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eveningdawn222 · 2 months ago

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people who act like batman isn't "judge jury and executioner" because he doesn't kill people are like. genuinely so funny to me because. they're very obviously thinking of "executioner" as like. the stereotypical guy with axe who chops people heads off, and not, yknow, the literal definition of the idiom itself, which is about someone who has the ability to judge and then subsequently punish someone unilaterally. which is quite literally what batman does.

he has the ability to decide what is a "crime" to him, he is the one who decides whether people are guilty of those crimes, and he is the one who executes their punishment. the severity of the punishment doesn't matter - he is unaccountable to anyone else, and indeed is allowed to commit as many crimes as needed to reach his arbitrary ideal of "justice."

the ideal of batman is this: a man who is so fundamentally changed by an act of senseless violence that he takes it upon himself to fight back against the rot and corruption in the world. he does this not through political activism, not through ridding himself of his wealth in favor of a greater good, not through community outreach, but through an individualistic fantasy of being a hero.

and you'll say: charlie, but he does do that !!! he donates his money all the time, he funds social programs, hospitals, orphanages, gets people jobs -

and i will say this: so why don't things get better?

because here's the base of it. gotham, at its core, can't get better. no matter what bruce wayne does, there will always be more crime, more villains, more death, more people for batman to beat up in back alleys. because that's what sells.

reoffending rates don't matter in gotham, prison reform doesn't matter in gotham, what actually causes crime doesn't matter in gotham because that doesn't sell books.

and so here it is; dc has unintentionally created a world where batman can't win, but can't be wrong, and where thousands of nameless, faceless, only-created-to-die civilians must be pushed into the meat grinder that is gotham, to fuel bruce wayne's angst and vindicate his constant, tireless, noble fight against the forces of evil.

and then: a new robin, who is poor and who's parents are dead or gone because of this cycle; who is happy go-lucky and hated by editors and fans for being robin, for not being dick grayson, for being poor.

and this robin is written, unintentionally or not, to be angry at the ways in which batman's (the narrative's) idea of justice is detached from its victims. bruce seems perfectly fine to allow countless unnamed women to be at risk from garzonas in his home country, yet robin is the one who is portrayed as irrational and violent.

this robin is not detached from gotham in the way bruce wayne is: this robin is a product of gotham.

(and here's the thing. you can't punch aids. you can't fight a disease with colorful fights and nifty gadgets. and how would robin dying from aids add to batman's story; it would call into question the systemic changes that haven't been made in gotham. how does a child get aids, in batman's city?)

so robin dies, and then bruce (the narrative) spends the next couple of decades blaming it on him. it is jason's fault; he was reckless, he just ran in, he thought it was all a game. if only bruce had seen what was coming, if only he could have known that jason wasn't rich enough or smart enough or liked enough to be robin.

batman gets a little more violent, a little more self destructive. he hurts people more and almost (!!) kills a couple guys. this is bad because it's self destructive and "not who he is." it is not bad because batman should not be able to just beat people up when he's angry.

and then he gets a shiny new robin - who is all the things jason "wasn't": rich and smart and rational and he doesn't put who batman is into question. batman and robin are partners, and jason is a grave and a cautionary tale, and (crucially here) never right.

the joker kills thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be killed.

batman beats up thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be criminals.

and then jason comes back, and nothing has changed. there is a batman and a (shiny! rich!) robin and the joker kills thousands. (because it sells)

and jason is angry - he has been left unavenged - his death has meant nothing, just as willis' had, just as catherine's had, just as gloria's had, just as -

thousands. ten of thousands. hundreds of thousands. written to be killed.

but one of them gets to come back.

and he is angry - not only at the joker, but at bruce (the narrative) - because why is the joker still alive (when thousands-)

here is the thing - jason todd is right. not because the death penalty is good, not because criminals deserve to die, not because of everything he says -

but because of what he calls into question. why is the joker alive?

because he sells books.

and dc has written a masterful character, through no fault of their own, because jason knows what is wrong, and he knows who is at fault - batman. (the narrative)

so the argument that bruce can't kill because he's not judge jury and executioner; the argument that jason is a cop or that jason is insane or that jason is in the wrong here; they hold no weight.

batman can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

and jason can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

so he will beg and plead and grovel - he will betray everything that is himself, he will forsake his family and his city and kill himself - just so that bruce (the narrative) will let the joker die.

he was condemned to death by an audience, and after he came back he has spent his whole life looking us in the eyes and screaming, asking, pleading; why is the joker still alive?

why are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands (the number doesn't matter, see, because they're just a number. not people. not real.) why are we expendable for his story? why did i have to die just for nothing to change?

and the answer is money. and the answer is the batman can never be wrong. and the answer is shitty writing. and the answer is -

nothing jason can ever change.

which is the worst of it all. he is a victim with no power, and no one else in the world can see it. he is raging and crying and screaming at his father and his writers and you - and it doesn't matter. jason doesn't matter. and he knows it.

#yes btw i am saying that jason is subconsciously aware he's a comic book character. being dead for literal decades and then coming back #to a different and yet fundamentally unchanged world will do that to you #this is also a huge reason i have beef with people who equate jason's death with any other persons. like sorry. no #jason *died.* forever. he was dead dead. in heaven dead.#he died in the sense that he was never supposed to come back.#your 'heart stopped' or 'was dead for maybe 3 months irl' literally does. not. compare.#also when i say tim is everything jason isn't; by including smart i don't mean jason wasn't smart #i mean tim is *written* to be explicitly in contrast to jason #and by making him a 'genius' the narrative implies his intelligence is directly in contrast to jason's #therefore implying jason wasn't 'smart'#surprisingly little tim hate in this. am i growing from my hate? (no. i wrote a couple paragraphs but it didn't fit. haters stay strong💪)#jason todd #anti batman #red hood #batman meta #batman #anti bruce wayne #bruce wayne

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nanivinsmoke · 7 months ago

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✩ Eat Me, Number One.

✩ allmight x pro!heroFem reader

wanting to get a little taste of the number one hero, during the hero’s banquet.

✩ warnings and tags: public sex, secret sex, ass eating, rough sex, multiple orgasms, nipple play, breeding, size difference, age gap, (late 20s reader), etc.

shout out to my editor, tysm <333!

“fuck, this latex is sticking to my skin. shota, can we go? im not in the mood for this uppity shit, maybe we can get some ramen or something?”

“no, unfortunately the both of us are stuck here. i lost yamada an hour ago, which is really odd since he’s the loudest one out of all of us.” aizawa, your best friend and colleague, replied as he took a bite of the salty chip in his mouth. you sighed and downed the shot in front of you, while tugging on the latex of your hero suit with your free hand.

the three of you were currently attending the annual hero’s banquet, which was made for all heroes to meet and mingle with each other. yamada had spotted the karaoke room and tip-toed away from the group when the three of you arrived, leaving you and aizawa alone. you both hated coming to these things, but yamada forced both of you to come every time.

“gonna find the bathroom and possibly yamada, so we can leave.” your dry-eyed friend gave you a nod before you took your leave; grabbing a shot from a tray a waiter was carrying—downing it like it was nothing. getting hammered was your goal. maybe you could get *him* off of your mind. you maneuvered through the crowd of heros, mind bubbling with thoughts before your eyes landed on the huge figure of the number one hero; allmight.

it might’ve been the liquor finally taking its toll on your body, making your legs feel like jelly or just seeing him period, that had butterflies filling your stomach. you were beyond nervous, it had been months since the last time you’ve seen him. the last time you did wasn’t the best experience. "duty calls" he had said before he ran off. but, you weren’t gonna let that one time stop you from saying ‘hello’ and running off to find the bathroom.

you managed to walk over and tap the bottom of his muscular back, his seven foot frame towering over you as he turned toward you. his usual ‘smiling’ eyes softened when he saw you and he kept that same bright smile like always. “y/n, it’s good to see you.”

“likewise,” you quickly turned on your heels as your memories from that terrible night plagued your mind. “wait—y/n,” he grabbed hold of your wrist and pulled you back towards him, his eyes scanning your face before dropping to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “can we talk?” you gave a quick nod and he pulled you away. you wanted to get answers, closure for the last time you two saw each other, so you could finally stop cringing at the memory.

the older pro hero led you through the crowd and into an empty room, which happened to be the bathroom. the seven foot tall man closed the door behind you both, and locked it—before turning to look at your smaller, yet curvy frame.

“y/n, I just wanted to apologize for last time. it wasn’t your fault that the date ended like that. i never meant to leave you like that. i know duty calls, but I should have never left like that without telling you, i'm sorry.” his voice was soft, sincere, and you could tell by his body language that he truly meant it.

a few months ago, you had went on a date with the number one hero. it was all going good, you had gotten to know each other really well during drinks and when you two had finally made it your table for food, he just disappeared in a blink of an eye. he didn’t call nor try to reach out to you, which made you become very insecure—leading you to believe that he didn’t actually like you.

“you don’t have to apologize—“

“but, i do. you were wonderful and im a little disappointed I couldn’t make this into something more serious; didn’t have the opportunity to kiss you—.”

“you wanted to kiss me?” it was silent for a moment, both of your eyes locked onto each other’s. the more the two of you stared at each other, the more your body temperature rose. everything about him was so captivating. maybe that was a perk of being one of the best hero’s japan has ever seen, but you were definitely falling for him.

it was sudden but his lips were on yours and all you could do was happily accept. your lips melted onto each other’s, dancing a smoother dance than a tango—with your tongue sliding into his mouth, tongues swirling around each other's. you couldn’t fight your growing arousal anymore, the crush that you had on the older man was bigger than ever.

he swiftly picked you up, not breaking the kiss not once. it was like a scene in a movie with the way he handled you. he propped you up against the white bathroom door, while he made love to your mouth. you clutched onto his yellow locks, pulling away from this kiss that had left you breathless. “think you teased me enough, number one. i need more of you.”

he had never been more turned on, until now. with one hand holding you up, he used the other hand to unzip your hero costume—freeing your plump and swollen breasts. allmight quickly wrapped his lips around your tender love buds, began to suck on them like it was the best candy he had ever tasted. you couldn’t suppress your moans; letting them flow freely out of your kiss-bitten lips.

he removed his mouth from your nipples, kissing between your breats and down your stomach. “allmight—please~”

“toshinori,” he corrected with a squeeze to your ass; making you squeal out. you had long forgotten about the party, or the possibility of other people being there.

“toshinori, please. just fuck me already.” he was taken aback by your vulgar words, but it riled him up even more. your hero suit fell down in an instant and he was lifting you off to the other side of the bathroom. using his quirk, he slid the toiletries off the sink’s counter and placed you on your knees—your ass sitting up in the air just for him; allowing him to dive his head right in between.

gasping, you held onto the marble countertop, while he licked your from your ass all the way down to your swollen clit. his fluid mixing with yours created a slippery mess, which caused you to go crazy. no wonder he was considered a pro.

“shit toshi—just like that, fuck…” you bounced your ass back onto his face, his big hands gripped your waist tighter; lips still attached to your wet clit. you could feel your orgasm creeping up on you and you were ready to accept it. however, much to your dismay, he pulled away from your dripping wet backside.

“wait toshi, i was gonna cum.” he ignored you, flipping you over onto your back; looking at you in all your glory before he gripped himself through his suit. “look, im going to warn you. you might not be able to take all of me, and that’s okay—,” you cut off his rambling by replacing his hand with yours on his bulge, fondling it. it left him groaning, eyes shutting from the pleasure.

“i'm a big girl, i can handle it. besides, a hero never backs down from a fight.” he chuckled at your response and gave you one last look, before he let his blue hero suit and briefs fall to the ground; showing all of him.

you could’ve sworn your eyes had fell out of your head due to how widen you opened them. standing about nine inches tall, his cock greeted you; dripping nothing but translucent fluid. it stood against his abs, twitching with need. not only was he lengthy, he was girthy too. you couldn’t help but to gulp as you thought about him entering you.

as much as you were nervous, you swallowed that doubt and angled him towards your aching entrance; after all you were a hero, you couldn’t let this scare you.

pushing him inside of you, you winced at the pressure—you had never been spread open like that. profanities flew out your mouth as he helped push himself inside, your soft walls clenching around his shaft; making him curse lowly.

he was only half way inside, since that’s all that could fit, and he began to move his hips slowly. the more toshinori moved—the wetter you became. soon, the sound of your cunt squelching and your lewd mewls filled the bathroom—driving the older man crazy. he was losing control over himself, each time you made those sexy noises; he wanted to slam himself deeper inside of you. to hear you yelp out and to feel you squeeze around him. to see all the cream build around him. to see how far he could drive you to insanity just by fucking you.

despite being a hero, the way he was thinking about punishing you with his dick; contradicted his heroic beliefs.

you on the other hand felt like you were going to die, in the most pleasurable way possible. each time he plunged inside of you, his thick tip hit your spot everytime—causing your toes to curl so tight; they felt like they were going to fall off. you babbled and moaned as he fucked the living shit out of you, calling his name while an orgasm ripped through you.

this was the most intense orgasm you had ever had. you were disconnected from reality a bit because of it, so you didn’t realize that you were no longer on the sink’s counter and now on the bath’s plush blue rug—until toshinori slammed down into you once again.

“fuck, you just keep getting tighter and wetter!” you had never heard him curse this much before, it was turning you on more and more.

he had you in the mating press position, hitting your most sensitive spot each time, while your hips and his balls met each time. you cunt was beyond wet, your juices dripped out and slid down onto the ground—creating a huge puddle underneath you.

you could feel him twitch inside of you and his strokes became faster and harder. he was cumming, hard.

a knock on the bathroom door startled you, causing you to look at it.

“hey! can you hurry up, i really gotta use it,” a voice could be heard from the other side, following another knock. you looked at allmight, waiting for his next move.

“in a minute….having some—shit—s-s-stomach problems”

“c’mon dude! you’ve been in there for like an hour”

“in a minute!” he yelled back, not stopping his movements. he was going to cum and nothing was going to stop him from finishing. with a few more slams, he released inside of you; while you came once more with him—this time you squirted all over him.

he grabbed your smaller body and rolled over on his back, with you lying on top of his sweaty, naked body.

“we’re going to need a plan to come out of here without them suspecting a thing,” you chuckled, peppering his chiseled face with kisses.

“this is why we have quirks, to get out of situations like this. now let’s get dressed, so i could show you more of why I’m number one~”

#all might smut #all might #yagi toshinori #mha toshinori #bnha #my hero academia #allmight #number one hero #allmight x reader #my hero academia toshinori #toshinori yagi x reader #all might x reader smut #my hero smut #aizawa #my hero x reader #dom!toshi #dom!allmight #sub!reader #black coded reader

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giselleloversclub · 20 days ago

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NCT SMAU REC PT.3

mark lee

dm for prices @susicheng

small lifestyle influencer yn, who also happens to be a stressed college student, runs into a life threatening dilemma: plug moved to a different state post grad. having developed a crippling dependency on her weekly smoke sesh, she needs someone new, FAST. luckily, chenle seems to know just the guy. enter: mark lee, an astoundingly reliable plug with an interesting texting style.

plug! mark x fem! reader

personal fav !

⋆ you. @fairyoflia

in which a biology major and a basketball player lock eyes on the train after getting caught in the rain. unfortunately for them, they hate each other.

basketball player! mark lee x fem! reader

from the rooftops @peterm4rker

in which biochemistry major mark lee didn’t have time to be swinging around the city fighting crime when he had a chemistry report due in two days and a whole plan to make the girl of his dreams to fall in love with him before the new years party.

in which journalism major y/n l/n needed her ground breaking story of the year before fuckass yuna took her place in the college newspaper and decided her favorite superhero was the answer, all while trying to get that cute biochem student to notice her.

spiderman!mark x journalist!reader

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huang renjun

starlight @suhnandmoon

after an unexpected night at the movies, you’re left turned into a vampire. with the help of park jisung and his friends, your new lifestyle adjustments are thankfully made a lot easier. that is until your friends start to call out your flaky behavior. quick, how are you going to cover up your secret? a fake boyfriend taking up your time? perfect! huang renjun is just the right guy!

huang renjun x fem!reader

vampire au

crush culture @suhnshinehaos

ln yn has always flirted with huang renjun. but they do that with literally everyone else too, they couldn’t possibly be serious about pursuing him, right? on their final year of university, yn is determined to show that they are. with all the walls that renjun has built around himself, will they be strong enough to succeed in tearing them down?

huang renjun x gn!reader

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐞 @sungbeam

you and renjun are pen-pals-turned-best-friends, except, no one knows that you know each other. at the same time, both you and renjun are also trying to survive being set up with people by your own separate friend groups. turns out, maybe you both just want each other and no one else.

huang renjun x fem!reader

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lee jeno

LOVE ON THE (DANCE) FLOOR @v1si0n

jeno was not thrilled about you joining his dance team, especially because he starts messing up every time you’re around. is it really his fault that he gets distracted by how good you look when you dance?

enemies to lovers

dancer!jeno x bookworm!reader

ᝰ.ᐟ off the record @strrykais

someone had to write for the sports column in your schools paper, and unfortunately it falls onto you. only knowing very little about basketball - thanks to your friend chenle, this shouldn't be so bad!

well, that was until you meet the team’s captain and he rudely asks if you are deaf.... funny thing is, you are!

lee jeno x fem!reader

personal fav

good graces @106alibi

y/n knows she's petty. so when she found out her (secret) celebrity boyfriend of a year had been cheating on her, through a news article to make things worse, she decided to cook up an action plan to get back at him, and what better way to take revenge than to get together with his all-time favourite athlete?

or, in which y/n involves an unsuspecting lee jeno into her little revenge scheme on her now ex-boyfriend.

boxer!jeno x magazine-editor!reader

personal fav

secret admirer @diaphamin

in which ncit’s star basketball player lee jeno is your secret admirer

lee jeno x reader

my youth , your kitchen @cigsaftersuh

in which y/n, a pre-med student, who loves to cook & feed people, meets jeno, the quiet sports science major with a soft smile, and discovers that the way to someone’s heart really is through their gastrointestinal tract, their stomach.

non-idol! jeno x f! reader (.◜◡◝)

good boy @fullsunstrawberry

New year's resolution leads to you hitting the gym with your two muscle-head friends. But things get complicated when feelings and emotions are involved.

Jeno x Reader (some anton x reader)

underneath the tree @winwintea

you’ve heard enough of the word ‘christmas’ and it was only the beginning of december! sometimes you’d wish people would just throw their cheerfulness out the window and focus on reality. unfortunately for you lee jeno has just drawn your name for the company’s annual secret santa swinter swap and he’s going to make sure you get a gift you’ll never forget. (and maybe even get you to appreciate christmas along the way?)

co-worker!lee jeno x female!reader

oh , pretty please ? @nislost

After being scolded by a teacher y/n decides she’s sick of failing her classes. she knows if she doesn’t get her act together she might not even make it in life. she decides to seek help from the one student that that can potentially help her, jeno the valedictorian. jeno would only accept if y/n helped him in some way too.

valedictorian!jeno x bimbo!reader

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lee haechan

on the same page @johnnysuhbmarine

Knowing a change of scenery was what your mental health needed, you transferred to where your brother, Mark, goes to college. The good news is, he’s not too cool for his younger sister, so he lets you join his friend group immediately. The bad news is, Haechan is in that friend group, and a brief encounter four years ago was enough for you to understand he does NOT like you. Even worse news, he’s a lot hotter than he was four years ago…

Haechan x reader

personal fav

lab rats ! @106alibi

graded internship season has finally rolled around for biology student y/n, and with a current gpa of 4.0 under her belt and an extremely high possibility of graduating valedictorian, she's fairly confident that acing her research internship will be just what she needs to secure that spot. of course, that was until a certain someone came into the equation.

or, y/n finds herself partnered with the last person she'd ever want to work with for her research internship, lee donghyuck.

biology-student!donghyuck x biology-student!reader

how not to be a virgin 101 @diaphamin

college is about gaining further education, to some, but to y/n it means she is finally free to explore the side of life she was never able to. parties, relationships, and sex. she was tired of being dull, tired of being the only one around her who hasn’t experienced anything romantic. she was ready to be the exact opposite of what she wasn’t. the only problem being… she doesn’t know how. that’s when she calls upon haechan, someone notoriously known for having a bit too much fun… and asks him for guidance.

where you are @luvmahae

what the absolute fuck is up baby! fall semester marks the peak of greek life at ncu. the campus quad is filled with tents representing various fraternities and sororities with their letters proudly presented in front of each booth, all eager to recruit new members. as students return to campus, they are met with a flood of fliers and invitations to parties, mixers, and rush events. while you were walking through the crowd of eager freshmen to join these organizations, you bumped into someone very unexpected...

what do you do when you bump into the guy you hooked up with after a music festival during summer break? instead of the royal blue basketball jersey you first met him in, it was replaced by a varsity jacket with the letters reading "ΝΧΘ".

"haechan?"

fratboy!haechan x fem!reader

personal fav

nerf this ! @injvns

in which overwatch streamer yn ln is on a winning streak one night, and sorta kinda ends up killing professional overwatch player lee haechan on stream…multiple times. she didn't even know who he was, let alone that he was super hot?! c'mon, she wouldn't have smoked him THAT hard if she knew!

yn starts overwatch beef with haechan accidentally. romance ensues.

progamer!haechan x streamer!femreader

cruise of love @mixxiew

yn, a scholarship student, finally gets the opportunity of her life to join her friends for the Semester at the Sea. every thing looks like a dream until the arrogant rich boy lee haechan crushes into her.

haechan x reader

just pretend ! @nislost

y/n gets hit up by her ex and in a desperate attempt to have him leave her alone she gets a random picture of a guy on pinterest and pretends he’s her bf. turns out the picture she used is of an up and coming youtuber lee haechan.

nonidol!haechan x f!reader

sunshine and starlight @lavndrystudios

haechan gets more than he bargained for when he meets chaeyoung’s new roommate. turns out he loves you, he really does. too bad you’re with ten.

haechan x f!reader

APT @sourrpatched

“Don’t you want me like I want you baby?”

After a uni party full of too many drinks and party games, y/n meets the love of her life. Only the next morning she can’t remember his name, his face, or anything besides his very attractive hands.

Lee Donghyuck lives a simple life, work, school, and sleep. He has no business in being dragged into parties every weekend. Which is why bumping into his complete opposite is enough to bring him out of that shell, albeit with force.

LEE DONGHYUCK X FEM!READER

you’re losing me. @najaemism

it’s been six weeks since you ended your six-year relationship with haechan, and it seems like he’s already moved on.

angst, ex!haechan, hurt/no comfort

it's the way you are @inurnctdreams

y/n suh is going into her second semester of her sophomore year at snu. as a self-proclaimed snu lions fangirl, she can’t believe there’s a new player on the team she hasn’t met yet, especially one as cute and funny as lee donghyuck, who nearly everyone she knows seems to already be friends with. how did she manage to avoid him (even if unintentionally) for almost an entire year and a half? he seems way too good to be true… and then she remembers; he’s in the frat.

haechan x fem!reader

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na jaemin

builds @moonslie04 In which streamer! Jaemin joins a random player's world and starts to roast their build without knowing that the innocent player was another genshin content creator.

˙⋆✮ bed chem ✮⋆˙ @wonbin-truther

when jaemin saw the big red "16%" on his first organic chemistry test, he knew he needed a tutor, fast. enter l/n y/n, a chemical engineering student who is determined to raise his grade. but as study sessions turn into late-night library marathons, jaemin is starting to realize he’s got more than just organic chemistry to worry about.

college student yn x college student jaemin

movie nights @nana4nena

while you’re having weekly movie nights with the dreamies, you and jaemin are falling in love, but someone is falling for you

jaemin x fem! reader

✮⋆˙ .exposure. @susicheng

a member of the up-and coming pop-punk / emo band, reverie: yn finds herself falling in the deep end with the band's new (much needed) photographer, na jaemin.

na jaemin x fem!reader ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

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zhong chenle

run your mouth @doughyk

chenle has a worm in his ear;not a good worm either, and it doesn’t seem to go away. But there you are, the worm in his ear. Yapping his ear off during work, absolutely smitten by him…chenle not so smitten by you.

nonidol!chenle x fem reader

personal fav

say it @sqh3e

you and Chenle are in the same music class at SMU, you write the songs, he sings them. for a few weeks you stopped showing up and no one realized you hadn’t been showing up until your friend mentions your name.

singer!chenle x fem!reader

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park jisung

SCUM'S WISH 𓆩♡𓆪 @jungaji

struggling with unrequited feelings, you and park jisung agree to a fake relationship to ease your loneliness, filling the gaps left by others. with promises not to fall for each other and to part ways if your affections are reciprocated elsewhere, you jump into this arrangement. can you both stick to the rules, or will the lines between pretense and reality blur?

or, in which you and park jisung turn to each other for comfort in an attempt to soothe your unrequited loves.

park jisung x fem!reader feat. jeong jaehyun & cho miyeon

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#nct #nct u #nct dream #nct fanfic #nct fic rec #nct x reader #mark lee #mark lee fanfic #renjun fanfic #jeno fanfic #haechan fanfic #jaemin fanfic #chenle fanfic #jisung fanfic #nct smau rec #nct smau

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rynwritesreid · 1 year ago

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Sold my Soul | Spencer Reid

Summary: You’re out celebrating with your friends after a recent work accomplishment. Where you bump into Spencer Reid who is working on a case in your city. fem!reader. This is my first time writing smut outside of an overall story, so there is a plot. I hope you enjoy it:)

Content: Dom! Spencer . Sub! reader. Use of nicknames (good girl). Smut (with a plot). Overstimulation. Oral (M and F receiving) Fingering (F receiving) MDNI. 18+

words: 5.3k

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You like to have things under control, but I mean who doesn’t? You could be relaxed on the surface, all calm and collected, all your friends said you had a calming presence. But if one thing went wrong in your daily routine you would be stressed thinking your whole day had gone wrong.

But today was a big, you had an important meeting with your editor. You took a deep breath and tried to calm yourself as you checked the time once again. You were running five minutes late, and now all you could think about is how unprofessional this would look and how unprepared you felt. You had spent countless hours working on your latest novel, and the idea of someone finding a fault in your writing was making you beyond anxious.

You rushed out of your apartment, taking the stairs two at a time. You reached the street just in time to see your uber pulling up to the curb. The driver gave you a nod and a smile as you climbed into the back seat. You smiled back politely but couldn’t find it in you to make small talk. Your mind was solely focused on your meeting ahead. You had been working on your latest novel for months, pouring your heart and soul into every word.

But as the meeting drew closer, you began to second-guess yourself. What if your editor hates your work? What if they find plot holes or inconsistencies that you have missed? The thoughts swirled around in your head like a tornado, and you couldn’t shake them off.

As the car pulled up to the publishing house, you took a deep breath and stepped out onto the street. You smoothed out your clothes and adjusted your bag, trying to regain some semblance of control. But as soon as you walked through the glass door, your anxiety escalated.

The meeting was difficult, but you felt it was successful. Your editor had a handful of constructive criticisms, but all in all, they loved your work. You let out a sigh of relief as you left the publishing house, feeling like a weight had been lifted of your shoulders.

You had decided to call your closest friends to go out and celebrate afterwards. They were always down to go drinking, for celebrations or to commiserate. As you walked towards the nearest bar in the city, your mind was still racing from the meeting. You couldn’t believe that your editor had loved your work, and you couldn’t wait to celebrate with your friends. You pushed open the door to the bar, the sound of laughter and music hitting you as you stepped inside.

Your friends were already there, waving to you from the corner of the room. You made your way over, taking a seat beside them. You could feel the nervous energy draining from your body as your ordered a round of drinks for the table.

As the night went on, the drinks kept coming. You let yourself relax completely, enjoying the company of your friends and the new sense of freedom that came with having your novel approved. The bar kept getting louder and more crowded as the night went on.

Your friends went to get some drinks, as you just wanted to sit and enjoy the atmosphere for a moment. As you were people watching, you saw a group of about five/six people all sitting together. Each one of them was more attractive than the next. But one specifically caught your eye. He was fairly tall, around 6-foot, mediumish brown curly hair, hazel brown eyes and a face sent straight from the Greek gods. You looked at him and you just couldn’t look away. As he caught you looking, he flashed you a smile that made your heart race. You quickly looked away, feeling embarrassed that you had been caught staring. But you couldn’t help but glance back, and you found that he was still looking at you, a playful smirk on his lips.

Suddenly, your friends were back at the table, loudly chatting and laughing as they set down their drinks. You tried to focus on their conversation, but you found yourself stealing glances at the handsome stranger across the room.

You turned back to your friends and as asked, “do you guys see that group of people? Do you think they are all like models or something?”

Both of your friends turned to look at the group of strangers, looking, more like judging, each one.

Lucy was the first to say something, “I think they are. Or whatever job they are in, requires them to look as beautiful as possible.”

Alice than spoke, “it almost feels like I’m dreaming. The two older guys are making me question myself.”

You chuckled at Alice’s comment. “What about the guy with the brown curly hair? He’s like the most attractive man I have ever seen.” You already knew their answers already, they would tell you how they agreed with you, but he wasn’t their type.

“He’s really hot, but the guy sitting next to him is my cup of tea.” Lucy said with a giggle.

Alice elbowed her and went “I thought you’d more go for the woman with the black hair. I’ve seen you flirt with women like her all the time.”

Lucy looked mildly offended, but in a jokey way.

You all laughed together, while still staring at the random group of strangers. You must have looked like a group of weirdos. You all returned to your drinks, and conversation about each of your days. But your attention kept drifting towards the beautiful stranger across the room, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was interested in you too.

After some time, you excused yourself from the table, making your way to the bar. You ordered a drink and leaned against the counter, trying to act cool and collected. But as you turned around, you found the handsome stranger was standing right beside you.

“Do you make it a habit of staring at strangers and then, obviously, talking about those strangers?” He jokingly asked.

“Not really. Only when they all look like models but stand around like they work for the FBI or something.” You replied with a smile, and the feeling of your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. You couldn’t help but think that he was more even more attractive up close.

“Well, you guessed one of them right. We aren’t all models, but we do work for the FBI. So, were you and your friends all comparing us, seeing which one is more attractive?” He asked in a teasing tone, with a small smirk plastered across his lips.

“Woah, you work for the FBI? That’s so cool, I’ve written books about you guys. And yeah, maybe we were seeing which one of you is more attractive. But we all have different tastes, so we weren’t necessarily comparing, more saying which one we find attractive.” You replied, feeling a smile tug at the corners of your lips. You couldn’t resist the charm of the handsome stranger.

“Well, I hope you found someone to your liking,” he said turning to look at you fully. “Because I think I might have found someone of mine.”

“You have? Who is it? Is it one of my friends, because if it is, I have disappointing news. Also, I’m Y/N. I don’t normally introduce myself to strangers, but I am kinda drunk right now.”

“It’s not one of your friends,” he said, with a chuckle. “And it’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Spencer. You’re smart for not giving out your last name, would be easy to track you down.”

“Is that a threat, Spencer? But don’t worry, I only give my last name out on like the second date with someone.” You say with some confidence.

“Not a threat, just a warning. You never know who you’ll meet in a bar,” he said, his eyes sparkling with humour. “So, Y/N, what brings you out tonight? Celebrating something?”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you wanted to share the news of your novel being approved with a stranger. But something in the way Spencer was looking at you made you feel like you could trust him.

“Actually, I just got my novel approved by my editor. It’s been a long time coming, and I needed to celebrate with my friends,” you said, feeling a little proud of yourself. “What about you, Spencer? What brings you out tonight?”

“Oh, just blowing off some steam with my colleagues. We’ve been working on a tough case for a while. I think we are all missing home.” His voice seemed to have some hurt behind it.

“Oh no. I’m so sorry. But you’ve come to probably one of the worst bars in the city to do that.” You were trying to lighten the mood again.

“Maybe you’re right. But this bar led me to you.” He said with a little chuckle.

Spencer’s words sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. You couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, despite knowing almost nothing about him. His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched you, and you found yourself smiling in response.

“Am I really that interesting, Spencer?” You asked, unable to resist teasing him a little bit.

“Of course, you are, Y/N. You’re smart, beautiful, and you’ve just had a major accomplishment. What’s not to find interesting?” he replied, his voice low and smooth.

As the night wore on, you found yourself constantly drawn back to Spencer. Your conversations flowed easily, and you couldn’t help but feel like you’d known him for years.

As the bar closed, your friends began to leave, but Spencer was still standing beside you. You could tell he was hesitant to leave, but you couldn’t tell if that because of you or something else entirely.

“Hey, do you want to go for a walk? It’s a nice night out,” you suggested, hoping he would say yes.

Spencer’s eyes sparkled with interest as he replied, “Sure, I’d love to. But I just need to make a call first. I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes?”

You nodded, feeling your heart race with anticipation. As you walked outside, the cool night air hit you, and you shivered in response. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to keep warm as you waited for Spencer.

When he finally emerged from the bar, you felt your heart skip a beat. He looked even more striking in the moonlight, and you couldn’t resist the urge to stare.

Spencer caught your gaze and smirked before walking up to you. “Ready to go?”

You nodded, still feeling a little nervous and excited at the same time. As you walked, you talked about everything and anything, from your favourite book to your childhood memories. You found yourself sharing things with Spencer that you had never told anyone before, and you couldn’t deny the connection you felt with him.

Spencer was different from anyone you had ever met. He was smart, funny, and kind, but also mysterious in a way that made you want to know more. You couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by him, but also drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

“Did I hear you correctly earlier, saying that you’ve written books about the FBI?”

“I have. But I’ve never gone to get them published. They are always murder mystery books. But that’s not really what I write.”

Spencer’s eyes lit up with interest. “Really? What do you mean that’s not what you write?”

“I write typical romance novels. People tend to like them; I mean I’m not famous but I’m not unknown.”

Spencer looked at you with a newfound interest. “Romance novels, huh? That’s interesting. What inspired you make the switch from murder mysteries to romance?”

You shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed. “I guess it was just a personal preference. I wanted to write about love, and the idea of giving characters happy endings was really appealing to me.”

Spencer nodded, seeming to understand. “I can see why that would be appealing. It’s nice to have control over what happens in your own little world, even if it’s just in your writing.”

You smiled, feeling grateful for Spencer’s understanding. “Exactly. Plus, I love the idea of creating characters that people can fall in love with. It’s kind of like bring people together in a way, even if it’s just fiction.”

Spencer nodded thoughtfully. “I understand that you can’t control love or your own love story in real life. It takes a lot of skill to create characters that people can connect with on that level.”

“It takes a lot of skill to work for the FBI.” You say with a giggle.

Spencer chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I suppose it does. But I’m just doing my job, like anyone else.”

You shook your head, feeling a sense of admiration for Spencer. “No, what you do is amazing. You and your colleague risk your lives every day to keep people safe. That’s something truly special.”

Spencer looked at you, his eyes softening. “Thank you, Y/N. That means a lot coming from you.”

As you continued to walk, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of closeness with Spencer that you had never felt with anyone before. It was as if he could see right through you, past all your insecurities and doubts, and still accept you for who you were.

As the night wore on, you found yourself slowing down, wanting to savour every moment with Spencer. You were afraid that once the night ended, you would never see him again.

“I’m guessing the case isn’t over yet, so you should probably get back to your hotel so you can get a rest.”

Spencer nodded, seeming to understand. “Yeah, we still have a lot of work to do tomorrow. But I don’t want this night to end just yet.”

You looked up at him, feeling a little shy. “Me neither.”

Spencer smiled, “Then let’s keep walking. I don’t want to say goodbye to you just yet, Y/N.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you couldn’t deny the attraction you felt towards his. As you continued to walk, you felt Spencer’s gaze on you, and you couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious. “Is everything okay, Spencer?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving your face. “Yeah, I’m just trying to figure something out.”

You looked at him, feeling a little confused. “What do you mean?”

“My friends, the people you saw at the bar, said I should try and not talk about work, and find someone who doesn’t work with us. I thought it was going to be difficult. But then I met you.” Spencer’s voice was low and intense, and you could feel his hot breath on your cheek.

You blushed, feeling a little overwhelmed by his sudden confession. “What are you trying to figure out, Spencer?”

“What this means. I mean I know what it means, kind off. But how someone so perfect, could just be sitting in a bar that I just so happened to go into. I mean I know the chances, it’s just so strange.”

You looked at Spencer, feeling the same way he did. It was as if fate had brought the two of you together, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for it.

“I know what you mean,” you said softly. “It’s like we were meant to meet each other.”

Spencer nodded, looking at you with a mixture of awe and admiration. “I don’t want to let this chance slip away.”

You felt a surge of desire at his words, and without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him. Spencer responded immediately, his lips moving hungrily against yours.

You didn’t want to be cliché, you’re a writer, you’re good with words, but this kiss was magical. It was as though the world around you disappeared, leaving only you and Spencer in your own little bubble of passion and desire. You ran your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to you as he deepened the kiss.

As the kiss ended, you looked into Spencer’s eyes, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you. You knew that this was just the beginning of something special, and you couldn’t wait to see where it would take you.

“I don’t want this night to end,” you said softly, feeling a little breathless.

Spencer smiled at you, his eyes shining with affection. “Me neither, Y/N. Let’s not end it just yet then. Also, did you know you actually share less germs with someone if you kiss them, rather than shaking their hands?”

You chuckled, feeling a sense of ease with Spencer. “I guess that makes sense. But I don’t think we need an excuse to kiss each other, do we?”

Spencer leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. “No, Y/N. We don’t need an excuse.”

“You know for been a member of the FBI and been in a place where you are having a practically rough case, you are pretty trusting.”

“Ahh. You see I work with the BAU, which is the behaviour analysis unit, so I read body language and such. I basically profile people, and you don’t seem like you’d murder or kidnap me. So, yes, I am pretty trusting when I can read someone so well.”

You smiled at Spencer, feeling a sense of jealousy and admiration for his skills. “That’s really cool. I wish I had your ability to read people like that.”

Spencer shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “It’s just something that comes with the job, I guess. But it can be a double-edged sword sometimes. You start to see the worst in people, and it can be hard to trust anyone.”

You looked at him, feeling a sense of sadness at his words. “I’m sorry, Spencer. I can’t imagine how hard that must be.”

Spencer smiled at you, his eyes softening. “It’s okay, Y/N. I have good people around me, like you, who remind me that there’s still good in the world.”

“You think I’m a good person? You’ve only known me for around 2 hours, and you think I’m a good person. Well, I’m glad I’ve made a good impression on you.”

Spencer chuckled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Y/N, it doesn’t take long to recognise a good person. And you, my dear, are definitely a good person. I can tell by the way you carry yourself, the way you treat others, and the way you make me feel.”

You blushed, feeling a sense of warmth spread throughout your body. “Thank you, Spencer. That means a lot to me.”

Spencer leaned in, his lips hovering over yours. “And I want to you feel even better.”

He kissed you deeply, his hands caressing your body as he pushed you up against the wall. Spencer’s lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of heat and arousal in their wake. You gasped, feeling a sense of pleasure as he nipped and sucked at your skin.

“I’m sure someone who works with the FBI cannot get public indecency on their record. Do you want to continue this somewhere else, like your hotel room or my apartment?”

Spencer looked up at you, his eyes shining with desire. “My hotel room.”

You nodded, realising that the hotel was only two blocks down. You could feel the lust burning between the two of you, and you couldn’t wait to feel his hands on your body.

You made it to the hotel in no time at all, your hands already exploring each other’s bodies. Spencer’s lips trailed a burning trail of fire down your neck, and you could yourself shudder in his arms.

You pulled open the door to Spencer’s hotel room, turning the lights on as you walked through the doorway. Spencer followed suit; he pulled you closer to him, your hands never leaving your body.

Spencer pulled off your clothes slowly, exploring your body with his eyes. You felt a wave of desire wash over you as he looked at your body, and you wanted nothing more than to feel his hands on you.

Spencer’s lips were basically attached to your neck, and you could feel desire coursing through your body. You could feel his heartbeat thumping against yours, echoing the same rhythm that was currently coursing through your body.

“Do you know people who want to control every aspect of their life, often seek ways to lose control, for other people to control them? A lot of CEOs and bosses will go to professional dominatrixes to help them.”

“What are you saying, Spencer? Are you saying you like to be dominated?” You said in a teasing tone.

He kind of laughed at your comment.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all here. I think you would like to lose control.”

“Is that right?”

Spencer nodded, looking at you with a devilish smirk. “I think you would like to lose control. To know that you are completely at my mercy.”

You gave a short laugh, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, right. Spencer, I don’t think you know me at all.”

“I’m good at reading people. You’re a writer, and I bet that you like to control every aspect of your life. You write the plots, you decide the endings, and you feel that you have complete control over your life.”

You laughed, “You’re right, that’s me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Y/N. And I’m not saying you are wrong for being that way. It’s just that I wonder what you would do if you were completely at the mercy of someone else. Seeing how you like to control everything, I bet you would love for someone to take that control.”

You smirked, biting your lip as you stared at him. “Hmmm, I think you might be on to something there.”

Spencer shook his head, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. “I wonder what you would do if I took control of you.”

“Try me.”

“I would love to try you, Y/N.”

Spencer’s lips claimed yours, and he pushed you down on the bed, his hands roaming over your body greedily. You moaned into his mouth, your body responding to his touch.

You could feel him hardening against you, and you wanted nothing more than to feel him inside of you. He pulled of panties, his mouth trailing a line down your body.”

“I want you to know that I’m going to be in control of you, Y/N. And you’re going to like it.”

He paused, “Do you want me to control you?”

You looked at him, your eyes glinting with desire. “Yes.”

Spencer’s eyes were dark with lust, and you could feel yourself getting wetter just from his gaze.

“I want you to know I’m going to do whatever I want to you.” He bit you hard on the neck, and you could feel your body tense with desire.

“And you’re going to let me.”

You nodded, wanting nothing more than his hands on you. He kissed you hard, his hands gripping your hips tightly. You could feel him crawling up your body, his erection rubbing against your wetness.

“You’re going to let me, because you’re going to love it.”

“I will.”

“You’re going to do everything I tell you to.”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to beg me to fuck you.”

“I am?”

“Uh huh. And I am going to make you cum over and over, until you’re begging me to stop.”

“Please, Spencer.”

You gasped as his fingers found your wetness. He pushed two of them inside of you, slowly pumping them in and out. You could feel yourself tightening around him, your hips bucking in sync with his fingers.

His lips trailing a burning trail down your body. He could tell how badly you wanted to cum, he was reading you like a book.

“Beg me.” Spencer’s eyes were dark with lust.

“Please, Spencer. I want to cum”.

“I know you can do better than that. Be a good girl, and tell me how badly you want to cum.”

“I want to come so fucking badly, please. Please, Spencer, let me cum.”

His pace fastened, you moaned at Spencer’s actions and his words. He moved his thumb towards your clit, he pressed down hard. He could feel you tightening even more around him.

You were so close to cuming, the anticipation of your orgasm was almost painful. Your pussy was dripping wet, and you could feel the juices flowing down your legs.

“I want you to cum for me.”

Your mouth dropped open, a loud and crude moan leaving your lips. Spencer’s name followed; you were almost singing it. Spencer couldn’t get enough of this. You looked so beautiful like this; this was all for him and he couldn’t believe he was so lucky to get to see you like this.

“That’s it, let it all go.”

Your orgasm hit hard. His kept nursing you through it, showering you with praises. His eyes kept looking over every inch of your body. The orgasm shook through you, your body shaking with desire. You felt him slide his fingers out of you, and you could feel your body shaking with desire.

He leaned over you, his lips brushing a kiss against your neck. He stood up, he was still fully clothed, and you felt exposed. You lay there, watching him take all his clothes off. It gave you the opportunity to look at his body, which you had already known was amazing, but you could appreciate it even more as you watched him in the dim light. He kicked his pants off and walked towards you.

“Spencer” You panted.

“I love the way you say my name.” He smirked. “Can you stand up for me?”

You gently nodded your head, even though your legs felt a little bit like jelly, you wanted to stand for him. You pushed yourself up off the bed, you stood there, looking at him, your eyebrows shot up when you saw the look on his face. He looked at you like he was going to eat you alive, and that sent a shiver down your spine.

“That was only one of many, but I feel like I deserve a reward. Don’t you?”

You nodded your head once again.

“Okay, I’m glad. Now I want you to be a good girl and get on your knees for me, is that okay?”

You nodded your head, your breath quickening.

“Good girl, now I want you to take my cock out, but don’t touch it.”

You slowly sank to your knees in front of him, watching as his eyes roamed over your body.

He felt himself get harder, the look in your eyes made him feel like the king of the world.

“Take it out.”

You heard him moan in appreciation. You slowly pulled down his boxers, watching as he carefully stepped out. You reached out your hand, wrapping your fingers around him.

“I didn’t say you could touch it just yet, did I?”

“No, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just tell me you won’t do it again.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“Good girl.” He smirked. “Now I want you to put my dick into your mouth.”

You heard him hiss as you took him into your mouth. He kept looking down at you and you could see the lust in his eyes.

You could feel yourself getting wetter, just hearing him moan was enough to drive you wild. He fucked your mouth, and the way he moved in and out, would make anyone cum.

“That’s it baby,” he moaned. “I want you to suck my cock until I cum in your mouth.”

Your heart was racing. You could feel his dick twitching in your mouth.

You ran your tongue over the head and feeling him shudder under your touch.

“Oh yes, just like that.”

“You’re doing so good.” He panted. “I’m so fucking close.”

You tried to take him deeper into your mouth, but it was hard.

“I’m going to cum.” He moaned.

Your mouth filled with his sticky cum. He moaned out loudly, before he pulled himself out of your mouth. You looked up at him, and he smiled down at you.

“You look so beautiful like this. I’m so lucky that I will be able to relive this image over and over again.”

“I want you to lay on the bed. But do not touch yourself.”

You did as you were told. You can’t believe a man this hot was having sex with you, you could barely believe that he knew exactly what to do to you.

He climbed on the bed, his kissed you, his tongue fighting for dominance in your mouth. He started to kiss you all the way down your body, your body felt like it was on fire. His mouth finally landed on your clit, his fingers found their way back to your pussy.

“I love how wet you are.” He moaned. You could feel the vibrations from his mouth against your clit, making the pleasure even more intense.

You were moaning uncontrollably. Your hips were rocking against his face and fingers. You knew you were getting close.

“Fuck, I’m going to cum.” You moaned.

He kept working his mouth against your clit, and his fingers against your pussy. He knew exactly what you needed.

“Come for me baby.” He moaned.

Your back arched, you moaned out his name. He moaned against you, the vibrations adding more to your orgasm. He slowed down as your orgasm slowed down. He gently blew on your clit, causing you to squirm.

He pulled himself up, kissing you passionately on the lips, his tongue exploring your mouth. His hands glided down your body. You were in total bliss, everything about this man was perfect.

As you thought you were actually in heaven, you heard a phone ringing and Spencer got off the bed. He grabbed his phone and walked into his bathroom. He was in there for a few minutes. He walked out with a sombre look on his face.

“I’m so sorry, there’s been a lead in the case, I have to go. You can stay here for the night if you want to, but if you don’t, please leave your number. This can’t be the last time I see you.”

You nodded; you felt a wave of sadness wash over your body.

“I’ll give you my number, I think I’ll head home. I don’t want this to be the last time I see you either.”

You read your number out to Spencer and started to get dressed. He gave you a quick kiss on your cheek and left. You felt hopeful you’d see Spencer again, but it still hurt that you wouldn’t be falling asleep in his arms today.

————————————————————————

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lethalchiralium · 1 month ago

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I Will Think Of You As I Surely Drown | Happiness Series

a/n: a huge thank you to my lovely editor, @as-is-above-so-below

warnings: mentions of trauma, therapy

summary: Healing is a journey and you're finding your footing on what seems to be a frozen lake, while Simon deals with what it means to break promises.

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When you woke up in the hospital, you felt frozen. Time moved around you, things happened quickly, and words were exchanged faster than currency. The IV in your arm hurt, pulsated with every heartbeat, and your hands sizzled with a faraway pain. Your head felt like a block of ice, and your belly and back pulsated with a dull ache; your throat throbbed, the air being sucked out of your lungs and forced in, and then the sight of Lloyd’s face. Or rather, what you thought was Lloyd. You couldn’t help it–he was all you saw in your head while you slept. God, how long were you sleeping? It didn’t matter, your not-so-heavy hand found the bed remote and pressed the call button more times than you could count.

The figure beside you stood quickly, ducking away from the bed and some breed of fear clawed its way out of your stomach to bash its way into your chest. The shock had left as fast as it came when a squeal escaped you, the red-hot, constricting discomfort of fear encompassing your chest. You could feel your body fighting the breathing tube in your throat, so you could take in more air, hyperventilate. Because, how could he be here? He’s dead, you killed him, his face bashed in for everything he fucking did to you and could have done to your baby and everything you–

The overhead fixture flooded the room with harsh, fluorescent light, and that’s when you could see the perpetrator - but it wasn’t him at all. In a thin sweatshirt, an old pair of sweatpants, and a heavy set of eye bags, was Simon. Not Lloyd. He was dead. It was your husband, your Simon, your protector.

Tears fell from your eyes, and even as new bodies invaded your view, your beat-up hand reached for him instinctively. The ringing in your ears forced you to rely on your whines as the nurses tended to you, taking the breathing and feeding tubes out, and checking your pulse and blood pressure. Your eyes stayed on Simon. His face looked sunken in, hair greasy, almost plastered down to his scalp. He was paler than usual, his eyes red, hands fidgeting as he cried. Your beating heart cried out for him; the second your mouth was free from the tubes, you tried to speak, but only a broken squeak escaped. The nurse moved out of the way and he was back at your side in a second, hands hovering over where they’d usually hold your face. The heave in your chest as you cried only made him shy away more.

I need you. I need you to hold me and tell me everything's gonna be okay.

But he doesn’t. He had no words. Not in his heart or his brain. Nothing but sobs and kisses to your unmarred cheek, and his nose pressed into your hair.

How your brother looked at you when Simon brought him in made tears roll faster than ever. It was a look you’ve only seen once - when you broke your arm playing soccer as an eight-year-old. It wasn’t your fault; a girl had shoved you and another trampled over you, breaking it just a few inches from your wrist. Any closer and it would’ve fucked your ability to write. Jake sprinted across the field and picked you up, telling you it would be okay, even though his eyes were full of tears that matched yours.

He settled in a chair beside you, opposite Simon, petted your head, and wiped your tears away with his thumb. In all of your years of following him around, always worried about getting in trouble or getting hurt, nothing had ever changed - he was still your comfort, the person you trust to take care of you when you’re hurt, and you knew that he would protect you with everything he had.

That comfort did nothing to lessen the guilt that plagued you once you realized you were happier to see him than Simon.

“Didn’t mean to be late. I didn’t know you were awake.” He rubbed the bed just parallel to your arm. “How are you?”

“She can’t talk much,” Simon spoke quietly. You looked over at him. His eyes were irritated, his hair disheveled, and he held your finger left out of the cast. At least he was saving you from having to speak, talking hurt more than you cared to admit. You couldn’t tell them how you felt, what happened, or describe the flood of broken pieces on the shore that was your mind.

Jake hummed in acknowledgment, your eyes fell on him. “Well, I’m glad you’re awake, and that you’re okay.” The feeling of Simon’s head against your thigh was normal to you now, the crown nestled just beside your knee, and you couldn’t help but raise your hand then lay it on the back of his neck. Jake watched with a tired gaze before he spoke your name. “I’m staying to help you as long as I can. With the kids, and you. Just until you don’t need me.”

“Price is staying too,” Simon rumbled, and your heart stung again. Something akin to anger nestled there at the mention of the captain. Not at him, but more towards Simon - all you wanted to see when staring up at that cloudy sky, wounded and bleeding, was Simon, but you got John instead.

“Thank you.” The whisper left your lips before you looked back at the TV, desperately fighting the disappointment in Simon. Jake nodded to himself in the corner of your eye, and Simon’s chest slowed to steady breaths as he finally found sleep for the first time since you woke up.

You wished you were little again, back when you could pretend everything was okay by just forgetting about the pain; lying about whether you cried or not. Pretending you didn’t have nightmares. Lie and pretend. Lie and pretend.

Easier said than done.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“But, you need to be.”

“You aren’t even a normal civilian therapist. All you’re gonna do is parrot everything I say straight to Price and get Simon in trouble.”

The woman took her glasses off, then moved the plastic clipboard from her lap before she leaned forward toward you. The blanket on your lap barely did anything to keep you warm. Curled as much as you could on your wheelchair, you watched the therapist in her blouse and slacks as she examined you like an organism on a petri dish beneath a microscope.

“This is a safe space for you. It doesn’t seem like it, but it is. Kate Laswell specifically made sure you could meet with me right away. These appointments fall under HIPPA.”

“But you’re still military. This is for their record of what happened, so they can play accountant for the money they spent to save me.”

“This is your third appointment, and you just now have an issue.”

“I’m only here because it makes Simon feel better.”

Marli - the kind, indifferent therapist - looked at you with such…you couldn’t place it. It wasn’t sympathy, it wasn’t anger or bitterness or disgust, it was…your foggy mind couldn’t produce the word.

“You’re not here because you want to be.” A statement. A correct one, but it stung to hear.

“No.”

“And you’ve said multiple times that you don’t want Simon to hear or read the transcripts. Or Captain Price, or Sergeant MacTavish.“

“Only Gaz. If you have to give someone the report, Gaz.”

“Only Sergeant Garrick, because he’s not as close to Simon.”

“He’s close, just…” You sighed. “Kyle keeps secrets just fine. Soap’s a blab and Price…I don’t want his best friends to hear what happened and tell him. I don’t even…I don’t-” Your hand moved slowly to rest on your chest, below your collarbone, and above your heart. You applied pressure there with your fingertips. A comforting touch, something to stop the pain you get in your lungs when you start to think about what happened. “I know it’s our third session, I know they were to get adjusted to you from the last girl, but today’s not the day to talk about it. It’s just not.”

She crossed her leg over her knee and adjusted the blanket on her lap, her clipboard still in her tight grasp as she leaned back in her comfortable chair. “That’s fine. We can start slow, and build up to some things. The original retelling we have from you is-”

“I am not doing that again. I’m not–I’m not telling another one of you what happened, okay? It’s not fucking happening today. I just want to sit here and answer your stupid fucking boring questions so I can pretend I’m not a victim! For one fucking hour!” Your free hand hit the armrest of your wheelchair, emphasizing your position, before you tugged your blanket up to cover more of your stomach. “I want to leave. I want Simon. Tell him to come get me, I want to go home.”

Marli sighed, nodded, and placed her blanket and clipboard on the low side table beside her. She looked at you, as you looked away from her, focusing on the small fish tank again. “You won’t be leaving a session early after this. In our next session, we will be talking about the event. Prepare yourself.”

You waved her off as you watched the blue fish slowly peck at the glass that enclosed it.

Everything is normal in your house. In your bathroom. Your husband washed your hair and ducked out to get your clothes, but you still needed to brush your teeth.

Normal. Normal things for the Riley household.

The sound of clicking in your subconscious seemed to scratch at a wiry pocket in your brain, digging with dirty fingernails, the itch so deep that the sensation made you nauseous. You reached for your toothbrush with your dominant hand, your bad hand, but you shook your head and grabbed it with your sore, uninjured hand. Pinky and ring finger curled, grasp so flimsy that a breeze could throw your yellow toothbrush from your palm. A sharp pain radiated in your index finger, pulsing at the same rate as the click in your head. Click, click, click, click, click. Your eyes finally fell upon your task, seeing your swollen hand; stitch holes, and jagged, healing scabs from where you shredded the top of your hand on the stone and Lloyd’s face.

Lloyd.

Your eyes stayed open, stung with every short breath of air from the fan and tears. If you blinked, you would be back in that basement, the sound of the sink running to hide Mellie’s crying, and your screams for Lloyd to get away.

Click, click, click, click, click.

A short rap at the bathroom door made your head snap to the left. Your heart stammered when you saw Simon, your clothes in one hand and a worried look on his face. He wasn’t good at hiding his emotions, but he tried. You wanted to let yourself fall into the overwhelming fear, let yourself scramble away and scream until he left you alone. You wanted to scream and cry until you couldn’t anymore, like you did two days before. You wanted to wallow in silence; sit in your bathtub, press your broken cheekbone to the cool porcelain, and knees to chest until you disappeared under the lip of the tub.

In your need for solitude and overwhelming misery, only anger answered the haunting clicking in your head. Click, click, click, and your toothbrush was thrown to the floor, tears welled in your eyes. Unwavering rage climbed out of that stringy, tangled pocket of your mind and filled your body with a buzz. Simon was quick to stay in your sight and keep his hands near himself.

“What do you need?”

A shovel and a baseball bat. One to dig Lloyd up, and the other to beat the shit out of his fucking corpse, because he deserved more of a beating than he got. He deserved to have his skull crushed even more, messy chunks splattered across the ground like a pumpkin. Lloyd has to be rotting in Hell, that is what you need to hear. You need his face to stop morphing onto Simon’s, and stop being plastered on random faces. You need the nightmares to stop, or something to escape them. Maybe a cigarette. Or an edible. Or a bottle of tequila. Or a large bottle of wine, or three. Escape reality for just a minute, a time when you’re not bordering on a panic attack in the bathroom where you miscarried your son, or being pitied by your brother and your husband, or unable to hold your children. All you need is to tuck their heads of curls into your chest. Take the jagged pieces of yourself and hide them away from the clicks and anger, just to save them from the flood.

You’ll have to find the words sometime. It’s easier to conjure them for a stupid therapist that you don’t know than it is to scavenge them for Simon. There’s not much to say to your husband and nothing to say to the son of your…attacker.

Attacker. Let’s go with that.

“Honey, what do you need?”

A breath rattled your pain-wrapped chest. “A cigarette.”

He huffed a chuckle, and his left hand grabbed your sleep shirt. An old, worn shirt of his with a faded Metallica logo on the front, well-loved by him, and then you. You’ve worn it for two years, the majority of your relationship, and it’s one of your favorites. Holes in the sleeve, and threads loose at the bottom so the hem is a little fucked; you weren’t sure why, but you pushed it away. With your bruised and swollen hand, not the cast one.

Why not the cast? You pushed everything away with it—the stuffed animals, the blankets, the physical contact from anyone but your children. Why the sudden change? Did something turn in your brain when you saw the black t-shirt, the comfort of it? Did it no longer serve its purpose as a comfort item? Your bruised hand shoved at the pants and the underwear, and your stomach finally caught up to your brain - nausea settled in your cheeks like magma. The feeling of anything on your skin felt like a death sentence, the feeling of the bathtub against naked skin sounded like a grace of the angels, and why did you keep crying when the anger seemed to disperse like mice?

None of it made sense.

You hated the look in Simon’s eyes. The look of confusion, of worry. He doesn’t need to be confused about this. You can do what you want. You’re allowed to be angry and upset and push away clothes that make you want to puke your guts out into the sink.

Click, click, click.

If he could stomach leaving you, abandoning you, then he’d have to stomach this too. Him not being there, having broken his promise to keep you and your children safe.

Your eyes followed Simon as he kneeled, picked up every article of clothing, then placed them back on the sink. His eyes observed your face, your eyes, and he took a half step back. “M’gonna change Mellie. Yell f’me if you need help getting dressed.” He was gone the moment after, the bathroom door pressed into its latch with a deafening click, and you were left alone again.

Click, click, click.

A warm sensation started in your chest, nestled deep in your sternum and came on as suddenly as it moved around your body, enveloping you. It made you want to remember, but you could not place the sound from where-

You had observed the basement door’s lock had to be jiggled around to be unlocked. There were usually three clicks when unlocking the door, followed by the henchmen talking or Lloyd appearing at your bedside. He would sit, hand on your knee as he spoke with an even tone about your life, his intent for you and your infant. The life you’d live as a trafficked woman, and how Mellie would be sold off to a wealthy family. The way he crooned about how you’d never see Winnie or Simon again, how he constricted your body to the bed with that fucking smile and-

A thud came as you fell to your knees, a warbled cry escaping your lips as your plastered hand settled on the rim of the sink - the free fingers curled around the edge. The soft cotton of what was once your favorite shirt grazed your fingertip, and disgust roared its nasty head in your stomach.

What do you need?

Click.

Your shaking lungs finally freed a breath you didn’t know you were holding, as you allowed yourself to melt onto the white tile floor. You don’t remember the last time you mopped - or much of anything - but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t an inch of you now that could care about germs, about the grime growing in the corners and crevices; only about how soothing the cool surface of the tiles felt.

Half of your forehead pressed against the floor, you exhaled, and exhaustion sunk its claws deep.

Simon returned only a couple minutes later, his warm hands covering you with the softest blanket he could find before he settled himself in the doorway. When you woke up from your nap, he planned to help you back to bed. It was easier to keep an eye on you and his babies from the threshold. Winnie was still sleeping peacefully on an air mattress, covered in blankets at the foot of his bed, and Mellie finally nestled into a corner of her pack-and-play; Simon watched her nod off before he looked back at you.

He wanted to reach out, stroke your face, fix your hair, but he didn’t. His hand sat limply on his lap.

Coward. Coward, coward, coward.

The nightmares only get worse as the days go on. Comforting you is easy.

But comforting Mellie? If Simon were a softer man he would’ve crumbled into dust. Holding his infant as she screamed, little fists hitting his face and chest, the endless wailing - feet kicking his stomach; he was sure that if he had eaten anything yesterday, her kicking would’ve made him sick. He gently rubbed her back, his cheek against her temple as she thrashed, exhausted and scared. It made Simon want to combust.

He hasn’t been able to get close to her in days; see her little brown eyes, button nose, her three little bottom teeth when she smiles. All he wanted was to comfort his child, but she wanted nothing to do with him.

A sudden touch to his shoulder and Simon jolted. Mellie’s cries intensified as he turned to see Price - a tired look in his eye but his arms out. That was the routine now; Mellie would wake up from a nightmare, and Simon would try to help, but ultimately hand her to Price, who offered to be their live-in aid until you and the girls got back on your feet. Simon didn’t waste a second handing his child off to her godfather, who calmed her in the time it took Simon to wipe his face and sit in the rocking chair. Anger simmered like a pot to boil, hot water scalding Simon’s body with burns he’d never heal.

He had faith in, trust, and love for his brother-in-arms. But that didn’t ease the burn of watching how easy it was for him to fix what Simon should have had the balls to.

It was so easy for a man who had nothing to repair Simon’s broken family, the family he disassembled, and it made Simon want to throw punches at a brick wall.

He had everything and he threw it all away for the job.

He found solace in the punching bag at the base gym, wrapped hands, and a tense stance.

One, two.

The bag swayed with every punch. No headphones this time; the gym was abnormally quiet in this corner. Everyone decided that Lieutenant Riley needed his space, especially since every rookie who even breathed near him got to clean latrines with their toothbrush. Or paint all of the gravel on base a nice, thick coat of white. There was peace in this corner - a man and a quiet sack of sand to keep him on his toes.

One, two, a deep breath, and Simon sent another two punches, harder than the last. His eyes narrowed, balanced on the balls of his feet, core tensioned to hell, he was full of rage, guilt, and a sick feeling of shame. With every punch, his knuckles felt fire, and his soul didn’t feel any lighter. He tried to stay out of his head and punch the bag, but all he could see was his father, bloodied and on the floor after Simon’s punch put him there. One two. He could feel how punching Lloyd felt again, so hard that he thought he had broken his fingers. With every punch to the bag, he tried to figure out how you broke your hand. By a certain point, he understood. He also wanted to beat Lloyd’s face in until he couldn’t move, and wouldn’t again.

“LT.”

Simon punched the bag again. “She done?”

“Twenty more minutes.”

“Then why the fuck are you botherin’ me?” One two.

Soap stood off to the side, hands in his pockets as he watched his friend. Simon ignored his presence briefly and threw harder punches, making the bag sway like a leaf in the wind. His stance was tense, and completely closed off; the man was ready to rip a hole in the bag. Soap approached him, but only to be in his field of vision.

“Widen yer feet, LT.”

“Fuck off.” One two.

“Widen yer feet. Ye'r too tense. Ye'r gonnae break yer hand.”

“This is not the time to be my fuckin’ friend, Soap.”

“Th' babies are cryin’ fur ye. So, finish up 'ere 'n'-”

The bag suddenly swung toward Soap. He pushed it back. Simon punched it again, harder, and Soap pushed it back again.

“Brother, we’re gonnae help whether ye lik' it or nae, but th' girls want ye. And ye need nae goosed hands to take care of yer babies.”

Simon punched the bag with all his might, throwing his full weight into it. The bag hit Soap before he turned away, his fists and teeth clenched. He hustled into the locker room, grabbed his bag from the locker in the corner, and threw a sweatshirt over his sweaty t-shirt. He was prepared for Winnie to comment on his stench, for Mellie to cry the second he picked her up, and to see your full expression before he wheeled you to the car.

The therapy sessions were daily now. Jake had returned to the U.S. a couple days ago, and Simon had no one to watch the kids at home. The daycare on base was the only option. Winnie was too old for it, but he refused to let her go back to school, at least for another few days. She wasn’t ready yet. He just needed enough time for you to get on your feet, into a new normal, then Winnie could go back to school and be the social butterfly she always was.

He’s glad the daycare is nearby, he was silent when he signed out the girls, keeping Mellie close to his chest and a firm and gentle grip on Winnie’s hand. He was early, but he didn’t want to talk to Soap. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about this. The carefully wrapped bandage holding his anger together was close to ripping, the pain and shame of not being the one to protect you, to save you and Mellie was destroying him. A sick part of him didn’t want to fix it; let himself feel your pain and suffering as punishment. He was already riddled with guilt that he couldn’t protect you going forward, not from your mind; and ashamed that his teammates were living in his house, taking care of his kids while Simon focused on your care.

He should be able to do this alone. He’d lost a lover and raised their baby alone, he’d suffered years of abuse alone, and he was sure he’d die alone too.

Mellie’s whimpers softened when you’re wheeled out to him, her little hand reaching out for you, and you stretched to meet her. Simon placed your daughter in your lap like always, and your bruised arms wrapped around her. Winnie squeezed Simon’s hand. He looked at her, the messy ponytail and worried look on her face, and felt nothing but gut-wrenching shame in his belly.

“Let’s go, girls,” he said softly, letting go of Winnie to push your wheelchair. “We’ll pick up dinner on the way home.”

It’s the middle of the night and Simon hasn’t left your side in hours. Your fingers curled in his hair as you finally slept peacefully, his head cradled against your chest. The TV hummed with the sound of an action movie you put on for him, which he ignored in favor of laying beside you, just…being in your presence, feeling your chest expand, listening to your heartbeat. He rested his hand on your belly, hoping to feel some sort of moving from your newest addition.

That peace was all he wanted.

He hasn’t allowed himself that comfort since he sat beside you in the hospital for two weeks straight. Then, you were like crumbling paper, any unplanned touch would destroy you.

Yet, here he was. Head on your heart, sleep nudging at his eyes – but he fought it off. He was conscious of his weight, only his shoulder and arm on you. It had taken two more weeks to get to the point where Simon could sleep with you. The air mattress fucked with his hip, but he refused to complain. Both of you danced around what happened, but he knew that what you went through was worse than he could ever imagine. He thumbed your belly as he daydreamed about the normal conversations you should be having. Names for the baby, suspicions about what the sex could be, what you wanted to do differently, what color to paint the nursery.

He wouldn’t tell you, but he wanted another girl. He wanted to keep the nursery yellow and move his office into the basement so Mellie could have that room. He’d been eyeing a nice floor bed for her to transition to. He had so many plans, so many things he wanted to do, but he needed your approval. Craved it. Wanted you to get better, mentally and physically, so you could enjoy a pregnancy together, for the first time.

He wanted Mellie’s upcoming first birthday to be exciting for you, marking the end of your first year raising a baby. He wanted you to see Mellie without vicious memories attached, her cries whisking you away to a place in your mind that he couldn’t save you from. He wanted you to look at Winnie without fear of losing her. He wanted you to stop looking at him like he destroyed you, not his father. He wanted you to stop finding safety in Price and Alejandro and Rudy, the men who located and saved you. He wanted to be the person who rescued you; he wanted that closure, the ability to unload his magazine into his father’s head.

Simon wanted many things. Yet, he kept them in his head like all of his opinions about the situation - it’s shit. He hated seeing you and the girls in pain, and he hated Price and Laswell for keeping the kidnapping from him.

He wanted to toss and turn. He wanted to throw off the blanket, go out to the garage, and have a go with the punching bag for an hour. No gloves, no wrap; just knuckles, and canvas - sure, some tears, anything for the escape. There’s selfishness in want, craving so insatiable at times that he had to give pause. A silent moment to breathe, let his mind wander, and define his needs - you and the girls. Those were his only needs. His “wants” could fill a thousand pages, all ready to fire away with the strike of a match.

A fingernail scraped against his scalp and a low sigh escaped his chest. His cheek nudged your chest before he mumbled, “G’back t’sleep.”

“Off.”

He was instantly detached from you, little bubbles of darkness edging his vision from the dizziness as he flipped onto his back. His arm was still settled under your back, unsure if taking it back was the right move until you let out a whine of pain, and then-

A sigh of contentment as your cheek nestled on his shoulder, good arm settled on his chest, your hand gripping his ID tags. His arm curled around your back and he kissed your hair as you grew drowsy again.

“Love you, my missus.”

A weak hum left you. “Love you, Si.”

Simon’s head dug deeper into his pillow, and his eyes fell on the TV for just a moment before they moved to you. He almost didn’t want to look, out of fear of spooking you away. Voluntary touch was nonexistent until this moment, and he didn’t want to risk its end. Simon watched the delicate movements of your chest as you breathed, the blanket still tangled in your bodies, and reveled in your cold toes pressed into the side of his calf. He kissed your hair again before his nose found residency there, and his eyes finally closed. If there was a sense of bliss to be found, it would be right there in that bedroom, with a husband holding his wife as she slept peacefully.

“…concerning behavior from her, and we’re not quite sure what could have brought it on.”

He gazed at his daughter’s face, the tears and snot that ran down it, and the shame that covered it. She was a Riley, facing danger head-on - she didn’t break her father’s eye contact. If he were his father, her ass would’ve been bruised the second he walked into the office.

But he wasn’t his father. Instead, Simon’s child stood in front of him, crying, but not scared of him. She felt safe to do so, and it made Simon feel confused. He was proud yet ashamed of his child’s actions and the thought made his stomach twist.

“We know you and your wife have had a difficult month. Winnie has been fine the last few days, but we just can’t get her to stop…”

Crying. Bursting into tears in the middle of a lesson, and hiding in the corner with the stuffed animals.

Simon let his hand gently brush her hair from her face, her little body trembling as she cried harder. He was quick to pull her into his lap, let her tears drench his sweatshirt, and her little hands hold onto him for dear life. He kissed her hair before looking at the headmaster, softly saying, “I’ll be keeping her home for the rest of the week.”

The woman nodded. “I understand.” She waved a little at the five-year-old, “Have a good week, Ms. Winnie.”

Simon grabbed her princess backpack, put it on his free shoulder, and kept her close to his chest. He weaved through the front office, out of the building, through the front gate, and started their walk home. Winnie’s forehead was pressed to his neck as he looked both ways on the street before he crossed, even when the crosswalk light was green. The occasional thought rattled around in his head, but nothing of substance. He bristled when the breeze whipped against her hair and his face.

The winter was letting up, getting warmer the closer it got to Mellie’s birthday, but Simon couldn’t find cause for excitement. Not when his daughter was sobbing and whimpering on his shoulder, and not when his baby wailed so hard that she turned blue in the face, not when his wife was fighting a battle he could not see.

He is the lone light atop a rocky cliff, guiding the boats taking on water to shore. And the house that holds the light is burning to the ground.

“Daddy.”

A few more streets to cross and they’ll be home. Simon felt Winnie shiver a little, and he huddled closer to her. “Yes, duckling.”

Her teeth chattering made his heart break. Even with her warmest coat on, she was still freezing. “Is Mama - a bad person?”

Under the snow-topped trees of the park, Simon Riley stopped mid-step. He had been cataloging every person they walked past, every pram that bustled by, every tree that crackled with the sound of ice thawing. He threw caution to the wind, pulled Winnie’s head from his neck, and looked her in the eye, “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

She tried to tuck her head back down, but he made her look at him. She wiped the snot on her face with her sleeve. “You always say that good things happen to good people.”

Dammit. Good parenting, always biting him in the ass.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little proud of himself, but he couldn’t deny how his heart burned with agony.

“And bad things happen to bad people. Is Mama bad?”

“No. No, never in a million years is Mama a bad person.” His icy hand brushed her tears away, pushing down his fear, and spoke, “I am the bad person.”

“…You?”

He didn’t expect his nose to prickle, or his eyes to burn. “I’m the bad person that bad things happen to. My choices. I save the world, yes, but I have to do bad things to do it.”

“So…the bad people who took Mama and Mellie… did you-”

“No. I didn’t tell anyone to take them away. The people that I stop…they did that because they don’t like me.”

“But, Daddy, I think you’re a good person.”

Simon’s hand curled around the back of Winnie’s head, cradling it as he spoke even softer, “I know you do. Daddy is a good person. But when I wear the mask, when I’m Ghost…”

“Ghost isn’t a good person.”

“No, he isn’t, love. The bad guys made choices that hurt Mama and Mellie. And I’m trying to fix what they hurt.”

“So Mama’s not bad.”

He shook his head. “No. Just me.”

“No, Daddy’s good.” Her cold little hands settled on Simon’s cheeks, and his bleeding heart warmed just a little. “Ghost is bad.”

“Okay, duckling.” He pushed her hair from her face and some feeling of sickly sweet warmth nestled in his head as he memorized his daughter’s little face for the nth time. His smile, his eyes, his curly hair, everything he took from his own mother. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on Winnie’s forehead before he rested his cheek there, eyes closed, “I believe you.”

#lethalchiralium #lethal chiralium #happiness series #happiness #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x wife!reader #simon riley call of duty #simon riley x you #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #simon riley cod #ghost simon riley #simon riley x wife!reader

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hopelesslygaysstuff · 6 months ago

Text

50 Shades of Red || Chapter 1

pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

summary: A reimagining of 50 Shades of Grey, featuring a healthy, consensual relationship and safe BDSM scenes. And lesbians, of course. Wanda meets Natasha, and their captivating story begins.

content warnings: none

word count: 4.9k+

masterlist

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

Chapter 1

Wanda frowned, running her fingers through her hair. The auburn locks mocked her, laying over her shoulders as she ran her eyes over them. There was something wrong, whether it was the curls or the style, Wanda couldn’t tell. Whatever, fuck her hair, and fuck her roommate for getting sick.

A groan sounded out from the other room, and Wanda let her frustration slip away. It wasn’t Kate’s fault for getting sick, but it just so happened to be at the most unfortunate time. Really, Wanda should be studying for her finals, her textbooks laying open on the kitchen counter. But instead, she was here running her fingers through stubborn hair and mentally cursing out her roommate as she searched for a hair tie.

The only thing that would save her appearance now was a ponytail, high on her head. Anything to give the illusion of confidence. At least her slight curls would give her hair some dimension.

Sighing, Wanda let herself look away from the mirror, catching a glimpse of dark circles under her normally vibrant green eyes. Were her cheeks more hollow than usual? She couldn’t tell, but judging by the way her stomach rumbled, she knew she had forgotten about eating in favor of studying for the past few weeks.

Swiping some concealer under her eyes, Wanda dabbed the product into her skin as she walked towards the living room. Kate was a good roommate, always cleaning up after herself and offering Wanda ice cream after every failed date she went on. But truly, she’d chosen the worst time to get sick. Wanda had volunteered, of course, but interviewing some rich multi-millionaire was not high on her fun list.

“You’re a lifesaver, truly,” Kate mumbled, her flushed cheeks appearing over the arm of the couch. She’d been running herself ragged, trying to write papers and organize some questions for this interview. It was at Romanoff’s Global Enterprise, a special section for the school newspaper. Goddamn Kate and all her extracurriculars. Now, instead of losing herself in textbooks and notetaking, Wanda was driving 165 miles into Seattle in her shitty old Honda.

Evidently, the CEO she was meeting today was an enigmatic and charming woman, one of the youngest millionaires in the country. Natasha Romanoff. God, even her name sounded rich.

“I’m so sorry Wanda,” Kate’s voice was raspy, and Wanda filled a glass of water for her. “This interview took me months to get, and by the time I would be able to reschedule, we’d both be graduated. You know I’m the editor for the newspaper, I can’t give up this opportunity. I’m not even kidding, it's the chance of a lifetime.” Her eyes were wide and red-rimmed. Even though she looks like she’s on death's door, Kate still manages to have flawless skin and long, flowing hair. Wanda feels a pang of sympathy, bringing the glass of water over and swiping a bottle of NyQuil from the counter.

“It’s okay, Kate. I promise. Take this and go the fuck to bed, you look like you’re seconds away from passing out.”

“Fine, but here are the supplies you’ll need,” Kate reaches for her bag, pulling out a recording device and a printed stack of questions. “Just hit record and ask all these questions, I’ll transcribe everything later when this fever goes away and I can finally think straight.”

Wanda suppresses the wave of panic that rises in her, taking the questions and recording device with slightly trembling fingers and tucking them safely in her messenger bag. She wouldn’t do this for anyone else, only Kate.

“Go to bed, I’ll be fine,” Wanda says, her voice not sounding as confident as she’d like.

Giving her a knowing look, Kate shuffles off towards the bedroom, a blanket wrapped around her. “You’ll be fine, just ask the questions and that’ll be enough information to get you through the interview. And Wanda,” Kate pauses at the door, her tired gray eyes finding green. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’d better get going,” Wanda smiles, her hands shooing her roommate through the door. “It’s a long drive, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Good luck, you’re my favorite roommate.”

“Kate, I’m your only roommate.”

—

The drive is easy, not many people are up this early. The trees whizz past, Wanda’s foot never leaving the gas pedal as she makes her way towards the city. She doesn’t have to be at the interview until two this afternoon, but there’s something intoxicating about driving 15 miles over the speed limit on a bare highway.

Pictures of a tall, curved glass building float through Wanda’s mind. She was certain that the pictures of Romanoff’s Global Enterprise on Google didn’t compare to the actual building itself, and she brushed off the waves of anxiety building inside her chest.

It’s a quarter to two when Wanda pulls her car in front of the building. The reflective glass stares down at her, the top of the building too high to see without craning her neck. Large lettering spells out Romanoff above the entryway, and Wanda feels her fingers trembling as she hands her keys to the valet driver. Honestly, a valet driver? How much more over the top could this day get?

Walking into the lobby, Wanda hears the muted click of her low heels as she tugs her dress shirt down. A tall blonde woman walks towards her, a smile plastered on her face as her eyes rake up and down Wanda’s body, no doubt judging her outfit. The woman looks pristine, with a slicked-back ponytail and a subtle hint of mascara. Her blazer is sharp and tailored, and Wanda fights the urge to tug her dress shirt again.

“I’m here to see Ms. Romanoff, my name is Wanda Maximoff,” The statement comes out as more of a question, and Wanda blushes under the scrutinizing look the blonde gives her.

“One moment, Ms. Maximoff,” the woman says, her perfect brow arching slightly as she appraises Wanda one last time before turning her attention to the large iPad in her hands. She swipes a few times, a small smile gracing her features as she finds what she’s looking for.

“Ah, Ms. Bishop was expected, but I see that was changed last minute. Right this way, Ms. Maximoff,” the woman turns, walking confidently towards the elevators. “If you could sign this, please.”

The blonde hands Wanda the iPad, and she quickly signs her name. It looks illegible, and Wanda hopes her signature isn’t going anywhere except to the security office for verification. She fights the urge to fix her ponytail, her eyes landing on the blonde woman’s slicked-back hair tied high on her head. Maybe a quick tightening of her hair tie wouldn’t hurt.

“Press the button for floor twenty.” The woman turns, catching Wanda’s hands as they shoot down from adjusting her ponytail. A graceful smile spreads across her face, “Have a good interview.”

Wanda thanks her, accepting the badge the blonde hands her. It has the words VISITOR stamped across the surface. Awkwardly adjusting the badge until it’s pinned to her jacket, Wanda scoffs internally. As if anyone in this building didn’t already know she was only a visitor. She might as well write the word on her forehead to go along with her outdated shoes and slightly too-large jacket.

The elevator ride is quick, shooting up towards the twentieth floor smoothly. Wanda is greeted by the sight of yet another pristine, clean lobby. Another blonde woman sits behind a desk, quickly rising as Wanda steps out.

Running a hand over her hair, Wanda reaches into her bag. She’s never felt self-conscious about her hair before, but after seeing no less than five impeccably dressed blonde women, she can’t help but think she sticks out like a sore thumb.

Pulling out the recording device and the slightly crumpled stack of questions, Wanda curses herself for not researching Ms. Romanoff. The woman could be ninety years old for all she knew. She hadn’t searched up her name at all, and fights the urge to smooth down her shirt as she glances towards the receptionist.

The upcoming one-on-one interview looms in the front of her mind, nerves causing her fingers to systematically rub the pages in front of her. Wanda hated attention being focused on her, much preferring the anonymity of a group discussion or a crowded room. Sitting on hard white leather chairs and staring at the city skyline from a large floor-to-ceiling window was not something Wanda would consider as a happy place.

Wanda wonders if Ms. Romanoff insists on all her employees being blonde as yet another smartly dressed woman appears from around the corner. The blonde’s eyes glance towards her, doing a subtle double-take before smoothly stepping towards her.

“Ms. Maximoff?”

“Yes,” Wanda hopes her voice isn’t trembling too badly.

“Ms. Romanoff will see you shortly, can I offer you a refreshment? Coffee, tea, water?”

“Water is fine, thanks.” Her throat is suddenly parched, and she takes the cup from the blonde woman gratefully.

“She will see you shortly.” The woman says, a small smile plastered on her face as she turns and walks towards the desk. She sits next to the other blonde woman, her attention focused on the computer before her. Wanda wonders if she should call them Thing One and Thing Two as the clacking of a keyboard fills the empty, sterile feeling space.

A door opens, a tall man stepping through as he chuckles at something. He bids a brief farewell, barely glancing at the blonde woman, who Wanda notices has jumped to their feet in his presence. They seem nervous, one woman ushering the man towards the elevator while the other hurriedly gestures for Wanda to stand.

“Ms. Romanoff will see you now,” she says and pushes Wanda towards the open door.

Wanda walks through the door, one hand gripping the recording device and the other holding the stack of papers close to her chest. She steps through the door, catching a glimpse of a large office with floor-to-ceiling windows, before she promptly trips.

Her palms catch her, the papers flying from her hands as the recording device clatters to the floor. Fuck. This was a terrible first introduction.

The sound of heels steadily approaching reaches Wanda’s ears, and she feels her face burning as she scrambles to pick up the items now strewn across a polished marble floor. Bracing herself, she manages to glance up.

“Ms. Bishop,” A long-fingered hand is extended. “I’m Natasha Romanoff, are you alright?”

Holy shit. Wanda finds herself speechless, her lips parted as her mouth hangs open slightly. She quickly gathers the rest of the papers, gratefully taking the cool hand with her own as she stands.

Ms. Romanoff is absolutely stunning. There are no words to describe her, and Wanda feels herself taking in the woman’s appearance. Long legs and a tight, black pencil skirt, an hourglass figure that means this woman spends countless hours in the gym, and a dark green button-up shirt with just enough buttons undone to show the barest curve of her chest. Blinking, Wanda feels herself flushing further, the sight of Ms. Romanoff’s rolled-up sleeves and bare forearms sending her head spiraling.

“I’m okay,” Wanda manages, feeling her breath catching. She finally manages to drag her eyes toward Ms. Romanoff’s face, finding the barest hint of a smirk and kind, vibrant green eyes. She’s mildly surprised to see dark red hair, and she suddenly doesn’t feel as out of place as she did before.

Looking down, Wanda startles at the sight of a hand still outstretched. She takes it, shaking firmly as a spark of something runs through her fingertips. It travels down her spine, filling her with warmth.

“Um, it’s actually Wanda,” she begins, flushing under the sharp eyes that remain locked with hers. “Um, Maximoff. Wanda Maximoff. Kate, I mean Ms. Bishop is sick so… here I am.” She concludes lamely, the barest hint of amusement in Ms. Romanoff's eyes.

The silence stretches, and Wanda finds herself speaking again. “I study English literature. With Kate, I mean um… Ms. Bishop. At school. Our school, Washington State. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here.”

“I don’t mind.” is all Natasha says, and she gestures towards a leather L-shaped couch. “Would you like to sit?”

This office is far too big for one person, a large desk near the center of the room. Wanda assumes it’s Ms. Romanoff’s. She walks towards the corner of the office, large glass windows extending around the couch and a few comfortable-looking chairs. There’s a dark mahogany desk, with enough chairs to seat a dozen people all around it. She wonders if Ms. Romanoff ever leaves this office, and takes in the minimalistic artwork hanging on the walls.

“The table was handmade by a local artist,” Ms. Romanoff says, her head tilting when Wanda looks back at her. She flushes, knowing that the woman had been watching her look around the room.

“It’s beautiful,” Wanda murmurs. “Seemingly ordinary resources crafted into something exquisite.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Natasha agrees, her voice low and sounding like melted butter. Wanda finds herself blushing at the sound.

Distractedly, Wanda sinks onto the couch as Ms. Romanoff gracefully sits on one of the black leather chairs across from her. Her fingers fumble, dropping the recording device onto the wood roughly. The blush must be semi-permanent at this point, spreading across her cheeks and over the tips of her ears as she turns the recording device on. Finding the first page of questions, Wanda realizes that she never read the questions in advance.

Off to a great start, then.

“I apologize,” Wanda lets a hand run along the side of her head, a ghost action of tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m not really used to this.”

“Used to what?”

“One-on-one interviews, they feel oddly intimate. I’m much more acquainted with blending into the wall in a crowd.”

“Take all the time you need,” Ms. Romanoff says, a small smile on her face. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Do you mind?” Wanda gestures towards the table, “I would like to record your answers for my roommate, I mean… Ms. Bishop.”

Ms. Romanoff smirks widely at that, amusement dancing on her flawless features. “You already started recording, now you’re asking for permission?”

Is she teasing? It sounds like she’s teasing, but Wanda is too flushed with embarrassment to really place the emotion behind Ms. Romanoff’s words. The woman takes pity on her.

“I don’t mind.”

“Did Kate, uh… Ms. Bishop explain what the interview was for?”

“Yes,” Natasha settles into her seat, a faint look of boredom overtaking her face. “This interview will be placed in the school newspaper as a feature article since I will be the featured speaker at this year's graduation ceremony.”

Oh. Kate had forgotten to mention that little detail. Wanda hoped the surprise at the news wasn’t showing on her face.

“Oh, good,” Wanda cleared her throat. “In that case, let’s begin.”

“Yes, let's.”

Is she… teasing? Again? Wanda feels as though she’s been thrust into an alternate dimension. She sits up straighter, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to look more confident than she is. Professional, that’s what Wanda is hoping to achieve.

“You’re very young to have amassed such an impressive empire.” The words feel almost monotone. Scripted. “To what do you owe your success?” Wanda glances up, and Natasha’s smile falls into a vague look of disappointment.

“In short, business is all about people. I excel at knowing what makes a person tick, and I am an excellent judge of character, Ms. Maximoff. I know how to inspire, and most importantly, how to incentivize.” Natasha’s dark green eyes lock with Wanda’s, pinning her to her seat. “I believe that I must know every detail in order to achieve success, knowledge is power after all. I make my decisions based on logic, not feelings. In short, I know people. I know how they tick, and I know how to inspire them.”

“Well,” Wanda flounders, the answer sounding rehearsed to her ears. God, this woman is arrogant. “Maybe you’re just lucky.”

A startled look flashes across Ms. Romanoff’s face, surprise appearing in her eyes momentarily before it’s brushed away. “I don’t believe in luck, Ms. Maximoff. I believe in my own abilities, and I believe in the team that surrounds me. I select only the best to work for this company, and that is the reason for my success.”

“You sound like someone who is obsessed with control,” the words escape Wanda’s mouth before she can restrain them.

“I exercise control in all things, Ms. Maximoff,” Natasha says, not a glimmer of humor in her words. Her steel gaze locks with Wanda’s, impassive as she watches Wanda flush again.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Natasha continues as if she never heard Wanda speak. “Immense power is only acquired by those who are convinced that they have the ability to control the things around them."

Immense power? Yeah, total control freak.

“So you believe that you have immense power?”

“I employ over fifty thousand people, Ms. Maximoff. I am responsible for all of them. This responsibility gives me a certain sense of power. If I decided that a department wasn’t needed one day, such as a social media section of my team, hundreds of people would struggle to find a replacement job. So yes, I have power.”

The complete lack of humility and apparent empathy causes Wanda’s mouth to open, her lips parted slightly in disbelief.

“Is there a board you answer to?”

“I own this company. I don’t answer to anyone.” Ms. Romanoff raises a single eyebrow.

Wanda feels herself flush yet again. If she had done any research, she's certain she would have known the answer to that question beforehand. She changes the topic.

“What are your interests outside of work?”

The sharp curve of Ms. Romanoff’s eyebrow suggests that she knows what Wanda is doing, but the woman answers the question gracefully.

“I have many varied interests outside of work,” Natasha’s tone is bordering on playful, the slight curve of her lips almost teasing.

“Well, what do you do to relax?” Wanda asks, rephrasing her question. For some reason, the previous answer sent a flush down her spine.

“Relax?” Ms. Romanoff sits back in her seat, the heat of her gaze never leaving Wanda’s. “I engage in multiple physical pursuits. I’m a wealthy woman, Ms. Maximoff, I never tire of looking for hobbies.”

Not knowing how to respond, Wanda glances at the next question.

“You invest in engineering, why?”

Ms. Romanoff’s response is quick and practiced. “I enjoy the creation of things. I like knowing how they work, what makes them tick. How to build and create. I enjoy the process of creating something, adjusting to flaws, and perfecting things.”

“That sounds awfully sentimental.”

“Does it?” That damned subtle smirk is back, and Wanda looks down at the page in front of her. “There are many who say I don’t have the heart for sentiments.”

That makes Wanda look up. There’s a curious expression on Ms. Romanoff’s face. It disappears before Wanda can decipher it.

“Would your friends say you don’t have a heart?” Fuck. That wasn’t on the list of questions. Kate is going to kill her.

“Why would you presume they say that?”

“I assume they know you well, and you’re easy to get to know…” Wanda responds, her heart thudding.

“Well,” Natasha leans forward slightly. “I’m a very private person, Ms. Maximoff. I go to great lengths to ensure my privacy is well maintained. There is a reason I don’t often give interviews.”

“Then why did you agree to this one?” The question escapes Wanda’s lips before she can stop it, her curiosity taking over.

Natasha leans back, crossing a leg delicately over the other. “I’m a generous benefactor to your University, and in all honesty, Ms. Bishop was extremely insistent. She was relentless in her communications with my PR and assistants, and I admire her motivation.”

Fully aware of how tenacious Kate could be, Wanda curses her out mentally. Instead of studying for her finals, she was sitting in this cold, expensive office and interviewing a successful, rich woman not much older than her.

Wanda glances at the next question.

“Do you have a philosophy you live by? If so, what is it?”

“It's not so much a philosophy as a guiding principle. As Carnegie said, ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I like control of myself and those around me.”

“You sound like the ultimate control freak.”

Ms. Romanoff smiles sharply, a dangerous look appearing in her eye. “I suppose I am.”

Swallowing, Wanda feels as though the woman seated across from her is talking about something else entirely. She can’t quite pinpoint what it is. It frustrates her to no end, but Wanda just shakes her head and continues with the questions written before her.

“You were adopted,” Wanda pauses, this information is a surprise to her. She risks a glance up. Ms. Romanoff’s face is impassive. “How do you think this shaped the person you are today?”

Biting her lip, Wanda hoped she didn’t cross any lines. Ms. Romanoff doesn’t seem to be offended, but her brows furrow slightly.

“I have no way of knowing, Ms. Maximoff. My adoptive family is all I’ve ever known.”

“How old were you when you were adopted?”

Natasha’s lips curl into a wry smile. “That is information available by public record.” Her tone is stern, her words sharp. Wanda immediately flushes, feeling like hitting her own forehead against a solid surface. Repeatedly.

If only she’d done some research ahead of time. Well, no time to dwell on the past. Wanda speaks quickly, suddenly wanting this interview to be over.

“Does your family life encroach on your work?”

“It does not.” Ms. Romanoff’s tone is flat and hard, her response quick.

Wanda feels red-hot embarrassment slink down her spine. She should have looked over these questions ahead of time. Curse her inability to think ahead. She barely glances at the next question before the words are spewing from her lips.

“Are you gay?”

Ms. Romanoff blinks. Wanda feels her eyes go wide, darting down to the paper in front of her. Why the fuck is that question in here? Why didn’t Kate warn her, or… matter of fact, why did Kate think that was an appropriate question to ask?

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t…” Wanda trails off, her flush returning. “I didn’t know that was a question. You don’t have to answer that, I’m sorry. Let's move on.”

“I am.”

Wanda’s head shoots up so fast she strains a muscle. It shoots painfully down her neck, but the only thing she’s focused on is the dark green of Ms. Romanoff’s unwavering gaze.

“You didn’t write these questions.” It’s a statement, and Wanda finds herself nodding.

“Like I said before, my roommate was supposed to interview you today. These are her questions, for our school newspaper.” Wanda feels her fingers clenching the paper. She hopes she isn’t thrown out of the office. She couldn't bear the shame and judgemental looks the blonde assistants would surely send her way.

“Are you also a part of the school newspaper?”

“No, I-” Wanda falters, wincing at the dull tone in Ms. Romanoff’s words. “Kate asked me to come since I’m her roommate. She had no other options.”

“That explains a multitude of things,” Ms. Romanoff’s voice is quiet, her eyes boring into Wanda’s.

A soft knock sounds out, the door swinging open as blonde thing number one steps into the office. Wanda immediately resents her presence, a strange atmosphere encroaching on the space she was occupying.

“Your next meeting is in five minutes, Ms. Romanoff,” The assistant says, not sparing a glance towards Wanda.

“Cancel it, we’re not done here.”

Wanda looks up, her hands already preparing to sweep the recording device into her bag as she makes her escape. The assistant is gaping, her eyes flicking between Wanda and her boss. Natasha raises a single eyebrow, and the assistant bows her head slightly before leaving and gently shutting the door behind her.

“I hope I’m not taking up valuable time,” Wanda says, her hands still hovering over the recording device.

“You aren’t. Besides, I want to know about you.” Ms. Romanoff tilts her head slightly, her lips turning up slightly. “It’s only fair, after all.”

That damned flush makes itself known once again, traveling over Wanda’s cheeks and down her neck. She folds the corner of her paper, the crease sharp beneath her fingers and she bites her lip briefly.

“There’s not much to know, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Ms. Romanoff’s eyes are sharp, assessing. “What are your plans after graduation?”

Wanda recognizes the escape for what it is and seizes it wholeheartedly. “I don’t have any plans, I’m too focused on exams at the moment.”

“I see,” her voice is low, her posture relaxed, and her eyes piercing. Ms. Romanoff uncrosses her legs slowly, leaning forward slightly. “We offer an excellent internship program here.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, Wanda smiles slightly. “I’m sure you do. Although, I’m not sure I'd fit in here.”

“No?” Her head tilts again, green eyes unwavering. Wanda feels trapped suddenly, the weight of the woman’s gaze pinning her to the couch. She lets out an uncomfortable cough.

“Isn’t it obvious?” The statement is evasive, but Ms. Romanoff answers without hesitation.

“Not to me, it isn’t.” Her gaze is heavy, eyes all-knowing and locked on Wanda. There’s a new sort of tension in the air, all traces of awkwardness gone and replaced with something heady. It’s making Wanda’s head spin, and she breaks eye contact with some effort. Reaching towards the table, she turns the recording device off, placing it gently into her bag.

The tension breaks, Ms. Romanoff standing slowly as Wanda shoves the papers into her bag.

“Would you like a tour?”

Wanda pauses, her hands stilling. Why is she asking that? Isn’t she the CEO of the company?

“I’m sure you have many other important things to attend to, Ms. Romanoff. Besides, I should get on the road before it starts raining too heavily.” Wanda glances out the window, taking in the dark clouds on the distant horizon.

“You’re driving back to campus today?” Ms. Romanoff sounds almost concerned. Wanda tries not to stare at her in shock, blinking quickly. The woman clears her throat, an authoritative tone taking over as she speaks. “Be careful.”

“I will. Thank you for the interview.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” she says, polite and dismissive.

Wanda stands, closing her messenger bag. She takes in the woman in front of her, letting her eyes glance over the impeccable outfit the woman has put on. Truly, she should be taking notes on how to dress in a business formal manner, and she’s got the perfect model in front of her. Blinking that thought away, Wanda takes in the small smile creeping onto Ms. Romanoff’s face.

“Until we meet again, Ms. Maximoff,” she holds out her hand, gripping Wanda’s fingers in a gentle yet firm hold.

Will they meet again? Wanda can almost guarantee that they won’t, but something in Ms. Romanoff’s eyes tell her differently. She shakes it off, labeling it as nerves running rampant through her mind. Of course, they wouldn’t meet again. A classic case of a rich, hot CEO meeting a poor college student, their paths crossing once and never entangling again, akin to a set of perpendicular lines.

“Ms. Romanoff,” Wanda nods slightly, letting the woman walk her to the door.

Opening it wide, the woman holds out a hand. A small smirk graces her features. “I am averse to my guests tripping more than once in my presence, and I’d like to ensure your safe journey from my building, Ms. Maximoff.”

“Well,” Wanda flounders for a moment. “That’s very considerate of you.”

At least someone is amused, Wanda thinks as she steps through the door. She considers shooting a victorious glance back at the woman, but decides that the action would be too childish.

Evidently, Ms. Romanoff doesn’t often escort her guests from her office, judging by the surprised looks the blonde assistants shoot their way. It all seems quite suffocating for a moment, and Wanda takes a deep breath.

A hand on her shoulder halts the escape she is about to make. The warmth from Ms. Romanoff’s firm fingertips sends something intoxicating through Wanda. She hopes the ensuing shiver isn’t too obvious.

“I have to swipe my card for the elevator to work on this floor,” Ms. Romanoff explains, pressing the down button.

Of course. That makes sense. Then why is her hand still resting on Wanda’s shoulder?

Almost as if she’s reading Wanda’s mind - or maybe her body language - Ms. Romanoff releases her hold. Her fingers linger briefly, tracing briefly over her arm as she fixes Wanda with a look.

The elevator doors open, and Wanda gratefully steps through. Turning, she sees Ms. Romanoff leaning casually against the wall. The sight is attractive, and Wanda finds her eyes lingering on the exposed forearms crossed in front of her body.

“Wanda,” the woman says, a goodbye, but without a note of finality.

“Natasha,” she replies.

The doors close.

Next Chapter

---

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hydroj1ns · 3 months ago

Text

manga editor goes to the office commando?!

akaashi keiji forgets his underwear

cw: literally just ogling no sex, trans!akaashi

it’s rare that akaashi has to go to work in person. he’s usually only called in when there are particularly important company meetings.

when he does attend, he makes sure to wear his best suit and tie. however, when he gets ready that morning, he notices that it’s more difficult to squeeze into his slacks. curse that osamu, always giving him freebies when he goes to onigiri miya.

he examines his backside in the mirror, and decides that the way the fabric clings onto his thighs and ass is perfectly appropriate for the office. i mean, he’s not showing any skin, and it’s not entirely his fault that he’s grown out of this two-piece. besides, the suppleness of his lower half isn’t nearly attractive to receive any attention, or so he believes.

by the time he’s on the train and the doors have already closed, he feels an uncomfortable chafing against his crotch. shit. did i really leave the house with no underwear? with one hand clinging to an overhead handle and the other gripping his briefcase, he hopes no one notices his lack of undergarments. his trousers are thick enough, right?

wrong. perverts on the train aren’t uncommon, and a pretty boy like akaashi, well, he’s going to get ogled. it doesn’t take much analyzing to figure out that this spectacled salary man is going commando to work today. all the raven-haired man can do is stare down at his loafers to avoid eye contact as strangers smirk at the way the slim-fit pants frame his cameltoe perfectly. he spends the rest of the ride with a blush that goes up to his ears and an amplified throbbing in his nether region.

it’s after the meeting that akaashi hears his name called by one of his fellow editors, asking for his help to review a recently-submitted manuscript. he decides he has some time to spare, so he heads over to his coworker. propping his hand on the desk, he leans over the other man’s shoulder to quickly scan the contents on the screen.

keiji is unaware of how good he smells, his sweet scent wafting over the other editor’s shoulder. he’s also unaware of how the entire office staff are taking unsubtle peeks at his back profile. and for good reason too. the way the black fabric of his pants are taut over his ass, perfectly complimenting its shapeliness, is impossible not to stare at. and not to mention the slight slight outline of his cunt. some of those in closer cubicles are blessed with being able to lower their heads to get a better view of it, and by god, it was worth it. it’s so lewd, seeing the puffy lips of his pussy through the thin cotton. was he even wearing anything underneath? the rest of his coworkers can only imagine bending him over a desk and fucking him hard and raw as his moans fill the whole building.

when he unconsciously shifts his weight from leg to leg, everyone in the office flinches, thinking that he’s about to turn, but when he doesn’t, they go straight back to staring.

when akaashi is done reviewing the document, he returns to his work area to pack up his belongings and go home.

until his deskmate “accidentally” knocks over a huge stack of papers. and of course, like the good samaritan he is, he helps pick them up. with so many documents, it’s a good ten minutes of akaashi bent over, looking ripe for the taking. however, it’s an unspoken rule that no one can make a move on keiji. but it’s also an unspoken rule to regularly drop things in his path just to see his fat ass in the air and for some extra fap material.

today was an extraordinary day for the office. it had been around a month since keiji had come in, and his fuller frame was surprising, but much appreciated. the way he filled out his clothes had his coworkers drooling, not to mention their first look at his (clothed) pussy.

they couldn’t wait for the next time akaashi came to work.

#hydroj1ns thirsts #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x male reader #haikyuu smut

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genericpuff · 4 months ago

Note

think rachel needed the hire a bunch of writers instead of drawing assistants after season one so she could focus on one part and not get burnt out while someone else kept track of and developed all her plot points in a lore Bible or something

Honestly yeah, LO is a huge example of why the Webtoons' editors don't actually function as editors, more so just messenger pigeons between the creators and the company who are there to make sure creators are following ToS and otherwise answering questions on behalf of the higher-ups for the creators. And this is especially wild for something like LO because 1.) you'd think the #1 webtoon on the platform would be given all the resources it needs to succeed, and 2.) LO's editor in the end was Bre Boswell who actually has a background in television writing (and yet ironically, the series only got worse after Bre suddenly replaced the previous editors around Ep 100).

Rachel's strong points have always been in conceptual design and illustration. Despite this, LO's own iconic design and illustration aspects that made people fall in love with it in the first place were lost after it became as big as it did. I know folks will argue that LO's production was purely the fault of Webtoons' insane deadlines, but her writing has always been her weakest point and that's evident in all of her previous works prior to LO. She's good at coming up with standalone ideas - again, concepts - but executing them and finalizing them through an actual conclusion beyond the initial idea is always something she's struggled with.

This is also apparent to a point in her art as well, as much as her strengths used to be in illustration and conceptual design, she also clearly struggled in staying committed to the same character designs and concepts for long periods of time and was never good at coming up with efficient ways to reproduce her own art - even gorgeous comics like The Doctor Foxglove Show started off strong just to inevitably slip into the same habits of inconsistent half-assing that LO did, and it wasn't even an Originals series.

Back to the writing though, she absolutely would have benefited from having another writer or two on her team, but unfortunately she also doesn't seem like she's aware of her own faults in her writing or willing to let anyone else in on her process, especially considering she's even admitted that her own writing process is "chaos" and has supposedly convinced herself that the faults in her writing are a good thing.

There's "embracing the chaos" of your own process (my process is chaotic too, I get it) and then there's just going "oh well, sucks to suck, I don't want to bother doing better for the sake of my own dedicated audience so it's fine if I totally whiff the comic's plot".

The reality is that if you've never learned how to identify and break your own bad habits, you'll inevitably think that those bad habits are the norm and/or are what makes you good at what you do - all the while, you wind up missing what could have actually helped you. Rachel started off on a very strong foot with the concept of LO, but then inevitably fell into the exact same bad habits she had with previous works but was now enabled by the contract and money and fame she got through Webtoons to never change - after all, if she was going to keep being rewarded Eisners and merch deals anyways regardless of the quality of her writing/art, what point would there be in improving? From my perspective, she clearly doesn't really have the integrity to improve for the sake of herself and her audience, so as long as the end result is to her benefit, the means don't really matter.

Of course, in the long-term it makes for a very horrid legacy especially in hindsight, but as far as I'm concerned, she got what she wanted regardless.

#ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything #lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #lo critical

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regthomas1728 · 20 days ago

Text

Editing Responsibly

While Preserving the Author's Voice and Intent

GIF by capricornus-rex

If you're confident in your skills as an Editor, then skip this post! If not, keep reading. I'll be as direct as possible and include fun pictures/gifs.

Covering:

Readability

Focal Points

Tone

Character Development

Grammar/Spelling are not as important as we may think. It’s important to understand the foundations of grammar but ultimately, the most important part is that the story is readable. Many established authors have a style of grammar and beliefs of how grammar *should* be. Authors are going to write with their voice, so readers should learn to read that voice. We can establish our voice through how we write.

Example: Some authors use dashes to indicate urgency or to jump into action or dialogue. Others may use asterisks instead of italicizing or bolding something.

The point: don’t correct style, correct how readable a work is. If you understand it, it’s readable, if you think there is room for misinterpretation or it takes a few times to understand a sentence through no fault of your own, mark it.

GIF by demondetoxmanual

You tell 'em Dean!

Next are focal points. Where is the author directing the reader? Is this the best place for the reader to be? For example, if a war has broke out in a field, are we focusing on all the action or the ramifications of the action? Think about the easiest way to impact the reader? Is the reader going to be emotional reading about the six characters locked in a gun fight? Is this gun fight going to be revolutionary to the story? What’s interesting to watch is not always interesting to read.

I heard the suggestion of focusing on something small. We see this in Mulan when the Chinese Military comes across a burnt village. We see an overview of the damages but the item that gets the most screen time is the helmet on a pike and the doll toy next to it. The implication is that not only men died, not only was the military suffering a great defeat but innocent children were being slaughtered. We see how evil the enemy is and what the military is fighting for. We strongly agree with the mission.

This is not the only way to do something but the main idea is that you make every paragraph meaningful, impactful, and every word important. Quality over quantity (to be further discussed at a later point not in this post).

As a Beta Reader, I recommend encouraging your author when a sentence was exceptionally meaningful, where it impacted you, but simultaneously, you should inform them when a sentence is lacking or setting you up for something and it doesn’t deliver. Tell them when a sentence seems redundant in a way that is not helpful or apart of their voice (there is a good way to use repetition throughout your story to be impactful).

GIF by cutsliceddiced

Ramsay has a lot of shows. One features kid chefs where he is very polite, very encouraging, and gives a fatherly vibe. Overall, 10/10 show to watch with my grandma. Then, there's Hell's Kitchen. The very opposite. He's cooled down over the years but he's still not the nicest guy. Not very fatherly. The tones are different. His word choices are different, his expressions are different.

What tone are you trying to convey in your story. Every word in the english language is different. They all have connotations that imply more than what the given definition may tell us. How you use words changes how your reader sees something. You’re painting a picture, use vibrant colors but also use dull ones to show how important each color is important. Does this make cents? Make dollars?

The words make up sentences make up paragraphs which make up a scene. If your scene is happy, you are NOT going to use the word “nice”. There are also problems with generalizing a scene. Happy is not enough. Try “delighted” “cheerful” “advantageous”. The more you know about the scene, the more you can write for it. Happy can mean nothing bad (content), it can be a roller coaster ride at the state fair (exhilarating), or wedding day, saying the vows and then *final kiss* (glowing/radiant). The english language lends itself to too many ways of conveying emotions. Use it.

GIF by chuuyasblog

Finally, character development is going to make the story. Every plot has been used and overused–there isn’t much that can surprise a reader. Characters, however, can distract from a plot and help you surprise your audience. This is going to be different for everyone but give your audience thoughts, small actions, flaws, and relatable dialogue. (there is too much for this, if anyone wants more about character development, I've got plenty to say)

Awesome Sauce,

Regine Thomas Tumblr Arse | With (His) Spunk [email protected]

#fanfic #on writing #writerscommunity #writers and poets #writers on tumblr #writing #writeblr #my writing #creative writing #book quotes #writers #writer #writing fanfic #ao3 #fantasy #fandom #beta reader #writing tips #reading tips

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2d-reality · 1 year ago

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Little Things (The Lustful Fifthborn)

characters: Asmodeus, GN!MC navigation: Lucifer | Mammon | Levi | Satan | Asmo | Beel | Belphie content/warnings: little things you do for the brothers, out of love. fluff. established relationship (implied you are dating all seven brothers equally with the exception of mammon whom i love more) word count: 782 notes: Each brother has their own part, linked above. I am still my own editor and I loathe editing, so please forgive any mistakes!

“Did you do something new with your eyes, Asmo?”

Asmo looks up from his manicure and sees you shutting his bedroom door behind you. He’d left it, and the invitation for you to join him, open in the hopes you’d take him up on his offer of a night of pampering. He sets the polish brush back into its bottle and dons a coquettish frown. He’s bare-faced at the moment in preparation for the skincare regimen he’s planned out for the two of you, but he’s confident he can hide his insecurity of being less than perfectly put together, even if it’s only you here.

“Darling, my natural beauty is nothing new.”

You grin as you cross the room and greet him by way of several short kisses. Your eyes are sparkling when you’ve had your fill and pull away, and his head is light.

“Now, now,” he chides, not bothering to hide his slight breathlessness. “Wait until my nails are dry at least before you seduce me.”

Your equally soft chuckle sends a flutter of butterflies through his stomach. “It’s your fault for being so pretty, Asmodeus.”

Asmo has to turn back to his nails to keep his composure. There it was again- his full name. You don’t use it all the time, but every time he hears it in that tone, it floors him. You told him once that you do it because that’s who you see, beneath the makeup and ring lights and flirting.

He’d furrowed his brow at the time, confused. He was always Asmo. But you had shaken your head, and told him through a smile:

“That’s not it. I love Asmo. Who doesn’t?” He’d nodded appreciatively, and you’d continued, “But Asmo is a filter. Asmo is on magazine covers. Asmo has a Deviltube channel, and sits for interviews, and wears designer. Asmo always has a smile for his fans. Asmodeus may also like pretty things and setting trends, but he also makes sure each of his brothers take care of themselves. And if they can’t, he does it for them. Asmodeus takes morning tea instead of coffee, because too much caffeine gives him jitters, and prefers vanilla over floral in his soap. He makes the best Devil on the Beach, and always makes sure I’m well-dressed even when I don’t feel as lovely as him.”

You’d nudged his shoulder with yours companionably. “Asmodeus always makes certain that I’m comfortable. He holds my hand when I cry during sappy movies. That’s who I fell in love with. Asmodeus, under the expensive products and everything else. I think Asmodeus is the most beautiful.”

You’d said it so casually, as though you hadn’t broken him down to damn near his bare bones, and professed your love for the part of him that even he had trouble accepting. For the first time in a long time, he’d felt well and truly seen. You didn’t care how good he was in bed or how many Devilgram followers he had. You never asked more of him than he offered willingly, and never made him feel annoying or silly. You fell in love with him, even though his charm didn’t work on you.

Asmo shakes his head to clear the tumble of thoughts and to keep himself from breaking down into tears like he had back then. He slides his hand into the gel curing lamp set out on his vanity, and turns back to you once the LED lights blink on.

“What color strikes your fancy this time, my dear?” he asks you as you bump his hip with your own. He shuffles over slightly to give you space on the bench, relishing in the warmth of your thigh pressing into his. Your eyes scan the case of polishes he’s set out, and you prop your elbow up on the vanity top, resting your chin on the heel of your palm as you hum.

“Hmm, I’m not entirely sure. What color did you pick?”

The nail lamp winks out as it reaches the end of its timer, and he pulls his hand back for you to examine. Your fingers are gentle as they frame his, careful not to touch the polish, even if it’s cured and smudge-proof.

“I like this one,” you say. “And we can be matching.”

He’s pleased, and knows it shows on his face. He presses his cheek to yours for a moment with a bright laugh. “You are too precious, MC! It’s simply too much for my poor heart to handle.”

“I should say the same to you.” You meet his gaze with those piercing eyes, and he knows you mean it. Oh, does he love you, too.

#obey me #asmo #obey me asmo #asmodeus #obey me asmodeus #asmo x reader #om! asmodeus #asmodeus x reader #asmo x mc #asmodeus x mc #obey me asmo x reader #obey me x reader

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scintillyyy · 3 days ago

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Hi. I love every second of your blog going "Fuck Chuck Dixon. All my homies hate Chuck Dixon." concurrent with "Dixon could often be remarkably competent as a writer with legit interesting ideas." Please never stop writing metas.

listennnnnn i hate dixon he's awful. he's also written stuff i really enjoy despite the many glaring faults.

the thing with dixon that i'm always trying to suss out tho. like, i think because current day dixon has been radicalized in a truly awful and horrendous way, there's a lot of desire to place his current day radical beliefs onto every aspect of his past works and blame everything on him and him alone as this one terrible writer who ruined all characters for ever and ever just because he's a conservative. but like. i think that because he's an awful person it's easy to place blame on him retroactively for some things that weren't necessarily solely a product of his conservatism or his fault alone.

and mmm. i never ever deny the conservatism present in his works. it's present in his robin book with tim, it's present in his nightwing book with dick, and it's present in his batman books with bruce. but people sometimes act as if he was working in a batoffice that had the current day issues it does where writers are given a carte blance to do whatever they want with all characters with little regards to continuity or character growth. that did not happen during his tim under denny in the 90s--denny o'neil was known for running a fairly tight ship (i can't find the interview but there's an interesting retrospective interview he does wrt jason where he talks about his failures as an editor and how he was too hands off and not firm enough allowing writers to do what they pleased which led him to become a much stricter and firm editor following jason's death because he learned from the experience). dixon in that interview i posted made it clear that o'neil wouldn't even let dixon touch the joker until dixon had demonstrated to o'neil he had a grasp on the character that o'neil approved of. dixon would not have been allowed to do whatever he wanted with characters like robin/tim. without o'neil putting a stop to it if he had gone too far. and for the record, o'neil was a big old bleeding heart liberal that, at the time at least, dixon is noted to have gotten along with very well despite their political opinion differences even at that time. dixon says he was an avid read of grant's work on batman. he's awful now, but at one point he was probably younger and a bit more willing to entertain ideas that weren't his own too.

so when i look back on his work as a historical work, i'm always trying to tease out the following - is this representive of dixon's brand of conservative views in particular or is it representative of a different, overall more conservative time era. and there's a lot of things that fall under the second umbrella that get attributed to the first tbh. listen i love no man's land and understand that despite my love it is full of copaganda and downright conservative ideals by today's standards. but NML wasn't written solely by dixon to push a uniquely conservative pro-cop view--o'neil approved of the story and was the editor of the office at the time. rucka was a huge player in helping tell this super pro-cop story (he even wrote the novelization!!) and nobody ever really puts blame on him for these things the way they do dixon afaik. NML being written in a 'democrats trying to be tough on crime' era absolutely means it's not solely the fault of dixon and his evil conservatism, but he often gets the flack as if it were despite the fact that he was getting these stories okayed by people on different ends of the political spectrum than him + these stories were not his evil conservative brainchild alone.

so these are the things i'm thinking when i read through his works. and maybe that gives me a rosier view than it should, but a lot of my thoughts come from "what can reasonably actually be attributed to showcasing what dixon's views actually are" vs "what might actually not be his fault and his fault alone".

and when i say that tim generally isn't the one who showcases his personal views, i'm not trying to minimize the fact that there is inherent conservatism baked in to his character along with everyone else written by dixon, i'm saying that we need to be realistic and realize that dixon did not have as much freedom to do with tim what he had freedom to do with tim's side characters. tim, after all, had to ultimately fit in o'neil's batbible framework of what he was supposed to be because tim was ultimately an IP character who was part of a batman and robin mythos that o'neil was very, very protective of in the 90s given his previous failures to maintain control of the ship. so when you consider dixon's particular conservatism in tim's books you need to consider that the vast majority of it came from the characters surrounding tim (such as his dad, dana, steph, etc) because dixon had more freedom with those sorts of characters, rather than tim himself who often doesn't have any particular opionion of his own--he's just reacting to all the different opinions being presented to him. and that's not to say that those character should be evil conservatives forever and ever--in fact, i personally think they shouldn't. but take the racist and classist inner city kids are bringing guns to school storyline in robin #25-26. as a whole it's a conservative story. o'neil allowed dixon to do the story in the first place when he could have said no. in the story tim wanders around not knowing what to do about karl bringing a gun to school--which is why he has to go to his dad and dana, who represent "go to the cops/don't be a narc options"--his dad is the one who tries to talk to karl's dad--karl is the conservative one who thinks that they need to protect themselves from inner city kids compared to tim who thinks that guns shouldn't be in school. but tim also thinks that they shouldn't go to the cops and wants his dad to handle it by himself, but eventually comes to the realization that he should have gone to school administration to begin with. in these issues, steph is also the one who dixon uses to link karl's shooting to the inner city kids who are getting bused in to the suburban schools--we talk about that panel of steph declaring herself the protector of the suburbs, but also that panel in context is within the confines of the story--steph is essentially saying "maybe the suburbs need a spoiler (to protect themselves from the inner city people coming to bring crime out to them)" which absolutely is a conservative dixonism that you can pinpoint to his particular kind politics in comparison to the milquetoast of tim's "i don't know what to do/talk to a trusted adult to get help before tragedy happens PSA/overall conservativeness" that happens. that the story itself that exists in tim's book is conservative, yes, and i won't deny that tim also has a few conservative dialogue here but to me the difference is that o'neil would not let dixon use tim drake to go on any overtly political rants or represent any specific ideology *himself* that could make him controversial with readers of the time given how protective o'neil was of not repeating his previous mistakes. you're generally going to find the more egregious dixonisms outside of tim. like "robin 1993 is a conservative book that has a pro-life storyline" (true) =/= "tim goes on an anti-abortion rant" (not true, literally never happened). tim shares blame because ultimately it is his book that presents a conservative worldview but tim as a character tends to exist as a more moderate (not completely, but more) character to have other characters present options and opinions to him rather than he himself saying he has those opinions. robin cannot take sides like that. o'neil wouldn't have let that happen.

and like. when discussing dixon my goal is never to completely absolve tim of dixon's writing. i just don't often see a need to completely rehash the tim-conservatism points because it's been discussed already over and over again to the point there's a pretty widespread misconception that tim is the ultimate dixon conservative mouthpiece who is solely at fault for all of robin 93's conservatism when actually there's a lot of other interesting places dixon's conservatism presents that are almost never discussed in comparison. my goal is not to be "tim's not at fault" or anything but it is to seriously consider and think about where i see dixon's personal opinions shining through more overtly based on what i know of the conservative mindset (as much as i don't agree with it). dissecting dixon and how he writes in consideration of his beliefs is fascinating and fun to me.

anyways he's awful.

#scintilly ask tag #mirrorfalls #anyways you will see dixon blamed for everything as if he was the sole arbiter of 90s comics #and like i blame him for so much #but to act if he's solely culpable for everything ignores who all else was involved in okay-ing the things he chose to write

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zealouswerewolfcollector · 9 months ago

Text

A Tale That Wasn't Right

Belated entry for @silmarillionepistolary

2406 words, M, Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: violence but not very graphic

On Ao3

NOLDÓRAN ARCHIVES PROJECT

MANUSCRIPT 26328-lambe

Records of the Hearing Convened by Finwë Noldóran Concerning the Incident Occurred Between Two Highborn Eldar

Editor’s note: Perhaps one of the most fascinating manuscripts among the royal records, 26328-lambe has been classified for Ages. Only now, well into the Fifth Age, it has finally been released to the public.

Certainly, the reluctance to publicize these records must be due to the scandalous subject matter and the involvement of highly recognizable figures of the Years of the Trees. We shall refrain from speculations as to the identity of the involved parties and redact or change several identifying details as per the request of King Arafinwë.

The manuscript is also distinguished because of the considerably biased notes of the unnamed scribe, possibly one who did not continue their service for long. Despite their unconventional approach to their role, we have this scribe to thank for the preservation of the very first draft of the records.

Without further ado, we invite the reader to peruse the records and draw their own conclusions.

At the second hour of the Mingling of [precise date omitted], the Noldóran convened a private hearing, concerning an altercation between two highborn Eldar that has been brought to the Noldóran’s attention.

Present at the meeting

Finwë Noldóran

[redacted], tavernkeeper of the tavern [redacted] in Tirion

Finwë Noldóran’s humble scribe

Noldóran: Let us begin. Tavernkeeper, I would hear all that occurred between [title omitted] N and [title omitted] F.

Tavernkeeper: Where should I begin, lord?

Noldóran: When did you first notice their presence at your tavern?

Tavernkeeper: Immediately, lord. It was the first time such highborn lords visited my establishment. [Title omitted] F was the first to arrive. He sat in a corner and ordered [drink name omitted to avoid identification]. I did not know how to make it. He kindly explained it to me. He was three cups in when [title omitted] N joined him.

Editor’s note: Henceforth, the omission of the titles will not be mentioned. Let it be noted that the involved parties were addressed appropriately throughout the hearing.

Noldóran: Did you notice any enmity between them when N arrived?

Tavernkeeper: Not at all! F did look ill-pleased at seeing N, but I assumed it was due to N’s tardiness. N whispered something into F’s ear, which seemed to appease him.

Noldóran: How so?

Tavernkeeper: After, well, the whispering, F smiled and ordered more drinks. [Drink name omitted] for himself again and simple mead for N.

Scribe’s note: Only a son of [redacted] would drink such an abomination.

Noldóran: Could you perhaps hear parts of their conversation?

Tavernkeeper: I would not presume to eavesdrop on a conversation between such highborn lords.

Noldóran: Not even if it was to the benefit of your king?

Tavernkeeper: Alas, the tavern was busy, lord, and they spoke in very low voices, so I missed the beginning of their discussion.

Noldóran: So you mean to say you heard the ending, the part before the incident.

Scribe’s note: If this tavernkeeper does not hurry up and tell the interesting parts, I may die of boredom in front of the King and embarrass myself and my entire family.

Tavernkeeper: They stayed long after the tavern emptied. I must say, lord, they had drunk quite a lot, so their voices were raised. I did not eavesdrop on purpose.

Noldóran: I do not fault you, tavernkeeper. Do recount the argument arising between N and F.

Editor’s note: To make for easier reading, the argument is relayed here directly. Readers must trust that they shall miss only a great amount of hesitation by the tavernkeeper to report to the King the exact details of the conversation and the number of drinks N and F consumed meanwhile, which is high.

F: It has always been your greatest fault! N: Loyalty? F: Loyalty to the wrong person. N: Who would the right person be then? [long silence] N: It is not in your nature to avoid a question. F: Why speak if you know the answer well? N: You cannot fathom what you demand of me. F: Only to do the right thing. Is it too much to ask for? N: Ever you have shown nothing but contempt to my father. You do not know him as I do. F: You are blind to his faults. N: I am not. But, unlike you, I am familiar with his virtues, too. F: Any virtue he possesses pales before his vices. N: Is it not unfair to speak so when you have made no attempt to understand him? F: He deserves none. N: Do I? Do it for my sake. I would do it for you. I have done it for you. F: It was not for me. You had taken a liking to my father long before I was born. He is easy to love. N: How naive for someone who claims to know others with no effort. You say I am blind to my father’s faults, yet you see none in yours. F: He has none. N: I can name one. Just now, he made you lie to me and to yourself. F: My father is blameless in this! N: Of course, only mine is to blame for everything. F: What is the use of seeing his faults if you do nothing about them? N: What do you expect me to do? F: I told you. The right thing. N: Why did you summon me here? We are only repeating ourselves again and again. We shall never agree. F: If only you were less stubborn. N: I am no more stubborn than you. Why should I be the one to relent? What will you sacrifice? F: Have I not sacrificed enough? Have I not endured your father’s scorn without protest? Have I not stayed by your side through all of it? N: What a great sacrifice it must be for you to stay by my side! Have you overlooked that I did the same? Or perhaps you believe it is easier for me? F: If it is not, then we both know who to blame. I suppose I must be grateful you have gathered enough courage to even agree to speak with me. Have you told your father where you will be? N: Have you told yours? F: You give me no answer as expected, but I shall answer you. I have not only because my father has no perverse need to keep watch over his children’s every move. He is not cowardly enough to look for betrayal where there is none. N: You will not call my father a coward! Have I ever treated your father with such disdain? F: Why would you? He does not deserve it. N: But mine does? F: Doesn’t someone who belittles others to hide his own weakness, who is craven enough to forge weapons in secret, deserve to be treated with contempt? N: Do not speak so, I warn you. F: What will you do? Leave and shun me as always? Disregard my letters and flee when I try to visit? Run to your father to assure him of your loyalty, so you can stave off his bitterness and suspicion for a while longer?

Noldóran: Do go on! What happened then?

Tavernkeeper: I hesitate, lord, for even now, I can scarcely believe it.

Noldóran: Nevertheless, I would hear it.

Tavernkeeper: After those words, N, well, he struck F.

Noldóran: Struck him?

Tavernkeeper: He did. A mighty fist against F’s jaw.

Noldóran: Are you certain that it was N who struck first?

Tavernkeeper: Quite certain, lord. I must say I had lost count of the cups they had both drunk by that point.

Scribe’s note: Liar! It does not sound like N. Although, the son of [redacted] would have deserved it.

Noldóran: Please continue. Spare no detail.

Tavernkeeper: The blow was strong enough that F fell from his chair. They both looked as astounded as I was. I thought N wished to offer a hand to F, but instead, he turned back and moved to the door. That was when F pounced on him and brought him down. They tumbled together, grappled, and shoved each other against the walls. They damaged five chairs and two tables during their brawl as well as all the cups and plates that were on them. F twisted N’s wrist in an attempt to restrain him, but N wrapped F’s braids around his other hand and wrenched him away. They were on the floor once again by then. N tried to rise, but F took a broken chair leg and hurled it towards N. It hit the mark rather painfully. In response, N threw a half-empty goblet at F, which missed his head but drenched his hair in ale.

Editor’s note: The sketch of King Finwë with his head in his hands is presumably drawn by the scribe.

Noldóran: What then?

Tavernkeeper: They must have exhausted themselves because they remained lying on the floor for a while. I was afraid to approach them, but I also hesitated to leave in case they resumed their fight.

Noldóran: Did they?

Tavernkeeper: No… They did something else.

Noldóran: …what was it?

Tavernkeeper: F sat and helped N up. N said something to F in a very low voice. F answered. I could not hear the words. And then they… They kissed, lord.

Noldóran: A kiss between friends?

Tavernkeeper: I would not say so.

Scribe’s note: This does sound like N.

Noldóran: Did you see what happened after the so-called kiss?

Tavernkeeper: No, lord. I hurried to leave. That was all I saw, I swear.

Noldóran: Thank you, tavernkeeper. I believe it goes without saying that what we have spoken about must remain within the walls of this hall. Of course, you shall be compensated generously for your losses. Scribe, there is no need to record this part.

Scribe: As you command, Noldóran.

Tavernkeeper: No word shall leave my lips, lord.

Noldóran: You have my gratitude.

Scribe’s note: Future generations of the Noldor, I shall have your gratitude for making and preserving these records. Glory to the House of [redacted]!

***

Fingers run between disheveled braids, smoothing them with gentleness in stark contrast with the violence they had yanked at them. Inhale. The faint perfume of almond oil wafts through the heavy scent of ale. They do not mix well. Maitimo says so.

“Who could have guessed?” Findekáno says dryly.

Maitimo’s fingers continue their tender way through Findekáno’s braids. Findekáno closes his eyes, his head turning where Maitimo guides him, willingly this time.

Languidly, he raises a hand and runs it – feather-light – across Maitimo’s face, across his left cheekbone where a hideous bruise is already forming.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Findekáno leans forward and retraces the path of his fingers with his lips, leaving a faint trail of red across Maitimo’s cheekbone. Maitimo’s eyes fall shut, his breath stutters. Findekáno takes Maitimo’s hand – the same one that split his lip open – and kisses the bloodied knuckles. Maitimo’s fingers entwine with Findekáno’s – a movement so familiar and practiced that it is almost an instinct.

Findekáno raises his head and presses his lips to Maitimo’s, but the moment Maitimo deepens the kiss, Findekáno pulls back with a hiss.

“It is bleeding again,” Maitimo says with dismay.

He takes a dampened rag and taps it tenderly against Findekáno’s lip, careful to avoid touching his bruised jaw. But Findekáno leans into his hand, his eyelids fluttering in something between pain and relief.

Maitimo undresses him, runs his fingers along his shoulders, caresses his chest, strokes his hips. Bruises are late to bloom and hard to find on Findekáno’s skin, unlike Maitimo, who is already painted red and purple. But Maitimo knows exactly where he had hurt Findekáno – an elbow to the sternum, a closed fist beneath the ribs, shoulders slammed against the edge of a table too many times.

Maitimo explores Findekáno’s body with hesitant touches, soothes his aches, brushes his fingers against the bruises. Does not apologize. The sound of Findekáno’s harsh breathing grows louder and louder until he grabs Maitimo’s hands and turns in his arms.

He bares Maitimo from the waist up in pained, hurried movements as if there is no time left. Maitimo winces when he raises his arms to allow Findekáno to disrobe him.

“Oh!” Findekáno exclaims, staring at the fresh bruise that covers most of Maitimo’s lower rib cage.

“Even inebriated, your aim is true,” Maitimo says.

Findekáno sinks down. Raises a hand to the bruise, then lets it fall. Leans forward and traces the uneven edges of the bruise with his lips, warms it up with his breath, soothes it with his tongue. Does not apologize.

Findekáno begins the work of relieving Maitimo of the rest of his clothing. Maitimo’s hands shake, then his knees, then his shoulders. Findekáno’s lips slide lower, ghost over Maitimo’s groin.

“You did not hurt me there,” Maitimo says, his voice coming out as bruised as his body is.

“How fortunate I still had some sense left,” Findekáno says.

Maitimo laughs, and for the briefest of moments, all pieces fall into their places – Findekáno before him, teasing him gently, making him laugh – so familiar and so right. But the tremors of laughter reach every aching place, reminding him sharply of what they did.

“Wait,” he says.

“Hush,” Findekáno says, holding Maitimo by his unhurt hip.

Maitimo looks down at Findekáno, kneeling on his bruised knees, looks at Findekáno’s swollen lip and beaten face.

“Who would do this?” he asks.

Findekáno draws back.

“Who hurts someone he loves and cherishes in such a cruel way?” Maitimo asks.

“You do,” Findekáno says. His gaze slowly passes over all the angry red marks he has left on Maitimo’s body. “And I.”

Maitimo sits before him.

“Will you swear it will never happen again?” he asks. “Can you give me your word that you will not do it again?”

Findekáno is silent for a moment.

“You cannot either,” he says then.

“No.”

“It is not right.”

“No.”

Findekáno leans his forehead against Maitimo’s. There is a small but painful bump on it from hitting it against a chair. It aches.

“You should leave,” Findekáno says.

“I should.”

“So should I.”

“Yes.”

They sit before each other, bare and bruised, hand in hand, skin to skin, amid the broken cups and chairs, amid the destruction they caused. None moves.

#silmarillion #finwe #maedhros #fingon #russingon #silm fic #zwc fic

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