#it doesn’t necessarily mean she is either

[interdimentionalsnapdragon]

Yes, toriel is loving, but she isn’t necessarily blameless, either.

Her actions at the end of chapter 4 are most telling; to rote:

- it is at least 1am (going by soundtrack names), probably far past that if the third sanctuary took as much time as the second.

-kris has not called, and presumably has not answered any calls given they are in a dark world.

-it has been one (1) day since her TIRES WERE SLASHED

Do we find her in a panic? Searching for kris? No. We find her drunk, dancing with sans. And Kris’s reaction of looking down shamefully implies this has happened before. They do not want susie, one of their most cherished friends, to see this side of her.

And it doesn’t get any better once susie leaves. She let kris’s dinner, the pancakes, get eaten by sans. Her and sans continue to party for hours after kris goes to bed, preventing them from getting any sleep.

Yeah, she doesnt know that kris is going through The Horrors(tm), but her actions would still be irresponsible and neglectful to a mentally healthy child, never mind Kris.

And even as far back as chapter 2, we see her brush off kris’ disappearance for what must be hours. Even if we read this as her tolerating a well-known habit, it doesn’t look good.

Toriel bakes lovey pies and pancakes and encourages kris making new friends. She is a diligent caretaker who makes sure that susie does not go out alone into a night that might possibly be dangerous; and additionally makes it fun for the kids (and prevents them from panicking) by framing it as a sleepover. She appears to be a well-loved schoolteacher and community figure. She also is an alcoholic, and shows little regard for kris’s safety when they are not directly in her presence.

Toriel is a nuanced character, and that means she is neither evil nor good. In some ways she is loving to kris, and in others, she is very, very neglectful. I would not say it is her fault that kris is depressed, but she is at least one contributing factor.

…

Also, where are you getting toriel running around asking for things to help kris? Unless there is some dialogue I missed, I think there might have been an assumption or two in your analysis.

you know what infuriates me the most about the way people talk about kris and toriel?

growing up as a depressed teenager when your parents love you is so unspeakably painful, because the moment you start to grow up and get better and have a chance to look back on the past with clearer eyes, you realize that for every attempt at connecting you shot down, every conversation you reluctantly got dragged into, every time they prodded at your loneliness and pushed you to make friends, for every way they tried to help that didn't work because you were too broken and ontologically bad and sick in the head for it to stick... your parents spent years of their life suffering alongside you, worrying themselves to rags, helplessly watching their kid suffer because they lacked the ability or the knowledge or the medicine to make it better. but because they didn't lack the will (because they're good parents and they love you) they just kept slamming themselves against the wall between you, hoping something, anything would one day reach. because they just want you to be okay.

if you see a child go hungry because their family struggles to put food on the table, if you see a mother at her child's sickbed holding their hand and wiping the sweat off their brow because she can't do anything else to take the pain away, you would never blame them for "failing to provide what their child needs". so how the fuck do you watch toriel run around hometown day after day, asking for information or anything that could make kris feel better because she's one of 2 people total who noticed something is wrong, when the reason they're hurting to begin with is that they're possessed by a god and probably doomed to die..... and feel anything other than pity. for both of them. how do you see them as anything other than victims of very tragic circumstances. why does this fandom always treat the phrase "toriel is a nuanced character" as synonymous with any of this being her fucking fault

[amphibious-thing]

I saw RENT (stage show) recently and I have a lot of thoughts about Angel and they’re mostly just that I wish more people understood the historical context behind her character

[demynom]

Why does everyone to feel the need to prove Their Girl is the canon ship in ffvii. I think the narrative is a lot richer if you acknowledge cloud has deep feelings for both Aerith and Tifa, just like they have for him and each other.

[your-lovely-ghost]

Lord don’t let this be the day my egg is cracked

[syluses]

separation anxiety

⤷ caleb experiences a rut after a long time, and it just so happens that you’re in his path.

cw. 18+ smut, hybrid! caleb, knotting, dubcon if you squint, breeding, obsessive/possessive behavior, perv caleb, fem human! reader, ruts, size difference, also a lil breeding, 3.5k words because i physically struggle to write smut without a preamble, reader is ovulating and it triggers his rut this time for whatever reason

an. saw this trope going around & wanted to try it <33 he’s got that DAWG in him 💪 also i cant decide if hybrid caleb gives german shepherd vibes or samoyed vibes…. that moments post lives rent free in my mind tho idk (>_<)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, & 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅! (๑´ `๑)♡

Caleb would say he hates you for the time you’re gone, but it’d be a big fat lie. His love for you, big and bursting in his chest, deepens in the quiet windows where you’re present at work or running errands throughout Linkon before returning home to him.

There’s a permanence of you in his mind and being. He wants it no other way.

His devotion for you doesn’t necessarily drown him- no, you’re always there with a lifering waiting- but it certainly sweeps him up and threatens to.

He gets a bit ahead of himself sometimes, he’s aware of that; energetic, bulging at the seams with vigor; whether it’s an integral part of his personality or just a consequence of his breed, the pound he came from never quite knew. Your Gran never figured that out, either, and for as sweet and trying as she was, she soon realized she couldn’t foster him for long.

Because he was a big boy, hungry for attention and wired to please, well-meaning but oft over involved with personal space— and he brought a loaded package that your Gran just couldn’t sign her name off on, not after a few months, anyway. She tried her best before nudging him into your care, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to give him up to that squalid pound or the streets again- and besides, the mutt liked her granddaughter; all those visits she paid throughout the summer obviously endeared Caleb to her, and quickly.

You admit, it’s a mite difficult to juggle between long days at work, little tasks that drag you from point to point throughout Linkon, and your own personal life on top of caring for a hybrid stowed away in your shoebox apartment— but your grandmother was all but sapped of her energy then, turning to you for aid although she seldom ever did, and you’d always lend a hand where you could.

The mutt- Caleb, is his name (and you call it fondly even as he’s pawing at your thighs for attention or drooling on your collar)- has grown on you considerably in the past half year, anyway.

You won’t let him down or leave him at the curb. He’s yours. The red collar you bought him says as much, printed with your number on a silver plate, and he wears it not because you make him but because he’s proud of it.

He’s a good boy, he is. He always has been and for that you’re thankful.

Except, this week he’s… different.

As of a few days ago, it’s like he’s been testing the waters- and your patience- on just how far he can go before you tell him off or say bad dog. He must find them warm because he’s just been diving deeper as the week progresses.

You don’t know what to do. He’s oddly aggressive. It’s not rare at all for him to follow you all around your apartment, but he’s foregone the very last shred of respect for your personal space and nips when you try to push him away. Not hard enough to actually hurt- the yip you make is more surprised than anything when he pulls you back in and licks at the small red patch- but you look wounded at it.

Because Caleb doesn’t bite— he just doesn’t.

He wraps you up in seemingly endless embraces and breathes your smell in until he’s dizzy, laughing into your neck like a giddy child. He does this every time you try to leave for work and he’s made you late for it.

Maybe it’s just because you’re ovulating and a little hormonal, but it makes you quite sour and the mood stays even when you return in the afternoon. He’s never liked when you’re gone, sure, but he’s always been there to see you off at the door with a pout as you scratch behind his ear- more or less tame about it.

Your patience really frays at the odd uptick in his possessiveness, though. It’s hurtful.

You’ve always treated him less like a pet- a hybrid- and more like a friend, and you feel quite indignant for it when he growls and tells you that he hates the smell of other men on you, hearing none of your excuses that it’s ‘just coworkers’, glaring at you like some brainless extension of him. You feel less like a person and more like an object, a streetlamp in which he emerges from the shadows for just to piss on to show it belongs to him.

He’s touchy. Snippy. Glued to your side at all times. It’s concerning and frustrating and confusing all at once.

By the fifth day mark, on Friday night, you’re tuckered out by it and don’t question where he is when you return home early from a shift and he’s, uncharacteristically, not there to greet you.

A red collar however, laid on the floor, its tag glittering under dim hallways lights, strikes you as both curious and unsettling.

He never takes that off. No- says it’s his way of showing you and the whole world that he belongs to you, and— have you been too impatient with him lately? Brusque? Maybe you’re a little hormonal but it’s no cause to get short with him, even when he’s acting up, and what if he no longer wants you as his owner—

A gasp.

You find him in your bedroom, humping your pillow, yowling as he comes undone- unawares- and the walls spin as you nearly faint.

You drop your purse. “Caleb!” You shriek, and a visible shiver rolls down his spine as he turns around.

“Bad dog!”

✦

You sleep on it.

Well, you wash your sheet and your pillowcases- and then you sleep on it.

Maybe you overreacted. If anything, you should be grateful for what you walked in on because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known how to tell you he’s been going through a bit of a hot phase- the first of his you’ve experienced- and doesn’t know how to control himself.

You blush just thinking about it, shame knocking in your chest as your heart beats heavy. You feel awful for walking in on him for a number of reasons. One of them being he came all over your bed- and his tummy- and you had to clean both up through furious tears as you peeled your covers off the mattress and pointed him off in the direction of the bathroom, telling him to run the faucet and quick.

A pass of guilt, the fear of you being angry with him, made its round across his kicked expression but he held off on arguing.

For the first documented time in the whole week, Caleb appeared mellow- not agitated, restless, or tense- and rather crestfallen, and you noted it only vaguely as you irately turned on the washer.

Now, it’s in the forefront of your brain.

Well, if he’s been going through some kind of rut lately, it only makes sense he’d be all kinds of pent up, and that his release (albeit in an inconvenient way and place) would provide some relief.

It’s closer to noon when you finally exit your bedroom and meet him at the sofa- the same one you’d all but banished him to last night. He prefers to spend his nights with you, either curled up at your side or splaying his full weight over your back- a breed-relative habit, you’re sure. You’ve heard of some other kinds who enjoy a room to themselves or do just fine with the couch, on their lonesome— But not Caleb.

He looks tired but perks up when he hears you patter down the hall, violet eyes lighting when you timidly take a seat.

With a bit of hesitation, he inches closer until you sheepishly wave a hand and he barrels into your arms.

“Ah- Caleb-“

Before you can even apologize for your jumping the gun last night, he beats you to the punch. “M’ sorry. You don’t hate me for it, do you?” He sighs into your collar and you shiver, “I wish you could understand what it feels like- I wouldn’t have done it if it was somethin’ I could control, I hope you realize that.”

You swallow, digesting his words as you belatedly place a hand on his head to pet. He positively melts. “Y-Yeah,” you mumble back. “It’s okay. I actually wanted to say sorry too. I- I didn’t understand what was going on…”

A deep groan looses from his throat, his chest swelling with content as you itch that spot behind the furry ears say upright on his head. They give a few twitches as he leans against you and wraps his muscular arms around your middle, resting his chin by your shoulder.

“It’s my fault, though, not yours. I didn’t know how to tell you- I was worried you’d just end up scared’a me, or…”

His pause instills interest in you. Your fingers smooth back his brown locks, mussed from fitful sleep, and he sighs. “Or what?” You press softly.

You pull him back just enough to get a look at him, his cheekbones almost shiny with a dusting of pink. His thick brows furrow together.

“Or that you’d leave,” he whispers.

Your eyes widen. You lasso your arms around his neck and pull him to you, your head slotting above his shoulder as his fingers quickly move to support the position, one hand perched at your thigh and the other braced at your side.

“Nonsense,” you grumble at his ear, a bit angry at the suggestion. “I’d never leave you.”

Something hard, then, prods at your middle- too fleshy to be something in either of your pockets- and you stiffen at the realization as it comes a beat too late.

Caleb’s voice is breathy at your ear, low, his tail thumping on the cushion. “Yeah?” He murmurs, a pang of heat stirring in your belly at the sound. Suddenly aware, you gently go to push at his broad chest but he stops you with an imploring look- although the desire, brewing in dilated pupils, isn’t lost on you- and musters a pout.

It looks out of place, the wholesome gaze marred by hunger as it reshapes his puppyish look.

“Even when I am no better than a bad dog?”

Your brow quirks, “I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, wide-eyed as his eyes bore into yours. Every micro expression you make is being catalogued and noted with utmost care, his pink tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as they grow dry.

“It’s okay if you did,” he murmurs back. “I’m just glad I have you around to remind me of my place…” Long, slim fingers reach up and you watch, unseeingly, as they stroke your cheek, his other hand creeping dangerously close to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He chuckles, but the humor wanes quickly.

“Otherwise, I’d always be misbehaving. Do you even know what you do to me?” His voice is meaningful, torrid, as he draws in and the tip of his nose brushes with yours. You can’t find it in you to move as your thighs- the ones he slithers a singleminded hand in between- begin to roil with unexpected warmth.

You plant a hand to his chest, shying away, “C-Caleb-“

“Don’t worry,” he says sweetly, “M’ not gonna hurt you. I just….” He lets out a sigh, long and perhaps just a bit exaggerated- but it has the intended effect on you. You purse your lips and feel a trace of guilt twist in your heart.

“You drive me crazy. Y-Your smell- I don’t know why this is happening, either. Honestly? I haven’t had a rut in a couple years. But this…”

Caleb lets out a soft noise of pleasure, lending his full weight to you when he breathes you in and shakes.

When he speaks next, his words come out raspy and so low you hardly register them as his breaths grow labored- they’re all you can hear as the living room space shrinks down to just him and the knuckles that dare to dip into your panties.

“This is just too unfair. You won’t leave me hangin’, pretty,… w-will you?” Breathy. With an undeniable streak of need. You can’t miss the lust that usurps the softer parts of him and makes him look less puppyish and cheerful and more wolfish, calculating.

And, well, when he puts it like that, how could you?

✦

He doesn’t fuck you on the couch. He takes you to your bed and fucks you there like a lover would.

He fucks you deep and fast- to his credit, he doesn’t hurt you, staying true to his word, but the possibility of bruises becomes a nearer thing when he folds your legs back and his grasp becomes constricting, plunging in and out of your cunt with rapt focus. Indigo eyes glow with something feral, like you’ve given him no choice but to claim his ownership over you through sloppy kisses and clinking teeth as he pounds into you, driven him into a corner- but his touch turns worshipful when he presses his forehead to yours and moans.

“Ah- y-you feel so good, so tight,” he compliments, words almost slurred. His pupils expand and he looks no different than a drunken, babbling man, his cheeks a rosy red.

His murmurs are wet against your lips as they graze and mush with his, Caleb’s face so close to yours that his lashes tickle your brow as he gawks at you, so entranced by whatever it is he’s seeing to look away.

A fluffy tail sways unevenly behind him and touches your leg on occasion, almost like it’s trying to curl around you, prickling and eager. Every part of him gravitates to you. You’re the ground beneath his feet. Fertile land.

“And you’re all mine, okay? Nobody else’s. I want you to wear my scent- to carry me with you no matter where you go. You have to promise me you will- mmph- That sound good-?

“C-Caleb—“

You groan when he stuffs himself deeper inside and you swear you feel his length throb inside your walls, stretching. The veins running along his shaft carve out a new pathway in you, one special and just for him, as his balls- heavy and fat, with a hell of a lot to give- slap against your ass. Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of you, coating his thick cock but you still struggle to accomodate his size despite the lubrication.

He’s made to make you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You snatch your jaw with your own hand to keep the flurry of high-pitched sounds from spilling out lest they embarrass you, but he shoos it away and cuffs your wrists with a hand splayed over them.

“Nah- I wanna hear you, baby. You can’t keep holdin’ out on me like this... I’m giving you my all right now, so it should be pretty obvious that you can do the same, yeah?”

A mewl punches out from your lungs half a second later and he seems quite contented at that. He sighs, closing his eyes, saying,

“I’ve been good all along. Can’t you play the part, too? I just want you to see how much I really love you,” his confession is by no means considered casual what with the passion in which its conveyed, but you can’t help but feel it’s a little sudden, said a little too quickly, and you wonder if he means what he says or if the rut is responsible for all these novel, amorous feelings in him.

I mean, he’s probably too wrapped up in the moment to even contemplate his own admissions as they all spew out—

“Caleb, too big—“ you gasp, cutting him off, and he lets out a strangled kind of noise when your walls clamp around him.

Holyfuck holyfuck holyfuck do it again, he wants to say, suffocate me, but nothing comes out and he realizes after a long second that his vision has whited completely. He can’t see anything; he’s in a fuzzy, dazzling world with the blinders on and all he can smell and feel is you- your scent, sugar sweet and about as inviting as a barstool pulled out, envelopes him and he can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

He fucks into you with reckless abandon, huffs you in like it’s his final breaths, and then lets it all go without care for anything else. Far as he’s concerned, everything he knows is defined by you. This is a give and take relationship: he actually gives a damn about your opinion of him and takes all you have to offer.

He’s in love, puppyish and clumsy but fuck you lead the way and lead him on.

“Shh, I know,” he rasps out, steaming up your neck like a fogged window pane as he insinuates himself there. Your whole body feels like a furnace, burning up for him as he opens you up and tucks himself inside.

“I know it’s big, but you gotta be ready for-“ he clips his sentence short, thinking better of it.

He wants to warn you of his impending knot- the one that’ll no doubt leave you yelping and writhing away from him- you certainly deserve as much of a foreword to it, but part of him is just so terrified you’ll reject him or deny him the priviledge of shoving it inside you and fuck he can’t have that.

Caleb’s nothing if not loyal. He’s also nothing if not selfish. That’s always been a wriggling bug he’s tried to stomp out but it remains in the baser part of him, only amplified by the intense rut that came right out of the blue.

He wants you singing his name and bonded to him (or as much of a bond the two of you can form), and so that’s what he’ll get.

He’ll apologize later, and you will forgive him. So all’s fine.

“Y-You can take it,” is the simpler thing he settles on, and you let it pass, because between the fat cockhead splitting you apart deliciously and the sweet, somewhat perturbing nothings he gushes at your ear, you’re deaf to most of everything.

But when you come- unexpected and sharp, overwhelming your senses as your hips ruck up and he has to pin you down in place and ride it out with you as you cream around him- the scream you let out rings in your ears and so does his ferocious grunt. It’s loud and you’re so numb as seconds pass that feel like eons; pointed teeth teasing at the squishy chunk of your shoulder, invoking a buried sense of alarm.

And then he’s biting down hard- not just nipping- the pleasure thankfully driving off the pain as he ploughs inside, muffling a string of curses as he picks up his pace. Caleb gets sloppier and sloppier and then he’s burning white-hot inside you and moaning like a pornstar, pelvis juddering as he comes.

“Mmh- f-fuck- Good girl!” he rewards with half a brain, fucked out into perfect oblivion, and for a second you wonder why his voice sounds more meant for comfort than praise- until you expect him to pull out but he doesn’t, something big and round forming at the base of his cock that has his eyes fluttering back as it pops in. He goes boneless on top of you as every limb of yours stiffens and coils around his broad back.

You scream his name. He shivers.

It feels enough to shatter your mind- the pain searing you, but the ghost of pleasure that creeps up along your nervous system makes you go like jelly beneath him, helpless to whatever he’s got planned for you.

“C-Caleb, you-!”

“Yeah, a bad dog, a bad dog,” he stammers, whimpering at your earlobe, “I know, baby, I know. Just- don’t shut me out, okay? I- It’ll be over soon, just- ah- loosen up around it, okay? It’ll feel so much better that way. Just… hold on to me.”

“I-It hurts-!”

“Ngh, shhh…” He trembles out, shifting to sample a broken mewl from your lips, cupping your jaw with all the love in the world and staring at you as if you told the sun to rise this morning. “Be a good girl and take it, mm? Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, I think she wants it too, but she has to relax a little first, yeah? Mm… I could give you a whole litter of pups. Give your Gran a bunch of cute lil granbabies to drive her crazy.”

You choke on your own spit, the brunet letting out a near delirious chuckle at the idea and your reaction to it before his brow gives a wince, your walls instinctively trying to push his swollen knot out.

“Wha- Caleb, is that even-?”

“I don’t know,” he kisses your forehead tenderly, his tail giving a heavy, excited thump behind him on the bed as you grab the sheets for dear life and they wrinkle, pinched like your conflicted expression.

“But I’ve been dyin’ to try it out for myself.”

[sweetromanova]

Crisis Management: Part One🖤

Natasha Romanoff x PR Handler!Reader

Summary: Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relateable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

A/N: three parts coming your way and maybe a few extra if ever actually write something again!

Nothing says ‘serious business’ like a well-timed speech. 

Pepper Potts stood at the front of the briefing room, immaculate in a slate-gray suit that probably cost more than your car. Composed, poised, not a hair out of place for a woman, with such a difficult job and an even more difficult husband. With the slightest motion, just one perfectly manicured finger, she tapped the control panel. A hologram flickered to life, bold title blazing across the screen.

THE FUTURE OF HEROISM: STRATEGY & PUBLIC ALIGNMENT INITIATIVE.

You, meanwhile, were mentally rewriting your resume and wondering if your last boss would still be willing to lie for you.

“As SHIELD enters a reorganisation phase…” Pepper began. “It’s important we reinforce public trust. The Avengers Initiative is no longer just about defense, it’s also about presence. Visibility. Hope.”

Tony Stark coughed something that sounded suspiciously like branding.

“We want to reach people where they are.” Pepper continued, undeterred. “Schools. Fundraisers. Streaming platforms. We want to build a bridge between what they see on the battlefield and what they can believe in their everyday lives.”

Steve raised a hand. “This doesn’t involve dancing, does it?”

Silence, then a much quieter. “Not necessarily.”

He groaned. “That’s a yes.”

You tried to blend into the wall but it was too late. Her gaze already landed on you.

“This is our new Public Image Strategist. They’ll be working with each of you individually to build out personal brand campaigns, coordinate appearances, and help… shape the narrative.”

Tony gave a low whistle. Steve looked polite but wary. Clint squinted at you like you might be a new type of training dummy.

And then there was the empty chair.

Seat: Natasha Romanoff. Status: Unaccounted for.

Typical.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The meeting ended with you holding a folder full of schedules, press requests and enough NDAs to gag a lawyer. You managed to corner Pepper near the elevator. “I don’t mean to complain, but you assigned a lot of focus on Nat-“

“Natasha.” She said, crisply. “Yes. She’s the priority. People are more interested in the woman, naturally and she has ZERO presence when it comes to fan or press events.”

“She didn’t even show up to the meeting.”

“She doesn’t need to. You’ll find her.”

You blinked. “Shouldn’t she find me?”

Pepper smiled, the kind that meant you were already ten seconds into a losing battle. “She’s not a ghost. Just... persuasive about her time.”

The elevator doors opened. “And when you do find her.” Pepper added, stepping in. “Be patient. And wear black. She hates color-coordination.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Three hours later, you found Natasha in the gym.

Of course you did. Where else do assassins go to ignore the living?

She was hitting the punching bag like it owed her money. No music. No distractions. Just the thwack of fists and the low hum of tension hanging in the air.

“Natasha Romanoff?” You tried, internally berating yourself over how pathetic you sounded.

No response.

You stepped closer, adjusting your clipboard like it was a bulletproof shield. “I’m-“

“I know who you are.” She didn’t look up.

That was all she said for a solid thirty seconds. Then, still without meeting your eyes, she added. “Turn around and walk out. You’ll get paid either way.”

You paused. “I don’t walk out.”

She finally looked at you. “Do you prefer to be carried?”

“I prefer to do my job.”

Her eyes were cool and calm and terrifyingly amused. “Cute.”

“No, seriously.” You frowned, trying not to backpedal. “I’ve been assigned to help you. And before you tell me you don’t need PR, I’ve read every major article about your past ten years, and frankly? You desperately need PR.”

That got a her attention. 

She stopped hitting the bag so you pressed on. “Look, I know you’re not a fan of this ‘smile for the cameras’ thing. But I’m not asking you to be someone else. I’m asking you to control the version of you the world sees. Because right now, the version they see is… scary.”

She walked past you slowly, grabbed a towel and wiped down her hands.

“You think I’m scary?” She asked, almost curious.

“I think you’ve trained people to be afraid of you. That’s different.” Now she looked at you directly. “I’m not scared of you.”

A faint smirked appeared on her face, like she found your bravery endearing, then she said. “Fine.”

“…Fine?”

“I’ll give you one week. One press appearance. One outfit, one event, one pathetic little video or whatever it is you people do.”

You opened your mouth but she held up a finger.

“But if I hate it, if I get ambushed by reporters, if someone asks me which lipstick I’m wearing while the world is still on fire, you’re done. And I mean done.”

You nodded, slowly. “Fair.”

She leaned in just slightly, the edge of a smile tugging at her lips.

“You really should’ve walked out.”

And then she left you standing in the gym with a clipboard, a heart that’s beating out of your chest and the very distinct sense that your life had just become infinitely harder.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You met her outside the Tower’s west exit at exactly 9:00am the next morning.

She was already there, leaning casually against the railing like she hadn’t just scared a State Department liaison into early retirement the week before. Dressed in what could only be described as ‘civilian casual’ for someone with a kill count, she wore fitted black jeans, ankle boots that had clearly seen both combat and cocktail parties and a leather jacket that managed to make her look more dangerous than full tactical gear. No weapons in sight, but it was Natasha Romanoff. She was the weapon.

“I said one event.” She warned flatly, eyes glued to her phone as her thumb flicked across the screen.

“And this is the one. You replied, lifting your tablet in a vaguely defensive gesture. “Daytime talk show. Live audience, five-minute interview slot. You smile, you answer a few softballs and we pretend you didn’t threaten three journalists in the last six months.”

Her lips quirked, barely. “Only two. The third one tripped.”

You tilted your head. “And landed on your elbow?”

“Gravity’s unpredictable.” She said, with a shrug. “How’d you know about that, anyway?”

“It’s in your file.”

“I have a file?”

You chose not to answer. 

Mostly because you could already feel the weight of her gaze pressing into your back as you turned and started walking. She didn’t follow immediately. She didn’t need to. You felt her assessing you, like she was running mental simulations of how fast she could incapacitate you, how much effort it would take, whether you were worth the paperwork.

You weren’t easily shaken. You’d sat across from CEOs with billion-dollar egos and reporters with blood in their eyes. But Natasha was something else. She didn’t need attention. She didn’t need to talk big. She existed with the unnerving confidence of someone who could take apart your entire day and maybe your spine, without raising her voice.

Still, you walked ahead with purpose, reminding yourself with every step that you were in charge of this assignment. You had the schedule, the briefing notes and the earpiece with a direct line to PR. She just had the ability to kill you with a paperclip.

Balance.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, where you watch the world pass by outside the window. The kind of loaded quiet where you waited and waited and waited to see who’s going to crack first. Probably the Russian assassin. 

She sat across from you in the back of the sleek black SUV, legs crossed, gaze angled toward the window. Not watching anything in particular, just staring out like the city bored her. Like you bored her.

You risked a glance. Her profile was all clean edges and shadowed cheekbones, the kind of stillness that didn’t come naturally. It was trained, learned in silence. Perfected in sniper nests and interrogation rooms. She was beautiful, yes but in the way it was only meant to be observed from a distance.

It said ‘Look. Don’t touch.’

“So…” You said, the word awkward and brittle in the air. “Any topics you want to avoid during the interview?”

Her eyes slid to you, slow and flat. “Do I look like I do small talk?”

“You look like someone who’d rather chew glass than talk about childhood pets.”

That earned a flicker, just the slightest tilt of her head. “You think I had pets?”

You considered her. “I think you probably had to improvise. Like… a stolen lizard. Maybe some kind of Russian forest spider.

She actually laughed. Low, short, like it surprised even her. 

“Stolen lizard.” She said, repeating it like she wasn’t sure whether to be amused or vaguely insulted. “That’s new.”

“I try.”

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly friendly but it had softened around the edges. Not warm but not actively dangerous.

You marked it as progress, small but it counts. The kind you didn’t take for granted when your travel companion had a kill count higher than you could count on your fingers and a fan club in the intelligence community.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The talk show set was chaos. Controlled chaos technically but only just. Lights blazed overhead, camera rigs swung dangerously close to expensive haircuts and nervous interns sprinted in every direction, clutching clipboards like life rafts. Someone in a headset was shouting about a broken teleprompter. Someone else was crying over coffee spilled on a celebrity dog.

Natasha surveyed it like it was a war zone.

You watched her automatically scan for exits, track movements in reflections, clock every potential threat with surgical precision. You half expected her to start marking civilians and calculating blast radius. 

Leaning slightly closer, you said quietly. “No one here’s going to attack you.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the chaos. “You think that matters?”

You blinked. “You’re not on a mission.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’m always on a mission.”

You exhaled slowly and adjusted the lapel of your blazer. “Alright. Well. Mission: Public Relations is go. I’ll be right off-camera if you need extraction.”

She finally looked at you. That assessing stare again. “You’re good at this.” She said.

You raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.” A pause. “I just don’t think you’ve had someone like me before.”

You smiled, tight but genuine. “You mean someone who growls at assistants and refuses to wear anything not black?”

“I mean someone who doesn’t care if people like her.”

You held her gaze. “That’s fine. I don’t need you to be liked. I just need you to be understood.”

That made her pause. Her expression didn’t change much but something shifted. A faint narrowing of her eyes. She looked at you like you’d just said something dangerous or useful.

“Careful.” She murmured. “You keep talking like that, I might start believing you.”

And just like that, you were off-balance again. Because you had no idea if that was a threat, a joke or something else entirely.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

“Okay, people!” The host swept into the green room in a cloud of aftershave, hairspray and effortless charisma. “Where’s my Widow? Is she here? Am I safe? Do I need to wear kevlar?”

You turned just in time to see Natasha’s expression flatten.

“This is him.” You said under your breath, trying to sound encouraging. “Play nice. He’s basically America’s favourite golden retriever personified.”

The host beamed and extended a hand to Natasha. “You must be the famously terrifying Natasha Romanoff. Wow. You’re even more intimidating in person. This is fun already.”

She stared at his hand like it had insulted her ancestors. 

Then, very slowly, shook it.

He laughed, nervously. “God, I love that. That vibe. So intense. I mean, what an energy. I’m sweating a little. Are you sweating? It’s hot in here, right? I’m sweating.”

“No.” Natasha deadpanned.

Silence.

You coughed into your sleeve to hide a laugh.

The host pressed on, undeterred. “Okay, okay, we’re gonna have a great time. Just a short segment! Little chat, couple light questions, maybe a joke or two. Nothing deep, nothing classified. Sound good?”

Natasha tilted her head. “I don't really do jokes.”

He pointed at her like she’d just made one. “That’s so good. You’re hilarious. This is gonna kill.”

She didn’t blink.

You gave her a subtle nudge toward the stage. “Smile. Or at least don’t stab him, please.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The interview itself went surprisingly well.

There was only one hiccup, if you could call it that, when the host asked about international diplomacy and Natasha, deadpan as ever, replied. “I don’t believe in it. Some people just need to be punched.”

There was a half-second of stunned silence before the host threw his head back laughing. “Oh my god, same!”

The audience roared. Social media exploded in real time. Within minutes, the clip had been turned into a dozen GIFs. X was already calling it ‘iconic’, ‘big mood’ and ‘girlboss energy’.

From your place just off-camera, you watched her deliver the rest of the interview with practiced stillness, the perfect counterbalance to the host’s bouncing enthusiasm.

She was sleek, calm, perfectly collected. Every answer tight and controlled. Every joke or near-joke landing better than it had any right to. You tried not to feel the flush of something dangerously close to admiration. 

Once the cameras cute, she ignored the host’s grateful thanks and his outstretched hand. Instead she walked towards you, expression unreadable.

“Well?” She asked, almost looking for validation.

You crossed your arms. “You survived. No casualties. Minimal PR fallout. The internet is liking you. Against all odds.”

“I still might punch the host later.” She adjusted her jacket. “But for now… not terrible. Also, liking?”

“Liking. We have work to do to make it loving.” You huffed a laugh, more relieved than you’d admit. “But I’ll take ‘not terrible’ as a win.”

She gave you a sidelong glance. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

But the moment lingered, her posture a little looser, the danger less immediate. And for the first time since this assignment started, you wondered if she was letting her guard down or if she just wanted you to think she was.

Either way, you counted it as another mark of progress.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Back in the car, she didn’t sit across from you this time. She sat beside you.

Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed yours every time the car turned, close enough that you were suddenly hyper aware of your own breathing.

For a while, the city passed in silence, all blurring light, traffic hum and the occasional shout from a sidewalk. She said nothing, but you could feel her thinking.

Then, without looking at you, she spoke. “You really think I can be understood?”

Her voice was low like she wasn’t sure she believed in the question, let alone the answer.

You turned toward her, a soft smile on your face. You looked at the flicker behind her eyes that told you the question mattered more than she wanted it to.

“I think you’ve spent so long surviving that you forgot what it feels like to be someone. Not just escape someone.”

You saw it her falter slightly. Not on her face, she was too good for that. But in the way her gaze didn’t shift. In the way her breathing changed, just slightly.

She didn’t respond. Just turned her head back toward the window. “That was deep.” She murmured, making you huff out a laugh.

“Maybe your intense energy is rubbing off on me.” 

“Maybe.” She smirked, letting the silence fill the car again. But this time, she was the one stealing glances, watching your hands twitch on your lap, running up and down paperwork and carving out the outline of your phone like they were itching to pick it up. You kind of were, leaving Tony Stark in charge of a ‘What I Eat In A Day’ was enough to raise your blood pressure.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next day was officially ‘TikTok Bootcamp’.

The Avengers barely understood what that meant but apparently it was mandatory now.

Steve was standing near the set, eyeing the assortment of ring lights, tripods, and questionable props like they might explode. ““I’m sorry, what exactly are we doing?” He asked, dead serious as Bucky moved closer to him, almost using his body as a Shield.

“TikTok.” You said, forcing a smile that might have come off as a grimace. “It’s short-form video. Builds relatability. Everyone’s doing it. You’re Avengers, not relics.”

“I’d count those two super-grandpa’s as relics.” Tony, lounging in his trademark sweatpants and scrolling on his phone, laughed. “It’s basically the new battlefield. Less bullets, more followers. And memes.”

Clint was stretching like he was about to run a marathon. “I’m gonna blow out a knee. Sam owes me twenty bucks if I get more views than him.”

Sam smirked without missing a beat. “Dude, my last dance hit 2.4 million.”

Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking like she was mentally preparing to file a formal complaint. “I’m not doing this.” She said, flatly and with a hint of finality.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Natasha, we agreed on five public engagement hours this week. This counts.”

“Dancing is not engagement.”

“It’s literally the most viewed content format on the planet.”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “I don’t care.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Well, I do.”

That got her attention, her eyes sparked up like she’d been offered a challenge that only she could win.

“Look.” You sighed, at the group of adults stood around you. “Here’s the deal. We’re keeping it simple. No dances with more than six moves max. I’ll show, you copy. You don’t have to smile or enjoy it. Just follow.”

She gave you a slow once-over. “Is this painful for you?

“What?”

“Giving orders and not being obeyed.”

You grit your teeth. “No, what’s painful is organising this entire thing and having you stand there like a gothic gargoyle of sabotage.”

Clint wheezed from the couch. “Did she just call Nat a gargoyle?”

Steve, bless him, tried to intervene. “Hey, maybe we can just-“

“You-” You jabbed a finger at Natasha, ignoring Steve. “-are contractually required to participate.”

“And you-” She leaned in, voice low and wickedly calm “-are way more fun to watch when you’re a little off balance.”

You froze. The smug glint in her eye told you she’d done it on purpose.

Behind you, Tony muttered. “This is what the kids call a slow burn-“

“I got one of those from a chemical in Wakanda ones. I went four days before it blistered.” Bucky nonchalantly added, pointing out a little scar on the side of his elbow as Steve comforted him with a pat on the back. You had one thought running through your head . What the hell is going on right now?

“Ok.” You breathed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Ten minutes later, Natasha sat across from you like she was prepping for a tactical briefing, arms crossed, black hoodie pulled over a tank top, expression blank enough to scare a mirror.

“Okay.” You said, adjusting the camera. “Simple concept. I play you popular TikTok songs. You give your first reaction. Honest but light.”

She said nothing. Just stared at the tablet like it had insulted her ancestors. 

“Can you take that off?”

“My hoodie?”

“Yeah.”

Why?”

“You look less angry with your arms out.”

“You just want to see my arms.” She smirked but beying your order.

“No, I don’t but the fans will. So let’s get this done.”

You hit play on the first song ‘Good Luck Babe’.

Natasha listened with her usual poker face. Then, after a few seconds, she scoffed softly.

“Why does she keep talking about kissing men in bars all the time?” She grimaced. “Also I hate when people call each other ‘babe.’ I’m not a pig, thank you very much. This song is a waste of my time, next!”

You blinked, caught off guard by how blunt she was. “Natasha, can we maybe dial it back a bit?” 

“You wanted my honest reaction.”

“We want snarky, not savage.” You said, half-laughing.

She rolled her eyes. “Snark’s just polite savage.”

You sighed and tapped the tablet. “Okay, next we have ‘Espresso’.”

Fifteen seconds in, Natasha tilted her head. “Is this a real song or a torture device?”

You sighed. “Natasha-"

“Because I’ve interrogated people to better soundtracks. Actually, I’ve been tortured to better music.”

You paused the music. “Let’s maybe try a compliment sandwich, okay? Snark in the middle. Praise on either side.”

She blinked slowly. “That’s a real thing?”

“It’s literally in your media training.”

“I thought that was a threat.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Next one.” Your manicured finger hits play on ‘Break My Soul’.

The beat dropped on a club remix that had racked up millions of views. Natasha raised an unimpressed brow. “Did the producer get electrocuted halfway through?”

You snorted, despite yourself. “Okay. That’s not a compliment but it is kind of funny.”

“I’m adapting.”

You hit pause. “Could you just… say one nice thing? Anything.”

She pretended to think. “They… finished the song.”

“Natasha. It’s literally Beyonce, if you hate on her then even I can’t save you.”

She exhaled, long-suffering. “Fine. She has a great body.”

“I- What?”

“Look at her body.” Natasha’s tone dropped to a mock-serious lecture, eyes narrowing like a professor about to school you.

“Look, she’s strong. No wasted movement, curves where they need to be.” Natasha’s voice dropped just a little, a slow smirk creeping in. “And that ass, it’s basically a weapon.”

You blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and embarrassment. “Okay, okay, I get it.” You held up your hands, cheeks heating. “Once again, let’s dial it back!”

Natasha smirked, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

“Next is ‘Obsessed’, it’s a song about her boyfriend’s ex.”

“Weird thing to sing about but ok.” You click play and Olivia Rodrigo comes to life, Natasha listening intently.

“Ok… the song is garbage-“

“Natasha!”

“But I’m kind of impressed. Her recon would be very good, she’d be a decent agent with some training.”

“I’m sorry, what-“

“She has good instincts.” She shrugs, repeating herself. “Next.”

“Ok last one, we have Billie Eilish.” You click play on ‘Birds of a Feather’ and watch something in her face change for the first time.

She’s quiet for a long moment, like she’s analysing the lyrics. “I like this, it reminds me of Yelena.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Your sister?”

“Yeah.” She confirms. “Can we have another one?”

“Sure. You want to pick?” You hand her the phone and watch her scroll for a second before she clicks on ‘Lunch’.

It just hits the chorus when Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly, a slow smirk spreading across her face.

“Oh.” She said, deliberately slow. “’I could eat that girl for lunch.’” 

You blinked, suddenly aware of the way she was looking at you. “As she-“

Your throat went dry. “Okay, maybe stop quoting now.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? I’m really thinking about the lyrics.”

“I need to keep this PG.” You excuse, heat crept up your neck.

Natasha’s smirk deepened.  “I like this one too.”

“You’re impossible.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

An hour later, the videos are mostly edited and the first lot have been launched into the black hole that they call the internet. The team are gathered around, scrolling through their phones and reacting to the avalanche of thirst tweets and comments.

Tony was the first to burst out laughing. “Oh man, check this out ‘I’d let Steve split me in half like a pistachio!’ That’s hilarious.”

Clint snorted. “Someone said they want to use ‘Natasha’s thighs as earmuffs’.”

“It could be arranged.” Natasha shrugs, smirking as she looks to you out of the corner of her eye.

“What is girl boss and why do I have it?” Wanda questions, clearly enjoying making new internet friends.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Listen to this! ‘I don’t know who’s thirstier, the internet or Nat herself’.”

“I’m not thirsty. What-“

“It means hor-“

“Ok, that’s enough for one day.” You interrupt with anxious smile, getting up to collect your things. Natasha’s gaze sharpened slightly but she didn’t say more.

Tony swiped to another comment. “Oh, here. ’Is it just me or is the tension here chef’s kiss?’ On Nat’s video. You two are getting shipped already.”

“Shipped?”

“Where are they going?”

“Why are they kissing a chef?”

“I don’t like boats.”

You laughed at their comments, brushing it off but the colour in your cheeks showed Natasha there was something more. “Tony, what is shipped?”

“Listen guys, maybe it’s time to put the phones down, yeah?” You attempt but Tony has other ideas.

“Urban dictionary says to ship, ‘meaning that you either want them to become an item, kiss or enter into a romantic/sexual relationship or all of the above’.”

“Oh.”

“The internet loves to match-make…” You try to ease the tension as the rooms falls silent.

“Well I did call it a slow burn.”

“I still don’t understand what that is.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You half smile to Steve. “Seriously, stop with the comments. My team will be going through it, deleting hate comments so please don’t reply to any of those.”

“Who’d hate on us?” Sam scoffs, at the same time as Clint says.

“‘Sam’s the only Avenger, who needs a step stool to hang with Steve and Bucky’.” The room dissolves into light laughter and you felt a little less flustered. But you can still feel Natasha’s eyes on you, watching you cautiously from her place on the couch.

“For the third and final time, I’m leaving.” You declare. “Remember no replies to hate comments. That means you Sam-“

“They’re saying I’m 5ft 4!”

“It will be deleted when you refresh the page, my team is good.” You assure. “Get some rest guys.”

The team bid you goodnight, lowering their phones for only a second as you leave the room before bringing them back up, to doom scroll the endless reactions. Just as the elevator doors close, you hear Bucky’s confused tone.

“What’s a bussy?”

[aakeysmash]

Tell me you love me

Pairing: f!reader x Sukuna Ryomen.

Word count: 2512.

Warnings: ANGSTTTTTT. An attempt at it at least lmao, let me know if I did a good job with it. A bit suggestive in the middle. Cursing. Mentions of cheating (mentions!!! No cheating in this house).

People often say that Sukuna would be obsessed with the reader/oc, but I think a relationship with him would be the hardest thing ever.

He doesn’t get the concept of being in love: at the start of your relationship he found out you were more tolerable than anyone else, he assumed that meant he liked being around you and went along with it. Of course he fell in love in the long run, but for him it’s embarrassing to admit it. He barely even said it when you asked him why he wanted you to move in with him.

It’s not like he isn’t obsessed with you: he’s obsessed with the way you just seem to get him, with the way you smile when he comes home from a long day at work, with the utmost kindness you treat people around you with and that he lacks completely. He’s mesmerised by you, by the curve of your hips, the brightness of your eyes, the softness of your hands on his body.

He doesn’t show it, though.

He’s used to being rough and redeems emotions as futile. Like he already said to you in a couple of your arguments, if you get him you get him, if not, he’s not explaining himself. Everything he does is thought of and automatically right, so why would he give you explanations?

But sometimes in relationships you need communication. He doesn’t see how intense it is to be next to someone who acts like he doesn’t care about what you want to share in your daily life. And again, he does care: if he could, he’d make a copy of you yapping and just listen to it on repeat while working. He loves how passionate you sound while talking about your hobbies, he finds the little tilt to your voice when you search for his approval adorable. He doesn’t see how difficult it is to be with him because he’s only been with you, and you’re so good at communicating and making him feel heard he doesn’t notice he’s not reciprocating your efforts.

And that means that he’s never the one who wants to resolve misunderstandings, because he thinks they don’t really exist. You were upset about your dish not coming out the way it was supposed to and instead of reassuring you it was still edible he straight up said it looked horrible and walked away? He’s not sorry. He spoke his mind, did he not? And why would you be sad about the truth?

You’re not weak, and you’re not shy either. Kind people are not necessarily stupid, and you’re living proof of that. He’d never be in a relationship with a weakling who doesn’t know how to raise her voice and stand her ground. You’re fierce in your own way, and you know how to manage his stubbornness 90% of the time. You don’t like being disrespected or ignored, and you made sure to talk his ear off whenever he did it. Not like he purposefully did it, anyway.

But as a person who understands emotions and feels emotions, sometimes being with him frustrates you. And it comes to a point where you debate on keeping being next to him or leaving him for good.

He’s not the only one who has hard days, but when both of you have one, the silence inside your house is deafening. You’re the one who usually starts up conversations, but your mind is occupied with other things. You’ve barely touched your food.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” He scoffs at dinner. He doesn’t like you frowning, it wrecks his heart. It makes him want to destroy the face of whoever took the smile he lives for off your face.

You sigh. “You know how my parents said they were coming to visit us next month? Well-”

He’s silent. Fuck, when did she say this? He thinks. Probably one of those days where the thought of your thighs suffocating him all night plagued his mind last week. Fuck, he’d take a bite of them right now if you let him. Maybe he could suggest it. It could take his mind off of his own shitty day.

“Are you even listening to me?” You say sternly. He notices you kept on talking while his mind wandered, but he disregards it.

“Wanna fuck?” He asks instead.

You’re baffled. “Sukuna, what the fuck?”

“Damn, you could’ve just said no, brat,” he says rolling his eyes.

You get offended. “Don’t fucking ask me what’s wrong if you’re not going to listen to me.”

“Yeah yeah, you were probably going to talk about how worried you are and shit. I don’t care about that. If you don’t want to get my dick wet I’m going to rub one out,” he says waving his hand in front of your face and standing up from his chair.

You huff out a sarcastic laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Would you prefer me to find someone else to do it for me?” He bites, snapping his head toward you.

He sees you widening your eyes. If there’s a thing you don’t tolerate is cheating, or jokes about it. He knows it. He knows it, dammit. You’re fuming.

“You’re an asshole. Fuck you. I’m sleeping at Nobara’s,” you spit at him, grabbing the purse you left on the side of the table and rushing out the door, slamming it.

When he’s left alone in your shared living room, he keeps on looking at your front door. The silence is making his head hurt, the only thing he’s hearing is the sound of the door slamming. Did he overstep? Nah, you were probably overreacting. He shrugs and finally moves from his spot, going to put his dish in the sink. He leaves yours on the table, because maybe you’ll be hungry when you come home. You usually are after an argument. You’ll come back after a couple of hours saying you didn’t want to worry him too much, you’ll sigh saying this can’t keep on happening and that you’re tired of arguing, then he’ll hug you and everything will be alright. Just like it always is. You’ve never left like this, though.

He ruffles his hair; he’s angry at everything and everyone. You should’ve got that he’s the one overreacting, why didn’t you get him like usual? Why aren’t you still back after 3 hours? He hates feeling angry. He hates feeling tired. He hates feeling in general. Most importantly, he hates that the hands in his hair are his and not yours. He hates the way right now he’s craving your soft voice reassuring him in his ear, your sweet words covering him like a blanket; his head on your chest listening to your heartbeat while lying on your couch, reminding you that you’re there. You’ve always been there. There’s no one else for him, there’s never going to be one. He’d never cheat, you’re so stupid for getting angry about it. Why did you get so mad about it? Suddenly, he’s thinking about random stuff you said that he ingrained in his head.

I love you too, Sukuna. I’ll wait for you to tell me that without me forcing it out, mh? I’ll move in with you, sure, if you ask me so that nicely.

You picked this book because it reminded you of me? Thank you, baby. I love it. Both the book and the fact you thought of me.

Can you stop messing up my sock drawer? No, I did not hide your cigarettes there. But please stop smoking, I love when you taste like my lip gloss and not that disgusting shit you inhale. Give me a kiss so I can prove it to you. I’ll take your breath away way better than tobacco.

He smirks while on the couch, alone. You’re so cute. He wants to bottle up your laugh. Why aren’t you back still? His mind doesn’t stop, though.

You hurt me, Sukuna. Why can’t you notice?

I feel like you don’t care about me.

If I hadn't come to you, would you have come to me? Or would you just have ignored this whole argument and acted like nothing happened?

Am I just filling up a random space you leave open for a significant other or am I the significant other that’s capable of filling that void?

That night he dreams of you. The way you glared at him asking him if he was serious, almost like a warning before you lashed out. He dreams of the hurt that flashed in your eyes when he spewed nonsense. And when he wakes up, you’re still not back. Your unfinished plate is still on the kitchen table.

But he’s prideful, that’s why you’re the one that’s always trying to resolve arguments. Yes, you’ll come back. He’s sure of it. You always came back during the 3 years you've been together.

A week passes by and he's going crazy. You haven't contacted him at all, and he didn't text first. He lies to himself saying it's because he's leaving you some space, but the truth is that he's scared. What is he even supposed to say? Hey, I'm sorry, I miss you, please come home? That's pathetic. He's taking a shower when suddenly his phone rings. His heart skips a beat and he rushes out to check if it's you. Please, let it be you.

Instead it's Yuji, his brother.

Yuji: Hey, what happened with y/n? She asked me to come get some of her things for her. Is she sick?

Sukuna frowns. Then he realizes that- you're going to move out. You're going to break up with him.

He goes into panic mode. He never thought about the possibility of you leaving him. He thought you would come back, like you always do. Why would you leave him? Is it because you finally realized that you're better off with someone who knows how to express their feelings for you? Did you get tired of him? Have you already found someone else?

He finds himself knocking on Nobara's door in the next ten minutes. He ran, he's sweating and it's starting to rain. He's out of breath, and he gets his hands on his knees while he waits for you to open the door. He's not ready to let you go. He can't even fathom a life where he doesn't wake up to you trying to get warm between his arms, without you nagging him while watching a film together, without helping you bake cookies while laughing with each other. Without not being able to talk from how in love he is while looking into your eyes. And he knows that if you leave him he's never going to be able to live in his own house ever again, or walk down the street you always do together, or go grocery shopping and not thinking about you while looking at vegetables. You always said you liked vegetables and he always lied about liking them just to see you excited about cooking them together.

"Yuji, I didn't think you'd be this fas- oh," you open the door and your face falls when you see it's Sukuna. He snaps his gaze toward your face when he hears your voice. He missed it so much. You're so beautiful. He missed all of you. So much.

Neither of you move, you just keep staring at each other. This time, he knows he's going to have to talk first. For the first time, he realizes how hard it actually is to confront someone first. Do you feel like this every time?

"Come home," he says. "Please," he adds.

You look sad. "I don't think I'm going to, Sukuna. It's been more than a week and you didn't even reach out to say... I don't even know what. I know you don't say sorry. You never do."

Your words feel like knives. From where you're standing you're taller than him, and he has to look up to look at you. It's like he's in front of the pearly gates of heaven and an angel is making him confess all the wrong things he did, except in this scenario you're the angel and the things he did are just what he thinks about all of this. About you in general.

And you're right, he doesn't usually say sorry. The words get stuck in his throat and he just gapes up at you, still catching his breath. Pathetic.

You sigh, then go to close the door. You don't look at him anymore and he feels like he can't breathe, and not because of the run.

"I'll come get my things next week. Go home, you'll get wet," you say. And your voice is clear, you're not mumbling, you must have thought about this. He sees how hard you're clenching your jaw to appear resolute, your nails hurting your palms from how hard you're closing your hands. But you still manage to worry about him, worry about him possibly catching a cold from the rain. And he loves you. Fuck, he loves you so much.

"Wait," he manages to say. You look at him with longing. With sorrow.

And he feels like he's crying to the angel in his afterlife when he opens his mouth again, thorns in his throat getting tighter, suffocating him. But he doesn't cry here, in front of you, even if maybe you'd like it. You'd probably say that you appreciate him showing emotions, maybe tease him for it, but you'd like it. He'd kiss you while you're still laughing, saying you're stupid, and you'd continue laughing.

"I love you," he rasps out. The words feel so unfamiliar to his tongue, but so familiar to his ears. You always tell him you love him. "I'm sorry for being a shithead. Please don't leave me. I promise you I'll get better at this communication shit," he begs.

You still don't move, but he sees you getting softer.

"Go home, Sukuna. We'll talk about it when it's not raining," you utter.

"No, I don't fucking want to," he snaps. You're startled, and he cringes. He's really not used to all of this. He doesn't like scaring you.

"Fuck, I meant to say I want to get over it right now. I didn't want to scare you. I want you back, Y/N. Please, have me back. I'll get better for real," he says while getting progressively closer to you.

"You promise?" You ask, now shorter than him. You're a step of distance from each other.

"I promise, baby. I'll make you the happiest girl to ever exist," he tells you, looking at you intensely.

"Start by saying you love me again," you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your head on his chest. He engulfs you in his own arms, inhaling the smell of your shampoo, then snorts.

"Sure. I'm in love with you, brat."

Being in a relationship with Sukuna is hard, but he loves you easily.

[plaidos]

have you considered that attending a wide scale public queer event (*even if it largely hosts people you wouldn't normally agree or hang out with*) doesn't necessarily mean you agree with or condone everything done there? or even knew getting into it? accusing a large portion of your peers of holding beliefs just because they came into contact with them doesn't help anyone. sometimes people go places. sometimes people read books. that doesn't mean it is a representation of their belief. just another perspective- my auntie went to a lot of those types of events because they were available to her and her wife is a trans woman. they attended together for the majority of them. and yes, there was mistreatment, but they also found some of their best friends there by outspokenly criticizing those beliefs and standing up for themselves.

(sorry if this is a lot to read!!)

i mean, do you know the history of the word terf? do me a favour, look it up. look up what event it was coined to describe. i hope your auntie got over her transmisogyny before marrying that trans woman, and i hope she doesn’t allow her terfs friends to mistreat her either.

some people just “go places” and “read books” but i’ve found it astoundingly easy to not attend hate movement gatherings or shill books that call for the genocide of minorities. if your white auntie “went to KKK meetings” and “read david icke” i would want better proof than “she married a person of color” that she wasn’t a racist. as it turns out, actually, the institution of marriage historically exists to violate gender minorities. like whoever heard of mistreating your wife eh?

it’s fucking crazy how the highest allyship TME can imagine towards trans women is fucking us. how do you not see how despicable what you’re saying is lol.

[steveseddie]

rush

written for the @steddiebingo hop into spring mini event & the round one main card | prompts: start & store | rating: g | wc: 2,4k | tags: different first meeting, post season 3, coworkers steve and eddie, pre relationship, fluff

read on ao3

“So, when does the new guy start?” Steve asks, spinning away on the chair behind the counter while Robin restocks the candy display.

“Friday,” she says, nearly dropping a Snickers bar.

Steve stops spinning abruptly, going a little dizzy. “We have the closing shift on Fridays,” he says and Robin makes a vague noise of assent. “Does that mean I’m stuck on closing duty with the new guy?”

“Yes.”

Slumping back on the chair, Steve groans. “Robin!”

“What? It’s not my fault my dad is dragging us out of town to visit his family, dingus!” She snaps, throwing her hands up in the air. The Snickers bar lands on the carpet. “You know I hate my dad’s side of the family, I will be miserable too.”

Steve sighs. He’s heard enough stories about Grandma Buckley to know that Robin is telling the truth. “It’s just that the thought of working an entire week without you is–”

Robin cuts him off with a strangled, “Uh.”

“What?”

“Did I say one week?” She asks sheepishly. Steve narrows his eyes at her. “More like, two.”

“Robin!”

**

Friday comes much too soon.

It’s not that Steve has ever been excited to go to work, but knowing that Robin won’t be there makes this shift seem ten times worse. Especially when he knows he has to show the ropes to some high school kid who wants to be there probably even less than Steve does.

As he drags himself through his morning routine, he weighs the pros and cons of quitting but ultimately decides against it– he enjoys free movies and working with his best friend far too much.

Eventually he makes it to Family Video, ten minutes before opening time and finds that Keith left behind a mess like he always does. There are empty Cheez Balls bags behind the counter and half finished soda cans, one of which got knocked over at some point, spilling soda on the carpet.

Grumbling, Steve crouches down to pick up the other ones before they end up spilled over too. While ducked down behind the counter, the door to Family Video opens and the bell chimes.

“Greetings!” A vaguely familiar voice says.

Steve checks his watch. Five minutes till ten. “Sorry, man, we’re not open yet.”

“Actually, I work here,” that same voice says. Right, Robin’s replacement. Steve totally forgot about him for a second. The voice sounds deeper than he expected, not that of a high school kid and it definitely sounds familiar.

Standing up, he realizes why when he sees–

“Eddie Munson, reporting for duty,” the guy says, offering Steve a dorky soldier salute.

Steve blinks. Eddie Munson isn’t who he expected at all. He doesn’t know him personally but he knows of him. Still in highschool, despite being older than Steve. A nerd. A metalhead. Can be found selling drugs in the woods behind the school. Likes to stand up on tables and complain loudly about The Man. Not necessarily the poster child for a stellar employee.

Steve’s nose scrunches up. “I thought you sold weed, not movies.”

Eddie snorts but Steve’s bitchy tone doesn’t seem to affect him. “I’m branching out,” he says with a shrug. Then he leans his elbows on the counter. “So what’s first, boss?”

“First,” he starts, grabbing a spare vest from behind the counter. “You put this on.”

Now it’s Eddie’s face that scrunches up. “Do I have to?” He asks, eyeing the green piece of clothing like it personally offended him.

Steve’s lips tug up at the corners. He shrugs. “Company policy, Munson.”

With a sigh, he reaches for the vest and shrugs it on. It definitely doesn’t go with the metalhead look he’s got going on but it doesn’t look bad either, in fact–

“Green looks good on you,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. Jesus Christ, why did he say that?

Luckily, Eddie takes it as a joke, glaring half-heartedly at Steve. “Fuck off, Harrington,” he says, shaking his curls out. “Okay, what now?”

Steve ignores the sudden urge to reach out and smooth down Eddie’s curls and gestures at him to follow him to the return bin. “Now we start by processing overnight returns.”

“Fun!” Eddie says with feigned cheerfulness, trailing behind Steve.

“You gotta make sure the right tape is in the case and separate those that are rewound from the ones that aren’t. Think you can do that?”

“Piece of cake, Your Majesty,” Eddie says, throwing a wink over his shoulder that makes Steve’s stomach flutter a little.

He brushes it off and leaves Eddie to it, focusing on cleaning Keith’s mess and doing his best to ignore his new coworker’s humming.

**

Steve walks Eddie through the rest of their morning routine– logging the returns into the system, restocking the candy display, facing tapes. He teaches him how to use the rewinding machine and the cash register. All of that before a single customer comes in.

“Is it always this dead?” Eddie asks, sticking another tape into the rewinding machine. He got the hang of it pretty quickly and Steve was happy to let him take over, even if he’s determined to be annoying about it and make weird noises with his mouth while the tape is being rewound.

“Mornings usually are,” Steve says, looking away from Eddie’s mouth and back to the computer where he’s supposed to be logging tapes in. “We’ll probably get a small rush around lunch.”

“How do you pass the time then?”

“Uh, by working?”

“Bo-ring!” Eddie loudly says, making Steve jump. “You work at a video rental, Harrington, don’t you guys watch movies?”

“Well, most of the time Robin and I can’t agree on one.”

Eddie leans back against the counter and looks Steve up and down. He tries not to squirm under his gaze. “Mm yeah, you look like you have bad taste.”

Steve scoffs. “How do you know it isn’t Robin’s movies that are bad?”

Shrugging, Eddie turns his attention back to the rewinding machine. “I just do, Stevie.”

Stevie.

The name has Steve blurting out some lie about being out of plastic bags and heading to the backroom, his cheeks pinking up.

He stays there for at least five minutes trying to make his blush go away.

**

Steve’s gotta hand it to Eddie– he handles the lunch rush pretty well.

It’s not the same as working with Robin but it definitely beats working with Keith, who disappears into his office for most of their shift, even during the busiest hours.

Despite doing his job well, Eddie still insists on being annoying about everything he does. He starts arguments with customers over which movie they pick, steals candy from the display when he thinks Steve isn’t looking–

“Steve! Help, the cash register is stuck!”

Excusing himself to the elderly couple he’d been helping, Steve steps behind the counter where he smacks his hand against the cash register, making it work again.

Eddie huffs out a snort. “Thanks, big boy,” he says, and a shudder travels down Steve’s spine.

That’s another annoying thing. The names.

Stevie. Big boy. They make his face flush, his stomach flip flop and his tongue trip over its words.

“Uh, sure, yeah. It’s– uh, no problem.”

Jesus Christ, he used to be smooth. Then again, he used to be the one doing the flirting.

Not that Eddie is flirting with him.

For some reason, that thought makes Steve’s stomach twist again, this time with disappointment.

**

“I saw that,” Steve says when Eddie grabs a Snickers bar from the candy display in what he thinks is a subtle way. It’s not.

“I’m not doing anything!”

“You keep stealing candy.”

Shrugging, Eddie pulls back the wrapping and takes a bite. “I’m just making use of my employee discount,” he says through a mouthful of chocolate.

Steve snorts, leaning on the broom he’s using to clean the mess a kid left behind when he opened a bag of chips and they exploded. “That’s not a thing.”

“Well,” Eddie says, waving his chocolate bar. “It should be.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Keith,” Steve says sarcastically before going back to sweeping.

Eddie goes back to cleaning the sticky counter where another kid spilled his soda. “What about movies?”

“Mm?”

“Do I get a discount for renting movies?” He asks, scrubbing away at a particular stubborn stain, his tongue peeking out in concentration. Steve’s eyes get stuck on it and he forgets he’s supposed to be sweeping and that Eddie just asked him a question.

“Oh, well, technically no, but no one will know if you take it with you and return it the next day,” Steve says with a shrug.

Eddie’s eyes sparkle. “Didn’t take you for a rule breaker, sweetheart.”

Steve’s fingers tighten around the broom handle so hard he worries it might snap, his stomach filling with what feels like a swarm of butterflies.

God damnit, he thinks. He can’t get a crush on a coworker again.

Especially when things wouldn’t go any differently with Eddie from how they did with Robin.

**

“So what’s the deal with you and Buckley?” Eddie asks when they’re alone again after the afternoon rush. He’s shamelessly munching on a string of licorice since Steve has long since given up on stopping him from stealing candy. He’ll just tweak the inventory later, it’s fine.

What’s not fine is that Eddie’s lips are tinted red from sucking on the candy, which makes them incredibly distracting for Steve.

“What?” He asks, having completely missed Eddie’s question.

“I said– what’s the deal with you and Buckley? Are you guys together or something? You talk about her a lot, dude.”

“Oh, no. No, man. No way.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “She’s not cool enough for you?”

“Actually she might be cooler than me,” Steve says with a fond smile. “Just don’t tell her I said that. She’s– she’s my best friend but she’ll still be insufferable about it.”

“So you don’t like her?” Eddie asks curiously. “Like like her?”

Steve can’t help but snort. “I know you’re still in high school, Munson, but really? Like like?”

Eddie simply rolls his eyes.

“I don’t, not like that,” Steve says, shrugging. “I kinda did when we worked together last summer, but she didn’t like me back.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in his face. “She wasn’t interested in you?” He asks and when Steve shakes his head, he adds, “Damn. Maybe Buckley’s the one with bad taste, after all.”

Steve cocks his head. “What?”

“Nothing,” Eddie quickly says, taking a bite from the candy before holding it out to Steve. “Want some?”

Steve’s eyes follow Eddie’s tongue as he licks over his red lips, leaving them wet and shiny.

Boy, does he ever, he thinks, the words dangerously balancing at the tip of his tongue.

Luckily, a customer comes in and Eddie’s attention drifts elsewhere but it takes a little longer for Steve to snap out of his thoughts of tasting the candy straight from Eddie’s lips.

**

A girl walks up to the counter but Steve doesn’t notice her until she waves her hand in front of his face and says, “Hi.”

He was too busy watching Eddie as he gestured wildly at a group of nerdy teens that asked for a movie recommendation.

“Hi, welcome to Family Video,” Steve says sheepishly, turning his attention to her. “What can I help you with?”

The girl asks for a recommendation too but it’s clear that she’s just using it as an excuse to talk to Steve, probably hoping that he’ll ask her out. She’s pretty and nice, and Steve would probably enjoy taking her out, but as of seven hours ago, he’s had his eyes set on someone else.

Someone who, once the girl and the teens leave the store, walks up to Steve, ruefully shaking his head.

“Damn, Harrington, no wonder you’re single,” Eddie says, leaning his elbows on the counter.

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What?”

“That chick was obviously interested in you!”

“Oh,” Steve says, looking over Eddie’s shoulder at the girl as she gets into her car. “I guess.”

“Why didn’t you ask her out?”

Steve simply shrugs. He can’t exactly admit that he doesn’t feel like asking anyone out unless it’s him.

Eddie rolls his eyes and huffs. “Unbelievable.”

“You can go and ask her out yourself if you’re so offended,” Steve says bitchily, though the words come out sounding a little more bitter than he’d like.

With a sarcastic laugh, Eddie says, “First of all, she wouldn’t want to go out with a guy like me. Second of all, I wouldn’t want her to.”

“Not nerdy enough for you?” Steve asks, resting his elbows on the counter too, their faces only a couple of inches apart.

It gives him a good view of Eddie nervously biting on his bottom lip before he says, “Not guy enough for me.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

He sees Eddie almost imperceptibly gear up for whatever Steve is going to do next. He remembers Robin doing the same thing once, and can’t help but think about what this means. That he might have a chance with Eddie after all.

“Well, I’m sure a– a hot guy will come around that you can ask out,” he stammers out, feeling his cheeks warming up– from the proximity, the anticipation, the way Eddie’s eyes dart down to his lips and back up again, his mouth ticking up at the corners–

“You might be right, pretty boy.”

**

Closing time comes faster than Steve expected.

Eddie actually proves very helpful, and in no time, the two of them are done and walking out of the store.

Eddie hovers as Steve locks the door. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, shoving his hands into his jacket.

“You better,” Steve says, bumping their shoulders together. “Don’t leave me hanging, Munson, weekends are busy.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here. I actually had fun working with you, Harrington.”

Steve’s stomach flutters. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

Eddie laughs as they reach the parking lot. Steve can see Eddie’s van parked in the opposite direction of his Beemer, but instead of heading that way, Eddie scruffs his feet against the pavement. “You know maybe we, uh, we could take a movie home sometime and watch it together?”

Oh. Now Steve’s stomach fills with a million butterflies, at least. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Eddie bites his lip around a smile. “Alright, pretty boy. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Eddie.”

With a two fingered salute, Eddie whirls around and starts walking towards his van. Steve walks over to his car with a smile.

He’s actually excited for the next two weeks. Who would’ve thought?

[mmavecc]

Maysilee would never have lived longer as a victor. Snow would never allow it.

The fact that Maysilee knew who the real enemy was even before she was reaped. SC said it herself, Maysilee’s driving force is rage. She’s mad at the system because it is unfair that she’s condemned to a life she doesn’t like just because she was born there. That comes across as meanness.

Then she’s chosen for the Games and unleashes the rage. She fights back. But so aware of what is actually going on that all her true rage is only directed toward Capitol people. She’s still mean, yes, but she’s protective of the Newcomers, she creates their symbols. She tells Haymitch not to allow the peacekeepers to get Louella that easily because she knows the Capitol might have their deaths, but they can’t allow them to have their lives either.

Even in the arena, Maysilee does not doubt herself for a second, she’s not corrupted for a single second. She’s face to face with two of her strongest opponents - 2 careers - and she doesn’t hesitate to kill the Capitol’s lackeys, it is automatic, it is obvious, they are the ones to rebel against. - props to Maritte btw, for having the same thought as Maysilee.

The girl died with no begging or tears because she wanted dignity, she wanted her death to have meaning. And not a rebellion necessarily. She wanted it to be a huge “FUCK YOU” to the Capitol.

Now imagine all of that rage into a victor. Someone who’s family and friends being killed would only make for increasing her anger, the rage, the fire, the pettiness.

Snow wouldn’t have taken long to kill her. Because if Maysilee Donner had had a gun, the system would’ve crumbled within seconds of her stepping into the Capitol.

[moonstruckme]

Hear me out reader who only feels comfortable getting sloshed/drunk when Remus is there cause she loves that she can trust him enough to take care of her <3 or reader accidentally gets super drunk and remus takes care of her and finds the situation very amusing cause reader usually isn’t this free. love ur work!

Thank you for your request gorgeous!!

cw: alcohol

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 573 words

You’re giggling, nearly hanging off Remus’ arm as you walk a ways behind your group of friends. “I’m really sorry,” you say again, eyes turning up to his with a sheepish smile tickling your lips. “I never usually get like this.” 

“It’s really okay, lovely.” Remus smiles. He doesn’t mind that he has to keep reassuring you, only that you seem to think you have to keep apologizing. “It happens to everyone.”

You’re not even that sloshed, he doesn’t think. Enough to be walking funny and to be giving him far more sweet looks than you would be otherwise, but Remus thinks you’ll still remember all of this tomorrow. All in all, it’s not a bad deal for him. You’ve been clinging to his arm all night, hiding smiles in his shoulder and preening each time he drops a kiss on your head. 

“No, but honestly,” you go on, “I don’t want you to think I do this every time I go out. I don’t usually need taking care of.” 

“I don’t think that,” he says. “Not that I think it’s such a bad thing to need taking care of from time to time, either. Do you want your cheesy chips?” 

You’ve forgotten he’s holding them for you, and your face lights up when you remember. Remus hands them over, watching as you open the takeaway container with your arm still looped through his and steam wafts up to your face. A drunken James had insisted he needed a burger to complete his night, so most of your friends had gotten some snack or another for the walk home from the bar. 

You nearly moan as you take your first bite, and Remus has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “I think that’s part of it,” you say through a mouthful. “That you don’t think it’s such a bad thing.” 

Remus hums. “How do you mean?” 

“Well, I just—” You cover your mouth, chewing. “I didn’t set out to get drunk, honestly, but I did sort of have a sense that I could if I wanted to. I trust you.” 

Remus’ chest warms. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you say, kissing cheese sauce off your fingertips. “I mean, I know you’d always watch out for me if I needed you to.” 

It’s a good thing none of his friends are looking back, because Remus is fairly certain the smile that takes him would earn him at least three days of jokes and teasing. He loves that you feel that way. You and Remus have only been dating for a handful of weeks, but he does want to look after you and it makes him happy beyond reason that you feel safe enough to let him. The kiss he presses into your hair is heavy with affection. 

“I’m glad,” he says. Understatement of the year. 

You curl closer to him, your arm pressing against his through your coats. Remus treasures the closeness. He wishes you were like this more often. Not drunk, necessarily, but free with yourself, with asking for and occasionally taking what you want. 

You look up at him, eyes glittery in the low light. “Would you like a chip?” you ask him sweetly. 

When Remus agrees, you try to feed it to him, missing by a mile. It’s a plot; he lets you kiss the cheese sauce off the edges of his mouth for as long as you like.

[kissingmilfs]

⚔ 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ⚔

18+ minors and men dni. i do not condone these actions in real life.

content warnings: mentions of abuse, stockholm syndrome, voyeurism, masturbation, boot and thigh grinding, sorta-ish pet play

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

🗡 if ambessa were to keep a pet (human) — i think she would want one she can break. she adores a feisty person. one who will bite her and head butt and maybe even have the audacity to spit on her. she doesn’t mind any of it. matter in fact she finds ways to antagonize you into getting those reactions.

🗡 as her prized possession of war - ambessa was well aware you were gonna be fiery and headstrong. everything you wanted you needed to plea and beg for. you went a whole month without a shower once. every time she asked something of you, you’d respond with “fuck you” or if she got close enough—you’d most likely bite her. eventually ambessa got too irritated with slapping you into submission. instead she created a gag and watched as you helplessly thrashed as the gag was wrapped around your mouth.

🗡 her favorite form of punishment most likely is stepping on you with her boots. or even kicking you depending on how insolent youre being. you’ll say something snarky and ambessa will only glare at you once before you realize she’s pushing you on the floor and her boot in your back.

🗡 it took ambessa three months trying to break you but she figured it out. it was pathetic honestly. you were so touched starved. deprived of human contact and affection. even before she found you on those ruins of a battlefield. it happened unexpectedly too. ambessa had went to wipe your drool off your chin. she didn’t necessarily think about how gentle she was either.

🗡 you never flinch when her hand comes close to your face. there’s always a defiant look in your eyes. ambessa could never tell if you were masochistic, a product of your severely messed up environment or both. but she does know the second you flinched at her soft touch and the dilation of confusion in your pupils—she had you.

🗡 ambessa never stopped with her harsh disciplining. but things changed. she took it upon herself to move you from the hole she had you in. the servants liked you enough, because you never lashed out on them, and she ordered them to give you an intense bath. once you returned to her an actual human—ambessa brought you into her personal chambers. she made you lay your head in her lap, absentmindedly stroking your hair. she spent days upon days doing this with no words spoken between you.

🗡 finally after three weeks ambessa asked for your opinion on documents she was overlooking. she allowed you to sit on her lap as you quickly read them. and when you offered the same opinion as ambessa and one potential detail ambessa overlooked - she knew she had you.

🗡 wherever she goes - you go. you’re attached to her hip but in a different manner than rictus. you do trail behind her nonetheless. but you have to actively watch her body cues for instructions. if she wants you to sit, ambessa only needs to raise an eyebrow. if it’s your turn to talk ambessa pointedly stares.

🗡 most people assume you’re a well trained advisor or secretary. both are true. ambessa hasn’t broken you to the point you’re a dumbified thing. she has no use for people without a purpose. you’re always diligently taking in your surroundings. keeping account of those interacting and reading their body language just as ambessa taught you.

🗡 no one knew, maybe besides rictus, your true title as ambessa’s pet. she reserved her affections for private. but you always knew if ambessa annoyed, displeased, or satisfied with you in public. in private ambessa pinches your cheek or pats your head when you’re good. she loves seeing the warm glow and your closed eyes as she gives the tiniest amount of affection.

🗡 ambessa hasn’t…well it took ages…for ambessa to touch you sexually. it doesn’t mean she didn’t keep her prized possession and pet satisfied. she’ll make you slowly strip in front of her. the first time she asked you to show her where you like being touched. you only pointed but ambessa demanded more. your fingers would tug on your sensitive nipples. you’d trail your fingers over the swells of your thighs. teasing the soft areas of your inner thighs. she did not stop you from rubbing your clit. or fingering yourself. when you came with a measly whimper—ambessa flicked you away with dismissal to clean yourself up.

🗡 if ambessa wants more contact—she’ll have you grind on her boot. it’s a humiliating experience for you. but even more humiliating when you actually do come and made to clean up the mess with your tongue. she even makes you thank her for the opportunity. or if ambessa is feeling particularly cruel—she’ll have you grind on her clothed thigh while you go over reports. every time you stop or stutter—ambessa’s forcefully pinches your nipple and slaps your thigh.

🗡 ambessa cannot deny she enjoys having such a pretty and mostly docile pet. you’re an excellent outlet and she doesn’t have anyone else in her ear saying what she’s doing is wrong. especially not when you kneel expectantly at the end of her bed—waiting for her to drag you into her arms and stroke every inch of your skin until she falls asleep.

tag list: @ivorydevil @langedelalune @doktorblitz @tojisbestslut

[petalbcrnes]

✫ㅤ𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄ㅤㅤ𝑜𝑓.ㅤㅤ𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆ㅤׁ . °ㅤ

𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 ㅤ＼ 𝓙𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ’n shazam!reader

♡ · REQUEST — Could I please request a Jason Todd X Shazam!reader? Reader has the same powers and Shazam and she looks damn good in her suit, Jason and her are the chaotic couple everyone in the Justice League and their side kicks are jealous of, and they get fan edits made of them lmao

⊹ 💬 · my knowledge of the Justice League is vvv limited so i apologise if they’re a bit to ooc, i did all the research i could to fully understand this req (forever a tattooed jay truther so don’t mind the moodboard lol)〟

ഒ DIRECTORY⠀’N⠀RULES.

Before Jason, the Justice League headquarters felt isolating for you. Which sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?

You, who’s blessed with the gifts of gods from the very mountain of Olympus. You, a hero intertwined with the same golden threads that make up demigods. The world could be so small under your fingertips—wisdom, strength, stamina, speed and courage—you’re supposed to have it all. And somehow, it feels like you keep nothing at all.

Being at the top of the world is truly a lonely feeling. You experience it everyday with the other heroes between these walls. They don’t necessarily do it on purpose. You’re just so painstakingly different. Off. Something they haven’t dealt with before.

Before Jason, that is.

You’ve had lightning dance across your fingertips, bend to your will and strike along the sky for you. But Jason Todd was something else. Something else with his sharp sea-green eyes. Something else with his stupidly charming grin. Something else with the way he’d find you every time in this labyrinth of a building and untangle the knots in your body with his quips, mean and handsome face, sparkling eyes—he is thunder in front of you—unbowed, unbroken, unshakable, perfectly imperfect and for some reason he’d started directing his stupidly charming grins at you.

Wandering the halls with your shoulders stiff, walk hurried, eyes cast to your feet and nervous of every word said to you—never mind if it was kind—was a draining ritual you bonded yourself to.

Falling for him was too easy. It was natural how you’d seek him out too. It spurred you even more when there was a flush on his cheeks after seeing how you’d call out his name in a crowd of other shining heroes. You two got drunk off of each other like the very presence of one another was ambrosia—golden life ichor sent by the gods.

They’d truly blessed you this time. You’d never give this up. The way the relationship you two had actually grew into a real relationship. How you’d have your hand in his and he’d trace circles on your palm and how he’d kiss your shoulders and fingertips, claiming you needed to be taken care of. He understood that isolation. Jason Todd understood and changed it all to a fairy tale.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

Even now, sitting with him in one of the many common rooms the headquarters has, bodies pressed close, head on his shoulder and his arm playing with a strand of your hair. His head is tilted back against the cushions, a rare, soft smirk on his lips as he mutters something that makes you laugh quietly.

He smelled like smoke and leather and warmth.

You could’ve stayed like that forever.

It hadn’t dawned on either of you that the relationship wasn’t exactly public yet.

Most of the League is returning from a late mission. They’re tired, soot-streaked, and ready to debrief and crash. The doors slide open with a familiar mechanical hiss as Diana, Barry, Hal, and Bruce step in—talking quietly among themselves.

But the chatter halts.

You two absolutely, undeniably comfortable. Domestic, even.

And in public.

Barry stares wide-eyed, as if there was a comically big light bulb above his head that just lit up.

“Are you guys—? Wait. Is this—? Are you two—?”

Jason didn’t even look up. “Took you long enough.”

“Seriously?” Hal sounded like he was choking. “You’re dating Red Hood? Jason Todd? Are we just letting anyone into cuddle territory now?”

You sighed, not moving. “He passed every test I gave him.”

“I barely passed,” Jason added, smug. “Or maybe I’m just effortlessly charming.”

“Are you kidding me?” Barry blinked between the two of you. “You’re like—lightning bolts and golden capes! And he’s—he’s literal Gotham crime trauma incarnate—no offense.”

“None taken, I guess?” Jason said, finally glancing up. “We make sense in a messed-up but perfect way.”

There was a pause. Even Diana didn’t say anything at first. Just observed them, the way you leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way Jason’s hand never stopped tracing soft, lazy circles on your side.

“You look happy,” Diana said after a moment.

“I am,” you replied simply.

That was something you were sure of. The happiest, the purest joy had threaded itself into your being when you were with this man.

Diana nodded once, apparently satisfied. “Then that is all I need to know.”

Bruce was silent. No one expected anything else.

“Still feels illegal,” Hal muttered, grabbing a drink from the nearby fridge. “Like, morally. Cuddling with Jason Todd in the Watchtower.”

Jason gave him a lazy grin. “Then close your eyes next time.”

“I am texting Clark,” Barry announced. “Power Couple status: officially threatened.”

You finally cracked a smile. “Tell him we’ll duel him and Lois any day.”

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

Seeing you two cuddling on the couch was a shock. But fighting side by side? That was truly a sight.

The ground shook with the force of the blast. Smoke curled upward in jagged columns as buildings groaned, half-toppled. Civilians were still evacuating, but the League was already deep in the mess—and so were you and Jason.

Jason reloaded without missing a step, ducking beneath a burst of plasma that barely missed his head. “Three on the left, armored. One's got a cannon.”

“A cannon, seriously?” you deadpanned, eyes glowing gold as static crackled along your skin. “Cannon first?”

“Cannon first.”

You launched into the sky with a thunderclap, a streak of white lightning behind you. The cannon-wielding merc didn't even have time to flinch before a bolt ripped through the clouds and slammed him back into the earth, smoking.

Jason whistled low. “Damn. I don’t think that I need to tell you how attractive that was.”

“Focus, Hood.”

“I am,” he muttered, firing three quick rounds into the knee joints of the other armored targets. “Deadly attractive and helpful.”

Roy and Kori are perched on a broken wall, watching as Jason and you tear through another group of enemies with terrifying precision.

Roy let out a low whistle. “Okay, I’ll say it—hot.”

Koriand’r smiled brightly. “They are very passionate! It is nice.”

Back on the ground, Jason threw a smoke pellet, vanishing into the haze just as another unit arrived. The moment they were disoriented, you flew in from above—fist-first—sending shockwaves that scattered the troops like dominos.

Then came the lightning—pure, radiant energy arcing from your hands, guided by Jason’s markers, precise as a sniper.

He appeared beside you again just in time to catch your elbow, steadying you.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Never better.”

Jason grinned. “Then let’s end this.”

© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[b0ng05]

Hi(gh) Milf! Wanda Maximoff x Stoner! Reader Pt.1

-----------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------

Word Count: 3333

Prompt: Billy and Tommy are coming home from college for winter break, Wanda couldn't be happier. Until they show up with her least favorite guest. Enemies to lovers type of vibe 🥴

Warnings: Age gap, smoking, Angst

Also, Not Proofread 💅

Masterlist

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3

---------------------------------------------------------

Wanda had always been a supportive mother to her boys, she’ll love them no matter what. They were her babies and could do no wrong in her eyes. Now, just because she’s supportive doesn’t mean she always approves of their choices. Like she didn’t approve of the way Tommy had wanted to bleach his hair over and over, mostly because she was worried about the health of it. Or when she didn’t approve of the boys wanting a pet lizard, but let them have it anyway to make them happy. Or how she doesn’t approve of Billy’s newest choice.

Billy had begun college and he had started making new friends. While that was great, there was one friend in particular that Wanda thought might be a bad influence on her son. Her name was Y/n, and as of late, Billy had chosen her to accompany him everywhere. They were like Dumb and Dumber, but put them together with Tommy when he’s home and it’s the Three Stooges.

From the first day Y/n had entered their home, Wanda could smell the reefer off the younger woman from three feet away. That accompanied with the stupid goofy grin on her face and Wanda instantly knew the girl was stoned. It wasn’t that Wanda didn’t approve of smoking, she just didn’t want her boys getting sidetracked with that new hobby and letting their grades slip in college, or getting mixed with the wrong crowd, nonetheless, she trusted them enough to ensure that themselves. And most of the time when the kids did visit back home with their new friend, Y/n was the only one stoned, and that only fortified the trust she had in her boys.

It was mid December, the air outside had grown cold and snow had begun to coat the ground in cold powdery layers. The Maximoff household smelt of fresh baked gingerbread cookies and a hint of cinnamon apples. Wanda had begun her baking when the boys told her they were driving home for Winter break. She was excited to see her kids for the holidays, to hear what she missed out on while they were away. She had kept herself pretty busy when the boys left home. She appreciated the free time to figure out who she was outside of being a mother, she had always had her own interests, but when the boys came along, they became her whole world. But now, she had time to try new hobbies and adventure out. She was happy, and it was a bittersweet yet tremendous feeling. So she softly hummed out a tune as she mixed together the cookie dough in the kitchen aid before her, lost in a peaceful bliss.

What Wanda’s kids forgot to mention to her, is that they were bringing Y/n with them for Winter break. Y/n had nowhere else to go for the weeks off, it was either go with the twins or be stuck on campus, the second choice didn’t sound too appealing. So, with a stash tucked in her duffle bag, she hopped in Billy’s suv. They had picked up Tommy from his dorm on the other side of campus, and began their journey back to the Maximoff home. The car was filled with the quiet hum of the wheels along the road and soft music playing in the background, the playlist courtesy of Billy. The twins occasionally chatted about school and the freshest gossip, the atmosphere was warm and comfortable.

As the car cruises down the highway, Y/n’s eyes fall to the window, her mind getting lost in a haze that wasn’t weed induced. Y/n felt guilty, of course she did. She may be stoned all the time, but she wasn’t a complete idiot. She felt as if she was invading the Maximoff household; it was clear to her from the first interactions that Wanda wasn’t necessarily the biggest fan of hers. Whether it was due to her poor introduction or whether it was how she dressed and acted, she couldn’t chalk up which one rubbed Wanda the wrong way. She didn’t want to impose herself into their home, but she didn’t have a different home to go back to. Her plan this winter break was to be out of Wanda’s vision as much as she could. Whether she had to hide away in the guest room all break, or if she had to duck out in Billy’s room. Anything to avoid the fake sugary kindness and judgemental glances.

Billy pulled over to a gas station along the side road, grabbing his wallet. He unbuckled his seatbelt, turning in his seat so he can view both passengers easier. “Alright, I’m running in to grab something to drink, you two want anything?” Billy asks, turning to look at Y/n and Tommy, who was sitting in the backseat with a bag of doritos in his lap.

“Redbull,” Tommy says through a mouthful of chips. Billy cringes, turning to look at Y/n, expecting to see the same reaction, instead he’s met with the sight of her staring off into space, lost in her own mind.

“You alright?” Billy lightly taps the back of his hand to Y/n’s shoulder to grab her attention from the dashboard. The woman jumps at the contact, eyes flying up to meet his.

“Y-yeah I’m good. Just- thinking about something. What did you ask?” She sheepishly requests, scratching the back of her neck.

“Want something to drink? I’m running in.” Billy gives a warm reassuring smile. He knew she was a bit spacey, whether it was the weed or her natural demeanor, he didn’t care. To him, she was good company either way. The day they got assigned to that group project together, he didn’t think much of her, just another person that was gonna slack on their end of the work. But as he got to know her, there was a lot more to her than the simple one-track mind that people assumed was in there. When the other two people in their group project had decided to slack off, she had helped him pick up the weight and finish the project with an A. When Billy saw her effort, he decided Y/n was someone worth keeping around. He knew Y/n was smart, the humble kind of smart. She may have put on a facade in front of others but behind it was a beautiful personality that just needs a little more effort to get to know. And in Billy’s opinion, the effort was well worth it.

“A monster would be great, thank you.” She smiles back. Running a hand through her hair to push it out of her face. Taking a deep breath to shake the lingering thoughts from her mind, blinking them out as she turns to face the boys.

“See, she has manners, unlike SOMEBODY.” Billy jokes, whipping his head to look back at Tommy, who comically whips his head to look behind him for the culprit. Billy snorts at his reaction, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Billy, who’s back there?” Tommy asks, his voice quivering, imitating genuine concern. A dramatic, chip-dust covered hand over his chest to clutch his imaginary pearls. His eyes wide and mortified.

“I can’t with you-” Billy bites back a laugh, shaking his head as he gets out of the car. He closes the door before walking into the gas station. Once Tommy sees that Billy has entered the store, he reaches up to the passenger seat, smacking Y/n in the arm with his hand. Y/n gags at the doritos dust he leaves behind in wake of his touch. Quickly wiping her arm clear of any lingering chip dust while grimacing.

“Dude, break one of those joints out.” Tommy requests, a cheeky grin on his face. He wipes his hands off with one of the wet napkins in the backseat, something Billy kept back there specifically for Tommy after a particularly harrowing trip to Wing Stop in the past. Y/n chuckles and rolls her eyes, shaking her head playfully at his request.

“No way, you know Billy is paranoid about his car smelling.” Y/n reasons with a mischievous grin. “Just wait till we get to your place, we can hide out in your old treehouse again and smoke.” Tommy huffs exaggeratedly and leans back in his seat, “Why can’t you be like, ‘sure Tommy, we can go outside the car and smoke?’” He mimics Y/n’s tone.

“It’s cold, I’m not freezing my ass off out there.” Y/n laughs, glancing back at him. He scoffs and retorts, “As if the treehouse won’t be cold.”

“That’s different because we can plug in the space heater up there.” Y/n points out. The treehouse was something Tommy and Billy’s dad had built for them before his and Wanda’s divorce. He put extra care and work into making it the best treehouse the boys could ask for. As over the years Vision’s efforts proved themself, the treehouse had held up tremendously well, only thing different was the red paint that began to fade in shades.

Billy exits the store, a plastic bag in his hand as he enters the car, passing the bag to Tommy to deal out.

“Ew, did you get sparkling water? What are you?” Tommy playfully mocks his twin, passing the bottle up to Y/n so she can put it in the cupholder. At his words, he receives a chuckle from the woman and a glare from Billy through the rearview mirror. “Gay,” Y/n responds for Billy, “He’s gay.” Snorting when Billy smacks her upper arm in a playful scold. Tommy snickers, passing Y/n her monster from the bag before cracking open his own Redbull.

“Says the other gay,” Billy quips, his lips quirking upwards. Y/n grins, a mischievous glint in her eyes, “Takes one to know one.” She jokes, cracking open her can and taking a sip.

Billy and Tommy laugh at her words, settling back in their seats for the rest of the journey. Billy buckles back in his seat, beginning to drive again. Their trip to the Maximoff household is almost complete, only a few more hours ahead of them. The winter clouds brewing a snowstorm above them, dimming the daylight that remained. The heat of the car warmed Y/n’s cheeks, her eyes turning heavy and tired with the comfort. The sound of Britney Spears echoing in the car and filling the silence. Her eyes settled on the fields passing by, and it wasn’t long before her eyes fell shut and soft snores emitted from her.

A few hours later, the tires roll into the driveway, the snow quietly crunching beneath their weight. As Billy pulls the car into park, Tommy reaches up into the passenger seat, delivering a firm but gentle hit to the woman’s arm to wake her. The trio exit the car, collecting their belongings before making their way to the front door. It was painted a bright white with royal blue detailings and a golden doorknob to compliment the colors. A green christmas wreath with bells and ribbons hung from the center. Billy went to grab his keys from his pocket, but before he had the opportunity to pull them out, the door flew open.

Wanda stood before them, a big excited grin on her face as she opened her arms for her boys. She was wearing a grey christmas sweater with black reindeer patterns, a pair of black leggings and fuzzy socks on her feet. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, a small flick of flour littering her cheek. The big grin on her face dwindled slightly at the sight of the familiar y/h/c in front of her. Nonetheless, forcing the grin again to welcome them.

“Boys! Hug your mother!” She teases, pulling the twins into her arms. A small tinge of annoyance tweaked at the back of her mind, not knowing her boys were gonna have a guest with them. Her least favorite one at that. When they pull away from the hug, Wanda gives the best fake smile she can produce. Her green eyes looked the younger woman up and down, taking in her appearance. The younger woman was in jeans, a hoodie, and an old worn out winter hat, no jacket despite the cold temperatures.

“Hi, Ms. Maximoff,” Y/n pipes up with an awkward smile and a half wave. Not really knowing what to do, especially under the older woman’s intimidating gaze.

“Y/n, nice to see you again. Are you staying with us for Winter break?” She asks, praying the answer was no, but not getting her hopes up entirely. She knew that the chances of the girl coming for a quick visit was very unlikely. “Yeah, we didn’t want her to be alone in the dorms for Christmas.” Billy informs, trying to make his mother seek a little empathy for the girl once he notices the look in Wanda’s eyes. At the words, Wanda’s annoyance dwindles slightly, showing some understanding. She gives the warmest smile she can, opening the door to let them all in. “C’mon, don’t want anyone getting a cold, do we?” She says, nodding her head to gesture to them to come in. Wanda slightly grimacing at the whiff of weed on the younger woman’s hoodie as she passes through.

The group piles in, slipping their shoes off by the door before making their ways to set their belongings in their respective rooms. Y/n silently cursing the fact that the guest room was next to Wanda’s room instead of next to the boys. It would make hiding from Wanda a little harder than anticipated. Y/n sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, mind flicking through anxious thoughts as she eyed her backpack. She grabbed a joint out, making her way into the bathroom connected between the guest room and Wanda’s. Locking both doors and cracking open the bathroom window, Y/n lights her joint. Letting her anxious worries turn into a comforting euphoria as she leaned against the wall, blowing the smoke out the window. Exhaling her worries out with grey puffs. Anxious thoughts dwindling, it wouldn’t be too hard to stay out of Wanda’s way right? All Y/n had to do was stick to the guest room or stick to Billy and Tommy like a parasite. It wasn’t that Wanda was too intimidating to be around. Maybe it was- despite the point, Wanda was stunning. Y/n didn’t do great around pretty women, she turned into a blubbering blushing mess. And especially older women, and Wanda hit both points dead center. She was absolutely stunning, effortlessly so. As Y/n smoked, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander thoughts of the older woman. How cute that speck of flour on her cheek looked, the whimsical pastel gingerbread men on her fluffy socks, every quirk and trait that had Y/n enamored-

'No- no, absolutely not enamored, this is my best friend’s mother for gods sake.'

Wanda was taking the cookies out of the oven, her mind sorting through her thoughts as she set the baking sheets on the stovetop. She began using a spatula to take the cookies off and set them on the drying racks. But the question lingering in her mind is, why didn’t Y/n have anywhere to go? She knew that Y/n never really mentioned her family but Wanda just chalked that up to the younger woman being a rather private person. From what Wanda had observed being around her, Y/n didn’t talk much, only jutting in with the boys when they’re joking around. Wanda knew nothing about her besides the fact that the younger woman was an English major that liked smoking the good kush and was unreasonably good at Mario Kart. That last one she learned when the boys came home for a weekend with her and they all ended up playing a few rounds while Wanda sat on the couch and observed with a content smile. As much as Wanda disliked the younger woman, she was a good kid despite the smoking. Y/n was always a help after supper, offering to do the dishes up as a ‘thank you’, cleaning up after herself, just random chores to help. Maybe, Wanda could try to make peace with the woman. Maybe a few weeks of winter break with her boys and Y/n couldn’t be so bad… Right? She just needed to try to be more understanding, maybe get to know her better. It was for the boys sake, right? Not the fact that she did find the younger woman attractive and a little endearing. Especially with how nervous and bashful she looks whenever Wanda is around, or that cute glimmer in her eyes when she won Mario Kart last time. What was she thinking? It's her son's friend, she can't think like that.

Then the scent hit her.

Wanda ran over to the oven, whipping it open and using an oven mit to take out the last tray of cookies. Slightly burnt and crispy as they clung on to the baking sheet. A small unconscious pout falling on her lips, her brows furrowing as she sets them on the oven. Turning off the oven and shutting it closed. “Damn it,” Wanda mutters, tossing the oven mit on the counter before making her way over to the cookies on the drying rack. Their gold hue mocking the burnt ones. Letting out a sigh, she turned to walk out of the kitchen to give them time to cool down. As she makes her way up the stairs, a faint smile graces her lips, hearing her boys chat in their room as they unpack. She goes to her bedroom to grab her phone off it’s charger, but pauses in her steps. Her nose tipping up as she sniffs the air, smelling something familiar, something burning. Her eyes widen slightly as she makes her way to the connected bathroom, knocking heavily.

“Y/n, you better not be smoking in my house!” She calls through the door, annoyance peeking through her tone.

Y/n freezes, eyes wide in fear and embarrassment of being caught. Quickly snubbing the joint out in the sink and stuffing the remaining half in her hoodie pocket. Panic filling her mind, what happens when she leaves this bathroom? Is she gonna be kicked out? Is she gonna get a lecture from Wanda?

She didn’t know, but boy was she scared to find out. But she took a deep breath, mustering up her courage before unlocking the door and opening it, revealing the brunette before her. Wanda’s eyebrow quirked as the scent grew stronger.

“Hiiii, Wanda.” Y/n drawls out, giving a guilty smile, sheepishly lowering her head to brace for the woman’s reaction. But to her surprise, a small laugh breaks past Wanda’s lips.

That guilty smile tugged at Wanda’s heartstrings in a way she couldn’t help. A small smile that Wanda tried to fight back, and a hint of amusement in her eyes, but she quickly tries to cover both.

“If you’re gonna smoke, go outside.” She reminds, lightly flicking the younger woman in the forehead before entering the bathroom to light a candle to get rid of the smell. Y/n’s eyes widen almost comically, surprised that Wanda didn’t raise her voice.

“Sorry, I know.” Y/n’s cheeks flush pink as she scratches at the back of her neck. Her eyes following as the older woman enters her bedroom again, standing before her.

“It’s alright, just don’t let me catch you again.” Wanda hums playfully, “Now c’mon, I need you and the boys to help me decorate all those cookies, wouldn't want my baking to be for not.” Nodding her head towards the door with a small smile, Wanda heads out into the hall.

---------------------------------------------------------

Authors Note- Okay, how are we feeling?

[samcvrpenters]

word count: 2.2k+

pairing: dark! commander! caitlyn kiramman x enforcer! fem! reader

summary: caitlyn’s anger morphs into an overwhelming possessiveness of one of the enforcers, who ends up being you, and she has already formed invisible chains around you to keep you all to herself

warnings: possessive! caitlyn, dark! caitlyn, stalking, murder, torture, she uses her position as commander against you a LOT, kidnapping

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

what is caitlyn’s place in the cruel world if it’s not to fit in and reciprocate those key values of hurting people in order to get what she wants? in the long run, yes, it may be to help the distinguished upper city of piltover, but at the moment? it is only to reflect her superiority to the civilians and make the people of the undercity afraid of her.

she never would have had to resort to such methods if it wasn’t for jinx and her callous actions against caitlyn’s mother.

to say caitlyn wanted revenge would be the understatement of the century. she would want nothing more than to publicly torture the criminal and make her pay for the crimes she has committed and the damage against her family and health because she would deserve it.

caitlyn can already imagine it; the smug grin would be wiped off jinx’s face and perhaps she would have tears streaming down her face as she’d see her own guts pooling from her stomach. caitlyn would use knives. she’d use a blowtorch. maybe she would make her drink the strongest disinfectant that she could even dream of.

she’d make it her mission to use all of the piltover scientists in her acts— her acts against humanity— and she would find some extravagant ways to make jinx regret her crimes and beg for mercy.

she’d wear her commander’s cape with pride, yet she would know that her brain has already become twisted with the same darkness that plagued the worst of villains and she would slowly be turning into one of them. she’d be replacing herself.

she’s been so caught up in everything that she hasn’t even granted herself the merciful capability to have a break. have a rest.

she’s been training the armies. troops and troops of enforcers who are meant to be insanely proud to wear the emblem on their uniform but are instead only wearing it from their fear of being ripped apart in the same way caitlyn describes it in her mind.

within the thousands of people who wear the uniform, there’s you. you’re not high in the ranks of the enforcers, but you’re not low either.

she doesn’t know what it was about you. was it that she could train you to be even better when you’re already somewhere in the middle of the ranks? no. that doesn’t make sense— because then she would feel the same as she would do with the hundreds of enforcers who are of the same rank.

but she’s latched onto you like a mosquito to blood, a flea to a dog, a moth to a flame.

she wouldn’t necessarily call herself some lapdog who is running around and doing all of your chores and business. just because she’s attached to you (in her mind, no doubt), doesn’t mean that she’s going to be kind and do things for you.

what’s the point in that?

she’d be ruining her spectacular reputation and performance as the hardened commander who changed her ways because of the unfortunate death of a family member.

maybe she wants something to grasp onto; maybe that ended up being you because of your overwhelming sense of innocence. you’re not that innocent. you’re not pure. but in her eyes, you’re an angel. you’re the opposite to her. you could create such an outstanding dichotomy with her and it could drive both of you to want each other.

but it’s not want for her. it’s a need. ever since she laid eyes on you, her footsteps followed your footsteps. her breaths followed your breaths. her heart followed your heart because where you went, she went.

not like you know about it.

what’s the word for it? stalking? it’s a crime. a widely recognised crime in the city of piltover yet caitlyn has made an exception for herself because she’s the commander and she has the exception to every crime in the book.

her eyes remain on you at all times.

why are you in a bar? why are you drinking? are you so sorrowful that you’re unable to think of a better way to solve whatever problems is lying in that brain of yours? but the way you drink is so enticing and tantalising that all she wants to do is grab your face and kiss you. bite you. mark you.

a flick of the wrist and there goes the shot. a lift of your hand and there’s a glass of wine. and the tilt of your head and there is goes— down into your throat and into your body. a move of the hand and the glass is back on the counter.

she wants to take a picture of this moment. your lips are glistening with hints of the wine that had moved from the glass and the way you lick your lips. it’s like you’re trying to seduce her. it’s like you want her to come and corrupt you and your mind. she could teach you the most barbaric of things. but does she really want to ruin you?

the first time she talks to you is a strange event.

you’re sat doing work. your pen scratches against paper and her eyes are locked onto the path of the pen. your handwriting is incredible. maybe she should get you an office job. you’d be safer there, and she would be able to look at all the work you’ve done and stare at it intently.

you don’t even notice her at first, until she clears her throat and you wildly excuse yourself. you know what she’s like and you don’t want to be hurt. “oh— commander, i apologise— i didn’t notice you—“

are your apologies totally relevant? perhaps. she thinks it’s good to know that you do apologise for these things, because it means you’re not as tough as you think you are and she’ll be able to have a tighter hold on you when it comes to it.

but she’s meant to be cruel, so she ignores your apologetic comments and words and slams a pile of paperwork down onto your desk. “get this done by noon, officer. or i will be punishing you for incompetent behaviour.”

and she turns around and walks away.

she felt proud of herself then. she finally spoke to you. after following you and watching you in the bar. after following you home and watching you relax. after following you home and watching you in the shower, with water running down your soft skin and dripping off your body when you wrap the towel around yourself.

she keeps her eye on you when you fill out the paperwork. your writing is slightly different, because you’re filling it in more frantically and she can tell your hand aches because you occasionally take a break to shake your hand, as if shaking off the growing ache present in your muscles.

when you finally finish it off and dump it down onto her desk, you seem almost out of breath. she doesn’t mind. she’ll make you faster and better. she’ll improve your stamina.

“all pieces done.” you breathe out, your hands resting on the papers as you set it down on her desk. it’s in quite a neat pile— it’s not very messy, and most of the corners meet one another.

but she only glares up at you, making your muscles tense and your heart beat faster and faster against your rib cage. why is she glaring at you? she’ll do anything to be cruel. to make sure she can reinforce that you’re below her and that she controls you. because she does. she owns you.

“since when did i announce that officers are able to speak to their commander without being spoken to?” she would really find anything to criticise you, wouldn’t she? well, it wasn’t really a criticism. it was more just something she could scold you for. berate you for. but she sees you gulp nervously, and she lets out a sigh as she grabs the pile and pulls it closer to her. “i’ll let you off with a warning. next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

is she taking pity on you? yes. but you don’t know why, and honestly, she doesn’t know why either. is this because of her obsessive nature with you?

she wants to keep you with her at all times. is that so much to ask? maybe she can make you pay for what you did. she won’t be too harsh, though, she’ll just be able to keep an eye on you easier.

“stay with me for the rest of the day, officer.” does she not know your name? is that why she is addressing you as that? or does she just get off on the fact that she’s superior to you? “you will not be leaving my side for the rest of the day. do you understand me?”

“yes, commander.” it’s as if you want to listen to her. you want to stay by her side. maybe you don’t want more punishment or anything bad to happen to you because you’re just listening to her.

it’s her way of keeping you close to her. because she doesn’t want anyone else to be taking up any of your attention, does she?

she keeps you close to her for the rest of the day. she keeps her promise. she just loads more and more office work onto you with every hour that passes and she enjoys the expression on your face— the way your teeth tug at your lip as you concentrate and the way your hair sticks to your forehead slightly as you sweat.

she’s doing this to you. she’s making you look so beautiful and ethereal as she gives you more work. as she practically overworks you.

she lets you go around midnight. she doesn’t offer any sympathy for letting you leave so late in the night, and she tells you to come earlier in the morning. she really won’t let you catch a break now that she’s got those piercing blue eyes on you.

you’re back early in the morning, with your best friend, it seems. caitlyn doesn’t approach you yet, but she’s watching as you chat away to this figure that she doesn’t even recognise to be part of the enforcers. she doesn’t remember approving the identification of your supposed best friend.

and she makes a point of it.

she’s thought about cold blooded murder before, but she has never actually gone through with it. she’s thought about torture, especially with jinx, but she’s never done it to someone who doesn’t deserve it. yet, she can’t help herself because she believes that you belong to her and your best friend is holding you back and away from her.

she had approached your friend with the promise of arrest for treason. she knew it was wrong, because they never actually committed treason, but caitlyn was too far gone to even care about morals.

throwing them into stillwater, caitlyn had made sure that they paid for their actions, because soon enough, they were screaming and begging for mercy against caitlyn’s hands.

at first it was just slaps. then it was punches. then it was stab wounds. burn marks. it was constant pain after pain and eventually, they gave up and just let their limbs hang limp and blood run dry.

she’s not insane. she’s just keeping you to herself.

“clean this up.” caitlyn spoke with a harsh tone in her voice, and soon enough, the body was gone (courtesy of the prison guards), and her actions were hidden from society.

and then she goes back to watching you. she’s got her gun in hand and she doesn’t know what she’s actually doing at this point, because she won’t shoot you, but she can’t let you roam the streets if you’re going to have friends.

and you’re walking down the cobbled pavement— without a care in the world— as if you’re invincible.

but you’re not, and she needs to show you that.

her hands clench tightly around her rifle and she finally pulls herself from the shadows, blue eyes no longer disguised by the darkness of the buildings and she has revealed herself to you.

she’s stepped right out in front of you and you don’t know why she has.

“oh— uh, commander kiramman— can i help you in any way?” you’re so calm about it, like she hasn’t just jumped out in front of you. is this how you would react if it is was someone else? what if there was a criminal in front of you? would you just stand there and ask if you can help them?

anger overtakes her and the butt of her rifle finds itself at the side of your head, knocking you clean out onto the floor. she didn’t catch you, because it’s not like she’s a hopeless romantic.

there’s blood pouring from your skull but she knows you're alive because she can your chest moving. her hands grip onto your shoulders as she pulls you up against her, your head resting on her chest as she holds it there.

there’s blood on her fingers. but she doesn’t care. because she has you now. you’ll forever be in her grasp, and you’ll be happy. you’ll be safe. you’ll be hers. as you should be.

[tropes-and-tales]

Friends and Lovers, Part II

(Robert "Bob" Floyd x F!Reader)

CW:  Angst; Jake as a good guy; probably typos.

Word Count: 3916

AN:  This was requested by the lovely @callsign-frostbite for the April Showers event! It is a sequel to this!

There’s no end, it seems, to how bad Bob can feel. 

He feels guilty as hell, a sick wash of shame that courses through him each time he remembers the look on your face—the hope, the dashing of that hope—when he jokingly slid an heirloom engagement ring on your finger.

It doesn’t help that he can barely get ahold of you.  You don’t ghost him entirely, but you are avoiding him.  His calls go to voicemail, and his texts go unanswered for long hours.  When you do answer, your responses are short, terse, and brook no further conversation.

You’ve been friends for years, and you’ve had arguments before.  Petty spats, misunderstandings…they all resolved within days with little more than apologies and hugs. 

This?  This is different. 

For one thing, Bob feels different.  With the usual friendship frictions of the past, he only felt lightly irritated with himself or you, and it dissipated quickly.  This time, he feels worse and worse as each day passes.  He obsesses over that last morning with you, tries to understand why in the hell he did what he did.  He tries to understand your feelings, both in that moment and now. 

For the first time in his life, he struggles to fall asleep each night.  He can’t turn off his mind, and his stomach perpetually aches with the shame of hurting you so carelessly. 

For another thing, the near silence lasts for days, then weeks.  You and Bob are usually a package deal, and it isn’t long before the other Daggers note your continued absence from nights at the Hard Deck.

It doesn’t help that the Daggers generally refer to you as Bob’s girl either, even though Bob has a girlfriend who technically qualifies more.

“Where’s your girl?” Rooster asks one night.  “Haven’t seen her around in a while.”

It’s a slow night at the Hard Deck, quieter and sparser than usual, so their collected attention turns to Bob and Rooster’s conversation, and they all learn, in fits and starts, of that last morning together.

-----

Throughout Bob’s adult life, there has been moments, large and small, where he realizes that his childhood wasn’t the standard.  Not that there is a standard, really, but those moments always stun him for a moment and cause him to recalibrate his perspective.

Admittedly, many of those moments are small.  Inconsequential things.  For example, he grew up in a family that was not particularly religious but still muttered grace over dinner.  The first time he ate dinner at a friend’s house who didn’t say grace—it was a realignment of his world view.  A reaffirmation that his childhood, his family, wasn’t necessarily the template.

But sometimes it’s a massive moment that shifts his perspective, and it happens on a slow night at the Hard Deck when the Daggers sift through Bob’s falling out with you.

He explains it as best he can.  He flushes when he gets to the part about the ring, the dumb joke.  He still doesn’t understand why he did it.  He feels a fresh wave of shame when he sees his fellow Daggers wince at the story.

Hell, he feels a second wave of shame when he sees how hard Hangman cringes at the story.  It’s not a good feeling to think that Hangman would have been kinder than Bob.  That for all his smarm and cockiness, Jake would have been less cruel to you than Bob was.

“And you don’t feel any sort of way for her?” Nat asks Bob gently.

He shakes his head.  “I mean, she’s my best friend.”

“So, no?” asks Bradley.

He shakes his head again.

“Are you sure you don’t, though?”  Nat again.  “Because the two of you are pretty damned cozy.  You bring her around more than Kenzie.”

Nat is technically correct.  Bob does bring you to the Hard Deck more than his girlfriend.  Kenzie is more of a homebody—like him—and the few times she met up with the Daggers for a night at the bar, she hated it.  You’ve always been more flexible, able to shift in either direction—quiet nights in, raucous nights out—so it was always just easier to bring you along to the Hard Deck.

Bob tries to explain it to them now.  Tries to break down how Kenzie is his girlfriend, possibly more in the future, but that you’re his truest friend, his best friend—

“I’m sorry,” Jake cuts in when Bob haltingly tries to explain it again.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath like he’s trying not to lose his cool.  “Why do you keep saying she’s your best friend like it’s something mutually exclusive?”

“Huh?”

Another deep breath.  “You keep saying that she’s your best friend like that explains anything.  I feel like I’m missing something, Baby on Board.”

Bradley chimes in with “Are you not attracted to her?” and Bob shakes his head.  Starts to say that he never thought about it because you’re his best friend, but at that phrase—best friend—Hangman throws his hands up in frustration, and even Nat drops her head and shakes it, exasperated.

Their frustration makes Bob frustrated.  He looks at each of them, huffs out, “you don’t marry your best friend” as if it’s a given fact everywhere.

All three of them give him the exact same incredulous look, and Bob realizes that he’s in the middle of another perspective shift.

-----

It’s not that Bob’s parents don’t love each other:  they do.

They just aren’t best friends, and they never have been. His father’s best friend is a guy named Glen who he went to high school with.  They watch football together and relive their own glory days on their high school team.  They engage in a constant, benign one-upmanship revolving around home improvements.  Once a year, they go to the same lake in the upper peninsula of Michigan and fish for walleye and pike.

Bob’s mother has two best friends from college.  They have an entire secret code system, inside jokes and short-hand phrases that can telegraph entire memories with little said.  They have nicknames for each other.  They triangulate their petty spats against each other, and they have an annual trip too that revolves through cities and locations each year.

Bob’s parents would never describe each other as the other’s best friend.  Their relationship, so far as Bob has observed it—first as a child living in it, then as an adult weighing it against his own dating life—is solid.  Practical.  They fit together neatly, and their home, their children are testaments to the ease of their partnership. 

It works for the Floyds:  two of Bob’s sisters are married, and their marriages seem much the same as his parents.  Solid, practical, loving in a mild, steady way.  But not best friends.  If Bob looks backwards to his grandparents, he sees the same sort of pattern.  He sees it with his aunts and uncles, and some cousins too.

It never occurred to him that anyone else was different.  It never occurred to him that he could be with his best friend because he never saw it modeled for him in his life.

And now Nat, Bradley, and Jake are staring at him like he’s the stupidest man alive, and for once, Bob thinks he just might be.

“Of course you can marry your best friend,” says Nat.

“Isn’t that kind of the goal?” adds Bradley.

He tries to explain it, but in describing the marriage of his parents, he ends up describing them as cold, loveless people.  Which they aren’t—there’s plenty of affection between them, they certainly love each other—but how can he accurately explain that his family seems to draw a line between friendship and love, and that it’s never seemed to do them any harm?

“Don’t you think it’s telling,” Jake asks, “that you called her for a late-night airport ride and not Kenzie?  Isn’t she the person you rely on when you need something?”

Jake’s not wrong.  It’s dawning on Bob that he’s been wearing blinders for a long time.  Anytime something significant happens, good news or bad news, or when he needs support or to celebrate, his knee-jerk reaction is to always call you first. 

He’s put a wall between the woman who’s his best friend and the woman who’s his girlfriend, and he’s done it because that’s the relationship model that was demonstrated for him his entire life…and now it’s dawning on him that it’s not a rule at all and never needed to be.

“Do you think…”  He starts to ask the question, then licks his lips nervously.  He takes a breath and continues.  “Do you think she thinks of me as more than her best friend?”  He has to think it’s the case—what else could explain that glimmer of hope in your eyes when he joked around and slid that ring on your finger?  Yet it seems so preposterous; the thought makes his breath catch in his throat that you’ve been in front of him all this time and just waiting for him, waiting and waiting and waiting while he never even noticed…

Jake scoffs, and Bob glances at him in time to catch his elaborate eye roll.

“No, Bob,” he tells him, his voice laced with sarcasm.  “I think she’s just icing you out after the ring debacle for the hell of it.”

He ignores Jake and fixes his gaze on Nat.  “I messed up, didn’t I?”

She nods, says nothing.

“You think I can fix it?”

She gnaws at her lower lip, thinks on it.  “Maybe.  Maybe not.  Do you want to fix it?”

“I do.”  He misses you more and more with each day that passes, and the realization that he could have had more with you, that people can be with their best friends (it’s so stupid, he’ll realize someday in the future, of course a best friend can be a lover) only makes him miss you more. 

“You need to cut Kenzie loose,” Bradley says.  “It’s not fair to string her along if you’re all in on another woman.”

He nods in agreement.  It probably means something, the way his stomach dips and roils at the thought of giving up Kenzie—safe, reliable Kenzie—to go all in on you.  It’s terrifying, but there’s excitement underneath the terror, like he’s in the front car of a rollercoaster that’s clicking steadily up the big first hill.  The ride is already in process, there’s no chance of stopping it.  All he can do is brace himself, try not to puke, and enjoy the plunge.

-----

Breaking up with Kenzie isn’t easy. 

Bob keeps bumping up against his family history, the knowledge that Kenzie is a solid partner and could have been a solid wife.  Bob knows that if he married her, he’d likely have a marriage much like his parents’ marriage.  It wouldn’t be the worst thing.  He has an engineering degree and is a WSO with the Navy:  he likes the rules of physics, the rules of the military.  He likes the comfort of a certain thing, so letting Kenzie go is difficult. 

He meets up with her at her apartment, he is as gentle as he can be.  She takes it as well as she can.  They part and promise to stay friends, to stay in touch, but they both know it’s a benign lie.

-----

Getting ahold of you is not easy either.

Bob knows you haven’t blocked him.  You read his messages and reply to every other one.  He catches you on the phone once, manages to keep you talking to him for five entire minutes.  He doesn’t try to apologize or explain himself—he wants to do that in person.  Instead, he asks about how you’ve been, and he cringes at each stilted, quiet answer.  Normally you’re so open, and now you’ve been reduced to careful, formal conversation.

He hates it.

He tries to end the call with a promise to meet up.  He’ll take anything and offers it all to you.  A night at the Hard Deck.  A night at another bar.  An afternoon to get coffee.  An evening in, his place or yours.  An evening of video games, board games, movies, mindless reality television.  He’ll cook, he’ll order your favorite meal, he’ll bring your favorite wine or favorite cake from that German bakery you love…

“I don’t think so,” you finally reply after a long beat of silence to all his ideas.

Bob sighs.  “I miss you.”

There’s another long moment of silence before you tell him that you miss him too.

“I just need time apart, I think,” you add. 

“I want to talk to you.  I want to tell you—”

“I don’t want that right now.”  You cut him off, and he hears the strain in your voice.  “I need time to get my head straight.”

“But what if we don’t talk?  We could just hang out.  We could—”

“No.”  This time you sound firmer, more forceful.  “I’m embarrassed, Bob.  I’m mortified at what happened, and I need time to…. not feel that way anymore.”

He ends the call by apologizing after all.  He offers a weak “I’m sorry,” but he doesn’t count it.  He still wants to see you, explain everything to you, and offer you a genuine apology…if he can get you to agree to see him ever again.

-----

In the end, help comes from an unexpected quarter, though while it’s happening, Bob remains in the dark.

Weeks pass.  He doesn’t hear from you.  You trade careful, short texts with each other, but you don’t talk.  Bob’s life narrows down into just work and not-work:  he skips most of the nights out with the squad and sits alone in his apartment and goes to bed early.  He doesn’t seclude himself exactly, but he leans into the solitude.  He uses the time to think about his family, his life so far, the things he wants in the future.  He thinks about what his life might be if you never return to him, and he thinks about what it may be if you do.

Weeks pass, and there comes a Saturday night where the Daggers manage to cajole him into going out to the Hard Deck.  He settles into his usual seat, ready to watch Nat and Bradley in a round of pool.  Nat chalks his cue and starts to bend to the table for the break shot when something over Bob’s shoulder pulls her gaze and stops her.  She glances at him, her face confused, so he turns and looks too.

He sees you standing near the entrance of the Hard Deck…and Jake stands right beside you.  Worse, it looks like Jake has his hand on you—a hand on the middle of your back, steadying you.  For a brief, terrible minute, Bob thinks he’s lost you to Jake:  Jake with his good looks and impressive piloting and his understanding that the goal in life should be to marry one’s best friend.

Then Jake catches his eye.  He tips Bob a nod, then leans down and says something near your ear that makes you nod as well.  You turn to Jake and smile at him, but then you turn and find Bob, and you smile at him too.

Then Jake pushes you gently forward, towards Bob.

-----

Another shift in perspective for Bob, then.

He always considered Jake as selfish, cocky, and painfully arrogant.  He thought his fellow Dagger to be shallow, and he never considered that Jake might care about his teammates and might work on their behalf for good.

Which is exactly what Jake did over the past few weeks:  without saying a word to anyone, he slowly worked on Bob’s behalf.  Bob always knew that you gamed with the other Daggers here and there—linking up for campaigns when schedules aligned—and Jake was no exception.  After Bob laid out the entire pathetic situation with you to his teammates, though, Jake spent the next few evenings afterwards lingering online, waiting to see if you logged on to play.

When you did eventually log on, he did what any Top Gun pilot would do:  he engaged with you, a dogfight of sorts, though Jake was so good, you never even realized that you were being carefully, methodically handled.

A few days of friendly gaming ceded to texting each other.  Low-stakes stuff.  How was your day?  How was work?  Any plans for the evening?  Jake kept it friendly but not flirty.  After a few weeks of constant-but-cordial chatting, he invited you out for coffee.

He spent the coffee date broaching the subject of Bob.  Nothing too deep or introspective—just the history there, how you and Bob met and became friends.  Over coffee, Jake gently talked up Bob, talked up his good traits, talked him up while teasing him so it wasn’t so obvious what he was doing.

Then more gaming.  Occasional texting.  Tiny seedlings planted about what a great guy Bob was.  Tiny feelers to gauge your own thoughts.  Then another friendly date, this time at a bar far from the Hard Deck.

Over a shared pitcher of beer, Jake made his move.  He waited until you were one and a half beers in (and one order of soft pretzels in as well) before he brought up the subject of Bob more seriously.  He gave you the details around Bob’s baffling misunderstanding of relationships.  He gave you the details, as he understood them, of Bob’s family, of his childhood, and how both gave him preconceived notions that he hadn’t even been aware of.

He then listened to you in turn, listened carefully as you explained how you had loved Bob for nearly as long as you’d known him.  Jake listened and nodded as you described how difficult it was to be a friend and nothing more, to watch Bob fall in and out of love with other women. 

Then he listened as you described that morning to him from your perspective:  how Bob had playfully slid that ring on your finger but how you’d been blinded to the joke of it.  How your hopeful little heart had hammered in your chest, how your brain had chanted finally, finally, finally he sees me…and how quickly it was all shattered.  How embarrassment barely even captured the feeling afterwards.  How the waves of mortification and humiliation were sometimes only broken up by anger—at yourself, at Bob—until you were so deep in a well of bad feelings that you couldn’t even look at Bob again.

Jake heard it all.  He let you vent, commiserated with you, shook his head at Bob’s cluelessness.  But where you saw malice behind Bob’s poor joke, Jake gently corrected you.  Bob could be oblivious to you, but he could never be cruel to you…and what if there was some underlying emotion behind the joke?  What if, clueless as Bob was to your feelings, he was just as clueless to his own?  Jake stressed that point over and over—how Bob had no clue why he did what he did.  What if it was Bob’s subconscious driving him?  What if, deep down, he recognized that he loved you too and making a terrible joke was the only way to express it?

The discussion went all night.  When the bar lights flickered for last call, Jake gathered you up and took you for a drive to a taco stand by the beach.  Over tacos and Mexican Coke, Jake fired his final shot, the kill shot, and he put it as best he could in the terms he understood best.

“What you have to realize,” he had told you.  “Is that you and Bob both love each other the same.  You just had longer to acclimate to it.  He got it all at once in a big dose.  It’s like flying.  You had the gentle climb to cruising altitude while poor Bob was strapped to solid rocket boosters.  But you’re in the same place now, at least.”

You had laughed at that, elbowed Jake in the side and joked that he should employ more poetical language around love rather than spaceflight analogies, but then you went quiet, and Jake didn’t say anything else.  The two of you sat and watched the ocean, watched the sky start to lighten behind you, and it was only after a long stretch of silence that you cleared your throat and said, quietly, “maybe I should talk to him.”

-----

Which is what the two of you do now.  You talk.

Bob leads you outside of the Hard Deck.  You exchange niceties as you walk down the beach, far enough away from the bar until the noise is drowned out by the waves.  It’s darker here, and you both shed your shoes and sit down in the sand to allow the water to lick at your toes.  You don’t touch, but you’re close enough to Bob that he can feel you there, the slight gravitational pull of your body against his.

You talk.  You rehash all of it:  your mortification, Bob’s confusion that ceded to understanding.  Bob turns to look at you when you talk, but you keep your face turned towards the Pacific.  There’s a storm miles from shore, sheets of rain illuminated by lightning.  It’ll probably spend itself before it makes landfall, but it does kick up a breeze that ruffles your hair.

It's the first time he’s really spent time with you since that morning.  He can just make you out in the darkness, but he can see enough, and it makes his throat grow tight with how beautiful you are to him. 

How did I never see it? He thinks.  How did years pass with me so blind?

You must sense him staring because you finally turn and face him.  He has the sudden realization that this is the moment of no return, not that awful morning a few months ago.  This is the moment where you are both revealed to the other, where you each lay your respective cards on the table and hold nothing back.  Bob realizes too that even in this moment, he is experiencing an intimacy that others in his family have not experienced, and he feels so extraordinarily lucky—and grateful, for Jake’s intervention—that he grimaces against the sudden urge he has to cry.

You see the face he makes, but you seem to understand the emotion underneath it.  Why wouldn’t you?  You’ve always known him so well, and now that you’re at this moment together, you know him even better. 

You don’t say anything, though.  You’ve both spent the past few hours talking, and words would fail anyway.  You only offer him a smile—small, gentle, knowing—and then you reach your hand across the sand to him.

He reaches back, and you thread your fingers through his.  Together you sit on the dark shore and watch the storm raging out on the ocean.  There will be time in the coming days and weeks and months when you’ll say more, do more.  You’ll both stumble through this new reality of loving each other, of learning how to be together.

For now, though, you just sit together, your hand in his, and enjoy this tiny interlude between the old life you had together and the new one that is just starting.