#let me know if this is terrible so i can never do it again

[sakuravalenp]

Don't eat anything else - Part 3 - DP X DC

Previous part

Masterpost

Sam had somehow fallen asleep after hours of rolling in her bed, so of course, when her phone started ringing, she was just about ready to send the thing flying across the room. She covered her ears with her pillow, hoping the thing would shut up soon enough, and cursed her past self for leaving the phone in her desk instead of plugging it to the socket that was just behind her bed. She could have already shut the thing off then, but no, she’ll have to get out of bed to do it. She was going to maul whoever decided it was a good idea to call in the middle of the night.

With a resigned huff, she got out of bed and went to the desk, stumbling over the chair because of course she hadn’t pushed it back into the space the desk left for it, and snatched the phone roughly, pulling the charger and making her pencil case fall off the desk. The clattering sounds let her know she had also left that open. She groans, and squints at her phone screen, her eyes complaining at the sudden light, she takes a look at the insistent caller: Tucker. She answers while letting herself fall into the chair.

“Tucker, it’s like two am. You better be dying, or I swear to the ancients I’m throwing your beloved PDA into a natural portal to never be seen again!”

“Check the Phantom chat.” Sam blinked. She was expecting some sort of dramatic response. Then her mind caught up to what her friend had just asked.

“Did Danny text anything!?” The call was already being placed on speaker as she took her phone off her ear and started looking for their chat server.

“You’ll have to check yourself, it’s a full text wall, I’ve just read like- the first paragraph. Just- check it out and call me back when you’ve read it all.”

Sam frowned at the beep of the call being ended. She had never hated so much that their server took so long to load. She understood why; a hidden server that went through the infinite realms? Tucker was a genius for creating it. Still, in times like this the waiting was excruciating.

Danny didn’t tell them anything about his life with Vlad. She would say it screamed red flags, but it was Vlad. The moment the man had gotten custody of Danny all the fire alarms were going off in Sam’s head, and they hadn’t stopped since.

They tried not to push much at the start. The Fentons and Jazz’s death was too fresh, so they just checked in, asking how things were going, trying not to prod. But weeks turned to months, and they hadn’t been able to see Danny, and he was not telling them anything.

They had been keeping tabs of what they could get. Danny checked in at least once a day, until he didn’t. There would be days without response, and then Danny would check in again with some vague excuse. When that became common enough, Danny stopped making up excuses and just directly checking in without explaining the absence.

His texts were useless to understand his situation, other than he was well enough to text them, so their next focus was his public appearance. There weren’t a lot of those, but they would be happy with any scraps they could get. 

Vlad had taken Danny to more than a couple of galas and some political events, proudly flaunting his heir, and yet, there were barely any photos of Danny at said events. It was up in the air whether it was due to Vlad avoiding the pictures getting out or due to how difficult it was to get a clear photo of Danny.

Nevertheless, the few pictures they did get weren’t great. He looked emaciated, lost so much weight, lost any brightness in his eyes. Still, Sam had almost cried from relief the first time they got a picture. The mind can be cruel when there's nothing to hold it back, and Sam had about a thousand terrible thoughts of what Vlad could be doing to Danny. At least he was in one piece. 

Her phone vibrated, letting her know the server had finally loaded. There was a bubble beside the Phantom group chat letting her know there were new texts. She pressed on the group chat and was indeed greeted by a wall of text. She scrolled back to find the beginning.

Hey guys, you’ll probably won’t see this until tomorrow but I needed to write this right away before I started doubting. Not that that’s really a choice at this point, not when the Waynes already left with those notes.

The Waynes? Oh, yeah, Danny had mentioned Vlad had invited them to dinner once. First visitors they would be getting. Sam had idly wondered if she would have gotten a chance to see Danny if her parents were more influential. She had never wished for her parents to be richer before. 

So anyway, the Waynes visiting kind of changed things here a bit. I may not have been really honest about how things were going here with Vlad. Though, you probably already knew that, and I’m sorry, but I don’t know if I can tell you guys. I just don’t think I can get myself to tell you, and I’m so sorry, because you’re always there and deserve the truth, but I can’t. So, let’s just leave as things hadn’t been great, and Vlad was more of a monster than we ever thought he could be. 

Sam didn’t like that, it was terribly vague. What had Vlad done to Danny that he didn’t feel he could tell them? Sure they had been dealing with Danny’s silence, but now he was straight up telling them he couldn’t get himself to talk about it. The fact that he couldn’t even explain what Vlad had done meant it was probably worse than what she imagined.

They’d faced their fair share of horrors over the years while combating the rogues, and there had never been a problem verbalizing it. Something horrible had happened. Sam was going to kill Vlad. She didn’t care what the full story was, if it was bad enough that Danny actively refused to tell them, it was bad enough to revoke Vlad’s right to existence. 

The thing is, I can’t keep this up. The Wayne’s came in, and Vlad's plans for dinner made me realize I couldn’t let this keep going. I managed to sneak a note to Timothy Drake-Wayne. Everyone knows the Waynes have connections to the Justice league.

Sam frowned. The Justice League had been shining for their absence from everything involving Amity. That absence still burned like acid. They’d begged for help. Pleaded. Amity had become a warzone more than once, and no one had come. Would they really show up just because the Waynes got involved?

I know they hadn’t been answering our calls, but now it affected the Waynes. Again, I can’t explain how it affected them, but I’m pretty sure the Waynes will make sure the Justice League gets involved. I had to tell them that Vlad isn’t human. It would only end in an apocalypse if they came looking for Vlad without being prepared. They’ll look for you guys. I told them you had the means to combat him. 

Oh shit. Was she really meeting with the Justice League? In friendly terms? After all the ignored calls, Sam had swore it would be on sight if she ever met the assholes. And if they really showed up just because the Waynes were the ones to call, Sam wasn’t sure if she could keep it civil.

I didn’t reveal myself to the Waynes, I don’t know what the Justice League stand on ghosts is, all this is already a big risk, the GIW are bad enough on their own, there’s no way we would survive the Justice League hunting us, but Vlad needs to be stopped. I need you guys to give them what they need to not be possessed, and the ectoguns that I modified, maybe an ectoshield. Nothing more, they have a good history with non-humans, but I don’t know if we can trust them to not start a hunting campaign after Vlad. Try making it clear that this is a Vlad problem, not a ghost problem. I’m sorry I’m leaving everything to you guys, I can’t do anything from this side.

Her breath trembled. If the Waynes were really able to convince the Justice league to finally intervene, they might have days. She and Tucker needed to prep everything.

Ghost attacks had become rare since the portal was destroyed, but sometimes ghosts still came through naturally forming ones. There couldn’t be a ghost attack while the Justice League was there. Not when they needed to convince them that Vlad was the exception, not the rule.

They needed to get the gear and figure out how to lie to the Justice League convincingly enough that they wouldn’t turn every ghost into collateral damage.

Because Vlad might be the monster. But the League could still be the executioners.

Still, despite all the anxiety running through her veins, Sam felt hopeful. Danny had reached for help, after months of silence he had finally reached for help, and for once there seemed to be a chance they'd see Danny again. 

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

They couldn’t continue reading the paper right away. There was no way to do it. Cass was more sensitive to people's deaths than anyone else in her family, and Bruce had focused on supporting her so he wouldn’t have to think about what he had just eaten. He had helped Cass to the bathroom like he hadn’t vomited as well. Tim had mumbled something about needing a shower, a really long shower, and left. Jason had forgotten the pretender had been bathed in that cursed soup.

He did think about taking the paper and finishing reading it himself, but green edged his vision, rage bursting under the skin, and he needed an outlet, which he didn’t have here. The punch he had thrown onto the wall had already left a mark, and this was a house they rented as Waynes, he couldn’t just trash it all.

He had worked through some breathing exercises Dick had introduced to him. He’ll never tell Dick, but they did work somewhat. It wasn’t really a surprise, Jason knew Dick had anger issues. The bastard seemed like the perfect young adult holding it together these days, but Jason was there for his teenage rebellion, and that was supposedly an improvement from how he had been as Robin. So of course the breathing exercises helped, but it wasn’t enough.

He felt like giving the wall another punch from the frustration, but he had been trying to “redirect his anger” in less violent ways lately, and this was the kind of situation where it would be better to clear his head instead of exploding. He could save the explosion for when they had that reprobate on their hands. 

His phone was pinging and Jason knew it was probably the rest of the family asking for an update. The sudden silence probably got them worried the supposed poison had been something serious, and as the only one in commission at the moment, he should be the one reporting, but he was pretty sure he would crack his phone if he used it right then. His helmet took his attention where it resided on the desk, and he made a decision.

You’re not supposed to ride while you're angry, that’s how accidents happen, but that didn’t apply to people like him. Red Hood spent most of the night in his motorcycle while absolutely furious; they knew how to ride without becoming a public safety issue. 

He grabbed his helmet and screamed before putting it on. “You better don’t read the damn note before I’m back!” And then he was on the road once again. 

He rode around the small city, making the same circle over and over again at maximum speed. Harsh changes in direction that made the adrenaline pump in his veins. It was a good outlet. At some point the green receded enough for him to think clearer. He lowered the speed a bit, and connected his helmet to the comms. The questioning screams from everyone on comms came instantly.

“Shut the fuck up. I can’t understand a single thing you are saying.” As expected, that didn’t have any effect, but a minute later the line went dead silent. Babs must have muted everyone's lines. 

“Hood, what’s the situation? Did the antidote work without problem?” Babs asked.

Jason almost laughed. Antidote. They wished it had just been some stupid poison. “It wasn’t poison, or drugs, Batman and Orphan are… physically fine.”

There was a moment of silence, then Jason could hear the crackle of a line joining the comms again. “What does that mean Todd?” Damian finally asked.

Jason could feel the rage try to creep back at the thought of what really was in the food, he pushed it back. He didn’t want to really talk about what really was in the food. Another crackle. “Little wing? What was in the food?” 

Jason sighed. Why should he be the only one in commission to report back? No, he was glad to not have been anywhere close to that hideous concoction that didn’t have a right to be called food. He turned the speed back up.

“Apparently, Vlad Masters is a cannibal. One in the habit of sharing his taste with others.” The silence in the other line was about what he expected, so was the new explosion of voices that came afterward. 

Yeah, no. Report given. They could deal with the news themselves. Jason disconnected from comms and started riding back to the house. Checking the time on the edge of his helmet screen, he saw he had been riding for quite some time. How has two hours already passed? 

He left the motorcycle in the garage. There was no one there, so Jason wandered inside. He found Tim was sitting on the sofa with his laptop in the living room, the note folded beside him. Bruce sat on a chair beside him still looking pained. Jason talked from the door.

“Did you actually wait for me?”

Tim shrugged and without taking his eye off. “Figured it would be better to read once we were all here.”

“Where’s Cass?” He asked, walking to the opposite side of the couch.

“She asked to be filled in later.” Bruce answered. “It’s better we read the rest of the note already. I can’t imagine what else Danny would like us to know.”

Tim sighed, like someone had asked him to be the one to read the letter instead of him being the one to take it upon himself. He took the note, unfolding it again, and Jason could see he was making an effort to ignore the first line.

“I don’t know who the victims are, or where Vlad gets them, but they’re recently deceased. So somewhere there must be people disappearing constantly. It may not be the same place all the time, or it may not even be the same city. Vlad isn’t human.”

“Fucking great. Just what we were missing. What is it this time? A vampire? He definitely has the aesthetic going for him.” The pretender glared at him for the interruption, but Jason thinks the situation fully justifies his reaction.

Bruce sighed. “Language. Please, go on, Tim.”

“He’s a kind of ghost.” Tim raised an eyebrow but continued reading. “I know it may be hard to believe for outsiders, but ghosts are pretty much a common occurrence in Amity Park.”

“I thought that was just a tourist trap.” Jason commented, which gained him another glare from Tim. Jason didn’t bother to acknowledge it, though, inside, he was quite enjoying getting the little shit annoyed.

Tim huffed, and lowered the note a bit before commenting. “There are quite a few claims of ghost sightings, but we couldn’t find any proof of them when we took a look at Amity while searching for a house to rent.” He turned to the computer and started typing something.

“Even then, those reports were not of great importance, mentions of seeing a figure for a couple a seconds in the corner of a room, of a shadow following them around the city, or a pale little kid running around in the cemetery.” Bruce added. “The whole city works around the theme.The biggest school is called Casper High, and most attractions are named after ghost-related puns. We concluded it was, in fact, a tourist trap.”

“So what, the kid is imagining his guardian isn’t human? Making things up to cope with the fact that he is a cannibal? That-”

“Um. Bruce, you might want to see this.” Tim interrupted him.

His eyes were wide, scanning quickly through a webpage. Jason moved close to see the screen, and so did Bruce, standing up from his chair to lean over the back of the sofa. Tim started reading titles while he passed the mouse over them. 

“Octo-Ghost Assists Kindergarten Party and Almost Becomes The Birthday Girl's Pet. First Ghost Attack of the Week in Casper High, Red huntress Captures It Before It Can Disrupt Class. Ghost Known as Lunch Lady Visits Local Restaurant and Asks for a Cooking Battle With the Owner: See the Unexpected Results. Don’t You Miss When Ghosts Would Interrupt Class at Least Once a Day? A ranting blog by Phan_number1. None of this existed when we were checking Amity!”

“How is that even possible? The Batcomputer should have pinged something if there was anything blocking the information,” Bruce says in what sounded like a monotone voice, but any of his kids could tell he’s alarmed by the fact that so much information was successfully hidden from the Batcomputer. “Try sending a link to Babs.”

Tim goes ahead to do that with the ranting blog, but honestly, Jason couldn’t care less if the oh-so-great Batcomputer missed this.

“So the kid isn’t making things up, great. Can you both have your freak-out about the information blockage after we finish reading the note?” If Tim were a super, Jason would have a hole on his front, he’s sure of it.

Babs: Why are you sending me a recipe for making ghost-themed pie?

Tim looks at the message in disbelief, and clicks on the link he had sent. The ranting blog opens, no pie recipe to be seen. Tim takes a screenshot and tries sending it, but a warning message appears, saying the file is corrupted. He tries to send an image of his gallery, it goes without any problems.

“This is weird. It’s not like any kind of blockage we had seen before. It even redirects links to a page that matches the city's theme.”

“Try sending the image through the Bat server.” Bruce says with a voice that it was more serious than Jason expected, which makes him glance back at the man. 

Bruce is glaring at the computer with a dark expression. Realization hits Tim, and he quickly tries to send the image through the Bat server. It goes through, and even Jason feels relieved at the received checkmark. 

“Okay… okay. So they’re monitoring private conversations, but the Bat server is still safe.” Tim murmurs. Then goes ahead and tries sending the link once more, with a message saying it should open the website shown in the image. 

Oracle: All that link opens is the pie recipe Red Robin. If this is some kind of joke, you know the Bat server is not for that.

Tim rolls his eyes at the response and starts writing down a response, explaining the situation to Babs.

“The link must be blocked by IP Address. Tell her to try using a residential proxy.”

“Already on it.”

Jason hates when the old man understands more about technology than he does. Damn his time in the grave. He had been working on getting up to date, and he can do some basic hacking and whatnot. Enough that he doesn’t need external help for every little thing. But he’s still so far behind. 

Oracle: I’m in. You’re also seeing all these things about ghosts?

Red Robin: Yes. 

Red Robin: Somehow they have the city under a blockage that the Batcomputer wasn’t able to detect.

“Okay. Babs can take care of investigating that. We have a note to finish reading, remember?” Jason says, reaching for the paper Tim had left beside the computer, which Tim promptly snatches back. “Hey!”

“You won’t read it outloud for everyone.”

“According to whom!?”

“Kids…” Bruce sighed, “Continue reading, please, Tim.”

The little shit looked smug for a second before going back to the note.

“Please understand that in general ghosts aren’t bad, it’s just Vlad. But ghosts are powerful, and Vlad is really powerful. This can’t be resolved through normal means. I know the Waynes have contact with the Justice League, so I ask you to please get in contact with them, and don’t get anymore involved. I doubt the Justice league is equipped for the type of ghosts we have in Amity park. My friends Samantha Mason and Tucker Foley know where to find specialized weaponry and protective devices. Please, convince the Justice League to go for them first, it would be a disaster if one of the Justice League was overshadowed by Vlad.” That’s where the letter ended.

“Overshadow?” Bruce echoed.

Tim wasted no time putting the word into Google, which, now that Jason noticed, was decorated with little ghosts. Did Amity have its own Google doodle? The definition of the word popped like any other word would, and Jason wondered if that was something else that was blocked outside the city.

“It seems to be how Amity Parkers refer to possession.” Tim said after skimming the definition.

“What do we know about Samantha Mason and Tucker Foley?” Bruce asked, already in work mode.

“Not much, outside of being known friends of Danny. The Masons are a well positioned family in Amity; they’re new money. Izzy Manson, Samantha's great grandfather, invented a machine that twirled cellophane around deli toothpicks, the patent and inheritance placed the family where it is today. Pamela Manson owns a jewelry brand that’s grown in popularity in the Midwestern elite, while Jeremy Manson is a real estate developer. They often attend galas in Wisconsin, and sometimes in other big cities. Samantha Mason is a known teen activist, and has had her fair share of incidents at galas.” Tim said, as he opened the report he had made before coming to Amity.

“Incidents?” Jason asked.

“She has a sharp tongue and doesn’t seem interested in keeping appearances. It’s well known she isn’t fond of the styles her mother gives her for the galas. In any photo she posted on her personal accounts in the last two years, she has a gothic aesthetic.”

“Ah.”

“There’s less about Tucker Foley. His mother, Angela Foley, works as a chef at a local restaurant called “A Ghost's Secret Recipe.” His father, Maurice Foley, is an IT technician for the city government. Tucker seems to take after his father in his interest in technology, and has a history of winning local programming contests.”

“There’s nothing that really screams “I know how to fight ghosts and have ghost weaponry” is there?” Jason comments.

“Well, this is the information we have while searching with the city's information being blocked. Search for Daniel Fenton on the web,” Bruce says, and when Tim enters the name, a lot of news articles come to light. “We should have suspected something when there weren’t a lot of news articles talking about an explosion taking the life of a whole family.” Tim nods to that.

Jason frowns at the screen. “Are you seeing these titles? Local ghost hunters die from mysterious explosions? Something tells me that the access to weaponry has more to do with Danny’s parents than anything about Samantha and Tucker.” 

“What did we have about the Fentons from the investigation in Gotham?”

“They were supposedly part of the tourist industry, “entertaining tourists with street shows about ghost hunting.” We were literally blocked from one of the most important details of Danny’s life.” Tim groaned. 

Bruce sighed. “Let’s try getting some sleep. We’ll try meeting Samantha and Tucker tomorrow in the late afternoon.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Late afternoon?”

“They’re teenagers. I would prefer to interrupt their class time or disturb them too late. They might not even know we plan to meet with them.”

Tim nodded, already starting with the new background check. “I doubt Masters lets Danny have his own phone.”

Jason unceremoniously closed Tims laptop, putting it aside and carrying the kid in a firefighter carry.

“Trying to rest applies to you too.”

Tim protested as he trashed, trying to get him to let go, and if the pretender had actually been serious about it, Jason may have not been able to keep a hold of him.

“I’ll tell Babs to leave the investigation for tomorrow as well. You’ll have time before we go meet Danny’s friends, so let’s rest for some time first, okay?” Bruce said with that voice he always used when he was treating them like little kids. And if Jason found it soothing, that was between his mind and himself.

Tim groans, but relaxes, accepting defeat, and the kid is asleep before Jason even makes it out the living room. Jason wonders, not for the first time, if Tims ability to basically sleep anywhere, anyway, anytime, would go away if the kid actually followed the sleeping schedule Bruce and Alfred tried imposing, instead of taking random naps around the clock. 

He’s sure the little shit will be back in front of the computer in 30 minutes. Whatever. He already did his mandatory older sibling duty by getting him to stop for a nap. 

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Where Softness Lives

Step mom!Wanda x step daughter!reader

Word count: 3K

Summary: You grew up with an abusive mother and a cold father, mother’s day used to mean broken dishes and bruised feelings. Now, it’s different. Wanda shows you what unconditional love really looks like. Gentle hands, lullabies, and whispered affirmations when the tears come back. This year, you planned Mama & Me Day down to the glitter stickers and muffins... but when old trauma hits hard that morning, Wanda meets you with warmth instead of expectations.

Warnings: childhood abuse (emotional/verbal/neglectful), a toxic mother, and an emotionally distant father. It touches on trauma responses, including a mild panic attack, and explores internalized guilt and fear surrounding Mother’s Day. Themes of healing, reparenting, found family, comfort and emotional safety

Authors notes: I'm sorry to any others who had neglectful parents and how hard these days can be <3

You remember the sounds of dishes breaking and yelling. Of pleading as your toys got shoved into black garbage bags. 

“I'm sorry Mommy! I didn't mean it! Please! I'll be good! I'll be a good girl!” You plead and plead until your voice is raw, until you're curled up on just a mattress, shaking from the lack of blanket. 

You wouldn't get your stuff back for another week when you proved you were good.

You sat across from your step-mom, Wanda, your dad had remarried less than a month after your mom passed. What you did not understand was what Wanda saw in your dad. He was older; much older. In his eighties, Wanda was closer to you in age, her being thirty-five and you being twenty-seven. 

A scowl was covering your face, arms crossed. Your father is standing above Wanda, hand on her shoulder. He was almost as sharp as your mom. People used to, well probably do still think he is or was in the mob. A thick accent that never left him, 

“Mother's day is next month and I'll be away on a trip unfortunately. I know things have been rocky, but–” you dont let him finish your defenses coming up like walls, your voice carrying until it hits the walls with how loud it was. 

“SHE'S NOT MY MOM! I DON'T WANT A MOM! MOM WAS TERRIBLE AND I HATED HER AND I DON'T WANT TO CELEBRATE ANYTHING!” Your fists slammed the table. Then a slap to the face. It stung but you were used to it. Wanda gasped it wasn't the first time he'd smacked you, wouldn't be the last. 

You leave the table, holding your cheek, heading out the door with nothing. 

You came back hours later, cold, soaked to the bone because it had started to pour on your way back. As soon as you walked through the door Wanda was there. Towel wrapping around you before you could blink. Her hand gently cupping your cheek. The cheek your father hit. You felt like you weren't there. You weren't real as Wanda gently took you to the bathroom. 

A hot bath running as she helped you out of the clothes stuck to your body. You felt like a little doll, her doll, no maybe not a doll, a baby…hers. 

She helps you into the tub, kneeling next to it and gently washing your skin, she's using her body wash, cherry blossoms, it's grounding. You slowly look at her and she smiles gently. You try and give one back, but you can tell it's not right. 

“It's okay baby don't force it. It'll happen naturally.” Her voice is so soft and sweet. You aren't sure what to do with it. No one besides Wanda has ever treated you with this kindness. It doesn't feel real. You want to lash out again, but your energy is gone.

She helps you out, puts you in an oversized night shirt. It reminds you of being a kid, but in a good way. It makes you feel small, childlike. Your head was already a bit floaty before, but she takes you to your bed, gently brushes through the damp hair, softly sings a Sokovian lullaby, and hands you a teddy bear. 

You brush your hands over the soft fur, everything about her movements and actions help ground you back from your episode. You lean back into her. 

“I'm sorry mama…” It comes out softly and she kisses the top of your head. 

“It’s okay Milaya I understand why you did it.” You feel tears in your eyes at her words. She was always so understanding of every lash out you had. From the very beginning when you were expecting a slap or harsh words back they never came.

It had only been a few weeks since the funeral. Since the house stopped smelling like your mom’s perfume and started smelling like lavender and coffee. Wanda had started staying over not long after—your father didn't believe in waiting, and you didn't believe in him anymore.

You came home from a miserable day at work to find a gift bag sitting on your bed. Pale pink with gold tissue paper and a tag that said:

Just because. –W

You stared at it like it was a threat.

Your chest tightened as you reached inside and pulled out a soft cardigan, light gray, your favorite color. Beneath it, a little enamel pin shaped like a cat with a book in its paws. The kind of thing someone only picks out if they’ve been paying attention.

That made it worse.

You stormed out of the room and into the kitchen where Wanda stood, humming as she stirred something on the stove. She turned with a warm smile—one that melted the second she saw your face.

“What is this?” you snapped, holding the cardigan out like it was burning your hands.

She blinked. “It’s… for you. I thought it looked soft. I know you get cold in the mornings sometimes.”

You threw it on the floor. “I didn’t ask for this! I don’t need your pity presents! You’re not my mom, so stop pretending you care!”

The words came out louder than you intended. Sharper. But you didn’t stop. Your fists were clenched, your voice shaking. “Just stop trying! You don’t know anything about me! You can’t fix me with a sweater and some dumb little pin!”

And then… silence.

You stood there, braced for it—your pulse pounding in your ears. Waiting for her to yell. To slap. To throw something. Your body tensed like it knew what was supposed to happen next.

But Wanda just stepped forward.

Slowly. Carefully.

You flinched as she approached, but she only lifted her arms. Gently. She wrapped them around your trembling shoulders and pulled you into her chest.

You froze.

No one had ever hugged you after something like that.

Her fingers moved softly through your hair as she rested her chin on top of your head. Her voice came low, warm like honey. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe. It’s okay to have big feelings.”

Your body shook as the dam inside cracked wide open.

All the anger, the grief, the guilt—it spilled out in quiet sobs against her shirt. You didn’t even notice when your hands curled into her back, holding on like you were drowning.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” you choked out, barely audible.

“I know,” she murmured, swaying you gently. “You’ve been carrying so much. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You turn in her arms, burying your head in her chest, you hear the soft chuckle as her fingers comb through your hair. “It's all okay baby Mama's here. I'm not upset or angry, not one bit. I know why you said it to him. I understand. We'll celebrate in our own way won't we, pretty girl?” She tilts your chin up to meet her soft gaze. You get lost in them for a moment. 

“Mhmm I have the day planned out!” You reach over to your notebook and flip through the pages, opening it to a beautifully designed page with times and bullet points. The title at the top of the page made Wanda smile; Mama and me day!

“Oh look at you sweetheart planning everything out for us!” She leaned down to kiss your cheek, but you turned your head, your lips met and you melted. It was unexpected, but not the first time. You reach up to cup her cheek and deepen the kiss.

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the windows had gone completely quiet. Just you and Wanda on the couch, wrapped in the soft glow of the fairy lights she’d insisted on hanging around the living room, “for ambiance,” she said. You’d rolled your eyes, but secretly… you loved them.

You’d had a hard day—one of those where everything felt too loud, where the weight of grief and history pressed on your chest like wet blankets. You hadn’t spoken much all evening, just let Wanda pull you into her side, her hand running slow and steady up and down your back.

Her touch grounded you, always. And she never asked you to explain. She never demanded your pain to be pretty or palatable.

You weren’t even sure when your head ended up on her lap, or when her fingers started gently combing through your hair. But they had, and her voice had eventually started humming something soft and unfamiliar. Sokovian, maybe.

“I wish…” you whispered into the quiet.

Wanda looked down. “What do you wish, baby?”

You looked up at her, heart in your throat. “I wish I’d had someone like you… back then. When I was little. When it all started falling apart.”

She smiled, bittersweet and full of something unspoken. “You have me now,” she said, fingers brushing a piece of hair from your face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest ache. You sat up, blinking back tears, looking at her like you were seeing her for the first time. All of her: soft and strong and steady. A lighthouse in the middle of the storm.

“Can I…?” you started, but didn’t finish. Your voice barely above a breath.

But she understood. Of course she did.

She leaned in slowly, her hand rising to cradle your jaw. There was no rush. No urgency. Just patience and quiet tenderness.

When your lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. It was safety. It was breath. It was the kind of kiss that stitched something back together inside of you.

And when you pulled back, Wanda didn’t say anything at first. She just rested her forehead against yours, her eyes closed.

Then softly, like a promise: “We go slow. As slow as you need.”

You nodded, the ghost of a smile forming as you whispered back, “Okay, Mama.”

You had it all planned.

The notebook still sat open on your desk, filled with scribbled hearts and bullet points written in your best handwriting. “Mama and Me Day!” it said in pink gel pen, with glittery stickers pressed carefully into the margins. Breakfast in bed. A walk in the park. Her favorite tea shop. A movie night with a blanket fort.

You even prepped everything the night before. Her favorite muffins were ready to bake. The card you spent three days making was tucked into the kitchen drawer. You went to sleep smiling.

But when you opened your eyes that morning, something felt wrong.

Heavy.

Like a shadow was sitting on your chest.

You lay still, staring at the ceiling. The excitement you’d felt for days was gone—replaced by a hollow ache in your stomach. The kind of ache that made you want to disappear beneath the covers and never come back out.

Your chest tightened. Tears welled up, uninvited.

You weren’t even sure why. It was supposed to be a happy day. Your day with her. Something you’d chosen—something she deserved.

But your body remembered other Mother’s Days. The ones filled with broken dishes, raised voices, the pressure to smile and say thank you when you were already in survival mode. The guilt. The confusion. The cold silence that followed if you didn’t do it perfectly.

You’d been up before the sun.

Tiptoeing around the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise, even though your small hands fumbled with the toaster and the eggs. You’d seen people do it in movies—Mother’s Day breakfast in bed. That’s what good kids did, right?

The toast was a little too brown. The eggs stuck to the pan a bit, and you’d spilled orange juice when you tried to pour it into her favorite glass.

But you were proud.

You’d even made her a card—cut out of folded construction paper, covered in glitter glue and crayon hearts. “To the best mom in the world!” it said, surrounded by crooked smiley faces and a drawing of the two of you holding hands.

And the bracelet—you’d spent all week secretly stringing beads in your room. Purple and silver, her favorite colors.

You carefully arranged everything on a tray and crept into her room, beaming.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” you said softly, your smile stretching wide.

She sat up groggily, eyes narrowing as she looked down at the tray. Her face changed quickly.

“What the hell is this mess?”

You blinked, smile faltering.

“The kitchen better not look like a tornado hit it,” she snapped. She picked up a piece of toast, sniffed it, and threw it back down on the tray. “It’s burnt. The eggs are rubber. Did you think this was good enough?”

You shrank back.

“I-I just wanted to surprise you…”

She scoffed and reached for the card. Her eyes scanned it for a second before she barked a laugh.

“This? You couldn’t even be bothered to write neatly. You think this is sweet? This is sloppy. You’re too old to draw like this.”

Your cheeks burned. Your heart pounded.

“And where’s my real present?” she demanded, like you owed her something grand. “Mother’s Day is my day. This is about me, not whatever crap you put together.”

You scrambled, hands fumbling in your hoodie pocket.

“I made you something,” you said quickly, pulling out the beaded bracelet and holding it out like a peace offering. “I wanted it to match your earrings—”

She took one glance, snatched it from your hand, and without a word walked over to the trash can and dropped it in.

“That’s not a real present,” she said flatly. “Jesus. You really know how to ruin a day.”

You just stood there, frozen.

And after a moment, she turned back to her bed, pulling the blankets up.

“Close the door on your way out.”

So you did.

You returned to the kitchen in silence, cleaned everything up on shaky legs, and sat at the table with your glitter-stained fingers, staring at the trash can where your bracelet disappeared.

And you promised yourself that next year… you wouldn’t try.

That it was safer not to.

A small sob caught in your throat. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to stop it before it spilled over.

Then—soft footsteps.

The door creaked open gently, and Wanda peeked in.

She was still in her robe, a sleepy smile on her face—until she saw you curled up, stiff and shaking.

“Oh, baby…” she crossed the room in an instant, crawling onto the bed beside you. Her arms wrapped around you from behind, warm and steady.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I had everything ready, I wanted today to be perfect, I swear—”

Wanda gently hushed you, one hand combing through your hair, the other rubbing slow circles into your arm.

“Hey… look at me, sweetheart.” You hesitated, but turned slowly. Her eyes were soft, full of knowing. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect for me. Not today. Not ever.”

You sniffled, burying your face in her neck.

“But I wanted to make you happy,” you mumbled.

She pulled you closer. “You do. Every day. Even when you're hurting. Especially when you let me be here for you like this.”

You clung to her, shaking.

And after a while, she whispered, “How about we start the day right here, just like this? My favorite girl in my arms, where she’s safe and loved. No schedule. No pressure. Just us.”

You nodded slowly, breathing her in, letting her words settle over your skin like a blanket.

Wanda didn’t let go of you for a long time—not until your breathing evened out and your hands stopped trembling against her robe. You stayed tangled together beneath the blankets, your head tucked under her chin, her arms strong around you like armor.

Eventually, she kissed your forehead. “I’m going to go start some tea, okay?” she murmured. “You stay right here. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

You nodded wordlessly, reluctant to let go, but trusting her to return.

She always did.

When she came back, it was with a tray balanced in her hands—your favorite mug, one of her muffins warmed and sliced, a small bowl of strawberries. She set it on the nightstand and climbed back into bed beside you, pulling the blankets up again like you were in your own little world. Safe. Sealed off.

You sat up slowly and she handed you the tea, careful to wrap your fingers around the warm mug like she always did when your hands were shaky.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

“Of course I did.” She brushed her thumb gently across your knuckles. “You matter to me, baby. All of you. Even the messy mornings.”

A few moments passed, quiet but not empty.

Then you reached over, picking up the envelope you’d almost left in the drawer. You held it out with trembling fingers.

“I wrote you something,” you murmured. “A letter. I wasn’t sure if I could read it out loud, but…”

Wanda took it gently, eyes soft. “Would it be okay if I read it now?”

You nodded.

She carefully unfolded it, smoothing the page out in her lap. Her eyes moved over your handwriting, and you watched her face shift with every word—tender, proud, tearful.

When she looked back at you, there were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

“I’m going to keep this forever,” she said, voice thick. “I’m going to keep it somewhere safe, so that any time I doubt myself, I’ll remember that I’ve been the kind of Mama you deserve.”

That cracked something open in you.

You launched forward, wrapping your arms around her middle. “You’re everything I ever wanted,” you choked. “Even when I didn’t know how to say it. Even when I was mean. You never stopped being soft.”

She held you tightly. “Because you deserved softness, even when you couldn’t ask for it.”

You stayed like that for hours.

The rest of the day wasn’t about plans or gifts or outings.

It was spent in the warmth of the blanket fort Wanda built on the couch, watching old cartoons, sharing quiet laughs, her hand stroking your back whenever your body tensed. You dozed in and out on her chest, a teddy bear cradled to your side and her heartbeat in your ear.

Mother’s Day didn’t need to be perfect.

It just needed to be yours.

[natsaffection]

Not like the Storys. Pt 3 | N.R

BasketballPlayer!Natasha x Cheerleader!Reader

Warnings: struggle with feelings, terrible parents, sport accident

Word count: 8k

A/n: READ, You know my struggle with the spacing, so I decided to call this part the fluff part, and the end can be considered the end. If you then click on the link below, you'll get to the other ending, which has a bonus.

It was the light that woke her.

Soft and golden, slipping through gauzy curtains in slow, dappled beams. The kind of light that looked warm before it felt it. You blinked slowly, your lashes sticking slightly, your mind hazy with sleep.

You didn’t recognize the ceiling above you. The walls were too warm in tone, the posters unfamiliar. The bed was too soft, the air too still. Your brain scrambled for a second, where am I? and then it all came rushing back. Last night. The fight at home. The quiet ride. The fairy lights..Natasha.

You turned your head slowly, and there she was, curled slightly on her side, back toward you, one arm under her pillow, hoodie half-twisted in her sleep. You blinked again. She’d taken up barely any space. Positioned herself as far from you as possible on the bed, leaving all the room in the world, like some kind of unconscious act of care.

You smiled quietly to yourself. Then you slipped out from under the covers, moving slowly so you didn’t wake her. You padded toward the door, bare feet silent against the floor. You stepped out into the hallway and glanced around. It was quiet. The hum of the fridge downstairs. Distant birdsong. A light creak from somewhere behind a closed door.

You rubbed at your eyes, intending to head to the bathroom, but as you rounded the corner of the stairs, a voice made you jump. “Oh! Good morning, darling.”

Melina. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, a folded towel over one arm and a fresh cup of coffee in her hand, dressed in a knit sweater and slippers like it was her uniform.

You froze. “Hi. Sorry..I didn’t mean to just-”

“No, no.” Melina smiled. “You’re fine. I was just about to make breakfast. Are you hungry?”

You opened your mouth, closed it again. You never ate breakfast at home. Never wanted to talk that early. Your stomach was usually in knots from tension, and silence was always safer.

But this was different. “…Yeah.” you said softly. “I think I am.”

Melina’s smile widened. “Wonderful. Come, sit. Let me spoil you.”

The kitchen was sunny and simple. Wooden cabinets, a few mugs left out on the counter, and a half-written crossword puzzle sitting on the table.

You hovered near the edge of the room, unsure. “Can I help with anything?”

“Nope.” Melina said, already pulling out a pan. “You’re a guest. Guests don’t cook.”

You hesitated, then sat at the small round table, fingers threading nervously together. “Do you like eggs?”

“Yeah.”

“Toast?”

“Sure.”

Melina turned on the stove with practiced ease. “How did you and my daughter meet?”

You blinked. “Oh.. School.”

“Obviously,” Melina chuckled. “But I meant- how did you two meet? She’s not exactly the hallway chatty type.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah…she’s not.”

You hesitated, then said, “It kind of started with the game last week.”

Melina turned over a slice of bread in her hand, listening.

“She offered me a ride home. But it wasn’t, like..she was nice. And calm. And I guess I needed that.”

Melina nodded gently. “She does have that calm, buried somewhere in all that sarcasm.”

You laughed softly. “Yeah.. Exactly.”

The smell of toasting bread filled the room. Then the front door opened. And a men entered. Heavy footsteps. A clatter of keys on the side table. And a deep, booming voice:

“Why is there a strange girl in my kitchen?!”

You jumped slightly in your seat. Melina didn’t even flinch. “Because she’s not strange, and she’s not in your kitchen, she’s at our table.”

Alexei walked in, dressed in a wrinkled T-shirt with a half-buttoned flannel over it, his hair sticking up wildly. He froze when he saw you, then blinked like he was trying to remember you.

“Wait…you’re her,” he said, pointing. “The girl! From the cheer thing. The one Natasha brought on the bike.”

You blinked. “Tha-”

Alexei grinned. “Welcome! Did she terrify you yet?”

“She’s doing okay.” Melina said smoothly, placing a plate in front of you. “Because someone in this house understands hospitality.”

Alexei made a wounded sound. “I’m very hospitable.”

Melina gave him a look. You tried not to laugh, eyes wide but warming. Alexei turned back to you. “You like pancakes?”

“She’s having eggs.” Melina said firmly.

“I can make pancakes!” he called as he opened the fridge. “I have a gift.”

“You burn them every time..” Melina muttered.

Natasha padded down the stairs slowly, her bare feet barely making a sound on the wood. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down past her hands, and her hair was still mussed from sleep. She’d woken up to find the bed half-empty and the sun a little too bright on her face. For a second, panic had gripped her. She left.

But then she heard voices from the kitchen. Warm laughter. Her mom. And..you. She exhaled and followed the sound, a little too fast, like she was afraid the moment would vanish if she didn’t get there soon enough.

As she stepped into the doorway, she caught sight of you at the table, still in that oversized sleep shirt (her shirt, actually), your legs curled under you, hair tucked behind one ear as you smiled politely at something Melina had just said.

You looked over, and Natasha’s heart did that thing again, that irritating, flippy, too-fast skip that she hadn’t figured out how to stop.

“Morning.” you said, voice soft, like you weren’t sure if it was okay to greet her like that in front of her parents.

Natasha nodded. “Hey.”

She slipped into the chair beside you, ignoring the very obvious twinkle in Melina’s eyes and the overexcited way Alexei grinned.

“Did you sleep okay?” you asked, tilting your head.

Natasha looked at you for a moment. “You were stealing most of the covers.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You were like a statue.”

“I was being respectful.”

“You were being weird.”

Natasha smirked and Melina cleared her throat pointedly. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Natasha said before she could be bullied.

A plate was slid in front of her. You had already half-finished yours. There was a smear of butter across the toast corner, and you’d neatly avoided the middle of the eggs like you didn’t trust the yolk.

Alexei suddenly clapped his hands, startling everyone. “I know what we need!” he announced.

“No..” Natasha said immediately.

Alexei ignored her completely and walked toward the living room.

“I said no.” she repeated, already bracing.

You looked confused. “What’s he doing?”

Melina just sipped her coffee with a smirk. “You’ll see.”

Natasha groaned. “I’m moving out.”

A moment later, Alexei returned with a photo album, a fat, leather-bound thing with corners fraying and little tabs sticking out from years of being thumbed through.

“No. Absolutely not!” Natasha said, leaning back.

“Oh yes!” Alexei grinned, flipping it open on the table with flair. “Look at this angel!”

The first picture was a baby Natasha, chubby-cheeked, covered in cake frosting, a paper birthday hat crooked on her head. You gasped, both hands flying to your face.

“No!!” Natasha said, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Don’t look at them.”

But you were already leaning over, your face glowing. “Oh my god. You were so cute!”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were! Look at your little face!”

Alexei flipped again. A photo of toddler Natasha in pigtails and a too-big red hoodie, standing in a sandbox with a plastic shovel in her hand.

“Stop it..!” Natasha groaned, dragging her hoodie up over half her face. Melina walked by, patting her shoulder. “Don’t fight it. Your embarrassment is the highlight of our morning.”

Alexei turned another page, and this time, you paused. There was a different photo. A slightly older Natasha, maybe ten, sitting on a faded couch, a scowl on her face while a little blonde girl hugged her side and stuck her tongue out at the camera.

You tilted your head. “Who’s that?”

Natasha peeked between her fingers. “That’s Yelena. My sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“She’s overseas. Some exchange program-slash-training gig. She’s…chaos.”

Natasha glanced sideways at you, soft, and then, just as Alexei reached for the next page, Natasha lunged forward, grabbed the album, and slid it under her thigh.

“No more.” she said firmly. “That’s enough childhood trauma for today.”

You giggled, full and open. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty fun.” Natasha muttered, sipping her coffee. “Just with boundaries.”

They sat for a while longer, eating slowly, the album safely trapped under Natasha’s leg like it was a landmine. Eventually, Melina checked the clock. “If you two want to make it to school looking remotely alive, you should get ready.”

You nodded, stretching slightly. “I should borrow a brush. And like…a new identity.”

“I’ll get you something.” Natasha said, standing.

Alexei saluted dramatically. “Good luck, girls. Crush the day.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m delightful.”

Melina leaned over and whispered to you on your way out. “He wore two different shoes to work last week. Don’t be fooled.” You laughed again, your cheeks pink.

The fairy lights were still on, a few of them dimmed to a soft yellow glow, but the sun through the window made everything feel warmer. You followed her in, still hugging your arms around yourself, unsure if you were supposed to sit down or start getting ready or just stand there like a weird guest.

Natasha tossed her hoodie off one shoulder and walked over to the closet, tossing a look back over her shoulder.

“You need anything?” she asked. “Shirt? Jacket? You can dig through whatever.”

“I don’t want to mess anything up.”

Natasha snorted. “You’re assuming I have a system.”

You watched her flip through hangers, fingers sliding across old team shirts and jackets. You felt a little too aware of how natural Natasha looked in her own space, half sleepy, hair still messy, voice a little lower from not talking much yet.

Then Natasha tugged off the oversized shirt she slept in, and you turned away immediately, face burning.

“Sorry!” you blurted, squeezing your eyes shut as you faced the corner of the room.

Natasha laughed softly, not cruel, just amused. “Relax. I’ve got a bra on.”

You groaned. “That doesn’t help!”

“You’re acting like I flashed you.”

“I wasn’t ready!”

Natasha smiled and pulled a clean black tank top over her head, then a faded hoodie that hung loosely off her frame. “Okay, you’re safe now.”

You turned back around slowly, face still pink. “You’re the worst.”

“You were the one sneaking glances.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You definitely were.”

You grinned at each other, and the awkwardness eased into something easier, something warm. Natasha stepped aside and gestured at the closet. “Take whatever. I’ve got jeans, sweats, that hoodie with the bleach stain.”

You pulled open a drawer and found a soft, oversized crewneck that said “Property of Shield Academy” on the chest.

“This one okay?”

Natasha nodded. “That one’s criminally comfortable. Good choice.”

You headed for the bathroom to change, brushing past Natasha on the way out, your shoulder accidentally grazing her arm.

Natasha didn’t move. Just watched you go, smiling quietly to herself. They left a few minutes later, boots thudding down the stairs, backpacks slung half-zipped over their shoulders.

Melina handed you both granola bars and reminded Natasha not to speed. Alexei shouted something about “youthful romance” and got a door slam in response.

And then you were outside, helmets in hand, breath clouding slightly in the morning chill. You stood near the bike, zipping your borrowed hoodie up to your chin.

“This still okay?” Natasha asked as she unlocked the helmet box. “You can say no. I can ask Melina to drive us.”

“No.” you said quickly. “This is okay.”

Natasha handed you the helmet and helped you strap it on again, this time with less nervous fumbling, just a quiet sort of gentleness.

“You remember how to sit?”

“Yes.” you said, stepping close. “I remember.” You climbed on behind her, arms slipping naturally around Natasha’s waist.

“You ready?”

You pressed your head lightly against her back. “Yeah.”

The engine purred. They pulled out onto the street, and the wind hit your cheeks, but the space between you stayed warm. You held on, not because you had to, but because you wanted to. Natasha leaned into the turns, steady and smooth, her body moving like she was built to be followed.

They pulled into the school parking lot fifteen minutes before first bell. Natasha cut the engine and glanced over her shoulder. “You good?”

You smiled beneath the helmet. “Yeah. A little windblown, but good.”

Natasha helped you off, and you stood there for a second, awkward again now that you were back in a world with other eyes. The parking lot was filling fast. Someone from the basketball team shouted Natasha’s name in the distance. Lexie and Emma were walking toward the main entrance, scanning the crowd.

You hesitated. “Do we…?”

Natasha shrugged. “You don’t have to walk in with me if it’s weird.”

You gave her a look. “It’s not weird. Just…new.”

Natasha smiled. “Yeah. It is.”

You stood close for a second longer, like the space between you didn’t quite want to be there. Then you turned toward your building, adjusting your bag.

Natasha called after you, voice low.

“Text me?”

You smiled. “I will.”

You barely made it through the front doors before Lexie caught you. “Where the hell did you sleep last night?” she hissed, grabbing your arm and dragging you out of the hallway traffic like she was. “Are you..oh my god, did you sleep at Romanoff’s house?!”

You winced. “Lex-”

“You did..”

You gave her a look. “Can we not do this in front of the vending machine?”

Lexie immediately pulled you down the nearest side hallway, her expression bouncing between delighted and deeply suspicious.

“So?”

You exhaled, shouldering your backpack higher. “Yes. I stayed at Natasha’s.”

Lexie’s jaw dropped. “No..”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Lexie raised both brows. “You stayed the night in her bed and nothing happened?”

You crossed your arms. “We watched a movie. Talked. Her mom made me breakfast.”

“…Okay, wait. That’s.. actually cute.”

You smiled, reluctant but honest. “It was.”

Lexie narrowed her eyes. “But now what? Are you, like, with her?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Lexie let out a long breath. “You look happy.”

“I feel…calm.” you admitted. “Which is weird. And I keep waiting for it to get scary again, but so far it hasn’t.”

Lexie nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll shut up. But if she hurts you-”

“I know..” you said softly. “You’ll end her bloodline.”

Lexie winked. “Exactly.”

Across the floor, Natasha leaned against her locker while Steve picked at his protein bar like it had personally wronged him.

“You’re acting weird.” he said through a mouthful.

Natasha glared. “How?”

“You keep checking your phone. You’re wearing actual color. You smiled at someone.”

“It was the janitor.”

“You never smile at the janitor.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “He held the door.”

Steve squinted. “You spent the night with her.”

Natasha froze. Steve grinned. “You did.”

“She slept over.” Natasha corrected. “Nothing happened.”

“Oh my god, that’s worse.”

“It was just…calm.”

Steve looked at her for a long second, then smirked. “You like her.”

Natasha didn’t answer. But the corner of her mouth twitched. Steve let out a low whistle. “Romanoff’s catching feelings.”

“I will bench you.” Natasha muttered.

Steve held up both hands. “Hey. I’m happy for you. You’ve been untouchable for, like, two years.”

Natasha shifted slightly. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

“Then don’t.” Steve said simply.

4th Period English

You sat at your desk, fingers curled around your pen, barely pretending to take notes. Your phone buzzed softly in your lap.

Voice Message – NATASHA

(0:12 seconds)

You slid a single AirPod in and hit play, your heart already skipping.

“This class is hell. If I don’t make it out, avenge me. Also…your hoodie still smells like you. So. That’s distracting.”

You bit your lip to hide a grin and typed a reply.

Voice Message – YOU

(0:09 seconds)

“Stop being cute. I’m trying to focus. You’re already distracting enough when you’re not talking.”

A moment later:

Voice Message – NATASHA

(0:15 seconds)

“That sounded like a challenge. Also, your handwriting in the notes I stole? Ridiculously pretty. Like, who has cursive that neat?”

You laughed, drawing a tiny star in the margin of your notebook.

Voice Message – YOU

(0:11 seconds)

“You’re the only person I’d let steal my notes. And that’s only because you’re kind of stupid hot.”

Natasha responded instantly.

Voice Message – NATASHA

(0:06 seconds)

“You’re lucky I’m not sitting next to you.”

You blushed down to your collar. You looked up, and across the room, saw Natasha glance over her shoulder through the narrow glass panel in the classroom door.

Just for a second.. Your eyes met. And the whole hallway felt electric- The final bell rang, and the school let out in a slow, chaotic wave of relief.

You pushed through the main doors with your phone in hand, cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the hallway and the lingering weight of your last message with Natasha.

Maybe after school, we can walk a little. Just us?

No reply yet. But that was fine. Natasha probably hadn’t seen it. Or she was still in the locker room. Or- “Y/N!” Lexie’s voice called from behind. “You coming?”

“I’ll catch up!” you called back, pretending to adjust something in your bag. You wanted to wait. Just for a few minutes. Just in case. You lingered near the stone steps, pretending to scroll through your phone, watching students flood the parking lot, laughing, throwing on backpacks, calling out to friends.

And then you saw her. Coming out through the side entrance of the gym wing, her red hair up in a loose bun, hoodie sleeves shoved up her arms, duffle bag slung low across her back.

You felt your whole chest soften. You didn’t even realize you were smiling. Until it happened.. Out of nowhere, a blur of movement.

A girl came running across the grass from behind the visitor lot. Blonde. Dressed in dark clothes, boots hitting the pavement like she had no concern for physics. She moved with purpose and zero hesitation.

You squinted. Then watched in silent confusion as the girl threw herself onto Natasha from behind, arms wrapped tight around her, face buried in her hoodie.

It all happened in a second. Natasha staggered slightly, shocked. Her bag dropped to the ground. And then, slowly, she hugged back. Not confused. Not reluctant. Like it was natural. Like she knew her. Your heart dropped.

Something cold spread through your chest as you stood frozen on the steps, unable to look away. The girl pulled back enough for you to see her laugh, big and bright and familiar. She said something that made Natasha’s face light up. Natasha’s hand slid behind the girl’s back. She smiled.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until it hurt. There was something intimate about it. Not sexual. Just…easy. Like it had been there for a while. Like she’d been there for a while.

You looked down at your phone, still open to your last message.

Just us?

No reply. Of course not. Why would she? You quickly turned and walked down the steps, the sound of laughter behind you cutting into your spine like cold air. You didn’t run. But you wanted to.

Later, Natasha walked with Yelena through her front door, dropped her bag by the stairs, and pulled out her phone.

No message.

She hadn’t checked it during the whole scene with her sister, hadn’t wanted to. Yelena had launched herself into her arms like a live grenade, talking too fast, barely letting Natasha process the surprise of her even being here. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming back early. Typical.

But now, back home, quiet house, hoodie sleeves still warm from the afternoon sun, Natasha finally looked. Still no reply.. Her last message to you sat there.

You done with class? Want me to walk over?

Left on read. She stared at it for a beat too long, thumb hovering. No big deal, she told herself. Maybe you were with Lexie. Maybe you were home already. Maybe you were tired.

Natasha tossed her phone on the bed, then picked it back up again thirty seconds later. She opened your Instagram out of pure habit, she didn’t mean to scroll, just meant to check.. And saw it.

You had replied to someone’s comment five minutes ago. A laughing emoji. Casual. Her stomach dropped. She’s on her phone. She saw my message.

But didn’t answer.. A slow, ugly ache crept up Natasha’s throat. She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the phone tighter.

It was probably nothing. It had to be nothing.

But she’d been here before, in the space where someone started slipping away and never explained why. She tapped out another message:

You good? I haven’t heard from you. Just checking in.

No answer. Her heart started beating harder. Not from jealousy..this wasn’t about that. It was fear. What if something happened? What if you got home and your parents were fighting again? What if someone had said something at school? Natasha started pacing. Then stopped. Then grabbed her phone again and typed:

Are you okay? Seriously. Should I call? Should I come by?

Still nothing. But then..finally, a reply lit the screen.

I just don’t want to talk right now.

Natasha froze. The words were clean. Emotionless. No punctuation. Not cruel, but distant. Like a door being closed, softly.

She stared at it for a long time. Her pulse had been pounding a minute ago, fearful, alive. Now it just… stalled. She sat down slowly, reading the message again.

I don’t want to talk right now.

Her throat tightened. Did I do something? She searched her brain. Was it this morning? The texts in class? Did she say something stupid? No. It had felt good. Right..? Then..The parking lot. Natasha closed her eyes.

Yelena.

That had to be it. She imagined you standing somewhere nearby, watching that exact moment. The hug. The laughter. And suddenly, Natasha felt sick.

She hadn’t even introduced you. Hadn’t explained. Hadn’t known she needed to. But now? Now she didn’t know how to reach you. Natasha lay back on her bed, her arms folded behind her head, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers she hadn’t earned. Your message replayed in her mind over and over.

I just don’t want to talk right now.

It wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t even cold. But it cut sharper than she expected. She’d thought maybe..just maybe, they were past this kind of uncertainty. Past the part where people dropped off the radar and left you guessing.

But she didn’t text again. Because she meant what she’d said: no games. So if you needed space, she’d give it. But damn, it hurt.

She tried to move on with her afternoon. She made tea, left it on the counter without drinking it. Scrolled through her playlist twice before giving up. Replied to a group chat she didn’t care about. Tried to sketch something from a half-finished reference photo pinned above her desk, but her hand wouldn’t stop twitching. She even shot a crumpled paper ball into the trash can and whispered, “Kobe” out of instinct.

It didn’t help.

An hour passed. Then two. She texted Steve just to distract herself.

NATASHA:

Want to shoot hoops?

STEVE:

Can’t. Family dinner night. You okay?

NATASHA:

Yeah. Just bored.

She wasn’t bored.. She was missing. And every room felt too big. Yelena knocked on her door once but didn’t come in. Just left a weird energy drink and a sticky note that said “you seem mopey” with a smiley face drawn in crooked marker lines.

Natasha didn’t even crack a smile. Because she was mopey. Not because you were ignoring her. Not because her ego was bruised. But because something had changed, and she didn’t know what. She didn’t know if you were hurt, or angry, or scared, or just overwhelmed.

And the worst part?

She didn’t know if it was her fault. By the time evening settled in and the sun dipped below the trees, Natasha sat by her window, knees pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves over her hands.

She still hadn’t texted again. She wouldn’t. Because she cared enough not to force anything. But in the quiet, with nothing left to distract her, Natasha let her eyes fall shut.

Thirty minutes later, Natasha stood on the front step, helmet tucked under her arm, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. She wasn’t even sure how she got there.

One minute she was staring at her phone again in her room, thumb hovering over your name like it might answer something for her. The next, she was on the road, wind sharp against her cheeks, telling herself this wasn’t stupid.

The door opened with a creak. Your dad stood there in a stained undershirt, his hair a mess, breath sharp with the unmistakable sting of alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot, narrowed. His mouth pulled into a sneer like he’d been waiting to be annoyed.

“Yeah?”

Natasha took a breath. “Hi. I’m-uh, I’m looking for Y/n.”

He squinted at her, leaned against the doorframe like the wood was holding him up. “And you are?”

“I’m…a friend.” she said, keeping her voice level. “We go to school together.”

“Friend?” He gave a slow, lazy laugh. “You one of her new little cheerleader buddies?”

“No.” Natasha said, jaw tight. “Not a cheerleader.”

He sniffed, scratched the back of his neck. “She’s upstairs. Door’s shut. Probably in another one of her moods.”

Natasha hesitated. “Can I talk to her?”

He looked at her for a long second. Then, “Not my problem.” he muttered, stepping aside. Natasha stepped past him, the smell of beer hitting her harder now that she was inside. The hallway was dim. A dish clattered somewhere deeper in the house.

She moved quietly up the stairs, heart in her throat. Your door was closed. She knocked gently.

“Go away.” came your voice inside, tight, raw.

Natasha flinched. “Y/n..” she said softly.

Silence. Then rapid footsteps. The door opened with a hard click, and there you were. Eyes puffy. Face red. Breathing hard like you’d been holding in tears for hours and now couldn’t stop them from rising again.

“What are you doing here..?” you snapped, your voice cracking. “Didn’t I say I didn’t want to talk?”

“I know.” Natasha said, voice low. “I just…I couldn’t stay quiet anymore. I needed to-”

“You always need something!” you shouted, your voice breaking fully now, arms crossed like a barrier. “And I keep letting you in because I think maybe this time it’s different. Maybe you’re different. But I’m not going to be a game, Natasha. I’m not going to be some secret hookup or some cheerleader-of-the-month you text when you’re bored-”

“I never saw you like that.” Natasha said quickly, voice sharp with emotion. “Never.”

You shook your head, backing a step into your room, wiping angrily at your cheeks. “Then explain it. Explain why I saw you hugging some random girl like she was your favorite person on Earth- laughing, smiling like I meant nothi-”

Natasha’s eyes widened. “So, you saw that.”

“Yes!”

Then came the voice behind you, low, irritated. “What’s going on here?”

Your father. He was coming up the stairs, beer still in hand, eyebrows drawn down like a warning. Behind him, your mother hovered in the hallway, arms crossed, mouth already tight.

“Who is this?” your dad asked, nodding toward Natasha with the lazy suspicion of a man looking for a fight.

“She’s leaving.” your mother added sharply, eyes flicking over Natasha with disapproval.

Natasha stood tall. “Actually, I’m not.”

You turned, eyes wide. “N-Natasha- don’t.”

Natasha didn’t look away. “I just want to talk to her.”

Your dad took a slow step closer, something dangerous in his voice. “That’s not your call.”

“No.” Natasha said calmly. “But how you treat her isn’t yours either.”

A beat of silence. Tense and Cold. Your mother scoffed. “Who do you think you are?”

“I’m someone who gives a damn about her.” Natasha said, voice rising now, sharp. “Someone who actually listens. Someone who cares.”

And that was it. The sound of the tension snapping, the air thickening. You moved too fast, grabbed your hoodie from the chair, bag slung over one arm, steps fast and panicked.

“I’m leaving.” you muttered, brushing past them all.

“Y/N!” your mother snapped. “Dare you lea-”

“Watch me.” you hissed, already halfway down the stairs.

Natasha followed. Out the door, into the night air that bit at your cheeks, Natasha caught up just as your hand curled around your phone.

“I’m calling Lexie..” you said, wiping at your face. “She’ll come get me. I’ll stay there.”

“Please don’t..” Natasha said, chest tight. “Please-just wait.”

You turned, eyes shining with tears again, but sharper now. Angry, defense. “You don’t get to show up, hug some random girl, not explain anything, and then act like I’m the one who’s overreacting!”

Natasha’s mouth opened, closed again. “Y/n…”

“I’m not a game!” you shouted, voice breaking. “I’m not some soft moment you crawl into when it’s convenient. I’m not someone you half-love..”

“I don’t half-love you.”

The words were out before Natasha even realized she’d said them.

You blinked. “What?”

“I don’t half-love you.” Natasha said again, breathless now. “I don’t know how to say things the right way. I don’t always know how to prove it. But I’ve been thinking about you for days and all I wanted was to hear your voice, and when you stopped answering, I thought I did something wrong-”

“You did!” you yelled. “You hugged some girl like I wasn’t even real!”

“That was Yelena, Y/n…” Natasha said, breathless now. “My sister..My little sister.”

You staggered back a step, your whole body freezing. “W-What?”

“She showed up out of nowhere. I didn’t even know she was coming back from Europe. I didn’t even get a chance to introduce you before-”

Your breath hitched, a sob caught in your throat. “No. No, I thought-”

“I know.” Natasha whispered, stepping closer now. “You thought I lied. That I was using you. But I wasn’t. I won’t.”

You let out a sharp, broken sound. “I told myself to stay away. I told myself not to fall into this with you..because you’re you and I’m me and it never ends well.”

Natasha moved closer, voice low, intense. “Then fall harder. I’ll catch you.”

Tears slid down your cheeks. “I’m scared.”

“I’m terrified.” Natasha said. “But I’d rather be scared with you than be fine without you.”

You stared at her, sobbing softly now, trembling like your entire body was splitting open. “I thought you didn’t want me.” you whispered.

Natasha stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you, slowly, firmly, like something sacred. “I want every version of you.” she said against your hair. “Even the scared one. Especially her.”

You hadn’t said a word since you turned the corner away from your house. Your fingers were curled tightly in your sleeves, your steps a little too fast, like if you slowed down, you’d think about it all again, and you couldn’t. Not right now.

But you felt it. The sting behind your eyes, the burn in your chest, the raw echo of your dad’s voice yelling after you even after the door slammed shut. The way your mom just…stood there. Arms crossed..

You’d left in the middle of a screaming match. You hadn’t answered their calls. They didn’t know where you were, and they probably didn’t care as much as they claimed.

And now you were walking toward a house that wasn’t yours, beside someone you had just screamed at in the street. But who showed up anyway.

And you couldn’t figure out if you wanted to sob or disappear or just- You reached up, wiped your face with the edge of your sleeve again.

You were still crying. Quiet now. But it hadn’t stopped. You hadn’t even realized. The porch light at Natasha’s place flickered softly as you stepped up. You hesitated. You almost turned around. Almost told her you changed your mind.

But Natasha didn’t let you spiral. She reached back, not touching, not pulling, just holding the door open, eyes gentle, and you stepped inside.Warmth wrapped around you immediately. The smell of something sweet and spiced from the kitchen. Low music humming from a speaker in the corner. And then-

“Natasha?” Melina’s voice drifted in from the kitchen. “I made-”

She walked into the hallway and stopped. Her eyes landed on you. Took in your red eyes. Your puffy cheeks. Your damp lashes. Your silence.

And Melina’s voice softened. “Sweetheart-”

But before she could finish, Natasha stepped slightly in front of you, holding up a quiet hand. “Later, Mom.” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Please.”

Melina blinked, and then nodded. “Of course.” She walked back into the kitchen without another word. Your chest clenched. That was what parents could be. Understanding. Still and kind.

They climbed the stairs in silence. Natasha’s room felt the same, dim, warm, safe. The fairy lights still twinkled. A new candle was burning on the desk. The blankets had been folded again, a quiet sign that Melina had come in, tidied, maybe worried.

You moved slowly toward the bed and sat down. “I’ll get you a towel.” Natasha said softly. “You can shower, if you want.”

You nodded.

“I’ll grab you a change of clothes too.”

Another nod.

Natasha left for a moment, returned with folded sweats and a soft T-shirt. She handed them over without a word. And you walked to the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind you.

The shower was warm, but your chest still felt cold. The steam couldn’t loosen the knot in your ribs. Couldn’t wash away the weight in your throat. But it helped..A little.

You stayed under the water for a long time. Just standing. Letting it run down your face like it might rinse out the memory of the door slam, the yelling, your own scream outside in the street. And when you turned off the water and stepped out into the soft towel, you felt lighter. You dried off, pulled on the clothes she gave you, her sweats a little too long, the shirt soft and worn, and stepped quietly back into her room.

Natasha was pacing again, softly, barefoot, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fists. She was muttering something to herself when the door opened. You came out of the bathroom with your hair still damp, sleeves of Natasha’s oversized shirt tugged down over your palms. You looked…tired.

Not just from the day, but from everything that lived under it. Your eyes met Natasha’s for a second. You didn’t say anything. Just quietly walked over to the bed, slipped beneath the covers, and curled onto your side, back turned, body small.

Natasha stayed sitting on the edge of the room, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fists, her knees drawn up toward her chest on the beanbag chair. She didn’t say anything either.

Not yet.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fairy lights and the dull patter of rain beginning to tap against the window.

“Did I ruin everything?” you asked, your voice just above a whisper.

Natasha blinked. “No.” she said instantly. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

A pause, then, quietly: “Do you still want me here?”

Natasha stood. She walked across the room, slow, barefoot, and sat down gently on the edge of the bed. You didn’t move. But you didn’t pull away either.

“I wanted you here before you even knew I did.” Natasha said softly. “I’m glad you stayed.”

Another silence..but warmer now. You turned slightly, just enough to look up at her. Natasha reached out and brushed one damp strand of hair off your forehead, slow and feather-light.

And for a second, just a flicker, you almost smiled.

But then, The door flew open. “I knew it!” a voice called, loud and smug. “You’re being weird and soft. You only get like that when there’s a girl.”

Natasha groaned and dropped her head. “Yelena. Get out.”

You shot upright under the blanket, eyes wide. “That’s Yelena?”

Yelena paused mid-stride. She was leaning against the doorframe like she owned the house. Combat boots still on. Hair messy. Smirk locked and loaded.

“I’m the sister.” she announced. “And you must be the mysterious cheerleader who made my sister go full emotional panic attack.”

Yelena walked in casually, ignoring Natasha’s face-palming and the glare that could’ve started a fire.

“Yes. Sister. Not ex. Not hookup. Not hidden girlfriend.” She looked at Natasha. “You really didn’t tell her?”

“I didn’t know you were showing up!” Natasha snapped, then turned to you, eyes apologetic. “I was going to. It just…happened fast.”

Your mouth fell open. “You’re really her sister?”

“Do you want proof?” Yelena asked. “I have baby photos where she’s wearing frog pajamas.”

“Get out..” Natasha growled, half-laughing now. But you were laughing too, small..but it’s there. Yelena saw it first. That little crinkle in your nose. The soft flicker in your eyes.

“She smiles.” Yelena said with mock reverence. “She lives.”

Natasha turned, and saw it. You smiling. For real. Not the polite one. Not the forced one. The real one, soft and sleepy..Something in her chest uncoiled for the first time that day.

“I’m glad you’re not some random girl..” you said, looking at Yelena.

Yelena grinned. “I’m glad you’re not a ghost. Nat was being a little dramatic.”

“I was not-”

“She was staring at her phone like it personally betrayed her.”

“Yelena.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” Yelena winked at you on her way out. “Nice to meet you. Sleep tight. Or don’t. You’re both 18, whatever.”

“YELENA.”

The door slammed shut behind her. You burst out laughing fully this time, covering your face with both hands.

“Oh my god.”

Natasha groaned and flopped backward onto the bed beside you. “She’s the worst.”

“She’s amazing.”

“Shut up.”

You looked at her again. Calmer now. A little lighter. And Natasha just whispered, “There’s that smile.”

You blushed, and neither of you moved. The room felt calmer now. Yelena’s chaos had broken something open, and now the silence didn’t feel heavy anymore, it felt like a blanket. You had stopped crying. Natasha wasn’t pacing. You were both tucked under the covers, the warm weight of the blanket draped over you, legs barely touching.

The fairy lights glowed softly around the ceiling, casting a quiet shimmer over Natasha’s posters and the scattered Polaroids taped near the mirror. For a while, neither of you said anything.

Then you turned your head on the pillow. “You okay?”

Natasha blinked, caught a little off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah. You’ve had, like, a surprise sister tackle, a full emotional meltdown, and me showing..and me.”

Natasha laughed softly, her voice hoarse. “Honestly? I’ve had worse days.”

You smiled, tugging the blanket higher under your chin. “You sure?”

Natasha looked over at you, really looked. You were still a little puffy-eyed. Your lips slightly chapped. Hair damp. But you were here. In her bed. Next to her.

“I’m okay now.” Natasha said.

You gave a small, satisfied nod. “Good, you ready for the game tomorrow?” you asked, shifting slightly to face her more.

Natasha let out a breath. “I guess. Kind of forgot that still exists.”

“Oh no. Big game. Huge stakes. Potential post-win ice cream ride.”

Natasha smirked. “You bribing me to win?”

“I’m saying..” you said, voice mock-serious, “if I do my routine right, you owe me a victory.”

Natasha raised a brow. “If you do your routine right?”

“Oh, you haven’t seen the new tricks yet.”

Natasha tilted her head. “You have new tricks?”

“Maybe..”

Natasha stared at you a second longer, suddenly too warm under the blanket. “Are you..are you teasing me right now?”

You shrugged, entirely too innocent. “Just saying… we did rehearse a new drop formation. And a double turn. Might look impressive.”

Natasha looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. You grinned. “Wait…are you blushing?”

“I am not.”

“You so are!”

“I’m just warm.”

“You’re a little pink.”

“I’m literally under a blanket.”

You leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That’s so cute.”

Natasha groaned, hiding her face in the pillow. “I regret everything.” You laughed, light and clear, the first laugh that sounded like you again.

“I like this version of you.” you said quietly.

Natasha peeked out from the pillow. “Which one?”

“The one who blushes.”

“I don’t blush.”

You leaned up on one elbow now, turned toward her, full of mischief and confidence that hadn’t been there an hour ago.

“You act like you’re immune to it.” you said, playfully narrowing your eyes. “But you get pink..riight here-” you pointed lightly near Natasha’s jaw, “and it spreads. Like wildfire.”

Natasha scoffed, attempting indifference. “You’re making things up.”

“Oh, I’m an expert now.” you said, inching forward. “You think I’ve been spending this much time next to you and I haven’t been observing? You’re a total softie.”

“I’m not a softie.” Natasha said, eyes narrowing, “I’m emotionally controlled.”

You raised a brow, suddenly shifting all the way up, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside her, posture tall like you were about to launch a thesis. “Emotionally controlled softie, then.”

Natasha was about to argue when you leaned too far, reaching for the edge of the blanket to prove some invisible point, and immediately lost your balance.

“Wait—!”

You tumbled forward, right into Natasha’s lap. A tangle of limbs, and then, stillness. Natasha’s hands had instinctively caught you by the waist. You had frozen, hands splayed on Natasha’s chest, face barely inches away.

Your eyes locked. The laughter died in your throat instantly. There was a beat of pure silence. Then another. The air between you turned heavy. Magnetic. Natasha felt the heat under her skin crawl into her chest, her ribs, her throat. Her hands hadn’t moved. She could feel the weight of your body over her like it was carved into her.

And you..wide-eyed, lips parted, breath caught—didn’t move either. Don’t kiss her, Natasha thought. Don’t ruin this.

But god, she wanted to. You were the first to break it. You blinked fast, face flushed, and pulled back—quick, awkward, with a soft, nervous laugh as you flopped beside her.

“Well, that wasn’t my most graceful moment.”

Natasha exhaled, half-laugh, half-relief. “Not your worst, either.”

You curled back into the blanket, face half-hidden now. “Maybe I should stop teasing before I fall on you again.”

Natasha laid back, breath still uneven. “Probably smart.”

You were both quiet for a second. Then you scooted closer. Without saying anything, you leaned your head against Natasha’s shoulder, cheek resting there gently.

Natasha blinked. Her entire body stiffened like she’d been frozen mid-breath. She’d done this before, let girls fall asleep on her, held them until they got bored, left, or rolled over.

But this wasn’t that. This was you. This was the girl who yelled at her. The girl who saw her. The girl who stayed. You let out a soft breath, mumbling, “You’re really warm.”

And before Natasha could respond, your voice went still. Asleep.

Natasha was frozen. She’s asleep. On me. She’s breathing on my collarbone. I can’t move. If I move I’ll wake her up. I can’t breathe. I am breathing too much. My heart is going to explode and she’s going to hear it and think I’m a freak-

She swallowed hard. Carefully, slowly, she shifted her arm just enough to cradle around your back. Just light. Just enough. You snuggled in, unconsciously. A sigh escaped your lips, soft and trusting. And Natasha closed her eyes.

Not to sleep. But to hold on. Because for the first time in her life, someone fell asleep on her, and it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like home..

The next morning was full of unspoken things. Natasha had barely slept. Not because she was restless, just the opposite. She hadn’t wanted to move, hadn’t wanted to wake you, who’d stayed curled into her like you belonged there.

When you finally stirred around 6:30, blinking slowly, you realized where you were, and who you were on. “Oh my god..” you whispered, pulling back quickly, eyes wide. “I fell asleep on you.”

“You did.” Natasha said, keeping her voice light even though her heart hadn’t recovered.

“I drooled on your shirt.”

“You did.”

“I-”

“You’re cute when you snore.”

“I do NOT snore.”

Natasha smiled. “Then it was very musical breathing.” You both laughed, soft, sleepy. Still tangled in blankets. No one mentioned the almost-kiss.

School that day felt different. The air buzzed with game-day energy, everyone wearing school colors, football players and cheerleaders walking like they were already stars. But for Natasha, everything felt…slower.

Because everywhere she turned, you were just there. Walking beside her through the courtyard, smiling over your shoulder in the hallway, bumping into her with a “sorry” that wasn’t sorry at all. You didn’t hold hands, but you didn’t need to. There was a closeness now. A current that hummed between you.

At lunch, Natasha tried not to stare as you twisted your hair up while talking to Lexie.. She failed. You caught her, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”

Natasha blushed. Hard. And shoved a chip in her mouth like it could save her. By the time the game rolled around that evening, the gym was packed. Bleachers overflowing. Music thumping through the speakers. Students chanting, banners waving. The floor gleamed under the lights, and the scent of popcorn and anticipation filled the air.

You stood with your squad, lined up on the side of the court in matching uniforms, your eyes scanning the crowd. People were buzzing. Mostly about the team.. Mostly about Natasha.

“Oh my god, she’s literally so hot.”

“She’s the reason I come to these games.”

“Imagine dating her-”

“She’d ruin your life, but it’d be worth it.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back the urge to shout, she literally slept with a hoodie on and whispered facts about space in her sleep, calm down. But you stayed quiet. Then, the spotlight hit the court.

“AND NOW—YOUR STAR PLAYER—ROMANOFF!”

The crowd roared as Natasha jogged out from the tunnel, headphones around her neck, sweatband low on her brow. She looked effortless..

The group of girls near you lost their minds—squealing, giggling, waving, and Natasha looked across the gym.

Right at you, and smiled. Not a crowd-pleaser grin. Not a player’s smirk. A quiet, soft, private kind of smile.

You waved, just once, small and calm. The girls beside you squealed louder.

“She SMILED AT ME!”

But you just smiled back, biting your bottom lip, because you knew the truth. That smile was yours.

The game started hot. The opposing team was aggressive, fouls flying early. Natasha took control fast, scoring twice in the first five minutes. Her focus was razor-sharp, but every now and then, her eyes flicked to the sideline.

To you. And every time your eyes met, something steadied in her. The second quarter burned fast. It was neck and neck. Your squad took the floor during the break. You flipped into formation, nailing the opening stunt, but you could feel it, your heart was not on the mat. You kept glancing toward the bench.

You saw it in real-time, the way Natasha sprinted past her defender, the way her legs coiled beneath her to leap, and the sharp, violent twist of a shoulder and an elbow that snapped into her face.

The sickening crack stopped everything. You flinched like you’d been hit yourself. Then the blood.

Natasha didn’t fall. Of course she didn’t. She stumbled back, hand over her mouth, but stayed upright like always. The whistle blew. The coach barked for a sub.

The crowd erupted in noise. And you stood frozen in your cheer stance, breath caught mid-count. Natasha was led off the court, jaw set, blood soaked into a towel, eyes glassy. Your body moved on autopilot, stepping into the next count, flipping into the next routine, but your eyes never left the bench. Or the doors Natasha had just disappeared through.

Your chest was tight. Your throat burned. “Come on!” your captain hissed beside you. “Focus!”

But you couldn’t. Natasha had bled. For real. And all you could think about was the warmth of her breath the night before, the softness of her hoodie sleeves, the way her voice had dropped when she whispered, “You’re not going anywhere.”

And now she wasn’t here. You shouldn’t leave.. You knew that. Your body was trained for this, your count memorized, your team depending on you.

But your heart..Your breath hitched, and you were gone. You didn’t remember leaving the court. Didn’t remember pushing through the side doors, or nearly tripping in your sneakers, or ignoring Lexie’s voice yelling your name.

You didn’t remember leaving the court. Didn’t remember pushing through the side doors, or nearly tripping in your sneakers, or ignoring Lexie’s voice yelling your name. You just knew you were running.

Until you reached the double doors of the trainer’s room. You didn’t knock. Just opened. And found Natasha sitting on the padded table, one leg swinging slightly, gauze in hand, lip bruised and busted, a thin line of blood under her nose.

She looked up, eyes wide, surprised.

“Y/n?”

You stopped in the doorway. “I-I shouldn’t be here.” you said, voice trembling.

Natasha blinked. “You’re still mid-game?”

“I know.” You took a step forward, then stopped again. “I just..saw you. Get hit. And I couldn’t stay out there.”

Natasha shifted, trying to sit up straighter, wincing a little. “I’m okay.”

“I know that too..” you said, voice cracking. “I know you’re fine. You’re tough. You’re always fine. And I still couldn’t-” You let out a shaky breath, laughing without humor. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

Natasha stared at you, quiet. You ran a hand through your hair. “I was just dancing. Just smiling. And then you were bleeding. And then you were gone.”

Your voice dropped. “And something inside me snapped. Like I couldn’t stay still. Like the thought of you hurt made everything else feel…wrong.”

She finally looked at her, eyes shining. “I didn’t come here to say anything. I didn’t plan this.”

She laughed again, softer now, tired. “I literally told myself not to fall for you.”

Natasha’s breath caught. You shook your head slowly, stepping closer. “But I did.”

A pause. “I’m falling, Natasha. And I hate it because I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want this. You’re chaos. You make me blush and scream and feel things I’ve spent my whole life trying not to feel.”

You stopped a foot away. “But I’m here. And I ran here. And I still don’t even know what the hell I’m trying to say, but I think…”

“I think I love you.”

The gym crowd roared behind the walls like distant thunder. Natasha stared at you, eyes wide, lip busted, heart beating out of rhythm. Then she laughed. Not loud. Not mocking. Soft. Disbelieving. Relieved.

“You love me?”

You wiped at your eyes. “Yeah.”

Natasha leaned forward slowly, gently resting her hand on your hip, not pulling, just touching.

“I’ve been in love with you.” she whispered, “since the second you looked at me like I wasn’t just the girl with the good shot.”

Your breath caught. Natasha smiled, just a little, bloody lip and all.

“I’m so fucking in love with you.”

You smiled back, tears falling again, and leaned in, their lips met, softly, carefully, full of heat and tenderness. But halfway through, Natasha winced. “Ow, shit..lip.”

You laughed against her mouth, pulling back, forehead to forehead. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m not.” Natasha whispered, eyes shining.

Even without Natasha’s final quarter, they held the lead and pushed through the last few minutes with just enough fire to lock the game down. The final buzzer sounded, and the gym exploded, screams, stomps, confetti from somewhere (Lexie, probably), and people storming the court.

But you weren’t there. You were still in the trainer’s room, curled beside Natasha on the table, hand laced with hers while someone checked her vitals one more time.

“Your blood pressure’s steady,” the medic muttered. “But I still don’t want you riding home on that death trap of a bike.”

“Not a death trap.” Natasha mumbled, pouting with a swollen lip.

“No driving for 24 hours.” the medic said firmly. “That includes bikes.”

“Fine.” Natasha sighed. “I’ll call my mom.”

Ten minutes later, the front doors of the gym swung open, and in marched Melina. She didn’t walk. She stormed. Like she was ready to scold, rescue, and wrap her daughter in bubble wrap all at once.

“Oh, my god- Natasha!” she gasped, the second she saw her.

“I’m fine, Mom-”

“No, you’re not,” Melina snapped, already cupping her face, examining the bruised lip, tilting her chin left and right. “What idiot let you take an elbow like that?”

“I didn’t exactly schedule it..ow!! stop poking me.”

Melina turned to you, who stood awkwardly by the wall. “And you. Did you take care of her?”

You blinked. “I- uh..ran off the court mid-cheer to find her, so… maybe?”

Melina beamed. “That’ll do. Come on, girls. You’re both coming home. I ordered pizza.”

By the time you got back to the Romanoff house, the living room lights were glowing and Alexei’s voice was already booming from the kitchen. “I TOLD YOU SHE WOULD WIN! BLOOD OR NO BLOOD!”

“You didn’t even watch the game!” Melina called over her shoulder, dropping her keys into the bowl.

“I WATCHED THE SCOREBOARD! SAME THING.”

Natasha stepped inside slowly, still a little sore, and you helped her out of her hoodie, hands brushing her arm, careful but gentle.

The kitchen table was set haphazardly, drinks already poured, napkins scattered, and Yelena was tossing olives at Alexei’s forehead. You stood in the doorway, watching the chaos, and…smiled.

This was loud. But it was safe. And Natasha smiled real this time.

Different ending

[povbarnes]

Stay.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You want Bucky to stay, he never does.

Word Count: +3K

Warnings: Angst, Heavy angst, Smut, Angsty smut, Hurt no comfort, Bucky Barnes is TERRIBLE at feelings, Reader is a little desperate, but so is Bucky, bear with me for this one, No use of Y/N, i think that’s it, lmk if i missed or forgot anything!

A/N: alrighty! first of all, thank you so much for the love on my first fic, it means the world to me. this took way longer than i thought it would but it’s finally done, hopefully i won’t disappoint. pictures are only for the vibes, no description of reader in this one other than that she has hair. hope you like it! :)

P.S. i couldn’t really decide which bucky this was, you can decide for yourself but the closest to me was tfatws!bucky i think.

He won’t stay, you know it. He never stays.

You wait for it every time. You spend all the little time that you have together waiting for it, dreading it, never being able to fully enjoy a single second. You dread the moment that eventually comes every single time, that moment when you feel the instant shame surrounding his entire frame right before he gets out of your bed, gets dressed and leaves you while you watch him with tear-filled eyes.

As time passed, you got better at not crying. At least not in front of him.

You know he hates seeing you cry, more so when it’s him who is making you. Not enough to make him stay, but enough to hurt him too. So you simply try not to. You never want to make him feel bad, even though he holds your delicate heart in his strong hands and crashes it over and over again.

He tries talking to you, you’ll give him that. He tries to make you understand. You can’t. Or rather, you won’t. You don’t want to understand him, you want him, all of him. Not just the parts he thinks is worthy of you, which are very little, but anything and everything that makes him who he is. You want it all. And for the months that you have been sleeping together, he could never accept that.

You shouldn’t let him in. Every time he leaves, you make a promise to yourself. To not let him in, to not let him make you feel more miserable than he already has.

Then, you hear his voice. “Please, doll. Open the door.”

All your resolve crumbles in an instant, and you never succeed.

You open the door, lay your pride in front of him like a red carpet and watch him walk all over it to get to you. You don’t even think there’s any pride left in you to protect anymore. It sickens you.

One last time, you say to yourself, every time.

Your breath catches when you see him, all tired blue eyes and hunched shoulders. It takes everything in you not to throw yourself into his arms and hold him until your limbs melt into one. Instead, you stare at him, and he stares at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says after what feels like a lifetime. The first thing he said to you after not seeing him for a week.

You huff. “For what?”

His lips press together, head hanging low to look at his shoes instead of you.

You put him out of his misery, just as you always do, and take a step back so he could come inside.

He doesn’t lift his head while he steps in.

It goes the same way it always does. He waits a moment, maybe as long as he feels enough that you would feel somewhat respected by him, because he knows you’re upset, and that you know why he’s in your house, and how even if you are upset, you still want him because that’s just the way it goes, something that just is and something you can’t help, and how none of it will change anything for him.

He will still leave you at the end of the night.

After the short pause, he is on you, his lips crashing onto yours filled with the amount of desperation that almost matches yours.

You want to push him away, smack him, scream at him to stop doing this to both of you. You wrap your arms around his neck instead. You’ve missed him so much.

His vibranium arm sneaks around your waist to cage you to him, flesh hand holding your chin, covering your entire lower face. It’s so possessive, and you feel so safe, and you hate yourself.

He lifts you just a bit, starting to move towards your bedroom through the familiar path. His mouth is relentless on yours, not even giving you a time to take a breath, not that you want to.

He doesn’t turn on the lights when he reaches your room, he never really does. He doesn’t like you to see his scars.

You gasp as soon as his mouth travels from yours to your cheek, nuzzling his face to yours, leaving kisses to your eyes, nose, all the way to your neck. When he reaches the soft spot where your neck meets your shoulder and takes a deep breath, a sob you so desperately try to keep in wrecks through you. He tries to look at you when he hears it, but you hug him tighter to keep him there. You don’t want to talk, not when you know it won’t make a goddamn difference, but the words that come out of your mouth are not planned, they claw their way out of your throat in order to be freed. “You make me hate myself.”

He pauses, this time doesn’t let you stop him from looking at you. He sees your damp eyes, and you think he might be sick. You don’t want it to be a relief, but there’s not much you can take from him. So, it is a relief that he looks as guilty and as in pain as he does. Because you are hurting more than him. You must be, with the way your heart feels like it’s torn off by the seams and stitched together by shaky hands for a thousand times.

“Don’t stop,” you murmur when he doesn’t say anything. A tear rolls down your cheek. “Don’t stop.”

When he still doesn’t move, you do instead. With his eyes still on yours, you withdraw one of your hands from the back of his neck, slowly moving it south to his jeans. After a short fumble with the button and the zipper, your hand quickly reaches inside the soft material of his boxers, pressing your palm against his dick. His expression he tried to maintain so hard crumbles in an instant, eyes fluttering shut as his hips jerks forward against your hand.

He curses lowly as you move your hand up and down before freeing him and starting to properly move around him.

His blues find your eyes again, watching you for a second while you slowly move up and down. His breathing gets frantic quickly, and it doesn’t take long for him to grab your wrist to stop you, lifting you with comical ease and laying you down on your bed in mere seconds.

His hands do quick work of your sleep shirt and shorts, vibranium hand going straight to where you ache for him to rub you over your underwear.

Your moan makes his eyes flutter, his jaw ticking as his flesh hand coming to massage your breast.

He keeps the perfect pressure, at the perfect speed, shows you once again how he knows your body better than you do. His eyes never leave yours, and he watches with wide eyes and a slack jaw as your first orgasm hits you hard and fast, his hand never slipping inside the thin material, torturing you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I need to be inside you.” He doesn’t give you a minute to recover. You can barely blink before your underwear is thrown away somewhere around the room, and he is already moving between your legs.

He is too desperate, too fast. Everything’s going to be over way too soon. And you need more time. This night of all nights, you need more time with him. Your heart clenches in your chest.

He is about to push in when you place your hand on his chest over his shirt. “Wait.”

He freezes. And when he looks at you this time, maybe for the first time, he looks panicked. Disheveled. You don’t know what exactly he is thinking, but you lift your hand to his face to soothe him immediately. You smile at the feeling his stubble leaves inside your hand.

“Can you go slow?” You see relief rushing through him like it’s something solid. His hands that are on either side of your legs move up and down as he looks at you with a softness in his eyes that make tears form behind your eyes.

When he speaks, it’s worse. It’s like the first time, when you weren’t this glass half version of yourself, when he didn’t break you just yet. “You okay?”

You nod, smile faltering but not leaving your face. “Yeah, just…” You don’t know what to say. Just what? Just I can’t stand the thought of you leaving so soon? Just I want you to stay a little longer?

“Just a little sensitive today.”

He smiles then, first time since he walked through your door, flesh hand coming up to cup the side of your face. “My girl’s sensitive.”

You whimper at his words, and his smile grows a little, still soft as silk. “Of course I’ll go slow, sweetheart. I’ll do whatever you want me to.” Except stay.

He does go slow.

He opens up your legs to make room for himself, but doesn’t lay on top of you yet. His hands, one warm and one cold, roam around your body, making you shiver. “How do you want me?”

You pause even though you’re not moving, and he senses it. Edge of his mouth ticks up a little. Your heart clenches in your chest.

He never asked you that before except for the first time you had sex, when you’d met just a couple of days ago.

Most of the time it feels like he knows you better than you know yourself.

You don’t know what to say for a good minute, but he is patient, he’s going slow, he waits for you.

Your mouth opens and closes for once or twice, but no words come out. Eventually, your fingers find his shirt, dragging it up and off. Your hands close around his shoulders, and he tenses when he feels your warmth around the scarred tissue of his left shoulder.

You pull him over your body in response, your legs caging him onto you by wrapping around his torso. You hold him to your neck, your mouth dancing over his ear, a small shudder leaves him as his forearms rest on either side of your head. “Like this,” you whisper. “Close, and slow.”

“Close and slow.”

You nod, and he copies you.

When he pushes in, it’s both heaven and hell.

Heaven because he’s here, he’s so close, as close as he can be. And he feels so good, filling you so well that makes you think he was made for you.

Hell because he’ll leave, he may be close but he’s always so far. He is breathing into your neck, inhaling your scent, grunting with every powerful thrust of his hips, and it feels like he thinks you are made for him as well.

After five or ten or twenty thrusts, you can’t even tell, you are gone again. You try to warn him while also holding onto him impossibly tighter before softly crying out. “Bucky- I’m-“

He nods, because he already knows. He always knows. “Go on baby,” he says without lifting his head, voice muffled. “I got you.”

You come with tears gathering in your eyes, burying your face in his neck and breathing him in.

His hips never lose their rhythm, instead gaining strength and speed. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Squeezin’ me so tight.”

He keeps going until the you come around him once again, the force of it catching you by surprise. You don’t even realize you are chanting his name until he starts caressing your hair and murmuring next to your ear. “I know baby, I know.”

He is losing control, you can tell. He still tries to go slow like you asked but his rhythm falters, his hips speeding up and slowing down like he’s at war with himself. You can tell he is close when he starts grinding into you every other thrust, almost making you climb that high again.

“You feel so good,” he says suddenly, voice higher than before. “Best thing in my goddamn life.”

Faster.

“Baby, my baby.”

You can’t breathe.

Faster.

“I love you, I love you, fuck. My baby.”

Your whole world narrows down to the sound of his voice, hands freezing where they were traveling around his shoulders.

You don’t even breathe when he collapses on top of you, and even though you can’t see anything in the now pitch black room, you can feel him. He’s so warm, his face still hidden in the crook of your neck, heavy breaths mixing with yours. He stays like that for a couple of seconds.

Your heart is hammering in your chest, not knowing what to do, how to react. You are terrified.

You try savoring the feeling of his strong frame enveloping yours, even though you almost choke under his weight.

You are afraid to move. You are afraid the second you move an inch, he will come to himself and realize what just happened. And you so desperately want this to last, for it to be real. But after a minute or two, you can’t stop yourself from slowly bringing your fingers to his hair and starting to play with the damp strands that curls a little around his neck. He lets out a soft breath and you can swear that for a moment, he relaxes into you even more.

It takes a while for him to raise his head from your neck and look at you, his eyes filled with so many emotions that you can’t quite name.

“Please, James.”

That seems to snap him out of whatever trance he was in, because he averts his gaze from yours, shame, again, winning over any other emotion on his face. You watch it happen like it’s a movie you’ve seen a hundred times.

You wince when he pulls out of you, and he steals a glance to make sure you are okay, but that’s it. He is on his feet, putting on his clothes again.

“J- Bucky,” you try one more time, your voice wavering. Pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s in a rush. “It was- I-“ He shakes his head, pulls on his pants.

“It was the heat of the moment, I- I got carried away. It wasn’t-“

He might as well struck you.

“It’s okay,” you manage to say, interrupting his rambling. You take the blanket hanging off the bed and cover yourself, feeling too exposed now that he wasn’t in the bed with you. “I know.”

You feel like you are about to throw up.

He pauses for a moment at your words, but doesn’t take it back.

And for the first time ever, you want him to leave. Because now, you are about to lose control. You feel on the verge of some kind of an anger attack, because of him, or yourself, you don’t know. You just want him to get the hell out of your house as soon as possible so you can cry until your body runs out of tears.

“Take care of yourself,” he says when he is dressed seconds later. You almost laugh. He rushes towards your door, lingering there for a second too long that causes your stupid heart to skip a bit and straighten up a little bit.

But then he is gone.

The low sound of the apartment’s door getting shut making you flinch like someone slammed it, and you find yourself where you always were. Crying, with his cum dripping between your legs, trying with every fiber of your being to not feel used.

IloveyouIloveyouMybaby

—

Bucky knows what it means to hate oneself. He’s hated himself for the better part of his life. He knows what it’s like to not be able to live with himself. Which is precisely why he cannot have you. Not in the way you and him both want. You don’t deserve this broken version of him. He did things in his life, terrible things, killed and tortured people, did things he can never forget or forgive himself for. But after meeting you? After leaving you over and over and over again? He didn’t know he could hate himself to the degree he does now.

Each time he leaves you with tears in your eyes, it feels like it’s the worst thing he has ever done.

And he knows it’s not fair, how he keeps coming back. He knows he isn’t letting you breathe, let alone move on. Yet he can’t stop.

Standing outside your apartment now, trying to stop himself from knocking on the door, knowing he will hurt you again, is a unique kind of torture.

A battle he always loses.

Because he needs you. He always needs you.

And he knows it’s selfish, so selfish that it makes his stomach turn, makes him unable to look in the mirror in the morning. But he needs you, and he can’t help it.

He knocks.

He hates himself.

The second his hand meets your door, he knows something’s wrong. He doesn’t know why, but it’s wrong. The sound of his knuckles against your door is wrong, the eerie silence of the building is wrong, and he can’t hear your footsteps coming towards the door. It’s just wrong.

His brows furrow. His heartbeat picks up.

He knocks again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing.

A rational part of him inside his head tries to reassure him, maybe you were out with your friends, maybe you just went to get some fucking milk. But no, he knows. Something’s not right. He can feel it in his bones.

He is panting now, staring at your door, eyes wide, trying to not let panic consume his whole being.

“Doll?” he tries desperately, heart pounding.

The door behind him opens, and it makes him flinch so hard that he needs to take a second to look behind him. An old lady, probably younger than he is, stands behind the threshold, looking at him with squinted eyes. “Are you James Barnes?”

Bucky’s heart drops. He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t want to know how she knows who he is or hear what she has to say. His mouth feels like he spent the last three days chewing concrete.

He nods.

“She’s gone.”

No.

“What?”

“She left,” the lady repeats. “She’d say you’d come by. Kindly asked me to let you know.”

Just like that, the earth is swiped away under his feet, his whole world is crumbled, crushed down upon him. Two words, and he feels like he’s dying.

“What- uh…” A humorless chuckle escapes his lips, flesh hand coming up to rest on his forehead for a second. “What do you mean she left?”

The lady looks at him with sympathetic eyes. Bucky wants to cry. “She moved away, it’s a shame. Such a nice girl. Told me to tell you.” When Bucky just stares at her, she gives her a tight smile like she knows. “Sorry, Kid. Have a nice evening.”

Then her door is shut.

He flinches again at the sound of it.

And Bucky is left in the hallway, your door not opening for the first time in seven months.

WELL! wasn’t that something? thinking about doing a second part for this with a more detailed smut section, but i think i’ll just see whether you guys want one or not.👀

comments & reblogs fuel me, love you!

[dors-ee]

I really like the tragicness of Lavellan in dai. I don't know the other inquisitors well enough, sorry. But I really like Lavellan, even if the clan survives.

Actually in particular if the clan survives.

There's no "my whole family is dead and taken away from me". There's no "everything is destroyed never to be rebuilt", there's no "all of my friends are dead" ...

partially because being friend in the first place is part of the tragicness.

The inquisitor tragicness is a... personal one, an interior one. They are the ones going through it, more so than the world. They do close the breah they do get rid of Corypheus. They could technically go back home.

But they can't. Because they changed so much. As a person they changed, like themseleves. But how they've perceived is also changed, and this perception is changed and twisted and different for everyone.

The herald of Andraste for some, a dalish elf for others even after all of that... but for the dalish themseleves... what of the fact the inquisitor was helping the chantry? Affiliated with it?

They're a billion different persona, and yet none fits truly. And as a person they're irremediably changed to, left to be... something.

For Lavellan in particular there's also the whole elvhen thing -that adds distance with the other dalish but again... that's an internal thing mostly. I doubt Lavellan was going screaming about everything they've learned. They lesrnt things about the eleves, that distance them from the other whether they want it or not.- that can shake their feeling of seld. They sense of self sorry, for the actual term.

Their sense of self as an elf I mean. Everything they believed for about elves, about what it is to be an elf, have been shaken terribly. (that one apply to rook too and veilguard should have gone into that more, like everything else.).

Who are they? is now posed on the deepest level for them. It's not just a matter of identity but their, their whole species, existence is questioned. Who are they? Where they is "the elves"...

but also, if we go further, thedas. The world. Who are they, this world? The very law of nature they believed in are apparently not the real ones. It's a made up world really, in a way.

And yet, that is in between the inquisitor and eventually their close circle. It's them that knows it and is shaken.

Someone else explained the friend thing better than me, how the inquisitor is forced into this role and with those people. They didn't truly chose them did they?

not saying true friendship and love can't come out of it, but everything was basically forced onto them.

And those people, those strangers from the other world, from their oppressors, the oppressors of their people, are forced onto them. They have to help them or get killed, as an elf. The chantry is saying "help or die" to an elf, knowing the history that is wild to me.

Then they're like "you're our tool. Good. cool. We'll use you wring out evrrything out of you. We'll change you on a deeper level, then we'll abandon you."

or rather force integration into the chantry which again DALISH ELF, or wlel "leave ir all behind. What, despite being forced into this, you have managrd to build yourselfx what maaaybe you found some sense of comfort... or maybe some meaning -make it worth it to be forced there/losing everything- into, let it go."

And so you either betray yourself, the dalish elves, further or you give it up. And you are left with... nothing.

your friends leave you, everyone goes back to their lives. And you? What do you do?

Now that you are an entirely different person? Now that as a dalish elf you helped the fucking chantry?

like the elf vs chantry here really is fucking wild to me. I can't articulate ir well but the chantry foricng a dalish elf "die or help", to work for them, to help them. Then the elf do, the eld beteays themseleves, abandon themseleves -forced yes- and build something... and then it is taken away.

No sorry oppressed we used as a tool. Either integrate, or get lost. Happy to use you when needed now we discard you.

elevate you to a myth, a myth of a religion that is not yours, that actually had oppressed your for milleniums, force you to be this mythical figure but of our religion... then abandon you.

And there's no one to truly relate to that. There's no one that has lived what rhe inquisitor has lived, with the dalish/chantry, with being changed so deeply with all the revelations aboutthe elves and the world. (or maybe there is, for the others about the world, yes. So some people cna relate to parts of it, not all of it.

Even Solas, can only relate to part of it when you think about it.

The inquisitor is totally alone in the end. It is an internal tragedy mostly, but it is a tragedy.

They're incredibly tragic to me, how they lose their sense of self their home their world, everything is taken away from them, and... it's also the "how" it happens. Because again, in particular if the clan survive, technically physically things aren't taken away really.

even their friend leaving at the end, it's not so much a physicsl distance type of abandonment.

And idk. That makes them so... tragic. (not more or less than other type of tragedies. Just different.).

And like they can't escape it either. I mean, if they don't become the inquisitor, they die at the conclave (if my memory is correct.).

I don't know if any of that really makes sense or if they're just rambles. Other people have put the tragedy of being the inquisitor into words much much better than me.

I remember a psot about home, speaking of warden/hawke/inky and how inky lose their homes bc hero don't have homes. The being made a myth, a hero, is a big part of the tragedy.

Personally I put it into "irremediably changed as a person" here.

ah quickly I just thought about it but : the inquisitor foes leave home for the conclave voluntarily. And I think it's a neat parallel to Solas and interesting to think of. The other protagonists are forced to leave home, but the inquisitor at first does it voluntarily. They have no idea of what will happen, but they do leave by themseleves. Not relaly on topic but I just thought about it and needed to say it haha

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Crimson Ties ~ 23

CRIMSON TIES MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,235ish

Summary: The team rushes to rescue Tony.

Warning(s): talk of rape, talk of abuse, torture, death, mental health, violence

Note(s): MAKE SURE YOU'VE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS! This is my third update in the last 24 hours. So make sure you haven't missed anything before you read!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

Rhodey sighed as he watched Happy’s lifeless body get rolled away. He stood on the sidewalk outside of the therapist office, unable to wrap his mind around it all.

“Obadiah knew he couldn’t attack the house,” Natasha said. She was sitting on the curb. Yelena and Bucky were close by getting stitched up. “It didn’t have enough people to do that again… He’s been watching us… watching her.”

“Steve said he got her to the penthouse,” Rhodey stated. “She’s safe.”

“For now,” added Yelena. “We need to end this.”

“We will. But we can’t do anything that could put Tony’s life in danger.”

~~~

The penthouse wasn’t home. It felt cold. You felt trapped. You were curled up on the leather couch in the living room. Your knees were tucked to your chest and Steve had carefully thrown a blanket over your shoulders. Rhodey, Peggy, Natasha, Bucky, and Yelena joined you and Steve there, but you didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge them. They began laying out information on the large dinning table, trying to figure out how to get Tony back. They kept glancing over at you, wondering if you’d ever be okay again. 

They hadn’t told you that Happy was dead. But you knew. You had seen his body laying across the concrete and knew that there was no coming back from that. You could help but imagine all the terrible things your father was doing to Tony. You hated to think of the pain your father could inflict and that you may never see Tony alive again.

“I want to help,” suddenly and quietly slipped from your lips.

The room stilled and everyone turned to face you.

“Y/N… what?” Steve questioned.

You squirmed under their gazes, pulling the blanket around you. “I want to help,” you repeated a little louder. “I want to help find Tony.”

“Sweetie,” Peggy said gently, “you’ve been through—“

“I know what I’ve been through. But I can still help… please.” Everyone remained silent but had eyes on you. You took a shaky breath before continuing. “He’s the only man who ever made me feel like I was more than what happened to me. He’s… the only thing that’s truly felt safe since… well, since ever.”

“Y/N…” Bucky stepped forward.

“He’s my home,” tears gathered in your eyes. “Let me help. I’m not asking to go with you. But my father’s home was once my own. I may know things you don’t.”

The others shared a silent conversation through looks. Rhodey nodded, stepping up.

“Alright, Y/N,” he said. “You’re in.”

~~~

Tony couldn’t remember when they stopped. It was hard to measure time here. No windows, no clocks. Just his pain. His body was slumped sideways in the chair— one arm unshackled, useless at his side, shoulder dislocated from where they’d yanked too hard during the last round. His lip was split. One eye was swollen shut and there was more blood oozing out of him than he cared for. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.

He blinked slowly, vision swimming in and out of focus. A flickering light above him buzzed. The hum of the camera’s lens shifting in the corner echoed louder than it should. He hated this silence the most. It gave him too much space to think. And right now, thinking was a battlefield.

“She’s safe. She’s safe. She’s safe,” he kept repeating in his mind.

Tony let his head lol back against the chair, gasping shallow breaths through his clenched teeth. His mind focused on you. He saw your face. Heard your voice.

“Hold on for her. Hold on for her.”

Footsteps outside the door made him tense, every nerve in his broken body flinching. Not again. Please, not again. But they passed and the silence returned. Tony let his head fall forward, hair damp against his forehead. Every breath felt like a fight. But at least he was still breathing. Still here. Still yours. He would make sure to tell you that if— when he got out of here. That he was yours. He would promise to do better. To take you somewhere safer than what he had provided so far. He would move heaven and earth if that’s what it took. Because that’s what you deserved.

~~~

The city buzzed below, but it felt like lightyears away. Everyone decided to call it for the night. It was a hard call, but they had taken a hard hit and everyone needed sleep. You were still fully dressed, curled on the end of the bed. You stared out the tinted window, hating that you couldn’t see any stars. 

The silence in the room was heavy, pressing against you like a ton of bricks. You blinked, swallowing hard. Something wasn’t right. Slowly, you sat up. Your chest was tight. Not with the usual panic. This was different. A deep ache. A throb in your ribs like you’d been bruised from the inside.

“Tony,” you breathed out.

You couldn’t explain it. No alarms had gone off. No update from the team or new intel. But something had shifted, like the thin thread between you and Tony had gone taut. Like he was trying to hold on but slipping. Your hands trembled as you slid off the bed. You stumbled over to the window, like some how but staring out it you could see Tony. Tears welled in your eyes as you pressed your forehead against the glass. 

“Please…” you begged to the universe. To anyone that would listen and grant your request. “Please… don’t let him die.”

You slid down the window, sobbing.

~~~

The dawn broke with you having got no sleep. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Tony was taken and you were already a shell of yourself once again. You sat at the table, the others standing around it. A blueprint of your father’s house was rolled out. You leaned in and looked it over.

“It’s not right,” you mumbled. Your shaky hand reached out and pointed to a blank spot. “He’s office is here. There’s stairs to a basement. Like Tony’s… He’d be kept down there.”

“We need more men,” Rhodey stated. “We’re not going to get him out of there alive without extra help.”

“Then we need them gathered quickly,” Steve said. “We can’t waste another day.”

“I’ll stay with Y/N,” Peggy offered. “I’ll get her back to the house.”

“No,” you shook your head. “Please… I can stay here?” You couldn’t be in that big house without Tony there. 

“Of course,” Yelena said, sensing your growing distress. “This penthouse is probably safer anyways.”

~~~

Obadiah felt like he was winning. He was confident in his plan to gain control of all that Stark had. There was only one more step.

“I need her in our hands tonight,” Obadiah told his men. “She needs to be alive, but you can kill anyone in your path to get to her. My daughter will come home. And she will be the thing that causes Stark to hand everything over. If I put her life in jeopardy, he’ll have no choice but to cave.”

A bomb going off shook the whole house. Before Obadiah could say anything about it, a second bomb went off. This time it was closer, throwing him off to the side with his other men. Obadiah coughed, struggling to get to his feet.

“Secure Stark!” He ordered. “Bring him to me!”

“On it, sir,” his men said, rushing to do as they were told.

~~~

“We’ve breached,” Steve stated over their comms. 

They weren’t stupid. They weren’t going to go into the house, but had formed a plan to blast a hole where the basement was. They knew it was risky, but it was the best plan they could come up with.

“Then go!” Rhodey ordered. “We’ll handle Obadiah!”

Steve and Bucky entered the hole, smoke blinding them. They could hear the gunfire echoing from upstairs. The lights overhead flickered as Steve and Bucky moved swiftly through the hallways, taking out anyone who got in their way. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. 

They moved fast, quickly spotting the only room with a closed door in the hallway.  Steve got there first. He threw the door open. Tony was slumped in the metal chair, no longer cuffed because he was too weak to do anything. His right eye was completely swollen shut. Blood stained his torn clothes and any skin it could latch onto. His breathing was shallow. So shallow that for a terrifying second, Bucky and Steve thought they were too late. But then Tony’s good eye blinked, slowly.

“About damn time,” he rasped, voice like sandpaper.

“Shit, Stark,” Bucky muttered, already at his side.

Steve dropped to one knee. “We’ve got you, Tony,” he said. “We’ve got you.”

Tony let out a broken laugh that turned into a cough. “To—Took you… long enough.”

“We had to be dramatic,” Bucky smirked. “You know how it is.”

“Y/N— Y/N… How is she?”

“She’s safe. She’s waiting for you to come home.”

Tony nodded, sliding off the chair. Steve quickly caught the man.

“Hey, stay with us,” Steve coaxed. “We still have to get out of here.”

“He… He’s going after her,” Tony continued. “Are you sure she’s safe?”

“Peggy’s with her and another group of guards. She’s in the penthouse. They’d be stupid to get her there.”

“Come on,” Bucky urged, helping Steve pick up Tony.

“We have Obadiah cornered,” Rhodey’s voice came through the comms loud enough for Tony to hear. “We’re going to end this.”

“Tell them to wait,” Tony ordered. “I want to end him myself.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked. “You need to be looked over. We have Banner outside and—“

“Take me to Stane.”

~~~

Despite the pain, Tony refused to let Steve and Bucky help him into the room Rhodey had Obadiah cornered in. Natasha and Yelena were there too, refusing to point their guns anywhere else but that man. Tony stepped inside the room, limping heavily.

“You look like hell, Stark,” Obadiah taunted. “Did you come all this way to gloat?”

“No,” Tony replied, voice firm. “I cam to make sure you heard me.”

“What could you possibly say that matters now?”

Tony took a step closer. “You lost. You had all the power, all the leverage. And you still lost.” Obadiah glared. “You don’t get to touch her again. You don’t get to inflict pain on her again. Y/N is protected. Always.”

Obadiah scoffed. “You think this is over? She will never escape my pain.”

Tony raised his hand and Rhodey placed his gun in it. “Threaten my wife again. I dare you.”

“You’re wife?” Obadiah cackled. “She’s not wife material. She’s barely anything. You’ll throw her away eventually. And I’ll be there to remind her that she is nothing. She is—”

The shot was quick. The bullet left the barrel and shot through Obadiah’s head quickly, causing the man to slump back, dead. Tony dropped the gun, stumbling back as his adrenaline wore off.

“Take me home,” he muttered as Steve caught him. “Take me to her…”

~~~

The penthouse was too quiet. The only sounds were of your feet as you paced the floor. Peggy stood still, off to the side as she watched you. They hadn’t updated her and she was growing anxious as well. She watched you paced from the window, to the kitchen, back again. Every minute that past felt like it was crushing you. Your whole body was trembling as your thoughts spiraled.

What if they’re too late?

What if he’s dead?

What if your father is on his way right now to you?

A sudden buzz broke the silence�� the alert panel by the door flickering on. It turned green as you heard the elevator rising. You froze, not daring to move or even breathe. A chime. The doors slide open and there he was. Tony. Bloodied. Bruised. Injured. But it was him. And he was alive. Your eyes locked with his. Tony tugged away from the others as he staggered forward. You ran, throwing your arms around him without a second thought. Tony caught you, his good arm pulling you in while his whole body practically folded into the embrace like its as the only thing keeping him standing. 

“You’re safe…” you whispered, voice cracking. “You’re safe…”

Tony let out a breath like it had been trapped in his lungs for days. “I did it,” he whispered, voice still rough. “Obadiah. He’s gone. It’s done.”

You pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. “He’s… he’s dead?”

Tony nodded slowly. “I made sure.”

Your tears fell freely. “I’m free?”

“You’re free, Y/N.”

“And you came back…”

He rested his forehead against yours. “I will always come back to you, honey.”

“I… I felt it,” you whispered. “When it got bad… I knew something was wrong.”

Tony’s lips trembled, but he couldn’t get the tears to fall. “I kept seeing your face… Even when I wanted to quit. You were there. Pulling me from the edge.”

The two of you stood there for a long time, wrapped in silence, pain, and relief. With a shaky breath, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, so softly that it was barely felt. Tony let out a pained breath.

“I was so scared,” you admitted.

“I’m here,” Tony said, his good arm tightened around you. “I’m right here.”

next chapter >

[charliegyrth]

Speedos - 1 of 2

A Competitive Swimmer Gets Fat

Hi, everybody! Charlie here. I wrote this story in response to another awesome suggestion from Anonymous. Whoever you are, I hope you like this story!

***

Micah walked into the room with a cake in his arms and a big ol’ smile on his freckled face.

“What’s this?” I asked from the couch.

“What do you think?” He placed the cake on the table in front of me. It had vanilla-white frosting with a blue triangle drawn on the top. A tiny plastic gold medal sat in the center.

I had to laugh. “Okay, I get the medal.” (I was on our college swim team and I’d just placed first in the 300-meter butterfly.) “But what’s with the triangle?”

“Don’t you get it?” he asked as he slid next to me on the couch.

I shrugged.

“Seriously? It’s supposed to be a speedo!”

I looked closer. I guess the shape was a little speedo-like, and the baker had added a pile of extra frosting at the bottom to simulate a bulge. “Cute,” I said. It really was.

But I still didn’t get why he got me a cake. He knew I didn’t like sweets.

He kissed my cheek. “So glad you like it, babe. I figured the cake is like Step One for us finally getting back to normal.”

“Back to normal?” I asked.

He flinched. “Yeah. You know, so we can be… like, happy again.”

“Huh?”

“Look, Nate. I freaking love you, but you know how you get during swim season.”

“No?”

“Okay. I’ve been holding my tongue for months now, but we gotta talk about this. Off-season, you’re the perfect boyfriend. But once the season starts, you’re kind of a… monster. No offense.”

“How am I a monster?”

“One, you’re always at the pool. I barely see you. And when I do see you, you snap at me all the time. You’re never happy.”

“It’s because I get so stressed.”

“No! It’s because you’re starving yourself. We can’t even have carbs in the house when you’re competing. You just eat your tasteless slabs of chicken every day. And it makes you so angry! All the time! So I thought, now that you’re a champion and the season’s over, we’ll celebrate with a cake. You’ll allow yourself to eat normal stuff. And you’ll start being nice again.”

My stomach sank. “Is that really how you feel?”

He looked away. Clearly he wasn’t planning to unload all this stuff on me, but I’d asked. Now he felt guilty for saying it. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

I squeezed his hand. “No. You’re right. I haven’t been a good boyfriend, and you deserve better. Really. I’ll, uh, be right back.”

I rushed into the bathroom, not because I had to use it, but because I didn’t want Micah to see me cry.

I took a long look at my reflection. I was in the best shape of my life: 8% body fat, smooth muscles coating my entire body. I had the perfect body for swimming, but I also had sunken cheeks and a constant look of exhaustion on my face. I was objectively handsome, but… but it wasn’t worth it.

Thinking back on the last few months, I remembered all the times I’d been harsh with Micah. I did snap at him. I cancelled our plans all the time. I was mean. And just because he never called me out on it didn’t mean he wasn’t upset.

He should be upset.

So as I looked at myself, my image blurry through tears, I promised that I’d fully embrace the off-season. I wouldn’t hold back. I’d do whatever I wanted. I’d eat whatever I wanted. And most importantly, I’d treat Micah with the respect that he deserved and really pay attention to his needs.

I wiped my face and walked back into the living room. “Let’s have some cake!”

Micah beamed as I sat next to him. “Actually, none for me. It’s all yours.” He sliced off a huge piece and plopped it on a plate. Then he handed it to me. That was way more than I could eat, but I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

I took a big bite. Ugh, it tasted terrible. Just pure, processed sugar. The sweetness overload literally gave me chills.

Micah watched me swallow it down. “Good, right? Doesn’t it feel great to finally stop restricting your calories?”

“Totally,” I lied.

His eyes were still on me, so I took another bite. And another. And another.

As I ate, Micah told me about his day. He mentioned that his mother had finally recovered from pneumonia.

“That’s great,” I said through a mouthful. I felt so guilty. I had no idea that Micah’s mom had been sick. I’m sure he told me, but in the midst of swim season, I hadn’t paid attention to anything he said. Yet another thing that I’d have to change about myself.

Pretty soon, I’d finished the entire slice. I ate it super-fast because it was terrible and I wanted to get this over with.

He grabbed the empty plate from my hands. “Damn, Nate. You loved this, huh?”

“Delicious,” I lied.

“Thought so.” He scooped me up another piece, just as big as the first.

I almost refused, but he looked so happy that I took it and started eating. Somehow, the second piece was easier to get down than the first. I think I’d gotten used to all that sugar.

***

“What do you want for dinner, babe? Shrimp fettuccini or spaghetti bolognese?”

Neither. Pasta was way too rich for me. Micah had been making Italian food all week, and it always left me sluggish and bloated.

But it meant so much to him. He loved cooking, and now that I wasn’t turning down his meals, he went all-out every dinner. He always served me these massive portions, and I ate every bite. For him.

“I don’t know…” I said gently. I tried to think of the best way to reject both choices without offending him, but he interrupted me before I could say anything.

“Great! I’ll make a little of both!” He scurried into the kitchen. Dinner was hours away, but he wanted to get started early.

That gave me some time to head to the pool and swim for a couple hours. I needed that time to sort through my thoughts.

I dug through my dresser, but I couldn’t find my speedo. “Micah?” I shouted across the apartment. “Where’d you put my swim clothes?”

“Can’t hear you, babe!” he called back.

I headed into the kitchen to find Micah holding a measuring cup with three sticks of butter. He kissed me. “So I was thinking. After dinner, wanna watch the latest episode of Bridgerton?”

“Uh, sure.” He liked that show way more than I did, but if that’s what he wanted, then why not?

“Awesome! You’re all caught up, right? We’re on episode eight.”

“Oh. I guess I’m a few episodes behind.”

“Perfect. You can watch the last few while I’m cooking. Otherwise, you won’t understand what’s going on.”

“Actually, I was…” I stopped, remembering the look of disappointment on his face whenever I chose swimming over spending time with him. I didn’t want to see that look again. “Good idea.”

I trudged into the living room and switched on Netflix. I guess I was gonna binge-watch a show that I didn’t even like just to keep Micah happy. Small price to pay.

***

After an hour of searching, I finally found my speedo and goggles shoved in the back of the closet. Micah must’ve put it there. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was purposely hiding them from me.

It had been two months since I’d been in a pool, and I was getting restless. All I did was go to classes and stay home with Micah. I loved spending time with him (don’t get me wrong) but I really needed to move my body.

Micah was at the library in the middle of a study session with his classmates, so now was the perfect time. I stripped naked and pulled on my speedo. At least, I tried to. I got it halfway up my thighs before the tight fabric started digging into me. This kind of material (a mixture of polyester, nylon, and spandex) didn’t shrink, and I didn’t own any smaller sizes. Weird.

With effort, I pulled it all the way up, feeling the fabric dig painfully into my waist. I’d outgrown my speedo, and judging from the lack of circulation, I’d outgrown it by a lot.

That could only mean one thing: I’d gained weight. I always did during the off-season. Every year, my muscular body became smoother and less defined, but I’d never outgrown my swimwear before.

Logically, I shouldn’t be surprised. Micah made me huge dinners every night. He took me out to restaurants, too. Often, he’d surprise me with sugary snacks, always kissing my cheek and saying things like, “Aren’t you glad it’s the off-season now?” or “You’re so much nicer when you’re not starving yourself.”

I should’ve known that my body would change. I felt so stupid.

I hurried to the mirror and looked at my reflection for the first time in months. I was fat. I bulged out of the top of the speedo, in the front and (especially) on either side. My hips looked so much wider than they should’ve. I turned to the side to see how far my ass flared out in the back, and… Well, it flared out a lot.

The changes were so obvious that it was impossible for Micah not to notice. He knew I was fat, and yet he never said anything. Perhaps that was because he thought I knew it too.

But then why did he keep encouraging me to snack? Why did he look so happy every time he ladled me seconds? Hell, why did he hide my swim clothes in the back of the closet?

The only explanation was because he wanted me to gain. I doubt that he actually liked these new love handles. (I mean, who would?) He was trying to sabotage me throughout the off-season so that I wouldn’t be able to compete next year.

My God. It all made sense now! I only had one more season left before I graduated, and with every bite he forced onto me, he was ensuring that I’d never swim again. At least not competitively.

As I was sorting through all these thoughts, the front door creaked open. Very quickly, I pulled off my speedo and hid it under the sink. I hid the goggles, too.

“Nate? Where are you?”

“In the bathroom!” I called. “Give me a second.”

He didn’t. He just walked right in, glancing up and down at my plump, naked body. His mouth curved into a half-smile. “Hey, sexy.”

This was my chance to confront him, to tell him that I’d figured out his little game, but the words wouldn’t come out.

He walked closer and wrapped his arms around my waist. I felt his hands squeeze my fattened cheeks. “I’m so glad I left my study session early.” That’s all he said before he pulled me toward our bedroom.

He threw me onto the bed and then climbed on top of me.

“Micah...?" I started.

He stopped me with a kiss.

***

For dinner that night, Micah made a huge platter of lasagna. I still hadn’t confronted him about his devious plan. Now that I was aware of it, though, all his little tricks were ridiculously obvious. The massive serving he placed on my plate, compared to the much smaller serving on his own. The subtle comments about my appetite. The way he kept glancing down at my stomach, as if he was mentally measuring me.

I didn’t want to argue with him, but I was done being manipulated. I ate less than half my meal before pushing my plate away. “Babe, that was delicious.”

“But you didn’t finish.”

“Naw, I’m full.”

He looked surprised. Since the beginning of the off-season, this was the first time I’d turned down his food. I could sense his little brain gears clicking away as he thought about how to respond. “Should I add more cheese?”

“Nope,” I said, holding firm. “It really is delicious.”

“Okay,” he said. It was a very dramatic-sounding “okay.” It didn’t sound like he was mad at me. It sounded like he knew I was onto him and he finally had to give up on his plan. He sounded disappointed, resigned.

“So how’d your studying go?” I changed the subject.

“Great, actually.” He started telling me about everything he’d learned, and even though I found it really boring (macroeconomics), I loved his enthusiasm. He wasn’t mad at me. He’d moved on.

I ended up eating the rest of my food as he talked. The last few months had increased my hunger, but I was eating because I chose to, not because anyone tricked me. And I didn’t go for seconds.

That’s progress.

***

I went to the pool, wearing a brand-new pair of speedos. This wasn’t a secret to Micah. I told him I was going.

It had been a week since I’d realized how fat I’d gotten, and while my boyfriend continued to make huge meals and always have snacks within arms’ reach, he stopped encouraging me to eat. Everything felt like old times again.

I still ate more than I would’ve last year (and I’d grown to like that artificial-sugar taste in all the packaged sweets Micah bought), but I wasn’t going overboard anymore. Just a bit more than usual.

And now, I was going to start exercising again. It would take a while to get back to my fighting weight, but that was totally fine. I had months and months before next season. More importantly, I had determination.

The pool was surprisingly packed for this time of day. All the lanes were taken, so I was stuck in the smaller side pool, meant more for hanging out than swimming laps. I peeled off my shirt, feeling my belly flop out. That was such a strange sensation. Jiggling. I’d never felt that before.

Then I took off my pants. Even though my new speedo was a couple sizes bigger, it still felt tight. My soft thighs just spilled right out.

I started walking toward the edge of the pool. I felt stares from all directions. People recognized me, and now they could see how out-of-shape I’d gotten in just a few months. I caught one of my teammates staring from a distance, his mouth hanging open and his eyes locked on my wide, swaying ass.

Sounds embarrassing, right? Well, I didn’t feel embarrassed. I loved it. In fact, I loved it a little too much. I could feel my dick stiffen under my speedo. I was only halfway to the pool, and already I had a noticeable bulge. My hands shot down to my crotch and I raced back to my beach chair, plopping down.

People noticed. Of course they did.

I kept my towel on my lap, scrolling through my phone and waiting for little Nate to shrink. Finally, he did.

I stood up and started back toward the pool. I felt jiggles ripple through me with each step. And just like that, my erection came back. “Dammit!” I rushed back to my chair and pulled my pants back on. Swimming would have to wait.

***

Read Part 2 here.

[otakpocky131522]

I’m piecing together even more reasons why the kitchen scene in 8x17 bothers me.

This got long, so it’s going below a cut because I’m tired of feeling sad and angry about this, and I’m sure most people are too.

The kitchen scene is so much worse after a whole season where Buck keeps losing people, he barely had any fun moments with his friends to balance all the terrible events happening, and whenever he asked for help, he got terrible advice that did not help at all.

He was absolutely struggling under Gerrard along with everyone else. And while they had ways to deal with the awful things Gerrard said and did, they kept telling Buck to shrug it off, despite seeing multiples times that that approach didn’t work for him, and they should know Buck can’t just ignore things and let them go. And then when he felt guilty about tackling Gerrard, everyone celebrated Gerrard being gone and no one stopped to check on him.

After his breakup, he kept baking and spending the night at Maddie’s. And sure, everyone was concerned, but the only advice they had was: don’t call Tommy. We never saw any proof that anyone talked out the breakup with him. They just confiscated his phone and apparently never talked to Tommy either. And even though Buck just kept baking and could not stay home alone, no one offered any other solution or tried anything else to help him through it, even though they could all tell he was struggling.

Eddie moves to Texas and despite making up for his blunders with the potential subletters by taking over Eddie’s lease (which is going so above and beyond) and planning a goodbye party, all he gets is Eddie throwing accusations at him all episode and not at all apologizing. Or acknowledging how helpful it was for Buck to do this (and essentially helping him again by giving Bobby his notice for him.)

His sister gets kidnapped, he struggles to make friends with Ravi, he hooks up with his ex and fumbles the reconciliation, and they all lose Bobby.

And they all know he’s not doing well. They all saw the baking. He talks to Eddie in the car while looking for Maddie. Chimney is aware he’s unable to sleep in his new house. Buck talks to Maddie after the hook-up and is told maybe he needs to learn to be alone and make a friend.

They are all aware he’s grieving Bobby hard. They don’t eat together on shifts (which has terrible implications if he’s tried cooking for everyone and kept getting brushed off). He did grief assessments on them, and Hen and Eddie seemed to go along with it enough to get their scores. Buck gave them an actual quantifiable way to assess how they’re doing, but it doesn’t seem like anyone is checking in on Buck in any way that’s helping because he went to confession just to try and talk to Bobby. Instead of feeling like he could go talk to his friends….

And then. He apparently got home, saw Eddie didn’t do the groceries, had to wait long enough for Eddie to get home and clearly not have gone shopping, then decided to go do it himself. This could have been a great moment for them to talk and for Buck to get some proper support that he hasn’t gotten all season and have Buck help Eddie cope with his grief and guilt. But instead Eddie yells at him and gets physical. For the crime of…..getting the groceries and grieving. His best friend who knew Buck was struggling before Bobby because he told him so, and was aware Buck was “spiraling” with his grief. And now Buck is being told he’s making this all about him when all we’ve seen is Buck trying to be there for his friends in any way he can. When Buck asks if Eddie thinks he didn’t do everything he could to save Bobby, Eddie tells him “I don’t know, I wasn’t there” with such an accusatory tone when none of this is Buck’s fault. And this is coming from someone Buck cares about, respects, and idolizes based on the way he was talking to Ravi. So all Buck gets out of this conversation is a friend who almost physically assaulted him, extra guilt about Bobby’s death, and guilt that Eddie had to be called about this and tell his own son. And Buck ends up apologizing for Eddie’s pain, but Eddie’s response is to leave, apparently get his son on a flight to LA alone, and have him come and talk to Buck to make up for Eddie’s actions. Still absolutely no actual apology in sight.

On top of all that, Buck’s been oddly excluded from every positive moment this season. He wasn’t there for the gender reveal (which, I’m sorry, why wasn’t he there for his sister and niece? If they asked him to join, he might have made the cake, and then we wouldn’t have the cake mix-up that the writers haven’t had time to fix with all these emergencies). With Hen’s birthday, he was sent home with food Bobby set aside for him after a whole day of physical labor, while Hen, Karen, Bobby, and Athena stayed and ate together. And there’s no clear reason why he isn’t there for these things. We don’t see him having other plans or hanging out with anyone else. The only time I can remember Buck being happy this season was around the hookup.

All in all, it just makes it feel like nobody wants him around in any meaningful way, which ruins the found family vibes that made me keep watching. And on top that, any advice he gets doesn’t feel like it’s for him, based on the way that it’s absolutely useless to him, does not suit his personality, or ignores his past history (yes I’m still baffled by the learn to be alone thing). The advice he gets never comforts him. And we never see anyone check in and make sure he’s doing better this season aside from Maddie after Bobby passed.

[bilswifee]

the blue ~ gracie abrams

intro : gracie and you have been best friends since you can remember literally both of your mothers and fathers have been hip to hip and it passed on to you two . gracie’s home has always been a second home to you , what she has no idea of is that your life was not picture perfect not the image u portrayed it was dark and gruesome what happened behind closed doors nevertheless she was your anchor , your go to person , Gracie was ur life line , she was everything u ever wanted .

~~~~~~~

billie’s theme:

gracie’s theme :

the breeze of the beach was a soft calming sound to your senses . you and gracie decided to enjoy the day together as you grew up side by side u realized that gracie was not just your best friend she was your one and only love , your soulmate .

this day marks your one year anniversary with the beach up infront and the picnic basket filled with all your favorite pastries and a half eaten sushi box ( your fav) your eyes meet gracie’s she’s looking down at her notebook her nose scrunched like she’s focusing .

she bought her guitar with her u can hear her slight humming to whatever song she’s focusing on .

gracie looks up to you her brown soft eyes meeting yours , the ones you fell in love your solace when everything seems like it’s falling apart.

“ remember when i told you i was writing a song and it may or may not be about someone special ?” gracie asked you with a shy smirk .

“ hehehe i remember what u got going there baby mmh? “ you giggled intrigued to know what gracie has for you.

gracie just smiles and nudges u to listen she picks up her guitar brushing the strings and looks up and the beautiful view upfront ( her girl and the beach ) you watch her with complete admiration like you always do.

gracie starts by playing the first few chords you listen attentively u close ur eyes

You live in Hollywood

You're half an hour from me

Your reputation's good

I hope we've got a lot in common

gracie’s voice is so angelic , a warm feeling to your cold and aching body . back when you were kids you lived in hollywood daughter of the most famous film directors in the industry .

coincidentally you were out with your parents one night the big oscar night and you stumbled up jj abrams gracie’s dad and this is where it all started .

that night your parents were tangled up in “ work stuff” so you took a corner and you and gracie started to talk ever since that moment you were inseparable gracie lived 40 mins from you it was literally meant to be .

you came home and stalked her ass from instagram to twitter looking at her beautiful face on your screen she was angel .

you smile remembering the flash back, gracie continues .

I kinda think you should

Just drop it all and call me

You'd tell me on the phone

You really want to meet my family

What are you doing to me now?

What are you doing to me now?

ever since the moment you two met it’s been nothing but that brown haired girl to you . you’d have endless facetimes yapping about the most random things .

the butterflies were a understatement you have never felt this way before it was crazy .

gracie wanted to meet your parents again as soon as possible form a bond and that’s what happened you two became 2 peas in a pot .

You'd talk about your dad

He used to get so angry

He'd scare you and your brother

'Til you felt you needed saving

I know I'd let you in

On all my bad decisions

You'd make them feel less terrible

The second that you'd listen

What are you doing to me now?

What are you doing to me now?

the first few lyrics made you faintly chock up for a second you looked at gracie glossy eyes as focuses on your reaction really carefully .

you have been someone who always tends to bottle up everything you don’t want other people worrying about ur issues

, carry your burden other people have their own shit that’s how you lived till u met your gracie

, she knew when something was up the min she’d laid her eyes on you , the tired weary look u had , your sad eyes she knew it .

one night when she was talking to you about one of her favorite songs on the new album right now

time ran by and your were breaking down abt how relatable her lyrics gracie abrams one hell of a fucking music artist you knew deep down you needed to tell her about what happens at home ,

your fragile scared mother , her white flushed face always so terrified the minuet your father walked in at night . he was a good father but when he drinks it goes bad really bad .

hollywood picture perfect father and amazing mother but behind it all he’s a monster drunk on the whiskey barely grasping what’s happening , his hand slipping on you , your poor brother , your own mother even your sweet baby lola ( golden retriever puppy) was scared of him .

you truly felt good about her

when you sat down and told her about everything you were finally set free the ropes that have been tying u down for years you finally let go finding a second mother and father in gracie’s parents when times get rough u pack a bag and stay over avoiding the conflicts with that bastard of a father you had .

gracie continues to sing the waves splashing beside you it’s all perfect .

I wonder if you know

If you can tell I'm losing

I'm going down without a fight

I don't know how you do it

You say we share a brain

Apologizing for it

But I take it as a compliment

You make me really nervous

she was smiling to you , gracie always left you a nervous wreck 24/7 teasing u complimenting u u act nonchalant but it’s literally healing ur inner child you felt at home with her , when youd have any crazy ideas gracie was the one youd go to , she understood every inch of u the good and bad the colorful and grey , you truly shared the same brain .

she’d never leave u hurting , it was in the midst of winter and u started to realize

this isn’t changing with the seasons

but gracie is never going to give up on you she won’t let you .

gracie smiled at you as you smiled back gosh you were so lucky she melded your broken heart back to its self , your fake smile now a genuine one yiu brown eyes dilating growing big everytime you see your sunshine girl ,

she was your amelie

risk your willing to take

Send me every song

That keeps you up from sleeping

I bet I could recite 'em all

I won't forget the feeling

Of staying up with you

Despite the space between us

I've never felt this close to someone

What if you're my weakness?

yeah gracie abrams was your weakness she was your everything a true light at the end of a dark tunnel thay tunnel being ur own house a place where it’s supposed to be ur save haven ur comfort zone but she was it .

two month of knowing each other gracie suggested making a joint playlist together u were screaming u two bonded endlessly on songs all night from unreleased frank ocean , your favorite sza songs , your obsessions over billie eilish it was never ending .

even when gracie was miles away touring singing to a dozen people every night she’d imagine u standing in the front looking at her with your cheesy smile you know all too well . despite the distance it was so obvious the love between you guys so beautiful like pink matter

gracie strung the last few chords she looked at you

no words said u jumped into her lap holding her milky flawless face this was it this where you’re meant to be . “ god have i ever mentioned how deeply , insanely and madly in love i am with you miss abrams “

“ mmh you might a few times “ gracie giggled faces inches apart you kiss her passionately you were gonna marry this one day .

You came out of the blue like that

You came out of the blue like that

I never could've seen you coming

I think you're everything I've wanted

You came out of the blue like that

You came out of the blue like that

I never could've seen you coming

I think you're everything I've wanted

an : hi my babies this is my first official fic ish im honestly really proud of this i love it ps i love you if u find any other songs mentions i put heehhe

[memerabilia]

JUNIPER & THORN | AVA REID

adjust as necessary.

I checked under my bed, but the monster was gone.

When I was younger, their mean words made me cry.

Dear [name], no one will believe we're anything but witches if you don't put a comb through your hair.

But that doesn't make as lurid of a story. And it doesn't sell as many papers.

You really don't know anything of the world, do you, [name]?

What do you do when you're young and have already achieved everything that most people can only dream of? You have the rest of your life in front of you, but nowhere else to go.

In an hour he'll vomit up another half liter of vodka and then fall asleep, and his body will punish him in the morning.

Tell me, what sort of witchery do you practice? Are you a soothsayer? A hedge-witch? A phrenoligist?

Oh, I've always wanted to watch a real witch do her work.

Perhaps you can come back to the theater. It would make me very happy to see your face in the crowd, [name].

Shall i cast a spell that will give you cat's eyes and chicken feet? Perhaps I shall. Perhaps I shall turn you all into hags.

Wipe away the dewiness in your eyes and scrub the flush from your cheeks.

Do you think I would ever let his serpent's jaws close around you?

One night. One night to indulge this foolish desire, and then no more.

There's hardly anything in life worth doing that doesn't make somebody angry.

Why should I care what happens with my body when I die? Cook up my heart and liver if you have a particular craving, though I think I'd be a bit gamy.

I really am glad to see your face again, [name]. I wasn't sure I would.

Please tell me you haven't chosen a girl whose father can sharpshoot.

It's rude to let a lady sit empty-handed at the tavern. All the other patrons would think so poorly of me my reputation would never recover from it.

Drinking vodka gets easier with every swallow. Like anything, really. If you do it for long enough it stops hurting. Then other things stop hurting.

I've never been so truly eviscerated by a man I only once met.

I don't have any secrets. At least none that I would mind you knowing.

This is the first time in a long while I've gotten to dance at a place I chose, with a partner to my liking.

Well, you're my first lie, my first secret. Does that please you?

Only if it pleases you.

You don't need to drag around your family history like an old dead dog.

I try to live every night like death is riding for me at the very first hour of dawn, so I'll have very few regrets when he finally stands in the door.

Almost all stories begin with a happy couple. If they have daughters, its generally a sign that things will go wrong.

Why have you been so kind to me?

The curse has it's teeth in my mind.

It would be another curse, to confess such things so baldly in the morning light.

Surely you do not wish to curse me so. You are not that kind of witch.

You are not a fool, [name], but sometimes you persevere in behaving like one.

Tell me, will you rejoice when you find me dead? Will you make merry over my pile of bones and skin, will you laugh as you tip my body into its early grave?

And is it a family heirloom? A talisman of ancestral sorcery?

Incidentally, I'm very sorry for your loss. Perhaps earning a pretty sum will ease a bit of your grief.

I can cook a monster for you.

If he doesn't leave soon, I'll have to cast a spell.

Don't think I have forgotten your treachery.

It was a terribly selfish thing of you to do, and don't you try to tell me otherwise.

I think you're so stupid you don't even know why I'm calling you stupid. Do you?

You would just blush and bat your lashes if someone tied a tourniquet around your thigh and and prepared to saw your leg off.

It's no fun stamping through old dirty snow. People want to ruin things that are clean and new.

Even baby birds know how to shriek, even kittens know how to mewl, even puppies know how to whine. But no one ever told me I'm allowed to scream.

Why are you speaking to me in riddles? Speak plainly, or do not speak at all.

Why do you always make things worse for yourself, [name]? You can never manage to just keep your head down and your mouth shut.

I can't protect you from your own foolishness.

I'll be cross with you now, later, and whenever I damn well please.

I can't bear to watch a woman cry on my account. Unless I've moved her to new heights of ecstasy.

I might as well die when my face is still pretty and my smiles are still coy.

I want, most of all, for someone to steal the wretched, awful burden of it away from me, and to explain precisely how wretched and awful it was.

Magic is the first sip of a good wine that makes the edges of your vision blur. Magic is the cool breeze of the boardwalk at night and organ music in the air. Magic is the low flicker of tavern lights and the one you're courting leaning close so you can kiss.

It's good magic, you know. Maybe the best.

I feel different. Maybe its good magic after all.

It's the oldest story there is, men wanting things that could kill them.

If I kiss you again, will you turn into someone who believes me?

Do you plan to kiss your way out of every predicament?

Any predator can choose to smile without teeth.

I wish that I could give you a softer place to fall.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll never leave you again.

I don't think I like this story.

You would not be ugly, not to me.

What spell did you cast over the door?

A parent knows their child the way a tree knows all its branches, the way a snake knows all the scales on its belly.

What right do you have to be rescued?

You told me once you have to beat your body until it obeys you. Perhaps you should treat it kindly instead.

I hope this has extinguished the charm of your little rebellion.

I want to hear what's inside your mind.

What happens when you hold up a mirror to a monster? In my experience, nothing enrages them more than the truth.

If you say you must go, I cannot stop you. But please, [name]—come back to me.

I don't want it to be true. Please, make it not true. Take it all back.

Say you take it all back. Say that none of it was you.

You wanted a story, didn't you? I am simply telling it. I do not think you would prefer the truth—it is ugly and mundane, and stories are sweet and safe.

What sort of man cares so little for the blood of innocents spilled?

What sort of man weds a woman with such sharp teeth?

I won't let you take their deaths from me. Your love cannot make me less of a monster.

Don't you see? You can take my heart and liver; slit up my belly and eat what's inside. I would sooner bear it than lose you.

If you ever loved me, it was only because I was a soft thing you threw down into the bottom of a pit to break your fall.

I couldn't bear to wage war with this awful world alone.

[ohbo-ohno]

Hi!!! This is my first ever ask so sorry if it’s weird lol. Out of all the 141 boys, who’d you think would be most likely to sneak lactation pills into readers food in hopes of reader coming to them for help??? I can’t stop thinking about it and I need to know your thoughts too

no worries at all!!!!! i did not realize lactation pills were a thing though omg this is wild to me

here's my ranking from most to least likely: price, ghost, soap, gaz

i'll be honest, i only put soap below ghost because when i did some googling the Internet said lactation inducing medicine can take several months to work and soap does not have the patience for that lmfao

anyways price is the most likely culprit for this (imo) because that man is the walking definition of a Breeding Kink. he wants you knocked up and pregnant the moment he decides he even wants you. it's his first fucking priority. he'll start slipping you lactation supplements concerningly early in your relationship (because of the aforementioned several months) and masks the way he feels you up in the shower as horniness instead of medical curiosity lmao

also i personally don't see the appeal in drinking breast milk but John Price sure does. that man is drinking you dry, and tbh it's lowkey better if you don't actually have a baby to feed because he gets to keep all your milk for himself

ghost would do this and like 10 other things to keep you as reliant on him as possible. he just wants you to come to him for everything, and he's far from above manufacturing a reason for you to need him. and with breast milk drinking, it's just another way for him to consume you, another part of you he can literally drink down. of course he's into it. that man starts salivating the first time you complain about your tits being sore

(also ghost is totally a dominant freak but tbh there are certain versions of that man that i think have a very deeply buried mommy kink)

soap would do it just because he's a fucking freak. he sees like a singular porno with breast milk drinking and is like "I Need That Now" and starts slipping you the lactation pills. tbh he probably just gets into a routine of doing and forgets about it after a while, by the time you actually start lactating he's like "oh hell yeah" because he just completely forgot

gaz would probably suggest that you take them while you're pregnant, and he just ends up being fucking obsessed with the milk you produce. before the baby's come, it's got to go somewhere and he deems it an insult to just pump and throw it away :/ he'll lay on your chest for as long as you'll let him lmao (and maybe keep slipping the medicine to you post-baby and post-baby-being-weened)

[skys-archive]

It makes me really sad when I see people who are making videos or podcasts or just posting on social media feel horrible when they stop or slow down content creation. Like no, you don't owe us anything at all. Work at your own pace. Focus on yourself when you can. We're here for you once you're ready. It's okay.

[pollen]

i've been diving a lot deeper into adhd symptoms and comorbidities and misdiagnoses and whenever i tell my boyfriend something i learned that sounds like me he responds with something like

[crowlore]

no, dragon age 2 is not the best dragon age game. but it’s also not the worst. and most importantly, it is my favorite.

[mintincubus]

the party in-game btw :^)