guy, putting his hands on you. Alcohol. Natasha. At the bar, in the street, in your dorm. Touching you without actually touching you.

Now, she's gone. No trace from her, except for a random stalk of bananas and a bottle of coconut water.

You stare at it, unsure. You unscrew the bottle and take a sip. Not bad.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you grab your phone to check it. No message from her, but Daisy sent you a picture of a flyer for the basketball game later that night.

Daisy: you coming? — 8.21am

You: forget it — 8.59am

Daisy: not a question anymore.

you're coming to the game — 9.00am

You: im really not — 9.00am

Daisy: school spirit or something

like that. you can't avoid her for the

rest of the semester — 9.01am

Unfortunately, she has a point. You fight it at first, but you know you have to go. Not for Natasha. Not so you can fix what's broken (though 'broken' is one hell of an understatement at this point).

You'll go. You'll watch. You'll leave. Maybe that'll help you leave things behind.

When you enter the university's gymnasium, you feel her friends' eyes on you. Not too long ago, your friend groups had mixed and mingled — Carol and Wanda, Sam and Daisy, Tony and Bruce. Now, they barely talk. Neither of you made them take sides, but it happened anyway. Everyone else seemed to split when you broke up, too. Though, it wasn't really a breakup.

You slip through small crowds of people, following Wanda and Daisy to a row of empty seats. It's loud already, with some pre-game playlist playing and everyone talking loudly. People throw popcorn, yell, laugh. It's rare that you feel out of place, but this time, you do.

"You really dolled yourself up", Daisy says, handing you a coke. "Is that lace?"

You glance down, realizing the neckline of your top is a little too low. You quickly adjust it. "I threw on the first thing I saw."

"Uh-huh."

"I can still leave", you hiss. She smiles and nudges you.

"Not yet", she mumbles, right as the teams walk onto the court. You follow her gaze and feel your heart speed up. "There we go."

Natasha. In her jersey, hair pulled back into a low bun, green eyes flickering across the stands nervously. It doesn't take long until she spots you. You both freeze, and the entire gymnasium may as well have noticed.

Nobody noticed, of course, except for Daisy and Wanda. They're all caught up in themselves. To you, it still feels like they did, because nobody else matters in that moment. It's you and her, and everything else is a blur.

Daisy doesn't dare say anything. She saw the look on your face, and she's not risking anything. Because even if she knows your relationship with Natasha was a whirlwind — it was still the most genuine thing she'd seen you get involved in.

Natasha averts her eyes. Knowing you still came here is both the worst and best thing in the world.

Carol, also on the team, noticed this little moment between you. She pats her back and tells her to come warm up.

The game starts. Natasha's team wins possession.

You stay in your seat, watching her. She's playing aggressive today, you can see that. Scoring hoops, pushing past defenders, blocking shots.

She's on top of her game today, and you refuse to acknowledge why.

Then, she runs across the court. She gets fouled, hard, and slips. You jump up right when she slams onto the court, a low thud echoing through the suddenly silent hall. But she bounces up like it's nothing.

"You looked worried there."

"She fell", you mumble, arms crossed over your chest. Daisy raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.

Halftime. Natasha's team is slightly behind, with the other team leading at 30-32. She makes her way to the bench and grabs her water bottle. She looks distracted at first, absentminded, but then she finds your face in the stands and you realize what exactly is distracting her.

Maybe it should've been obvious. Maybe part of you doesn't want to believe it, though.

You hold her gaze for longer than necessary. Daisy goes silent next to you, Wanda tilts her head curiously. You finally lower your eyes and fidget with the seam of your skirt.

The second half begins, and Natasha's team catches up as quickly as it loses the lead again.

You're actually frustrated for her. You watch the way her jaw tightens, how she briefly rubs her eyebrows, how she rolls her shoulders. It's a tough game, and even worse?: something's at stake. She's got something to prove.

She's getting more aggressive as the seconds pass, even forces a foul. When someone throws a cheap elbow while she's guarding someone and the referee doesn't call it, she loses it.

Your eyes widen as she gets in the referees face, snapping at him and gesturing with one hand. He tries to calm her down, but it seems futile. There are multiple things stressing her out, and there's only so much she can take. Your stomach twists at the sight, because despite everything that happened, her frustration still seems to be yours.

Eventually, she backs off and jogs back onto the court. Looking up, she searches for you. You nod, tentatively and your heart pounding, and she lowers her head and exhales.

One minute left before the game ends. The score is tied.

It's electric now — the players are sprinting, the ball is a blur. Natasha runs, dribbles, hesitates. She finds your face in the crowd, glancing at you for just a fraction of a second, and then jumps and swishes it through the net.

The gym erupts, the buzzer sounds. She doesn't hear any of it.

Her team is celebrating, and so are the people in the stands. Someone shakes and opens a bottle of beer to spray others with it, everyone is yelling, the cheers are so loud you feel like your eardrums are in genuine danger.

Natasha isn't celebrating. She's walking towards the stands, nervously wiping her hands on her shorts.

Whether this is a good idea or not, she doesn't know. But it's too late now. She's right there, right in front of you, only a row of people separating you from her. Out of breath, sweaty, adrenaline crashing. You stare at her, unsure, and watch her grab the bottom of her jersey.

She pulls it over her head and tosses it in your direction. You don't catch it — it hits your chest and falls into your lap.

You look at her, hesitating. Is she being serious?

She is. She stands there, staring at you, still trying to catch her breath. It's an impossible task, with the way you're looking at her.

Swallowing, she turns around. Daisy nudges you, and you finally grip the stupid jersey. It's still warm, smelling like sweat and cologne.

Natasha walks away, soles squeaking quietly on vinyl ground. She glances at you over her shoulder, briefly, but it's enough.

She looks away. You jump up.

You shove people aside and hop down the rows in front of you, reaching the court. You're practically sprinting at this point, desperate to reach her before she gets to the locker room.

You grab her, spin her around, kiss her so hard she almost stumbles. She groans, but it shifts into a soft whimper. She drops the bottle she was holding and grips your waist.

Around you, people are still cheering, still celebrating. But this is the real victory.

You deepen the kiss, drag your fingers through the damp baby hairs at the back of her neck. Her lips are salty, addictive, her body thrumming against yours.

Natasha tastes something sweet, fizzy, matching the way her stomach tingles. You're here, choosing her in front of everyone, and god, it feels good.

Time slows down. She inhales against your lips, sharply, her fingers digging into your skin. You get on your tiptoes, allowing her to stand a bit straighter. You pull away just enough to take a breath, and she makes a quiet noise of protest.

By the time you part, your lips are swollen and slick. Natasha's looking at you like you hung the damn moon, like you're the reason her heart is slamming against her ribs. Which you kind of are.

"You- I-"

You manage a smile, your fingers still playing with her baby hairs. How often does she get nervous? Once in a blue moon.

"You did good", you mumble, studying her. She swallows thickly. "Finally."

"I'm so sorry", she mumbles, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you against her. Your feet leave the ground. "I'm so fucking sorry. Fuck. It was all a mistake. I..."

You don't let her finish. You kiss her, again and again, until the tension slowly disappears from her shoulders. She pulls away and buries her face in your neck. It's not the basketball game that's leaving her shaking — it's you.

"You're a moron."

"Mhm." Her lips press against your shoulder.

"An idiot. An absolute buffoon."

"That's fair."

You pull away again, still clutching her jersey in your hand. Natasha gives it a quick little nod, and it looks so ridiculously shy you can't help but laugh.

"Say it", you tease, cupping her cheek. She frowns. "Come on. You're a big girl, aren't you?"

A deep breath in, then out. Her eyes sweep across your surroundings, making sure no one's listening.

"Put that on", she finally mumbles. "It's yours now. I'm yours."

You press another kiss to her cheek, then step away and put on her jersey. Your jersey, actually. Sweaty and damp, smelling like her.

Natasha smiles softly. She fidgets, shifts, then grabs your hand.

"We never had an actual first date, you know."

You hum. She's right. You hooked up, and then continued hooking up. There was never anything that even resembled an official date.

"What're you saying?"

"You, me." She squeezes your hand. "Maybe a nice restaurant? Or takeout? We can have a picnic. I don't know, I don't usually do this."

You want to say no at first. Not because you don't want to, but because the after game-celebration is in full swing. The entire team is talking about going to a bar.

But then you realize that Natasha hasn't spared them a single glance since the buzzer announced the end of the game. She's been here, with you, looking at you, asking you out on a date.

The fuckboy athlete who keeps everyone at an arm's length, now actually taking something seriously.

You kiss her, already leading her out of the gym.

"Yes. But no cheeseburgers."

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @esposadejoyhuerta

[bonus-links]

IMMA BE THE FIRST TO ASK (I HOPE) CUZ IM LITERALLY CHOMPING AT THE BIT DIRECTORS COMMENTARY PLEASE

GANON??? THE EYES???? BANGER UPDATE 👹

the people have spoken and they want director's commentary (this isn't even all of them lol) OKAY HERE WE GO

the original draft of this scene was much shorter, and Loft actually didn't say anything at all in it. As I kept making the chapter it started to feel weird that he would just. Let Ganondorf say his piece without contributing anything. i like this version of the scene much better

listen. I love WW Ganondorf. He's my favorite Ganondorf. I was going to find a way to fit him into this chapter no matter what

in particular, I love that you get a sense from WW Ganondorf that he is, on some level, sympathetic to Link. Or if not sympathetic, understanding of his place in all this. He tells Link that his gods have abandoned him, that he has not particular quarrel with him, etc. But ultimately it doesn't matter. If this is who the gods have sent to stand in his way, so be it. Essentially, it's not my fault the gods are so callous as to send a child after me.

we're going w the canon that WW Ganondorf is the same as OOT, or at least remembers being him. Don't ask me how. Nintendo doesn't know either

big ol eyeball. which could mean nothing

How does Ganondorf recognize Loft? by that stupid hat. jokes aside he doesn't know Which Link Specifically Loft is, but he's smart enough to figure out that he's a hero of some sort.

Likewise, Loft is smart enough to figure it out as well. He's spent a lot of his chapter thinking about Ganondorf, and if you'll recall from Ch1, he knows from Zelda that Ganon once had a mortal form. I think, from Loft's perspective, he has a hunch that this Ganon figure is the mortal reincarnation of Demise, the way Zelda is the mortal reincarnation of Hylia. I wanna emphasize that's what HE thinks might be going on based on his experiences. He's not the knower of all things. He has a conspiracy board in his mind

the face of a guy who's like. I am not going to be lectured to about morality from the King of Evil. I was very excited to let Loft be snarky at long last. But he also, notably, doesn't push back against what Ganondorf is saying that hard. He doesn't even say that he's wrong, just implies that he's probably a hypocrite. In fact, a lot of this update is about what Loft DOESN'T say or acknowledge

Ganondorf's opening line is about how much he hates that statue of the hero of time, because it's "such grandeur for a mere child". I think he means that at face value, but he's also making another point— the hero of time was a child, but they're not going to depict him that way in his monument. It's honestly sort of ambiguous with the actual model because of ww's style, but it looks like adult proportions to me. The story Wake grew up with calls him a child, but his monument in the castle is of an adult. That was the idea behind this set of panels, the parts of the Hero of Time's story that aren't going to be put on the pedestal

speaking of that I realized making this update that I literally. forgot the pedestal. I just didn't draw it all this time. in my defense the castle in no clip looks like this. no statue or pedestal

except I recently found out by accident that he's literally. under the floor. what the fuck

ANYWAY. I really liked the symmetry of Ganondorf turing to stone at the end of the dream. He won't get any perfect monuments made to him. Also, looks like there's a suspicious lack of water in the underwater castle. which could mean nothing

I'm not gonna comment too much on other details, because i've got to keep some of my secrets. I do think that this update gives a lot away HAHA though that was kind of on purpose. We're entering year 3 of this comic and we're finally starting to get places lolol

WAIT I ALMOST FORGOT loft looks the same way he did when he last touched the triforce

and we've seen a border similar to this before haven't we

that's all i got for now, thanks everybody! im having a blast reading ur comments <3

[xiepheer]

You know i really wanted to know how or why did the Beast's adopted little Y/N for like did they wanted to have a child of their own or something but now that i think about It what type of cookie Y/N would be as well as their power would be like If they were in crk and what do you think their voice would sound like?

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Hello everyone! Just to say that like always, I've been busy! So much homeworkkkk!

Also btwww I'm sorry that I haven't updated in so long!

I don't usually have the motivation to write!

I also have a tiktok acc where I feel more motivated in making videos instead of writing! 😭

Anyways here's my tiktok: HelixiaLoves

I make crk content!

I hope u understand that I feel more motivated in making videos rather than writing 😭🙏

Anyways ENJOY!

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Mystic Flour cookie

When she first found you, you were a small filly at the side of the road.

She thought to herself:

"Who would've abandoned their own responsibility?"

So she took you in.

She didn't want another young cookie to end up like her.

Abandoned by their own creators.

So she decided to take you in and call herself your mother.

She took care of you.

Raised you.

When she was sealed, she just knew she could count on Cloud Haetae for taking care of you.

You were 6 when you watched your beloved mother get sealed but you didn't know why.

Why did they see your own beloved mother a threat?

Sure she has the ability to turn cookies into flour but wasn't she supposed to fufil cookie's wishes?

To be worshipped because they get their wishes fulfilled?

That was what you were questioning until you grew up to find out what destruction she has caused in the Earthbread.

When you find out, you couldn't help but think about why she did that to your called home, Earthbread.

To cause destruction in the very land you and her was raised in.

When she was released, she doesn't understand why you were distancing from you.

Until she finds out why.

You, were scared she'll turn you into flour.

"Oh dear child? Why must you fear the very cookie that had raised you and given you all your needs?"

She asked.

She hadn't smiled in so long and she thought she would've when she could finally see the sprout she helped to grow.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what child?"

"That your deepest desires is to turn this world into nothing but Flour?"

"It is not my desire. It is not what I thought before."

"What do you mean..."

"Cookies have become too greedy. There must be one cookie to put them back in place. And that is my one and only mission to do."

"That's not what you said before."

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Burning Spice cookie

Burning Spice cookie never actually wanted a child.

He only did so to prove the other beasts that he can train any cookies to destroy.

Well he didn't fail and failed at the same time.

Burning Spice cookie doesn't even know how to take care of a kid so he left you to his generals.

You grew up to learn how to fight and be strong but you didn't know that you and him aren't actually biological father and daughter/son.

It's quite obvious how he's willing to destroy everything, no matter how small or big, he'd destroy.

But you, you'd fight and destroy if you were willing to.

But you couldn't stand the chance to fight a weak cookie.

It was like the state you were found in back then.

Weak and small.

And now, you are strong and powerful.

Powerful like your 'Father'.

When he got sealed, the generals has to depend on you for the kingdom.

So you took over.

The generals didn't understand why you stop destroying and was not like your 'Father'. (Plot twist, they didn't know you're not his actual father as well)

And you told them,

"Not Always we have to destroy. We could put these weaklings into great use in the kingdom."

You spoke.

The generals wasn't used to training a lot of weak ones.

Typically, they're used to training upper ranks rather than weak untrained ones.

When your father returned, he didn't expect the kingdom to be like this.

The once most feared kingdom now being crowded with weak cookies he has never seen before.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!"

That scared everyone.

Everyone including you.

"Father, I thought that I could recruit more cookies for the Kingdom's reputation!"

"REPUTATION?! ALL I EVER ASLED YOU IS TO WATCH OVER!"

"Yes indeed but wouldn't it be great for more cookies to fight for you?"

"Fight me? AHAHAH yes I would love that."

"What no..."

"What a great choice you chose! Now show me! "

"What has destruction bring you..."

You are quite tired of your father's destruction sometimes.

But you didn't understood why he would love to destroy everything.

And that is when and elder told you the truth.

The Herald of Change, once a great and powerful hero and ruler, now corrupted for seeing the same cycle over and over again that he has to break the cycle to make a new one.

You felt sad at his origin. Seeing everything be born and wither away again and again surely would drive you crazy like him.

But you still think that destruction would not be the answer.

So when you told him that confidently, he scoffed.

"And what do you know little one? Surely there'll be a day that you too will wither away like the others."

"Destruction isn't always the answer to everything. It's the natural apart of life."

✮⋆˙---------------------------------------── .✦

Shadow Milk cookie

When he first found you, no.

He created you.

Created you supposedly for shits and giggles and because he doesn't know what to do that day.

But ever since you were created, you were supposed to be another mindless puppet until you started acting like your own.

A puppet that has its own mind like a regular cookie was something he would never throw away like the others.

And though he still thought about you throwing away when you get useless, something inside him amde him not to.

It made him feel the need to protect something fragile like he used to.

Back he was sage, he never actually experienced a childhood.

He was baked into the world knowing everything.

When you grew up, you had his personality.

Probably because you were made by his own hands.

You and his minions got along well.

Most of the time.

Candy Apple cookie wasn't at first.

But she grew fond with you and started acting like you're her little sister.

Black Sapphire Cookie is the older brother that would always try to help you and ditch you at the same time.

There was a time where he ditched you in the middle of the woods but still went and brought you back.

Shadow Milk cookie made you watch his shows and make you rate them.

He would also teach you and make you watch as he destroys parts of Earthbread.

He had a slight hope that you would have his powers so he could as well teach you how to be just like him.

When he got sealed, he just knew he has to depend on his minions.

You and his minions went through disguises.

In different kingdoms but in disguises. You hav decided to keep your identity a secret for now.

When he got released, he was pleased to see that you've grown up to be almost like him.

Almost.

You like jokes like him, always taking thigns not seriously until you decide to.

But there's one thing that's not in common.

He likes destruction but you don't.

Why?

Because you saw how Earthbread was.

A peaceful world if you do not disturb the peace.

But yet, a question lingers in your head.

"Why do you want to destroy Earthbread? Aren't you supposed to protect it?"

You asked him.

He looked at you, quite surprised that you even thought of the question but soon it turned into a grin.

"Well you see tiny sprout of mine, we all need drama in our lives!"

"That doesn't explain why you still have to destroy."

"My point is that life is boring without a little drama in it!"

"Destroying and controlling isn't drama"

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FINISHED GUYS! HOPEFULLY YOU LIKE THIS ONE!

i was just scrolling through my requests and I found this one intriguing!

Anyways this took me an hour and a half I hope u like this!

Also the type of cookie and the power the reader (you) has here is depending on you!

USE YOUR IMAGINATIONNNN!

[xoxoemynn]

I've been trying very hard not to talk about PCCP publicly, because frankly, I think there's very little new to be said and certainly not by me.

However, I have picked up on a rather gross way that some people have been discussing the situation and I'd like it to stop.

To be clear, I am not talking about POC in this fandom who are rightfully upset by how much harder PCCP's actions are going to make it to simply exist in this space. I'm not talking about his close friends who are wrestling with that utter mindfuck of discovering the person you loved didn't actually exist. I'm also not talking about people who've discovered that similarities between their works and PCCP's weren't just coincidence and were actually plagiarism. All these people have been directly impacted by PCCP's unconscionable behavior and are going to need time to process and should be afforded the space to do so.

What I am talking about are people who were not directly involved in any of this, but seem to be descending upon any new scrap of info, any new revelation, any new insight, with the same kind of morbid glee as a TMZ reporter who got a hot tip about a shocking celebrity death.

(This is getting long, so going to put the rest below a cut.)

I was part of the group that first discovered PCCP's lies. The initial discovery was entirely by chance, but then we dug deeper because, and I cannot emphasize this enough, we wanted to be wrong. We did more digging because we wanted to be wrong. And it felt gross, to be looking this closely at someone's real life identity and match it up to details they shared on tumblr/bsky. We hated it. It felt like a violation. But it was such a huge accusation to make against somebody, so we had to be 100000% certain we were right before we breathed a word to anybody else.

For more than a week we agonized about how to handle the situation in a way that would do the least amount of harm to everybody involved and to the fandom at large. There were a lot of tears and sleepless nights. There was a lot of rage that we were even in this position in the first place. And also there was the eternal mindfuck of watching PCCP continue to post about things that we now knew to be lies, while the rest of the fandom continue supporting him as normal.

My point is... none of this was fun. We didn't take any joy or pleasure in uncovering a popular figure in this fandom was a racist fraud. It wasn't some cute detective game. It was hard and it was awful and it was deeply stressful.

So to see some people talk about this like it's entertainment, or fodder for r/HobbyDrama, talk about digging up screenshots and connecting the dots or continuing to theorize... stop. It's done. We did those things because we were hoping to find proof our initial findings were wrong. They weren't. PCCP was racefaking, and it was a deliberate choice he made to mislead and manipulate the fandom for years. He has been exposed and at least somewhat confessed. We know he was a racist and a liar and a plagiarist, and he did irreparable harm to many people in this fandom. That's it. That's the story, and it's done. There are no more dots to connect. There's nothing left to uncover. And while we always knew bringing this forward would result in smug gloating from people who hate the show/the fandom and were happy to have yet another excuse to bash it, it is upsetting and unsettling to see the almost voyeuristic fun some people who do love the show seem to be having with this.

Real people have been hurt, and real people are struggling. We don't need a grand fandom exposé, we don't need to continue digging up the dreck, and we certainly don't need to put anybody in more danger of doxxing. What we need to do is support the people who've been hurt and/or traumatized by PCCP's actions, do some self-reflection on why we allowed him to become so popular in the first place despite so many people now coming out of the woodwork saying they felt "icky" about things he wrote, and move forward.

That said, I do like to focus on positive outcomes, so I'll also say how genuinely lovely it's been to see people supporting each other throughout all this. I've been enjoying the influx of @ofmdlovelyletters on my dash, sharing so much love for others in the fandom. I've been thrilled at all the old gifs and arts and meta posts being shared once more from people who seem to have organically gotten the message of "oh yeah, we're here because we love the show, let's get back to that." Personally, I've been DMing a lot more people just to chat, and it's been really nice turning some fandom acquaintances into fandom friends. And I'm excited about all the efforts of the people working on @inv-2025-pccp to make sure writers who had their works plagiarized receive proper acknowledgement. That's a great, tangible way to turn some poison into positivity, and if you're feeling like "oh I just wish there were something I could do," I'd encourage you to reach out to get involved.

I've said this multiple times in private conversations, but I think it bears repeating here: no matter how much he may have tried, PCCP did not define the OFMD fandom before, and he certainly doesn't get to now. My hope is that as devastating as this event was, we use it as an impetus to move forward and do better, to strengthen relationships and be there for the people who've been hurt the most.

[vividly-vermillion]

Okay so you had me at plague doctor already because please don't judge me but they're so hot for NO reason at all. Add monster to it and my legs spread faster than I can even hit the reblog button.

Knowing this is from you Cort, I'm going into this with high expectations that I'll know you'll meet and surpass because no matter what you write it's just UGH YES TICKLE MY BRAIN!!!!

I hope you know that a shiver ran down my spine at the intro of this masterpiece and I shivered.

The entire ambient is just so good I have no words for it. But I don't want to stop reading. You set the scene so beautifully and paint a picture for my inner eye, making me a part of the story as if I'm witnessing this live and in color.

Oh lord. the description of the monster... whERE DID MY PANTIES GO???

The pain of loss - the willingness to do everything, to not run away from this it breaks my heart. Mr husband can be a very lucky man to be loved so deeply and sincerely.

THEY WERE BURNED ALIVE OH MY- i literally scrunched up in myself at the image. The downside of the way you paint pictures- the unpleasant ones also appear (which by no means is a bad thing but agsjsbsuidnw I wanna sob)

How does one even measure a soul? Is there ever enough money that would equal the love you have felt for one another? An eye for an eye? Do you need to give yourself away in order to get them back? It's such a cruel question but you portrayed it so beautifully

Great Death was terrible up close, freezing to the touch. Pale. Dead. Not of this realm. The air around him was dense, stagnant, like it had a breath to hold. It simply did not move in his presence. The feeling of his fingers wrapping yours then, pinning them to the countertop, suffusing you with his cold and his darkness made your neck hairs stand upright.

I loved this part so much for no reason at all I think. I just love great death it seems. The way he is so... otherworldly, scaring me down to my bones but also so soothing???

You bled on his cock that night as he savagely fucked you into the table. His nothingness had been moved away, parted in halves to reveal gray and blackened purple hardness. An emaciated belly of similar tones was eye-catching and harsh and familiar, but a view which became unimportant as he impaled you, yanked your head back by hair closest to your scalp, and forced your gaze to the ceiling.

This and the next 4 blocks of text... I can not tell you how they made me feel. There aren't any words for it. It's a strange mix of disgust, sadness, need and strangely enough want? To give yourself to something like great death for love... to get back the love is so... it's a price to pay but a price I'm willing to pay if that means I get my husband back? But it also feels so violating at the same time? Is this even full consent? No one will ever know and I don't care.

He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion....

He is so cruel and absolutely vile but he also seems so.... needy? He is craving this? You scratch an itch that he isn't able to reach and that somehow makes me feel appreciated help i need to tell my therapist about this ☠️

“Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

Now, sir, with all respect... no need to get mean okay 😭 but the way he yearns, mocks and just takes and takes why am I falling in love with him help

Now Cort... I AM SHAKING YOU BY THE SHOULDERS (gently) WHAT IS THIS ENDING I CRIED LIKE A BABY!! Fuck I did not expect this at all 😭 I feared that at the question above - whats the worth of a soul - that this would happen, that he wanted a soul in exchange but hell I did not expect he would just murder us like this :(( my silly pink glasses dropped because I was falling in love over here like the village fool I fear. The way he saw everything. The beauty, the ugly, he saw our most intimate - our soul.... but noooooooooooo

I dislike great death and hope he shatters the soul jar and eats bricks >:((

Anyways, personal feelings for the monster put aside - this was a truly beautiful piece and as said in the beginning I did not expect to be disappointed. I fear that I will come back to this a few more times because it will haunt my mind in the most beautiful way.

PESTIS

plague doctor monster x reader | 18+ | 3.7k

after the doctors in your town burn the bodies of plague victims, a mysterious cortège of black wagons begins visiting once a month. the one who leads them, great death, asks you what your deceased husband's soul is worth to you, and the result of it begins a convoluted spiral.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, sexual content, major dubcon, kinda implied size kink?, size difference, his ejaculate is not sexily described lmao, extreme body horror + grotesque details, graphic depiction of gore (at the end), kinda-sorta cannibalism?, mc is pretty shitty in this, murder, disturbing details all around, bodies are burned, frightening imagery, prose + detail heavy, this is a bit of an exploration of greed + touches on some relevant events if you can figure out the parallels, plays with the idea of humans having actual souls, roughly proofread, don't look too much into inconsistencies lmao just have fun.

muted divider by @/anlian-aishang

a/n; originally, this was supposed to be >1k as part of a personal challenge where ppl could vote on a poll for what genre i'd write a piece for. horror won.

thanks to @shouyuus for shoving this prompt from @/deepwaterwritingprompts in my face. this piece followed the prompt very loosely, but still!!

pls share your thoughts + reblog this! it really means a lot to support writers, guys 💙

All anyone knew was that he was called Great Death, and he led a cortège of black wagons with black lace across the windows into town square for one night, once a month.

The procession’s arrival was announced by clopping hooves from skinless, skeletal steeds and enormous wheels jolting across the cobblestone terrain, of which the very foundation of the town had been built on top of. Even though they moved slowly, precisely, in a single line of synchrony, their sound was one of continuous rolling thunder; the roaring fireplaces where all of the bodies were incinerated.

Your husband had been reduced to human soot in one of them, but you weren't allowed to know which one.

No one was.

The doctors had argued it was to prevent grieving families and grave robbers from clawing through the ash in search of bones, scraps of clothing, or valuables discarded with the bodies of nobles. But, none of that made any difference as there was greed and loss, far too much of it to keep people out of the fireplaces and from digging and stealing and reclaiming.

You hadn't been so driven to search for your husband’s things because you still possessed more wealth than he had been burned with. He had been blistered with black and purple pustules of infection and plague before he died, so you feared that breathing him in (breathing anyone in) would fill your lungs with them (with him) and kill you, too.

But, that did not mean that you did not grieve, because you missed the beauty that he brought to your life. You missed his gentle wit and loving mind, how he always sent you exquisite clothing from wherever in the world he had gotten to now.

My love, this is your color!

- Samuel

Every color was your color, in his eyes. And, every piece he had delivered to you became a part of your collection of things. An opulent display of his devotion and good status to show to your friends, anyone sitting with you for quaint tea and distantly sourced food untouched by the town.

Meeting Great Death had come long after the burning of plague bodies, now hushedly called The Incineration, and months since the cortège had first appeared during each waning crescent.

The wagons had filed into town with their thunder, pulled by dead horses that made the ground shiver under your feet. Many townsfolk, including yourself, had been roused by the commotion and hurriedly made themselves decent to check outside. It became a spectacle of groaning complaints, white nightdresses, and bright orange lantern light floating midair in bloodless fists.

All light was to the wagons, which had formed a tight, silent ring around the poisoned fountain spouting brown plague water, and the disoriented chatter had ebbed into anticipatory shushing.

Then, the townsfolk jumped, as the windows with their blackout lace fell forward as though forced from the other side, landing flat like a countertop. The darkness beyond the windows was as dark and dense as it was infinite, smothering pulsing glows from the lanterns as some fearless men awkwardly inched closer to the wagons.

“O’ woe! Tragedy! Tragedy has befallen your home! It has taken your friends and family. It has crushed your souls and stolen theirs. But, have no fear, for we have come to return what once was yours!” said Great Death from somewhere within the throng of wagons and wet skeleton horses.

“What are they worth to you? The souls of your dearly departed. What are they worth to you? To be reunited with those that you loved so dearly and so terribly lost. Wouldn't you do everything you could to have them back? Pay any price? Come! Come! Come all! Let us speak!”

And then, bone-white beaks and hollow eyes emerged from the darkness within the wagons. Each window filled with these spectre merchants; frightening monstrosities in black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats and long fingers pushed into leather gloves.

One townsfolk had communicated what you, what everyone else had thought seeing them, “What are the doctors doing? Haven't we suffered enough because of them? They've burned everyone we loved, and now they're trying to sell them back to us as souls? This is madness!”

“They are not our doctors! Look! Look!” wailed another; a paranoid man, “those are not masks. Those beaks are bone and skin. They are demons coming for the rest of us! Run! Run for your lives! Seal your doors! Hide!”

You were pulled along with the scattering crowd, the dispersing lantern light and slamming doors, but you did not flee inside as everyone else had. Instead, you were coaxed back towards the wagons by a leathery hand and nodding beak gesturing for you to come close.

The wagon was larger than the rest, as was the creature leaning out of the window. There was fleshiness to his long beak, waxen with green veins that throbbed in the swaying light.

Great Death looked at you with nothing eyes, and nearly bent his head sideways onto his shoulder as if his true stature were cramped inside of the wagon. When he spoke, he did so clearly, even without his beak splitting into halves like separate jaws.

“How joyous! You didn't run away. Your grief must be immeasurable. Please, come even closer to me. Come here. Yes, yes, what a lovely thing you are.” Great Death giggled in delight of your obedience, or your foolishness. “You do not wear rags. You are well groomed. You possess no healthy amount of suspicion, yet I suspect you are still mourning someone. Who might it be? You can tell me. Who? Who?”

You sensed he was mocking you with that jaunty voice of his. He asked you like someone who already knew a secret, but who'd wanted to hear the great revelation straight from the source.

“My husband.” You told him. “He was a wealthy merchant who owned many ships. He sailed for more months out of the year than he was home. He could've found someone else far more beautiful, more handsome than I, but he kept me. He always came home.”

Great Death stayed at his sickly angle with his head as he leaned out the window further, both hands grasping the edge of the window-countertop. “Ah, I see. And I assume that this wonderful, merchant husband of yours succumbed to the plague? Yes. Yes, he burned with the rest, didn't he?”

“He burned with the rest,” you said.

“A hideous shame! You do have my condolences. I must ask, have there been any other cases of plague since The Incineration?” His gloves scuffed as he fluttered his fingers outward, away from you and towards the lightless houses and barricaded doors. “I won't hear an answer from anyone else, as you know.”

You couldn't hold his empty gaze, those sockets of penetrating black and looked over his shoulder, hoping to see inside at something.

Somewhere far, somewhere deep, you noticed a faint glow. Tiny hums of light blinking in and out of existence like fireflies. Little sentient creatures with will and action of their own. But, these were colors: mostly bright white, some were yellow and orange, and a few were searing white-blue.

“No,” you said, at last, remembering the question, “there haven't been any more cases since the burnings. Since—”

“The ships stopped sailing.”

“Yes.” you said.

Great Death then withdrew into the darkness of the wagon with his crooked neck and leathery hands. You considered leaving for your home, padlocking the doors and pushing furniture up against them because it was clear that this creature—all of these creatures—harbored no good intentions.

They were not your doctors who had incinerated hundreds of bodies, claiming it as necessity; saying that there was no other way to protect the rest of the town. At the time, houses quarantining the sick had been forcibly broken into by the doctors and other men in masks and gowns. They offered no apologies, no desire for absolution, no mercy.

The plagued were dragged from their deathbeds, their salt baths, their favorite chairs and out onto the streets with no dignity, in whatever way they'd been found. They were taken to the fireplaces, thrown inside those great, lashing lion flames and died screaming as they became smoke and ash. Outrage only came after as it had all happened so quickly, no one had expected it.

The doctors had said nothing. Offered few sympathies, yet promised that this sacrifice, this purge, had saved the rest of the town. That there would be no more plague.

Sometimes, the fireplaces still wailed, but not how they'd had then.

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” asked Great Death, now back in his window with his sideways head and hands clasped on the countertop.

He'd been there for a while, it seemed. And you were still standing in front of his wagon, instead of being tucked away behind the safety of locks and walls.

“You—do you have him in there with you?”

“Oh, possibly,” he said, calm and unrevealing. His hands lightly thudded on the window-countertop, rattling the glass that it was made from. “I have a little bit of everyone in here, I suppose you could say. What is your husband's soul worth to you?”

You said nothing because how could you measure the worth of a soul? Did a soul cost as much as your vast wardrobe? Did it cost as much as your house? Was it worth the same one of your legs, or a cluster of pubic hairs cut with a razor?

“Do you think his soul is worth your fortune?” Great Death saw your stricken expression just then and let out a breathy laugh. A satisfied laugh. “Is he worth you giving up your clothes? Your house? Your comfortability? Do you love your husband enough to live in rags for the rest of your life?”

You rushed up to his countertop and grabbed his hands with yours. For once, your heart was beating something awful, foul with hot-cold dread that felt wet under your skin. “I—what else is there? What else would you be willing to take? Anything else?”

Great Death was terrible up close, freezing to the touch. Pale. Dead. Not of this realm. The air around him was dense, stagnant, like it had a breath to hold. It simply did not move in his presence. The feeling of his fingers wrapping yours then, pinning them to the countertop, suffusing you with his cold and his darkness made your neck hairs stand upright.

He was enjoying this.

“I will consider it a fair exchange. Everything material that you hold precious in exchange for the man you love. Wouldn't you say that sacrificing your wealth would be worth it if it meant reuniting with him?”

“I've earned everything that I have after a lifetime of scraping around the slums. I will not return to that,” you said, low in your throat, borderline vicious. “Anything else?”

He let out a windy sound, perhaps a breath, or hum that meant he knew too much. His thumbs, much larger than your own, caressed the peaks of your knuckles, stroked the backs of your hands and pressed down on your veins while he contemplated.

“Come inside, then. Just around the corner.” Great Death moved his slanted head slightly right, indicating a black door at the rear of the wagon, which had been camouflaged by the inky dark. “I'll open it for you. Come along. Come. Come.”

The interior became familiar to you each month thereafter. But, you would always remember how disoriented you'd been first stepping inside of the commodious space filled with all manner of things vile, fascinating, and mystifying.

Great Death was able to fix his neck when he wasn't hunkered by the window that reached only waist-height on him. He and the rest of the soul vendors were like afterimages of each other, seemingly indistinct, grayer, when you stared at one long enough and then looked to another. Great Death, however, came with a heavier beak that curved more sharply; a carrion face capable of tearing through your viscera.

He was one with the semi-darkness, his shapeless silhouette a seamless mesh with air and shadows, of which the yellow tallow candlelight did not fully reach. When he moved, it was swift, inescapable; he glided rather than walked, and you could only follow his pallid features appearing to float midair.

“Forgive me for the mess, it is so rare that I have guests come inside to visit me. Transactions are better done outside, after all,” explained Great Death, already unfastening, untying, disrobing you, and laying you out on a wooden slab of a table. “My, you are lovely, aren't you? I wonder if what I see is what your husband saw in you as well? Ah, that is unlikely.”

You bled on his cock that night as he savagely fucked you into the table. His nothingness had been moved away, parted in halves to reveal gray and blackened purple hardness. An emaciated belly of similar tones was eye-catching and harsh and familiar, but a view which became unimportant as he impaled you, yanked your head back by hair closest to your scalp, and forced your gaze to the ceiling.

There, you watched the serpentine emptiness coil across the ceiling of the wagon, watched the formations in the wood grain come alive with writhing, yawning faces that never lasted long enough to know if they were speaking to you, because Great Death thrusted too hard, made you cry, bleed more, but you didn't tell him to stop.

This was the price you were willing to pay. So, you laid beneath him motionless, sore, regretting your own stubbornness for just a moment until he let out a shuddering breath of release, rutting you with his cock still twisted with your insides. He flooded your walls with cum that felt wrong, gluey, membranous. It oozed out slowly once he removed himself, the pain of him having been there was worse now that there was nothing left.

“Even I experience lust and crave a human’s touch, their soft flesh. Humans are an indulgence we are rarely afforded. Souls, well, as you can imagine, cannot do much,” said Great Death once cloaked in his darkness again. He redressed you, starting with the sleeves, and helped you off of the table with encouraging pats to your lower back. “I greatly enjoyed myself. Thank you for this exchange.”

“My husband's soul, I want it.” Now, as he ushered you towards the end of the wagon, towards the black door concealed in staticy shadows, you ached in countable pulses. “Give it to me.”

Great Death giggled, pressed his hands down onto your shoulders, and nuzzled his lethal beak against your neck.

“Come back to me next month.”

And, that's how it went on from there on out. Each month during the waning crescent, a persistent bright and sharp sickle in the sky, he led the cortège into town square and allowed you through the threshold into his sacred place. He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion.

“Oh, oh, oh, how joyous, my lovely.” He fucked you on the floor as he spoke, ramming you cruelly, until you whimpered and moaned. You wondered if he was trying to make you scream. “What a boon you've become to us all. They're all so happy. Your people. Mine. The souls. None are so happy as me, though.”

Before he'd penetrated you again, before he'd let you through the door, he met you at his window-countertop and asked, “What is your husband's soul worth to you? Have you considered letting go of your fortune? My lovely, you know that you cannot possibly take it with you once you perish and rot, yes?”

Always frightened by the thought and obstinate, you let him have you in whatever way he pleased. The pain eventually washed over with numbness. At times, his long strokes against your walls felt good, and occasionally you would come on his gray and purple cock. Focusing on how thick he felt inside of you, and the white streaks of lightning crackling behind your eyes.

Without fail, he flooded you and made it stay for a short while as if relishing your prolonged discomfort and disgust that he was still there. It would leak slowly, abnormally, as he redraped himself. Concealed his sallow body with protruding ribs, jagged angles, and dark slits spread throughout.

He was corpselike; he looked like rot. His rot inched out you for days after he was long gone, and then the sickness would set in. Red hot fevers and bone cold shivers kept you bedridden for weeks, tended to by cautious maids unsure what to make of your recurrent episodes.

Nothing showed, but you felt festering beneath your skin. Unexplainable in that you saw no such lesions, no lumps lurking in the layers of your anatomy. But, you soothed and scratched yourself like something was there. The maids were worried that your grief had made you spiral into hysterics, and they considered calling one of the doctors to your bedside.

“I will ruin all of you if you bring one of those—those murderers into my house!”

At these times, you could not be reasoned with. There was too much itch, too much sensation, too much boiling under flesh and bone, too much crawling, too much pain, too much hunger, too much vomiting, too much too much too much too much too much…

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” Great Death had returned during the waning crescent, said you looked unwell. “Will we continue our exchange as we usually do? I am not opposed, you know that. I am very fond of you, my lovely. Come inside.”

You were fragile and fatigued from fighting illness, so it didn't much matter how hard he fucked you into the floor. Skin slapped and moistened with fluids and sweat, and Great Death’s moans broke the stillness in the air.

“Oh, my lovely, I look forward to coming to this town because I know that you're waiting for me.” He said it dreamily, like in reminiscence of a bleary, beautiful memory. A faded photograph lost between pages of a book of someone once loved. “Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

His body was revealed to you. The dark slits which covered him twitched and opened wide into tens of dozens of pupiless black eyes, and lipless mouths with needle teeth. Purple-red tongues lashed out of the mouths at you, making you scream and struggle beneath his weight.

“This wasn't part of the exchange! I just want my husband’s soul!” you pleaded, searing with panic through every ounce of your being. “I'll give you it. I'll give you everything. My clothes. My house. My fortune! It's all yours!”

His fucking had slowed, stopped entirely as a bullous, flickering light had drifted out from some hidden places in the depths of the wagon. It was gently orange at its center, emanating a pale aura outward, which pulsed like a heartbeat and buzzed with familiar warmth.

You thought to reach for the doomed little thing destined to be smothered by the dark. All light eventually was.

“He's waited for you all along, my lovely,” said Great Death softly. He followed the floating marvel with his nothing eyes as it circled your joined bodies. Eventually, it came close enough to snatch out of the air and snuff out in his leathery fist. “Yes, such a beautiful soul he was. I no longer want it.”

Your breath snatched in your throat, mouth agape. Shock had invited in a swell of watery cold that made you unable to truly acknowledge what had just happened. That you'd lost your husband for a second time; this time forever.

There was no telling smear of blood or glittering orange residue in his open palm when he showed it to you. It was as if it had been a brilliant trick of extinguishing candlelight without a trace.

“Your soul is most foul, but it will be my prize. My lovely, for as long as I find you beautiful and repulsive, you will live on. Yes. Yes, I'll keep you here with me so that I may always be able to admire you.”

Before you could've launched yet another scream into the immense void of the wagon, he thrust his carrion beak into your chest. He wedged it deep through your muscle and blood, piercing cartilage and bone to reach your heart.

Great Death used his hand to rip out the throbbing, glistening organ from the rest of you. He observed blood filling the cavernous well he'd left inside you, saying nothing as it backed up your throat and spilled profusely from your mouth. Once you died, the bright red that had stained your teeth darkened to exquisite purplish-red.

He tore your heart apart into consumable pieces and fed them to his mouths. The piranha teeth and long, licking tongues chewed eagerly; meanwhile, the eyelids on his body closed knowing that the mouths would soon be sated by the decadent meal.

Thereafter, he waited.

He waited for a long time, because souls were oftentimes more timid than their human husks. There was nothing left to protect them from vendors on the prowl, vendors who had built collections across millennia.

But, eventually, your soul did appear before him in stuttering pink light. He caught you easily, let you rest in his hand while he decided on which jar he owned could possibly be enough to house your beauty.

You would turn sinfully red as you matured, became strong, forgot who you used to be.

All you would know is the Great Death and the inside of his vast wagon littered with strange things. He would be kind to you by letting you out of your jar sometimes, but for now, he'd keep you on the middle shelf where he could best see you.

a/n: I have this habit of killing husbands or doing awful things to them and I am very unapologetic about it.

anyway. this wasn't executed quite as well as I'd hoped. but, I wasn't writing to perfection, it was just a little personal challenge for myself. overall, I'm not unhappy with it.

I'd like to bring great death back again in another piece sometime, if y'all are interested.

this was also the first time where I think I've actually, deadass killed my reader-character and it felt so good lmao. I've implied in several of my stories without making it explicitly so.

anyway!!! I'd still love to hear your feedback and would absolutely adore you if you reblogged!!

[drtyelvisfantasy]

SAVE YOUR LOVE

LINEMAN!RAFE X STRIPPER!READER AU

note: thank you to all who voted in my poll and i hope you all enjoy this<3 please send in any questions you have abt this au, I'll be very excited to answer them all and I am also trying to find a nickname for out reader so if you have any ideas please send them. please like and reblog🎀

summary: rafe takes the reader on a week long trip to florida

warnings: fluff, angst, infidelity, I don't think theres any more warnigs but let me know if I'm missing any :)

Rafe decided that we should go on a small vacation. He said it would be best if we took a break from the hectic lifestyles we were living, and he was right. The drive to Florida was long. I kept trying to convince Rafe to book us a plane ticket, but he kept telling me no. Every time I asked him why, he responded with complete silence.

I had never been to Florida before, so I was excited for the week-long trip.

As Rafe and I entered the small beach house, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of normalcy. It almost felt like a home. Rafe said it would be better if we rented a small beach house for the week instead of staying in a hotel—he said we needed a change of scenery. Rafe carried our bags inside as he looked around, his eyes taking in the small, cozy space.

“You did a good job picking this house out,” I said to Rafe.

He smiled, setting down the bags in a small corner. “Yeah, it’s nice. Better than those cramped hotel rooms, right?”

“Yeah… that’s why you should stay at my place more often.”

Rafe glanced at me, a sly smirk on his face. He took a step closer, his voice low. “You always make excuses an—”

Rafe interrupted himself, his voice firm. “No arguments. No fighting. This is supposed to be a relaxing trip, sweetheart. I don’t want any of that bullshit.”

“Sorry.” I was quick to apologize—I couldn’t ruin the trip on the first day. I didn’t want him to hate me for the rest of the week.

“No apologies, baby. I just want us to have a good time, alright? I just want to spend time with you.”

Rafe leaned down and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to my cheek, his hand coming up to cup my face tenderly. He pulled away with a small grin.

-

Since we were staying in a house instead of a hotel, we had to go grocery shopping instead of relying on room service and takeout. Rafe grabbed a grocery cart and pushed it through the aisles, eyeing different foods and snacks. We made sure not to buy too much since we were only staying at the rental property for a week.

“What should we make for dinner tonight?”

Rafe looked at me, shrugging as he scanned the frozen meat section. “I’m not sure. What do you feel like having? Something light or something heavy?”

I shrugged my shoulders, not really knowing what I wanted to eat. At the end of the day, it was all up to Rafe—I just wanted to see him happy. He looked at me for a moment before returning his gaze to the freezer. He reached for a pack of steaks, tossing them into the cart.

“Steak? Feeling fancy, huh?”

“Yeah, I figured we could treat ourselves. Besides, you know I love red meat,” Rafe teased.

-

We finally arrived back at the house. Rafe and I collapsed onto the shared bed, both of us drained from the long trip to Florida. Rafe pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my neck as he yawned. I never had to worry about feeling cold or scared at night when Rafe was with me—he gave me a sense of clarity and safety. Every time I had a nightmare, he was there—holding me, whispering that I had nothing to fear because he was right beside me. His presence was my safety, my comfort. I couldn’t imagine a life without him.

Once Rafe and I woke up, we made our way to the kitchen to start cooking. Rafe took charge of the stove, preparing the steaks while I set the table. I could get used to this life. I wanted it to be like this forever.

Rafe glanced at me, his attention still on the steaks sizzling on the stove, making sure he didn’t burn them. “How do you like your steak, baby? Rare or well done?”

“Medium rare,” I replied.

Rafe nodded, his tone firm. “Medium rare it is. That’s the only right way to eat steak.”

After finishing our meal, we took a moment to relax and continue our conversation at the dinner table. Rafe leaned back in his chair, a content smile on his face as he looked at me.

“So… how’s life back home?”

His expression quickly changed, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Home? Home is just… home. There’s not much to say.”

“You sure?” I asked eagerly. I wanted to know what it was like back home for him, but more than anything, I wanted to know about his wife. Does she treat him well? Does she know about this trip? Does she know about us?

“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s just… not that interesting, ya know?”

“Sorry to hear that.” The words felt hollow, but I didn’t know what else to say. Apologizing was all I ever seemed to do.

Rafe shook his head, waving off my apology. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I’d rather not think about home right now. I’m just here to spend time with you.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Rafe reached over and stroked my head gently, his expression softening. “Exactly. We’re here to enjoy our time together, not talk about boring stuff.”

There was a moment of quiet between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Rafe’s attention was focused on me, his gaze fixed on my face. He studied me for a second.

“What are we gonna do tomorrow?” I asked.

“Well, I was thinking of going to the beach. Spend the day on the sand. Just us.”

“Sounds fun. Been a while since I got a nice tan. You need a tan too—you live on an island and still look pale,” I teased.

Rafe rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “Hey, not all of us can be constantly tan, sweetheart. Some of us burn too easily.”

I gave Rafe a small smile in response. He reached out to brush a strand of hair out of my face, his touch gentle and affectionate.

-

The next day, Rafe took me to the beach as promised. The warmth of the sun on my skin and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore made everything feel so peaceful. In that moment, all my worries faded, and it was just us—playing in the water, laughing, and losing ourselves in the simplicity of being together. Rafe took every opportunity to touch me, his hands always finding an excuse to be on my body.

“Rafe, put me down! You’re gonna make me all wet!” I giggled, trying to squirm out of his grasp.

Rafe laughed along with me, his gaze heated as he looked down at me. “You’ll get even wetter when we get back to the house. But for now…” He tossed me back into the water playfully.

As time passed, we found ourselves back at the house, lying in the shared bed, talking in hushed tones. The conversation was easy, a sign of the growing comfort between us.

“I like it here,” I said.

A warm smile spread across Rafe’s face at my words, his expression softening. “Yeah… me too. I like having you all to myself.”

“We should move here, you know? Just me and you.”

Rafe stayed silent, his expression shifting at the suggestion. He didn’t answer right away, his eyes searching my face as he considered the implications of what I was saying.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Rafe shook his head, taking in my words. The idea of living in this peaceful place with me seemed to resonate with him, pulling him in. He shifted closer, his arm wrapping around my waist, his presence grounding me in a way that felt both comforting and intense.

His tone was soft but firm as he gently pulled me closer. “You need to rest, baby. Today was a long day. Come on, close those pretty eyes and get some sleep.”

“Okay,” I responded obediently. He pulled me into his arms, holding me close to his chest. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my head, his hand rubbing up and down my back soothingly.

We made the most of the rest of our trip, enjoying each other’s company, living a simple life, playing house. He seemed happier than ever, his usual tension and anger melting away in my presence. But I couldn’t help but feel a little sad, realizing this was just a temporary escape from reality—and the life I so desperately wanted was still out of reach.

[violetjedisylveon]

Shadowpeach AU, where Macaque was originally the guardian of the Immortal Peach Trees, and Wukong had to get past him in order to get an immortal peach...

But Past Wukong ISN'T as strong as Current Wukong, so Macaque keeps preventing him from getting a peach...

One day, Macaque mockingly bites a peach in front of Wukong...

Wukong suddenly has an idea; he kisses Macaque on the lips, to get the peach in Macaque's mouth...

Macaque was frozen, as Wukong smugly takes the peach from the stunned Macaque's hands...

But once Macaque unfreezes himself, he knocks Wukong out with a single punch...

Wukong wakes up, in love with Macaque! 😍

Oh fun!

The idea of a celestial realm dwelling macaque makes me think of @anxiescape's Celestial Bodies au, which is, in their own words, sleeping beauty with gay monkeys and war crimes, and their art is super pretty too! Their Macaque has galaxies in his fur!

As I was answering this, the idea of Macaque having been adopted by the Jade Emperor and Xiwangmu (Queen Mother of the West), popped into my head, so now the Jade Emperor's issue with Wukong isn't just that he's wrecking his shit, but he's flirting with his son and making a fool of him!

This idea just became a whole lot funnier.

This could have been a tragedy, it became a comedy. I might find a way to get some angst in here

Macaque works in the peach orchards with his sisters, sometimes the peach maidens are Xiwangmu's daughters, because he enjoys it and it's a natural habitat for a monkey like himself.

He was not expecting the new stable boy to be so brazenly bold as to kiss him, a celestial prince, as a ploy to steal from him! He punches Wukong in the face for it and hopes nobody saw that, it's so embarrassing.

Meanwhile Wukong is absolutely smitten with the guy who could knock him out like that and thinks he's super powerful and strong and pretty. So he keeps visiting Macaque specifically, he doesn't know that he's the Jade Emperor's adopted son, he just thinks he's pretty.

Macaque is super confused and annoyed, he's just trying to do what makes him happy and be a good son and this stupid cute monkey keeps getting in his way!

He confides in his big sister Iron Fan, she immediately clocks in that the other monkey has the hots for her little brother and is not a fan. She asks their cousin (Erlang) to keep an eye on Wukong just to make sure he doesn't do anything.

Erlang, who is also not a fan of this monkey with the hots for his cousin, completely understands.

So now Xiaotian Quǎn follows Wukong around whenever he's in heaven, giving his the upmost disapproving looks whenever he interacts with Macaque.

But then! Horror of horrors!

Macaque catches feelings for Wukong! And he wants to die, it's so embarrassing and unbecoming! And it'll never work out! Wukong isn't a celestial, and relationships between celestials and demons or mortals are forbidden!

Macaque is super easy to fluster now and any time Wukong shows up to talk with him he is a blushing mess and is not hiding his affections very well.

Luckily Wukong is as dense as the rock he hatched from, and doesn't get the hint.

Unfortunately, nobody else is and everyone thinks he's toying with the six eared prince's heart. This just makes the rest of Macaque's family like Wukong even less.

Wukong tells Macaque about his cool friends and how they are all about taking on the injustices of the heavens, (he hasn't done anything super destructive yet he's just been a nuisance).

Macaque challenges their ideas with the question of how they would fix it, and how much suffering their war would cause for the mortals, and does a former celestial like Azure really know better than the being who's spent millions of years keeping things balanced?

They are good questions.

Wukong is left doubting the brotherhood.

Man's gay crush is giving him second thoughts.

The Jade Emperor and Xiwangmu still don't really like Wukong because he's clearly got a thing for their son and they are protective parents to say the least.

Once Macaque admits his feelings to his family, and that he wants to date the most infamous"bad boy" in all three realms, well something like this happens:

Jade Emperor: Where do you think you're going, young man? Macaque: Wherever he'll take me. JE: I forbid you to go out with that hoodlum! Macaque: But Daddy, I love him! JE: Go to your room! Macaque: I don't even live here anymore! JE: Well, then, go to your old room that your mother turned into a scrapbooking room!

It's from a Looney toons episode, someone actually made a comic of a similar idea only LBD's the parent in that situation, it's so funny.

So Macaque is grounded now, JE and Xiwangmu have already lost at least two daughters to their lovers (their over reactions to the relationships are what really caused those tragedies but the royal couple doesn't want to admit that, @quitealotofsodapop has a lot more and better detailed ideas about this concept on their blog).

Good news for the brotherhood! Azure can turn this in their favor by making Wukong think the monkey he's in love with is being held prisoner by the Jade Emperor. He still doesn't know Macaque is his son, because macaque liked being around someone who didn't know that and never felt the need to tell him.

So Wukong is amped up to fight the Jade Emperor to rescue his crush/friend!

Meanwhile, Macaque is stuck in his room listening to the dumbass he fell head over heals in love with.

Will this end good? Bad? Who knows! Not even me!

I have ideas for a good and bad end, but I might put it to poll for the decision of what really happens.

Thanks for asking! This was a really fun one, hope you like it!

[jojaxcola]

So I, like a lot of people, love your mockumentary series. And this is a stretch and probably won't get done for ages but could I use your mockumentaries to write a fanfic? It won't be long or complex, more of an extension to the scenes you've drawn. I'll give credits, don't worry but yeah.

But if I do, I'd love if you answered a few characterisation questions.

I know the farmer filmed some but is any of it not farmer filmed?

Why is the farmer doing this?

Are there any fanon or hcs you used to create characters that I should use too?

Expect more soon + updates

Thank you so much!! I had this in my inbox for a while and I've been thinking for a while about how to answer, because I'm not sure how much I want to give away at this point in the series hehe 👀 but I hope these answers are helpful

I consider the farmer/producer to be the project lead and to be present for everything that's being filmed. While they take on some of their own filming, they have a small crew to handle things like camera work and sound. During the talking head segments, the farmer is the one prompting them with questions as needed

The farmer is still a Joja employee like in the beginning of the game, but not with the same office desk job. Their team has been tasked with filming a documentary series highlighting the happenings of a JojaMart location, and the farmer was the one to propose the relatively new Pelican Town location due to their grandfather's love of Stardew Valley. So they're still a newcomer to the town, but they don't have the farm. I might stay a bit quiet about the farmer's ultimate motivations for this project, though... :)

This one's a bit tricky since I'm not totally sure how to narrow it down hehe. One thing I'll say here is that I altered Sam's work schedule to have him appear in the store more often (since in the game he's only there like six hours a week). I'll also say a little bit about how I like to characterize the main players in the series:

Sam is someone whose cheeriness is partly genuine, but also partly because he needs to be the guy who keeps everyone positive in tough times. It's important to him to make sure everyone feels included and not forgotten. Sam isn't dumb—he's actually very creative and resourceful—but he does tend to rush his thinking and follow bizarre trains of logic. He doesn't like to slow himself down, and when he dwells too much on his thoughts he tends to reach uncomfortable conclusions.

Shane has an extremely low opinion of himself, but keeps himself going at work to provide for Jas and to not be a burden to Marnie. He's easily annoyed and has a tendency to push people away, but he's not completely shut off. He'll accept gifts and other gestures of kindness but doesn't totally understand why he's getting them, or why he even deserves them. He needs significant and repetitive convincing to believe any friendship with him is genuine. Shane believes that life is harsh, and he tends to fixate on difficult truths. Sam's optimism frustrates him, and he sees Sam as a naive little boy who will be eaten alive by the cruelty of reality.

I don't like depicting Morris as cartoonishly evil. I think it's more fun to make him "corporate evil", where his villainy comes from a "socially-acceptable" disregard for the little guy. He'll go on about how the JojaMart personnel are one big family, but he can't even call his employees by their names. He thinks he's above his staff, and he's satisfied by the idea of getting to look down on someone; he views higher-ups as having earned their power, and that looking down on others is just part of that package. Morris loves to project the image of human connection, not because he genuinely believes in it, but because that's what appeals to customers. And he'll do everything he can to convince Pelican Town that Joja is the answer to all of their problems.

I also like to pepper little personal headcanons into the different entries (I like to think Sam is left-handed, so I wrote his notes on his right wrist in no. 5) but I think listing them here would bloat this post :o

Please feel free to ask anything else about the series (or individual scenes), this was really fun to write up! And I can't wait to see what you come up with!! :D

===============

Follow ups to this post (I might make a separate FAQs post if needed):

What has become of the community center? (@happycomputertimetravel): It's still dilapidated. I consider the jojamart series to have the town in the same state as it is at the start of the game (so Kent is still overseas, the bus is still broken, etc.) unless depicted otherwise

[ssa-writerminds]

Spencer Reid || Butterfly

-x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x-

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Reader has Fibromyalgia, descriptions of chronic pain and fatigue, facts about moths and butterflies, established relationship, reader is afraid of moths (projected, sorry 🤧). Nicknames used: Butterfly.

Contents: Another day full of pain, another morning waking up later than you would've preferred leaves you restless. Knowing that his voice helps calm you, Spencer decided to indulge you with a topic you had been curious about.

A/N: This is very self indulgent, i apologise, but I hope that even if you don't have Fibromyalgia or any sort of chronic illness that you can enjoy this fluffy Spencer piece :) <3 (All descriptions are taken from my own experiences with fibro.) I used the nickname 'Butterfly' because the symbol for fibro is a purple butterfly, and i learnt that after i decided Spencer would ramble to reader about butterflies, and they also have a deeper meaning to me so my mind was like omg that's a crazy coincidence i love it.

You couldn't move. Every muscle and every bone in your body felt heavy, like even the slightest effort to pick yourself up off of the mattress would cause them to snap off, leaving you nothing but a pile of limbs. Your head felt as if there were weights set on top of it, magnets pulling them down further into the mattress. Your eyes were heavy, but no matter how much you willed it to, your brain would not let you sleep. Stuck in the limbo of consciousness but an inability to do anything about it. You were so tired. How could your brain not fall asleep right now? It was as if your body and mind were having an all out war, neither could decide whether they wanted to be awake or to do nothing. Or maybe, they were just pulling a trick on you, pointing and laughing as you lay helpless against the mattress. You sighed deeply, feeling the air filling your lungs and leaving again. Maybe meditation would work? You laughed mentally at your thoughts. Those were exactly the kind of words you had heard repetitively since getting your diagnosis. "You should try pilates!", "How about yoga?", "Have you tried meditating and eating healthier?". You rolled your eyes just thinking about them.

The sound of a key in the front door snapped you out of your thoughts. Your boyfriend, Spencer, had been away on a case for the past week, the longest he's ever been gone. Every muscle in your body yearned to sit up, to go and meet him at the door, to pull him into the tightest hug, but you couldn't even lift your head right now, nevermind your whole body.

It was late, so Spencer tried to be as quiet as he could as he removed his jacket, shoes, and placed his satchel bag on it's hook. He expected you to be asleep, with it being 4am. So he didn't want to wake you. He practically tiptoed to your shared bedroom, expecting to hear your deep breaths as you slept peacefully. But when he found you awake, his expression softened. He instantly kneeled next to the bed beside where you were lay. "What are you doing awake?" His voice was quiet and gentle as he brushed his fingers through the hair at your temple. You sighed, leaning into his touch the best you could.

Spencer knew about your struggle with Fibromyalgia, how the pain and fatigue could be overwhelming. He was nothing but understanding, even on the days when you couldn't get out of bed, offering to make you every meal and bring it to you, to help you with anything you needed to do. It was so refreshing to be looked after, to feel seen. There was still such a stigma against the condition, but Spencer had never thought negatively about your experiences. As soon as he learnt the word 'Fibromyalgia' from you, he was researching everything he could about it. How it felt for you, how it affected you, how he could help you. He had been with you on your good days, smiling and laughing as you walked through the park together, but also on your bad days, when you needed his help to even walk from your bedroom to your bathroom. He wanted nothing more than to help you, to make sure you were doing okay, to comfort you when just existing felt uncomfortable.

So when Spencer found you laying in bed, tired eyes and slow, strained movements, he didn't hesitate to comfort you. "Bad day?" He asked referring to your pain and fatigue, rather than the events of the day itself. You sighed, nodding the best you could.

"I missed you..." Your voice was barely above a whisper as you brought a hand to rest in his soft curls. He smiled, placing his free hand above your own and keeping it against his head, taking the effort away from your heavy limbs.

"I missed you more, Butterfly." You smiled at the nickname, at the gentleness and the love in his voice. You frowned as Spencer stood up, pouting at the loss of touch. "I'm getting ready for bed, don't worry, I'm not going anywhere." He reassured you, his tone teasing upon seeing your dramatic pout. "You need anything? Food, Water?" He asked, changing into his preferred sleep clothes.

"I need hugs, and sleep." You responded, watching him move around the bedroom, placing his laundry in the basket. You smiled as he pulled back the covers, climbing into bed next to you. You worked together to lay your head on his chest, your arms wrapped around his torso, his own rubbed soothingly into your shoulder.

"Is this okay?" He asked softly, placing a kiss on top of your head. On bad days, even the slightest touch or pressure on your skin could cause pain and discomfort, but laying in Spencer's arms was almost magical, you rarely felt discomfort in his embrace. It probably was something to do with how gentle he could be, putting barely any pressure on you, but enough so that you could feel his loving touches, but you preferred to imagine he was magic.

You leaned your head up to face him, smiling up at him. "It's perfect." You whispered. Spencer placed a soft kiss on your lips, brushing away a few strands of hair that had fallen in front of your eyes.

"No, you are." He teased, making you snort at the cliché response. You stayed in silence for a while, Spencer's steady breaths and heartbeat soothing your mind. For the first time that night, you actually felt sleepy.

"I saw a video about hawk moths today. Someone grew them from worms. I watched the whole thing, even after they had transformed." Spencer looked down at you with a smile.

"Oh yeah? I thought you were afraid of moths, especially big ones. Hawk moths are pretty big."

"Yeah, I think seeing them change though made it... different..." Spencer laughed softly through his nose as you tried to explain. You had been afraid of moths for as long as you could remember, their wings fluttering, and their faces caused a feeling of anxiety whenever you saw them. Spencer had known you long enough to witness just how bad your phobia could get, having to calm you down after panic attacks caused by the small flying creatures. "Although there was one clip, one of the moths she had raised in the past had deformed wings, and you could see the dust or the scales or something and it made me cringe..."

Spencer laughed again. "You know they're harmless right? They don't even have mouths, or well, they do, but not big enough to bite us. They wouldn't even have any reason or want to."

You sighed. "I know... They just freak me out." A silence fell over you again for a moment. "Could you tell me about moths? Anything about them... And butterflies too. What's the difference between them? Like... what makes the distinction between a butterfly and a moth?"

Spencer laughed at the random thought, clearly seeing your thought process leading to the question you asked him. "Well, they're both classified as 'Lepidoptera' but are considered different due to their behaviors, evolutionary paths, and adaptations. Moths first appeared about 160 million years ago, while butterflies only 100 million."

You closed your eyes, allowing Spencer to tell you everything he knows about butterflies and moths, and explain the differences to you. He did this often when you were struggling with your insomnia. You often fell asleep before he even got half-way through his knowledge of the topic. You felt the sleep slowly begin to take over as you listened to his words. His voice, soft and gentle, slowly lulling you to sleep.

"While they share a lot of genetic material, they show a difference in gene expression. In traits such as circadian rythm (moths being nocturnal and butterflies being the opposite), wing structure, and metabolic adaptations. The way their pupae develop is different, moths spin a silk cocoon, whilst butterflies form a hard chrysalis. Their flight is different too. Butterflies typically glide and flap slower, but moths tend to have faster and more erratic flight due to their wing mechanism. I think that could be why you're afraid of moths, but not butterflies."

As Spencer looked back down to you, he noticed that your breathing had gotten deeper, your eyes closed, your expression relaxed. He smiled realising you had fallen asleep listening to his facts. He placed another kiss on your hair, allowing himself to relax back against the pillow. "I think this particular species of butterfly might be nocturnal however." He said quietly, laughing to himself, as he noticed that the sun had started to rise behind the black-out curtains in your room. He closed his eyes, and let himself join you in sleep.

[fullymyself]

Drowning

Pairing: Matt Murdock X Reader

Word count: 2,406

Prompts: "I love you" "It'll pass" from Fleabag, and I also added a bit of one of my favourite songs, Hymm To Virgil by Hozier (it's very Matt)

Warnings: angst, cursing, mentions of injury and reader gets into a fight

Notes: Hello! This is my entry for @elixirfromthestars Cinema Writing Challenge! I've been away from writing for a few years now. The last time I wrote anything, it was the begging of the pandemic and I ended up stopping completely and deleting my Tumblr account during that time. It was pretty hard to come back and it's been such a long time, so I can't help but feel really anxious with posting again, so I wanted to thank Mel for this wonderful challenge that made me get back into writing!

English is not my first language so please forgive me for any mistakes, if I re-read this fic one more time I'm gonna give in to my anxiety and not post it. Hope you enjoy it and sorry for the angst!

Divider by @enchanthings-a

''Matt, stop!" Your voice echoes in the apartment, louder than you meant it to and high enough to make him stop rushing his way up the stairs. "If you're really doing this, when... if you come home, there'll be no one waiting for you."

That gets his full attention and he turns around on the steps, facing you. The fire behind his expression lowers and through the cracks you can see the hurt starting to sip through. He opens his mouth but you cut him off. "Don't start with your excuses, Murdock, I'm done with it. Call it whatever you want to make yourself feel better, this isn't right. I've known about your demons, I've accepted them and you know damn well I've got my own but this..." You step closer to him so you can push against the leather covering his chest. "This was meant to be a symbol, this was hope, justice... not an excuse for you to go around acting like the people you fight against"

"I-" His voice cracks and you can see the tears forming in his eyes, you  know he  can read your emotions better than anyone and you're sure he can tell how serious and hurt you are. You have to close your eyes and breathe, fighting against every instinct that tells you to comfort him. You know you're right and you're not backing down now. "I've got to do this. They won't stop hurting innocent people, people we love, if I don't stop them. I need to protect you, Foggy, Karen..."

"Don't put this on us. If you keep trying to justify this with some noble excuse instead of recognizing you're doing this for yourself, for your pride, your pain, your vengeance... you're gonna end up like the men you're sacrificing everything to fight against. " You fight the tears threatening to fall and your throat burns in protest. "What will happen when you run out of people to hide behind, Matt?"

"You're right." You step back needing to put as much distance as possible between the two of you, knowing damn well it'd take every bit of strength you had to walk away from him. "I don't understand." You quickly grab your phone and coat and make your way to the door.

"You don't understand..." You look at him, incredulous and hurt, and can't help but scoff. You've been by his side, through the bad and the ugly. You've seen Matthew Murdock, the righteous church boy turned attorney. You've held him when his world was crashing down, you've been together through loss, grief, happiness, pleasure... but you'd also seen the devil of Hell's Kitchen. You'd seen the anger come out, the hatred, the desire to hurt and make people pay. Retribution, revenge, payback... and even then, when the world shrieked in fear, you had stood by his side and loved every part of him.

Before you can register it, he's in your way, hands hesitantly reaching out to you. "Wait, Y/N, I can't... I can't do this without you"

"And I can't do this with you. I won't sit here and wait for you to become the same monster you've been fighting." You push past him and he doesn't resist.

As you're making your way through the door, you hear his voice for the last time, and it takes everything in you to not turn around. His voice is soft and cracking with the effort to keep his pain at bay - it's all Matthew and no Devil. "I love you"

"It will pass" You say resolutely as the door closes behind you, trying more to convince yourself than him, even though it feels like you clawed your heart out of your chest and left it in the hands of the man you loved.

You walk aimlessly through the streets of a damned city praying to a God you weren't even sure you believed in to keep him safe, to let him come back home safe and with his soul intact.

It's only once you're blocks away and you're sure he can't hear you that you allow the tears to slip out. It's pretty much impossible to keep the panic at bay when all you can think is that Matt might not comeback from this fight and you didn't say it back.

_

Months passed, somehow both too quickly and tortuously slowly. You hadn't seen Matt again and did everything you could to keep yourself from hearing about him too - even though every cell of your body missed him, you had to remain away from him or you knew you'd fold.

Karen had helped you get your things out of the apartment so you wouldn't have to go back. Foggy had also offered to help you with... well, everything, but you couldn't ask him to choose a side in this.

In order to keep yourself sane you had an agreement with the both of them, no talks of Matt or Daredevil when you met -  usually at Josie's where the so called drinks would help you forget for at least a few hours just how fucked the past months had been.

They'd make sure your get togethers would happen when Matt was too busy with work or with his side gig to go out so you wouldn't have to worry about awkward soul crushing encounters.

The second agreement was unspoken but it was clear as day - if Matt was hurt or in serious danger you'd be the first to call. No details were ever given, unless you asked, and the calls usually lasted only a few seconds in which a crying Foggy would try to sound tough but would end up only whispering a ''He's safe, you can rest.''

But turns out maybe you should have had an agreement about you as well.

_

It was a stupid move, you were well aware, but when it happened you really didn't think before you acted.

You were on your way back home from work when you heard a woman scream and saw man running down the street in your direction. A brown haired woman ran out of a building, several bruises covered her face and she struggled to shout a plea for someone to stop the man.

You acted on instinct and became an obstacle on the man's path. He collided with you full on, throwing both of you to the floor with extraordinary force, your whole body aching on impact.

''You fucking bitch!'' He shouted scrambling to get up as you grabbed his arm, trying to keep him down as long as possible as the sound of sirens kept getting closer.

Suddenly, as the streets got illuminated by red and blue lights, the man grabbed a fistful of your hair, his other hand coming down to strike your face. 

It hurt like bitch and destabilised you long enough for the man to get away, only to be tackled down by police a few feet away.

_

It was definitely going to bruise, you thought to yourself as you examined your face on the mirror, but other than that and a few cuts and scrapes you were okay - physically at least.

After the day you had, being alone in your apartment and having to take care of yourself, was incredibly hard. You couldn't help but imagine that this must be a fraction of what Matt felt when he would get home after a hard night and just wanted to be held.

There's a faint knock on your window when you go back to the living room, and you turn around to find Matthew pearched on the fire escape. You don't know if your heart is beating uncontrollably because of the jumpscare he manged to give you or because he's actually in front of you after all this time - if you had to guess, probably both.

Hesitantly you make your way to the window and let him in. He's not wearing his usual red getup, rather his older black attire. You know he wears it when he needs to do something he doesn't want the media to associate with Daredevil but you can't help how it tugs at your heart - this was the Matt you first met and fell in love with.

Matt keeps shifting where he stands, clearly uncomfortable and not knowing how to proceed. It's only when you talk that his body relaxes a bit and he reaches up to lift the cloth hiding his face. "Hi, Matthew." Against all the conflicting feelings and hurt, your voice is soft around his name, making it sound heavy and sweet - like an indulgent bite of your favourite treat. He takes a long, deep breath, savouring the way his name sounds coming from your lips. ''How did you know?'' This time, your voice is harsher, pointed at him with sharp edges.

''Police radio'' Of course he did. You take a deep breath but don't respond. There's a part of you that wishes he'd known because he was keeping tabs on you not because of some random police message, but you're not willing to listen to it, so you justify your annoyance with having your privacy violated, with knowing that even after all this time he still knew things about yourself without you having to say a word while you could not be certain of anything when it came to him even when he'd talk to you.

After a while he moves, hands reaching out with so much hesitation, torn between being afraid you'll step away from him and being afraid you'll open up again and he might hurt you. Seeing the man that had touched you so freely and adoringly before hesitating so much broke your heart.

You met him half way, gently guiding his warm hand to your face. The almost featherlight touch sent shivers down your body and you had to fight against leaning onto it, for the sake of your bruised face and your sanity.

''Are you okay?'' His voice was sweet but there was something else lingering beneath it as his fingers examined your face, lightly touching the feaverish skin of your bruised cheek and trailing down to the small cut on your lips. His jaw tightened with anger.

''I'm okay, just got a few bruises and scratches, nothing I can't handle.'' You try to reassure both him and yourself, clinging to the words you had repeated like a mantra for the past months - I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay...

''You know that's not what I'm asking.'' There's a faint smile on his lips, one burdened with sadness and acknowledgement. He always knew you too well for your own sake. ''How are you?''

You know he can assess how you are physically, probably better than any doctor, and though he knows you well enough to know how you might feel, he can't read your mind. So, with the mess of thoughts running through your head you settle with being as honest as you can. ''I don't know.''

And you really don't. The past months have been an amalgamation of intense and opposing feelings. There's the part of you that is hurt, tired and that wants to scream at him for everything that happened. But there's also the part of you that loves him, that has longed for him and that just wants to be in his arms. Trying to fall out of love with him is like trying to breath underwater, having your lungs fill with water day after day while telling yourself that everything was okay.

Before the tears turn into sobs, Matt pulls you into his arms. You stay like that for god knows how long, he just let's you cry while he holds you. His hand moves through your hair in an attempt to soothe you and when you finally stop crying he doesn't let you go, pressing a kiss to the top of your head but only tightening his arms around you. Now that you're calmer, you can feel how much his hands are shaking.

"I know I'm in no position to ask you this but please never do anything like that again." Now that he speaks again you realize he's been crying as well, his voice heavy and hoarse. All you can do is nod against his chest.

More time goes by until you finally muster up the courage to speak again. "What are we now, Matt?"

He takes a while to speak, and just as you think he's not going to, he sighs. "I don't know." There's a pause as he let's go of you. He brushes away the hair sticking to your wet cheeks and cups your face, forcing you to look at him. "But I need you to know that everything you said to me that night was true, and I was too much of an idiot to see it." He sighs again, and you can see the hesitation on his features. "Everything was true but one thing... it didn't pass, and I don't think it ever will. I love you, and I don't care about what we are, I would burn the world to bring some heat to you. That won't change if we're friends, acquaintances, friends of friends... I just can't be a stranger. I wanna be a part of your life, anyway you'll have me."

He's the man without fear, yet the only thing you can see on him is how afraid he is as he waits for you to say anything.

"I fought against it with everything I had, and it almost broke me, Matt." It's your turn to touch his face and he does not show the same control you had before. He leans  his face against the palm of your hand and all but moans with the feeling. "It's impossible to fall out of love with you." Carefully and slowly, you move to press your lips against his.

God knows the problems are not solved between the two of you, there will still be battles to be fought and arguments to be had. But as you lay on the couch listening to his heartbeat and talking honestly about everything that you hadn't had the courage to talk about before, you realize this is how the world is meant to be. For the first time in months you feel like you're no longer drowning.

If you're here, hi!!! Thank you so so so much for reading and I really hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is very much appreciated.

If you liked this fic, I'm trying to get back to writing so I'm accepting requests and I'm also planning on rewriting some fics I wrote in the past, if any of these catch your eye let me know cause I have no idea with which one to start:

Bucky Barnes X Maximoff!Reader - the story is based on the movie Practical Magic and the reader was raised alongside Pietro and Wanda. The siblings ended up growing apart in recent years, that is until the day Bucky Barnes showed up at your door with Wanda passed out in his arms. Now you're confronted not only with your family but it's curse.

Bucky Barnes X Reader - the story is based on the movie While You Were Sleeping. You work at a café and have a secret crush on Steve Rogers, the super soldier who has been coming to the shop every week to grab a coffee and sketch. One day, he is attacked right in front of the café and, even though you manage to save his life, he falls into a deep coma. All it takes is one misplaced comment and now the whole hospital and the Avengers think you're Steve's secret fiancée. What's worst is that now you find yourself falling for his best friend.

Aaand that's it! Thank you so much again and I hope you have a great day!

[wailingclown]

Invincible chapter 2

It was another chance to be alone with you that was unfortunately ruined but this was also an opportunity for his father to see just how great you are.

Still, he was a bit worried about inviting someone without checking in with you first.

Should he call?

You did give him your number but he felt a bit off being the first

To call it seemed a bit weird.

How would the call even go?

“Hey clockwork I know we haven't known each other long and you don't usually work with others but I invited another hero to join us for patrol hope you don't mind”

He groaned harshly, rubbing his face.

It's not like he knew you long, a week into being a hero you had taken him under your wing after watching him get his ass kicked.

He wasn't even sure what this relationship was.

Mentor and mentee?

It's not like you trained him sure you offered but he never had the time.

Friends?

He didn't even know what you sounded like he didn't even know your favorite color, maybe purple? Your suit seemed to be primarily purple with splashes of vibrant greens and yellow, a bit of a tye-dye effect. It was cool straight out of a comic book, did you paint it yourself?

He had so many questions but it felt weird each time he tried to ask you about anything personal. He felt like he was intruding, worried that if he irritated you he'd be abandoned. You already rarely work with other people so allowing him was amazing all things considered.

So lost in thought his ringing phone was able to startle him back to reality the moment he saw the name of the caller he dove for the device quickly accepting the call.

“Heyyy um clockwork been awhile haha”

He froze (why did I say that I'm sure he thinks I'm weird

now shit shit)

“Yes it has been a while invincible, about tomorrow's patrol It's a bit dangerous unfortunately I'm unable to discuss much over the phone to put it simply wed be taking down an organization that has been experimenting on humans as well as a few superhuman individuals I'll protect you with my life I feel like this would be a great experience for you”

He flushed pink as a peach hiding himself under the blankets.

“Can you say that again”

“There's an organization I plan to take down so”

“Not that about protecting me?”

There was a long pause long enough for Mark to regret his words fidgeting a bit.

“I promise to protect you, invincible I won't allow you to be seriously injured I simply want you to observe a bit how I work I want us to continue working together think of this as a bonding experience”

Sure the voice was robotic but Mark couldn't help how warm he felt from the man's words pressing his face into the pillow with shame. What if it's an old frail man behind that suit or maybe a woman? There had been some theories that the man behind the suit was a woman.

Still, the hero was around for over 30 years, and having a crush on someone older than his mom felt weird.

“Invincible you alright?”

“Yes! I mean. Yes I'm fine it's just is it okay if someone else tags along?”

“A friend of yours is a friend of mine”

Mark bites his pillow to hide the squeal he is about to let out

“You think of me as a friend?”

“I'd like to think we are our time together has been short yet very meaningful to me”

“I think of you as a friend to”

“I'm glad”

Mark let out a yawn.

“Tired?”

“I wanna talk to you a bit longer”

“It's important to get the proper amount of sleep when you'll have a busy day ahead of you”

“But”

“You're curious about me, right? It'll allow you to ask 3 questions about me if you do well tomorrow so get some rest”

And with those parting words, he hung up

[strangebiology]

So I understand that it is extremely difficult to know which type of fur is more ethical/sustainable/less damaging to the environment due to bias coming from basically all sides of the discussion, however, what would you recommend for consumption of fur products? Do you have any "best practices" for trying to reduce one's impact in general? I rarely buy fur, I mostly get it second or third hand if I get it at all and use scraps and such as much as possible. Overall I'm not a big consumer, but if I need fur for crafts or something similar, do you have recommendations on how to cause the least harm? Thank you for your contribution to the overall discussion. I think this is important.

Thank you for asking openly! Unfortunately I don't have a clear answer, except #1 below:

The one you have I feel confident that "the most sustainable coat/car/whatever is the one you already own." But, obviously, sometimes you need a new one.

Thrifting Second to that, I figure thrifting is probably best. Or making sure you take what you want when Grandma dies and you clean out her house. Logically, thrifting either one--whichever you find that fits you and your needs--should have a fairly minimal impact. And there are tons of clothes out there that are just about to hit the landfill. (Nice coats, though? Might be a little harder. Probably not too hard.) There could be issues with second-hand stuff, of course. I read in The Scavenger's Manifesto that there was a time when vintage clothes were so popular that demand outstripped supply, and companies just started manufacturing vintage-like clothes. I could imagine a world in which items become so commonly thrifted that it's close to the same price to just buy something new, and that props up the new-product industry. I wonder if Poshmark is popular enough that people are just shipping clothes around and polluting via transportation without really wearing them enough, but all in all, I think second-hand is probably second-best (to the one you already own.)

More sustainable real fur options? I did profile someone who had a roadkill-fur business. But: a simple fox-fur ruff for your coat was thousands of dollars because the economies of scale weren't there, and the company went out of business anyway. If you know and trust someone or can do something like that yourself, great! But that's not a really accessible option for the average American.

More sustainable faux fur options? Not all faux fur is made of microplastics, companies like GACHA and Savian. But...I don't really know how accessible those are, nor have I seen environmental assessments on them.

Sooo...honestly I won't judge what you buy or wear. I'll say that second-hand anything is probably very low-impact, sustainably.

I have to admit there are reasons to buy new. If you buy something on clearance, is it possible you're saving that from a landfill, too?

Once, I spent a whole bunch of Saturdays in a row biking around to garage sales, trying to get a second-hand lamp. So many hours wasted. I found a dirty one for $10 and couldn't get it home on my bike. One weekend my roommate took me in her big car to Walmart and we got a new lamp in a box for $7. No shopping around, no hoping to get lucky, just "there it is, and I can return it if it doesn't work." So...while secondhand is almost certainly more sustainable, I also won't blame anyone who wants to just buy new.

Another sustainability thing: I also recommend trying to ensure your coat fits your parameters really well, like your size, do you want hoods and pockets, do you think it looks good, so you don't get in the habit of stuffing it in your back closet because you don't like it and buying another.

Sorry I don't have a simple answer!

EDIT: I now realize I have written this as though Anon was asking about a coat, but their ask is more about crafts. Uuuuuuummmm gosh, I don't know. Faux fur can be so much cheaper and easier to find than real. And not everyone has a thrift store nearby. I know I don't, except that little store that sells used things for 150% of the new price. If I was doing a craft...I'd probably start with the fur someone gave me for free and then if I needed more I'd probably just order faux so I don't have to drive 150 miles to risk it at a thrift.

[mirai-e-jump]

TV Life, 3/28/2025 Issue ft. Fuyuno Mio & Shoji Kohei (translations below)

Publication: March 12, 2025

OneLog! Vol.1 (Fuyuno Mio)

-The Director's words to "capture the nature of my role" is what I cherish as I face Hoeru-

Everyone, it's nice to meet you! I'm Fuyuno Mio, I'm 21 years old and play the role of GozyuWolf and Tono Hoeru. For me, tokusatsu shows have been something I've admired since I was a child. "Engage!," the transformation yell for this work, is compact, yet so intense and cool, that I remember how excited I was when I first said it during filming.

As Hoeru's name suggests, there are many scenes where he howls, "Awoooooo!" In the beginning, my voice would sometimes give out as I wouldn't be able to hold it, but the more times I did it, the more people around me started to say, "Your voice is improving." I feel like my throat is getting stronger, and most importantly, I become more fired up when I howl.

I do my best with daily filming, but when I become anxious and wonder, "Is this scene gonna be okay?," Masa-kun always says, "Don't worry!" Masa-kun's been looking out for me since the script reading stage, and even gave me words of encouragement at that time. Masa-kun has really saved me, and I'm incredibly grateful to him. Also, while I was taking notes during the reading, Director Tasaki casually wrote the words "capture the nature of your role" in my notebook. Since then, I've come to cherish those words as I face the role of Hoeru.

Future episodes will feature Hoeru's past, so I hope that you'll pay attention to how Hoeru got to be where he is today. The whole year will be like a festival, with developments rapidly unfolding. Things are going to get more and more exciting from now on, so please make sure to look forward to it!

Q: In relation to Number One Sentai, what are you most into these days?

A: Lately I've been into baseball. I thought, "Wouldn't it be cool if I played baseball?" (laughs). I've been swinging a bat at a batting cage to get better at it, but I can't seem to hit the ball very well. I'm still working hard on it, so I'd be happy if I could show off my skills within the show someday.

Number One Shot!: This is the cutout used during the opening credits! We had a fun time filming with the life size cutouts of the five cast members! Shocking stuff has been happening since episode 1, but there'll be more exciting developments in the future, so please make sure to look forward to them. _

GavvPare! Vol.14 (Shoji Kohei)

-Using the phrase "I'm tired" in a natural way-

Since he started working part time at Hapipare, Lakia's state of mind has gradually changed. With Lakia originally working in the Granute world, I thought he wouldn't be that opposed to communicating with the people around him. I think he's able to talk normally with Sachika and the others in the human world simply because he just thinks that the people he's talking to are different. To better illustrate what I'm saying, the feeling is similar to experiencing culture shock when interacting with another Japanese person versus a Westerner, as the flow of the conversation and reactions you'd get are different. In that sense, my reactions to scenes such as eating ice cream and pudding or working part time aren't over the top, but are more nuanced like, "This isn't quite what I imagined."

I've always been conscious of not overdoing the "I'm tired" line, as there are times when I say "I'm tired" when he's in a positive state of mind, as if to say, "Alright, let's do this," but in other cases, I say it because he's too lazy and doesn't want to do something. However, I think that if I give each and every one of them meaning, the viewers will also stop and think "I wonder if there was any meaning to that just now," so I try to say it naturally and without it sounding forced as much as possible. Having said all this, I myself haven't developed a habit of saying it, but I was once teased when I casually said "I'm tired" while talking with a friend (laughs). It was pretty embarrassing, so I've been saying it less often (laughs).

Suga begins to make some major movements starting from episode 27. Through the incident with Koji-kun, Lakia's attitude toward humans has become softer, and while he's adjusting to the human world, he once again thinks about his reasons for fighting. Also, I hope you'll look forward to seeing if he'll be able to open up to Hanto, who he's still very much at odds with.

Q: When you hear "Spring," what comes to mind?

A: It's flowers. I started writing haikus last year, which led me to become more conscious of what catches my eye, but I think I'm now able to enjoy scenery on its own more than I did before. Cherry blossom season is approaching, so it'd be nice to go to a park with friends and enjoy the cherry blossoms and greenery together while drinking sake.

Off Shot: A picture taken during the infiltration of the dark sweets factory. Now that I think about it, my black costume in combination with the belt is a rare sight. Lakia's outfit will occasionally change from now on, so make sure to look forward to that too. It's already Spring!!!

[lastoneout]

I know you meant well, and I understand the sentiment. But addiction is legitimately an issue with ADHD meds, and it is very very possible to become addicted to Adderall or other stimulants even with ADHD. I do agree that it is too tightly regulated, but I do think regulation is important, at least until there are more social changes and social programs that provide enough of a safety net to help with addiction. Thanks for listening, and I hope you're doing well ❤️

I appreciate it, but out of curiosity do you have a source? I've been researching this as best I can and I have not found anything backing up the claim that people with ADHD are at risk for addiction to their ADHD mediation. Lots of stuff saying people with ADHD are more prone to other kinds of substance abuse, especially when under-medicated or just not medicated at all, as well as lots of people with ADHD saying they used to have substance abuse problems before they knew they had ADHD and stimulant medication is what helped them recover. There are also loads of studies showing that being medicated from a young age actually drastically reduces your risk of developing a substance abuse disorder later in life.

When it comes to abusing stimulant medications it seems like the main issue there is people taking more than they were prescribed or taking it incorrectly, which is a problem obviously but is true of most prescription meds? I have been taking my methocarbomol wrong for like a month beause I misread the bottle, and I have to have a lot of pill organizers for my meds because my ADHD makes me forget I've taken them and if I forget I will take too much, but tbh at that point I'd figure they just need a higher dose and aren't getting it or need to pay more attention to the labels on the bottle, but I'd love to hear from those people and learn what their motivation was and what happened.

Looking at all my sources the general consensus continues to be that people with ADHD are at a such a low risk of becoming addicted to their stimulant medication it's barely worth talking about. To contrast that, the only sources I've found that do insist you can get addicted are private, for-profit addiction help centers(and randos on Quora) and I'm sorry, they have a very high incentive to convince people they have addiction issues and are very prone to lying(one page I found claims that a sign you're addicted to your ADHD meds is "not feeling alert when you don't take them" as if that's not just...what ADHD is?? and another says trying to refill them early is a sign of abuse when in reality not being able to refill them before you're completely out means we go days or even weeks without the medication due to pharmacies being slow or not having it on hand, it's not a sign of addiction to not want to have to go off the meds that make it possible for you to live your life), so I do not trust them as reliable sources. Not even kidding, no matter how I word it, when I search on google or duck duck go if a person with ADHD can become addicted to their own medication the only thing that comes up is for-profit addiction help centers and every page is full of blatant misinformation about ADHD that would take like two seconds to fix if they actually cared about anything other than making money.

On top of that, a lot of pages talking about this seem to be confusing needing a medication to treat your serious medical condition with being addicted to it. If you claim that someone with ADHD is addicted to their meds because without them they have trouble sleeping, can't focus at work/school, and that stopping cold turkey makes them feel awful then you just. You don't understand how ADHD works or what an addiction is. People with ADHD don't crash when they lose access to their meds because they were addicted, they crash because they have a serious medical condition that requires treatment and the treatment has stopped. Same shit if I was denied my inhaler while having an asthma attack to like prove I'm faking(which also does happen and gets children killed). Not sleeping, doing poorly in school or at work, being late all the time, not eating, feeling confused and tired? Those are symptoms of ADHD, not signs of addiction, and medication helps because you need it, not because it gets you high.

Also, according to a doctor who writes for ADDitude magazine(which tbh isn't perfect, but nothing is) says there have also haven't really been any studies on long-term stimulant use in people with ADHD aside from ones on being at a higher risk of addiction to other substances in folks with untreated ADHD, which doesn't mean there isn't some issue we don't know about for ADHDers specifically, but when looking at people who take stimulants for narcolepsy it seems like there are absolutely no long term negative health effects of taking a stimulant mediation THAT YOU NEED. Obviously if you don't need it you can get addicted and it can hurt you and if you have like...idk an allergy to it or a heart condition or the meds just aren't helping/are making things worse we should look at other options, but if you need a stimulant medication and don't have a medical condition that can be worsened by them, then it's completely safe and the risk of addiction to the medication itself is so small it's not even worth talking about or bringing up. Like everything coming up on this subject is talking about people with ADHD being prone to addiction to other things like opioids or alcohol, not their medication, and when they start the medication it helps them stop abusing other substances because they don't need them anymore, and all of the resources I can find on adderall addiction are aimed at helping people who do NOT have ADHD who are abusing the drug to get high or lose weight or do better in school.

I've also seen TONS of anecdotal stories from people with ADHD saying they wouldn't try to get high on adderall or any other stimulant medication because it doesn't get you high. Instead it makes you feel like complete shit and it's a waste of the already hard to access and very expensive meds we need to function, so there's no point in even trying to abuse them. And that's a history I share, when I started adderall they put me on WAY too high a dose and I just felt...eugh all the time. Too high a dose(or drinking too much coffee) gives me very bad brain fog and exhaustion and I disassociate and altogether just makes me feel like garbage, but when I got on the correct, lower dose all of that went away. I can't imagine trying to get high on them, I've been high on other things before(weed, opioids, benzos, benadryl) and that is NEVER what it feels like and it's not fun or relaxing or enjoyable, it just sucks. (Or well, the benadryl high also sucks, but still feels way more like a "high" than taking too high a dose of adderall and I could see someone doing it on purpose for fun, I cannot possibly fathom someone with ADHD enjoying taking too high a dose, the experience has no redeeming qualities.)

Anyway, I do appreciate you being nicer than the last person, and I'm going to keep doing my own research, but so far there is quite literally ABSOLUTELY NOTHING I can find anywhere I've looked that suggests that getting addicted to stimulant medications when you have ADHD is common or even remotely likely to happen and is certainly not something anyone with ADHD needs to worry about. Still, I would love to see the sources you or anyone else have on the topic, because from where I'm standing this seems to be something that the average person or doctor doesn't need to be worrying about at all and the scaremongering just leads to people with ADHD suffering for no reason at all and being terrified of seeking help that would dramatically improve their lives with very little actual risk.

Edit: Also, yeah we should have better health resources for people who do become addicted to substances, but waiting to loosen the regulations around adderall based on unfounded claims that the people who need it are at risk of becoming addicted to it is getting people with ADHD killed ALL THE TIME because of how our conditions puts us at monumentally higher risk of injury, accidental death, and addictions to substances that actually harm us. I said it before and I will keep saying it, I would rather 1000 people get high on adderall than ever have a single person who truly needs it go without. We are being killed by this logic, our lives are proven less valuable than the lives of people who don't have ADHD and I will never support that. Decriminalize all drugs I am not and have never in my entire life been joking about that. When denied meds we need people turn to unsafe drugs and alcohol and then we die. Giving people who need medical help medical help is what prevents drug OD deaths. Everyone I know who has turned to street drugs did so because doctors refused to help them, I use marijuana to treat my insomnia because my doctors refused to give me sleeping meds due to the belief ambien is worse for me than never sleeping, and tons of people with ADHD suffer of addiction to dangerous and risky drugs from unregulated sources and they all say adderall is what fixed it. Denying us adderall is infinitly worse than just fucking giving it to us and not acting like a fucking Protestant obsessed with suffering to prove our virtue or whatever.

There is no argument for denying people the meds they need that isn't rooted in racism(the war on drugs, misconceptions about non-white bodies), misogyny(self-explanatory), transphobia(self-explanatory), and ableism(again, self-explanatory). Why should we, the people who are having our lives ruined all to protect abled people, have to sit down, shut up, and get treated like criminals to get the treatment we need, if we are granted it at all? Who on earth does punishing us like that help??

People with ADHD should not be collateral damage in the push to protect poor, precious abled people from maybe possibly getting addicted to adderall. That's wrong and it always will be.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

hey dear <3 hope you're having a lovely day. nsfw warning (no idea if it's needed but!!): need need need to hear your thoughts on cockwarming sam while you both read

Have I mentioned recently how much I adore all of you and your depraved minds? No? Well, here is a reminder. You guys are my people. I love it here. ❤️❤️❤️

As you probably can tell if you read my stuff I'm not super into Big Bad Dom Sam for the most part - I see him more as a pleasure dom (although I don't think he would explicitly call himself that, at least not until he's older. He reads a lot of books on the topic. Of course he does). BUT I can also see him be a really sweet, caring but strict brat tamer? Does that make sense? Anyway, I'm getting off topic.

Okay, so there's two ways I can see this going:

The first one is Sam being in control, but I could picture him being a little playful. His girl's on his lap, back turned to him, and he might keep running one hand over her back, maybe even massage her a little, and then occasionally tickling her, just a little. It's silly, but the way she squeezes him when she flinches and giggles isn't. It's a good thing she can't see Sam's face too, because he's acting cool but he needs to squeeze his eyes shut every time she does, maybe bite his lip.

At some point, of course, it becomes too much, and Sam either tips both of them forward, bends her over the table and starts fucking her without ever slipping out of her. Or he might not even make it to the table, instead wrapping his arms around her, tossing the book somewhere (he would never do that) and just start thrusting up into her, his face pressed into her hair. Quick and dirty, even though of course it isn't, because it feels like they've been sitting there for hours.

And while I do think Sam might have a bit of a control thing with sex, I can't neglect subby Sam, my beloved.

It's her idea, of course, because Sam wouldn't even dare to think to ask for something like this. So when she surprises him while they're lying in bed, pulls his boxers down, makes him hard, lets him push into her and then fucking stops moving? Picks up her book like it's nothing, like he's not balls deep and leaking and throbbing inside her? He freezes, stares like an idiot. Is he supposed to do something?

So he licks his lips, goes back to it as well, but it's very hard to concentrate. Every time he thinks he might be going soft she does that little wiggle and his stomach muscles clench and he's back up. It's exhausting and uncomfortable, but he thinks this is the best thing to ever happen to him. When he shifts around too much, she raises her eyebrows at him.

"What's the matter, Sam?" she asks, like he can't feel her warm and wanting around him.

"N-nothing," he stutters, because it would be awkward to say something now, right? And then, just when he thinks he's getting used to it, is maybe really starting to enjoy it, she puts her book down, starts grinding against him. Sammy doesn't last for long then, but that's okay. His brow is twisted into those deep ripples, his lips parted and he whimpers. For a moment, he keeps his hands to himself, but then they fly to some part of her body, squeezing her flesh cause he needs something to hold on to, something to keep him in the moment.

He comes shaking and whining, his entire body trembling and his head falls forward, exhaustion overtaking him. She tussles his hair and coos to him.

"Good boy, Sammy," she says, and if this is what being good gets him then put him on Santa's list, cause he's never doing anything else again.

And now I'm off to have a meeting with my department lead. Definitely won't be thinking about this the entire time. This was SO fun, thank you, anon, it brought me so much joy! ❤️

[tendermiasma]

Hello! I must admit that I already asked some questions before, cowardly anonymously but you're kinda my comfort artist so I hope you don't mind!

How do you keep motivation/focus with big artwork project? I'm on one big piece with multiples characters and kinda tricky lighting and the more I look at my artwork, the less sense it's making. Like it's not "bad" it's just not resonating as much as the first idea now that it's rendered.

And you draw nsfw (and I somehow think it's way harder!) so keeping the fresh new eye every time on a scene that's supposed to be solely focused on that particular moment must be very hard! Like focusing on trees leaves when you have Halsin and Clover having their little moment under them would frustrate me so bad lmao! I guess it's why a lot of artist don't bother much with backgrounds and details... (guilty)

Thank you for your insight!

I don't mind! It's pretty simple for me, when I'm stuck on a difficult part I know that if I don't figure it out then the drawing just doesn't get made. There's no other option than to figure out the difficult part. I've never given up on a piece that was hard because I'd rather have it get made than languish in my brain.

You can hammer away at something until it's closer to what you imagined or you can let it be, but part of that is knowing the difference. If I'm getting frustrated I'll step away for a couple hours or overnight and I'll come back with fresh eyes. That usually lets me either figure out what's wrong or helps me realize that it's actually fine and I was just tired and cranky.

Environments for me are important to have even if they're not my favorite part of creating. I just love the feeling of having my ideas fully realized in color and place. I also love rendering light on my characters and it feels weird to not have an environment to reflect it. It's more work but it's almost always worth it to me. I limit myself to spending 1-2 days on it because even if I'm not a master painter, I don't have to be to make an immersive and reasonably decent environment. I just don't want to pick at it! Anything I have after those 1-2 days will always get the job done and anything new I can learn in that time period is A+ with me. Unless they're in a very specific setting, I just want it to be filled out enough to not attract attention to itself by either having too much or too little, but to complete the feeling of the piece. I'll add important props but that's mainly what I go for.