#most days I like it but some days I just want to be seen and wanted | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dior-luxury · 2 days ago

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How'd They Handle Your Relationship Going Public

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/romance - f!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] isagi . yukimiya . oliver . sae . michael

- [𝐩:𝐬] Possessiveness (Subtle) . Emotional Pressure . Media Intrusion . Public Scrutiny & Online Harassment . Emotional Intensity . Mentions Of Toxic Fandom

Note: So- these kinda got reallyy long LOL

Isagi Yoichi

Dating Isagi Yoichi wasn’t about fireworks or public spectacles.

It was subtle. Sacred.

You fell for him back when the world was just starting to know his name — before the viral goals, before the press conferences, before “Egoist” became a brand instead of just an insult people threw at him on the field.

He was still Yoichi back then. The guy who walked you home under quiet skies after long study days. Who left you hand-written notes in your bag, or called you at midnight to vent about training and self-doubt. The boy who looked at you like you were the one thing in his life not measured by rankings or goals.

“You make me feel real,” he said once.

“Even when the rest of the world treats me like a story.”

And you smiled, brushing a hand through his hair, saying the words he never quite believed:

“You’re more than enough.”

It started with a photo.

You’d waited for him outside a post-match event — nothing dramatic, just a quiet corner away from cameras, a hoodie pulled low, arms crossed as you bounced on your heels. He spotted you and smiled that exhausted, radiant smile — the one that only ever seemed to show when he saw you.

He jogged over, grabbed your hand, and tugged you into a hug so tight you didn’t even notice the flash from a phone across the street.

A fan had caught it. By morning, it was trending:

“ISAGI’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND??” “Who is the girl Isagi Yoichi hugged after the match?” “#YoichiLove — Bluelock Star Seen With Partner!”

You didn’t even realize the story had broken until your phone buzzed with thirty notifications and your social media was flooded.

And Isagi? He called you five minutes later.

“I’m so sorry,” he said before you could even speak. His voice was hoarse. Anxious.

“I didn’t think — I wasn’t careful —”

You stopped him gently.

“Yoichi. Breathe.”

But he was spiraling.

“They’re going to twist it. They’re going to make you into some villain, or a fangirl, or say you’re a distraction— I didn’t protect you well enough.”

That hurt more than anything — not the media, not the attention. Just hearing how he blamed himself for being loved.

Yoichi wasn’t flashy. He didn’t make bold declarations online. But he believed in honesty — in earning everything, not just on the pitch, but in life.

So instead of hiding you, he did something few players would:

He acknowledged you.

Not with a viral post or a dramatic reveal — just a few sentences in a quiet press interview, when a reporter inevitably asked, “Is the person in the photos your girlfriend?”

He smiled — that awkward, slightly crooked smile he wore when he was nervous but firm.

“Yeah. She is. I don’t want to hide the people who believe in me. Especially not the one who’s been there since the start.”

The internet exploded again — this time with less speculation and more stunned admiration.

“ISAGI CONFIRMS RELATIONSHIP!” “Simp king behavior?!?!” “Yoichi out here being respectful, loyal AND talented—”

Surprisingly, most of the feedback was positive. Even fans who’d worshiped him as their fictional boyfriend begrudgingly respected how he handled it. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t arrogant.

It was just real.

Still, the adjustment wasn’t easy.

Suddenly, your name trended with his. You were tagged in edits. Rumors circulated. Fans analyzed your outfits, your expressions in the background of blurry photos. Some idolized you. Some resented you.

You once told Yoichi how overwhelming it was — how suffocating it felt to be seen by so many strangers.

He listened, eyes dark with quiet intensity, then pulled you close.

“We can disappear whenever you want,” he murmured. “I’ll take us anywhere. Just say the word.”

You shook your head against his chest.

“I don’t want to run. I just want to feel safe with you.”

And he looked at you like you’d just scored the winning goal.

“Then that’s what I’ll protect. Not the image. You.”

You never quite got used to the cameras. But you got used to him — to how he’d squeeze your hand before stepping onto the pitch, to how he’d always find your eyes in the crowd, to how he never let the world take away the quiet between you.

He still wrote you notes. Still called you before matches, even if it was just to say,

“I’ll play better knowing you’re watching.”

And every time a headline surfaced, or a new photo went viral, he handled it the same way — with grace, respect, and unwavering devotion.

“They can watch,” he told you once, fingers laced with yours as the city lights blinked outside the hotel balcony.

“Let them. Just means more people get to see what I already know — that loving you was the best decision I ever made.”

Yukimiya Kenyu

Yukimiya wasn’t like the other players.

While many flaunted confidence in interviews and thrived on spectacle, Yukimiya moved with a different kind of grace. He was precise. Sharp. Fashionable, yes — maybe even elegant — but always calculating. He had a past he didn’t often talk about, a future he fought for like every breath was borrowed time.

And somehow, despite his walls, you were the one who slipped through.

You weren’t loud about it. Neither was he. Dates were quiet. Rooftops. Galleries. Libraries. His hand always found yours under tables, behind curtains, in the quiet corners of his schedule where the world forgot to look.

He liked it that way — liked the sense that this was his, untouched by cameras, untouched by expectations. You weren’t someone he had to perform for. You saw him beyond the rising football star, beyond the reconstructed corneas and interviews about perseverance.

“You see me,” he said once, “even when I can’t.”

You hadn’t known what to say, so you just kissed him softly and squeezed his hand.

You weren’t even doing anything scandalous — just sitting across from each other in a Kyoto café, a book open between you, sharing matcha and chocolate pastries. A fan had taken a blurry picture. The internet took care of the rest.

At first, it was subtle:

“Is that Yukimiya Kenyu in the background?” “Who’s that girl? Is he dating her?”

Then came the full unraveling: tagged posts, speculative gossip blogs, news articles prying into your identity. Someone even found your university and posted photos of your class schedule. It was invasive. Fast. Brutal.

And Yukimiya?

He froze.

He didn’t answer your messages for the first 24 hours.

You weren’t mad — just... worried. Yukimiya lived in constant pursuit of control. His style, his image, his brand — they were all sculpted with care. Even his recovery from his eye condition had been framed as a “reawakening” in interviews.

Now that frame was splintering.

When he finally showed up at your door, he looked exhausted. Hoodie pulled over his eyes, glasses on, jaw tight with unspoken tension. You let him in without a word.

He sat on your couch like the weight of the world had just pressed him flat.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” he said after a while, voice low. “Not this messy. Not... uncontrolled.”

You sat beside him. “You mean us being known?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I was afraid it would make you a target. That people would judge you for choosing someone like me.”

That sentence struck you like a slap of cold air. Someone like me.

“Yuki,” you said gently, “you’re not damaged. You’re not broken. And I’m not ashamed to be with you.”

He exhaled shakily. “But they’ll never understand.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Then let them misunderstand.”

Yukimiya didn’t rush to post about you. He didn’t tweet a declaration. No Instagram story reveal. That wasn’t his style.

Instead, he granted a one-on-one interview with a respected journalist he trusted. In it, he talked about life after his eye surgery, his evolution as a player, and finally — near the end — he said:

“There’s someone important in my life. She’s not a public figure, and she didn’t ask for this attention. But she’s been a part of my journey. Quietly. Steadily. And I’m thankful for her.”

No names. No theatrics. Just truth — calm, composed, and deliberate.

The response was... surprisingly warm.

Fans praised his maturity. Commentators highlighted how he’d handled it with class. Most importantly, no more pictures were leaked. The frenzy faded. The boundary held.

One night, weeks later, he brought you to the top floor of an art museum after hours. A private event. Just the two of you. Paintings surrounded you like silent witnesses.

He stood beside a piece he liked — a minimalist skyline fading into a misted sunrise — and turned to you.

“I used to think love was something I had to earn. That I had to be impressive enough. Neat enough. Strong enough to deserve it.”

You reached for his hand.

“And now?”

“Now I think love is what makes me brave enough to be seen.”

He turned to you fully, pulling you into his arms, forehead resting against yours.

“Even when it’s messy.”

The world knew about the two of you — but only what you allowed.

You attended matches, sometimes. He’d glance at you in the stands before kickoff, and you’d give him that quiet nod — his anchor. The one that steadied him before the storm.

Fans respected the space you created. Maybe it was how Yukimiya carried himself — with a quiet pride and gentle resolve. Maybe it was because you never needed to prove your love was real. You just lived it.

And when someone asked him years down the line how he balanced fame and relationships, he just smiled, ever the minimalist.

“When you find someone who helps you see clearly... you don’t let them go.”

Oliver Aiku

You never quite saw it coming. One day he was just that guy on the U-20 team, cocky and golden-eyed with a smirk that could stop traffic. The next, he was the one calling you at midnight because he couldn’t sleep before a match, or because he “missed the way your voice sounds when you’re sleepy.”

For months, it was yours alone — private, unsharable. He liked it that way. You both did. The rest of the world could have his smirks, his post-match charm, his “loverboy” persona in interviews. But you had something different.

You had Oliver soft.

When the two of you were alone, he dropped the pretense. He let you see him insecure, exhausted, kind. He’d curl an arm around your waist and talk about the pressure of being team captain, of always being expected to lead. You’d press your forehead to his and promise he didn’t have to perform for you.

And he’d just whisper, “Good. Because I’m tired of being everyone’s image.”

It was a video. Not even anything scandalous.

Just a short clip someone recorded at a rooftop bar in Shibuya — you and Oliver dancing under dim lights, laughing, your fingers looped through the necklace he always wore. He pulled you in by the waist like no one was watching. Unfortunately, someone was.

The internet did what it always did: erupted.

“Who is she??” “Oliver Aiku has a girlfriend?? No way he’s settling down.” “This better be a joke, he flirts with literally everyone on Earth—”

Your DMs filled with messages, some supportive, others venomous. Pictures were dug up. Threads were made. Fan edits. Fancams. Hate. Fanfiction.

And at the center of it all?

You — frozen in place on your couch, scrolling through the chaos, heart in your throat.

Oliver didn’t respond right away.

He was in training when it went viral, and by the time he called you that night, the storm had fully formed.

“You okay, babe?”

His voice was soft, low. Not his usual flirt. You could tell he'd seen the worst of it.

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Pack a bag. I’m coming to get you.”

You spent the weekend holed up in a villa he rented — outside the city, quiet, private. No paparazzi. No noise.

Oliver barely touched his phone. He spent most of the time just being there — cooking, teasing you into eating, pulling you into his lap like he needed to feel you near. And when you finally broke down — not loud, just quiet tears that slipped down your cheek — he held your face like it was fragile.

“They don’t get to decide what this is,” he said. “We do.”

“But they’re already tearing it apart,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, and for once, the flirty glint in his eyes vanished.

“Then let me show them exactly who I’m with. And what happens when they f*ck with my girl.”

Oliver Aiku was known for his charm. The press loved him — the hair, the grin, the way he played both the field and the media. So when he asked to make a personal statement during a press conference the following week, people assumed it was a stunt.

But it wasn’t.

He walked in wearing a navy-blue suit, calm as a sea before a tidal wave. Cameras flashed. Reporters murmured.

Then he took the mic.

“Yeah. That was me in the video. That’s my girlfriend. And if you’ve got a problem with it — if any of you think this changes how I play, how I lead, or who I am — I don’t care. She’s not a weakness. She’s the reason I breathe easier before games. The reason I sleep better. And if supporting me means hating her? Don’t support me.”

It was blunt. Direct. No theatrics. No filters.

And it worked. The internet bent.

Suddenly, fans started changing tune. You weren't just “the girl in the video” — you were his. And not in a possessive way. In a part of his story way.

Fan art showed up. Support posts. People admired the rawness of how he defended you. And slowly, the tide turned.

You were still nervous in public sometimes. Oliver noticed.

So he'd make a game of it — kissing your hand in the middle of a crowd, tossing an arm around your shoulder while the press followed, flashing them a cocky grin like: “Yeah, I’m hers. Get over it.”

But when you were alone, the confidence faded, replaced with something real.

Years later, he joked about it.

“They thought I couldn’t commit to a single girl. Joke’s on them, huh?”

You were lying in bed, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to keep forever,” he added quietly, brushing your hair away from your eyes.

He had no defense against you.

And the world? It could watch all it wanted — because Oliver Aiku had nothing left to hide.

Sae Itoshi

At first, he didn’t say anything.

When the photo leaked — a candid one of you exiting a quiet Tokyo café with his hand casually resting on the small of your back — the media’s reaction was instant, and loud. Commentators speculated. Fans dissected every pixel. Your name, previously unknown to the public, was now splashed across headlines next to his.

“Sae Itoshi Spotted With Mystery Lover — New Flame or Just a Friend?”

You were neither shocked nor surprised. Dating Sae came with that unspoken risk. You’d been careful, both of you had. Sae hated the spotlight outside of football. And yet, even with all your precautions, the world found a way.

You waited for him to react — to say something, anything. But Sae, being Sae, remained unreadable.

That night, you sat together on the balcony of his apartment in Madrid. The city lights twinkled below like scattered stars. He was sipping tea, calm as ever, eyes distant, not touching his phone — which was blowing up with notifications.

You finally broke the silence. “So… what now?”

He glanced at you, just for a second, then looked back out into the night.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, though the knot in your stomach said otherwise. He could see it — of course he could. You weren’t sure if the worst part was the people combing through your personal photos or the vicious fans commenting that you weren’t “good enough” for him.

“They’re being brutal,” you said softly.

He set his tea down and turned to you fully.

“Ignore them.”

You huffed. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve trained your whole life to not care what people think.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Exactly. So let me teach you.”

The next morning, you woke up to him sitting at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, fingers scrolling through comments you couldn’t bring yourself to read.

“I told them to back off,” he said, like it was the weather.

You blinked groggily. “Who?”

“My PR team. My manager. I told them we’re not hiding anything. No cover-ups. No fake denials.”

You stared. This wasn’t the reaction you expected from someone as reserved and private as Sae Itoshi.

He stood and walked over to you, leaning down slightly so his forehead almost touched yours.

“I’m not going to pretend you don’t matter to me. If they can’t handle that, they’re not my fans.”

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t dramatic about it. He wasn’t loud. But that was Sae’s way. His loyalty was quiet, unwavering — like the tide.

The football world spun on its axis.

While some fans were in denial, many respected Sae’s stoicism and honesty. His response wasn’t explosive like Kaiser’s or cheeky like Bachira’s — it was definitive. His social media post, short and clinical, read:

“I’m in a relationship. It’s not your business. Respect it, or leave.”

The caption was paired with a single photo: you and him sitting on a park bench, your hand resting on his knee as he stared straight into the camera. Not smiling — but not hiding either.

At matches, the cameras started to pan to you in the stands. You kept your expression neutral, remembering Sae’s advice: don’t let them see what they want to see — just be yourself.

The other players respected you. Rin, surprisingly, didn’t say much — but he acknowledged you now, and that was enough. Sae never made a show of affection in public, but after each match, when the press swarmed him and he seemed miles away from it all, his eyes would search for yours in the crowd — and soften.

And later, in the quiet of your shared apartment, after the chaos had faded, he’d rest his head in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined with yours, voice low and honest. You traced a finger through his hair, and he leaned into the touch.

“You make everything quieter,” he whispered.

The world moved on. Scandals came and went. Fandoms shifted.

But your relationship stayed solid — not because it was flashy or idolized, but because it was built on knowing. Knowing when to speak, and when to just be. Knowing that love doesn’t need to shout to be real.

Michael Kaiser

When news broke that Michael Kaiser — the prodigy, the self-proclaimed emperor of the field — was in a relationship, the world didn't just react. It combusted.

Twitter trended. Sports tabloids foamed. Fans raged and swooned. And at the center of it all was a picture. Not some grainy paparazzi shot — no. It was him. Kaiser. Post-match, sweat clinging to his temple, jersey slung over his shoulder — and his arm around you. His head bowed to whisper something in your ear, and you, flushed with affection, smiled in a way the world hadn’t seen him smile before.

You and Kaiser had been together for just under a year. A secret year, full of subtle gestures, hidden rendezvous, and text threads that could melt steel with their heat and tenderness. Michael had always kept the world at arm’s length, cloaked in arrogance and splendor — a star with sharp edges. But you? You’d seen beyond the diamond-cut smirks and cocky winks. You’d seen the person behind the persona.

And that person, for all his bravado, was intensely private.

So when the photo leaked — probably snapped by someone in the VIP box who couldn’t resist the scoop — your stomach dropped. You knew the storm that was coming.

And yet, when you confronted him about it later that night, sitting in the plush silence of his Berlin apartment, he just leaned back on the couch, one leg draped over the other, and grinned.

“So what? Let them know,” he said with a shrug, sipping his espresso like this was just another day. “They’re obsessed with me already. Might as well give them another reason.”

You blinked. “You’re not... upset?”

He looked over at you — really looked. That sharp, imperial gaze softened just a little.

“Why would I be upset about them knowing I have the most precious thing in the world?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He reached over and gently ran his thumb along your cheekbone, then tapped the tip of your nose.

“Let them scream. Let them cry. I don’t care. I’m Kaiser. And you? You’re mine.”

The reaction was volcanic.

Fan forums exploded. Some cried betrayal, their delusions of ever being with him shattered. Others became obsessed with learning everything about you. Pictures were dug up. Speculation ran rampant. Were you a model? A secret heiress? A spy?

Some of the headlines were vile. Others were absurd. One read: "Michael Kaiser’s Secret Weapon — Is Love His New Training Regimen?"

At first, it was overwhelming. You’d never been in the public eye, and now your face was plastered on international sports gossip sites. Your phone buzzed nonstop. Comments flooded your socials. Threats. Questions. Weird fan art.

You tried to hide it, but Kaiser noticed. Of course he did.

One morning, you woke up to find your name trending again — but this time because of him.

In a post-match interview, after effortlessly sinking three goals, Kaiser stood before a horde of reporters, sweat still glistening on his brow.

“Michael, there’s been a lot of talk about your relationship lately. Do you think it’s affecting your game?” one reporter asked, voice laced with implication.

Kaiser smiled — a slow, razor-sharp smirk.

“Yes,” he said, to the surprise of everyone. “It’s making me better. I was already the best in the world. Now, I’ve got someone who believes in me even when I’m not on the field. That’s power none of you could understand.”

The reporters laughed nervously. He wasn’t done.

“Also, if anyone thinks they can talk about my partner — or threaten them — and not answer to me? Try it. See what happens.”

The clip went viral in seconds. Fan culture shifted overnight. His most loyal supporters, seeing the genuine affection in his eyes, began to support you. Protect you. Others backed off entirely, afraid of drawing the emperor’s wrath.

And you... you cried that night, not from fear or stress — but from feeling seen. Defended.

Kaiser held you close in bed, your head on his chest, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your arm.

“You don’t belong to them,” he murmured into your hair. “You belong to me. And I protect what’s mine.”

Life settled into a strange new rhythm.

You became more comfortable with the spotlight, especially because Kaiser never let you face it alone. If he was photographed, he always made sure your hand was in his. If someone tried to bait him with gossip, he shut it down mercilessly. He made it clear to the world: this relationship is not a weakness. It’s part of my kingdom.

And over time, fans began to admire the two of you — not just as a power couple, but as something real. You attended games together. Sometimes sat beside Noel Noa. You were seen smiling at Rin Itoshi during tense matches. You even met Isagi once. Kaiser had scowled the whole time.

“He’s lucky I didn’t steal you, too,” Kaiser muttered afterward.

You laughed and shoved his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

He turned to you, smiling like the world was his — because to him, it was.

“No. I’m just in love.”

#𝐃𝐈𝐎𝐑-𝐋𝐔𝐗𝐔𝐑𝐘 #isagi yoichi x reader #yukimiya kenyu x reader #oliver aiku x reader #sae itoshi x reader #michael kaiser x reader #bllk scenarios #bllk x you #bllk x reader #bluelock reactions #bluelock x you #bluelock headcanons #bluelock fluff #bluelock x reader #blue lock scenarios #blue lock fanfic #blue lock x reader

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nightwingsgypsyrep · 21 hours ago

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Ok so might accidentally end up doxxing myself with this one but here we go…

The Himboification of Dick Grayson, and Why It Sucks From A Gypsy Perspective

Warning: this is a long one! Also tw for brief mentions of Dick’s canonical SA/rapes, and discussions of purity cultures.

And disclaimer: none of this is intended to slut-shame anyone, so hopefully it doesn’t come across like that. I’m just hoping to explain the weird sexualisation of gypsies in the media, vs our more conservative attitude to sex. This also isn’t meant to shame anyone or tell you how you must imagine Dick Grayson - if you like dark skinned, more-fem Dick, then you keep on enjoying that! This is just what I’ve noticed as someone who is a gypsy, and some patterns I’ve seen in how Dick is portrayed and received.

So, I have a lot of problems with the depiction/perception of Dick Grayson, and particularly the hyper-sexualisation we see. I am not alone in this, and I know it’s something which has been discussed a fair bit in the past.

Honestly, I don’t even know where a lot of this came from? It’s only really in the past decade or so that we start to see it emerge properly in canon; prior to this, whilst it was agreed that Dick is good looking, he was kind of able to get around as a normal guy, and was praised a lot more for his capabilities and athleticism than for his looks. But with the New 52, there seemed to be this shift where Dick is really reduced to his looks. The Grayson/Spyral comics are particularly guilty of this: so many times we see Dick called an idiot (even if somewhat affectionally), sexualised (even by teen-aged girls when he is in his twenties), and reduce himself to his looks (Dick himself even says something along the lines of ‘It’s a good thing I’m pretty’). You can argue that the whole point of Spyral is that Dick was undercover, but it’s something we still see today (I’m thinking the 2025 Valentine’s Day Damian storyline). We can dismiss this as being ‘out of character’, but with how it’s been a gradually accepted part of DC canon over the last decade especially, I don’t know how long we can reasonably make that excuse.

The gypsy perspective isn’t necessarily the main reason I hate this, it’s just one which I feel capable of offering. (if you’re new here, hi, I’m a traveller/gypsy/showman/whatever you want to call me from a fairground and circus family in the UK. I’ve always stuck to fairgrounds myself but a lot of my family were/are still with the circus so I’m not an idiot and it’s all closely related anyway. I also grew up speaking Romani so there’s that.)

Other reasons I hate it include: the double standards of objectifying Dick being treated as almost acceptable because Dick is a man; Dick as an SA/rape survivor; and the fact that it’s bloody stupid because Dick is a highly competent vigilante and detective - a partner of Batman, then Batman himself, who even on his sick days is solving cold cases for fun. He is a genius ffs.

But anyway, onto the potentially doxxing gypsy perspective.

I know that Dick’s ‘gypsy rep’ has been a bit touch and go over the years. Grayson’s run is quite infamous for her handling of this (the whole internalised racism she gave him during his Tevis mob era, and Bruce’s stereotyping in Gotham Knights still makes me feel icky), and it’s only recently that it’s really been discussed again, mostly being ignored by writers in between. However, I’ve also mentioned before that to me, the writer with the most accurate representation is ironically Morrison (because he wasn’t trying). The thing is, even if writers have kind of circumnavigated the whole ‘gypsy’ thing (a term I use because it’s common in the UK, and is one Dick uses himself, alongside ‘carney’ which is the American English version of the British ‘showman’, a subtype of “gypsy”), it’s been canon since Day One that Dick is from the circus. And due to how circuses work, especially with the hereditary nature and how it was more common for the gypsy family who ran the circus to perform in the 40s when Dick was introduced, even if it wasn’t explicitly stated, Dick Grayson has kind of canonically (or at the very least, subtextually) been a gypsy since his introduction.

So now that bit of house keeping is out of the way, why does the himboification of Dick Grayson really annoy me, as a gypsy/showman/carney myself?

So, the first issue I have is really the exoticism. There’s been a large push especially from fan-artists (though it has been very subtlety reflected in canon) to have Dick portrayed with darker skin, to more “accurately” portray him as Romani (spoiler: this is not accurate). There is a fantastic post which explains this further, but it’s actually kind of colourist to say that Dick Grayson is whitewashed. I’m a full gypsy, not a diddakoi or anything, and I’m pasty as fuck. Sure, my dad was often mistaken as South Asian in his youth, as his family are all very olive-skinned and tan dark in the summer, but my mum is white as a sheet (much to her own father’s annoyance) and I take after her. This is the case for a lot of us, especially in the North of Europe. And yet, I am still ethnically a gypsy. Dick does not lose his ‘gypsy card’ for being white. And the fact that many of the fandom view it as necessary for Dick to have a darker complexion to fit this perception of what a Romani person looks like (especially since this perception largely comes from gorjas who’ve never knowingly met a gypsy before in their lives) is not only inaccurate, but kind of problematic. I don’t mind seeing a darker Dick Grayson, but it’s how people act like he has to be dark skinned to be Romani which is frankly just incorrect.

This is doubly problematic when people use his being Romani to exoticise and sexualise Dick. Like with Esmerelda in the Hunchback of Notre Dame, I’ve often seen the fandom (and even canon, to some degree) use Dick’s heritage to make him seem other, and almost remove some barriers for proper conduct (i.e. be overly affectionate, etc). We see this kind of sexualisation with a lot of non-white characters, like Talia for example, and I think that the push for a visibly non-white, exotic Dick Grayson does fall in line with the same kind of racist hyper-sexualisation we see there. Alternatively, maybe this idea of a ‘sexy gypsy from the circus’ has its roots somewhat in real life, but actually results from major misunderstandings: until the sixties, it was common for circuses to have peep shows, with girls outside advertising it in their underwear; the misunderstanding comes in that these girls were not gypsies themselves (see my next point) but hired gorja staff who worked for or alongside us. It’s not unreasonable, then, that a child visiting the circus (and thus shaping their idea of what a circus is) up until the 60s might misinterpret this as being related to gypsies ourselves (songs like Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves, also add to this misconception that we’re the ones in the peep shows when we are not, even if that song is a bop) - if that child then worked for DC or was in the fandom, as writers/artists/fan-fic authors/fanartists in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, from the 80s to the 2000s, they might have mistakenly thought this was part of our culture, and not a business running parallel to ours (I hope this makes sense?). This is just a theory, but one of the only places I can think of this stereotype coming from, besides just plain racism?

Anyway, this hyper-sexualisation is ironic because a big part of our culture is actually that it is a purity culture, with equal expectations on both sexes to maintain modesty and virginity prior to marriage (of course, it’s a bit more relaxed nowadays but the expectation is still there, even if you’re in your 30s and unmarried!). This is drilled into us from a very young age, so even if Dick was removed from his culture by the age of eight, in a real life situation, he would likely already be well versed in this aspect of our culture. As I mentioned earlier, even before Dick was explicitly stated to be a gypsy, I think it’s definitely possible to read a gypsy upbringing into his character, even if unintentional, as written pre-Grayson - there’s one discussion Dick has about his anxieties about moving in with Kory whilst unmarried (I forget which comic this is from), and I cannot help but feel this resonate with me as a gypsy.

Then there’s the element of dress. TV shows like ‘My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding’ have done a lot to convince people that we all dress immodestly, but first of all: MBFGW focuses on another subtype of gypsy, Irish travellers - not showmen/circus like Dick is portrayed to be; and secondly - it’s such a small percentage of the population who do dress like that, that it cannot be taken as truth. I’ve a fair few cousins who are half-Irish traveller, and none of them dress like that. You’re far more likely to find a gypsy man wearing a shirt, a jumper, a pair of jeans, and boots than any of the gelled hair and vest top combos you see on there.

It’s a big thing that Dick has some questionable fashion choices (which are often featured as justification for his supposed ‘himbo-ness’), and this is definitely true in canon (Discowing, that one polka dot shirt, the mullet era… oh Dick, you disaster), but I’ve seen a lot of people correlate that directly with his growing up in a circus. As someone from that background, let me tell you that is just a Dick thing. It has nothing to do with being from the circus, we all dress rather normally - I’m sat writing this in a blue T-shirt, a pair of navy jeans, and a pair of boots - aka the kind of thing Dick wears more often than not in later not-the-80s canon! The thing is, this kind of presumption is something I’ve experienced myself in real life. I was doing some charity work, and there was a press element - when the journalist found out I was a gypsy from a circus family, and that I had horses, I was told to come to the photoshoot in my ‘little pink sparkly dress or whatever it is I ride in.’ I ride in jeans and a T-shirt btw. They just presumed because my family owned circuses, I must do vaulting and perform and I don’t - I worked in the kiosk or on the rides. The point is, people make a lot of presumptions about us just because we’re from the circus, and it’s not accurate.

Then there’s also the fanon effeminising of Dick: often giving him softer, feminine features, make-up, etc, to make him ‘pretty’. Like with the skin-colour issue, draw Dick however you like. You do you. But don’t use his being a gypsy to justify that. Tbh, the vast majority of gypsy men I know are extremely masculine: physically, the cis-men of our community tend to be quite tall, stocky, with calloused hands and broad shoulders, by virtue of the fact that we have to build up everywhere we work, and that’s a lot of physical labour. In Europe, there’s a big drinking culture, and playing football, etc. Men also tend to dress quite masc and practically for blue-collar work. And whilst I am sure that there are some more gender-fluid gypsies out there (I have quite a few gypsy friends who are openly queer, or trans), I have seen so many posts on Tumblr with Dick presented as being quite soft and feminine looking, with make-up etc, and when people in the notes ask why he’s drawn like that, the artist replies ‘He’s Rom!’ and I just want to facepalm. You can be a gypsy and masc-presenting. You can be a gypsy and fem-presenting. However, being a gypsy ≠ being feminine, and I’m really sick of seeing it. As someone who studies ancient Persia (like, I have a degree in it and am writing an academic book), the similarities are so obvious with how the Greeks portrayed the Achaemenids as effeminate, and like with the Achaemenids, it’s just not accurate. Again, if that’s how you headcanon Dick, then that’s great, but let’s not pretend that Dick being a gypsy has anything to do with it.

So I’ve now discussed the sexualisation aspect of Dick’s character a bit (I’ve probably left something out but oh well), and now I’ll speak a bit about the ‘dumb’ part. This is a far more recent thing, I think, and I suspect it might be because: a) people have weirdly tagged Tim as the Smart!Robin (they’re all geniuses) and thought this somehow means the rest must be dumb?, b) because of how sexualised Dick is, they’ve gone full himbo (see: Dick in the Grayson comics saying ‘at least [he’s] pretty’). However, from a gypsy point of view, this really annoys me as well.

When travelling with the fairground/circus, it is difficult to get a stable education. We tend to go to school in the winter months, but in the warmer months, we are more homeschooled (maybe using education packs from our normal school), or at larger fairs/events, a special teacher may be present. It used to be common that if we were at a ground for two weeks or more, we’d be enrolled temporarily in a local school for that time, but this isn’t really realistic today. However, it is also true that traditionally, our schooling was quite halted. Whilst less common, it’s still fairly normal for us to leave school early - for example, I left school entirely aged 13 to work full time on the fairgrounds (yes this goes against child labour laws but nobody actually cares). As a result of this, a lot of us have very limited education (illiteracy is not unheard of in the older generations), so it’s not uncommon for people to mistake this for us being stupid. But the thing is, this isn’t true. My dad left school aged 11, and eventually got a gorja job in his late 30s - he is now the top in the country at his job. I left school when I was 13, but decided I wanted to go to university, so I sat my GCSEs without studying, got into college, and whilst also working a full time job, got my A Levels and got into what is ranked the number one university in the world. When I got in, people really could not believe that someone of my background could do it, so it was on national news and television. It’s not that other travellers/gypsies are incapable - for the most part, we just don’t see the point as we’ve got a job and a culture wrapped up in one which we want to keep alive and successful. The point is, it’s so common for us to be underestimated, and part of what I loved about Dick’s character is that he is unapologetically clever. But over the last decade especially, Dick is once again being reduced to just a pretty face. Now, growing up, it was a cultural expectation to take care of your looks, and whilst I think I always looked ok (washed hair every day, showered, ironed matching clothes), it was not my primary interest in the same way that it was for a lot of my peers. So having a character who was from the same background as me and allowed to be intelligent and respected for it in a way I sometimes wasn’t was really special. So to see that intellect being taken away from Dick, somewhat, does strike me. If Dick is reduced to just being pretty and flirty, that’s as stereotypical as it comes in my community, and I love it when he can be more. I’m not saying that Dick has to be super serious all the time (that’s what makes Dick’s character so great, even if he is a bit more serious in canon than in fanon, though to be fair that’s probably because canon is a lot harder on him than fanon), but he can be hot and flirty without being dumb and overly objectified.

I hope this makes sense and I also hope that none of my relatives or uni friends see this and immediately work out it’s me - there’s a reason I started a whole side blog to separate my silly little nerdy interests from anything my friends might see - but Himbo Dick Grayson is something which I can’t get behind. Let him be smart. Let him be hot but not overly exoticised.

#batman #dc comics #batfam #dick grayson #nightwing #dc robin #romani dick grayson

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ovaryacted · 2 days ago

Text

DISTRACTIONS

─ Dr. Frank Langdon x fem! reader || WC: 4.9k

SYNOPSIS: One drunken mistake redefines your relationship with your close friend and colleague, Dr. Frank Langdon. Despite the boundaries you try to enforce, you continue to plague Frank’s mind, and it’s only a matter of time before his true impulses slip through the cracks.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Frank & Reader are around the same age (early to mid 30s). Both are senior residents (started residency at the same time). Alcohol consumption. Drunken one night stand (everything is consensual!). Unprotected sex (p in v). Oral sex (f! receiving) & fingering. Multiple orgasms. Yearning. Angst. Miscommunications & confrontations. Infidelity/Cheating. Reader knows Frank is married & has kids. Frank’s life is a mess. Mentions of Frank’s drug addiction & marriage issues (divorce & custody talk). Reader has hair & a feminine appearance (makeup, jewelry, feminine clothes). Reader was written as a WOC, but all are welcomed to read!

A/N: I truly don’t know where this came from, but I wanted to talk about Frankie Langdon and I did. We love Dr. Langdon in this household, and y’all better get on board with Patrick Ball's Emmy Campaign! Thank you to @ozarkthedog for the proofread and reassurance as always, love you lots babe. 🫶 Anyways, reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated! <3

Frank’s leg hasn’t stopped twitching since he sat down 20 minutes ago.

His heartbeat was more rapid than usual, an incessant itch growing in the palm of his hands as he aimlessly tapped at the desktop in front of him. It may just be his nerves or the stress of the day piling up on him despite it only being noon, but the nagging voice nipping at the back of his neck wouldn’t leave him alone for the life of him.

He knew why it was there, knew its origins and where it came from, and he refused to acknowledge it any more than he needed to. It didn’t help that he wasn’t even halfway through his shift and already down two cans of Red Bull, his pulse spiking the longer he looked at the chart notes in front of him. The words he’s started to type all turned to gibberish, blurred out on the screen as he clicks blindly; the chaos of the Pitt tuning out around him as he’s transported to the deepest part of his consciousness.

Frank shouldn’t be thinking about it, but he can’t help himself.

The longer he looks at the computer screen, the more he loses his focus; the patient’s name he pulled up on the medical portal blanks out along with the rest of him. He’s no longer sitting in the main lobby of the PTMC, but he’s back at that bar you’d been bugging him to try for weeks. You had mentioned it to him in passing, said they had the shitty beers he liked so much, and the mellow ambiance would be satisfactory for his hyperactive senses. You were only joking, of course, he remembers the toothy grin you gave him after he nudged you with his shoulder, telling you to shut up before dragging you to the next case that rolled in through the ambulance bay.

It was a Friday night when he met up with you outside of the bar after your shift, that much he can recall. You wore the most fitted pair of jeans he’d ever seen you put on and paired it with a tight top and a cropped leather jacket. He pretended not to quickly glance at your hips swaying side to side when you walked ahead of him, keeping his eyes on the ground as he let you order some drinks for the two of you. He flexed his left hand, thumbing at the golden ring that branded his skin, reminding himself of its familiar weight.

He’d lost count of how many vodka cranberries you had or how the combination of beers and vodka sodas was sitting like lead in his chest, but what he couldn’t forget was the scent of your perfume, the shine of your necklace against your tan skin, the flex of your neck when you threw back a shot, watching your throat stretch to accommodate the gulp of the clear liquid.

Drinks with coworkers wasn’t out of the ordinary, especially after the hectic weeks he’s had to deal with at the Pitt. The shifts tended to extend far longer than he would’ve liked, always adding a couple of hours of overtime to his payroll. Not that he was doing anything significant afterwards, not like he had a home to really go to, but your presence helped fill in that gap.

Fast, smart, and witty, always keeping him on his toes. You were what Frank needed in the ED; the two of you thick as thieves since the start of your residency together a few years ago. Robby and Dana often joked that Langdon had finally met his match, commenting on how you both worked like a well-oiled machine without extra fine-tuning. The bond strengthened as time passed, sharing talks over morning coffee and gyros during lunch if either of you had the time, growing to late-night drinks at a nearby bar to laugh the strain of your jobs away.

Frank thought fate had a funny way of doing things, always putting him in challenging situations that would wave temptation right in front of his face. It happened with his wife at first, his college sweetheart, who he set eyes on before anyone else, though now despite their two kids, their union was far from stable. It happened again after he pulled his back; the peace and serenity of the benzos kept him in a never-ending loop of highs and lows, cursed to repeat the cycle until he found the strength to stop. He doubts he ever will, no matter how much he convinces himself he has things under control.

And now, it’s happening with you. Here you are, sitting by his side, leaning forward on the table with your chest puffing out more visibly with every laugh that poured out of you, batting your dark lashes at him as your hazy eyes had trouble focusing on him.

The present version of Frank sighed, rubbing at his temples and palming his face, breathing hard through his nose. A burst of images flashed before him, all revolving around you and the night he broke his vows.

This game started long before you placed a toying hand on his torso, playing with the zipper of his bomber jacket, and then again on his jean-clad thigh as he talked about something he couldn’t bother to care about. Yet you nodded as diligently as you could, as much as your drunk self would allow with your head feeling twice as heavy.

You laughed then at a joke he must’ve said, pawing at his shoulders and fully leaning into his side in bits of airless chuckles. The alcohol in his system quickly rushed through his body, the carbonated particles shooting off in different directions through the tips of his fingers and toes. The hairs on the back of his neck shot up as the scent of your intoxicating perfume hit him with full force, his heart thumping in his ribcage when your fingers caressed his sternum as you sought your footing against him, wiping tears from the corner of your eyes.

“Shut up, Frankie.”

I was always Frankie with you. Never Dr. Langdon or just Frank, unless you were upset with him. You used to say his first name was too formal, that he didn’t look like a Frank, whatever that fucking means. So you gave him a nickname, a badge of honor to certify your relationship with him, whatever it may be. Frankie this. Frankie that. He never told you to stop, never told you the real reason why he enjoyed hearing you call him that over anything else, why he won’t admit to wanting that proximity to you even if it was just his name in your mouth.

Lifting your head to glance at him, Frank was enamored with your features. The curl of your ink-covered lashes, the gloss of your lips, the warmth of your blushed cheeks beside the flash of your dangling earrings. Your hair cascaded down your back in coily waves, your face framed by little isolated pieces he often noticed when your hair was pulled back in the claw clip he gifted you when you lost your scrunchie.

He thinks this was probably the first time he’s ever seen your face this close, ever really taken a good look at you when you were too distracted smiling. Sure, he’s looked over in your direction more than once when you were working, catching your figure pacing down the halls, going from room to room in the lion’s den that was the ED. His crystalline eyes always managed to find yours when he wasn’t even trying, whether it be across the table in the break room or in the booth of this bar; his sight gravitated to you even if you didn’t notice him.

At least that’s what he thought anyway. He remains aloof to the idea that it wasn’t so obvious you knew his true feelings, what ruminated in his head late at night when his restless body was too on edge to listen to the call of sleep. It’s now at this moment of being so close to you that all sense and reason leave Frank’s mind. He’s no longer thinking of anything other than the fantasies of having you in ways far from the realm of professional senior residents.

He didn’t care to keep up the facade anymore.

As soon as you catch your breath, Frank is just as quick to steal it, leaning forward to plant his lips against yours, catching you off guard with a stolen kiss. Your hands instinctively landed on his shoulders, pushing him back with shock written all over your pretty face. With your eyebrows furrowed, your gaze shot daggers into him as a multitude of emotions washed over you all at once. Confusion mainly, a slight tinge of anger fraying at the edges of your pupils. And under all of that intoxicated brain fog was the spark of something else entirely—desire.

He was already prepping to mutter an apology when you apprehensively held his cheek and beckoned him towards you, the tip of your nose grazing his, tempting him. He fell into your trap and kissed you again with your guidance, groaning into your mouth when you reciprocated and curled a hand around the back of his neck. Frank felt you press yourself more into him, gripping onto his jacket to bring him closer, tasting the mix of vodka and cranberry juice still on your tongue as it curled around his.

You drew away from him too soon, and he swallowed the muffled whine that settled in the back of his throat. Breathing heavily through your nose, he could sense every one of your pants on his top lip, now tasting like the berry gloss he wiped off your mouth.

“We shouldn’t. We can’t, not here.” You whispered, a hand caressing down his sternum to feel the cotton of his shirt.

“Yeah, yeah I know. Fuck, I’m sorry.” The usual self-deprecating criticism didn’t have a moment to take root in his mind when your voice cut through the mess of his conscience.

“My place. Let’s just go to my place.” He was quiet for a second or two until you met his eyes again, silently urging him to follow your lead. “Say yes before I change my mind, Frank.”

“Okay, okay, yeah. Good idea.”

At this rate, Frank was sure he’d lose his shit on the Pitt floor, closing the tab on the computer screen and reviewing some chart notes he scribbled on a notepad earlier. He flicked the pencil back and forth between his pointer finger and thumb, trying his absolute hardest to think of anything other than you, other than that one night weeks ago.

“You’re so pretty.”

He’d be a liar if he pretended to miss what he said, especially with how he mumbled it against your lips when he pinned you to the nearest wall by your entryway. His recollection of how he arrived remained fuzzy for the most part, but the arousal he felt brewing since stepping foot in the bar with you only intensified the more you touched him.

“You’re drunk,” you huffed against him, walking backward towards your bedroom with Frank never letting you out of his grasp.

“I might be. Doesn’t make me a liar.”

In a flurry of movement, Frank tore at the layers that covered your body, leaving a trail of denim and leather in your hallway, your boots lost along the way somewhere in the process. You were just as handsy, yanking at his jacket and tossing it to the floor, his t-shirt following next, smirking against his mouth when you finally got to feel his skin under your fingertips. Helping him with his belt, you jerked the leather out of the loops of his jeans, the metal buckle clanking against the hardwood floor from the impact.

Brought back to your plush bed, you plopped down with an airy chuckle, bringing Frank down with you as he shucked off his shoes and jeans, staying in his dark-colored briefs. His hands reached for the clasp of your bra strap, undoing it with ease and removing the offending article of clothing.

He ogled you briefly, the cool presence of the gold wrapped around his finger weighed down his shaking hand. Carefully, the ring came off, and Frank set it down on one of your bedside tables, fully aware that you were watching his every move. He hovered over the side of your neck and collarbone the next second, kissing a path down the valley of your breasts and lavishing his attention over each nipple before continuing his path further down.

Littering kisses on your lower stomach, he tongued over the waistband of your panties, antsy to see more of you, to get to feel you the way he’s dreamed about. His mouth watered just thinking of what lay underneath the black lace, and seeing the darkened wet spot on the gusset sent his blood pumping south.

“Just…just let me taste you. Want my mouth on you, please.”

How could you refuse him when he asked so nicely?

With an encouraging nod, he peeled your panties down your legs and threw them behind him, wasting no time to swoop in and lick a broad stripe up your glistening cunt. He unabashedly groans into you, messily moving his tongue over every inch of you as your sweet tang coats his mouth, the wet muscle swirling over your aching clit and slipping inside of your entrance in place of his long fingers.

Your back curves over the bed, clutching his head with both hands, gripping onto his thick brown hair and bucking your hips into his face, chasing more of his touch. His ears were trained to learn the sounds that filled the four walls of your bedroom, reveling in your guttural cries and whines as you shook under him. He didn’t bother to catch a breath, working his jaw to suck over your slick pearl, prodding two fingers inside you and curling just right to find that spot that made you squeal out his name.

It didn’t take you long to fall over the edge the first time around, convulsing around his digits and scratching at his scalp. Frank drank everything you gave him, refusing to stop until your thighs began to tremble and you were pushing his head away from between your legs. He finally grants you some reprieve with a soft kiss to your twitching clit, standing up to admire your disheveled appearance while you note the way your slick covered his chin.

In a mess of limbs and rough kisses, Frank maneuvers you to your hands and knees, shucking the last piece of clothing keeping you both separated and grinding his hard cock against your pulsing body. The haze of the alcohol still pumping through his system forced him to blink hard over the arch of your spine, your equally glassy eyes peering at him over your shoulder. You pushed your hips back into him, gasping when the tip of him bumped into your clit deliciously with a hushed plea dying on your kiss-bitten lips.

That was all the permission he needed.

Frank plunged into you in one thrust, sinking all the way down to the hilt. You lurched forward on the bed with a moan, clutching the sheets and clenching around him as you adjusted to his length. He let you adjust before drawing his hips back and driving back into you with force, adopting a rough and quick pace that had you melting into your duvet cover.

You felt better than he dreamed, better than any high he’s ever experienced, so wet and warm and responsive; and he may have admitted that with his senseless rambling as he harshly fucked you from behind. His grip remained tight by your hips, keeping you upright over the bed with one broad hand moving up towards your neck, pinning you underneath him to catch every hard thrust he gave you.

His movements grew more erratic the closer he got to his release, the slick walls of your entrance bringing him that much closer to completion. Lifting your head from the pillows, he cupped your jaw, mind turned to static at the angle he had you in, the tip of his cock hitting the deepest parts inside you, balls slapping against your clit with every drag of his hips. Overridden with pleasure, you couldn’t filter your own thoughts, saying the first thing that came to mind the more you welcomed the cockdrunk euphoria.

“Fuck, Frankie. So big…”

“Feel so good, Frankie. Fucking me so good.”

“So close, need you to make me cum. Please, Frankie.”

Frankie. Frankie. Frankie.

Sneaking his free hand between your thighs to rub diligent circles at your sensitive nub again, you came hard with a broken cry of his name bouncing over the walls, soaking him in the process. He lunged into you a few more times before spilling into you with the deep rumble of a groan, filling you to the brim and cursing beside your temple as your walls reflexively tightened around him. Satisfied and sated, you giggled into the sheets, a drunken smile plastered on your face as you hit nirvana, and the same current of warmth coarsed through the man above you, already anticipating more.

The sound of a sudden snap brings Frank back to the PMTC, back to the present, as the pencil previously in his hand was now broken in two. He couldn’t take it anymore; heat was creeping up his neck, and his hands began to sweat, rubbing his palms over his scrub-covered thighs. The daydreaming will certainly give him a stroke if his consumption of Red Bull didn’t. He couldn’t process these agonizing thoughts alone, not when you walk around work acting as if nothing happened, as if he was another skeleton in your closet.

Frank had to find you.

Abruptly rising to his feet, the swing of his ID smacked against him in his pursuit of you. Turning left down one of the hallways, he found you walking with Samira, oblivious to how he was barreling in your direction.

“Can I speak with you?” He asked hastily, struggling to keep his composure together. You could tell from the fiery gleam in his blue eyes that this wasn’t entirely work-related, and now the sense of dread you’ve been trying to run away from finally caught up with you.

Leaving Samira behind, who eyed you both suspiciously from the corner of her eye, Frank brought you into an empty supply closet, locking the door behind him and pivoting to face you. Straightening your back and crossing your arms over your chest, your body language took a defensive stance, the crease in your brow deepening as you observed him closely.

“What would we possibly need to talk about, Dr. Langdon?” You asked dismissively.

“I can’t keep doing this.” A pause, then a sigh followed his statement.

“Can’t keep doing what? Working?”

“I can’t keep ignoring the elephant in the room when we’re both here. I’m tired of pretending like nothing happened between us.”

Your hands tightened their grip over your forearms, a weak attempt at self-soothing, a tick he knew fairly well. Switching your weight from one foot to the other, you popped your hip, doing your best to hold your ground.

“I’m not pretending. Nothing happened between us, Frank.” Frank. It pained him to hear you say his name so formally, a rarity depending on the circumstances. This time around, you weren’t as considerate to give an exception.

“Stop lying to me.” He raised his voice to a sharp pitch, not loud enough for those on the opposite side of the door to hear him, but enough to let you know he’s on his last nerve. “Stop trying to forget about this when it takes two to tango.”

“Do you really want to talk about this here of all fucking places?” It was your turn to bite back, dropping your arms and slapping them over your hips.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s not like we’ve been talking at all. Not since you shut me out two weeks ago.”

Of course, he was right. Though everything that happened that night was murky on your end, you woke up the next morning naked in your bed with a hand on your lower stomach. The raging headache did little to suppress the guilt bubbling inside when you saw Frank on the opposite side of your bed, face down into the pillows and an arm thrown haphazardly over your waist. You didn’t remember all of what you both did exactly or how long you guys stayed awake, but by the state your room was left in and the ache between your legs, it had been a long night.

Common sense knocked the wind out of you as you shook Frank to wake him. He jolted awake confused, delirious even, looking at his surroundings to jog his own memory, connecting the dots once his sight dilated to focus on you.

You told him to freshen up and get out, bringing the sheets to cover the rest of your body as if that would nullify what you’ve already done. He did as he was told, moving around your room and finding the rest of his clothes, zipping up his jeans and stretching into his t-shirt. He was sure not to forget his wedding band that sat idly on the bedside table like it had all night, slipping it back over his left hand in silence, the metal welding into the rest of him, scalding over his flesh like his broken dignity.

Frank gave you one more glimpse, lost for words as a handful of questions disturbed his psyche, now interrupted by the spiteful words that popped the bubble of his little utopia.

This didn’t happen. You don’t say a fucking word about this to anybody. You got that?

He’s kept his end of the bargain so far, hasn’t said a peep since he walked out of your front door that morning. Yet no matter how hard he tries to forget, the smell, taste, and feel of you are etched into his being like you never left.

“What did you expect to happen? That we’ll go back to being the dynamic duo of the Pitt and everything goes back to normal?” You grew more agitated by the second, shaking your head as you wrapped your thoughts around this. “I slept with you. We were both drunk. You’re married, for Christ’s sake. I really don’t think either one of us needs a scandal on our hands on top of everything else we deal with just by being here.”

“I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I am.” He took a step towards you, and you took one back, making sure to keep the distance between the two of you. “But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care about what happened, as if I don’t care about you.”

“You don’t mean that.” He was still slowly walking towards you, encroaching on your personal space as he backed you further into the wall. “It was a one-time mistake.”

“I don’t want it to be a mistake or a one-time thing, and I think a part of you wants the same thing.”

“You don’t know what I want.” He stood right in front of you, your palms pressed into the wall in hopes of keeping you grounded, but to no avail. “Quit talking nonsense.”

“Stop looking at me like you hate me when I know it’s the opposite.” He was grilling you, trying to coax you to look at him, but your attention remained on the floor off to the side. “I can’t get you out of my head, and that was before our little accident. It only got worse after that night; I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”

“Frank, we can’t…” Your stomach flipped when he pressed his body into yours, pinning you to the wall of the supply closet. His large hands held your hips, sending a shiver ghosting down your spine at the touch, suppressing the gasp that almost sneaked out of you.

“If you tell me to go, then I’ll go. I’ll back off and leave you alone from here on out, I swear. But don’t push me away because you’re in denial of wanting me when I know it’s mutual.”

You wanted to be mad at him, you really did. But even your own shattered ego couldn’t play pretend anymore. Frank had always been more than what you would consider a coworker, a close friend for sure. He made sure you got through your residency in one piece, molded alongside him to handle the ED and everything it threw at you. But this? Messing around with a man who already has a shit ton of problems stacked against him, stuck in an unstable marriage nonetheless, must’ve been a new low for you.

“What about Abby? The kids? I can't be the reason why your family falls apart; I’d never forgive myself.” Your voice was quieter than before, meek if anything, as if you were processing your own internal battles, mentally listing the pros and cons of your actions.

“I’ll deal with it. I don’t think it’ll get any better at this rate anyway. She’s been talking to some lawyers, asking about custody and shit. My family falling apart has everything to do with me, not you. You just got caught in my mess, and I don’t want to do that to you; I never did.”

Peeking up at him, you held his gaze, letting his words hang in the air. With every cluster of letters he offers you, the more your chest tightens. The air punching out of your lungs at the thought of Frank already dealing with a potential divorce hurt you, the foundation of the family he’s made and nurtured being shattered because of things he’s been burdened with was enough to break you.

“It’s probably wrong, stupid even. You’re thinking of all the different ways to slap me sideways, and I think you should.” He squeezed at your hips and leaned his forehead against yours, breathing you in. “Crucify me if that’s what you need to do, but I want you. I want more of you, of what we had before that night and after. I miss you.”

Your ears were ringing, your pulse beating behind your eardrums and radiating everywhere else. You couldn’t speak, holding your breath and impatiently waiting for the other shoe to drop. So many questions were left unanswered in the muddled state of your head at that moment. Was the risk worth it? Were you willing to push everything else aside on the off chance things might work out? Would you be able to sleep at night knowing what you’re doing? Can you look at Abby in the eye knowing she will never see you the same after accepting the title of being the other woman?

“Please say something. Talk to me.”

Words always had a tendency to fail you, and you figured actions were more convincing. Tilting your face upwards, you placed the softest of kisses on Frank’s lips, stealing whatever air he had left in his lungs. He sighed in relief and wrapped a greedy arm around your waist, bringing one of his hands to cup your jaw, his thumb skimming your cheekbone. He wanted more; he always did, but now was not the time. You pulled away, fighting the urge to smirk when Frank tried to follow your mouth for another kiss.

“We’ll…we’ll talk later, okay? I just, I can’t do this here, not now.” Looking directly at him, your eyes no longer held that disdain that anguished him.

“That’s fine, later works.” He nodded, offering you a small smile, his mood already changing to something more lighthearted.

The corner of your lip tugged upwards in the ghost of a grin, faint but it was there. He’ll take it. Leaving his arms and turning to head for the door, Frank stopped you with a hand around your waist, clutching at you as if you’d drift away and leave him in the dark.

“Are you…are we still…” He didn’t know what to ask, what to call your relationship, or where you two stood, but he knows you’ll figure it out eventually.

“Put me on an interesting case later, and I’ll think about having lunch with you again. Sounds good?” You were playful, at least that’s what he thinks, and it was much better than the alternative that widened the gaping hole in his chest.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” He let you go then, taking an extra second to treasure you when you looked back at him one more time and melding with the rest of the ED.

Frank fucked up majorly; he knows he did, and perhaps he is nothing more than a screwed junkie in a failed marriage. Now, it was too late to take any of it back, and as much as he considers himself delusional, a deep part of him likes to think you were his chance at a fresh start, at something new. All he could do was try, if you’d let him.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

#frank langdon smut #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon x you #frank langdon fic #frank langdon #patrick ball #the pitt #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt 2025 #the pitt hbo #ovaryacted fics #⋆♱ nic works ♱⋆

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sweetlybun · 3 days ago

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♡ hugging you tight

🍙 MEI SAYS : my first work ^_^ i hope this is good, i liked writing it!! now i wanna get a hug from all of them ahjhjaehjg 🌱 CHARACTERS : xiao, diluc, kaeya, albedo, childe x gn reader

🍀 XIAO

soft, awkward hugs... please teach him what a hug feels like.

i don't really think xiao is always one for hugs, so maybe when he does, it's either in times of desperation or he's let his walls down so much that he doesn't care anymore

the first time he hugged you, he was definitely blushing and trying not to think too hard about it HAHA and doing it for you!! because he cares, he'd fight the awkwardness to give you the human comfort you deserve

but i'd like to think that a hug from him feels good! unfamiliar, but in a good way; where you wished there was more without the circumstances

he holds on a little tighter than you do

🍀 DILUC

grounding, sturdy hugs -> the kinds that make you feel burrowed into his arms, all wrapped up tightly in there

hugs for comfort :( diluc definitely holds his lover lots, be it in bed or in the entranceway as you welcome him home. there are some days where he holds you tighter.

also thinking of a size difference with diluc... oh he's so big – so warm, so loving, so willing to wrap you up and protect you from the world.

he'd be so big with you against his chest :'( he's so much bigger and his frame just envelopes you its the best thing ever

🍀 KAEYA

TEASY HUGS :( hugs that pull you in closer as he laughs and brings your head closer into the crook of his neck!!

he's so silly he takes any chance to hug you .. something about him just screams wanting to be close to you any chance he gets! i think he'd be rather touch starved too

he pulls you into his arms by your hands, that sweet, sweet smile of joy that can only be seen when someone sees their lover...

please hold him tighter. underneath all that is just a man who yearns for reciprocation he never has to ask for ♡

🍀 ALBEDO

slightly awkward hugs... i'd like to think that his first few hugs with you were somewhat strange, like when you're a kid and friends with the neighbour boy and your moms force you to take a picture together

you have to teach him!! >:3 teach him what a good hug feels like

the intricacies of human touch, like the soft looking up into his eyes, or burying your head into his chest, or letting him rest his head against yours

time passes, and hugs are one of those things he doesn't let you ask for -> he just knows, somehow. like a little radar in his mind, just letting you fall straight into his arms

🍀 CHILDE

soft, sweet hugs that you melt right into

ohhhh i think a good long hug from him would heal the world solve all problems water your crops actually. somehow his body just knows; the right warmth, the right pressure, the right position, everything that makes you feel cradled and so well loved

i think it's also an older brother instinct maybe :( he knows how to make things better...

HE'S SO CUTE he has this habit of rubbing his thumb against your shoulder blade as you lean into him. the softest, sweetest, most comforting hug you've felt in a long time.

please hold him even tighter when he needs it!! at the very core of his love and protection is a man who needs to feel the same

#genshin x reader #genshin x gn reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x gn reader #xiao x reader #xiao x gn reader #diluc x reader #diluc x gn reader #kaeya x reader #kaeya x gn reader #albedo x reader #albedo x gn reader #childe x reader #childe x gn reader #mei's ! ₊˚ʚ 🌱 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

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joeldarling · 2 days ago

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Pretty Thing - Oldman!Joel x F!reader (+18)

Summary: You need to change a tire and a pretty stranger helps you with, but, of course, you have to pay him back somehow.

Warnings: MINORS DNI! F!reader, porn without a bigger plot, AGE GAP (Joel is 60), no reader description at all, p in v, public (kinda?) sex, no protection, JOEL IN GLASSES MENTIONED.

Word count: 1,9k.

A/N: English it’s not my first language, sooooo, you know. You can find more spicy and oldman!Joel in my masterlist as well. I am currently working on another soft request and might turn into a mini-series so let me know what you think! Feedbacks are utterly appreciated and my requests are always open. 💌

You know your tire is flat the moment you hear the wheel rim hitting the asphalt, and you can't help but sigh in exasperation. You're exhausted; the Texas heat is almost cruel, and it's bad enough that your old pickup truck doesn't have AC. Being inside an unventilated vehicle under the scorching sun is almost like being inside an oven, and worst of all, you don't have the slightest idea how to change a tire. You'd never been unlucky enough before and had always tried to be careful, not speeding and swerving around potholes.

But you were in a hurry that day, needing to deliver some packages for your father and get home by dinnertime to prepare something for him and feel more like a good daughter, pushing to the back of your mind the regret of not having stayed in Austin for college, but returning years later when your career hadn't even taken off.

To you, it was almost funny.

Well, things like this happen all the time.

You just needed some time to figure out what you would do with your life, and until then, you considered it a good idea to try and reconnect with the man who had resented you your whole life, treating you like a burden because your mother had decided to leave, throwing the responsibility of raising you onto him.

The spare tire was probably fine; you'd had that pickup since you were sixteen, and now, at twenty-four, your finances didn't allow for extra expenses on a newer car. Not that you cared. You were a simple girl, after all.

You got out of the vehicle, going to the back to open the tailgate; due to the lack of phone signal, not even a self-help video would be possible. You only knew that you needed to unscrew some things and fit others, nothing very practical.

You felt like lying down on the hot asphalt and staying there until a car passed and ran you over to death, but you couldn't be any later, and so, you started trying to remove the used spare tire from the pickup, without success since the lock was too tight. A few minutes later, you were almost giving up, and even if you could call someone, you simply had no one to call. Your father wouldn't come and the truck's overdue insurance even less so. You would have to figure it out yourself.

“Needin’ sum’ help over there, girl?” A stranger's voice echoed, making you jump. You hadn't even noticed his sudden approach, too caught up in your miserable thoughts to care about whoever it was. “Seems like your car’s fucked up.”

When you turn around, the air leaves your lungs, as if the heat had taken over every cell in your body, causing you to choke, stumbling over the words you want to say but can't. Damn, the stranger is possibly the most handsome man you've ever seen; the type of real beauty that makes your pussy wet, with strong hands that know how to take care of a woman.

Your spiral of thoughts scares you, but you take a deep breath; you shouldn't even be thinking about this, after all, you have a bigger problem. The man is clearly old enough to be your father, you don't even like to think about it, but you can't help it. He had a cigarette butt in his mouth, his gray hair swept back with dark curls, and he definitely had a prominent belly that made you gasp.

“Yea… Erm… My…” You point, unable to say anything else. “Not strong enough to take off the other one. It's too tight.”

And suddenly, you don't even think about the dangers that this could present. The man could be a murderer or worse, but your instincts were calm enough that your only concern was your own attire: the short lace dress, the worn leather boots, and your clear lack of sense in not wearing a bra, after all, you had planned to return home quickly.

The stranger approached the flat tire, observing it carefully, and then looked at you.

“Ya’ smoke?” He asked. You didn’t smoke, but you nodded, anxious to please that man. “M’name is Joel. Don’t worry, girl. It’ll be quick.”

You thank him in a murmur and offer him your name, which he repeats clearly, curious. You appreciate the way it sounds sweeter on his lips. Joel it’s obviously in his sixties, wearing glasses that gave away his age, flannel with jeans, even in all that heat, he didn't seem bothered, he was naturally attractive.

Joel easily removed your spare tire, changed the flat, and secured the old one back in place, even tighter. You would have it fixed as soon as possible.

You don't talk, but at times your eyes meet. He analyzes you like an experiment. Joel was just an old man who hadn't touched a woman in years, and of course, by his own choice. Even now that his daughters were grown and lived in different places, even now that he could take anyone he wanted home, he didn't like all the hunting. And well, you seemed to be offered to him on a silver platter; he had observed your reactions. The way you sighed when he took off his flannel, remaining only in his white tank top, lightly smudging the light cotton fabric with dirt from the tire, or how you seemed to stammer, trying to say something and uttering absolutely nothing, your beautiful mouth opening and closing several times.

“Ready to go, girl.” He said, wiping his dirty hands on his pants. Of course, he didn't expect any payment, but you nodded, heading towards the driver's side of the pickup, looking for your wallet and your last twenty dollars which would certainly make a difference later. It just felt wrong to let Joel go away empty-handed.

As you stretched your body to reach the small bag where you kept your things, you simply felt Joel's presence behind you; he held your waist firmly. The dress was too short for you to do that; of course, part of you had done it on purpose. He rubbed his hip against your butt. Joel was already hard, and you wondered when that had happened, not that your pussy wasn't equally wet, needing his attention since you had seen him for the first time.

"Don't need your money, pretty thing," he said, his drawl vibrating in every word as you felt him lift your dress, exposing your skin and the lace panties that barely covered anything, completely soaked for him. "It seems like you want this too, hm? Ya' made pretty obvious."

Damn.

It's nothing romantic, of course not. Your body is burning with desire for him, for a man who won't disappoint you and will do the hard work. It's hot, and the sun seems to have multiplied, but you can only feel Joel in every corner of your mind. That stranger who seemed to come from the same place as you, but for sure, Austin was big enough that you didn't know him. No kisses, but his hands slide over your waist, squeezing your flesh, and you can hear his hoarse moans, as if he's as needy as you are.

He only stops touching you to open the buckle of his leather belt and pull down his jeans just to his knees. Joel massages his own cock, completely hard and dripping with precum. You do nothing to stop him; in fact, you only arch yourself even more towards him. And when Joel pushes your panties aside, groaning at the sight of your cunt, you let out the same sound in return, almost begging him, but speaking felt wrong, too intimate, too much.

He enters you slowly, surprised by how tight you were but wild enough not to even care if you were a virgin or not, and just the thought of being your first makes him bury the rest of his lenght all at once, his cock hitting your spongy point specifically as the pain dissipated with the pleasure. Obviously, you weren't a virgin, but the only boyfriend you had in college felt like a distant past when Joel started to move, in and out.

He wanted to paint you white with his cum and as you moaned his name in a kind of mantra, Joel used one of his hands and wrapped it in your hair, pulling hard.

“Such a pretty tight cunt…” He groaned, his breath coming in gasps as your bodies dripped with sweat. Your breasts rubbed against the fabric of your dress, causing a delicious friction. You wanted more and more of him until you couldn't think anymore.

Seeming to hear your thoughts, he simply picked up the pace while letting go of your hair, and your face met the upholstery of the seat. Your hands searched for something to hold onto but Joel pinned both your wrists against your back, having complete control of everything else.

“Gonna fill ya’ up with my cum and put a baby on you so I can keep fuckin’ ya’ for the rest of m’life.” He seemed extremely willing, and you didn't fight it; it didn't seem like a bad idea. But all you could think about at that moment was how much you needed to cum and make a complete mess under his cock.

“Joel… Please…” You begged.

“Cum for me, babygirl. Make a mess for me, hm?” He seemed equally close to filling you with his cum and part of you wanted Joel to release first. But upon hearing his command, it was as if the rest of the world went silent.

You moaned his name loudly one last time; it felt so good, the way he cared about your pleasure, everything. You reached your orgasm like never before; your legs trembled, you felt your vision darken, and he didn't stop for a moment, thrusting in and out of your pussy as if his life depended on it. He savored every moment of it, making it last much longer than you were used to.

“Fuck, so tight, darlin’... M’gonna cum so good, babygirl.” He announced between his uneven breaths. Joel, despite his age, was still completely in shape; maybe it was the fact that he was feeling a pussy around his cock after a long time… He couldn't say, it just felt fucking good.

Joel finally came all inside of you, the feeling of being filled up with his cum was delicious. He seemed ecstatic and you wished so badly to see his face at that moment, but you felt completely drained, receiving everything Joel was willing to give you. You simply blacked out for a few seconds, regaining consciousness only when he finally pulled out of you, leaving a white, viscous, and warm trail.

He carefully turned your body, knowing your legs were too weak to support your own weight, and held your waist, settling you onto the seat after adjusting your panties and running his thumb across your throbbing pussy, bringing it to his lips and murmuring how delicious you were.

"Gonna need sum' time to recover, pretty thing," he said, looking equally exhausted, covered in sweat, and kept his hands on your body. "Gonna make ya' mine for sure. Never gonna change a damn tire again."

When your eyes met his, this time seeming permanent, you didn't deny any of it. God knew how much you needed someone to take care of you, and if fate had put this stranger in your path, who were you to argue?

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lowkeyerror · 2 days ago

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Always, I'm With You

Yelena Belova x Reader

Word Count: 10k

Notes: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, fluff, FULL THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, Happy Ending, mentions of torture, Hydra, cannon typical violence, possible ooc, (Tell me if I miss something I'll add it)

Summary: Your relationship with Yelena has been littered with challenges, but there isn't anything that you can't face together.

An: The summary is shit but I don't want to give too much away. So I implore you to trust me because I swear this delivers. Also its my civic duty to notify the masses that Ao3 is down rn.

Masterlist | Masterlist 2

Yelena had always been the optimist of your relationship. She was a beacon of light that was ever glowing. No matter the trauma she suffered, she held her chin high and kept a smile on her face.

She had pulled you out of the darkness more times than you could remember. Every time you began drowning in your past, she was there to remind you of the present. You were no longer alone, you’d never be alone again, because you had her.

You weren’t prepared for the day when her light was snuffed out. Life had already been so unnecessarily cruel to her, but you had never seen her broken like this. The universe put Natasha in her path for a tenth of a second. It gave her the family that she spent years chasing and then snatched it so ruthlessly.

When the blip happened, you were with her. One minute you were sitting on the counter watching her wash her face and the next she was gone. You were hysterical. The panic was instant, it felt like someone had a death grip on your heart.

The first thing you did was call Natasha. You rambled on the phone, incoherent to most, but Natasha had known why you were calling. How could she not, when she was watching the same thing happen to the people on the battlefield?

She got to you as quickly as she could. You weren’t in good shape when she got to you. In your mind you were ready. You needed to get justice, revenge, something that would fill the hole left by Yelena’s absence.

When what was left of the Avengers killed Thanos, you were there. You had felt how empty the act was. How meaningless it all felt. With your beacon of light gone nothing felt worth it anymore.

You wanted to go off on your own. Maybe just walk into the ocean never to be seen again, but Natasha wouldn’t allow it. She kept you close to her though for a long time you were useless, empty without Yelena in your life. You ached for her. You saw her everywhere you looked. She was on the couch with a bowl of mac and cheese, she was on the counter playing with her knife, she was in bed with her arms open for you to climb into. Then you’d blink and she’d be gone just as quick.

Your past became more haunting without her. You started to think about all of the sins you committed while you were brainwashed by Hydra. They had kidnapped you somewhere in the early 2000’s injecting you with their version of the super soldier serum. You did unthinkable things. Some you could never forgive yourself for. Yelena was the one to free you of the mind control. You’d stuck with her ever since then. She was the only person capable of making you feel like you weren’t a monster. Now she was gone. All your mind did was bounce between memories of her and your brainwashed past. It was a torturous loop that you couldn’t escape.

Natasha let you grieve. She didn’t pressure you to help her with hero work. She didn’t force you to come out of your room to socialize. All she wanted from you was to see you eat at least twice a day. She’d talk and you’d listen, not saying much back.

One day when you came down for dinner you saw her at the table with her head in her hands, a bottle of Russian vodka perched by her elbows. It was nearly half empty.

You sat across from her silently. She lifted her head up to look at you. Her eyes were bloodshot, but you couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol or the tears.

“You two are so alike sometimes that it scares me.”

You can see Natasha morphing into her younger sister right before your eyes. There wasn’t a problem that vodka couldn’t outrun. At least that’s what Yelena said on her worst days.

“I miss her too, you know? I had- I just got her back,” more tears well in her eyes. “I found a family with the Avengers and now I have nothing left to show of it. Then right after I found the closest thing to blood relatives I have it gets stolen from me. There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not missing someone.”

You try to find some words of comfort, “I was never good at this, but your sister was. This hopeful glow that you couldn’t help but follow. She’d probably say something about not giving up so easily, it’d be a half-joke. Then she’d probably say something like the world will always need heroes like you. People that continuously sacrifice for the sake of humanity.”

“And are you a hero?”

Natasha shoots the question at you.

You reach for the bottle of vodka, taking a large swig, “I was whatever she needed me to be. Sometimes a hero, sometimes less than that, but never evil.”

“Malicious?”

You shrug, “On occasion.”

She laughs through her tears, “I’m glad she had you when I wasn’t around.”

You shake your head, “It’s the other way around. She taught me how to stay afloat. I leaned on her for support for so many things. Without her, I just feel myself falling into the void. How can anything I do be worth it, if she’s not here?”

She places her hand on top of yours, “I’m not going to give up until she’s back, until they’re all back.”

Natasha meant it. You could tell she believed with her entire being. She had never been an optimist, often grounded in unobjectionable truths. You couldn’t tell if it was desperation or just another way she had become like her sister.

You started being useful that day.

Rather than letting Natasha carry all of the weight and responsibility, you let her give some of it to you. You started thinking like her. You had to see Yelena again, you’d do whatever it took just to see her one more time.

When the opportunity to rewrite history came about, you were vexed that it appeared in the form of Scott Lang. He was annoying, but without him there wasn’t a chance the remaining Avengers would’ve reformed. Natasha had called upon them many times, but they’d only seemed to care about the big one.

“Natasha.”

You have this pit in your stomach that won’t go away. You aren’t fond of this plan, of everyone splitting up. Maybe you’d feel better if you were going with Natasha and Clint, but you weren’t.

“Y/n, I know-"

You don’t let her finish her sentence. You wrap your arms around her. You’re squeezing her tightly with your eyes shut.

“Be safe,” is what you say initially as you let go of her.

“I love you too, kid. If something happens…”

You shake your head, “No. You’re going to come back here, for Yelena.”

Natasha’s smile is bittersweet, “I will do what I can.”

You shake your head once again, “Not good enough. Promise me, promise me you’ll come back. We’re going to do this together. Nat, she has to come home to the both of us.”

She pulls you into her embrace again, she kisses the crown of your head, “I promise.”

She lied.

“Where is she?”

Clint couldn’t look you in the eye. He tossed the stone to Tony and tried to walk away. You grabbed him by the shoulder, so he was face to face with you.

“Clint,” your voice was stern.

You could see the tears welling in his eyes even though he avoided your gaze, “You have to trade a soul for the stone. I tried- I tried, but she was always better than me.”

Your grip on his shoulder only tightened as you felt your knees buckle. You refused to believe him, “She promised.”

Clint tried to hug you, but you shoved him away, “None of you would even be here without her. You all gave up, turned your back on the world. You took your ball and went home and now you’re here and she’s not. This is bullshit. You already owed her so much and she gave her life up for you pieces of shit.”

Bruce threw a bench, “We cared about her too.”

“Funny way of showing it,” you countered him.

The Hulk got in your face, the team tried to step between you two, “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

“I thought you were always angry,” you shot back at him.

“Now is not the time for this,” Steve interjected.

You scoffed, “Fuck off Steve. Yelena got blipped right in front of me. I thought I lost everything, but I still had Natasha. Now I don’t have either of them because of this stupid fucking team. I’m alone all over again.”

“We’re going to get Yelena back,” Tony chimed in.

You chuckled bitterly, tears now streaming down your face, “Fantastic, and the first thing I have to tell her is that her sister is gone forever. They had just found each other. Fuck.”

Your legs gave out from underneath you. Any arguments that you had stopped as sobs violently struck you. Your body folded in on itself.

The men stared at you, but Clint was the first one to move again. He wrapped his arms around you, but you didn’t shove him off this time. You allowed him to hold you. The only thing you managed to say was ‘she promised' over and over again.

When you couldn’t cry anymore, his grip didn’t falter.

“She told me that you have to be strong for Yelena like you were strong for her. She couldn’t have done this without you.”

“How can I do this without her?”

He was slow to stand, his hand stretched out, “You do it for her instead. Don’t let her sacrifice be for nothing.”

You took his hand.

In the midst of battle, sweat dripping down your dirt-stained face, you couldn’t help, but wonder if you’d die here. If you’d go out a hero, fighting against a mad titan’s army.

Somewhere between the 9th and 13th enemy you take down, you realize you can’t die. Yelena would come back to no one. Well she’d have Alexei, but would he be able to save her from herself?

When the portals opened, you felt a little relieved. Any help was welcomed in your mind. The people who disappeared were back, and you wondered if she was too.

It was somber when it was all said and done, but you didn’t need to stick around for a reunion.

“I can get you to her,” Stephen Strange offered.

You didn’t ask any questions, instead you gave him a curt nod. He opened a portal and you stepped right through.

The last time you were in this apartment, Natasha was basically dragging you out of it. Your protests fell on deaf ears as you tried to stay here. It wouldn’t have been good for you, surrounded by things that reminded you of Yelena.

You hear the rummaging around before you see her. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you curse your legs for not being able to move.

When she comes charging down the hallway. Your breath catches. Five long years, you’ve waited for this moment.

She almost doesn’t recognize you, pulling out her weapon. When she gets closer, she begins to analyze you.

Older, eyes more tired, new lines across your forehead, different hair. It was hard to tell with all the dirt and debris of battle all over you.

“Yelena.”

She can hear how broken you are. So she doesn’t stop you when you surge forward, holding onto her like she would vanish out of thin air.

You shake in her arms whispering against her skin, the same thing over and over, “I’m sorry.”

She backs away only enough to hold your face in her hands, “What happened?”

You attempt to take a deep breath, but wince. Yelena finds a cut on the side of your suit. Gently she presses it and you groan.

“Tell me after I patch you up.”

She drags you along, trying to pull you into the restroom. You stop outside and shake your head, “Bedroom.”

Yelena furrows her brows, but she grabs the first aid out of the bathroom, before following you to the bedroom.

The cut on your side is nastier than you would’ve thought. It takes her a while to tend to the wound. When she finished the cut is in a better state, but you aren’t. All you can do is stare at her.

She asks you to tell her again. You finally pull your eyes away from her’s, instead focusing on your hands. You tell her everything, from the moment she disappeared until now.

“My sister,” everything else seems of little importance to Yelena.

You can’t look at her, “I’m so sorry.”

She takes your hand, intertwining your fingers, “It’s not your fault.”

Your lip begins to quiver, “Stop.”

“Y/n, look at me.”

“I have to be strong,” you say it more to yourself than her.

“Detka, please,” Yelena pleads with you.

Your teary eyes meet her’s. It breaks you to see her like this. You open your arms, and she leans into your hold. She doesn’t care about the remnants of war all over you.

“We are stronger together.”

Your hands are on her stomach. She places her hands on top of yours, keeping you in place.

There are a million more things that you want to say to her. You want to tell her you missed her, that life without her was dull, that you were sorry you couldn’t save her sister, but you don’t. Instead your lips kiss the top of her head, lingering as you hold her. You hope it translates to something.

When she raises your conjoined hands to her lips to press a delicate kiss to the back of your hand, you know it does.

“I love you,” she says it first.

“I love you too.”

Neither of you attend Tony’s funeral. Instead you find yourselves in a small suburban town. You wish you could say that it was where they grew up, but you knew it wasn’t.

You both stare at her grave. Yelena gets close to the tombstone putting her head against it. She mutters something in Russian. You don’t fully understand it but you pick up a few key words.

She raises her volume for you to hear, “This is where we became sisters.”

“She was always thinking of you. I think it’s half of the reason she took me in when you were gone. The other half was because she was a good person. I think she kept some blonde in her hair for you. Being with her saved my life because sometimes when I looked at her I saw small pieces of you. I hope… I hope that sometimes she felt the same when she looked at me. It was a comfort I think we both needed. I didn’t know how similar you were until I found her nursing a bottle of vodka trying to drink away the pain, just like you do.”

She catches your gaze, locked as tears fall down your face, “I’m sure she did, because you are the best part of me.”

You disagree with her, “ You saved me.”

She stands to cup your face in her hands. You still have a few scrapes from the battle with Thanos. Her hands are cold against the skin of your face. She searches your eyes for something, she doesn’t find it. Her forehead rests against yours. Her breath mingles with yours and for a moment all the tears are forgotten.

“Why can’t you see that you saved me too?”

She kisses you, almost like it would break you. You relax into her, relishing in the way her lips feel against yours. It’s like breathing.

You waited 5 years to experience this again. This is your first kiss since returning. You both were in fragile states. You’d never rush Yelena into anything she didn’t want to do. In truth you could’ve kissed her the second you saw her, but you had too much to tell her then.

Your eyes stay closed even when your lips are no longer touching her’s.

“Sorry to interrupt such a touching moment.”

Your moment is over just like that. Yelena has an unimpressed look on her face as she turns her attention to the woman.

“What do you want Valentina?” Yelena’s voice is gruff as she speaks.

“I have a job for you. The both of you if you’re interested,” she flashes a Hollywood smile as she speaks.

Yelena’s jaw clenches, “How many times do I have to tell you that she doesn’t do this?”

You sigh, “What’s the job?”

Your girlfriend looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, “No.”

“If you think you’re going on your own, you’re mistaken,” you tell her.

She runs a hand through her hair, looking between you and Valentina. The sigh that leaves her lips is heavier than the one that had left yours, “You heard what she said.”

Valentina’s smile stretches even wider than it already was, “Wonderful, a couple of shadow agents.”

That's how you started working for Valentina.

There wasn’t any chance that you’d be letting Yelena out of your sight. Not with everything so fresh. You knew the kind of person she was.

She would throw herself into this work to numb herself from the pain. You couldn’t stop all of the hurt, but you could feel it with her. She’d do the same for you.

“Lena,” you call her name through the hotel you’re currently stationed at. “It took me a few stores, but I’ve got the boxed mac n cheese.”

There’s no answer. You feel a little panic start to set into your bones. You call her a few more times but you don’t get a response. Just when you’re about to start investigating every inch of the apartment, you find her.

She’s leaned against the bathtub, sitting on the floor. Her head hangs down letting you know she’s unconscious. The bottle of vodka in her hand is nearly half empty. There’s another one on the side of her that’s completely gone.

You crouch down to look at her. Your hand reaches to move some of her hair out of her face. She had cut it short since you reunited. You liked it, but that wasn’t surprising. There were minimal things you didn't like about her.

When you attempt to take the bottle from her hand Yelena wakes up. She goes on the offensive immediately trying to trap you against the wall. You slip from her grasp on your shoulders, slinking around her back, so that you can hug her from behind. She thrashes a little until you whisper in her ear.

“Lena, baby.”

She stops her movements. She nearly leans into you until something stops her. She rips herself out of your hold. She doesn’t look at you. The grip on the bottle tightens, “Sorry.”

She starts to march out of the room, but you don’t allow it. Instead of reaching for her, you set your sights on the bottle. She tries to fight you for it, but your grip is unrelenting.

“Let go.”

You take stern tone with her, “You don’t need it.”

“How are you going to tell me what I need?”

“Because I know you Yelena. Now give me the bottle,” you try to yank it from her hands.

“NO!”

She screams at you and throws the bottle in the corner of the bathroom. Glass shatters all over the white tile. Liquid spreads around the floor. Your eyes are wide, as you look at the scene. You look back to Yelena to find similar shock on her face.

She starts running and you chase after her. She books it out of the hotel. You follow her down the steps and out of the front. You can feel your heart pound in your ears as your feet slap against the concrete. You watch as she tries to loose you in the crowd.

Your eyes follow the trail she takes, but your legs carry you a different way. You’re going to cut her off. You push yourself, knowing that the blonde is faster than you.

When you round the corner her body collides with yours. She’s looking back to see if you’re behind her.

Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath. She doesn’t look at you, the anxiety clear on her face. You take her hand into yours, she flinches, but allows it.

You pull her away from the crowded street, into a private alleyway.

“I love you,” you start. “And nothing is going to change that. Not a thousands shards of glass on the floor and not a river of vodka.”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she still refuses to look at you.

You nod, your lips briefly folding into your mouth, “You shouldn’t have, but I know you won’t do it again.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Like I said, I know you. That and… I think we both could benefit from going dry.”

She frowns, “Just because I can’t control myself, doesn’t mean you have to suffer too.”

“Lena you act like you haven’t found me in that same position a thousand times. If not with a bottle, then with a pipe. I know how you feel because I feel it too, but you’re not alone.”

She meets your eyes with a childlike hope burning though them. You can tell you’re getting through to her.

“I’m here. I will always be here,” you hold her gaze.

She crumples into your arms. You support her weight as she clutches onto your top. You can feel the dampness of her tears seeping through your shirt.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she whispers into the fabric of your clothing.

“I love you so much Yelena,” you rub soothing circles on her back.

She straightens up a little sniffing and wiping her eyes, “Ok, ok, I feel better now.”

You smile at her, “Good, because we have to go back to the hotel. I have boxed macaroni ready to be cooked.”

“With hot sauce?”

You kiss the side of her temple, “Of course I got the sauce.”

When you get back to the hotel the blonde wordlessly cleans up the mess she made in the bathroom. While she does that you cook the macaroni. By the time she’s done, so are you.

You make dumb jokes as you eat together. Lightening the mood exponentially. It’s something that’s bound to happen when the two of you are together. She’s your light and you’re finally beginning to understand you’re her’s too.

As much as you pressure Valentina to only send jobs that both of you can do, there are times where the woman doesn’t concede. Yelena was sent off to Malaysia, something about a lab. It wasn’t your mission so you didn’t know all of the details.

All you knew was that you had some anxieties about being apart. Things were better now, but there were still hard days.

Recently you could tell that something was bothering Yelena. She was keeping something from you. It only spiked your anxiety about her going on this mission alone. She wasn’t pulling away like she would’ve in the past, but she wasn’t letting you in.

It was a weird place to be in your relationship.

You check the time again, wondering when she would be home. You knew it would be late, but you predicted something earlier than this. It had been a few hours of you sitting on the couch of your home and waiting for her to walk through the door.

You had your fill of television and doom scrolling on the phone. All you want to do is cuddle in bed next to your girlfriend.

When she finally comes through the door, she leans her back against it while it’s closed. She stays there taking a few deep breaths, grounding herself. You watch her curiously, but let her have the moment.

When she opens her eyes, they land on you on the couch.

She smiles at you, “You didn’t have to wait for me dorogoy.”

You nod a few times, “I missed you, wanted to know you were safe.”

You walk over to her, she pulls you in for a chaste kiss, “I missed you too.”

The two of you make your way to the bedroom. You get in the bed while the Russian undresses.

“I thought you'd be home a while ago,” you say to her with no malice.

She freezes up a little, but doesn’t stop changing, “I made a little pit stop before coming home.”

You raise your eyebrow, “A pit stop?”

“You know a little errand before coming home,” she explains, climbing into bed.

“I know what a pit stop is Lena. Where’d you go?”

She mumbles an answer, but you don’t hear her.

“Yelena Fyodorovna Belova.”

She gasps, “Do not call me that.”

You scoff, “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

She squints her eyes, “I told you my middle name in confidence. Not so you could use it as ammunition.”

“Well, if you stop mumbling then I won’t resort to using it,” you counter.

She lets out an exasperated sigh, “Fine. I went to see Alexei.”

“Oh.”

She shakes her head, “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“All I said was oh,” you defend.

“Because you hate my dad,” Yelena says it like it’s a fact.

“I don’t hate your dad.”

She sits up in the bed, crossing her arms, “You don’t?”

“No, I just hate how emotionally constipated and fixated on the past he is."

She throws her hands in the air, “So his whole personality?”

You change the subject, “How was seeing him?”

“I think you’re supposed to ask how he is doing first. If you are so keen about changing the topic.”

You let out a huff of annoyance, “How is he?”

She laughs, pulling you closer to her. Your head lies in her lap. Her fingers get tangled in your hair.

“He’s miserable, he misses being a hero.”

“Shocker,” you mutter under your breath.

“Now who is doing the mumbling?”

You smile up at her, “Sorry. Why’d you go see him anyway? It’s been like a year, hasn’t it?”

You see something in her demeanor change. She looks back down at you, “I was thinking of quitting.”

“Oh.”

She chuckles, “There you go with the ‘oh’ again. What does that even mean?”

You shrug, “Unexpected. I’m assuming he talked you out of it.”

“I asked Valentina for a more front facing role.”

“Oh.”

Yelena groans, “Can you please stop saying that?”

“Front facing like Natasha,” you ask, reaching up to cup her face.

“Yes.”

You trace the line of her jaw with your finger, “I’m proud of you.”

Yelena grabs your hand, placing a kiss on your palm, “Maybe you could join me.”

“Do I need to start powdering my nose? Do people still do that?” You joke.

Yelena rolls her eyes, “Your jokes remind me of my dad. Please stop.”

You pout, “My jokes are better than his.”

She kisses your wrist, “I’m serious though, would you do this with me?”

You move from your lying position to straddle the blonde’s waist. Your arms loosely hang on her shoulders. Her hands are planted on your hips.

You play with the hairs on the base of her neck, “I’d do anything with you, Lena. If you wanted to pull the stars from the sky, then I’d find a way to help you.”

“If I asked you to do that, you need to have me committed. I would be unwell to ask you such a thing.”

You stare at her blankly, “I’m trying to be romantic here.”

Yelena smirks at you, “Skill issue.”

You gasp, feigning offense, “You’ve never complained about my skill level before.”

Her faces scrunches up, “Get your head out of the gutter.”

You wiggle your eyebrows, “Trying to get my head between your-”

You don’t get to finish the sentence as Yelena attempts to toss you to your side of the bed. She doesn’t calculate it quite right and you end up on the floor.

You groan, “Ouch.”

She giggles at you looking over the edge of the bed, “It was an accident.”

You give her a sideways glance, “Sure it was. I can tell by the boisterous laughter.”

She offers you her hand, helping you get back in the bed. Once you’re in, she lays her head on your chest. You sling an arm around her.

“Do you think she'd be proud of me?”

She’s already drifting when she asks.

“More than you'd be able to comprehend,” you say, closing your eyes to follow in her footsteps.

You’re already awake when there’s a harsh banging on your front door. You’re waiting for Yelena to come back from her latest assignment. It was something with a vault and that was as much as you knew.

The banging startles you as it is unstopping. You pull your knife out immediately as you make your way to the door. You check the peephole and let out and irritated sigh. Yanking the door open, you stare at Alexei unimpressed.

He's wearing the red guardian costume.

“Hello Alexei.”

“Yelena is in danger.”

Those four words are all it takes for you to get into his raggedy limo.

You have your gear on, leg bouncing as you wish you would’ve opted on taking your car instead. The limo is big and flashy, easily noticeable. It’s also slow as shit.

Alexei fills you in about what he heard while driving Valentina. Your hands twitch as you picture yourself strangling the women.

“Why didn’t she send me too?”

Alexei’s incessant rambling almost stops in its track. His tone sobers up a bit, “She didn’t think you’d be a problem. If anything happened to Lena, she said you wouldn’t forgive yourself.”

You clench your fist together, “She’s right, but I’d kill her if anything happened to Yelena.”

Alexei lets out a laugh, “I knew I liked you when we first met.”

You roll your eyes, “Less laughing, more driving.”

He straightens up his posture, “We will find her.”

You’re trapped with the man for hours. The night shifts into day as worry starts to take over your system. He has just as much energy as when he was banging on your door.

It takes a minute, but you can notice that there is genuine concern under all of his semantics.

“Why did you come get me first? You could’ve left without me?”

He shook his head, “You are family. You care about her. I would not keep all of this glory for myself, when I know you want to save her as much as I do. That and I think she will be less mad if you are with me.”

His explanation makes you laugh to yourself, “Look who’s learning about their emotions.”

He keeps his attention on the road, “For her, I try.”

Once you’re far into the desert Alexei stops the car without warning. He gets out and starts screaming like a psycho before you even have the chance to stop him.

You hop out of the limo, pushing him in the chest, “Are you trying to let the entire world know that we’re here? What if there are enemies around?”

“Then we fight them. We are super soldiers, we can take them.”

You glare up at him, “Do not call me a super soldier.”

“You have serum in you, you are soldier. I don’t make rules,” he shrugs.

You shove him in the chest, “I’m serious. If you call me that again, I’ll drop you where you stand.”

He laughs in your face, “I like to see you try. I am red guardian, protector of-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before you sweep his leg. He tumbles onto the ground with a heavy thud. You stand over him with a twinkle in your eyes.

“Fine, you’re not soldier. Happy now?”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, “Elated.”

You scan your surroundings, when you see three figures headed towards you. Reluctantly you help Alexei to his feet.

“See, you need to have faith in my plans,” he claps you on the back.

He begins to jog over, but you stop him, “I’ll jog. You bring the car.”

You waste no time sprinting in the direction of the figures. As they come more into focus, you pick up your speed.

When you’re in front of the three of them. You disregard the other two going straight for Yelena. You grab her by the face and start looking over her for injuries.

“Are you hurt? I’ll kill her, if you’re hurt.”

She grabs your arms, “I’m fine. How are you here right now?”

“Alexei brought me. He was driving Valentina and overheard her plan.”

You pull her into your embrace, squeezing her tightly. She senses the anxiety in the hug. Even though she would rather not let the other’s see, she keeps holding onto the hug.

“I’m right here,” she whispers so that only you can hear.

“I thought I lost you,” you tell her, freeing her from your hold.

She scoffs, “And leave you with Alexei? Absolutely not.”

“Y/n?”

“You have to be kidding me,” You say turning your attention to the man who called your name.

“Do you know her?” The woman with the Bristish accent asks the white man.

He nods, “All of us super-”

Yelena butts in, “She is not a super soldier. Do not call her that.”

He blinks at her, “Right, right, except she totally is. Winter Soldier level, super soldier created by Hydra. She might even be better than the Winter Soldier.”

“Shut up Walker, before I throw that shield through your head,” you feel your blood boiling.

“If this how you treat all your partners then I feel sorry for your girlfriend.”

You’re about to punch him, when Alexei honks his horn, signaling you all to get in his deathtrap of a limo. Ava drags Walker over first to create space between the two of you.

“You partnered with him?” Yelena asks before you get in.

“Valentina set us up on a few jobs together. That’s all.”

Yelena eyes go wide, “This is the egotistical maniac that you were talking about.”

You get in the limo, “Yep.”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

While you’re in the limo they fill you in about what happened at the vault. When they’re done Alexei fills them in on what he heard Valentina talking about. It’s a lot of information for everyone to process.

“So did Bob die or?”

“We don’t know,” Ava answers honestly.

You frown, “Poor guy.”

Yelena goes to comment, but that’s when she notices the trucks following behind you.

“We have company.”

The group springs into action trying to take out the vehicle, but it’s proving to be damn near indestructible. The back window of the limo gets shot out. Ava is shooting out of the window, but John quickly pulls her in once the fire begins to get too much.

“Doesn’t this thing go any faster?”

“I’m on it,” Alexei calls out, he steps on the gas, but you’re barely up to 55.

It’s then that the cars begin to get disarmed, one by one You’re not entirely relieved when you see who’s responsible for it, but at least Valentina’s guys are off of you.

“It’s Bucky!” John on the other hand is more enthusiastic.

The group starts cheering thinking they evaded, danger, but you know better. Bucky is a complex individual. You’re proven right when he shoots something at the limo causing the back to explode as you all tip up into the air and then crash onto the floor.

You find yourselves tied up on a plane, with the former Winter Soldier turned congressman looking over you. You all try to explain to him what happened, but he doesn’t believe you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

John drops the pretense, “It means you know me Bucky, so cut the shit and listen to what we’re trying to tell you.”

“Yeah, I know you John, and you made your choices. I know it’s been hard since Olivia left you and took your kid, but it’s still on you.”

John shuts up after that, but you don’t.

“That’s rich coming from you, Bucky. What happened to Steve again? Talk about people leaving, not only did he abandon his team when they needed him the most. He gets to live his happy ending while we all suffer. He gets to relive his glory days while we get relieve our nightmares.”

Your words shake him and you know it, but he just pushes past them.

“You’re all evidence in Valentina’s trial.”

You let out an annoyed groan, “From hydra agent to government puppet, what a change.”

He steps over to you calmly, “And what have you done since being free besides follow her around like a lost dog? Maybe she should collar you and call you Fanny.”

You stand, breaking the restraints he tied you in, “ I was being a goddamn hero. I’m one of the people that helped saved half of the universe. I’ve repented for what I’ve done and I’ve earned the right to my happy ending.”

“Did you earn it or did Natasha hand it to you?”

You push him. Hard.

His back slams against the wall of the plane. The sound echoed in the space. You feel yourself, losing control.

“And who scrubbed your ledger clean Winter Soldier?”

There’s an indent from where his metal arm braced for impact against the plane. He sucks his teeth, “You want to do this?”

“Do you?” You challenge him.

“Let’s go super soldier.”

He charges at you, but you side step his attack.

“Is now really the time for this?” Ava asks the rest of the group.

Walker shrugs, “Don’t know, but I’m rooting for Y/n.”

“Me too,” Alexei nods.

Ava shares a pleading look with Yelena. The blonde huffs in annoyance, “He shouldn’t have brought up my sister.”

“If they break the plane, we will die,” Ava deadpans.

Bucky takes your arm, and twists it behind your back. You throw your head back knocking him square in the nose. He releases the hold and you quickly turn to throw a fury of strikes his way. He dodges most of the punches but when you send a hard kick to his chest he stumbles backwards.

He holds his abdomen and you smirk at him. As he goes for the next attack his phone rings. You let him answer it. You all hear the person on the phone basically reiterate what you were saying.

“Bob?”

“BOB,” you all say in unison.

He looks at you, and then the rest. Before hanging up the phone. He starts with Ava’s restraints. You take initiative and break Yelena’s.

“How come you could break out of yours, I was pulling these with everything I had,” Walker comments when he’s freed.

You shrug, “Ask Hydra.”

Alexei chimes in, “Must be difference between real deal and knock off.”

Bucky rallies the team the best he can, not like they have much of a choice. You aren’t necessarily thrilled, but you do want to get your hands on Valentina. Yelena seems very keen on saving Bob. So that’s the plan. When you’re on the ground, you’re loaded into a van.

Alexei takes shotgun with Bucky, while the rest of you were loaded into the back. It’s quiet for a few minutes before Yelena starts talking about her weapons. Ava pulls out hers next, and then Walker. He asks about his helmet and it gets you to chuckle.

“What about you Y/n?”

“I have widow bites like Lena. Hunter blade, 9inch dagger, throwing knives, retractable knuckle blade,” you show off some of your knives.

“No gun?” Ava comments.

You shake your head, “Don’t need it.”

“And if you did?” Walker questions.

Yelena answers for you, “Then I have an extra for her, but I can guarantee you that she doesn’t need one.”

“Well aren’t you two adorable,” Ava gushes.

You grow bashful at her words.

“How long have you been together?” Walker questions.

You tilt your head to the side a bit, “We met at the tail end of 2016. Got together like beginning of February 2017. Then we’re together until Thanos happens. Lena got blipped. I obviously wasn’t moving on but I can’t say we were together. Then from when the blip was over until now, we’ve been together. So 5 years, but also like 10 years.”

“And no ring?” Ava teases and it makes you blush even harder.

“I- we’ve been busy.”

Yelena takes over, “We've never really talked about marriage. The whole shadow operative thing kind of gets in the way of that.”

John looks at you both incredulously, “Have you ever heard of eloping? What kind of couple is together for 5 years and hasn’t talked about marriage.”

“I knew from the moment we got together, that I’d spend the rest of my life with her. There was nothing to talk about. I’ve never questioned it,” you answer him honestly.

Her hand slides into yours, “Me too. Marriage or no marriage, she is stuck with me.”

John pretends to barf, “Disgustingly cute.”

You lean your head against her shoulder, “She’s my everything.”

Yelena doesn’t shy from the PDA, she kisses the crown of your head. You relishes in the moments, knowing that in just a few short minutes it would be over.

It’s sudden when you feel the van crash into a building. As soon as you hop out, you begin fighting. The group goes to work almost resembling a team as you fight the people in the lobby.

When Valentina’s voice rings out from the intercom the fighting comes to a halt. You all pile into an elevator up to her office. When it dings you are in a very open room. Valentina stands alone, like she had been waiting for you.

Bucky takes the lead. He tells her that it's all over that she has lost. With all of her loose ends in this room, she’d be going away for a long time. Yelena asks her about Bob, but Valentina ignores her.

“Are you still ready for your close up, Yelena?”

“Eat shit Valentina,” she responds unamused.

Bucky gets in her space as she sets her drink down. He goes to grab her, but something stops him.

“I’m not alone,” you can hear the smile in her voice.

Aa blonde man emerges from the stairs. He’s wearing a golden suit with a big ‘S’ on the waist line. A blue cape flows behind him as he makes his descent.

“Hey guys,” he says it casually.

“Bob what happened to you?” Yelena sounds utterly crushed.

Valentina answers for him. She calls him the Sentry and explains that he will be disposing of your little rag tag group. She calls him Earth’s Mightiest hero.

“I’m not going to let you erase them from history,” you step forward.

The Sentry blocks your path, “I don’t want to fight you guys. How about you just turn yourselves in.”

Valentina scoffs, “The Avengers aren’t coming back Y/n. Natasha isn’t coming back. It’s time for you to move on.”

“Enough talking, let’s fight,” Alexei charges the Sentry.

The fight begins. Everyone springs on their own individual attacks on the blonde man, but it doesn’t last. He disarms Ava and Walker first. Then he throws Alexei out of the window before dragging the man back in just to toss him aside.

Meanwhile Yelena is trying to keep the peace. You hold back listening to her pleas. She looks at you, turmoil on her face.

“I’m with you,” you tell her.

She nods before going for Sentry. She gets on his shoulders trying to choke him out. She pleads with him from the position, “Bob, stop.”

He slings her off. You’re going to attack him right then but Bucky puts a hand on your chest. He stares at the blonde, before taking one of his shirts off.

He goes for Bob, activating the part of him that he can’t forget. That same demon that lives inside of you.

Sentry blocks every attempt of contact, eventually grabbing hold of Bucky’s metal arm. While he has his grip on Bucky you move in throwing your strongest punch at his chest.

The force has the Sentry sliding back, taking Bucky’s arm with him. It’s not terribly far back, but it’s something. You don’t get a chance to follow it up, before you feel a vibranium arm knock you across the face. You go sliding with the others.

He tosses Bucky’s arm to the floor. Ava scrambles to grab it an you all pile back into the elevator, retreat the only thing on your minds.

When they get out of the building the arguing starts immediately. There’s a bunch of accusations and finger pointing going around.

All you can focus on is the look on Yelena’s face you reach for her, but she pulls away from you.

“Oh my god stop. There is no us. There is no we. Bob changed into that thing and there’s nothing any of you can do about it.”

Ava goes against her, “And what did you do exactly? I seem to remember you getting your ass beat way more than mine.”

“Yeah, yeah I suck. I’m terrible. We’re all terrible. Ava you’re not a hero, you’re not even a good person,” her arms are moving wildly as she speaks.

“Bitch,” Ava relents.

Alexei intervenes, “Slow down amishka.”

Yelena cuts him off, “Alexei, I am not your amishka. I haven’t heard from you or seen you in a year.”

John tries to de-escalate the situation, “Go easy on him.”

She whips her head around to him, “Oh so you're nice now?”

“It’s my turn?”

“No, you know you’re a piece of trash Walker. So does your family.”

He doesn’t have a comeback, “Jesus.”

She throws her hands up, “We’re all losers and we lost.”

She starts to walk off. The rest of them look at you, expecting you to say something. All you do is sigh, and start to walk after your girl.

Alexei follows after you, “Let me try.”

Against your better judgement, you let him go ahead of you. You keep a steady pace as he runs to catch up with Yelena.

“Oh my god stop. If you cared you would’ve called. I would’ve heard from you.”

He stares at her, with sorrow in his eyes.

Her eyes water and her voice breaks, “I lost my sister again, but forever. And you disappeared.”

“I’m sorry. I don't know how to do this. I’m not good at it,” he steps towards her.

“Papa it’s all just too heavy. All I do is sit and scroll on my phone and think about all of the terrible things that I’ve done. Even with an attentive partner I just feel like a burden. She works like this because I work like this. I can’t handle my drinks, so she doesn't drink. All I do is take up space.”

Alexei looks back at you.

“I didn’t think you needed me,” he answered.

“I did.”

He nods, “I see that. I’m late but I'm here now.”

You walk past Alexei, right up to Yelena. You take both her hands in yours. She doesn’t pull away like she did before.

“I don’t care about the work. I don’t care about the drinking. Yelena the only thing I care about is you. If you feel empty, baby I’ll do whatever it takes, for however long it takes, to make you feel something more. It’ll never be a burden to me because I love you. My love for you is the only thing in my entire life that has never felt like a burden. Not when you were sad, not when you were drunk, not even when you were gone. It keeps me strong, you keep me strong. I like it when you take up space because it means you feel comfortable and I always want that for you.”

You don’t break eye contact. You need her to feel what you’re saying, to believe it.

“Lena, I’m here always.”

That’s all it takes for her to pull you into a kiss. It feels like understanding. The way her lips fit with yours, makes you hopeful that you got through to her. Her forehead rests against yours when it’s over, “I love you.”

You smile, “I love you too.”

Alexei breaks up the moment by engulfing the two of you in a hug.

“Perfect family dynamic. Very healthy and happy,” he boasts.

It’s then that you notice people around you looking into the sky. You step from under the terrace, to see what they’re seeing. There’s a dark shadow floating in the sky. It sort of resembles…

“Bob,” it comes off of her lips as a whisper.

You look around, and people are vanishing out of thin air. The citizens begin to panic, you all spring into action.

Rubble falls from the buildings above when Sentry flings a plane into one. You move to punch through it before it lands on anyone.

Alexei and Yelena are working together to move others out of harms way.

It’s like you’re fighting Thanos again, but this time the field is full of civilians.

You help free a man from his car after the rubble blocks him in. You’re constantly surveying the area looking for to get people off of the streets.

You see Walker struggling to hold the weight of a massive piece of rubble. Your makeshift group attempting to help him. Part of you wants to laugh at their struggles, three super soldiers vs big concrete.

You’re quick to join them, taking a spot next to Yelena. You put one hand on the rubble and give it a little shove. It almost instantly topples over. They all look at you and you fight the urge to flex in front of the crowd.

The citizens around you start to clap. It’s unlike anything you ever experienced. It puts warmth in your chest.

The celebration doesn’t last long as Alexei uses his body to protect a little girl from falling debris. As he checks in with her to tell her she’s safe she vanishes right in front of him.

You don’t hold back your gasps. You feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you don’t have time to panic. The people need to be evacuated from the streets. You can feel the impending horror as you watch more and more people vanish. You’re helping herd people into a building when you realize Yelena is not with you.

Alexei calls out to her, “Yelena!”

That’s when you see her at the edge of the shadows, talking to the Sentry. If she’s heard him you can’t tell. Your legs start carrying you towards her.

“YELENA!” Your voice booms in the empty streets.

She looks back briefly. Her eyes meet yours. It feels like an eternity yet, she takes a step into the void.

You scream, you scream like your heart has been pulled from your chest.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” you start to blink rapidly, hoping that what you saw was a vision.

There are tears streaming down your face. You could feel people trying to hold you back, when all you want to do is run head first into the darkness.

“I can’t, not again. I can’t,” you’re hysterical, but your feet are planted.

You can’t move back. Last time she disappeared you couldn’t do anything about it. You’d lost 5 years, but this time was different. You could step into that void and chase after her.

“Y/n come on,” Bucky tries but you shrug him off.

You push them all away, “I am not losing her again!”

You stare up at the dark mass floating in the sky. He looks down at you curiously.

“I can make it all go away. All of your pain, all of your suffering.”

“You can’t and I don’t want you to,” you take step closer to the dark edge. “I will save Yelena, but I’m going to save you too Bob.”

You step into the darkness.

“We will continue until you break through the stone.”

You freeze at the voice.

“I can’t it’s too hard,” you recognize your own voice, begging.

“I didn’t ask what you could do. I said you will keep punching until you can break through the stone. Now punch.”

They had pulled you off the streets about a month ago, injected you with the serum. You were around 11. The fact that the serum alone didn’t kill you made it a success.

You knew what would happen next. The younger version of you punched the block of concrete over and over and over again. Even after you broke your hand, the cement barely gave.

When you hear the bones in your hands break, you try to intervene. You place your hand between the younger version of yourself and the target.

“Enough,” you mutter staring at yourself.

“It doesn’t work like that here,” the child's eyes are blank.

She sweeps your leg to take you down and begins to climb on top of you, punching you repeatedly. The broken hand doesn’t stop her.

You grab it and it’s as if the scene resets. You’re on your back watching the younger version of yourself punch the concrete again.

You stand, looking for a way out of the room. You see a metal door bolted shut. Without hesitation you begin slamming your shoulder against it.

The timing begins to line up with the sound of your younger self punch the concrete. You don’t take any solace in knowing that eventually the concrete does break.

With that thought at the front of your mind the steel door falls off its hinges and rush into what you believe to be an open hall.

It’s only when you’re fully inside that you realize it’s not a hallway. It’s a bathroom.

You can tell by the cracks in the porcelain sink that it is the day after Yelena was blipped. Shards of the mirror are scattered inside of it. The younger version of yourself has one hand gripping the sink and another on a gun.

Her head is down and her body is tense.

That day you had slammed your hand against the mirror and instantly felt stupid. You held the sink so hard it cracked. It had been less than 24 hours without her and you were falling apart. You remember the feeling of gun against your skull.

You pulled the trigger, but it wasn’t loaded. You kept pulling it, wishing you could leave all of this behind.

The illusion of you begins to sob as the gun falls from her hand. She crumples onto the floor, head in her hands.

You walk over to pick up the gun. Your hand rests on top of her head, stroking the hair calmly.

“She will come back to us,” you say as you aim the gun at the ceiling.

You shoot and the room moves, allowing you to crawl through the opening.

“Where is she?”

Clint couldn’t look you in the eye. He tossed the stone to Tony and tried to walk away. You grabbed him by the shoulder, so he was face to face with you.

“Clint,” your voice was stern.

You walked past the scene. This is moment in life when you thought you’d never have anything worth loving again. Yelena was gone, Natasha was gone, all you had was your past. All the wrongs you did, all the mistakes you made, all the people you’d kill. You felt hopeless.

That isn’t the case anymore. Yelena is here, you won this war. You got her back not only for yourself, but for Natasha.

You will find Yelena, there is not a doubt in your mind. You are certain, hopeful even. No matter how many traumas you have to go through, seeing her at the end makes it all worth it.

In the glass window of the building, you can see what looks like an old attic. It’s not something from your memories, but you know it doesn’t belong here.

You put your hand into the window first, watching it disappear, then your body follows it. There’s chaos around as furniture flies at you. You are able to dodge the stray pillows that are coming right for your head.

Then it all stops. The rest of the team has found their way here as well. It fills you with relief to know that you don’t have to do this alone.

“What did you see? Are you ok?”

Walker answers first, “Oh I’m fine.

Then Bucky, “I have a great past.”

Then Ava, “Totally fine.”

Yelena turns her attention to you. She’s waiting for you to say something.

“That fucking sucked,” you let out a broken laugh at the end of it.

“Well at least we’re all together now,” Ava finds the silver lining.

“Thanks guys,” Bob says.

You can’t help but size him up a little. He’s different than when you saw him in Valentina’s office. He seems a little shy, buy there’s a kindness that’s clearly on his face. You know that he essentially sacrificed himself to help these strangers escape. He probably saved your girlfriend’s life.

This isn’t the guy in the gold suit with dyed blonde hair, it’s not the dark ominous cloud terrorizing New York, this is Bob. A real man with intense emotions that can sometimes overtake him. He deserves to be saved.

So that’s what you do. You fight through Bob’s most painful memories. From his abusive parents to his drug induced psychosis, all the up to the moment the Void was created.

The Void pins everyone down except for Bob. You’re against the floor with a table pushing down on to your legs. You watch as Bob goes up against the physical embodiment of his darkness. For a moment you think he’s winning, until you see the shadow climb up his pant leg.

“Bob, this is what it wants you have to stop,” you call out to him.

It falls on deaf ears as he throws punch after punch to the Void.

You glance over at Yelena, who is trapped against a door next to Alexei. You use all of the strength that you have to get the table off your legs. Your steps are making dents in floor as you walk over to them.

Alexei tries to create enough space for Yelena to slip out. You extend your hand towards her and she grabs it.

“Trust me,” she says.

You nod, “Always.”

She signals for you to fling her across the room. You do it with no hesitation. You’re not too far behind her, though you feel the Void trying to create distance between Bob and the rest of the team.

Yelena gets to him first, wrapping her arms around the man. You are on the other side of him, squeezing him with all that you have. Soon the rest break free from their confines and join in to make Bob feel less alone.

Then suddenly it’s all over.

You’re back in New York, sprawled out on the floor. You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding.

You kept close to Bob, partially enjoying the comfort. Yelena’s gets up first, extending her hand towards you. You allow her to pull you up.

She doesn’t get to say anything before you’re kissing her. You hold her face in your hands as your lips move against hers delicately. It’s a fragile kiss, something like the one you first shared.

“I thought I lost you again.”

Her lips touch yours once more, “I will always be here.”

“We still have one last thing to deal with guys,” Bucky says as he gets his eyes on Valentina.

You can’t stop yourself from throwing a small knife in her direction. You miss, but it's on purpose.

“We get to kill her right?” Alexei comments as you all zero in on the woman.

“Alright guys, I know we’re going through a lot of feelings right now. Just give me half second,” Valentina holds her hands up as she backs away.

“Oh I'd like to kill her,” Ava says gleefully.

Bucky shakes his head, “We’re taking her in.”

You see Bob hanging behind a bit. You place your hand on his shoulder, “Come on.”

“Me too?”

You flash him a small smile, “From now on we stick together.”

He returns the gesture, “That’s nice.”

The two of you are the last to walk through the curtain. There’s press everywhere. Cameras flash pictures of all you standing behind Valentina.

Bob stands off to the side with Valentina’s assistant while you stand next to Yelena.

You lean over to whisper in her ear, “What the fuck is she doing?”

“Saving her own ass.”

Valentina turns to look at the group with her arms wide, “Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, meet the new Avengers.”

There are alarms going off in your head as she says that. The press’s cameras flash more frequently, as soon as she makes that announcement.

“Is this real?”

Walker claps a hand down on your shoulder, “Feels pretty real to me."

Your eyes cut over to Yelena, who says something to Valentina before taking a step back. You move to stand next to her.

“Front facing looks good on you,” you smirk at her.

She gives you a once over, “I could say the same about you.”

“So what now?” Ava asks the team.

Bucky speaks up, “You guys like shawarma?”

Alexei laughs happily, “I love shawarma."

“I could eat,” Walker replies.

Bob agrees, “Me too. Kind of starving actually.”

You sling your arm around Yelena’s waist, “I guess we’re getting shawarma then.”

You keep her close as you walk away from the press. The team follows Bucky’s lead and you end up back in a van.

Yelena’s head rests against your shoulder during the car ride. The rest of your companions chatter, filling the silence.

“Do you want to elope?” Yelena say so that only you can hear.

“Your last name is cooler than mine, so I guess it only makes sense,” you reply.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

You roll your eyes, “It’s just a creative way of saying yes. Is fun no longer allowed, because we’re Avengers?”

“You have a weird idea of fun.”

You kiss her forehead, “Yet you still asked me to marry you, checkmate.”

“Whatever,” she buries her head further into your neck.

“I love you,” you say as you begin to rest your eyes, exhaustion finally taking over.

“I love you too."

#lowkeyerror #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #thunderbolts imagine #john walker #alexei shostakov #ava starr #bucky barnes #the avengers #Natasha Romanoff #thunderbolts

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faiszt · 11 hours ago

Note

cockwarming w bob. that's it, thats the tweet

COCKWARMING ╱ with BOB REYNOLDS ⠀◟ ୨ blurb !♥︎ minors do not interact⠀⠀⠀ ────⠀⠀⠀ headcanon based

diary notes⠀✴⠀·⠀i love your brain for thinking of this, i guess this is bob’s blurb that i enjoyed writing the most. touch-starved bob reynolds save me right now, pls ‹/3

he loved having physical contact with you, whether it was just hugging you, intertwining your fingers with his, or leaving loving kisses on your shoulder. bob liked everything that involved the idea of being able to touch you, of feeling your soft skin and being able to appreciate it the way he liked. he’s touch-starved, he needs it.

he took it literally when it came to deeply touching you whenever he could. not only because it was pleasurable, but because you could talk about anything while his cock was buried inside you, being warmed by your tight, comforting heat that he craved daily. you couldn’t deny him when he asked so politely, caressing your waist and giving you little kisses until you were straddling him.

telling him about your day was part of the process as he pulled his hardened length out of his boxers, moving your panties to the side just enough so he could rub himself against your soft folds. “i’m glad you had a good day, princess.” he’d murmur softly, smiling innocently as if he wasn’t trying to slip the tip of his cock inside you little by little. “i missed you, you know?”

cockwarming almost seemed so much more sentimental to him than sex itself, he liked knowing that you felt like he was a part of you, that he had the freedom to be inside you for more than just carnal pleasures. there was pleasure, for sure, but there was also a deeper connection than just what appeared to be on the surface. it made him truly happier, calmer... perhaps, it could even be said that you were, well... helping to take care of his mental health in a way.

“i missed you too.” you whispered, giving him a sweet smile as your fingers gently brushed some of his dark hair away from his face, he looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever seen. “and your day? how was it?”

by this point, he was already completely buried inside you—which made you let out a low moan for a moment, leaving him somewhat agitated beneath you. “the drums you gave me are cool,” bob answered. he snuggled deeper into the pillow behind his head, his large hands gripping your hips, just to make sure you stayed still and comfortable in his lap while warming him the way you both loved. “but, the neighbors will complain about the noise i made all afternoon... i’m not really good at this yet.”

his little giggled warmed your chest, you leaned over him and laid your head in the crook of his neck, leaving a few soft kisses there that sent shivers down his spine. “don’t do that, i get shivers...” he complained, but it was a meaningless complaint. if you never did that again, he’d probably complain that you didn’t love him anymore and that’s why you stopped giving him little kisses on the neck.

“if the neighbors complain, i can just tell them to fuck off.” your kisses rose to the corner of his lips, your eyes staring into his ocean blue ones. “besides, they never complained about the other noises at night... why would they complain about you playing drums in the afternoon?”

his eyebrows raised at your sentence, nodding and processing the words you had said. “other noises at night?” the question was more to himself than to you, so you could almost see the light bulb go off over his head as he really understood what you meant. “oh, yeah... the other noises. you’re probably right, i guess.”

“i’m always right.” you said smugly, pressing your lips against his soft ones for a quick peck—one he didn’t want to stop so quickly. bob’s hand, which was previously caressing your hip, rose to the back of your neck, keeping your lips against his without you being able to move away completely, he didn’t want just a few pecks, not today. he was usually a little more restrained than that, but come on, he was a good boy for you all day like you told him to be when he was home alone, he deserved it.

a low growl tore from his throat, deepening the kiss as his tongue slid across your bottom lip and almost begged for entry. in an intimate dance, your tongues touched and sucked each other while his other hand pressing your hip harder to the point where it slightly hurt as he kept you pressed against him. bob wanted to feel every inch of your body, every point of heat, being buried balls deep inside you still seemed like nothing compared to how much he craved you, not just your body, but everything that means you.

there was no safer place for him than inside you, feeling your body against his, your breathing heavy and your hands against his neck, just how he wanted, the fuel he needed.

when your lips parted, he continued to pepper kisses across your cheek, simply unable to keep his lips away from your soft skin. “you get prettier when you’re flustered by something i did.” he whispered against your ear before placing one last kiss against her earlobe, snuggling into the pillows again. “i like how you widen your eyes...”

these compliments were almost typical of him, always paying attention to every little detail of your expressions, studying your reactions to what he did. bob wanted to please you, in every way, ’cause you also deserved what only he could give you and there was no doubt about that.

“princess,” he called to you when you were silent, enjoying the feeling of being filled by him. “can i sleep inside you tonight, please? your pussy is so warm and it feels good... i don’t wanna pull out. can i?” his eyes almost looked like a puppy’s, staring at you while tenderly stroked your strands of hair. he loved your hair—the color, texture and the smell of your shampoo, every little thing about it—and he knew you liked it when he petted you like that.

“you wanna sleep inside me?” it wasn’t strange, it was just a new request, you had already thought of the idea back then, but it was something new when he was the one asking you for it. “okay, baby, we can do it.” there probably wouldn’t be a day when you’d deny him something, especially when you also wanted to do it.

his smile widened as if you had given him something he had been longing for—well, in a way, that was the case—and he pressed his lips against yours once more. “thank you, sweet pea.” his hand that had remained on your hip the entire time moved, going to your ass and squeezing it, massaging the skin his fingers touched. “i’ll give you your reward in the morning, yeah? pinky promise, love. you deserve all that.”

REQUESTS ARE OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox, you’ll be welcome. ꒰ ˶> ˕ <˶ ꒱ ♡

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ribbitrabbot · 3 days ago

Text

speculations

pairing : frank langdon x fem!resident

plot : you and frank have been friends for a long time , so much so that there’s always been a fleet of rumors circling you two . the rumors have never been without reason ; there’s always been sort of a shy tension between the two of you , but you’d never acted on it on the basis that dating between friends and coworkers has always been complicated . but a bad day at work seems to be enough for the both of you to finally acknowledge it .

warnings : uhh none that i can think of , just a bit of a spat with robby . just a bunch of sweet stuff , some fluff and comfort :3

a/n : frank’s not married in this ( idk if this is obvious or not , i’m just saying ) . this is my first x reader in a fat minute , i hope y’all like it !!

word count : 4.4k

“Besides,” You continue, braving the hot slice of pizza enough to gingerly pick it up, “If there’s any ‘next time’, Robby’s gonna kick my ass all the way around the block.”

“No, he’s not.” Frank picks his own slice from the box, and you do little to hide your somewhat judgemental facial expression as he takes a bite from it, ice-cold. “You’re clearly the favorite. Unless you, I don’t know, kill someone, he’ll always let you off easy.”

“Easy for you to say, you weren’t in here.”

“Did he do the face?”

“What face?”

“You know, the face. The face he does so you know he’s really disappointed in you.”

“Frank, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Like this.” He says, dropping his piece down and then doing his best arms - crossed, head tilt, eyebrow raise Robby — an imitation that looks so stupid on Frank that you can’t help but laugh. You have to hand it to him, though. It’s a pretty accurate disappointed depiction.

The thing about hindsight is, is that it’s usually even more of a bitch than karma. Most people use hindsight to refer to obvious things — in hindsight, I wouldn’t have drunk that much, or in hindsight I wouldn’t have given that creep my number. Your hindsight was mostly about how much you should have listened to your gut screaming at you to call in sick this morning when you rolled out of bed and how stupid you were to ignore the dragging feeling on nights where you’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep. There was no reason for you to feel as crummy as you did; you’d worked in the pit long enough to at least try and shake the feelings away at the end of your shift, shower, eat whatever was left in your refrigerator, and turn on some show you’d already seen three times over. Maybe it wasn’t really healing, but it was enough to get by.

The adrenaline would fix you, anyway, it always did. Or at the very least you were hoping so. Maybe that was the real reason you’d picked emergency medicine as a specialty, besides the usual reasons of helping people, because you were half addicted to the rush of it all. But you were three hours into your shift, and not even the narrow rescue of four victims in a vehicle collision or being included in Perlah and Princess’ gossip had done much to raise your spirits. It must have been written all over your face, too, because it wasn’t just the interns who were tiptoeing around you like you were surrounded by eggshells.

“Mister Grant,” You sighed now, the very last your beside patience being damn near worn to a fray, “You need to understand how much this surgery could help Phoebe. Quite frankly, the longer we wait, the worse it could be for her.”

“But she doesn’t need the surgery right at this second. We can see if she gets any better.” The man insists. You can see the worry in his dark eyes, the entirety of his features aged by concern for his teenage daughter that had been brought in unresponsive by her friend. Any other day, you would feel more sympathetic for him; you would hold his hand and explain in painstaking detail why this procedure could be lifesaving. No parent wanted their child to be cut open needlessly, you can understand that, but today all his stubbornness does is grate on nerves you weren’t even aware of.

“I understand how upsetting this must be for you —“ You begin, a sentence from the nonexistent but universally known manual of Bedside 101, but his sudden anger cuts you off, his eyes flashing with accusation.

“Don’t give me that. All you doctors, it’s the same thing. You understand, you aren’t trying to upset me. You don’t understand. How could you possibly understand, you’re all trying to cut up my kid! Do you have a kid, Doctor? Can you honestly look me in the fucking eyes and say you understand? Fuck you.”

Your jaw ticks. You can see the emotion there, the fear, the need to find someone to lash out at. To blame. Everything in you is screaming to give him the benefit of the doubt, to chalk it up to a parent who sees tubes and wires sticking out of their whole world and immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion. It’s not altogether an irrational reaction. Hell, if you were in his shoes, maybe you’d react the same way.

And then there’s the small voice within you that just manages to convince you that he’s an asshole. You shouldn’t listen to it. You shouldn’t. Had you been in a cartoon, it would have been the little devil whispering in your ear.

“Fine.” You say, with a sort of edged coolness that parents normally have when their children say something just a step too far. Your smile is tight lipped, and you wonder if your eyes flash with the barely restrained anger that you feel jumbling up inside of you. “Fine. I can tell that you, Mister Grant, clearly know more than me. It’s not like I’ve seen a dozen of these cases before. Hey, I’ve been to medical school, but you’re right. What do I know? I don’t have any kids.” You shrug sarcastically, then turn towards Donnie, who looked as though he was trying to walk past unnoticed. In fact, it looked like the entire radius in which you were speaking to Mr. Grant had suddenly turned into a danger zone. “Donnie, can you get Mister Grant any medical records he may need for Phoebe? And let O.R know — “

“Doctor L/n, can I consult with you?” The voice behind you stops your locomotive of orders dead. You turn just enough to acknowledge Robby, whose normally playful brown eyes have hardened to a coolness reserved for cocky interns and hardass superiors. But you’re surprised by the spike of annoyance that greets you, instead of any sort of remorse. The last thing you need is a chew - out from Robby, but there’s no avoiding it.

“Yeah. Fine.” You say curtly.

“Mister Grant, I’ll be back with you in a second, okay?” With a quick sentence, Robby confirms the trouble you’re in. ‘I’ll’, not your name or even we. He barely casts you a glance before turning on his heel, Mr. Grant still too stunned to even give a real reply. You pinch the bridge of your nose, tilting your head at the ground before sighing and following him.

You know the way to the break room, and even the looks that you’re getting as you follow Robby, even though you’re usually on the other side of them. The both of you are lucky it’s empty, and Robby almost slams the door behind him as he follows you in. You watch, biting the inside of your cheek as he tiredly rubs his face; you lean against the counter.

“Wanna tell me what the hell’s going on with you?” He asks, crossing his arms as he looks at you, head tilting.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve had a stick up your ass all day, so if I need to schedule OR to take it out, let me know.” Had he not been snippy, it would have been a better joke. Instead it makes you clench your teeth.

“I’m just tired.” It’s an excuse you’ve used a million times. Robby smiles and shakes his head.

“Oh, bullshit.” He’s right. You both know it. “You’re not the ‘just tired’ type, Y/n. You’re tired, take a walk. But you cannot talk to your patients like that.”

“Come on, Robby, you saw how that guy was acting. He was a fucking asshole!”

“It doesn’t matter, Y/n!” The laughter in his voice is stressed, dangerous. “You’re smarter than this. You’re tired, you’re stressed, take a walk, eat, do whatever you need to do. But you don’t lose your shit. Got it? Can you do that?”

You know it’s not personal. You know Robby has a thousand different things on his plate, that your temper is just another thing for him to worry about. That this is him keeping his own temper towards you — but it doesn’t make you feel any better. You want to feel angry at him, to only wallow in the hollowness that has haunted you since the day’s start. It makes his tone feel more patronizing than it normally would.

“Gee, I don’t know, that’s really hard, but I think I can handle it.” You sneer, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Robby looks at you, and for a moment you feel sorry. But before you can admit it, he gives a short sigh.

“Take a minute.” He’s out of the room before you can say anything else. Half of you wants to defy him, to stride out of the room and get back to work to prove a point. You don’t need Robby to put you in timeout, to punish you for acting the same way anyone would with the difficult Mr. Grant. Instead, you stare at the door he closed behind him, hands wandering up and pressing to your eyes after a long moment. The other half of you doesn’t care enough to prove a point. That half of you knows that it’s a losing fight, that if you go out there as hotheaded as you are right now, that it’s less a get back at Robby and more making everyone around you tense without reason. Maybe that would slide in any other sort of job, but the pit needed to work like a machine. No one could afford to be worrying about their coworkers when they already had worry enough with the patients that constantly came pouring into the door.

You’re just about to open the refrigerator to see what forgotten food you could raid when a knock snags your attention. You can’t place whether or not you hope it’s Robby or you hope it’s not, either way you scarcely bother to glance at the door before you call out.

“What?”

The door opens, but only some.

“Safe to come in?”

You’re unprepared for how welcome the familiar voice is, and it suddenly comes with a realization that you hadn’t heard it much at all today. You don’t bother to look behind you, but you answer.

“Whatever.”

Frank takes it as a yes. He closes the door gently behind him, then creeps up to look over your shoulder at the shelves of the refrigerator.

“Pizza’s probably your best bet. Unless you want to take your chance with yogurt that is either the same flavor or the same carton that was here in January.”

God, he’s so fucking annoying.

He’s close enough that his voice buzzes in your ear. Had anyone else done this, there was a very real possibility that you would have flipped your shit — someone with a lack of personal space would be a cherry on top of the shit show the last few minutes had already been. Instead, you try not to roll your eyes and slap your hand on top of the cardboard box.

“Move.” You order, and you can feel him back off from behind you. When you finally turn to face him, he’s already looking at you. His hands are tugging mindlessly at the stethoscope around his neck — you’d noticed a long time ago that he usually needed to be doing something with his hands. To ask him to sit still and do nothing for five minutes was as good as medieval torture. It was endearing most of the time, although a bouncing leg or a mindless tapping of his pen could get annoying. You don’t indulge him, instead you pull out a chair from the table and slap the cardboard box down.

Although you’re not in the most talkative of moods, you’re glad that he’s here. Truth be told, he was probably the only one you could handle being around at the moment.

You’d met him when you’d first started your residency at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical, not too long ago although it now felt like a lifetime. He’d been even cockier then, if that was even possible — a scrappy, difficult, smartass who had to learn things the rough way before he developed a begrudging admiration for Robby, which would later turn into a mutual bond. In those days, you remembered fondly, he often had unshaven stubble and a shadow under his eyes; those who didn’t know any better would think him a med student for all the time he spent here. You’d gotten along with him even then, even when people found his humor irritating and his doctoring methods questionable. Granted, the road had not always been smooth; there’d been a lot of banter in those early days. Well, maybe calling it banter was being a little too nice. Usually, he’d say something irritating, and you’d respond with something that would make him crack a smile of amusement. And other times he’d say something to make you laugh, genuinely, and he’d smile in response to that, too.

But the fun that came with the back and forth was only part of why the two of you had ultimately ended up being so close. Frank was smart, genuinely smart. Anyone, you’d learned, could memorize stuff from books and lectures and hours and hours of classes and tests, spit out the facts that they’d been forced to memorized like they were computers accessing files; and most did. But Frank knew people and because he knew people he knew his business. Most doctors you’d worked with diagnosed them and treated them like the print advised them to treat them. Frank would diagnose them and then treat them to get better whether it was textbook or not, and he did it in the span of a few seconds or the span of a few days. There was a genuine care that was veiled by the guise of a blunt sense of humor. Perhaps your ability to see past the veil was what had allowed you two to work so excellently together at the beginning, and later become a duo not unlike … well, whatever duo worked together really well.

“You’re a popular girl.” Frank murmurs, pulling a chair to sit, uninvited, next to you. You scoff and roll your eyes, fiddling with the pizza box as you try to decide whether you’re hungry or just upset. It’s unsurprising, the fact that the news of your flip - out on a patient’s concerned father has made the rounds so quickly. “Want me to try it first, make sure it’s not too moldy?” Frank asks after a beat, nodding towards the box. He’s worried, even if he’s trying to disguise it with a stupid tease. You can hear it in his tone. When you work with somebody almost every day, you get to tell what every single inflection means, every single pitch.

“You see me freak out?” You ask, turning your head as your rest your cheek in your hand.

“Uh, no, but you did that screeching thing you do when you get really mad.”

“Fuck you.” You have to try not to crack a smile. “I didn’t screech.”

It’s almost like just sitting in the room with him is relieving a tenseness you hadn’t even realized had been so heavy on you, like his voice was dusting a layer of soot away from your insides.

“Okay I wasn’t there, but Perlah said it got pretty ugly.” Frank drags the pizza box towards himself, then gets up with it, wandering over towards the microwave.

“Perlah said! Perlah’ll say anything if it’s good gossip.”

“Well, I gotta keep myself entertained somehow, and if you’re not gonna talk, Perlah’s my next best option.” Frank manages to find a plate to put what you imagine your slice, and you have to hand it to him — he’s got you backed into a corner where you have to answer.

“It wasn’t that bad.” You insist after a moment after Frank puts your pizza in to heat up, and then rotates to face you. “It’s just. Parents, you know. Sometimes they can be … “ you trail off as you search for the right word. “Irritating.”

“Stupid.” Frank agrees, giving the word that you were a little too nice to say outright. “I swear to God, I don’t know how some of them raise a whole person.”

“They’re raising a person that’s gonna end up with a bunch of disorders.” You joke, which pries a chuckle out of Frank as he pulls your food out of the microwave.

“When you flip your shit on a parent next time, can you make sure I’m there to watch? Or better yet, I’ll record it and then play it at your funeral in fifty years.” He puts the plate down in front of you, then sits back down with the box in front of him.

“You’re insane if you think you think you’re gonna be invited to my funeral. And I’m gonna outlive you anyway.” You smile. It’s strange thing to think of you two staying friends for so long, but then again it’s almost like you can’t even remember what it had been like when you didn’t see Frank most every day. You two were practically joined at the hip whenever you were on shift together, working together in sync the way doctors rarely did. It was no surprise that the rumors had begun to spark just a week or two after you two had just met. You wouldn’t be surprised if there was actually a monetary pool surrounding the idea if you two had actually slept together, considering that you’d been asked more than once if you two were an item. There were a thousand reasons to shoot it down — dating in the workplace, especially one where so much hinges on trust and teamwork, a fallout would be the last thing anyone needed. And you two had been friends for so long, there was the fear that anything more would ruin what you had already. But then again, there was the looks that lasted a little too long — the flirtations that lingered somewhere between a joke and the real thing that made you wonder if there could be something more.

“Besides,” You continue, braving the hot slice of pizza enough to gingerly pick it up, “If there’s any ‘next time’, Robby’s gonna kick my ass all the way around the block.”

“No, he’s not.” Frank picks his own slice from the box, and you do little to hide your somewhat judgmental facial expression as he takes a bite from it, ice-cold. “You’re clearly the favorite. Unless you, I don’t know, kill someone, he’ll always let you off easy.”

“Easy for you to say, you weren’t in here.”

“Did he do the face?”

“What face?”

“You know, the face. The face he does so you know he’s really disappointed in you.”

“Frank, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“You’ve had a lot of experience with that?” You ask, unable to tamper down your grin as he smiles back at you.

“Absolutely more than my fair share.”

“Poor you.” You coo mockingly, and it’s his turn to roll his eyes as he chuckles.

A silence drifts over the both of you. Frank’s chuckle fades into a gentle smile as he observes you in a way that almost makes you nervous.

“You okay though? Seriously?” He asks, playful tone fading into something more genuine.

“Uh,” you shrug. “I dunno. Weird day.”

“Well it’s a slow day at the office. I can see if he’ll let you knock off early.” The fact that he’s willing to brave a likely already pissed off Robby for you is definitely sweet, and the offer of going home is enticing.

“I have patients.” You try to use that as

your excuse, but Frank is already shaking his head.

“I can take care of them, don’t sweat it.”

“You sure?”

“Look who you’re talking to.”

“Oh, I forgot. You’re Superman.” You mock, but Frank looks prideful at the obvious poke. “Nah, it’ll be okay. If you pick up my shift there’s bound to be speculation. More speculation.”

“What speculation?” He tries to play it off innocently, but you know better. The sly smile ticking across his features is enough to make you shake your head at him, tongue poking into your cheek to try and quell a matching smile.

“You know exactly what speculation, you’re too smart not too.” You remark like it’s supposed to be an insult, yet there’s a certain sort of softness to it as you look at him. The gesture, even if you had not taken up him on it, was an impossibly sweet one. Even if was a “slow day”, as Frank put it, that guaranteed nothing. It could be that things could pick up if you did leave, or that one of your patients could have difficulties, leaving him with a lot to juggle with his and yours. Not to mention the ruthless teasing that he would be sure to endure. You pick up the pizza slice — mostly cool by now — with the intention of finishing it off.

Frank watches you with the same gentle expression on his face as you do so. Had you been intent on going back home, he would have convinced Robby to let you — but then again, he knew you had the same sort of stubbornness that he did, and you weren’t likely to take him up on the offer even if there was cause for more concern. Had he thought there was something seriously wrong, he would have coaxed you into taking the day off. But just like you knew him, he knew you. He knew every tick of your face, what every inflection meant and every offhanded remark. He knew you the way he knew his own mind. There was no doubt in his mind that it was just one of those days; but even if you weren’t going home, he made a mental note to watch you for the rest of your shift, make sure you were really alright. After all, when Perlah had said something about your “flip - out”, he could feel the concern grip him like a rock in his stomach almost immediately. Dana had given him a knowing look when he’d asked where you were so he could check on you. You were right, he wasn’t taking a whole lot of care to avoid fanning any flames of speculation about the both of you; but it wasn’t like they were baseless, either. He cared about you so much it was almost stupid.

“Compliments will get you everywhere, my friend.” He returns with a cocky half smile that you were so familiar with as you turn put your plate in the sink behind you. For a break room, it sure is cramped if you don’t even have to stand up to do so. There’s another bout of silence as you look back at him. Even though he’s hidden it under a mask of light humor, you can still see the slight worry in his eyes. He wouldn’t have hung around this long if he genuinely didn’t want to make sure you would be alright. Again, there’s a slight pang in your chest — a momentary question of what if.

“Thanks for hanging out with me, though.” You say, trying to make it sound casual.

You can tell that the sudden genuineness catches him a little off guard. His cocky half smile fades into something almost unsure; his fingers tap at his knee like a nervous fidget.

“Yeah, you know,” he tries to shrug it off. “I’m around here. A lot. And I like you, so.” You blink, cock your head a little as he shakes his head, tries to reword his statement. “I mean, we’re friends. I wanna know you’re okay.”

Objectively you’ve never seen him so nervous, not even when Robby’s voice boomed across the pit in the tone he uses when he means business and not when the occasional patient, stunning, blonde, and, let’s face it, with a rack that would be the envy of almost any woman flirted shamelessly with him. He’s always been the picture of suave, knowing exactly which lines to say and how to look. But with you, he’s like a high - schooler on a first date. It’s like you disarm him completely — and the shyness seems to be catching.

Barely audible is his name on your lips. Perhaps you meant something to come after it other than the kiss that was maybe him or maybe you or maybe the both of you — almost timid at first and quickly something more intimate; something finally released that had too long been locked away behind harmless flirtations and barely disguised jokes, behind whispered rumors and the knowing looks the nurses and other doctors would give whenever the two of you would pass by, practically matching each other in your strides. Any trace of denial that you two had maintained for the years you’d been here was wiped away in the moment. When you finally pull away from him, your mind is spinning; but it’s almost like an invisible weight has been lifted from you, and you can’t help the subtle smile that plays across your expression.

“So.” He murmurs, practically against your lips still.

“So.”

“We should probably get back.”

“Probably.”

And then he kisses you again, quicker this time, something much more domestic, like he already could get used to kissing you in the days ahead, weeks … years? Yet he didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Even if it was hard not to.

You’re the one to get up first, considering that he’s still looking at you like you’re a muse of some sort. Whatever cloud had been hanging over your head, he had managed to whisk away completely.

“Come on.” You urge as you move to open the door, and with the instruction, it’s like he’s snapped out of some sort of reverie. He gets up out of his chair, wasting no time in following the command, and beats you to pulling open the door as if your kiss has turned him into some sort of gentleman.

“Doing anything tonight?” He asks softly as you fall in step with him, the two of you cautious to avoid any curious glances your way. You crack a grin at how quickly he gets to work, yet something about it is endearing.

“Besides sleeping?” You quirk, and you half expect him to make some lewd comment in reply, but he skips it.

“I have some excellent week - old Chinese food in my refrigerator.” He offers, and you snort and nod, taking a beat to try and come up with a satisfactory reply.

“Hard to turn down free food.” You finally come up with, and you can’t help but think that it’s cute that eyes seem to shine with hope. “We’ll see how this shift goes?”

“Heard.” He responds, before Whitaker snags his attention by calling out his name. As he strides towards the direction the voice came from, he turns on his heel to give you one last glance — one that is impossible not to grin at.

#the pitt #pittposting #frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon x you #langdon x reader #langdon x you #fanfiction #x reader

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