#my ledger has been cleared

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anothology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist | cw: oral (reader receiving)

Part Ten: Permission

A/N: We're SO back!

You’ve never been so happy to work an extra day.

Johnny gets the shop to himself on Sundays for walk-ins. Usually, he mans the shop by himself but you need to record the cash income from the convention in the ledger. Sure, you could do that during your usual hours the upcoming Wednesday and catch up on sleep, but you have too much nervous energy coursing through you. If you were home you would just be stewing on your couch the hole day and probably spiral into a panic attack. At least here, with a task and Johnny yapping in your ear, you don’t have to think about the fact that you made out with your boss too much.

Fuck. You really did that. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You woke up in a cold sweat, fingers brushing over your lips as you tried to decipher if it was real or dreamed. If you really kissed John, if he really held a hand on your lower back as he walked you home, if he really gave you a second, light peck before saying goodnight. The itch of his beard lingers, as well as the warmth where his hands cupped your face. It felt so good. So fucking good.

Then the context settles in. The fact that you kissed your boss makes you want to throw up - not for any dislike of it, just the fact that your job is now in limbo. Hanging in the balance until you can talk to him on Wednesday. At least you can take the next couple days to collect your thoughts - come up with a good apology that will hopefully let you keep your job and some semblance of dignity. Somehow make sense of the fact that you’ve kissed John and Kyle and surely when they find out they’ll think you’re a floosy. Loose and easy and pathetic and gross. You couldn’t quite meet your own eye in the mirror as you tried to get ready for the day.

The current, formerly “Future You” is not very happy with the now Past You. Frankly, you’d like to deck her for leaving you in this state of a permanent heart attack.

“Och, I’m about tae melt.” Johnny mutters, appearing from his room and stretching. His shirt rides up, exposing a thick happy trail that does not help you in your current spiral.

You just hum, gluing your eyes to the physical spreadsheet in front of you as you go through the sales from the convention. Numbers will clear your head. Yeah, nothing less sexy or more distracting than trying to do math with pen, paper and a TI-84 calculator.

“We should go get some ice cream.” Johnny leans over behind you, causing you to jump. Large hands settle on your shoulders as he rests his chin on the top of your head. At least Johnny is always touchy, you don’t have to read into it. You don’t think you could handle reading into it right now.

“Uh, yeah, okay.” You murmur, letting him lead you out of the office and flipping the out for lunch sign. You’ve been so lost in your head the entire day that you can’t fully pull yourself out of it - the same spiral of fears and self-degradation swirling around in your mind. A Cat 5 tornado of your own making. So stupid.

Johnny intertwines your fingers as you make your way down the street. Your hands swing lightly as you walk. Even with the heat, it doesn’t feel like too much. You’re not sure what it is - of you’re just comfortable or if Johnny just has something about him that makes touch feel perfectly natural - but it’s never overwhelming. Even when he’s hanging off you like a leech, it’s just Johnny. He doesn’t make you talk, doesn’t pry into why you’re so spaced out. He probably just thinks you’re tired. You are tired. So tired.

You don’t realize Johnny is saying something until he gently elbows your side. “Huh?”

“What d’ye want?” Johnny asks with a concerned furrow in his brow.

“Oh, uh, I can get my own-“

”My treat.” He shakes his head, batting away the hand pulling your wallet out of your back pocket. You have no choice but to give in to him - there isn’t any point in arguing with Johnny.

“Thanks for suggesting this.” You murmur, as you sit at one of the wooden, outdoor tables in front of the shop a couple blocks down from the tattoo parlor. The tables are covered in the shade of trees and an awning, luckily, keeping the sun from beating down on you. It doesn’t stop your ice cream from melting nearly faster than you can eat it, but you don’t have the heart to complain after Johnny took you out and bought it for you.

“Aye. Seemed like ye needed some cheerin’ up. Never seen ye so sullen.” Johnny comments, casually stuffing a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. His eyes are sympathetic, though.

“Oh.” You thought you’d been doing alright at hiding it - came into the shop with a jokes and everything this morning. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how much Johnny actually notices between all his volume and energy.

“Gonnae tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Might help.”

You shake your head. “I- I’m- I can’t.”

“Okay.” He smiles gently, giving you a once over. His eyes are so sharp. The others do it too - take your body language in piece by piece. It doesn’t burn like when Johnny does it, though. His gaze is consuming, even when soft.

He seems to let you off the hook, though. It’s impossible to know how much he does or doesn’t know - how much any of them know. It puts you on edge, the inability to ask. After all, to ask is to admit. If you admit to it, you might lose it all. Fuck why did you kiss John? Kyle you can explain away - just a fun little bet. You’re close in age, he’s pretty, you’re together a lot, you get along. Nothing to it - even if it feels like there was. Even if it feels like every time you’re near him you’re going to melt and the air gets too thick and all you want is to pull him to the back room one more time.

John… John you can’t justify like that. He’s your boss. He’s over a decade older than you. Easily. He’s been so good to you but that’s not an excuse - it’s not right. You’re jeopardizing his place in his community. You’re jeopardizing your job. The best job you’ve ever had. The best friends you’ve ever had.

You can feel Johnny glancing at you as you walk, your eyes square on the ground and fists clenched anxiously. The heat outside only makes your head spin faster. Your cheeks feel feverishly hot. The ice cream almost curdles in your gut. Everything is too loud, too hot, too heavy.

You glance up at the clock. The day’s almost over - there probably won’t be more than one or two people that file in at most. You’ve finished with your work, currently just cross hatching on a sticky note in an attempt to calm your frayed nerves. It hasn’t worked. You need a distraction. A real, proper distraction.

“Johnny.” You snap, standing in the door way to his workroom.

“Hm?” He looks up, thick brows raised.

“I want a piercing.”

He cocks his head, taking you in from head to toe. “Aye?”

“If you have time.”

“I’ve always got time fer ye.” He grins.

You almost roll your eyes, but you’re too raw at the edges to really care about his usual flirting. There’s too much weighing on your mind - too much real anxiety knotting itself around your synapses and crushing them in it’s hold. The pain will help. It’ll ground you - sharpen your senses. You can focus on taking care of it for the next couple days between sleeping the days away until Wednesday. Until you can get this shit over with.

The only answer is to quit, right?

That’s your only option.

“What d’ye want?” Johnny asks.

You shrug. “What’d you think?”

He taps his chin, eyes slowly making their way over your body. You wonder if he can see how tense you are - body so locked up your joints ache and your jaw throbs. It’s a wonder your teeth are still there with how much you’ve been grinding them.

“How about a navel?”

“Okay.” You agree too quickly, flopping back on the pairing table. You focus in on a water mark on the ceiling above while Johnny digs through his tool cabinet, laying everything neatly on a small rolling tray.

Johnny stops above you. You don’t even turn your head to look, fists clenching and unclenching.

You’ll have to quit.

That’s your only choice. No reference calls, no contact. Will Simon hate you? Will they all? Will they talk about why you up and left? Will they show up at your apartment to demand an answer? No. You don’t mean that much - only a blip on the timeline of their shop. The corners of your eyes burn.

Johnny’s fingers skate over your soft middle, barely touching as he passes over the button of your jeans. He pauses, glancing down at you. “Bonnie?”

“Yeah?” You reply a little too harshly.

Johnny leans over you, hands on either side of your head, blue eyes burning through your skull. He blocks out the light above. “Yer doin’ this because ye want to, yeah? Not to punish yerself?”

You shrink into the table, hackles raising. It really is so easy to forget that Johnny is an observant bastard. Loud, brash, but he still sees everything. Like how he learned your coffee order by heart without you ever even saying it to him or having it written on the cup. He absorbs things, files it away, keeps it close to his chest and hides it behind his blunt, brash daily manners. You’ll miss him.

“I- yeah, I’m fine.” You wince internally at the shake in your voice.

“Y’know, we all love ye.” Johnny murmurs.

You huff, eyes darting anywhere to get away from his. Laying on the table suddenly feels slightly trapping. You can’t get your gaze fully away from where he stands over you - so close as his thick arms cage you in. “Guess so.”

“An’ there’s nothin’ tae feel guilty or bad about.”

Your eyes snap to his face, wide and worried. Does he know? Was he told? Do you ask? If you ask, you’ll be admitting to it. If you ask, then he will know for sure. If you ask, you might ruin it all. “I don’t-“

“Ye do.” He cuts you off. “An’ ye have permission, even if ye dinnae need it. It’s okay. Ye havennae done anythin’ wrong.”

You stare, mouth opening and closing lamely. Johnny. Straight forward, loud mouth, unsubtle Johnny. Fuck, you love him for it. Doesn’t dance around what he means. Doesn’t avoid what needs to be said - from his end, at least.

“Did- did you talk to-?” You stutter, struggling between needing to know and fear to admit the truth so blatantly. Even if he obviously knows something.

“Not really. Not my business.” Johnny shrugs casually.

Not his business. So they persue separately, you think. That makes sense. Probably. It’s probably wrong to make assumptions about the dynamic, about the implication that they have some sort of free for all. Then again, you don’t really know anything about their interpersonal workings much. They live together, they’re touchy. The dynamic is a mystery to you - only adding to the piles of confusion.

“Yer thinkin’ tae hard about it.” He pokes the furrow between your brows.

Oh. Is that it? You’re overthinking? No, adults talk about these things. You don’t understand the interpersonal workings here at all. Are they together? Do they just do this? Pull girls in and push them around until they get tired? That feels too cruel for them. They’ve taken such good care of you…

“I still… want to talk.” You murmur, cheeks warm.

His face softens, a light smile tugging at his lips. “An’ ye will. Kyle’s been damn near loosin’ it with ye avoiding him.”

“I’m not avoiding him!” You snap far too defensively.

“Sure ye aren’t.” Johnny shrugs, as if to tell you he knows that’s bull. Not his business, though, he said. “Just… donnae be so scared of us, aye? We’ve got yer back.”

Your shoulders drop, sore from being tensed for the entire day. “Okay.”

“Still want tae get peirced?”

You nod, chest far less tight. As though you finally let go of a breath you had been holding the entire day. “Sure, why not.”

Your shoulders slump as Johnny makes his way through the usual song and dance - showing you the freshly cleaned tools and marking the spot for the needle. Somehow the world seems… quieter. As if all the chatter in your mind had been just as deafening to your physical ears. It’s tiring. That same sting behind your eyes that you get after a long night out. Your defenses are down, and your body is finally at rest.

“Ow!” You gasp, lifting your head to meet Johnny’s impish grin with a glare. “A little warning next time!”

“Tha’s what happens when ye donnae listen.” He teases, slipping the jewelry through. “She’s cute.”

You snort. “She better be. Y’know I should tell John on you for improper conduct.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Aye, ye an’ Price know plenty about improper conduct.”

There’s no malice in the comment, or in the grin he settles on you. For once, you don’t freeze up. Don’t send yourself into a panic spiral over what he knows or thinks or feels. Johnny made himself clear. Instead you land a light smack against his arm and huff in embarrassment.

“Stand f’me.” Johnny murmurs after cleaning the piercing, a heat in his eyes that you can’t quite gauge the source of.

You do as you’re told, slipping off the table. You have to hook a finger into the waistband of your jeans to keep them up, cheeks hot as you realize how much is actually exposed with the fully undone fly. You glance up at a far too pleased Johnny. Didn’t even say a word, the mischievous bastard.

He drops to his knees in front of you. Your brows shoot damn near into the sky. Johnny mumbles something about making sure the piercing is sitting right. You roll with it, knowing he’s probably just saying whatever to get you to keep your pants undone a little longer. Your breath quickens as a large, warm hand flattens itself over your soft belly, unabashedly groping. Not that you mind, really, even if it does make your face so hot it might melt.

Your heart almost breaks out of your rib cage when he places a small kiss next to the piercing. His hand lowers, resting beside yours on the waistband of your jeans.

“May I?” Johnny murmurs, big blue eyes blinking up at you.

You have permission.

You don’t need permission.

You have it, though.

“Yeah.” You gasp, shivering at the cold air on your skin as Johnny pulls your pants halfway down your thighs.

“Pretty, pretty lass.” He murmurs, nipping at the softness of your belly and down to your thigh. “Look at ye.”

“Flatterer.” You scoff, attempting to let the tension melt off your shoulders with the usual snide remarks you slide each others way.

“M’just honest…” Johnny mumbles absently, fingers catching in the hems of your underwear. “Ye always walkin’ around in somethin’ this skintie?”

For a moment, your brows knit in confusion. That is until he pulls back and snaps the string of your thong against your hip. Your face somehow gets even hotter and you grumble out a poor excuse of, “S’laundry day…”

Your hips twitch as he traces between your lips through the cloth. So uncharacteristically slow and methodical for Johnny as he feels you, like he’s trying to memorize it. A shamefully harsh jolt runs up your spine as he presses just slightly into your clit.

“Sensitive little thing.” Johnny grins up at you. You swear the devil has a less delinquent grin.

“It’s been a while.” You shrug, aiming once again for casual and missing by a mile.

His grin only grows, eyes bright and hungry. “Let’s get these off.”

You shimmy your hips a bit to help him get both your underwear and jeans completely down. A wave of shyness overtakes you as it settles in that you’re utterly exposed to Johnny, your friend and coworker, in the middle of your workplace just as the sun has begun to edge down close to the horizon. It’s almost too much, and you almost yank your pants back on with a stammered, fake excuse, but Johnny soothes his hands up your thighs, gaze locked onto your pussy like it’s the only thing that exists and yeah… you want that.

You have permission.

“There she is.” He cups you gently, grinding the heel of his hand against your clit just hard enough to make you gasp.

Before you can say or do anything his hand retracts and Johnny settles you with the most serious look you’ve ever seen from him. It looks wrong, almost, on that face that’s supposed to have a permanent ear to ear grin.

“If ye want tae stop, I need ye tae tell me now.”

“No.” The word leaves you before you can even register the thought - desperate and breathy.

It earns a low chuckle. The only warning you get before Johnny licks a long stripe up between your lips, letting his tongue rest on your clit for just a moment before repeating the motion as though he’s not just eating you out but truly trying to truly get a taste for you. To memorize you as he drinks you in.

“Should let me give you a Christina…” He murmurs, pulling back to look at you.

“Ah, wha-“

“Look so pretty on this fat little cunt.” Johnny gives you a light smack for good measure, grinning at the visible jolt that travels up your spine before diving back in. He hooks a leg over his shoulder, leaving you balancing on your tip toes with your hands flat on the table behind you. It’s precarious and with absolutely no room to escape the attention he’s lavishing on you. It’s almost desperate, the way he moves. The way he devours. A man utterly starved.

“Fuck-“ you gasp as his tongue piercing catches your clit. Rough hands knead at the softness of your thighs and hips, urging you to press into him, to take as much as he’s giving.

“Tha’s it, ride m’face…” Your fingers lock into his mohawk and Johnny’s slurred words become the most pornographic moan you think you’ve ever heard. He practically goes limp - body relaxed and pliant while you grind down onto his tongue.

You tilt your head forward, risking looking down only to meet those big blue eyes staring up at you with all the intensity of the sun. A shaky moan passes your lips and his eyes flutter.

“J-Johnny-” The whine of his name only spurs him on - has him pressing his tongue so deep inside you and drinking you in full.

If he has any complaints about the way your heel digs between his shoulder blades as you unconsciously pull him closer, he doesn’t make it known. His nails rake over your ass, biting and stinging in contrast to everything else. It’s so much. Heat continues to pool at the base of your spine - babbling words, please and moans spill messily from your lips.

Your climax catches you off guard as Johnny sucks harshly at your clit; lighting your body aflame with only his mouth. Every muscle inside you tenses and the sounds you let out can only be described as strangled whines.

You have to yank a little at Johnny’s hair to get him to stop when the overstimulation reaches just the wrong side of too much; he’s well and truly lost in the moment. It fuels your ego to dangerous heights - the idea that this gorgeous man became that intoxicated just from your pussy.

There isn’t even time to say anything before Johnny is standing and connecting his lips with yours. You taste yourself on his tongue, his lips - somehow this is the first time you’ve found that pleasant. With heavy breaths you watch him wipe around his mouth his his palm, only to exaggeratedly lick and clean what’s left off his hand. Fucking sinful.

“Nasty man.” You sigh, too blissed out to be truly critical. Johnny winks and you roll your eyes.

“S’about quittin’ time.” He says, tilting his head to look up at you through thick lashes. “Should get ye home.”

You frown, still trying to come back to earth as you glance down. “Don’t- do you want-?”

He looks you over, your mouth goes dry as his hand drops from your hip to adjust himself. The implications of the outline through his thick denim has your head reeling and your breath quickening. Johnny chuckles at you, surely seeing it written plain across your face. You might as well start drooling and panting like a dog.

He buries his nose into the crook of your neck to nip at your skin. “Another time. Want tae savor ye.”

You shiver, unable to stop the smile that quirks up the corners of your lips. You have permission. You don’t need it, but you have it.

A/N: Sorry if this is a little rough, I'm getting back into the swing of things. It's finally time for things to get fun, tho ;)

Also please give some love to this AMAZING fanart from @eurydicescurse

[glitter-stained]

Incredible how dc pushes the "Jason died because he was reckless" narrative to try and absolve Bruce of blame because, victim-blaming aside, that's worse, right? You understand how that's worse?

No matter how you interpret it, in Jason's post-crisis run, Bruce is gonna be partially responsible for Jason's death, because he was the one to offer him Robin in the first place in exchange for a good foster home (Batman 1940 #408), and because he had fucked up with Jason to the point he felt the need to run to a whole other continent in search for family (Batman 1940, a death in the family). Like, that part of responsibility, that remains no matter how you spin it, because regardless of why specifically Jason went in the warehouse, that's why he was in Ethiopia with the Robin suit in the first place.

But this aside, in canon? Jason goes in the warehouse because Sheila betrays him and he does what any hero, and many children, would do in his place: he wants to help Sheila, he listens to her, he trusts his mother. The people directly responsible for Jason's death, in canon, are Joker, Sheila, and crowd of goons that helped Joker and Sheila take Jason down in the warehouse. It's clear as day who the villains are in there and it doesn't add any stain on Bruce's ledger.

But according to that victim-blaming narrative that Alfred and Bruce (and others later on) spin in-story, and that dc spins in meta? Jason died because he was reckless. So it's Jason's fault right? Yes and no. I need to write a more detailed meta about the two types of recklessness and how confusing the two accidentally led to Starling writing a compelling narrative with Jason, but basically the important question here is why was Jason reckless. And Starlin answers us, in text, in a death in the family: Jason has been behaving abnormally recklessly recently, because he's suffering. Bruce tells us, straight up, that he suspects Jason to be suicidal. This isn't the first time Starlin's Batman says Jason is suicidal: even in Batman (1940) #416, Batman explains Jason's "reckless" behaviour to Dick as a symptom of being mentally unwell, and very clearly implies Jason already struggles with suicidal thoughts (which I maintain is the reason why Dick changed his mind on Jason so quickly and gave him his number with a "you can reach out to me, don't let a lack of communication become your achille heel" talk at the end of #416.)

And Bruce's POV mind be often biased, but we see, ourselves, Jason jump in front of bullets in aditf and it's like... As much as I'm not convinced with Bruce's random explanation for Jason's struggles in aditf, I do agree that he is being suicidal (and considering the stories that come right before this one, I completely understand why he would be.) So that's why Jason is reckless in aditf. It's not why he died, but if we listen to that victim-blaming narrative that claims his recklessness is indeed what killed him, doesn't that make Bruce more guilty? Because that means Bruce knew Jason was suicidal (literally jumping in front of bullets with apparently no consideration for his life) and left a fifteen years old active suicide risk alone in a completely foreign environment after having messed up very severely with him during the whole issue, and then he told him "do not go into that warehouse alone, there's a very dangerous guy who wants to kill you." In terms of responsibility, Bruce is actually very damn lucky Jason, like some impulsive suicidal teenagers his age would have, didn't think "oh well, I'll try my luck against the guy who wants to kill me alone and that way either I win and get reassured in my heroism and right to be alive, or I die and that saves me the trouble of buying rope and a step ladder!" Bruce took the Robin costume from Jason to protect him from this exact type of situation but didn't seem to realize the danger he was putting Jason in at that moment. And it's not just me saying that! I don't have the exact reference (I think it was in Gotham Knights?...to verify) Barbara, after finding out about Jason's death, literally tells Bruce that this is his fault and that she warned him Jason had issues.

Of course, all of this is moot point, because it's not why Jason went in the warehouse in the first place, but I can't help but feel baffled at the audacity of DC, who are so deep into their psychophobia, classism, general victim-blaming bullshit and ingrained stereotypical conception of the "troubled teen" that they don't realize that the revisionist interpretation of Jason's death they are defending is literally worse for Bruce. And I have to say, it certainly doesn't paint people trash-talking Jason and blaming him for his death to prop Tim up as "better" and "different" in a very good light either (especially since, if i'm not wrong, there's an arc in which Tim struggles with suicidal thoughts himself... especially since Tim's trauma happened after he became Robin and is, for the most part, a direct consequence of his heroism. Doesn't exactly paint the adults in Jason and Tim's life in a favourable light...)

Anyway, stop blaming Jason's death on his recklessness to absolve Bruce: you're only making it worse.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 13

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You’re tired. Despite your blips into the void, you’re less than rested. You sit back from the table and leave the pencil in the crease of the ledger. You stretch your fingers and yawn. You let your eyes closer and your head wobbles. 

“Sleepy?” Rogers intones. 

You lurch in the chair and glance at him. You don’t remember him returning. He went off to ‘chat with Thor’ but you must’ve been too swept up in the numbers to notice. You nod and fix your posture. 

“A little,” you confess. 

“It’s late,” he stretches his arms as he speaks then rolls his shoulders. “Should probably tuck in soon. You got a lot of work tomorrow. Me too.” 

“Mm, right,” you hum flatly. 

You’re trapped in the tenuous stalemate. Since his confrontation, you’ve been reticent. That’s safest. You still can’t figure out what you did to rile him but you hardly want to do it again. A man like Rogers is not the type you want to goad. If it were up to you, you wouldn’t even be here. Again, that’s just another reminder of his power. You’re here because he says you need to be. 

“I bought you stuff to sleep in,” he goes around the bed and grabs his own bag, flopping it up on the mattress.  

“Oh, thanks, uh,” you slowly close the ledger and stare at the bed.  

Your eyes drift over to the chaise. It’s wide enough for you. It even looks comfy. You get up and approach it, peering into the top of the shopping bags. That looks like pajamas? 

He grunts and draws your attentions again. As he unbuttons his shirt, your eyes widen and your heart spark. Oops! You grab a bag and flee for the bathroom behind him. He doesn’t flinch as you pass by. 

You shut the door and drop the bag. This is going to be so weird. And you thought the hotel room was bad. Him in the bed in just his towel and then you falling out of the shower. It’s a deranged slapstick but you’re the main joke. 

You push open the mouth of the bag and pull out the silk top. The dusty rose fabric is trimmed with black lace. You blink dumbly as you examine the thin straps and fish out the matching bottoms. Okay, are these supposed to be pajamas? 

You search the rest of the bag. It’s much of the same but in various colours. You’re better off sleeping in what you have on. Still, you are entirely unprepared another argument. Just the memory of his chasing you around that room has you jittery. 

You change, reluctantly. How are you supposed to stay warm? You hate being cold. Especially when you’re trying to sleep. You swear, he’s torturing you. For you, he reserved his more sinister practice, you almost envy the man he stomped on the street. At least that was quick. 

You crack open the door and peek out. Rogers lays in bed, one arm bent behind his head, his other hand on his phone as he holds it over his muscled torso. He has no shame as he reclines with his upper half entirely bare. You suppose he has no reason to be embarrassed but you very much do. 

You steel yourself and emerge. You tear your eyes from him and don’t look back. You circle around the bed with one focus in mind. You snatch the pillow from the other side but find it caught on something. Rogers clears your throat and you look up as he stares back. He clings to the corner of the pillow. 

“Whatcha doin’?” He asks coyly. 

You gulp, “oh, I was gonna make up the chaise--” 

“Why?” He prompts. 

“Well, er, I thought--” 

“Bed’s big enough,” he shrugs and yanks, putting the pillow back down. “Unless you think I smell or something.” 

“Oh, no sir, no,” you argue and fold your hands in front of you. The silk brushes your chest and you’re overly aware of how your nipples poke into the cool fabric. “Um...you didn’t happen to grab any sets with pants? My legs are cold.” 

“I dunno. The lady picked it all,” he swipes up his phone again. “Looks like it fits. If you’re cold, get under the blankets.” 

“Right, that’s... smart,” you agree and climb onto the bed. You do just as he says and hide under the blankets. You put your back to him and nestle in. Your body relaxes into the cushy mattress and you yawn again. It’s no big deal. You’re just going to sleep. 

Your head swirls with exhaustion. It doesn’t take much more than a few deep breaths to doze off. You’re grateful for the quick relief. Your body and mind is so addled that the blank void is much preferable. 

You wake to darkness. The kind that blurs like static in your vision. There’s a steady rhythm at your back. Rogers snores lowly between deep breaths. His warmth radiates beneath the blankets and clouds around your legs. 

You peek back at his fuzzy figure. It’s the only time you’ve ever seen him anything less than terrifying, even though you can’t really see him. You move carefully and slide out from under the covers. You tiptoe around to the bathroom and ease the door into the frame. 

You quickly relieve yourself and wash your hands. As you come back out, the snoring continues, assuring you of your successful mission. You climb back into bed and once more roll onto your side. As you pull the blankets up, there’s a dip in the tempo. 

Rogers’ snores fade and catch in his throat. The bed jostles with his movement as he grumbles. You squeak as his arm snakes over you and his heat blazes around your body. He tucks his hand under your waist and nuzzles your hair, puffing hotly into your scalp. 

His arm is like a vice. You can’t dislodge it as you wriggle helplessly. His snores rise again to assure you of oblivion. You clasp onto his wrist but you’re much too weak to fight him. You knew that already but now you feel it completely. 

As you writhe, you let out another high-pitched gasp. What’s that? The bulge flush to your rear has you paralysed as the realisation slowly sinks in. Oh. He’s only human after all, even if to you, he seems immortal. 

You blanch and blink into the dark. The silk isn’t much of a barrier and his own pajama bottoms don’t offer much else. What do you do? You can’t let him wake up like this? You can’t let him know that you felt him. 

Yet if you wake him up by wrench him off of you, that would give it all away. Well, you guess this is your life now. You’re stuck. Trapped with this enigmatic man and his unyielding demands. Even in his sleep, he’s managed to impose his will on you. 

[amateurvoltaire]

For the past six years or so, this graph has been making its rounds on social media, always reappearing at conveniently timed moments…

The insinuation is loud and clear: parallels abound between 18th-century France and 21st-century USA. Cue the alarm bells—revolution is imminent! The 10% should panic, and ordinary folk should stock up on non-perishables and, of course, toilet paper, because it wouldn’t be a proper crisis without that particular frenzy. You know the drill.

Well, unfortunately, I have zero interest in commenting on the political implications or the parallels this graph is trying to make with today’s world. I have precisely zero interest in discussing modern-day politics here. And I also have zero interest in addressing the bottom graph.

This is not going to be one of those "the [insert random group of people] à la lanterne” (1) kind of posts.  If you’re here for that, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.

What I am interested in is something much less click-worthy but far more useful: how historical data gets used and abused and why the illusion of historical parallels can be so seductive—and so misleading. It’s not glamorous, I’ll admit, but digging into this stuff teaches us a lot more than mindless rage.

So, let’s get into it. Step by step, we’ll examine the top graph, unpick its assumptions, and see whether its alarmist undertones hold any historical weight.

Step 1: Actually Look at the Picture and Use Your Brain

When I saw this graph, my first thought was, “That’s odd.” Not because it’s hard to believe the top 10% in 18th-century France controlled 60% of the wealth—that could very well be true. But because, in 15 years of studying the French Revolution, I’ve never encountered reliable data on wealth distribution from that period.

Why? Because to the best of my knowledge, no one was systematically tracking income or wealth across the population in the 18th century. There were no comprehensive records, no centralised statistics, and certainly no detailed breakdowns of who owned what across different classes. Graphs like this imply data, and data means either someone tracked it or someone made assumptions to reconstruct it. That’s not inherently bad,  but it did get my spider senses tingling.

Then there’s the timeframe: 1760–1790. Thirty years is a long time— especially when discussing a period that included wars, failed financial policies, growing debt, and shifting social dynamics. Wealth distribution wouldn’t have stayed static during that time. Nobles who were at the top in 1760 could be destitute by 1790, while merchants starting out in 1760 could be climbing into the upper tiers by the end of the period. Economic mobility wasn’t common, but over three decades, it wasn’t unheard of either.

All of this raises questions about how this graph was created. Where’s the data coming from? How was it measured? And can we really trust it to represent such a complex period?

Step 2: Check the Fine Print

Since the graph seemed questionable, the obvious next step was to ask: Where does this thing come from? Luckily, the source is clearly cited at the bottom: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Christian Morrisson and Wayne Snyder, published in the European Review of Economic History, Vol. 4, No. 1 (2000).

Great! A proper academic source. But, before diving into the article, there’s a crucial detail tucked into the fine print:

“Data for the bottom 40% in France is extrapolated given a single data point.”

What does that mean?

Extrapolation is a statistical method used to estimate unknown values by extending patterns or trends from a small sample of data. In this case, the graph’s creator used one single piece of data—one solitary data point—about the wealth of the bottom 40% of the French population. They then scaled or applied that one value to represent the entire group across the 30-year period (1760–1790).

Put simply, this means someone found one record—maybe a tax ledger, an income statement, or some financial data—pertaining to one specific year, region, or subset of the bottom 40%, and decided it was representative of the entire demographic for three decades.

Let’s be honest: you don’t need a degree in statistics to know that’s problematic. Using a single data point to make sweeping generalisations about a large, diverse population (let alone across an era of wars, famines, and economic shifts) is a massive leap. In fact, it’s about as reliable as guessing how the internet feels about a topic from a single tweet.

This immediately tells me that whatever numbers they claim for the bottom 40% of the population are, at best, speculative. At worst? Utterly meaningless.

It also raises another question: What kind of serious journal would let something like this slide? So, time to pull up the actual article and see what’s going on.

Step 3: Check the Sources

As I mentioned earlier, the source for this graph is conveniently listed at the bottom of the image. Three clicks later, I had downloaded the actual article: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Morrisson and Snyder.

The first thing I noticed while skimming through the article? The graph itself is nowhere to be found in the publication.

This is important. It means the person who created the graph didn’t just lift it straight from the article—they derived it from the data in the publication. Now, that’s not necessarily a problem; secondary analysis of published data is common. But here’s the kicker: there’s no explanation in the screenshot of the graph about which dataset or calculations were used to make it. We’re left to guess.

So, to figure this out, I guess I’ll have to dive into the article itself, trying to identify where they might have pulled the numbers from. Translation: I signed myself up to read 20+ pages of economic history. Thrilling stuff.

But hey, someone has to do it. The things I endure to fight disinformation...

Step 4: Actually Assess the Sources Critically

It doesn’t take long, once you start reading the article, to realise that regardless of what the graph is based on, it’s bound to be somewhat unreliable. Right from the first paragraph, the authors of the paper point out the core issue with calculating income for 18th-century French households: THERE IS NO DATA.

The article is refreshingly honest about this. It states multiple times that there were no reliable income distribution estimates in France before World War II. To fill this gap, Morrisson and Snyder used a variety of proxy sources like the Capitation Tax Records (2), historical socio-professional tables, and Isnard’s income distribution estimates (3).

After reading the whole paper, I can say their methodology is intriguing and very reasonable. They’ve pieced together what they could by using available evidence, and their process is quite well thought-out. I won’t rehash their entire argument here, but if you’re curious, I’d genuinely recommend giving it a read.

Most importantly, the authors are painfully aware of the limitations of their approach. They make it very clear that their estimates are a form of educated guesswork—evidence-based, yes, but still guesswork.   At no point do they overstate their findings or present their conclusions as definitive

As such,  instead of concluding with a single, definitive version of the income distribution, they offer multiple possible scenarios.

It’s not as flashy as a bold, tidy graph, is it? But it’s far more honest—and far more reflective of the complexities involved in reconstructing historical economic data.

Step 5: Run the numbers

Now that we’ve established the authors of the paper don’t actually propose a definitive income distribution, the question remains: where did the creators of the graph get their data? More specifically, which of the proposed distributions did they use?

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to locate the original article or post containing the graph. Admittedly, I haven’t tried very hard, but the first few pages of Google results just link back to Twitter, Reddit, Facebook, and Tumblr posts. In short, all I have to go on is this screenshot.

I’ll give the graph creators the benefit of the doubt and assume that, in the full article, they explain where they sourced their data. I really hope they do—because they absolutely should.

That being said, based on the information in Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, I’d make an educated guess that the data came from Table 6 or Table 10, as these are the sections where the authors attempt to provide income distribution estimates.

Now, which dataset does the graph use? Spoiler: None of them.

How can we tell? Since I don’t have access to the raw data or the article where this graph might have been originally posted, I resorted to a rather unscientific method: I used a graphical design program to divide each bar of the chart into 2.5% increments and measure the approximate percentage for each income group.

Here’s what I found:

Now, take a moment to spot the issue. Do you see it?

The problem is glaring: NONE of the datasets from the paper fit the graph. Granted, my measurements are just estimates, so there might be some rounding errors. But the discrepancies are impossible to ignore, particularly for the bottom 40% and the top 10%.

In Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, the lowest estimate for the bottom 40% (1st and 2nd quintiles) is 10%. Even if we use the most conservative proxy, the Capitation Tax estimate, it’s 9%. But the graph claims the bottom 40% held only 6%.

For the top 10% (10th decile), the highest estimate in the paper is 53%. Yet the graph inflates this to 60%.

Step 6: For fun, I made my own bar charts

Because I enjoy this sort of thing (yes, this is what I consider fun—I’m a very fun person), I decided to use the data from the paper to create my own bar charts. Here’s what came out:

What do you notice?

While the results don’t exactly scream “healthy economy,” they look much less dramatic than the graph we started with. The creators of the graph have clearly exaggerated the disparities, making inequality seem worse.

Step 7: Understand the context before drawing conclusions

Numbers, by themselves, mean nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I could tell you right now that 47% of people admit to arguing with inanimate objects when they don’t work, with printers being the most common offender, and you’d probably believe it. Why? Because it sounds plausible—printers are frustrating, I’ve used a percentage, and I’ve phrased it in a way that sounds “academic.”

You likely wouldn’t even pause to consider that I’m claiming 3.8 billion people argue with inanimate objects. And let’s be real: 3.8 billion is such an incomprehensibly large number that our brains tend to gloss over it.

If, instead, I said, “Half of your friends probably argue with their printers,” you might stop and think, “Wait, that seems a bit unlikely.” (For the record, I completely made that up—I have no clue how many people yell at their stoves or complain to their toasters.)

The point? Numbers mean nothing unless we put them into context.

The original paper does this well by contextualising its estimates, primarily through the calculation of the Gini coefficient (4).

The authors estimate France’s Gini coefficient in the late 18th century to be 0.59, indicating significant income inequality. However, they compare this figure to other regions and periods to provide a clearer picture:

Amsterdam (1742): Much higher inequality, with a Gini of 0.69.

Britain (1759): Lower inequality, with a Gini of 0.52, which rose to 0.59 by 1801.

Prussia (mid-19th century): Far less inequality, with a Gini of 0.34–0.36.

This comparison shows that income inequality wasn’t unique to France. Other regions experienced similar or even higher levels of inequality without spontaneously erupting into revolution.

Accounting for Variations

The authors also recalculated the Gini coefficient to account for potential variations. They assumed that the income of the top quintile (the wealthiest 20%) could vary by ±10%. Here’s what they found:

If the top quintile earned 10% more, the Gini coefficient rose to 0.66, placing France significantly above other European countries of the time.

If the top quintile earned 10% less, the Gini dropped to 0.55, bringing France closer to Britain’s level.

Ultimately, the authors admit there’s uncertainty about the exact level of inequality in France. Their best guess is that it was comparable to other countries or somewhat worse.

Step 8: Drawing Some Conclusions

Saying that most people in the 18th century were poor and miserable—perhaps the French more so than others—isn’t exactly a compelling statement if your goal is to gather clicks or make a dramatic political point.

It’s incredibly tempting to look at the past and find exactly what we want to see in it. History often acts as a mirror, reflecting our own expectations unless we challenge ourselves to think critically. Whether you call it wishful thinking or confirmation bias, it’s easy to project the future onto the past.

Looking at the initial graph, I understand why someone might fall into this trap. Simple, tidy narratives are appealing to everyone. But if you’ve studied history, you’ll know that such narratives are a myth. Human nature may not have changed in thousands of years, but the contexts we inhabit are so vastly different that direct parallels are meaningless.

So, is revolution imminent? Well, that’s up to you—not some random graph on the internet.

Notes

(1) A la lanterne was a  revolutionary cry during the French Revolution, symbolising mob justice where individuals were sometimes hanged from lampposts as a form of public execution

(2) The capitation tax was a fixed head tax implemented in France during the Ancien Régime. It was levied on individuals, with the amount owed determined by their social and professional status. Unlike a proportional income tax, it was based on pre-assigned categories rather than actual earnings, meaning nobles, clergy, and commoners paid different rates regardless of their actual wealth or income.

(3) Jean-Baptiste Isnard was an 18th-century economist. These estimates attempted to describe the theoretical distribution of income among different social classes in pre-revolutionary France. Isnard’s work aimed to categorise income across groups like nobles, clergy, and commoners, providing a broad picture of economic disparity during the period.

(4) The Gini coefficient (or Gini index) is a widely used statistical measure of inequality within a population, specifically in terms of income or wealth distribution. It ranges from 0 to 1, where 0 indicates perfect equality (everyone has the same income or wealth), and 1 represents maximum inequality (one person or household holds all the wealth).

[thewritetofreespeech]

「 SQUEEZE 」 + aemond

「 SQUEEZE 」 : for sender to rest their hand on the receivers thigh , giving it a squeeze

Aemond detested a lot of things, but state dinners were one of the worst.

With his father incapacitated, due to some new malady from his condition, and his favorite off at Dragonstone with her bastard brood and new husband, it fell to his mother and the second sons to make good. She insisted that he and Aegon be there. Comments on making connections, along with some underlying manner of threat on the horizon if they didn’t, as they welcomed guests from far & wide into their home. Aemond wasn’t sure why he had to be there. Aegon was the social one. Let him entertain the lickspittles and drunken fools. Why must he suffer just because his mother was paranoid over the future?

“You see…hic…the thing that most people do not know about grain accounting….ahem…”

Aemond knew he was not a perfect person. He had sinned in his life plenty, but what sin was so great that he had to be forced into this conversation with such a drunken fool. Droning on & on about grain ledgers and crop rotations as if anyone cared.

“I’m sure it’s quite taxing, Lord Marshen.” His wife commented. Also trapped at this table with him, but thankfully not leaving his side. “I know your contribution to the Capital’s stores have not gone unnoticed.”

She was much better at this than him. Soothing egos. Complimenting the unremarkable. With her soft voice and clear smile, she almost seemed like she meant it. Aemond almost envied her ability to move people in such a way as this. He would just cut through them.

“Well, I don’t mean to brag,” but he was going to, “but our grain is some of the finest in the land. Not that your family’s offering is subpar, your grace. I just wish I had something finer to offer than grain when the time came.”

Aemond’s eye narrow. What was he talking about?

“Perhaps if I had something sweeter to offer than our fine wheat like they did, we could have been in-laws, your grace. Ha! A cow, to sweeten the cream!”

Aemond gripped the arm of his chair to stand. His finger almost as tight as his jaw. This insufferable insect was permitted in the castle, and he chooses to thank their hospitality by insulting his wife!

Before he could rise, however, his wife’s hand lanced out under the table and gripped his thigh. Hard. He could even feel her nails trying to poke through the material of his pants, and he sat back down. “Yes, well. Everyone wants 5 sons like you Lord Marshen, until the marriage mart opens.” The old man laughed, clearly unaware on how close his death had been, as his wife turned to him. “I think all the wine and conversation has gone to my head, husband. Would his grace please escort me back to our chambers?”

She released his leg and Aemond stood again. The bite of her hand still there to keep him calm, even as the fool made more comments about the weak minds of women in social situations. He took his wife’s hand and led her from the hall. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, my love.” His wife replied when they were alone. “We can’t have you stabbing a man in front of everyone. What would ‘mother’ say?” Aemond scoffed. Nothing pleasant from Queen Alicent, he was sure. “It’s just a few more days. Then they’ll all be gone.”

“I would rather be thrown from the Keep than go to another dinner.”

“I could suddenly become ill?” She suggested as they arrived at their door. “Or just continue to grab your leg under tables until it bleeds. Your choice.”

Aemond scoffed, then leaned in to kiss her. “I’d rather not be maimed again, if it’s all the same.”

[widowromanova]

Red Ledger - Part 1

villain!natasha x hero!reader

word count: 3063

You've always been careful - painstakingly, obsessively so. But what happens when Wanda Maximoff (a city reporter) uncovers your secret identity? Unbeknownst to her, her boss as been watching her the whole time, and has been looking for a way to take you down for years.

No witnesses. No patterns. No attachments. But it turns out, even ghosts leave footprints. And Wanda Maximoff is very good at finding them.

People whisper about the unknown vigilante who shows up when fires rage, when the wrong men corner the right people in alleyways. No one ever gets a clear look. That’s the point. You made sure of it.

But Wanda is too smart for that.

She calls it a “pet project,” this story she’s chasing. "Just for fun," she shrugs when you tease her. But her walls are covered with maps, timelines, news clippings. Patterns only she can see. You're always careful, but not careful enough for her.

She’s getting close.

Not because she suspects you - you’re just her best friend, the person she vents to over pizza and late-night edits. But she’s chasing the story with everything she’s got. And someone else is watching her chase it.

Natasha Romanoff.

She’s Wanda’s editor-in-chief at the Gazette. Polished. Imposing. The kind of woman who speaks softly and still makes the room go silent. Most of the staff think she’s a relic from some elite publication that burned her out. You know better.

There’s something colder behind her eyes. Something practiced.

Wanda doesn’t know that she’s not the only one on the hunt

It happens on a Thursday. Quiet day. The office is mostly empty - Wanda had stayed late, combing through a stack of old municipal records she’d dug up from the courthouse basement.

Just as she’s about to give up, she finds it.

A classified federal memo misfiled with budget reports - someone's screw-up. It’s vague, coded, but Wanda’s read enough to know how to break it open. Dates. Locations. Two of them match mysterious saves from town. There’s even a heavily redacted photo attached.

Her breath catches in her throat. It’s you.

Blurry, yes - but the outline, the posture, the coat... she knows it. She knows you.

It clicks all at once.

She doesn’t call. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t even sit down. She grabs the paper and a lighter from her bag, heads into the copy room, and locks the door behind her. Shaky fingers feed the pages one by one into the trash bin. The lighter flares. The paper catches.

She watches your secret turn to smoke. But she doesn’t see the eyes watching her through the sliver of glass in the door.

Just down the hall, Natasha Romanoff stands silently in the shadows of the break room. She’s been tracking Wanda’s movements for weeks. Waiting to see when she'd stop chasing and start hiding.

Now she knows. Wanda found something. And she destroyed it. Natasha’s eyes narrow, calculating. Now she knows Wanda does. That changes everything.

She turns and walks away, heels silent on the old tile, a smirk playing on her lips. The kind that means the hunt just became personal.

Back in the copy room, Wanda takes a deep breath, thinking she’s buried your secret forever.

She has no idea she just marked herself as bait.

And you?

You feel the shift before anyone says a word. You were safe. Now you’re not.

Because Natasha Romanoff is coming. And the only thing between her and your identity… is Wanda.

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

The call comes midmorning. You’re already halfway through a run when Wanda’s name lights up your screen. You don’t answer right away - she texts a second later:

"Hey. Can you bring me a coffee? My brain's melting."

Then a pause.

"Also, get here fast."

You don’t question it. You never do.

Twenty minutes later, you’re pushing open the heavy glass door of the Westbrook Gazette building, the cold cup sweating in your hand. It’s a routine errand, the kind of thing best friends do for each other. But there’s something about Wanda’s voice - tight - that keeps your senses alert.

She’s at a table, phone pinned between shoulder and ear, eyes flicking toward the entrance like she’s been watching for you. She sees you and relaxes, waving you over with a tired smile

"You're a lifesaver," she mouths, holding up one finger as she keeps speaking into the receiver. You cross the lobby, weaving through scattered chairs and half-dead plants. The newsroom is unusually quiet. No printers humming. No chatter. Just the low drone of Wanda’s voice and - you feel her before you see her.

A stillness too deliberate to be casual.

You glance across the room and there she is.

Natasha's sitting on one of the velvet lobby benches like it’s a throne. Legs crossed, elbow resting lazily on the armrest, a magazine draped casually over one knee - untouched. Her gaze is locked on you. Calculating. Amused.

A smirk lifts the corner of her mouth.

You’ve never met. Not properly.

But something twists in your gut like déjà vu. You hold her gaze for half a second too long. The air between you feels suddenly thin, sharp-edged.

Wanda hangs up the phone. “Hey,” she says quickly, standing to take the coffee. “Thanks. You’re amazing.”

You tear your eyes from Natasha’s and hand Wanda the drink. “Rough day?”

She shrugs too quickly. “Rough week.”

Her voice is light, but her fingers tremble slightly as they brush yours. You glance back toward Natasha. Still watching. Still smiling that slow, knowing smile, like she’s remembering an old story and just figured out the ending.

She doesn't say a word.

It’s not confirmation. Not yet. But something passed between you in that brief silence. You don’t know how you recognize her. She doesn’t know who you are.

Natasha stands up, brushing the wrinkles off her suit and before turning to walk down the hall into an elevator, where she turns to meet your gaze one last time, running her tongue along her teeth with a knowing smirk as the door closes.

You turn to Wanda hesitantly, "Hey, who's that woman with the..." you gesture to your hair, "extremely red hair?"

Wanda blinks. Her response is immediate, automatic. “That’s Natasha Romanoff. She’s my editor-in-chief.”

You raise your brows. “She always smile like that, or did I just impress her with my coffee-carrying skills?”

Wanda doesn’t laugh. She forces a small smile, then looks away, like the floor suddenly got very interesting. “She’s… intense. She’s been watching my story on the vigilante. A little too closely, maybe.”

You try to keep your tone even. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It started a few months ago. She told me the piece had potential. Kept asking questions. But lately she’s stopped giving notes and just… reads. Silently. Like she’s waiting for something.”

You nod slowly, heartbeat picking up speed. “And what does she think you’re going to find?”

Wanda shrugs, eyes flicking back toward the elevator doors. “No clue. But I think if she ever finds out I know something worth burning…” she taps the lid of her coffee, “she’s going to stop pretending she doesn’t.”

You watch Wanda for a moment. There’s something off in the way she holds herself - stiff, distracted. She keeps glancing toward the elevators like she’s expecting someone to reappear.

"What did you burn?” you ask, voice low.

Wanda doesn’t answer right away. She studies the lid of her coffee like it might rearrange itself into the right words. “I was in the archive room,” she says finally. “Looking for building permits for that environmental piece. I wasn’t even digging.”

You wait, giving her space.

"There was a box of unfiled clippings on the floor. Looked like someone had been sifting through it recently. Inside, I found a folder - half full, unlabelled. But someone had been watching the rooftops, the alleys. There were surveillance stills, and one of them-" She shakes her head. “It was you. Blurry, but not enough. Not if you know what to look for.”

You try not to react. Keep your face still. But your stomach turns.

“I didn’t think,” she goes on. “I didn’t even read the rest. Just burned the whole thing and dumped the ashes in the janitor’s bin. Sloppy, I know, but I panicked. I didn’t want it getting into the wrong hands."

You glance toward the elevators. “And you think it already did?”

Wanda’s fingers tap an uneven rhythm on the side of her coffee cup. “I didn’t hear anyone come in. But the door was open when I left. And this morning…” She trails off.

“Natasha.”

Wanda nods, barely.

"She’s not saying anything about it,” she says. “She just keeps looking at me like I’ve already told her everything. Like she’s waiting for me to slip up.”

You lean on the edge of her desk. “Do you think she saw the file?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe. Maybe not. But something changed. She used to give me feedback on the vigilante piece. Now she just reads it and moves on.”

The truth is, you don’t know Natasha well enough to decide. Everything about her is composed - polished in a way that feels practiced. Maybe that’s just the job. Or maybe she knows more than she lets on.

“She said anything to you?” you ask.

“No. But she was in the lobby when you walked in.”

You nod. “Yeah. I saw.”

Wanda lowers her voice. “She was watching you like she knew something. Not everything. But… enough to be curious.”

You glance toward the hallway again, trying not to let your mind get ahead of itself.

“She’s your boss,” you say. “Maybe she’s just protective of her reporters.”

“Maybe,” Wanda murmurs. “Or maybe she’s waiting to figure out if I’m lying to her.”

You straighten. “Are you?”

She meets your eyes. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Wanda says nothing after that, just sips her coffee, her mind clearly miles away. You don’t press. Not yet. Whatever she saw in that folder, whatever instinct made her trash it before even thinking it through… it’s still sitting with her. You glance around the lobby, but Natasha’s gone now. Elevator doors closed. No sign of her.

“I should get back upstairs,” Wanda says quietly, already standing, her bag slung over one shoulder. “I’ll text you later.”

You nod. “You still want to run that interview this weekend? The shopkeeper from Ivy Street?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Let’s keep moving like nothing’s changed.”

She doesn’t look back as she heads for the stairwell.

You watch her disappear behind the door, then glance once more at the hallway where Natasha vanished.

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

Later that day, you’re passing through the second-floor break room - empty but for a low hum of a soda fridge - when you see Natasha again.

She’s seated near the window, a legal pad in front of her, one ankle crossed over the other. There’s nothing in her posture that suggests surprise when you enter. No warm greeting. Just a flick of her eyes over to you, casual and calm.

You give a polite nod and move toward the coffee machine.

She doesn’t speak until the cup starts filling.

“You’re the one who brings Wanda her coffee,” she says without looking up.

It isn’t really a question.

You glance over. “Hah, I guess so."

She hums, tapping her pen twice against the pad. “You two close?”

You shrug. “We’ve known each other a while.”

“That’s good,” she says simply. “She’s sharp. Stubborn. A little reckless.”

You don’t respond.

Natasha finally lifts her gaze to meet yours. “She’s working on something important. I’d hate to see it get… derailed.”

There’s no malice in her voice. No edge. It could almost pass for concern.

Almost.

The coffee finishes. You retrieve it, gripping the paper cup a little tighter than necessary.

“I’m sure she’ll finish what she started,” you say evenly.

Natasha smiles - slow and unreadable. “I’m sure she will.”

She turns back to her notepad.

When you reach Wanda’s desk, you find her already typing - face hard with focus, screen half-filled with redacted emails and side-by-side photo comparisons from the protest archive.

You set the coffee down without a word.She doesn’t look up. “She talk to you?”

You nod.

“And?”

“She asked if we were close.”

Wanda doesn’t stop typing. “That’s not a question she asks if she’s bored.”

Wanda’s fingers pause over the keyboard. Just long enough to register that the comment meant something. Then she goes back to typing.

You pull a chair up next to her desk. “You’ve worked under her for a while. What’s your read?”

Wanda exhales through her nose, scrolling through the archive on her monitor. “She’s efficient. Always knows more than she says. She doesn’t waste time - not hers, not yours.”

“That’s not a read. That’s a résumé.”

She hesitates, then leans back slightly, rubbing her temple. “Honestly? I don’t know what her angle is. When I first pitched the vigilante piece, she wasn’t interested. Not really. Then something changed.”

“When?”

“Right after that first witness account hit the net. The kid who saw someone stop the armored van robbery on West Pine.” She clicks open another image. A zoomed-in security cam still. Blurry figure mid-stride, face obscured. “She called me into her office that afternoon. Said there might be more here than I thought. Told me to dig.”

“And now?”

“She’s stopped saying anything. Just reviews the drafts and closes the file. No edits. No questions.”

You nod slowly, staring at the grainy still on the screen. The longer you sit there, the louder the question gets: does she suspect? Or is she just patient?

Wanda taps a few keys and pulls up another folder. “I’m trying to retrace the source of that file I found. If it was planted, I want to know by who. And why.”

You glance over. “Think Natasha sent it?”

“I don’t think she’s careless enough to leave a trail,” Wanda says. “But someone wanted me to see it. And if Natasha is following my work this closely, then maybe it was a test. Or bait.”

You glance around - instinct, not reason - and lower your voice. “And if you hadn’t burned it?”

She finally looks at you. “I don’t know. But I didn’t like how fast I knew I should.”

The quiet stretches. You hear footsteps out in the hall, printers warming up, a phone ringing two desks down. The newsroom is humming the way it always does. Unbothered. Busy. Pretending normalcy.

But something’s shifted. You both feel it.

Wanda straightens. “I’m going to dig. Carefully. You keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

You arch a brow. “Which is?”

“Pretending you're just my friend who brings coffee.” She gives the smallest hint of a smile. “And if she ever asks you anything again, don’t lie. Just don’t say enough to be useful.”

You nod. Wanda turns back to her screen.

You stand, slowly, and leave her to work. But as you cross the newsroom, you feel it again - the weight of being observed.

Natasha’s office door is closed. The blinds drawn. But you don’t need a clear view to know she’s in there.

You take the stairs, not the elevator. It’s slower, quieter. Gives you time to think. Each step sounds louder than it should, like the building’s pressing in.

By the time you reach the street level, your phone buzzes. Unknown number. One ring, then it cuts out.

You keep walking.

--------------------‐---------------------------

Later that night, your apartment is dark, save for the dull light from the TV - muted, cycling through a weather report no one’s watching.

You’ve been pacing. Twenty steps from the window to the kitchen and back again. Over and over. Not anxious, not exactly. Alert. Aware. The kind of motion that helps you feel real when the walls get too still.

There’s a folder on your table you haven’t opened yet. Slipped into your mail slot sometime during the day. No name. No return address. Just the weight of it - a little too heavy for regular paper. Inside, photos. A map. Names in black ink, circled.

And one line typed clean across the bottom page:

“One of them already knows.”

You pick up the map. Red dots. Your building. Wanda’s office. The alley where you dropped the phone that night in February. A rooftop. The bar on 5th. West Pine. There’s no note, no sender.

You sit, finally, and run a hand down your face. Whoever sent this knows more than they should. Which means it’s either a warning… or the beginning of leverage.

Your phone buzzes again. This time, a message.

WANDA:

I think I found something. It’s not good.

Then, a follow-up:

Can you meet me? Not here.

You type back quickly.

YOU:

Where?

WANDA:

Union Square. North side. 20 min.

You grab your jacket, shove the folder into your backpack, and head for the door.

Union Square is mostly empty when you arrive. A few scattered smokers outside the subway entrance. A food cart packing up. Light rain in the air, enough to keep the benches slick and the park quiet.

You spot her under the awning of a shuttered newsstand, hands in her pockets, hood up. She doesn’t wave. Just waits.

You cross to her.

“What did you find?” you ask.

Wanda pulls out her phone, glances around, then holds it out. The screen shows a document - a personnel manifest from a federal contractor. Most of the names mean nothing. But one does.

Romanoff, N. Clearance Level: Redacted Division: Surveillance Operations / Asset Review Assignment: Civ–2174 — NYC Metro, active.

You blink at the screen. “Is this real?”

Wanda nods once. “It was hidden behind two redirects on a decommissioned server. Buried under a fake research program.”

“Civ–2174?”

She looks at you, steady. “That’s the classification tag tied to the vigilante report. All of them.”

The cold settles in behind your ribs.

You hand the phone back. “So she’s not just watching the story.”

“No,” Wanda says.

A car passes, headlights sweeping across your faces, then gone.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Finally, you ask, “Do you think she knows who I am?”

Wanda doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “I think she wants you to show her.”

(a/n: will post a part 2 soon :))

[whatstrangeloops]

I watched Brokeback Mountain a couple of nights ago and I'm still thinking about it so I'm going to put the thoughts down in public.

I was really surprised by Brokeback because the actual movie was so different from the summary of it I had been led to create from memes and general cultural osmosis. I had heard a lot of cringey jokes about the gay relationship in the movie but also enough praise that I expected it to be a deeper narrative but I didn't understand how deep it would go. I was thinking this would be a gay romance (maybe even a romcom) primarily set outdoors and what I got was a deeply moving tragedy created in the parallax between the two leads.

From the beginning I was impressed with the silence of the movie. As Ennis and Jack traverse the landscape I felt the deliberate silence of the score enhance the wide shots, it felt taut and expensive like the wide open sky. The first third of the movie meanders confidently with Jack and Ennis and proceeds to wander deliberately after they split up. The first third could honestly function on its own ending with Ennis curled up by the side of the road.

Scenes that have stuck in my mind are the fight between Jack and Ennis with the performances of Ledger and Gyllenhaal going from light and jocular to intense and violent on a dime and the specific euphemism that Aguirre uses to dismiss Jack when he comes looking for work again, "stemming the rose".

I think Ennis is such an interesting character to follow for the rest of the movie because of the same quality that seems to attract people to him in the fiction, his emotional unavailability. We move with him and catch glimpses of Jack but his thinking remains a mystery. I think Ennis loved Jack more deeply than Jack loved him. It's Ennis self denial of his love that keeps him in stasis as the years go by.

I think it's so funny that Jack makes a big deal out of riding rodeo and then sucks at it. Anne Hathaway was also a delightful surprise!

I always appreciate when a work handles its sharpest hooks with a dextrous hand. Both Ennis and Jack's psychologies are stated in a single clear conversation. At news of his death the intercut flashes as Laureen relates the details are such direct flashes into Ennis' mind it's disorienting. My interpretation is that it's possible Jack's father in law had him killed in anger after the thanksgiving dinner but I think other interpretations could be equally valid. Regardless, all we get is Ennis' imagination and I love that. What does it mean when Ennis says "Jack, I swear..." At the end of the movie? I can't say for sure and I love that.

I think the culture has moved into a different territory for gay narratives. We're it made now I don't think these characters would be allowed to be so ambiguous and so beautifully sad. There would have to be some kind of call to action. It's a shame about all the jokes because this movie is actually one of the most tenderly masculine stories I've ever watched and I think it should be better appreciated as part of that canon.

[goawaypopup]

Look Outside Posting Part 4: Sybil

Today, a little on the most mysterious character in the game.

Having established that she is probably the fleshy stuff everywhere else in the building, Apartment 35 is definitely her core, or base, or something. Whether it's full to the brim with meat with two blue little eyeballs at the cracks in the walls, she's budded off a fresh, separate body in there, or that room is some kind of Schrodinger's time anomaly.

If you interrogated Beryl, you'll know that she knew Sybil was in Apartment 12, not 35. But, crucially, something i haven't seen anyone else mention: Sybil did live in 35. The game takes place in March; Edwin's ledger of equipment loans shows Sybil borrowing a telescope, in Apartment 35, in February of the previous year. She moved out, and into 12, at some point in the interim. (Edit: Tragically, it has come to my attention that in the latest update the ledger is fixed to show her in 12, after all. She just showed up in this room to stare at Sam, I guess.)

What remain of Sybil's memories and knowledge show that this can't be an unrelated Sybil. Beryl was the first to join the group (Jasper taking care of Sybil, and Edwin sort of off to the side providing tools). She met Sybil only a few months before the game's events, after she had already witnessed the Visitor, and when she was already in the new apartment. Neither Beryl nor the others after her ever knew Sybil in Apartment 35, and she's the only one you mention it to, so they never find out about her.

The thing that makes Sybil so clearly pivotal, even if it's never clear exactly how, is that she's privy to information no one else is. As far as I'm aware, nobody else somehow just knows that the Visitor will leave in 15 days.

Even the Astronomers don't have an estimate. Whatever speed the Visitor was traveling at before is obviously shot - you'd have to be able to calculate its attention span somehow to know when it's going to leave. And Sybil is right on the money. She's wrong about having "heard it" somewhere, at any rate - from where, the news? The panicking residents? At literal sunrise on the first day?

Not even the Visitor itself seems to know stuff like this about what it's going to do. It doesn't even know what a photo is... I don't think it's actually responsible for the Astronomers' visions of offerings.

So who the hell is??

You can probably guess this one from context.

Sybil is suspiciously knowledgeable on all this, if unconsciously so. Even for someone who was studying this entity. She doesn't just know what it looks like or where it came from, she knows what it's going to do. She knows what to do about it.

The relationship of brain-sharing between her and the Visitor might have... become even a little bit less one-sided, with the amount of time they've spent like that? Though it doesn't seem to have been good for her coherence of thought.

Her being in her old apartment, and unaware of this, might suggest some kind of time frickery, too. Her claim to have lost her job only a month ago seems questionable on the timeline.

Sybil dreams constantly, when she manages to get some sleep in. She's positively tormented by visions of falling into a well of starlike eyes, and four robed men.

The four Astronomers all get dreams hinting at depictions of the Visitor to offer up to it, ones so evocative that they persuade some very skeptically-minded individuals to go hunting for them in real life. (God knows those dum-dums needed the help to finish the ritual in time, seeing as they all spend two straight weeks standing and pondering in their respective rooms if Sam doesn't get the offerings for them.)

Sam's "go up into the sky" dream at the beginning is probably Sybil's fault as well. It's the same sentiment she's having at the moment he wakes up, that the sky is very pretty and he should go look at it.

Sybil is in a lot of very weird pieces now, but all of them are doing their best to help.

If it ever gets added as an option, I'm immediately ripping her door down and examining this woman with a microscope. There's only so much analysis I can do from behind the wall, y'know?

---

A parting note: I'm open to doing shorter reviews on less broad aspects of the game, if you have something specific in mind. Send me an ask!

[gh0stly-pages]

Out of Our Minds (Part Three)

Ledger! Joker x Harley Quinn-esque f!reader (18+)

CW: swearing, mentions of violence

Words: 4.1k

Chapter Summary: The third session with the Joker, and as you try and delve into the man he is, you can't help the connection you feel. Seems he might feel it too...

previous part: part 2 | next part: part 4

Notes: Hello everyone! Apologies for the wait, took a bit longer because of Halloween, was having too much fun to write. But here we are! This series is def picking up the pace now and soon we will dive into some real chaos lol. Please enjoy :) (I love inputting bits of Arkham dialogue in these because i can >:) )

_____________________________________________

On your way to work, it seems Gotham is in shambles. 

There seems to be some type of announcement going on, by someone from the GPD. You could care less, honestly, especially since you need to get to work before you’re late, but what piques your interest is the crowds of people. There is an obvious rift amongst them. Some of them hold signs displaying the infamous bat symbol, crying out in favor for Batman, it seems, some holding children at their hip who cry for the man they’ve lost. The other half push back against the pro-Batman crowd, yelling things like ‘murderer’ and ‘fraud’. The tension is so thick you can taste it. These people might tear each other apart.

Oh, if only Joker were here to see this. He’d never shut up.

A woman bumps into you, clutching a sign with that bat symbol painted on it, with words beneath it reading ‘come back’. You sneer, and she retreats back to her other Batman groupies. How could anyone get so worked up over a man in a mask? Take the mask off and we’re all messed up inside. Batman had worn the mask of a hero, parading around as Gotham’s salvation, and yet he killed people just like his enemies had. Like Joker had. Except Joker didn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t. 

Mr. Dale may be right about keeping all this from Joker, but you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. He’s going to get out eventually and see all this mess. They can’t hide it from him forever. Even if he’s on house arrest for the rest of his damn life, he’s the Joker, and they won’t be able to stop him. They’re just scared. Scared that the Joker may have won. 

You walk through the city, broken into chaos, all the way to Arkham.

———————————————

This time when you enter Joker’s little conference room, he lacks his usual straitjacket, and you’re both surprised and relieved that your bosses actually listened to you. His asylum garb has been replaced with the usual Arkham patient outfit, an orange baggy shirt with matching orange pants. Immediately, as ashamed as you are, your eyes go to his arms, which are surprisingly lean and toned, probably from numerous fights. You trace his arms down to his hands, each of which have a separate handcuff linked to a man made circle jutting from the table. You look at every crinkle, every callus, every line. Human hands. Dangerous hands.

“Uh, doll, my eyes are up here, ya know.”

Shit. You look up into his eyes as you take your seat, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m… sorry, I was just-“ You try to search for an excuse, but it’s clear from the teasing look Joker gives you that he’s not looking for one. You flush. “I’m surprised they let you out of the jacket.” I’m surprised your hands are so normal. 

“Well, it certainly wasn’t from my good behavior,” he clucks, his tongue hitting the top of his mouth. “Did you ask them to get rid of it?”

You can’t tell if he’s angry or not. “I did.”

He breaks into his signature, manic grin. Not angry. Good. “I knew I liked you, doll.”

Joker doesn’t say ‘thank you’ or ‘I appreciate it’ but somehow, this is better. It’s probably as close as you’ll get to hearing those words from him and it ignites something in you. You feel proud of yourself. Proud that he’s proud of you. Before you can return his smile, you remember ‘hey, wait a fucking second, this is my patient The Joker we’re talking about here’. You settle for a small smile. Be professional. “Mr. J, I wanna start this session off by just saying I think we’re making some good progress-“

“Doctor y/n, you seem to have quite the fascination with my hands,” Joker interrupts, a giggle rising in his throat. 

Dammit. Were you looking at his hands again? You didn’t even fucking notice. You’re not trying to. You’re probably just a little shocked. Again, it’s like pulling back the curtain, getting a glimpse at the man behind the act. And there he sits, with such human looking hands. “Excuse me, I’m just…” You search for the words. “I’m not used to seeing you without being all wrapped in a jacket.”

“Well, ah, they’re just hands. Did ya think I’d have talons?”

“Maybe. Or maybe, like, robotic hands. Rocket launchers for hands. Something cooler.” Are you teasing him? Your patient? You might be teasing him, just a little.

At your teasing, his smile shifts sideways into a smirk, eyes thinning. “Cooler? What’s cool is, ah, what these hands have done. They’ve been the cause of the end of so many lives.” He tries to lace his hands together, but the handcuffs keep his arms too far apart, so his fingers touch only slightly. “Now, ah, where were we?”

You stumble to find the words. So much for professionalism. “R-right, sorry. I think we’re making real progress here. Yesterday was a good session, and I’m hoping today will follow suit.” You bring out your clipboard. Click your pen open. “Now, why don’t we pick up where we left off? We were analyzing your crimes-“

“Spectacles.”

“Whatever you wanna call em’. Now those are only one part of the man you call the Joker-“

“That is, ah, my name, doll face.”

You hold your hand up. “Let me finish. We haven’t talked about you. About this person you present as the Joker. And yes,” you say roughly, before he can cut you off again, “I know you say that you and this character you present are one in the same, but nobody is exactly the person they put out. I mean, you did say we all hide behind a facade. So, let’s talk about Joker, the one we see on TV getting the best of Batman.” You scribble a little picture of him, smiling wide and in his signature purple suit. Jutting your chin, you gestured for him to look at it. “This will be the outside Joker…” You do another little doodle, one of Joker without his makeup and in the Arkham garb. “And this will be the you in here.”

The Joker looks down at your drawings and bites the inside of his cheek. “Not much of a difference, doll face, except that I look even crappier in here.”

You roll your eyes. “Are you proud of the person that Gotham has come to know?”

“Define proud.”

“Do you feel a sense of satisfaction over the person you allow Gotham to see? This crazy clown figure?”

Joker tilts his head back, thinking, and you can’t help but stare intensely at his neck, tracing down his throat to his Adam’s apple, which moves as he swallows. Geez, what is up with you and the staring today? Luckily, he doesn’t think for long, tilting his head back down to look at you. “I’m just fine with whatever I showed to Gotham. And I don’t regret-tah one bit of it.” Looking all smug, he smirks. “I’m not proud of who I am, I relish it. Bask in it. The Clown Prince of Crime, they call me! Nothin’ better than that, doll. Means I’ve made a difference.”

“You’ve certainly made an impact, Mr. J. For better or for worse.”

“And whaddya get out of all that, doll? That I’m some kind of egotistical maniac?”

“Let me do the analyzing, please, Mr. J.”

He grunts. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but smile. “You say you’re proud, but clearly it’s not enough,” you tell him, scribbling notes underneath the doodle of him. “When you get out of here, you’d like to go back to all that, wouldn’t you? Go back to testing the B-Man?”

“Batsy and I just fit so well together, dolly. We’re meant to chase one another to the end of our days!”

If you can find him. “All the stuff you pulled then, did it really amount to anything if you want more?”

“Oh, doll, it’s not that I want more. I’m not just some kinda freak gettin’ a good fix when I cause havoc. My point just keeps needing to be made!” He winks at you. “Course, I know that if I get out of here I’ll have to behave.”

You seriously doubt Joker even knows the concept of behaving. “B-Man would just get you again, would he not?”

Joker cackles. He laughs at everything but you’re always confused when he laughs at something you don’t find remotely humorous. “That’s the fun part! He and I, we’re like a cat and mouse, like in those old cartoons. We’re just chasing each other in damn circles and, ah, the fun doesn’t-tah stop until one of us falls.” With a cruel smile, he flicks his fingers, as if toppling something over. “And I don’t intend to be the first to fall.”

“And after B-Man falls?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, I suppose. Doesn’t sound very fun. Why, you got a soft spot for the Bat?”

“For Batsy?” Technically, you’re not supposed to be very vocal in your own opinions, especially when they do nothing to help, but wouldn’t it be good for Joker to know you’re with him on some things? Not that Joker has too much disdain in Batman, he clearly loves to mess with him, but obviously the two are on very different sides. You want to show Joker you stand with him. “Absolutely not. The Bat hasn’t done anything to benefit me. If anything I feel more… useless. This man in a mask gets to go around fighting criminals and gets praised and here I am busting my butt everyday and what do I get? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” You clap a hand over your mouth. Way to go overboard. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

The Joker, of course, doesn’t care that you rambled on. He looks amused. No, not just amused, he looks pleased. His whole face contorts into an evil grin. “Well well well, doll face, nowwww we’re talking. Why didn’t you tell me you loathed the Batman so much?”

“Didn’t think it important.”

“Well, ah, I find it important. Looks like we wanna both go after the Batman, don’t we?”

“Go after him?” Now it’s your turn to laugh. “Obviously I’m not going to do that.”

He scooches forward. “But you’d like to. Come on, doll, given the chance, wouldn’t you wanna, ah, take the Bat down?”

For some reason, you actually think about it. If you really did have the chance, would you want to bring down the Bat? He was already down now, obviously, but if you had had the chance before then, would you have taken B-Man down? Before you can even dive into it, you snap yourself out of it. Why would you even care to do all that in the first place? Imagine you, beating up Batman? You’re not crazy. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Joker shrugs. “That isn’t a no.”

Things are going far from where you need them to be. “Let’s take this conversation back to you, Mr. J. How about we talk about the Joker in here? Nothing left for you to do except sit and think. You’re not out causing havoc, you’ve been stripped of your weapons and your makeup, what do you feel about yourself now?”

Already, you can tell the Joker isn’t too fond of the question. He squirms uncomfortably in his chair, muttering things under his breath that all sound nonsensical to you. For some reason, you kinda like it. It’s about time you get under his skin too.  “I feel like I wanna hurt someone,” he answers, clenching his fists. “I just wanna get out there and get back to everything.”

“Okay… see, you’re angry at being in here, and you don’t know how to handle your emotions so you’re resorting to violence.” As much as that’s probably true, you’re almost sure that if you were stuck in Arkham, you’d wanna hurt a few people too but that won’t help.

“Violence solves a lot more problems than ya think.”

“Not mental ones. I think I’m seeing what’s going on here, Mr. J.”

Joker taps on the table, a random pattern of noise. “And that is?”

You point with your pen between the two Joker sketches. “Both these people have unresolved problems, problems coped with by violence. Plenty of people do this, but they don’t go around trying to make their points to the whole damn city. These huge acts of violence are outcries and you don’t even realize it. You have no one to turn to to sort your feelings out with and this is what the outcome is.” You look back up at him, and it’s clear he’s confused. “I told you at our last session, you need company. Someone you can relate to, empathize with, talk through these feelings with.”

He frowns. “And what about you, huh? You’re, ah, just as alone as me, not a soul to talk to, and yet you’re not blowing up hospitals.”

Will he ever quit trying to analyze you? “I have other means of coping, Mr. J. Whatever happened to you… it made you hurt. And this hurt, it turned you away from people, even though we need companionship. We seek attention and validation and yet I fear you’re seeking it in all the wrong ways.”

“Who says we need companionship?”

“Human nature. Our hearts. Your mental state,” you say harshly.

His tongue pushes out his scar as he licks the inside of his cheek. “Feistyyy. I like it when you’re all, ah, riled up.”

Joker was really pushing your buttons now, and it was worse that no matter how upset you got at him, he’d find some kind of enjoyment in it. You really couldn’t win some of the battles he put you up against. Yet, the purr in his voice made your cheeks heat. You could never tell when to be angered or enamored. “I really do think that whatever happened in your childhood resulted in your detachment from emotion, and a distrust in people, and this mix of the two… well, it hasn’t been the best for you.”

“So, whaddya suggest? I go mingle with some of the other Arkham patients? Spend some quality time together finger painting and singing Christmas carols?” His laugh comes out as a sharp exhale. “I don’t think friendship is gonna fix me, doll.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest any of that,” you assert. “I just think that isolating ourselves from not just people but also feelings, now that doesn’t get us anywhere good.”

“Clearly,” he giggles, lifting up his cuffed wrists. “But I’ve been doing just fine, doll, aside from this little incident of being locked up in here.”

It was like the Joker just considered Arkham some bump in the road before he could continue his anarchy. That wasn’t good. He couldn’t have his heart set on going back to taking down Batman, no matter how good his reason. Especially considering, well, Batman was nowhere to be seen. Gosh, you wish you could just tell him. Maybe he wouldn’t see it as motivation, maybe it would shut down all his ideas. There was just far too much risk with everything. Say something, say nothing. The Joker was a lot of uncertainties. “But you shouldn’t have to be locked up in here. You don’t have to be if you just try and listen to me. I really want you to get better.”

“I don’t need to get better,” he growls. “The way other people feel, it’s just a soft spot for others to exploit. I’m already winning because nobody has anything on me. Chaos stirs something inside me, isn’t that enough?”

“No, Mr. J, you need more than that,” you plead. Why is he so stubborn? “Just a little company can do wonders. Just some faith in someone.”

“So they can do what? Push me down on my knees like some kind of sinner, making me beg for forgiveness? Making me change my ways? You really are crazy if you believe that.”

Joker is impossible, really. You don’t know how else to get your message across, how to make him listen. So instead, you think back on your deal, take a deep breath, and give him a story.

“When I was ten years old, the kids at school all decided they hated me so much that they all pretended I didn’t exist. I’d try and approach people and… and they never even acknowledged me. It followed me all throughout the rest of my school years.” You mess with your coat, fidgeting with the buttons, not quite able to meet Joker’s gaze. “I know how it feels when people hurt you.”

You wait, wondering if the Joker will give you a story back. You’re surprised when he opens his mouth to speak. “Once, ah, when I was just starting out, one of the criminals I hired managed to sneak up on me, knocked me to the floor real good. Kept babblin’ on about how I was a freak, how I’d never amount to anything, the heel of his boot digging into my back.” He stops, taking a deep breath, and you wonder for a moment if he’s going to stop all together but he continues. “Course, with all his ramblin’, he failed to notice me grabbing a blade. I stabbed him right in the foot, and oh boy, did he scream. I gave him the nastiest beating of his life, I’m sure. Blood all over the floor. And right before I was done, I made sure to give him and I matching smiles. Die with a smile, no?” Joker holds his chin up. “I don’t need people. People don’t care.”

It’s only a single story yet you realize the Joker has so much behind him. So many incidents that seemed to have fueled the thunderous rage beneath his skin. This man, finding humor in the wickedness of the world, wanting to show that everyone is essentially just as rotten as he, has been torn apart over and over again. Society had crushed the both of you yet here you sat, a doctor, and there he sat before you, a madman. In your anger towards the world, you had sought to try and help it, and in his anger, he wanted to burn it all down. You still had hope left in people, he had let that all die away.

He said people didn’t care, but you cared. This was more than just a way towards a paycheck, you really did want to help him. That’s what you’d always wanted for every Arkham patient. Yet the others did not quite distrust people as much as Joker did. Joker didn’t have anyone for him. How was it that Batman, a murderer playing superhero, still had half the city on his side and yet everyone just wanted Joker to rot away in here? You think about yourself, and how much better you would feel if you did have someone, if you had been given love and support along your miserable journey. If you could give Joker the support you’d always wanted, well, maybe that would change something in him.

“We’re both pretty messed up, huh?” you finally say, deciding not to comment on anything specifically about Joker’s anecdote. No need to keep talking about something so horrific. Joker didn’t need that. He needed comfort. 

Joker blows air from his nose, smiling softly. “We are, aren’t we? Just a buncha freaks.”

“Freaks still need to stick with other freaks.”

“And who have you got exactly, Miss l/n?”

You freeze. Nobody. Absolutely nobody. He knows it. Yet for a moment you feel… well, embarrassed. Your hand creeps to your warming face, your eyes feel suddenly watery. You don’t have your parents anymore. No old friends from school or college, not that there were many to begin with. No coworker friends, shitty bosses. All you have is yourself and you hate it. 

Joker seems to notice that his comment didn’t go down well, and he holds up his hands like he’s gesturing for you to stop, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Uh, doll, I didn’t mean to pry…”

“No, no, it’s fine…” You quickly wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Just wasn’t expecting the question, I guess.”

“Right,” he mumbles. “It wasn’t, uh, meant to be an insult.”

You let your eyes flutter close for a second and take a nice, long breath in. When your eyes open again, you straighten yourself out, contemplating your next words. “I know how it feels to be alone, Mr. J. More than anything.” Your voice comes out as a whisper, your fingers drifting towards his own, which are splayed out on the table. He sits up very still, unmoving save for a twitch in his jaw, as he watches you place your hand on top of his. You’re not sure what you’re doing, but you need your point made. “I… I know how much you think you don’t need people, but people offer support and guidance, and if I could have some of that right now, for fucks sake, I would.” You sigh. “I don’t have a lot of friends.”

Joker’s tongue slowly traces along his chapped lips. You wish you knew what he was thinking. You hated how well he read you and you could hardly get anything on him. Finally, he speaks. “Well, you got one now.”

The Joker, a friend. It sounds like the stupidest thing in the entire world. This was someone who had hurt and killed and destroyed. Someone who was close to no one, the people around him with one purpose: to serve him. He had said how loyalty didn’t come for free, that it needed to be bought. If something so simple as loyalty was seen as a transaction to him, did he even comprehend the concept of companionship? He must have, at some point, whoever the man before the Joker was. But the person you were dealing with was not that man, you were dealing with Joker. Joker did not seem a man who connected with anyone yet he tells you how alike the two of you are, and you can’t help but believe it. Alone in the world, the two of you. Maybe he can’t yet bring himself to make a real connection with anyone but, goddammit, you wanted him to try.

Why not be alone together?

It would all be in hopes of helping him, you told yourself. Whatever relationship the two of you were forming. If he could have someone to talk to, not just in a professional sense, but someone who would really be there for him, you think that would help a lot.

That’s all this is. This is to help him.

You squeeze his hand. “I like the sound of that, Mr. J.”

—————

It started off as a joke, really. 

Joker didn’t want to be analyzed. The first night he had been brought into Arkham, he had been poked and prodded, as doctors tried to decipher what kinda pills to stuff him full of. Joker had tried to fight them off, but they had injected him with something that made him sluggish. Just a few hours later was when they had sent in all the psychiatrists to try and fix him. Joker didn’t need to be fixed. He was an agent of chaos, a force to be reckoned with, something they just couldn’t comprehend. Then you’d come along, and you were so lonely, and Joker liked toying with things that were easy to break. Except you’re nothing like the others. There’s something about you, this way that you interact with him, the way you don’t see him as some freak. When you stare at him, you don’t look at him like he’s a monster. It’s strange.

Joker doesn’t do friends. The term itself means nothing to him. It’s a meaningless word. Most words are meaningless to him, empty sayings. Yet when you look at him with those eyes, like he’s your equal rather than beneath you, Joker does feel something. Some kind of connection. He’s never thought about killing you, which says something. It’s the only way he can describe this feeling towards you, something other than the pure disdain he usually feels towards others. There is something… warm about you. Joker didn’t like it. Yet he let it happen anyways.

Long after you’re gone, when he’s strapped onto the metal slab the Arkham guards call a bed, he thinks on some of your words. You thought a companion would help him. Someone he could rely on. Someone who would truly be loyal.

He smiles wickedly to himself. You might just be right.

Taglist: @lightsabergirl / @knoepfl / @jeffswh0re / @itsmrshamilton / @heath-ledger-jokers-wife / @lolwey

Lmk if you'd like to be added! Hope the @'s are working lol...

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Your Touch Builds a Bonfire - A John Shelby/Reader One Shot Story.

Just a bit of John smut for my lovelies on this cold Saturday night! Enjoy, darlings :)

Words - 1,810

Warnings - Spicy smut below the cut, minors DNI!

The way he twirls a pencil between his fingers, watching how the phalanges bend so effortlessly has you in a trance. How he makes a teacup look so small in his grasp. How the veins in the back of his hands bulge when he flexes a hand in his hair, usually when something has frustrated him to the point of anger.  

When he notices you watching, though, that fiery temper of his never fails to cool.  

He knows how much you desire him. He sees it, he’s been waiting for you to make a move, seeing how far he can go in pushing you with little instances of tease. He always finds some way to lightly touch you, whether emphasising a point, sweeping a stray few strands of hair behind your ear, or brushing fallen eyelashes from your cheek, he finds a way.  

You want his hands on you in much finer detail, though. It’s only because he’s your boss and you’re scared to lose your job that you haven’t acted upon it, just in case you’re wrong. It makes you tingle to the tips of your ears, imagining giving him the come on only for him to stare at you incredulously and state that you are mistaken over his intentions.  

Leaving your daydream behind, you turn your attention back to the typewriter ahead of you, the chaos of the bookmaker's offices soon beginning to swirl as the races kick off at various locations around the country. By the end of the day, the final race leaving the men cleared from the space to go and either celebrate or commiserate their wins or losses at the local boozer, you are still at your typewriter, John across the space at his desk, scribbling in the ledger.  

You see him exit his seat without a word, leaving the room, your fingers tapping the final letters upon the page you need his signature upon, pulling it from the typewriter and gently shaking it to dry the ink. Placing it down, you see an arm reach over your shoulder, a whiskey placed upon your desk.  

“Worked hard today, you did,” he speaks, nodding to the glass as you turn to look up at him. “I ain’t in the mood for the pub, but I am in the mood for a few drinks with my favourite.”  

He winks, and heat prickles your cheeks, busying yourself with picking up the drink and taking a big sip, attempting to bolster your confidence a little. It’s what you want, but oh! How the man makes you nervous!  

He’s too gorgeous for his own bloody good.  

“Well, since your other favourite was disappointing today, I can scarcely blame you.”  

He grins, chuckling into his glass. “Yeah, you’re much less trouble than a thoroughbred with the desire to throw his fucking jockey.” He shakes his head, sinking the rest of his drink. “Bloody animal.” He reaches for the bottle he brought with him, refilling his glass, topping yours off too. “You’re still trouble, though.”  

Your face mirrors the confusion his statement makes you feel. “I am?” 

“Oh ar, love. Definitely.”  

Your heart hammers with nervous excitement, taking a long sip of the whiskey before replying. “Why is that?”   

“Because short of diving on you, I dunno what the fuck else I’m meant to do to show you how much I want to take you to bed. If we even got that far. Believe me, I want you so badly, I’d settle for tearing off all your clothes and bouncing you on my cock while sitting in a chair down here.”  

Oh god. There they are, his intentions, delivered with every ounce of cocky confidence you should have known would leak out eventually after his tentative flirtations thus far. John Shelby can only be gentlemanly for so long, though.  

It’s time to cease the wallflower routine.  

Standing up, you don’t take your eyes off him for a long, long moment, the weight of your mutual stare enough to crack the floor below as you gesture to the seat you rose from. “I think we were the wrong way round for that to happen.”  

His mouth curls into a smirk, finishing his drink and placing the glass down, seating himself. You move to him, excitement whizzing through your tummy, gathering the soft material of your summer dress and beginning to hitch it up, John’s hands reaching for you, running up your bare legs as you manoeuvre astride him, sitting upon his thighs.  

The feeling of his hands, hands you have fantasised about for so long finally running over your skin, gripping your hips as he pulls you closer to him causes little darts of warmth to flicker through you, the heat of his hardening cock right against your apex making you tingle with want. His lips press kisses across your chest, hands moving to cup your breasts, tongue running over the half-moon of each soft orb escaping the top of your dress, his soft groan hungry, fingers moving to lower the zip.  

The fabric pools in his grasp as the dress falls from your shoulders, his lips placing ascending kisses to your neck before your mouths finally meet, an exchange of filthy, blazing, hungry need, your heart somersaulting in your chest. His mouth is so ravenous upon you, it knocks you sideways, the urgency of his desire for you, hands clasping at your back, removing your bra will easy skill, like he’s done it a hundred times before.  

He probably has.  

You feel in nothing short of a hundred percent capable, knowledgeable hands, his mouth moving to suck upon your nipple, your head tipping back as you grind yourself against his hard cock, his teeth prickling in bite upon the pebbled bud in response to that. “Fuck, these are some fucking beautiful tits.” His breath flutters hot against you, summer breezing through a spring chill, warming you to your bones, his tongue running slowly from between your breasts and back to your mouth.  

Unbuttoning his waistcoat, your hands slide beneath his braces, levering them from his shoulders, unknotting his tie and unbuttoning his crisp, white shirt, thirsting to feel the skin that lies beneath pressing against yours. His shirt flutters to the floor, his arms tightening around them as your touch tours lithe muscles encased in pale, golden freckled flesh. His hand trails down your body, reaching the cotton of your undies, the fabric dampened by your want for him.  

Pushing you back, he moves you to your feet, pupils blown with lust, gripping those soaking undies and tugging them down. Shuffling the chair forward, he lifts your leg over his shoulder, scattering kisses up your inner thigh, the anticipation making you pant, a soft gasp fluttering over your lips as his mouth meets your folds.  

A hot lick rolls through the wet of you, the light fleck of stubble adding in delicious contrast, his tongue seeking your clit and circling, flickering, evoking your wails, your hands going to his hair, nails flexing against the shaven sides of his head as you mewl in delight. Each lick has your blood running hot, sends glimmers through you, little shocks of pleasure tingling your entire core as your cries rend the air.  

He has you panting hard, each skim of his tongue over your tiny, potent little bundle making your hips rock against his mouth, his arms wound around you, one gripped to your waist, the other squeezing upon the rounded orb of your bum. His full lips close in suck around you, your legs shaking, the heat of it snapping over your bones, the pleasure biting and full-bodied, a bright burn of warmth making the coil within you tighten sharply.  

Flattening his tongue against you, he lets you get off on the wide drag of it, the tip caressing your dewy opening as your clit throbs against the press, his hand moving to begin undoing his trousers.  

“I could fucking eat your beautiful little cunt forever, darlin’, but god, I need you on my cock.” You’re so aroused, you can barely form thought as he pulls it out, and it’s thick and perfect, running it through the slick petals of your sex as you sit back astride him before feeding it into your gaping little hole, filling you with a rumbling grunt.  

White hot pleasure sizzles up your spine, ascending like a flurry of champagne bubbles, the taste of yourself upon his sensuous mouth more erotic than you could have ever imagined, moaning against his tongue as your rock back and forth upon him. The sensations of your walls being split so wide around him has bolts of pure bliss skittering through you, your tender little clit grinding against him as his hips buck up against you, pushing you back to devour your breasts with kisses, nibbles and licks.  

The way his hands tour you, stroking ever rise and curve of your body, it has you just as mindless as the delicious drag of his cock over every sweet spot within you, scraping sparks through your walls, his groans deep and rich as he paws at you with unrelenting hunger. The heat of it roars like a forest fire, the embers sizzling over your nerves as your mutual moans fill the space, bliss tumbling through you both. It’s fervid and delicious, scorching and unrelenting, everything you knew sex with John would be now playing out in an illumination of utter sin.  

His eyes are a bonfire of blue fire as he stares at you, fingers tangling in your hair, kissing you again with urgent need as his cock sends glimmers fizzing through you. It becomes even more uncontained, the power of him beneath you incredible, hands tightening upon your shoulders as he forces you down upon the rigidity of him, making you to take the brunt of every hard snap of his hips, hitting you so deep, you’re sent reeling and mindless atop him as your thighs tremble.  

Your cries reach crescendo as the stars surge forth, entire nebulas glittering into decadent light, your walls fluttering around him, dragging his release from his sweaty body, cock spilling hot into you. You’re both rendered an entwined, panting mess in the wake of it, kissing softly, hands still roaming, John beginning to chuckle.  

“Yeah,” he breathes, nuzzling your nose, “definitely the least troublesome favourite of the day.”  

You beam, your chest still heaving hard. “Want to take me upstairs and see if I can change that?” Your tongue teases the outer shell of his ear, gently nibbling the soft lobe. “I promise not to buck the jockey off.”  

He laughs loudly, locking his arms around you and carrying you to the stairs, his hand smacking against your bum a few times causing your shrieking laughter. “I suppose it’d be fun if you tried to, love.”  

[rita-repulsa-ke]

Death and the Black Widow

“Come see,” Death says, turning away, toward a well-lit path and the mists beyond.

“No,” Natasha says. She’s not going anywhere with anyone, not without more information. She sinks her weight into the ground, watches the ominous being in front of her slowly rotate to try and stare her down.

Natasha has fought gods and monsters. She doesn't flinch in the face of Death.

Natasha dies, and Death is waiting.

Natasha Romanoff is falling.

There’s peace in falling. There’s peace in ending. She’s finally cleared the red off her ledger. She can rest. The life that flashes before her eyes mostly isn’t worth reliving, but she grabs for the good parts. She saved the world a few times, that’s got to be worth something. She was part of a team of good people, some of them too good, she worries what will become of them. In her experience, the world doesn't have much room for good people.

She’s glad she met them, though. She’s proud she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with heroes. She's become someone who can face herself in the mirror. She isn't afraid to die.

Natasha Romanoff falls. She doesn’t remember hitting the ground.

“Hi,” the stranger says.

Natasha assesses her on instinct. Five foot six, wearing ornate green robes and some kind of headdress. Pretty.

Not even a little human. Not breathing, barely blinking, watching her complete her assessment with mild curiosity.

“You know, I always assumed nothing happened after you died,” Natasha tells the stranger, coming instantly to the correct conclusion. “That it all went black. Actually, I think I found that comforting.” Maybe she should have asked Stephen, he might have known. She's missed her window now.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Death says. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

It always is. Life always has been, she shouldn't have expected death to be any different. "What happens next?”

“Come see,” Death says, turning away, toward a well-lit path and the mists beyond.

“No,” Natasha says. She’s not going anywhere with anyone, not without more information. She sinks her weight into the ground, watches the ominous being in front of her slowly rotate to try and stare her down.

Natasha has fought gods and monsters. She doesn't flinch in the face of Death.

“Ugh. I hate the stubborn ones,” Death complains. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“The answer to my question. What happens next?”

”What do you want to have happen next? Do you want it all to end in darkness?”

She thinks about that. Once, she would have been glad to simply stop. The business of living, as a spy and assassin, had been a bloody one. She had lived anyway, simply because she was too good to die.

It’s different now. She’s seen that life can be better, that the Red Room that shaped and warped her so she never quite fit into the world wasn’t how things had to be.

“I want to try again,” she says. “I want to be reborn.”

“You sure? You won’t remember anything. And there could be a paradise on the other side of that veil.”

Maybe she should ask more questions, but Natasha is used to making decisions on incomplete information and making hard choices, for herself and others. And she doesn't want paradise yet, if it exists at all. She can't imagine it and maybe she still doesn't feel quite worthy of it.

Instead, she wants something much simpler.

"I'm sure,” she says. “…I assume I don't get to pick, but it would be nice if…”

“It was better than last time?” Death suggests.

Natasha shakes her head. That’s too much to ask for and anyway, better is subjective. She’s saved the world, she’s befriended amazing people, she wouldn’t trade this life for anything, and she could only do that because of who and what she was. She's not sorry she got to be the Black Widow.

But for the next life—even thinking it is hard, much less saying it. Her whole life has been about guarding herself, never being vulnerable. Asking for things from supernatural beings is definitely vulnerable.

It’s her last chance, though. Might as well go big.

“Maybe just the beginning?” she asks.

“…Sure,” Death says after a moment, a strange, sad smile playing across her lips. ”That can be arranged."

Natasha is just going to have to trust her. That goes against her nature, she doesn't trust anyone, but she's got no choice. Death is holding all the cards. She extends her hand. "Take me, then."

Rio Vidal, Death incarnate, takes the hand of the Black Widow and walks with her beyond the veil.

In a hospital, a woman strains, holds her wife's hand in a crushing grip, her expression one of mixed joy and agony as the baby, their baby, makes its way into the world.

Rio, invisible, watches the birth, the smiles, the tears, the way the two women tuck close to stare at a tiny, red face.

"There," she murmurs. "That's the best beginning anyone could have."

Then Death is gone and only life remains.

Link to the small collection of Agatha fics I've written

[dirtyvulture]

Dear Diary

*Set in the Darkest Knight AU*

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Mutant!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 4459

Summary: Natasha embraces her new life as an X-Men.

AN: I'm back with a little one shot. :) Enjoy!

December 6, 2023

Dear Diary,

Is that an appropriate way to start one of these? I’ve never kept a diary or a journal before. But Marie gave me this cute little notebook and said writing stuff down helps clear her mind, so I don’t think there’s any harm in giving it a shot. They would never let us have something like this in the Red Room. Too much evidence lying around for someone to stumble upon. Should I put a lock on this? Y/N wouldn’t snoop around to read this, would she? Well, I guess if she is–leave my diary alone, you big dummy!

The professor said the Red Room soldiers and Widows are coming tomorrow. This is all my fault. I’ve put these good people and innocent children in danger. Earlier, we went to help the kids pack their bags and board the buses. I’m not sure if Y/N has any kids of her own (or ever did at all), but I can tell she really cares about them. Although she was not happy with some of the excessive luggage some of them were bringing. No one would tell me where they’re sending the kids, but I overheard Ororo mention something about a private resort they had to buy out.

I still don’t quite understand why these people are willing to sacrifice so much for me. I’m basically a stranger to them. I have nothing to give them in return if they ask. Maybe they’ll finally throw me out when they realize how worthless I am. That’s what I really deserve. Not these warm clothes, the home-cooked meals, and this roof over my head. And I definitely don’t deserve the kindness and care Y/N has shown me. I really like her, but I’m afraid she’ll leave me when she realizes how boring and inexperienced I am. 

Oh, I think she’s coming out of the shower now. I’ll continue this later.

Love,

Nat

***********************************************************************

December 15, 2023

Dear Diary,

It’s weird how life goes back to normal so fast here. The Red Room soldiers and Widows were here not even a week ago, tearing down doors and blasting out windows, and everything is already repaired and the students are back at it like nothing happened.

A lot of them are excited to go back to their homes and families for the holiday. But a lot of them will also be staying at the mansion, because their families won’t accept them or they just don’t have any home to go back to. The professor asked Y/N to help plan some holiday games so the kids staying don’t get too bored or lonely. She’s acting like it’s the dumbest assignment he’s ever given her, but I’ve seen her spending all her free time ordering presents and decorations (with the professor’s credit card, of course), so I know she takes it very seriously and the kids are going to love whatever she comes up with.

I’m really glad I get to spend Christmas here. It’s been a long time since I’ve actually been able to celebrate it with people I love. I feel so welcomed here and no one looks at me like I’m any different, when I come from a past where there’s red all over my ledger. Sometimes I’m surprised anyone even lets me be around these kids alone, but some of them have powers that even make Y/N nervous, and I think they know they can trust me.

It’ll take some more time before I can be fully comfortable here, but it’s really starting to grow on me and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Love,

Nat

***********************************************************************

December 25, 2023

Natasha wakes up alone. She looks around the bedroom, in case you might be on the floor doing push-ups or in the bathroom showering, but the room is completely empty. Her heartbeat picks up as she jumps out of bed, afraid that you’ve left her, when she notices a note on the desk.

Downstairs making breakfast. Come join when you’re up - Y/N

She relaxes immediately, touched how you made sure to let her know in advance where you would be. She quickly washes up and puts on a robe, then hurries downstairs to a chaotic mess of torn gift wrapping, screaming children, and flashing new toys. She steps into the kitchen, where you are wearing a flowered apron and are threatening Marie with a spatula.

“Stop, those aren’t ready–Marie!” You swat at her hands as she swipes for a pancake.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Nat!” Marie says, moving your attention away from her as your girlfriend appears.

“Merry Christmas, Marie.” Natasha gives the girl a hug, not missing the folded pancake in her hand. 

“Merry Christmas, darling,” you say next, waiting for her to come over. “I made a special plate for you. It’s over here so the kids don’t get into it.” You point to a foil-covered plate off to the side of the stove. Natasha goes to investigate, peeling back the foil to find the plate fully-loaded with two different types of pancakes, one next to a little container of jam and honey, and the other still steaming and garnished with flecks of green onion. There’s even a bowl of grainy buckwheat porridge. Her heart soars at the sight of her favorite native breakfast. With a delighted squeal, she throws herself into your arms.

“Thankyou thankyou thankyou,” she choruses, squeezing you tightly as you rub her back.

“You’re welcome, darling.” 

At this point, you shoo everyone out of the kitchen to finish the preparations. Natasha joins Marie in the dining hall, helping set up the plates and silverware. She watches with great curiosity as Kitty tries getting Peter to step under the mistletoe she hung above the doorway, and then is distracted when Jean and Scott come down for breakfast.

“Y/N cooks Christmas breakfast for us every year,” Jean explains to Natasha. “The kids always look forward to it.”

“Hey, Y/N!” Scott yells into the kitchen. “Keep the walnuts away from my food, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Natasha hears you dismissively respond.

“Scott’s allergic,” Jean whispers to her. “Now there’s no proof how, but he ended up with a plateful of them last year and I almost had to take him to the hospital. Needless to say, it was an eventful Christmas.”

Natasha giggles to herself, already having a feeling she knows exactly how those walnuts got on Scott’s plate.

Everyone finds a seat at the table, the empty one next to Natasha reserved for you. You finally emerge from the kitchen, no longer in the flowered apron but one of your classic checkerboard flannels. You’re carrying an impressive tower of pancakes in one hand and a pan filled half and half with bacon and sausage in the other. The students break out in appreciation and applause as Bobby scoots aside some dishes to make room for the last trays.

“Don’t take more than you can finish,” you remind the kids, going around the table to sit next to Natasha and presenting her with her special plate. “And uh, Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and all that other stuff.” You raise your apple cider in a toast and everyone follows your lead.

“Thanks for breakfast, Y/N,” Ororo says, clinking her glass to yours. The students erupt with more thanks before they start reaching for the food, passing around the mountainous plate of pancakes, scooping whole fried eggs onto each other’s plates.

“Thanks again, babe,” Natasha says, putting her hand on your thigh as she leans over to kiss you on the cheek.

“You should try it first before thanking me,” you tease, still not used to all the praise. You were just trying to be a good partner, and it was somewhat of a Christmas tradition for you to cook breakfast for all the students who stayed at the mansion over break. You didn’t mind it at all, in fact you really did enjoy spending time in the kitchen and it made you feel good to take care of others.

Natasha leaves her hand on your knee as she eats, and eventually you put your hand on top of hers comfortingly. Neither of you engage much in conversation as you eat and listen, happy with the company. Once all of the food has been finished, Ororo rounds up the students to help clean everything before they can continue opening presents. 

Kitty gets you a Johnny Cash vinyl record. Marie and Bobby got you a variety pack of exotic flavors of jerky, including alligator, ostrich, and buffalo. Storm gives you and Natasha tickets to a weekend getaway at a Canadian resort. Jean and Scott also throw in a joint gift of a new set of winter bedsheets. You are very thankful for the presents and pile them neatly by your feet, when Natasha pulls out a box and puts it on your lap. Inside is a familiar-looking flannel shirt.

“It’s a brand new one,” Natasha says. “To replace all the ones I steal from your closet,” Natasha says.

“Thanks,” you say, putting your arm around her to pull her closer so you can kiss her cheek. “This one is from me.” You hand her a very small box.

Natasha opens it delicately and gasps when she sees what you’ve given her. It’s a wooden ring, carved a little roughly around the edges  with little turquoise-colored gems pressed into the outside.

“Did you make this?” Natasha asks, running her finger over the gems.

“Uh, yeah.” You’re suddenly nervous that she doesn’t like it. Woodworking was not your finest hobby, despite your decades to fine-tune the skill, but you preferred to build vast structures and furniture. Tiny little pieces of jewelry were extremely difficult to handle, but hopefully it was worth the numerous cuts and splinters you gave yourself. 

Natasha slips it on her right ring finger–a perfect fit. Maybe you needed to give yourself more credit for your handiwork.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, holding her hand up to admire the ring. “I love it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” 

Natasha snuggles closer to you and rests her head on your shoulder while you sit back and watch everyone else finish opening their gifts.

***********************************************************************

The rest of the day is busy but productive. Natasha has never felt happier watching the students competitively decorate gingerbread houses, then go outside and play in the snow. You don’t join in anymore, preferring to watch from the side. You’re already wearing the flannel Natasha got for you and Natasha gazes at you adoringly from afar. Despite the differences the two of you had from time to time, she hasn’t loved another person the way she loves you. But sometimes she worries that you don’t feel the same way. 

You still don’t talk very much, hardly opening up about your past the way Natasha has spilled about hers. Although you seem mostly content at the mansion, Natasha can tell you’re still adjusting to being around so many people. The life of solitude in the cabin in the woods had clearly been more your style, and she feels guilty for dragging you away from that. But as much as she would love to spend all day with you cozied up in a cabin you built with your own hands, it wasn’t a realistic option. Not with all the threats and dangers that could come her way.

Which is why it was so important to Natasha that the Red Room be dealt with, as soon as possible.

She didn’t like how dismissive you got every time she brought it up, but she understood why. You had found your domestic bliss and didn’t want to let it go anytime soon. She wasn’t going to blame you. But she wished you would actually listen to her instead of shutting her down all the time. She would figure out how to broach the topic with you eventually, but today was not that day.

After a quiet dinner, which is basically just warmed up leftovers from breakfast, Natasha finds you sitting by yourself on the couch in front of a dying fire. Most of the students had retired to their rooms, exhausted by the day’s festivities. Natasha sits next to you, leaning her shoulder against yours.

“Hey,” she whispers.

“Hi.” You offer her your hand and she clasps onto it, threading her fingers with yours. You smile when you see the wooden ring on her finger. It looks perfect on her. “Did you have fun today?” you ask. 

“It was the best Christmas I ever had,” she replies. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course.”

Natasha is tired, but there’s still one more thing she wants to do with you. She rests her hand on your thigh, subtly at first, then she slowly starts to stroke your leg, her fingers barely perceptible through your jeans. You ignore her and her movements become bolder, creeping towards the inside of your thigh now and squeezing it lightly.

“Can I help you with something?” you finally ask. Natasha has always been a little more shy when it comes to asking for intimacy with you. But you were patient with her and never pressured her, and that encouraged her to have the confidence to ask if you were in the mood–even if she didn’t always do it with words. 

“Do you want to go upstairs?” she says, leaning forward until her lips almost touch yours. “I still have one more present to give you.”

“Oh, do you now?” you ask, trying to kiss her but she pulls away.

“You have to come upstairs,” she repeats, offering you her hand as she stands up.

“All right, all right.” Your knees creak as you push off the couch, taking Natasha’s hand and following her upstairs. You can hear her heartbeat pounding with excitement or maybe that’s…yours? You hope everyone else has gone to sleep by now, otherwise they wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon.

Back in the privacy of the bedroom, you let Natasha lead you to the bed and you sit down on the edge with her climbing onto your lap. 

“Is this okay?” she asks, her hands locking around the back of your neck.

“Of course,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads touch. Your arms circle her waist to hold her securely in place. Her breath fans over your face and her heartbeat pumps at an almost alarmingly quick rate. 

“I want you,” she says, rocking her hips against your thighs. “I want you to take me.”

“How do you want me?” you ask, before she presses her lips roughly to yours, her fingers digging into your neck. Her arousal spikes and so does yours. You open your mouth when she licks your lips to deepen the kiss. She tastes like vanilla and cookies and you instinctively pull her closer to you, wanting to devour her until the morning.

Natasha grabs the collar of your flannel, pulling apart the top buttons and running her hands down your chest and abs. Your skin burns where she touches you and you nip lightly on her bottom lip when she rests her hands on the buckle of your belt.

“I want to taste you,” you pant, hoping your request doesn’t come across as too greedy. Natasha has to fight down her thrill of excitement at your suggestion, wondering how you knew exactly what she wanted. She doesn’t even take the time to agree with you, instead hurriedly stripping off her clothes to show you how eager she is. You take off the flannel, setting it aside with reverence, then removing your undershirt and jeans. Natasha tackles you back on the bed, your thigh fitting between her legs and you feel the heat from her center rubbing against you.

“You’re so wet for me,” you say, holding her hips again and guiding her up until she’s hovering over your chest. “My good girl.”

“Your good girl,” Natasha reiterates, grabbing onto the headboard for support before she positions herself over your face. The scent of her arousal is almost overwhelming to you, and you waste no time bringing your arms over her thighs to pull her down. Natasha whines when your mouth makes contact with her slick center, your tongue slipping into her and coating with her juices. 

Natasha moans, grinding down so you can enter her deeper. Your arms tighten to prevent her from moving too much; you want to do things at your own pace. Her taste is so intoxicating and addictive, you could lie here forever eating her out. Natasha grips the headboard tighter, struggling to rock against your face for more friction, but you won’t let her. She whines in desperation, the noises music to your ears. Your tongue dips into her again before tracing up to her clit, flicking against it and Natasha grinds down harder on your chin, gasping and moaning. 

“Y/N,” she begs. “Y/N, please.”

You stop, pulling away from her far enough to say, “What do you want, baby?”

“I want you,” she repeats, her voice breaking. “I need you.”

“I know, baby. I got you.” As much as you love teasing her, this is not the time. You knew Natasha could sometimes be insecure about your relationship with her. But you had no regrets in choosing to be with her and loved her so much. You would never miss an opportunity to show her, either.

You loosen your arms around her so she has some freedom to move and Natasha quickly adjusts herself until she’s comfortable. When she settles back down on your face again, you find her clit and wrap your lips around it, rewarded with a long, drawn-out moan. Natasha rolls her hips to help you find a good rhythm. You feel her thighs tremble and more of her slick spills onto your tongue. 

“Oh, god. Oh fuck, Y/N,” she whimpers, the headboard flexing dangerously from how hard she’s holding onto it. 

Your stomach practically burns from how aroused you are with Natasha riding your face, and you’re hoping she’ll help you relieve some of the tension once you make her finish. You’ve held out as long as you could, and you can tell Natasha is ready to fall over the edge. Your tongue rests on her clit again, swiping upwards in a straight line, then dragging down at a diagonal angle, then going back up.

N.

Your tongue moves in an inverted V next, drawing an imaginary bar between them.

A.

You lick down her clit once more, then swipe perpendicular.

T.

Natasha is panting and shaking, completely unaware that you’re trying to spell her name on her with your tongue. One of her hands has left the headboard and is holding tightly onto your hair in an attempt to guide you, but your own plan is already in action.

She doesn’t make it the next A, her back arching and thighs clamping around your head as she finally cums. You don’t let a drop of it go to waste, lapping at her sensitive folds until she’s whimpering and trying to pull your head away. Natasha lifts herself off your face with a contented sigh, turning herself away from the headboard now, but you’re not quite done with her yet.

You pull her back down on your face and she falls forward with her hands on your chest. 

“Did I say you could go anywhere?” you grumble playfully. 

“Y/N,” Natasha giggles. 

“Can I have one more, darling?” you ask, and she responds by sitting back on your face. But now Natasha is the one with other ideas, as she eyes the veins on your flexing abdomen that disappear behind the band of your underwear. You feel her hands run across your stomach and your breath hitches when she tugs down your underwear.

“Nat, what are you–oh, shit.” Now it’s your turn to gasp and moan when Natasha leans over and places her mouth on your dripping center. You completely lose focus of what you were doing, instinctively spreading your legs open further to give her better access. “Fuck baby, oh fuck,” you whine, your head dropping back on the pillow.

“Did I say you could stop?” Natasha teases, turning your own words back against you. It takes a monumental effort, but you calm yourself enough to put your mouth to work again. Natasha almost soaks herself when she realizes how turned on you’ve gotten just from eating her out. Now she has only one mission in mind: make you cum before she does a second time. But you’re refusing to make it easy for her, and Natasha is already dangerously close despite having finished mere minutes ago. She knows she has to hurry, but judging from the tremble in your thighs, you’re closer than you’re letting on.

Natasha’s tongue circles your clit and she can feel you panting against her, your own efforts faltering in their rhythm. She pushes back against your face to remind you of what you promised her. Your fingers dig into the curve of her ass and you feel her breasts rubbing against your abs. Her mouth is so hot and wet and perfect on you, making you lose your breath every time her tongue touches you.

“Fuck, Nat,” you whimper, feeling like you’re losing control of yourself. You’re not even sure if what you’re doing to her anymore is working because all you can think about is the throbbing in your lower stomach that begs to be released. Your back arches off the bed when her tongue lashes at your clit and she struggles and fails to push down on your thighs to keep you grounded. “Nat, I can’t,” you warn, a little embarrassed at how fast you’re ready to release. 

“It’s okay,” you hear Natasha say, “Cum for me, baby.” 

White floods your vision and all the muscles in your body tighten as you spill into her mouth, a moan catching in your throat. Your head spins in a rush of endorphins and you’re practically convulsing underneath Natasha when you finally come down from your high. She purrs in delight at her success, gently squeezing at your thighs. And as much as you want to flip her around and press her head against your chest, you still do owe her.

Natasha’s second orgasm is a little more subdued but just as pleasurable. She bites the inside of your thigh to quiet the noise of her moan and you almost cum again. But once she finds the strength to move, Natasha crawls back up to you, nuzzling the side of your head and kissing you. Normally, you could go several rounds without even stopping for a break, but you’re unusually exhausted today. Maybe it was from waking up at four o’clock to work on breakfast for everyone or making sure that the Christmas activities throughout the day ran smoothly. 

Natasha rests her head on your chest, listening to your steady heartbeat and you rub her shoulder, tilting your head down to breathe in the faded scent of her shampoo. 

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” she whispers.

“Merry Christmas, darling.”

***********************************************************************

January 2, 2024

Dear Diary,

Professor Xavier called me personally to his office today. I was really nervous that I was in trouble for something. I’m still not sure how I feel about his mind-reading thing. I try to keep my thoughts in check when he’s around, but I think that makes it seem like I’m hiding something. But other than that, he’s only ever been polite and respectful to me, and I can tell Y/N really looks up to him as a mentor and father figure.

He told me he has a lead on where the Red Room could be and asked if I still want to pursue them. Of course I do, but I know Y/N isn’t happy about it. I thought she would understand more. I know she’s got her own past that she hasn’t told me the entirety of yet (not that she’s required to), but she’s told a few stories so I know her situation is similar enough to mine. I wish she was more supportive instead of trying to talk me out of it, but I know she’s worried too. She doesn’t want me rushing back into danger and I totally get that. But I just…I can’t stay here and be cared for and protected and loved when there are so many of my sisters still being held against their will and forced into doing horrible things.

Luckily, the professor seems more understanding of things. But I don’t want him or anyone else here risking their lives for me. If I have to go alone, I will. I don’t know if I can do it alone, though. I’m sure Y/N will insist on tagging along no matter what. I just hope she doesn’t get too grumpy about the whole thing.

Love,

Nat

***********************************************************************

January 4, 2024

Dear Diary,

I still haven’t told Y/N what the professor told me 2 days ago (assuming she hasn’t already gone through my diary and read about it here). I tried to mention it after dinner, but I could tell as soon as I let the “R” word slip she was not paying attention to the conversation anymore. I don’t want my frustration to build up, so I’ll probably have to be straightforward about it, which isn’t easy.

I know the professor can hear all of my thoughts, so I wonder if he’s going to get tired of them and just talk to Y/N himself. But probably not. This is my problem to handle. I’ll find the courage somehow to deal with it. 

I just hope it doesn’t cause Y/N to look down on me for this. I’m already nervous that I’m constantly annoying her, and if she gets fed up enough and kicks me out I will literally have nowhere to go and at that point, I’d welcome back the Red Room with open arms. That probably seems a little dramatic, but I really don’t want to risk losing the best person that ever came into my life. I have Y/N to thank for everything I have here, and I think most people in my position would call me crazy for trying to make any changes to my situation. 

But I’m not like most people. And I have to do what I think is right, even if others try to stop me. 

I’ll bring it up to Y/N later again. Maybe if I catch her in a good mood she’ll be more receptive to the idea. Wishing luck to my future self.

Love,

Nat

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

AN: Please leave likes, comments, and reblog! Follow for more content. 🥰

Multipart sequel in the works!

[baruque-ya]

I'm Scared

CW: Internalized homophobia, Homophobia (mentioned), Hidden relationship, Mafia themes, Slowburn, Angst, Emotional vulnerability, Emotional repression, Power imbalance + protection dynamics, Slight mention of Smut, Kissing, Fluff, Soft Michael.

TW: Subtle violence mention (optional, depending on if you feel Michael's threat carries that weight) MDNI! Please.

Characters: Michael Corleone from Godfather I.

Male!Reader.

A/n: Here's this chapter of Michael Corleone with a male reader. In some people's minds, he probably wouldn't even look at a man with ulterior motives, but he has a face that man....He would definitely get involved with a guy, even if it was in secret, and if there is any writing error, please forgive me!

Summary:

He is Don Corleone. You don’t touch him, question him, or love him, at least not in public. But "You"? You stayed. Quiet. Loyal. Too loyal.

There are whispers. Eyes that linger too long. And a study full of silence where Michael finally says what they’ve both kept buried for too long.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Michael’s silhouette fills the doorway, broad shoulders in a charcoal suit, tie loosened after another late meeting.

He steps into the study, the hush swallowing his footsteps.

You look at the desk, eyes fixed on the half-empty glass of scotch.

"I need to talk to you, something important" You draws in a slow breath, voice barely above a whisper.

Michael’s gaze narrows. He crosses the room in calm, silent strides and sets his glass down with a soft thud.

"What do you want to talk about?" He asked in a low voice.

You glances up, jaw working as you tries to steady yourself.

"There's something I've been feeling for a while, at first I thought it was just overwork, but even on quiet nights in my room, I have this feeling"

Michael steps closer, the lamplight carving sharp lines across his face. His fingers hover above the desk, still as statues.

"And what do you feel?"

Your shoulders slump. You closes your eyes, voice cracking on the next words.

"I'm scared" Your voice comes out soft and low with a hint of fear.

"Why scared?"

Michael sat behind the great mahogany desk in his study, the hush of midnight heavy around him. He wore his dark suit without a cravat, sleeves unrolled neatly to his wrists. His face was a mask of calm, imperious, unreadable.

The glow from the lone desk lamp cut through the gloom, sharpening the angles of his jaw and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He was tired, exhausted maybe, but he never let it show.

You stood beside the door, arms crossed over a crisp shirt that strained at the shoulders. The faint moonlight revealed a tremor in your hands. You pressed your lips together and cleared your throat. This was never easy. In Michael’s world, nothing ever was.

Michael watched you for a moment, silent. He studied you the way a general studies a map: every line, every shadow. There was strength here, yes, but also something vulnerable, something that pulsed beneath the surface. When you finally spoke, your voice was low.

"I…I heard things" you said. "People talk."

"What do they say?" Michael’s eyes flicked up, cool and precise.

You swallowed and glanced at the heavy drapes, at the portraits of Corleone family members on the walls. In this room, everything spoke of power and legacy. Yet you were afraid.

"They wonder about you and me. They whisper that I’m…not like the others."

"Not like the others?" Michael’s hand hovered over a folder of business ledgers. He tapped it once.

Your shoulders stiffened.

"They suspect I’m homosexual” You forced out a bitter laugh. "Maybe more than suspected."

"Suspicion is a dangerous thing." Michael leaned back, folding his hands. His expression remained neutral, but his voice bore the slightest edge.

"I don’t want trouble. Not for you. Not for me." You took a step forward, as if drawn by a force you couldn’t resist.

Michael’s eyes softened for an instant, just enough that you caught it. Then the mask slid back into place.

"We live in a world that doesn’t forgive differences easily."

The words felt harsher than Michael intended. But this was a rough time, men in crisp suits and felt hats, and any talk of same-sex love was met with scorn, or worse. Michael looked at your trembling hands again. He knew you didn’t deserve this fear.

"Sit." He gestured to the empty chair opposite his desk.

You obeyed, still clutching the doorframe until Michael signaled you to let go. You crossed to the chair with slow steps, anxiety etched in each movement. Michael watched you close the distance, the predictable click of polished shoes on hardwood.

When you settled into the chair, Michael spoke more softly.

"You have been useful. Loyal." He paused, letting the words hang between them. "I will not sacrifice you."

Your chest tightened.

"I know what you do. You kill men who threaten this family. You protect our interests at any cost."

Michael nodded once. "Yes." His gaze locked on yours. "But I protect what I choose to."

You shifted, uncertain and swallowed again.

"Are you…are you afraid of what they think of me?" Your voice cracked.

Michael rose, walking around the desk to stand directly before You. He studied your face: the arch of your brow, the curve of your lips, the way your eyes glistened.

Michael remembered the first night he had met your careless smile, the way your hand had brushed Michael’s back by accident. It had been enough to make Michael’s heart race. Enough to make him wonder why you have that effect on him. Enough to promise himself he would never be without you.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. His fingertip lingered against your skin. You closed your eyes, leaning into the touch.

"I love you" Michael said quietly. The words were deliberate. Ancient. True.

Your eyes opened. Fear, relief, longing, and hope all swirled there. You cleared your throat. "I love you too."

Michael’s expression hardened again, but the tension in his shoulders eased.

"Then we find a way to be together without drawing attention." He backed up, returning to his desk. "We have contacts. Our people owe us favors. We’ll arrange discreet housing. A small place outside the city. You can stay there until this….talk dies down."

"You would do that for me?" You stood, shaking.

Michael met your gaze.

"For you, I would move mountains." He paused. "But you must trust me completely."

“I trust you.” You nodded, swallowing your trembling pride.

Michael seated himself again and signaled you to sit. You sank back into the chair, still angled toward Michael. The silence returned, heavy with unspoken things.

"They might still watch you. You must be cautious. No late nights in public. No visits to clubs where people will talk. No invitations to family dinners until I give the word." At last Michael spoke, voice damp with emotion he refused to show.

"I understand." Your hands curled into fists.

Michael leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "I have to act as if nothing is wrong." He pressed his thumb into a small paperweight. "But inside, I will be watching. If anyone crosses a line, if anyone threatens you, I will deal with them."

"I won’t let them scare me away." Your eyes shone with unshed tears. You reached across the table and placed a hand on Michael’s hand.

"You could never scare me away, you know?" Michael turned, capturing your hand in both of his. His lips brushed your knuckles in a gesture that was both tender and possessive.

You exhaled, the breath catching in your throat. You swallowed the fear as if it were poison and smiled, a small, fierce smile. "Good."

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, memorizing your face, the set of your jaw, the way your Adam’s apple bobbed when you breathed. Then he opened them and pulled you close, seating you on his lap. Your arms wrapped around Michael’s neck, and your foreheads touched.

"No one can suspect" Michael whispered. "Not because I’ll stop you, but because I will bury anyone who tries."

"I feel safer with you." You nodded against Michael’s collar.

"That is how it should be." Michael kissed the top of your head.

Both of you remained like that for a long moment, the only sound was the soft ticking of a clock on the wall.

Outside, the night wind rustled through the olive trees on the terrace, and the streetlamps cast long shadows under the sprawling mansion.

At last you pulled back, your cheeks flushed with relief and something warmer. "Tell me what to do next" you said, voice steady.

Michael rose and retrieved a sheet of paper from a drawer. He smoothed it on top of the desk. It was a ledger with names and addresses, safe houses, couriers, front businesses. He slid it across to you

"Learn these" Michael said. "Commit them to memory. We move quickly."

You nodded and stared at the paper like it held the keys to yourfuture. You looked up at Michael. "I will."

Michael offered a rare, small smile. "Good." He stood, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Come with me."

He led you out of the study and down the corridor, past the portraits of stern men in tailored suits. You kept pace, your hand under Michael’s on the banister. Both of you slipped through a hidden panel that led to a private stairway. In the dim light, Michael flicked a switch, illuminating a narrow path lined with low arches.

You reached a small door at the bottom. Michael opened it to reveal a simple room furnished with a bed, a desk, and a single lamp. It was meant for trusted guests, remoteness disguised as neglect. Michael guided you inside.

"If anyone ever sees you here" Michael said softly "Tell them you are a distant cousin staying for a few nights. Under no circumstances mention me."

You closed the door behind you and faced Michael in the pale glow. "I will not forget."

Michael stepped forward, closing the gap between you. He cupped your face. "This is not forever."

Your eyes glimmered. "But it is enough for now."

Michael pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was deep and solemn, a vow of solidarity against the world outside. In that small, hidden room, two men carved out a fragile sanctuary.

You can feel the warmth of his suit jacket before you even smell Michael’s scent, cigar smoke tempered by the faintest hint of sandalwood cologne. When Michael’s hand brushes your cheek, it’s gentle, almost reverent, as though he’s touching the finest porcelain.

You tremble, then reach up, warm fingertips threading into Michael’s hair at the nape of his neck. Their lips move together tentatively at first, gentle exploration, testing boundaries but, the moment your tongues brush, something inside both of you ignites.

Michael’s free hand slides down your side, urging you against the edge of the bed, making you fall backwards onto the soft sheets. The softness of the mattress is warm against your back, grounding you in the charged hush. Michael kisses deeper now, tongue and teeth dancing over your lower lip, coaxing soft moans that echo in the hush.

You spread your legs and arches into him, fingers hooking into Michael’s shirt, pulling it open until the top three buttons give way. Michael’s smooth chest is revealed, strong planes, the faint shimmer of perspiration. Your palms press flat, memorizing the heat and strength beneath the fabric.

Then Michael’s lips travel from your mouth to the hollow of your throat, kissing a line of hot, tender bites, every touch of his lips felt like embers against your neck.

He hooks teeth in a deliciously mild nip, and you gasp, fingertips clenching Michael’s shoulders. Each flick of Michael’s tongue, each soft suckle, leaves a spark of pleasure that races down your spine.

Michael breaks the kiss and meets your gaze, eyes dark with lust, fierce with feeling. He brushes a hand across your jaw, thumb stroking the fullness of his bottom lip. You close your eyes, savoring the touch, the quiet promise in Michael’s expression.

With deliberate slowness, Michael leans back an inch and slides his hand under your jacket, peeling it off your shoulders like shedding armor. The movement is intimate, exposing your bare chest to the lamp’s gentle light. Michael’s fingertips trace the curve of an abs, then brush along your collarbone, each stroke sending a tremor through you both.

You respond in kind, unclasping Michael’s belt with a deft flick, pushing the leather strap through the loops of his trousers. Michael shimmies out of his jacket and removes the belt from your hand, his own fingers unfastening it to reveal the crisp waistband of your trousers.

Both of you stand there for a long second, breathing, searching, suspended between desire and restraint.

Just as your thumb slips beneath the waistband, ready to dive deeper into pleasure, Michael stiffens.

He holds your hand gently, kisses it and stands up. Slides his suit jacket over his shoulders, buttons it with decisive precision, and he takes a step towards you, he holds your face again and kisses you.

When you broke apart, Michael rested his forehead against yours.

"I’ll be here when you wake." He whispered.

"And I’ll be here." You nodded.

Michael turned and walked back toward the hidden stair, leaving you to rest in the hush.

As he climbed, his mind raced with calculations and contingency plans. But there was one constant: Your safety, Your love.

At the top of the stairs, Michael paused and turned back. Through the small window he caught a glimpse of your silhouette against the lamplight. It was a fragile thing, but it was theirs. He pressed his hand to the wall, as if reaching out to hold you once more.

Then he extinguished the light and ascended toward the world above, the world of power, business, suspicion, and silent threats.

He was the Don. He bore the weight of an empire. Yet in the depths of his heart, he carried a secret flame that glowed brighter than any ambition.

The love for a man he could never publicly name, but would never cease to protect.

@baruque-ya

[scar-lie]

Crazy Love Pt. 2 {Natasha}

Summary : Natasha finally said the unspoken truth

Pairing : Natasha Romanoff x Fem ! Reader

Warning : Torture, blood, screaming, death, suicide

Word count : 5,800

Crazy Love Pt. 1

Crazy Love Pt. 3 Ver. 1

Crazy Love Pt. 3 Ver. 2

Cherrylemontober

NO one has permission to repost my work anywhere, if you see it please let me know.

It's been 5 months since you got away. The slip up of almost getting caught that day wasn't the end of what you're doing. No, not even close, everything just got worse

 Ever since that cursed day, following Natasha's every move was at the top of your list. The need to make sure she was safe was too much to ignore, you needed her safe, no matter the costs

Following her every move also meant witnessing men continuously flirt with her. The flirtatious acts towards Natasha made you angry, you couldn't control it. You really tried to but at the end of every night the man's blood would end up on your hands and another victim would be added to your ledger

It's not like she couldn't sense someone was continuously following and watching her, she is the Black Widow after all. One of the deadliest, sneakiest, and intelligent assassins but at the end of the day you still managed to outsmart her. No matter how hard or close she came to catching you, you would always find a loophole before she could

Tonight isn't any different. As you follow the latest man who harassed her, Natasha, thoughts of what he did swarmed your mind. The image of him cat-calling her as she walked into the party and even slapping her ass after her clear rejection. The guy would not quit and seeing that Steve wasn't there to protect her caused you to get more angry

The image in your head gets more consuming as you finally catch up with him and shove him into an empty alley

"Who the fuck are you," he questions trying to push you off

Instead of verbally answering you drive your fist hard into his stomach causing him to fall on the ground, gasping for air. You grab his head and send a hard punch to his jaw causing him to knock out

You kneel down and force him to sit up to make it easier to pick him up. As you pick him up from the ground you make sure no one is around and start carrying him to your car to put him in the trunk

You then climb into the driver's seat and smirk while you start to drive off, excitement filling your body as you think about the painful punishment awaiting him

"NO, PLEASE STOP!" he exclaims while pain shoots through his body as you run your knife through his body, occasionally adding more pressure to make large gashes

He continues to plead for your mercy while you put the tip of your knife on his thigh and add more pressure, slowly causing it to drive deeper into his skin. As you continue your actions he tries to break away, which is no use due to the ties you put on his wrists and ankles

As he continues to try to move away from you, more cries and pleads leave his mouth as more cuts are made on his skin from the metal bed you tied him to when he was unconscious

 You continue to do this until his body is full of large gashes and cuts. You carve carefully into his skin, making sure the words are visible for when the police find his body

A frown comes across your face as silence surrounds the room, the agonizing screams and begging no longer heard, even as you put the knife deep into his rib cage and twist it

You finally move your gaze to look at his face and huff and shake your head in disappointment as you see him no longer breathing and a slight paleness flooding his face. With a long sigh you roll your eyes and get off of him

From the amount of blood over the scene you could tell he died of blood loss. An annoyed groan escaped your throat

"You could only last ten minutes" You wipe your face with wipes, weighing as you get a sack to put his body inside and in carrying it into the trunk of your car, as you slam the trunk closed you mumble

"Well, that was no fun. I had so many fun plans for you but I guess I'll have to use them on the next douchebag" you quickly climb into the driver side of your car and put it into drive to make your way home

Before arriving at your house, you make a quick detour to dispose of the body. When you finally arrive home you quickly enter and make your way to your bedroom to dispose of your clothes and take a much needed shower

After you finish your shower you quickly change into new clothes and grab the old ones. You quickly go into your living room and start a fire in the fireplace

As the fire starts to grow you throw the clothes into the fire. Burning them was the easiest way to get rid of the blood stained clothes, no traces were left

In the Avengers Compound the team is stressing out due to the uprise of murders that have been going on for the past few months

The Avengers handling murder cases wasn't very common, the police handed the cases over to them due to them not being able to get any leads

The cases were getting worse every month, the only people who would be able to figure this out were the world's mightiest heroes

"Any lead where she could be?" Tony asked, clearly stressed out

The team has been tracking and trying to find where you are but they can't get any direct leads. The air is tense as they try to find a lead, tension fills everyone's body, especially Natasha and Wanda

When the pair figured out it was you behind all of the killings they didn't tell Fury. A divide was made in the team when they confessed to knowing it was you

The others wanted to tell the Director while Clint and Thor agreed with Natasha and Wanda on not telling him. Which is why the heroes are currently fighting with each other

"Nothing," Sam simply said while looking around the room. Steve abruptly got up from his chair

"No one can stop me from telling Fury. It's the right thing to do!" Steve said in a leader voice

"Don't you fucking dare, Steve!" Nat threatens while taking an intimidating step towards him

"Not even you babe, I'm sorry but we have to tell him," Steve said while trying to walk past her but Nat didn't let up and stopped him before he could

"No one will tell this to Fury," Nat exclaimed then that's the start of more chaos

Steve and Nat fall into a screaming match while the others have their own amongst each other. The screaming matches abruptly end when a hologram appears in the middle of the room. Everyone turns their gazes to see Fury standing with his hands behind his back

"Director Fury," Nat says while sending a respectful nod to him, causing everyone else to greet him

"Sorry to bother you all at this time but another victim has been found in the outskirts of the city," he simply states while keeping a stern look. The team all shake their heads as disappointment fills them

Natasha closes her eyes, she can't believe that this is happening, she can't and doesn't want to accept the truth that you're killing people for her, that your love is flooding over you to the point where you would actually kill just for her

She can't believe this because you're her best friend, the person who was always bubbly, cheerful, adorable and sweet

She can't accept that the Y/n she's always known is different now, a crazy person who would kill people just because of a feeling that's supposed to cause happiness in life, the feeling of love

She's so lost in her thoughts that her brain didn't even register that Tony and Steve were telling Fury about you being the murder

Natasha finally got out of her head when she saw Wanda's hands glowing red in her peripheral vision

"How long," Fury sternly asks, causing Nat to quickly sit beside Wanda and hold her hand to calm her down

"Since a few months ago," Bruce mutters while Nat continues to comfort Wanda until the red on her hands and eyes start to slowly fade

"And you just decided to tell me that Y/L/N is the person behind this" Fury sternly questions causing Nat to close her eyes and clenched her jaw, anger coursing through her body

She wants to save you because she knows that the Y/n she knows and loves is still there, Wanda wants to save you too, she believes what Natasha believes, they both have the same reasons and beliefs

They kept talking until the call ended, Wanda quickly pinned them down using her powers, excluding Nat, Clint and Thor

"What the fuck! why did you tell him," Wanda hissed, causing Nat to get in front of her and put her hand on her arm to calm her down

She could tell her powers were too powerful for the boys, their groaning and gasps of pain being enough to tell just how powerful Wanda's powers were

"He- he had the right- to know," Steve gasped out between painful winces, the statement only firing something inside Wanda causing her to hold them even tighter

"Hey, hey Wanda calm down," Nat cups her face, making Wanda's gaze turn to her

Once Wanda's eyes land on Natasha's, she smiles and sends a quick nod, then Wanda starts to slowly calm down causing her powers to fade away until she completely releases them

"We can't hide the fact that it's her forever" Bruce exclaimed while rubbing over the part of his body that Wanda's powers were on

A silence falls over the room as they take a few minutes to catch their breath, not wanting to fight anymore

"So now what?" Nat questions them, still angry. They look at each other having a silent conversation

After a few days of going over the cases, they finally come up with a plan which leads to now

The first part of the plan starts with Tony having one of his huge parties and Nat wearing a sexy revealing dress

Natasha quickly checks around the room to see everyone in position. Nat goes on the dance floor while Steve acts like he's busy with something else

Nat starts to dance while acting drunk causing a man named James to approach her and start to touch her

On the other side of the compound you're hiding with binoculars, you keep your gaze focused on Natasha. Anger starts to bubble in your stomach as you see someone all up on her again

As the scene continues to unfold, his hands continue to wander over her body causing your blood to boil, you quickly glance at Steve to see him busy doing something else

It goes on until the party starts to slowly die down, you keep an eye on the guy while keeping an eye on Natasha

Once you see that the guy is walking on the dark side of the compound you quickly go to him and knock him out, you pick him up and start to go to your car but before you get a chance to take another step the team corners you

The team's plan goes according to plan, James, the guy who was set to flirt and harass Natasha, is an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D (Clint's friend)

The plan was to let James act like an awful man who would harass Nat, the team would act like they don't know what is happening and when the party dies down James will be the last to go out. The team got in position and stood by the corner you were in and boom, they surrounded you

"Y/N" Natasha whispers

You look at the team and smirk, you drop James on the ground and chuckle, patting down your clothes to fix the wrinkles

"Long time no see guys" you enthusiastically exclaim with a grin on your face

"Y/N/N please, just stop this," Wanda whispers pleadingly, only loud enough for you to hear

You turn to her and smile sweetly, you take a step but Vision and Bucky stop you, Bucky points his gun and Vision puts his strong arm in front of you, you look at it and chuckle

"Don't you dare take another step," Tony hisses, pointing his repulser at you. You turn to him with innocent eyes

"Why Dad?" you question keeping an innocent look

"Am I in trouble? I didn't break one of your suits, nor interrupt you from your lab" you spit out the last part with a sweet voice

He shook his head at your antics, he loves you so much, he treated you like his own daughter. When you mentioned the last sentence, memories of when you were happy swarmed his mind

"Stop it" he bites out

"You're not her! I don't want to hurt anyone to get hurt, especially you but you're leaving us no choice here Y/N" Tony tries to bargain while looking at you again causing his eyes to fill with anger when he realizes you're not the same person anymore

"Awh, you're all so sweet," you sarcastically exclaim through gritted teeth with a smile on your face while your gaze is set on them

"Just surrender Y/N," Natasha says with a pleading tone and eyes

"You know that I love you so much Nat, I can give you the world, that's how much I love you! I'm willing to do everything for you but I'm so sorry my love, I love you Nat" you confess with a loving tone while staring into her eyes. As soon as she smiles and tries to take a step towards you, you drop the smile and look at her with an emotionless gaze. You wanted to fall into this, fall into her, but deep down you knew that it was a trap. You may be crazy for her love but you're not dumb, as soon as Natasha sees your change in emotion she frowns at you

"But you can't fool me" you lowly say, you then throw a gas bomb at your feet and as soon the gas spreads you quickly bring everyone down, some try to stop you but you dodge their moves

When the gas starts to fade you quickly run away from them. Bruce, Sam, Bucky and Vision groan and wince holding onto themselves due to you injuring them. Nat, Steve, Tony, Wanda, Clint and Thor weren't affected so they chased after you

As you're running Tony lands in front of you and tries to hit you with his repulser, you dodge it and with your skills you manage to take his mask and turn off his suit, as you're about to stab him in the thigh, Steve grabs you and throws you in a tree

You groan while standing up, Clint approaches you and tries to bring you down but you quickly slip him off of his feet and slice the side of his rib cage and stab him under his collar bone, seeing Clint on the ground, Steve and Tony try to bring you down

You fight with them, they are strong but you manage to get off of them and run again then Thor tries to hit you with his thunder but when he's busy summoning his power you throw two daggers at him and it lands on his right bicep and the side of his abdomen

Tony, Steve, and Wanda quickly approach you to try to end this. As Tony approached you, you noticed how he had his suit back on which didn't matter because you took it off of him and stabbed him in the hip and threw him into the tree

You're near your exit, but Steve stops you, you both exchange punches until Nat joins too. They try to bring you down but fail, you know them very well, reading what their next move would be was a big advantage for you

Steve gets a hold of you and Nat is gonna put you to sleep but you have other plans, you pout at her and laugh like a crazy person

"I love you Natasha but," as you trail off you use Steve as strength and kick Natasha to her face making her nose bleed and slam down on the ground

You jump Steve's back and quickly stab him on the back of his hip and tase him making him fall to the ground. Wanda quickly comes into your view, you look at her with a pout then smile, her eyes glow red while she starts to form an energy ball, you gasp at it like you're surprised at what she's doing

"You know my dear friend, you're late for the fight and now an energy ball, seriously?" You laugh at her actions causing her to look at you with anger in her eyes

"You leave me no choice Y/N, I don't want to do this but I have to" she continues to form the energy ball to throw it at you but stops when you state something that makes her question herself

"You have to because that's what they ordered you to do Wanda! Look at what happened to your dear brother, he died because you both followed Ultron, you both helped him take the whole city of Sokovia down, if you both didn't take orders, there would've been no war in Sokovia," you bitterly exclaim with a smile causing Wanda to get lost in her mind

"That's enough!" Natasha exclaims through gritted teeth

She then uses one of her widow bites on you causing you to fall to the ground. You quickly take it off and slowly stand up, you look at her with an emotionless expression

That's when Natasha realized that fighting with you will never change your mind but what she did next really shocked you

"Y/N, I'm not gonna fight you, okay," she said softly while taking off her widow bites and taking her guns and knives off of her body and resting them on the ground. She then stands up with hand in the air, showing you her surrender

"Let's talk, please," she says with a pleasing tone

"I'm not gonna fight you, I promise" You didn't buy it but you just look at her and she sends you a pleading nod

"Okay, it's fine if you keep your weapons, but please" she says while starting to take a step towards you causing your body to get into alert mode

Noticing this she stops to let you adjust to her, when she knows that you're okay she starts to walk towards you slowly again, you let her until she's in front of you. Tears fall down her eyes causing you to wipe them with your thumb, she then cups your face and sniffles while smiling at you

"Please stop this, this is madness, this is not the Y/n I know," she whispers, searching in your eyes for any sign of the Y/n she knows but she couldn't find the spark you used to hold in your eyes. She couldn't find you in them anymore

"I'm willing to do anything to protect you, those guys" you trail off trying to contain yourself

"They deserved to die" you whisper lowly and your eyes turn soft

Nat smiles as she notices the shift in your expression, hoping that the 1% of her Y/n will be enough to get through to you, she'll take that small chance to bring you back

"I know but you don't have to do that" she caresses your cheeks with her thumb and smiles at you

"You're a hero Y/n, you're not the Villain. You do good things for people, you don't go around killing people like that" she whispers softly and puts her forehead on yours, you close your eyes and feel the connection, you even drop the knife you held in your hand

"I'm just doing what I know is right" you whisper while looking at her eyes. You're so lost in the moment that you crash your lips on hers

Shock runs through Natasha's body while anger starts to bubble in her chest, unable to contain herself she harshly pushes you off

Guilt starts to cloud her brain as she starts to feel like she cheated on Steve which causes her to get more angry

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO!" she shouts while wiping her lips. Her lashing out causes you to go back to your crazy side, you chuckle and shrug your shoulders

"I just kissed you my love-" Before you could finish your sentence she cuts you off

"DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT! I'M NOT YOUR LOVER AND WILL NEVER  BE! YOU'RE A FUCKING KILLER!" As she shouts in your face, no emotion is seen on yours which causes Natasha to get even more angry

"YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT'S BEST FOR ME?!" she questions

"YOU KILL EVERY MAN WHO LAY THEIR HANDS ON ME BUT YOU KNOW WHO YOU NEED TO KILL NEXT?!" she bitterly questions, completely losing her composure. You keep your silence causing Nat to go on

"YOUR FUCKING SELF! YOU'RE A FUCKING KILLER!, YOU THINK THEY ARE DANGEROUS FOR ME?! WHAT IF I GOT WITH YOU?!" she exclaims with venom filled in her tone

"I WOULD CHOOSE TO BE WITH ANY OF THOSE MEN OVER YOU BECAUSE YOU'RE THE MOST DANGEROUS PERSON!" she shouts pointing her finger in your chest aggressively causing Wanda to snap out of her thoughts and watch what was going on

"YOU'RE A CRAZY, DANGEROUS, KILLER. THE WORLD WOULD BE A BETTER PLACE WITHOUT YOU IN IT!" she exclaims again, finally taking a deep breath to gather herself

"Stop following me, killing for me and most importantly stop loving me because I will never love you the way you want me to" she hisses out bitterly

You stand there, taking everything she said in, Wanda just stands there gulping at what Natasha said, she doesn't want to get in between this so she chooses to stay out of it

"Is that really what you want?" you ask with an emotionless tone

She looks at you with confusion, but nods frantically and Wanda bites her lips alternating her gaze between the both of you

"Yes! Yes that's what I want" she said still angry causing you to simply nod at her

"Okay" you simply state and then throw a small chip at Wanda causing her to fall to the ground and tase Natasha in the neck making her go weak

"But I will never surrender myself to you" you simply state, you run off until you approach your emergency vehicle, it was a black 2020 BMW R1250 RS

Once you get in the vehicle you quickly drive off, away from them and make sure that no one's following you. Once you confirm you're not being followed you speed off to your house

It's been a week now and the team stressed at first that you got away but it was a relief when no new victims were found, it makes them think that you stop but they are still trying to find you

They want to see and talk to you in a good way, not like your last encounter, they keep looking for you

But Natasha is so bother at where you at and the package you send to her the night after the fight, it was a small box with full of the flower of a cherry blossom tree and a note, she don't want to open it so she don't know what it is but she always keep it on her pocket

Then Wanda is so lost in her head, after the fight she feels something wasn't right after that she feels all of your connection to her is gone, and it makes her worried and drives her crazy, she just wishes that you're ok

"Finally!" Tony shouts and writes down the address of your house, everyone goes to him

"What? What is it?" Natasha asked frantically and Steve rubbed her arm

"I finally found her" Tony said and gave the address to them, Natasha quickly read it out loud

"What are we waiting for? let's go!" Wanda quickly said, getting anxious at what will happen next, she doesn't have a good feeling, she tried to connect to you for weeks now but she just can't, it's like you just vanished

"Ok let's go" They all said and quickly got to their cars, Steve, Natasha, Wanda and Vision are in one car then Bucky, Sam, Thor, Clint and Bruce are in the other car together and well, Tony is in his sports car alone

They speed off in your location, the others are happy that they will finally find where you are but not Wanda, she truly feels something is wrong, and she can't lose you cause you're the only one who's left of her family, she see you as a sister

Once they got in the house, it was quiet, the house was silent and like it's no life, it's not lively, the plants are already dead, dried leaves are scattered around the house, it's like someone abandoned it

"Ok, let's go" Bucky said, scanning the house

They nod and go to your front door, they knock but no one's opening the door nor no sounds inside the house, they look at each other worried

"Let's just go in" Sam suggests and Steve nods since he's in the front and he opens it

They frown at the door isn't lock, they got in and the scan the house, the house is neat, no object are out of place, the house looks like your style so they know it's yours, but it have dust that confused them cause you're the person who's organized and clean, who leaves no sign of trash nor a single dust in your place

"Ok scattered around" Nat said and they nod, Nat and Wanda go up with Bucky and Vision and they divide into two so Wanda and Nat wonder at the right side

They see nothing, so the guys go up and meet Bucky and Vision so they go to Wanda and Nat, then they hear a loud thud and scream of Wanda, they quickly run to where the sound is, clearly worried, and they burst into your room

They see Natasha and Wanda are on the floor, frozen while looking up, Wanda is screaming and trying to get out of Natasha's embrace while Natasha holds Wanda tightly

The woman was both crying, while Wanda screamed, agonizing that everybody's heart broke. Once the guys saw what it was, they were shocked

Steve, Bucky, Bruce and Sam shook their heads while tears ran down to their cheeks, their eyes glued to what was in front of them, crying specially Tony, his heart wreck

"NO NO NO NOOOOOOOO!" Thor shouts and the cloud turns to dark gray and thunder are everywhere, starting a thunderstorm

They see you, see you hanging in the ceiling, blood is already dried in your body and on the floor, that night until the other day, all is in your head is what Natasha said and what she wants

You didn't refer at what the last thing she said, your asking if she truly want for you to kill yourself, so when you confirm it, you think of it over night until you hang a rope in the ceiling of your bedroom and hang yourself there but not before torturing yourself too like you did to the others

"NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOOOO!" Wanda screams and gives up, leaning on Natasha and crying on her arm

Natasha acts strong but deep inside her, she's so broken, she picks Wanda up and goes out of the house to their car and they cry there but Natasha tries to comfort her, cause she knows how you meant to her

While the two women crying in the car, Steve and Bucky bring your body down, then they bring you to the compound and clean you up, only a woman who's not related to you cleans you up cause Nat or Wanda can't look at you

They mourn for you that day until you're already clean. They go to you and look at you, when they see you they finally see your innocent face

Memories flashing back to their head and tears falling, all the happy memories are coming back to their head, and it breaks their heart to see you like this, that you took your own life

Once they are around you they take the white fabric covering your body and you're wearing a white sando and shorts

That's when they saw the carved words, it was all over your body, they gasped at it, Natasha's world crashed when she saw it

'Killer' 'Crazy' 'Dangerous' are carved in you, all over your body, from head to toe

The night of your fight flash back on Natasha's head, when she lashed out at you and what she said, she gasped at it and just got out there

She can't handle it all, it's so overwhelming for her, so she got on her motorbike and went to one place you both love, it was a special place cause that's where you both always spend your free time and make happy memories

She goes to the mountain where you can see the city, you both even build a little tree house there and plant flowers there

Once she got there she got to the edge and sat there, that's where you both sit, but today she sat at your side, at the right one

She sobs there, she lets her emotion out there and holds her chest at how painful it is. The memory of her telling you what you are and what you should do that night is repeating in her head like her favorite movie that she didn't get tired watching

She keeps crying there, she take all of her emotion out there, she even throw a rocks and scream at the top of her long until her body collapsed on the ground, she sob there pouring all of her emotions that she never let anyone see it and let them to know it excluding you, your the only person she can be who she is and show every part of her

Until she brings out the note you sent to her, out in her pocket then she slowly opens it with her shaky hands and reads what you wrote

She thinks that she can't cry anymore, she thinks that all of her tears are all pour out but once she read what you wrote she sobs at it and more tears come out, while clinging the note to her chest with a shattered heart

I'll always do what you wantYour wish is my commandBye. Natalia

She cries there, she cries her eyes out, her heart sting more at the use of her birth name, you never used it before, it has always been Nat, Natty, Tasha or other pet names she loves but this? This broke her heart more than before, this is the first time she cried like this, like the half of her life ripped out of her, like someone took that away from her, when you took your own life, you bring the half of Natasha with you

You're her best friend, her buddy, her partner of crime, you show her love, you're the one who make her believe that she's not just capable but she also allowed to love someone, your the one who show her that love isn't just for children, Natasha's life is full of darkness, traumas and bad thing that hunt her but when she see you, when you come to her life, your the highlight of her life

You take all her worries away, because of you, her past never hunted her, she feels like all her life are all happy, you're the most important person in the world to Natasha, she will do anything to protect you cause you saved her, you saved her in any possible way

But she failed to protect you, even worse she's the reason why you took your own life, she killed you, and now this will forever haunt her until she dies

"I'm-I'm so........sorry bub, I'm so sorry I didn't protect you!" she whispered crying

She screamed at the top of her lungs, it was so agonizing, that if anyone will heard her will break

Your death will hunt her every night, every hours, minutes and seconds, she will never forget this day

[baenakinskywalker]

wip wednesday 😈

the opening scene of my devil in winter rutag fic, completely unedited because i'm simply too excited to share this snippet:

London, 1843

Rupert, Lord Campbell-Black certainly hadn’t been expecting guests tonight. Most of the day was spent with Gerald, pouring over his estate’s accounts — little good news to be found in the ledgers, between the lackluster harvest and his recent losing horse bets. Some female company might well improve his mood, but given the late hour and his reputation, any lady coming to call at his terrace house would only be asking for scandal. 

And not many ladies actively seek out scandal.

Which is why, seated in a great wingback chair at the desk in his library, a glass of liquor surely making a ring on the cherry wood, Rupert cocks his head as Bodkin announces a guest. 

“My Lord, the lady is quite insistent. Might I let her into the parlor?”

“What are the odds we can pack her into her carriage and send her back home?”

Bodkin stiffens. “There is no carriage outside, my Lord. It appears she’s either sent it away or walked from…wherever it is she came from.”

Well, that sparks his interest. Who would dare walk here at night? The terrace sits just outside of Hyde Park, but London is dangerous when the sun goes down no matter where you roam. And why has she come here?

“Very well. Bring her into the parlor, and I’ll be there momentarily.” Rupert nods, and Bodkin bows — or as close as he can get at his advanced age — and retreats. After draining the glass on his desk, he follows. 

Rupert walks slowly down the hallway toward the front room of his house. The dogs, who had been lounging on the staircase, perk up as their master comes by and follow him dutifully to the parlor. They’re well trained and make no noise, save the scrape of their claws on the wood floors. 

“Can I have a c-cup of t-t—tea, please?”

His mystery lady is either chilled to the bone or has a stammer. Interesting. 

“Right away, miss,” Bodkin says, nearly slamming into Rupert as he enters the parlor. 

He steadies his butler with a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, man.”

Bodkin just nods, scurrying toward the kitchen. No doubt, Mrs. Bodkin has retired for the evening, so he’ll be on his own. God knows what the poor lady will be served to drink. 

Finally, his eyes land on her. She rises from a tufted chair, and the first thing Rupert notices is her hair. Auburn, like the turn of the leaves just as autumn begins. It’s pinned in a simple chignon, unlike so many of the elaborate coiffures spied at balls and other events among the peerage. 

 A curl hangs loose at the nape of her neck. She’s young, can’t be more than two-and-twenty, if that. His eyes scan downward, and he sees the black dress in an unadorned fabric. 

So she’s in mourning. 

The lady curtsies, still silent. 

Rupert raises an eyebrow. “And you are?”

She takes a breath, blue eyes wide. “Lord Campbell-Black, t-thank you for allowing me entry into your home.”

“I’m not typically in the business of turning women away, least of all at night,” he drawls. A pink flush spreads across her freckled cheeks. “Now, your name?”

It’s then that Bodkin returns with a tray containing a teapot, two cups, saucers, and milk and sugar. 

Rupert glares. “That was very efficient. Thank you.” 

When the two of them are alone again, the woman sits. Her hands shake as she pours two cups of tea, and she swallows hard when offering one to him. 

Perhaps any of her courage dissipated as soon as she realized the gravity of visiting Campbell-Black House at night. Her reputation, whatever it is, could be decimated. He almost feels sorry for the poor thing. 

“My Lord.” Her clear voice rings out through the parlor, seemingly stronger than before. Rupert reaches for his own cup of tea and sets his eyes on the woman before him. “My name is Agatha O’Hara.”

O’Hara. Where does he know that name from?

“My f-father, Declan O’Hara, died very recently.” 

Declan. The newspaper — Rupert didn’t read it himself, but there was a shock through the city when word spread of his carriage accident. At the time, Rupert was attempting a match with an American heiress that went wrong right at the end. 

“My sincerest condolences, Miss O’Hara.” 

“Thank you, my Lord.” She sips at her tea, then places the cup down onto the saucer and clasps her hands in her lap. “I’ve come here with a proposition in mind.”

So she’s looking to become a kept woman? Even with dwindling funds, he could be convinced. Rupert brings the teacup to his mouth and tries to imagine what Agatha O’Hara might look like under all of those black layers. 

“We should be married.”

The Viscount nearly chokes on his tea.

[comicaurora]

Have you ever notices the weird trait that a lot of the mytic Greek monsters are decendents, or otherwise related to posiden (all sea beasts, cyclops, medusa, minotaur ect) were mostly slain by children of zeus? The rest of the mytic Greek hero's mostly slayed children of typhon and echidna.

Do you think this is somthing to do with the fact that posiden used to the ruler of mychnain pantheon, and zuse took over, so the mytology reflected this by having posiden monster children slain by the heroic children of zeus?

Have you ever noticed any similar patters in mythology involving the chainge of the dominat god?

It's hard to say! The Mycenaean pantheon is very poorly understood since we don't have anything like the corpus of literature we have from Archaic Greece, and as far as I can tell it's mostly been reconstructed from ledgers and the equivalent of receipts - this many jars of stuff to the temple of this god in this region, etc etc. And the idea that Poseidon was central - while apparently widely accepted - doesn't really tell us how Poseidon was characterized back in those days, or how (or if) things shifted to be Zeus-centric later on.

And in the broad scale, it's hard to know for sure if a pantheon's myths reflect an actual shift in what the dominant/central god being worshipped was, or if something else was going on. Mythology rarely maps one-to-one to the historical events it was running in parallel to. There are lots of mythologies with god wars or former leaders of the gods being replaced - Tyr with Odin, Nuada with Lugh, Ra getting merged with a half-dozen different gods to give them his oomph and authority at various times - and it's not clear when a god conflict reflects a real religious shift in who's being worshipped and when it's something else. For instance, classical Greek mythology has loads of themes of sons usurping fathers, starting with Kronos usurping Ouranos and followed by Zeus usurping Kronos - but it doesn't seem like Kronos was historically worshipped in the time before Zeus or anything that simple and clean. Kronos doesn't seem to pre-exist that space of mythology at all.

However, there are tidbits in Greek mythology where a god kills a monster and takes up residence in their place of power, like Apollo killing Python - a monstrous child of Gaia that seems to have potentially been actually worshipped for oracular reasons before Apollo showed up and took over, which would make it a mythical parallel to a real shift in local religious practices. Although again, that is very hard to confirm (and some of the researchers who think that seem to wanna believe it because it very conveniently lets them tie it in with the bible)

this kind of thing is why the deep-dives are my favorite kind of nightmare to subject myself to

So it's hard to say if a myth of a conflict between gods reflects a real-world conflict between religious practices, but all that said, that is a very interesting pattern to note - that Poseidon is more consistently a father of monsters, while Zeus is almost universally a father of heroes.