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cameronsbabydoll · 21 hours ago

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tagging along to sexist!rafe and your sons boys trip ♡

warnings: misogyny, emotional neglect, subtle sexism, dismissiveness toward female-coded labor, maternal isolation, gender role conflict

wc: 1,000 — a/n: this is pretty sad guys :(((

the car hums along the mountain road, tires crunching gravel, and you’re tucked in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly in your lap. rafe’s gripping the wheel, jaw tight, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. your two boys, jake and noah, are in the back, giggling over some game on their tablets. you’d packed their bags with care—snacks, extra socks, bug spray, the works. you’d even slipped in a few of your own things, hopeful, when rafe grudgingly agreed you could come on their “daddy-son trip.”

“didn’t think you’d actually wanna come,” rafe muttered that morning, tossing the cooler in the trunk. “this is a guy thing, y’know.” his tone wasn’t mean, just dismissive, like you were a kid begging for a seat at the grown-up table. but you’d smiled, bright and sweet, and said, “i just wanna be with my boys!” he’d rolled his eyes but didn’t say no, so here you are, trying to fit into their world.

you glance at rafe, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “the lake looks so pretty,” you say, voice soft, pointing out the window at the sparkling water. “maybe we could all swim later?”

he grunts. “boys don’t wanna splash around with their mom. they’re here to fish, maybe hike. man stuff.” his words sting, but you keep your smile, nodding like you get it. you don’t want to push too hard. you’re here, that’s what matters.

at the campsite, rafe’s all business, barking orders. “jake, grab the rods. noah, help with the tent.” you hop out of the car, smoothing your sundress, and start unloading the cooler. “i can help with the tent, too,” you offer, voice bubbly, grabbing a pole.

rafe snorts, not looking up. “nah, we got it. why don’t you… i dunno, set up the food or something?” his tone says stay in your lane, and your cheeks flush. you nod, retreating to the picnic table, arranging sandwiches and fruit with shaky hands. jake runs over, all freckles and energy. “mom, can i have a juice?”

“course, sweetheart,” you say, handing him one, ruffling his hair. he grins, and for a second, you feel like you belong. then rafe calls, “jake, quit messing around, c’mere!” and your son scampers off.

the day drags. rafe and the boys fish at the lake’s edge, laughing, bonding. you watch from a blanket, book in hand, but you can’t focus. you want to be in there, part of their world. so you try. you walk over, barefoot, skirt swishing. “can i try fishing?” you ask, voice small but hopeful.

rafe raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “you? fish?” he chuckles, and the boys giggle, like it’s the funniest thing. “baby, you’d probably scream if you caught something. just… go make yourself useful, yeah? maybe start the campfire.”

your stomach twists, but you laugh it off, tucking hair behind your ear. “okay, sure.” you head back, fumbling with the firewood. you’ve never started a fire before—rafe always does it at home—but you try, stacking logs, stuffing newspaper underneath. it takes forever, and the matches keep going out. you’re kneeling there, smudged with soot, when rafe and the boys come back.

“jesus,” rafe mutters, seeing the sad pile of unlit wood. “gimme that.” he takes over, and the fire’s roaring in minutes. you bite your lip, feeling useless, but you try again. “i made s’mores though!” you say, holding up graham crackers and marshmallows, voice bright. noah cheers, but rafe just says, “hope you didn’t burn the chocolate, too.”

dinner’s quiet. you eat your hot dog, listening to rafe tell the boys about his fishing days, all bravado and big catches. you want to share something, anything, but when you open your mouth—“i used to camp with my dad, we’d—” rafe cuts you off. “yeah, well, this is about us now. pass the mustard.”

you do, silently. the boys are happy, though, and that keeps you going. later, under the stars, you try one last time. you grab a flashlight and the camp’s trail map. “there’s a little path to a lookout,” you say, eyes shining. “we could all go, see the stars from up high?”

rafe sighs, rubbing his neck. “sweetheart, it’s late. boys need sleep, not some midnight hike. why don’t you just… clean up the dishes or something?” his voice is softer now, like he’s trying to be patient, but it still lands like a slap. you nod, swallowing hard, and start gathering plates.

as you scrub the dishes by the campfire’s glow, you hear jake whisper to noah, “mom’s trying really hard, huh?” noah nods, and your heart lifts, just a little. you might not fit into rafe’s idea of this trip, but your boys see you. and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

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noirscript · 2 days ago

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serpent's claim

Pairing: Yandere Naga x Reader Description: You ran, but Zaeral always caught you. Now his egg rests deep inside, and escape is no longer what you crave. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Oviposition (egg insertion) | Breeding Kink | Forced Captivity | Obsession | Stalking | Predator/Prey Dynamic | Isolation | Escape Attempt | Psychological Manipulation | Forked Tongue (I HAVE TO) Note/s: Commissions are still open! Enjoy this Yandere!Naga. Lemme know what you think about it. btw. I'll try to add the tw tags later. I've been trying to add them but it's not getting added below T^T

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast

The air was always wet down here.

Every breath dragged the scent of moss and something deeper into your lungs—something primal, slick with hunger. You didn’t know how long it had been since you’d seen the sky. Days, maybe. Weeks. It all bled together in this place where time was measured only in how long your heartbeat stayed fast and your skin stayed cold.

You didn’t fall into his territory. You wandered. That was your sin. You thought the shortcut through the canyon would save time. Maybe you didn’t want to go back at all. But now you were here. Now he was here.

You heard him before you ever saw him. A low scrape against stone. A hiss, too long to belong to any animal you knew. It slithered across the air like it was following you, not chasing, not yet, just… watching.

You’d screamed the first time he spoke. A whisper in your ear when you thought you were alone. "You breathe like prey." It echoed. There was no body to pin the voice to. Only dark, endless tunnels, lit by cold, phosphorescent light, where shadows stretched too long.

You ran. Of course you did.

But you learned quickly that you were never fast enough.

You never heard him move. Just the breath on your nape, the lightest brush of scales across your path when you thought he was behind you. The way rocks ahead of you were suddenly slick with moisture. A hunter didn’t need to charge when his prey was already cornered by instinct.

He introduced himself after the second escape.

Zaeral. His name slithered from his lips like a caress, like a chain sliding shut. When he finally showed himself—all of himself—you understood why you had no chance.

His upper half was almost beautiful. Tall, lean, chiseled in the way ancient statues are, timeless and cruel in their perfection. His skin was pale, barely touched by light, with veins like opal beneath the surface. Hair black as pitch hung past his shoulders, framing eyes that glowed faintly with a vertical sliver of gold.

And below the waist—no legs. Only an endless coil of thick, glistening muscle, wrapped in dark scales that shimmered with hints of violet and green, shifting with his breath. His tail could crush boulders. You knew because you saw the bones. He left them there, visible, arranged like a warning. Or maybe an invitation.

He spoke to you like a lover, not a captor.

"You belong down here," he’d murmur, coiling around you as you slept, his body a cage of heat and weight. "You’re so loud, little thing. Every heartbeat calls me closer."

You learned not to scream when he wrapped around you. Not to cry when he pulled you into his nest of damp moss and hollowed stone. It only made him hold you tighter. Only made him hum into your throat with something like joy.

"I adore when you squirm," he’d purr. "It stokes the fire in my belly. And soon, it’ll stoke more."

You never saw another person. You weren’t even sure anymore if the surface existed. When you closed your eyes, all you saw were tunnels, and the glint of his eyes in the dark, and the pressure of coils slowly winding up your legs. You tried to map the labyrinth. You tried to mark your way back.

He always erased them.

"You don’t need a way out. You only need a place inside."

Sometimes, he would leave. Hours, maybe longer. You never knew where. But you always knew when he was coming back. The air changed. Grew heavier. More charged. Like the earth itself tensed with your dread.

He would appear, gliding in with something clutched in his claws. Fruit from underground trees. Pelts that still smelled of blood. Once, a silk scarf stained with perfume—your perfume, long faded. You didn’t ask how he got it. You didn’t want to know.

"You are not the first I’ve chased," he admitted once, curling a length of his tail around your ankle. "But you’re the first to last this long. You burn brighter. You make me ache."

He said things in your ear that no one should say. Things about your body, and his, and how perfectly they’d fit. How your hips were made to take him, no matter the shape he wore. How he could mold himself around you, fill you from any angle. How he wanted to see your belly swell with his spawn. How he dreamed of it.

He wasn’t crude. He was reverent.

Like you were holy. Sacred. A shrine he wanted to desecrate with worship.

You told yourself you hated it. That your tears were from fear. That your trembling was because of the cold, not because of the warmth that bloomed deep, shamefully, when he wrapped his coils around your thighs and purred into your stomach, his tongue flicking lazily against your navel.

“You smell different when you’re scared,” he’d murmur. “But oh… when you’re not scared... that scent drives me to madness.”

He waited. That was the worst part. He was patient. He didn’t force himself. He didn’t need to.

He knew you’d give in.

He’d make you believe it was your choice.

You escaped once. Maybe twice. You didn’t count. Each time, the tunnels stretched longer than before. Each time, your body weakened faster. Once, you made it to a crack in the cave wall, and sunlight kissed your face.

And then his tail yanked you back, gentle as a lover’s hand tugging a hesitant partner.

"You tried," he said, brushing your hair back. "That’s why I love you. It means when you finally stop trying, I’ll know it’s real."

You screamed into his chest, and he rocked you like a child.

"I will never let you die here," he promised. "But I will never let you leave."

You didn’t try after that. Not seriously.

You thought you were giving up. But maybe you were just giving in.

You started to listen when he whispered to you. Started to ask questions. Small ones, at first. "Where do you go when you leave?" He’d smile. Never answer.

You started to watch his body move, the way his tail flexed and rolled over itself as he settled beside you. The power in him. The control.

You began to wonder—just wonder—what it would feel like if he really touched you.

He knew. Of course he did.

One night, as you lay in his coils, barely breathing, his voice dropped low.

"I dream of pushing you to your knees," he said, lips grazing your temple. "Of laying you out across my nest and feeling your body arch as I bury myself in you."

Your thighs clenched before you could stop them.

He growled. Low. Deep. It vibrated through your bones.

"You want it now, don’t you?" he asked, not mocking. Just… knowing. "Say it. Say it, and I’ll make it so you never remember the taste of anything but me."

You didn’t speak.

But you didn’t run, either.

And when his hand slid down your stomach, and he pressed his palm over your core, hot and possessive and unbearably firm—you didn’t stop him.

"You’ve already surrendered," Zaeral whispered, his tongue flicking your cheek. "Let me claim you. Let me fill you."

Your breath hitched. Your body burned. You hated him. You hated this.

But your hips lifted into his touch, and your thighs spread just slightly wider.

A hiss of satisfaction spilled from his mouth.

"That’s it. That’s my precious little mate."

The word mate tasted like ash and honey on your tongue.

You whispered his name.

Zaeral.

And he smiled.

TBC.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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woso-story · 1 day ago

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Through Thick And Thin - Part Two

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

You woke to chaos.

Blinding lights. Voices. Movement. Cold.

The world came at you all at once — too fast, too loud, too much. You groaned, the sound barely escaping your throat. It felt like someone had ripped your body apart and stitched it back together with fire. Everything hurt. Your legs, your ribs, your head — pain blooming in places you didn’t even know could hurt.

You tried to open your eyes.

White. Too white. The light stabbed into your skull like knives, forcing you to shut them tight again.

There were voices around you. Some yelling, others rushing through clipped medical terms. You couldn’t tell if they were talking to you or about you. Your mind swam, struggling to stay afloat. Nothing made sense. The words were muffled, like you were underwater. You didn’t know what they were saying. You didn’t even know where you were.

What happened?

Hospital. It had to be a hospital.

But… why?

You tried to think, tried to rewind the morning. You were on your way to training — that you remembered. But not with Alexia, no. She had left earlier, taking your training bag with her. You wanted to stop by the city center first, pick up a small gift for Patri’s birthday. Just something simple. You were riding your bike. The weather had been beautiful. Barcelona at its best — golden sunlight, warm breeze, the scent of bakeries filling the streets.

You’d been smiling to yourself, actually. Thinking about how lucky you were. How perfect life was.

And then…

You gasped, your body reacting before your brain could. A spike of pain shot through your side, making you writhe against the stretcher. Someone held your arm down gently. A voice tried to calm you.

Tires screeching. A horn. A sharp impact.

Then — nothing. Just blackness.

“Easy... it’s okay... you’re safe, you’re in the ER... we’re going to give you something for the pain now…”

The words blurred together again, the meaning slipping through your fingers like sand. And just as quickly as it came, the world began to fade again. Your grip on consciousness slipping.

You didn’t know yet that a car had run a red light. That you’d been thrown off your bike. That you’d landed hard — so hard they weren’t sure at first how bad the internal damage was. You didn’t know the injuries, the surgeries ahead, the hard conversations still to come.

---

But the pain — it told you enough.

Something was very, very wrong.

Meanwhile, at Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, the Barca training grounds, there was a different kind of tension rising.

“Where is she?” Irene asked, tugging off her warm-up jacket. “Did she forget that we have training today?”

“She said she’d come on her own today,” Alexia replied, lacing up her boots. “She wanted to stop in the city first.”

“She’s never late,” Ingrid muttered, checking the clock. “It’s been almost forty minutes.”

Alexia tried to laugh it off, but her fingers paused on the laces. You were never late. You were usually the first one to arrive — warming up, checking your cleats, chatting with the coaches. You were that kind of player.

She pulled out her phone. Dialed. Straight to voicemail.

A cold wave crept through her chest.

Still, she shook it off and followed the others out to the pitch. Maybe you were helping someone. Maybe you lost track of time. It wasn’t like you… but things happened.

It wasn’t until midway through drills that she noticed something was wrong.

She caught sight of Pere, the team’s head coach, standing stiffly by the sidelines. Two of the club staff were speaking to him in hushed, frantic voices. He nodded sharply, then turned toward the pitch. His expression was tight. Focused. Grim.

“Everyone stop.”

The session froze. The air changed.

“Alexia,” Pere called. “Come here.”

No. No, no, no.

The rest of the team gathered silently, watching as Alexia walked toward him. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until he spoke.

“There’s been an accident,” he said. “It’s Y/N. The hospital just called.”

She didn’t hear the rest.

The world dropped out beneath her feet.

Her hands were shaking when she stormed into the locker room. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. You had kissed her goodbye just this morning. Told her you’d see her in an hour. Smiling. Safe.

And now you were in a hospital.

She dug through her bag frantically, searching for her car keys. Her vision was blurring, her breath ragged. Just when her fingers wrapped around the keys, a hand snatched them away.

“No way,” Mapi said, her voice firm but calm. “You can’t drive like this.”

“Give them to me,” Alexia snapped, trying to grab them back.

“Alexia, no.” Mapi held them out of reach, her eyes filled with concern. “You’re shaking. You’re in no condition to get behind a wheel.”

“I have to get to her!”

“I know. And we will. But not like this. You don’t even know what hospital she’s in—”

“In Sant Pau,” Ingrid interrupted from the doorway, already tossing her own keys to Mapi. Her voice was steady, but her jaw was tight, her eyes stormy. “You drive. I’ll sit with her.”

Mapi hesitated for a beat, then nodded. No more questions.

The three of them walked out together, still in their kits, football boots clacking against the asphalt. None of them cared. All that mattered was getting to you.

Alexia sat in the back, her knee bouncing, heart in her throat, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. She stared out the window but saw nothing.

Ingrid rested a hand on her shoulder, and for the first time since Pere had spoken, Alexia let the tears fall. Silent. Scared. Praying that the next time she saw you, you’d still be able to say her name.

Please be okay.

Please, please be okay.

#alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas x reader #woso community #woso #woso fics #barca femeni #woso x reader #woso fanfics #alexia x reader #alexia putellas

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starrbishops · 3 days ago

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⟡Crush⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Part 2 now with smut!

Summary: You have feelings for John, and it is extremely frustrating for you. Somehow, you end up helping him fix the kitchen sink- inspired by the song Crush by Ethel Cain.

Word Count: 2.1k (oops)

Notes: (Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, idiots to lovers, kissing, making out, mentions and allusions to sex but this one is PG-13, John is a bad flirt and a little dumb (but we love him), reader is a New Avenger/Thunderbolt)

a/n: If you had told me 5 years ago I would be writing a John Walker fic I would've slapped you in the face. But here we are in a post Thunderbolts* world and I love him. This is my first fic I'm posting here, so I'm sorry for any mistakes or all around poor writing. It ain't much, but it's honest work.

It should have been a crime for someone as big an asshole as John Walker was to also be as hot as he was.

That way he’d actually be in jail and you wouldn’t be standing here trying to talk sense into herself. He should be in jail, actually- for that Flag Smasher, all the people he’d surely taken out working for Val…

But now, here he was, a hero and one of the New Avengers, trying to fix your kitchen sink because Alexei had done something to break it at 2 AM the night before.

“Wrench.” John called from his spot beneath the counter. You passed him the tool, watching the way his large hand wrapped around it and strained as he twisted something in the mess of pipes.

You don’t know why yuou volunteered to do this. It was, first of all, extra work to help fix something that was not yoir fault, and second, an extended period of time spent alone with John, whom you’d been purposely trying to avoid after realizing your feelings for him.

It was so stupid. You’d been on a mission, trying to get information out of a former Hydra scientist who’d fortified his compound like a goddamn castle. You and Walker were on security duty while Bucky and Yelena interrogated the guy, stationed outside the door waiting to fight any more guards that showed up.

“I’m just saying, objectively, it’s a movie set on Christmas. That is what a Christmas movie is.”

“It’s about a guy fighting terrorists, John, how is that in the Christmas spirit?”

“It doesn’t matter, a Christmas movie is-” the argument was interrupted by a bullet whizzing past, causing you both to drop to the ground.

“The fuck?” You looked both ways for where it could have come from. You didn’t see anyone on either end of the hallway they stood in.

“Fucking snipers.” John muttered as he pulled out his own gun. “Hold this.” he shoved his taco shield in your direction. You didn’t know why he kept the damn thing this way, but he’d grown attached to it.

Luckily, the shield still managed to block the next bullet fired at you, prompting more cursing from the two of you.

“There’s the fucker” Walker raised his gun and fired, the bang followed by a scream as another guard who’d hidden behind the corner dropped to the ground clutching his knee.

“Nice shot.” you admitted as they walked over to the man, Walker gesturing to his head.

“Want to do the honors?’

“I’d love to.”

With that, you whacked him with the taco shield- not enough to break his skull, but enough to knock him out.

“It’s like they keep on multiplying.” John took a breath and his shield back, his other hand running through his hair. He looked oddly nice when he was disheveled like this. His brow was furrowed and his blonde hair all messy. He had really big hands too. You’d noticed that when he was holding the gun. You wondered what they’d feel like on her instead of his shield-

“Hello?!”

“Huh?”

John looked at you expectantly, snapping you out of your fantasies. “I said we gotta put him in the closet.”

Yes. The closet, where you’d stored all the other guys they’d knocked out. Because you were on a mission. It was time to work, not ogle John Walker.

Holy shit, you were ogling John fucking Walker.

You nodded noncommittally as he took the guy's legs and began moving him, but your mind raced. Walker? Really? Were you that desperate? He was a nice looking guy, that was objectively true. But he was also an asshole. Then again, he’d improved significantly since you’d first met him back in that vault. And you weren’t exactly an angel- you bullied him right back when he made a dumb comment. Oh god, now you were rationalizing it.

You took a breath as they shut the closet, now with the additional guard in it. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s a dumb crush. It’s purely physical. You can take it and bury it deep down.

“Are you okay?” John waved a hand in front of your face. Fuck. You’d been doing it again.

“Yeah. yeah, totally.”

“You know you can talk to me, right. I’m no therapist, but you can.”

“Since when do you care about peoples’ feelings?”

“Not people. I care about your feelings.” he shrugged as he walked back to your shared spot by the door. Shit, his ass wasn’t bad either.

God you was doomed.

And now here you were a month later, a total goner, fucking staring at his hands while he worked on the sink. It wasn’t like you’d ever tell him; you’d sooner die than acknowledge her feelings, knowing there was that chance of rejection, knowing that all of your friends would know, how it would hang over the team forever. No, you had to keep her feelings for John to yourself. Still, you dreamed sometimes of him confessing his own feelings, being able to finally voice all the lovelorn thoughts she’d been plagued with for a month.

It was genuinely ridiculous how good he looked doing an everyday task. He had that damn white t-shirt on that showed off his forearms, how strong and muscular they were. You had never really thought a man’s forearms were hot before she saw John in that shirt.

You passed him a screwdriver as your mind continued to wander. You had always known he was a Super Soldier, that he was incredibly strong. He could probably toss you around like she weighed nothing. Just throw you over his shoulder and carry her off to his bedroom…

Jesus Christ, you were horny.

“How’s it going down there?” you peeked under to where you could see John’s face, his brow furrowed in focus.

“I don’t know how Alexei managed to do this.” He continued to twist the pipe above him.

“He’s a special one.”

“That’s for sure.” he gave her a smile before returning to the pipe. “Y’know, if the military didn’t work out I was going to be a plumber?”

“Really?”

“Yep. My dad had a plumbing business back in Georgia.”

“Would’ve saved you a lot of trouble if you’d just done that.”

He shrugged. “Eh, I wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t be friends.” “How grateful I am to have you in my life.” you quipped.

“You love me. Who else would fix your sink?”

“I could hire one of those sexy plumbers from pornos.” Christ, why did you say that. Walker had broken your mind to the point that sex was literally the first thing on it. You prayed he didn’t notice how you turned red from the embarrassment.

At least the comment got a laugh out of him. “What, am I not a sexy enough plumber for you?” you shrugged, a nervous laugh exiting you.

“Never said you weren’t a sexy plumber.”

He smiled again, a small one as he slid out from under the sink, reaching up to test it. It flowed easily, as if it had never been broken.

“Damn. You would’ve been a sexy plumber who was also good at his job.”

Walker laughed as he turned off the sink, returning to the floor where she sat. “Wouldn’t even have to seduce all the sad housewives for tips.” he paused as he leaned back against the other side of cabinets. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Like, what would you be if you weren’t an Avenger?”

Oh. You’d never thought about that before. “Probably dead.”

He gave her a look. “C’mon, really?”

“What, that’s why I think? John, fighting bad guys is all I know how to do, I don’t exactly have many other marketable skills.”

“You have plenty of skills, you’re great.”

There it was again. Every time he turned off asshole mode and actually said something nice it was like alarm bells were going off in your head, saying kiss him, kiss him. You prayed for him to follow it up with something dumb and bullheaded.

“I would’ve hired you to be my sexy plumber.”

Not exactly what you were thinking, but close enough.

“That is the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

John sighed, hanging his head. “Yeah, I’m bad at this.”

“Talking?”

He mumbled something under his breath and turned to start putting tools away.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“You said something.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Let’s just clean up, alright.”

You shook your head. “Touchy, touchy.”

You grabbed the wrench from earlier and dropped it back into the toolbox, watching out of the corner of her eye as John gathered up the other tools he’d left beneath the sink. Your hands brushed as he put them away, lingering a moment too long before he jerked it back.

“What, do I have a disease now?”

“No! No, you just, uh…” John shut his eyes and furrowed his brow in the way he always did when he was thinking. “I’m sorry I called you a sexy plumber.”

“I know it was a compliment, dude, you don’t have to apologize.”

“No, it was supposed to be, and it came out dickish.”

“Everything you say comes out dickish, John. No offense.”

“I know.” he put a hand to his forehead in frustration. “I know, but I’m trying really hard for it not to be. Jesus, I haven’t had to do this in so long-”

“Do what?”

“Flirt!”

Wait a minute.

“That was you flirting?”

“Yeah, it’s not good, I’m rusty, alright?”

“You’ve been flirting with me.”

“Yeah.”

“This whole time.”

His other hand went to his face. “Two months.”

“TWO MONTHS?!”

He nodded from beneath his hands. It was new, seeing John Walker embarrassed. Kind of adorable in a way.

“John.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

“You know I’ve been flirting with you too, right.”

“WHAT?!” his hands flew away as he looked up, shocked.

“Why else would I call you a sexy plumber?”

“I thought you were joking!” “Why do you think I’m always staring at you and getting distracted?”

“I thought you just had focus problems! Oh my god-” he ran a hand through his hair. “We’re stupid.”

“Yep.” You nodded, breathing out a chuckle as you scooched yourself over to sit directly next to John. You could feel his body heat radiating out. He did say Super Soldiers ran warm once. It was true.

“So now what?” you looked up at him.

He turned. “I could kiss you?”

“Sounds good.”

He didn’t need any more prompting from there. John smashed his lips to yours, desperate and frustrated, but restrained, like he was making a conscious effort to not scare her off. His hands went to cradle your face as you kissed back, threading a hand through his hair and putting another on his shoulder.

You didn’t know who initiated it, but all of a sudden your tongues were in each other's mouths, eliciting a small groan of pleasure from you. He was as good as she imagined him to be. And you’d imagined it a lot.

One hand traveled down to your waist, wrapping around your back and tugging you over to his lap. God, he was strong. Your hands gripped his arms, feeling the muscles in his biceps, the ones you’d stared at so often. Thank God for Alexei and breaking the damn sink, you thought.

You both gasped for air as they pulled apart, having remained attached to each other as long as humanly possible. You opened her eyes to see his blue ones peering up at her, grinning like an idiot. Not in the cocky, annoying way he usually did. This was a pure happy smile, one that carried the weight of all the pining and longing of the past two months.

“You’re a good kisser.” you rubbed his cheek gently with your thumb, his head leaning into the touch. He reached for it with his free hand and pulled it to his mouth, placing a small kiss on it.

“I’m alright.”

“Give yourself some credit, Walker.” you leaned in to peck his cheek, but his head turned to meet his lips to yours again. You smiled into his lips as he pulled you closer, putting you flush against one another.

That was when you noticed the bulge you felt beneath you.

“John.” you whispered as she pulled away.

“Mmhm?”

“Is that- are you-”

“Hard? Oh yeah.”

You couldn’t help it.You burst into laughter at his bluntness, which he joined her in.

“You’re such an idiot.”

“You’re the one on top of me.”

“Fair point.” you grinned at him. “If you’re just alright at kissing, I’m interested to see how good you are at sex.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” And suddenly there was the cocky smile she was used to. “I’m fucking exceptional at sex.”

a/n: again, forgive me for my sins of both liking John and for writing this, if you did enjoy this feel free to like or follow! I hope to post more fic in the future with other Thunderbolt/Marvel characters. TY for reading!

#marvel #thunderbolts #john walker #john walker x reader #thunderbolts*#us agent #john walker x you #fanfic

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no-144444 · 1 day ago

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When are we getting more sky interviewer x oscar? ahhh that cliffhanger!! I can’t wait for more!

reconcile -o.piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! Skyf1interviewer! reader

summary: you're reminded of a promise you made...

part six masterlist

All things considered, you were kind of happy to be leaving F1. Somehow, the last half of this season had you burning bridges, ones you didn’t even want to burn. Your comments filled with various driver ships, various hate messages, but everyday, the same damn message popped up in your instagram comments.

Omg FIA awards are soon! You and Oscar are going to be so cute!

Can’t wait for the hard launch at the FIA awards

Oscar and Y/n forever fr

The way he looks at her! OMG they’re too cute

You hadn’t spoken to Oscar since that night in your hotel room. You ignored his messages . You got Crofty and the others to do his interviews. Abu Dhabi hadn’t been great for you so far, nothing really had. No one seemed to grasp the concept that moving to Indycar wasn’t your choice, but something you had to do for your job. People ignored you. People shunned you. Oscar kept his eyes on you all weekend, and you wanted the Earth to swallow you up. It was awkward. It was the soft glances he used to give you, there was something behind his eyes, a hunger. A fire. Something that made you walk the other way. But Lando grabbed you before you could flee the scene.

“Y/n!” Lando pulled you in for a hug. “How are you?” he asked. Oscar crossed his arms beside him, his body tensing. He watched as Lando hugged you, jealousy flooding his chest. Why was it that you were close with literally everyone but him? Oh yeah, he ruined his chances in that stupid hotel room.

“I’m good thanks,” you nodded, pulling back and looking at the two of them. “How are you two?” you asked, taking a step back.

Lando waited for Oscar to respond, but he didn’t. Lando cleared his throat and smiled. “We’re good, thanks. Ready for this race to be over.”

“Same, I’m so excited to go home after this-”

“We have the FIA awards,” Oscar interjected, hsi tone curt. He knew he was being rude and he knew it was shitty to hold you to a dumb promise, but what else did he have of you to hold onto? You were with an Indycar driver. You were leaving F1. He wouldn’t see you anymore, and he wanted one night where he could pretend he had a chance with you. “Like you promised.”

You swallowed, then nodded. One last night with Oscar, you could do that right? “Course. What colour is your suit?”

“Black,” he was a man of few words, you could give him that. “White shirt. Black bowtie.”

“Thanks for the direction,” you mumbled under your breath. “Text me about it, yeah?” “Will you actually respond?” he questioned, and even he saw the way you flinched at that. He was being mean, but he felt so fucking uncontrollable with you, he didn’t know what to do with himself. “I’m sorry I’m being a-”

“Yeah, you are,” you nodded, your eyes down. “But I guess it wasn’t super mature of me to not respond to your other messages,” you nodded, awkward tension between the two of you as Lando watched the exchange. “Sorry.”

“I just wanted to apologise for what I said back in-”

“What did you say?” Lando gasped. Oscar seemed to forget that you’d been Lando’s friend longer than he had, and Lando would most-likely take your side. Oscar’s mouth opened, then closed again. Lando frowned and turned to you, but you held a hand up to stop him talking.

“It’s between us,” you answered diplomatically. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I am worried about it,” he shot back. “What did he fucking say?”

You sent him one of your looks and he backed down. “The hotel is forgotten,” you turned back to Oscar. “Let’s just all enjoy the awards as a last hurrah, and we’ll go from there, yeah?”

Oscar nodded, feeling a bit better about the way he treated you, and simultaneously worse about the fact that you were leaving.

“So you’re going with him?” Lewis asked. You sat beside him, sighing and leaning your head on his shoulder. He chuckled. You hid in the Ferrari garage a lot and Lewis always seemed to have the best advice, maybe it was something to do with his various failed relationships. “You’re being dramatic. He’s not that bad.”

You huffed again. “He’s nice to literally anyone but me. I swear to god, Carlos got better treatment than me.”

He chuckled. “You’re being extra dramatic today then.”

“Maybe you’re not being dramatic enough,” you shot him a dirty look. You enjoyed this. Moments like this. Moments where your life didn’t not feel yours. You’d always struggled with imposter syndrome, but you’d carved yourself out a nice spot in F1. People liked you, people listened to you, and you knew people. Indaycar was new. Your confusing feelings for Oscar were new. You cuddled closer to Lewis, trying to stay in the line of the aircon.

“You could just fake sick,” he shrugged. You’d already thought about that, but you felt it was rude to Oscar (even if he definitely deserved it). “Or you could just go and tell the Indycar boy to fuck off and run into the sun with Oscar-”

“Lewis!” you hissed. “Shut up!”

He laughed, nudging you. “Just tell him you like him!”

“I don’t!” you stressed, rolling your eyes. “And anyway, he deserves someone who actually can be here for him, not on an entirely different schedule, working insane hours, plus he doesn’t like me anyway!”

He gave you an unimpressed look. “Y/n, don’t play with me,” he scoffed. “That boy is in love with you.” “That boy doesn’t know me!” you argued. “And if he did, I think he’d have a very good reason to walk away.”

Lewis frowned, his voice lowering. “What does that mean?”

You sighed. “I mean… I don’t think we’d work out. He’s a fucking F1 driver for god’s sake. This is insane-”

“You’re one of the most beautiful women in the world,” he shrugged. “You’re so smart. You’re kind. He’d be more than lucky to have you.”

You sighed against his shoulder, mulling it over in your head. Maybe Lewis was right. Maybe you should give it a shot with Oscar.

“So go to the awards with him. See how you feel. You don’t have to make a decision now.”

Maybe he was right. Enjoy the awards with Oscar and go public with Pato the next day...

Great idea.

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

taglist:

@anotherapollokid @chelseyyouraverageluigi @suns3treading @patis643 @trees-are-books @stressed-cherry @revrse @awenthealchemist @imdyinghelpplease @successfulgarlic81 @finn-dot-com @vhkdncu2ei8997 @lazybot @mayax2o07 @perfectmenarefictional @anunstablefangirl @martygraciesversion381 @abrabadabrasimsalagrim @athena63005

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makeyoumine69 · 2 days ago

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Silver & Red (commission)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: WS!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Soldat dreams about his dear Sunshine.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, porn with feelings, angst, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, body worship, unprotected sex (p in v), pet names, Russian language, delusions, brainwashing, swearing.

𝐀/𝐍: Hello everyone. It's been centuries since I've written anything related to Marvel (I've never done it on this blog), so I'm very grateful to the person who commissioned this and let me go back to the times when I was thriving for Marvel. Hope you like it!💕

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑��𝐂: Dyrnoi Vkus — Plastinki 🫠

Those memories were too vivid, too real to be just memories and not an inseparable part of his very soul. The soft edge of your voice, the way you held his hand for the first time without fear—even though his cold blue eyes tried desperately to find some semblance of it.

But he never found any.

Odin (one), dva (two), tri (three.)

The HYDRA specialist kept muttering something incoherent in Russian, fumbling with the worn, old-looking book with a red star on it. The Asset didn't listen, because every little part of his twisted and tortured mind was preoccupied with thoughts of you—so desperate to cherish them, as if they were the only thing in his existence that seemed to matter.

The only thing that could be worth fighting for.

The airy softness of your touch. The abandoned, half-ruined building somewhere in Brooklyn where you spent your last night together. The warmth of your lips before you had to say goodbye.

It hurt.

It hurt so fucking much.

The man wanted it back—you, his old memories that he knew had been stolen, his old self—he had to take it back to see you again, to hold you against his chest, to make sure that nothing and no one would ever threaten you, because you were his light when he was a dark room. You were his solnce (sunshine) that blinded and almost burned with the heat and brightness that was your kindness and sincerity. It left him disarmed and for the first time he wondered, was he really just a tool, just a deadly weapon that should never feel anything?

But what was that?

What was that extraterritorial sensation that cursed through his enhanced body when your mouth covered his cold one, your tender lips caressing delicately, begging for more. And though he didn't know why and what kept him from killing you to complete his mission—he couldn't even imagine hurting you in any way.

Maybe it was something about your eyes—so open and wide. Maybe it was the Russian you spoke so well—every word struck a chord in his broad chest—or maybe you were the first person he didn't see as corrupt.

And suddenly, analysis was no longer an option.

Not when he finally responded to your kiss, his metal arm wrapped tightly around your waist, bringing you closer, his leather vest rubbing against your bruised skin, and it ached, but you didn't care. This mysterious man, you couldn't tell if he was sent to be your doom or your savior—could he be both at the same time?

It was raining cats and dogs that night, and since the building you were hiding in didn't even have a roof, cold raindrops were falling on your naked bodies from time to time, but you didn't feel cold. Just the opposite. You burned from the fire that stirred at your core, and with every little touch, Soldat explored your bare skin as if you were a treasure map he had been searching for all his life. Panting, you lay on the old matrass that cracked beneath you whenever he leaned in to kiss your collarbone, bite your neck, and run his hot tongue over one of your nipples—each time you literally sobbed, writhed, and closed your eyes.

At some point, Soldat realized that he had absolutely no control over himself, and that was dangerous and even lethal. Simply because he didn't know what would happen to you if he chose not to comply. HYDRA agents would find him sooner or later, but most importantly, he would never forgive himself if something bad happened to you.

"Mmhm, I don't want you to go," you murmured into his mouth after breaking the kiss. "I want you to stay."

Pressing his forehead against yours, Soldat closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You know I can't stay," his voice trailed off, laced with genuine sorrow and a hint of something close to desperation. "They'll find us."

"They? Who are they?"

The man didn't answer, only snuggled closer to your body, his human hand holding the back of your head with uncharacteristic tenderness. "They... they are everywhere and nowhere at the same time." Soldat paused and hovered over you, leaning on his elbow to cup your face. "But I won't let 'em," he punctuated his words with a deep, captivating kiss on your lips, his hips buckling into yours—smoothly, needily, decisively—and his hot flesh throbbed against your mound in unspoken anticipation. "You'll be safe."

You frowned, but you didn't argue.

"Ya naidy tebya (I'll find you)," the Asset's promising voice would definitely stay in your head forever, even though you didn't know if you could really believe him. "Rano ili pozndo, my uvidimsya snova (Sooner or later you will see me again)".

Almost crying, you closed your eyes and Soldat pecked your cheek, then one of your twitching eyelids—he hated to see you like that. Broken and lost. Without any semblance of hope.

"You're lying!" You shouted, clutching his metal arm—its coldness nearly burning your skin. "Ty vresh! (You're lying!)"

After a shaky breath, Soldat held your face in both of his palms. "Look at me." You flinched, his grip tightening. "Look at me, solnce (sunshine)," and when you finally raised your glassy eyes to him, he was already ready to destroy this fucking building into ruins if it would help him cool his rage even a little. "If anything happens to ya," he paused, trailing a cold silver finger across your parted lips. "I–I can't even imagine that happenin'."

With that, the Asset sealed your lips in a feverish kiss, his strong arms enveloping your shivering body to set you ablaze, shielding you from the cold air. Oh, how much he wanted to protect you from everyone. Be it HYDRA or any other organization that plagued this world that was already on the verge of tearing itself apart.

Cautiously, Soldat sat on his heels in front of your open thighs, stroking the backs of your calves and going down to tickle your ankles, and when you couldn't help but giggle, the man would draw to the place where your body connected to your hip for a small, barely sensual peck. You'd curl up and lean into his touch, your legs trembling in his grasp, and his hot, labored breathing getting closer to the center of your desire was nothing but pure torture.

And he knew it.

"Soldat," you arched your back, looking down at him through your half-open eyes. "Oh–God," his lips were so close to your slick pussy, but still avoiding touching your clit. "Please–ahhh–yes."

That was it.

That exact moment when he touched your bundle of nerves with just the tip of his tongue, flicking it once, then twice, and you were already writhing beneath him, your legs about to lock around his head if he didn't stop toying with you like that. But the Asset was determined in everything he did—he was a perfect weapon and his cold-blooded temper would be the death of you. However, soon his own lust would start to consume him, spurring him to just let himself go, thinking of nothing but your taste as he relished the way your body responded to everything he did. With a characteristic pop, he'd tug on your engorged clit and use his metal fingers to probe your entrance just a little, until you were thrashing on the mattress, yearning for more.

And you didn't even have to say anything—it was written all over your face, in your sparkling eyes.

Absolutely fascinating picture of need and desire.

With a soft groan, Soldat would align himself with your soaked cunt, coating his thick cock in your juices before pushing himself in—inch by inch—until he bottomed out completely. A loud, almost deafening scream would fall from your swollen lips, and he'd cover them all with his kisses, with his caresses, with his affection.

"Shhh," he whispered somewhere near your temple, both arms wrapped around your torso as he rammed into you, harder and less restrained. "I got you."

You wanted to claw at the meat of his bulky bicep, but instead you grabbed his firm ass, wrapped your legs around his lower back, allowing him to go even deeper, and damn it, the second his dick found that spongy, slutty spot inside you, the whole world ceased to exist.

Everything was lost in the flames of raw passion and pleasure.

It was so brutal and even ugly—absolutely unfiltered and without remorse.

The slapping of skin against skin drowned out the raging weather outside, Soldat's heavy panting echoing against your eardrums as if you two were one now—a perfect mechanism, each part made to fit the other. The curve of his beefy cock rubbed against your inner walls like clockwork, making you feel so full, so overstimulated, and so insanely happy that you didn't really care, even if you forgot how to breathe, it just didn't matter.

All those memories.

They would stay with him like scars on his mind, even if they brainwashed him a thousand times. Even if he'd never see you again. Even if none of this happened in reality and you were just a fantasy.

A fantasy he wanted to live for.

Thank you for the reading! Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!🖤 [MAIN M-LIST]🪓[KO-FI]

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oopsiedaisydeer · 2 days ago

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ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ ʏᴇᴛ

…𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩�� 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

friends to lovers, office romance, halloween, light angst, fluff, miscommunication, slow burn, humour, mutual pining

word count - 1k

The first thing Dotty hears on Halloween morning, aside from her coworker’s bluetooth speaker blasting Monster Mash in the hallway, is her boss saying the word “fire.”

She’s in his office with a notepad in hand, doing her best to write down the instructions he’s giving her about the costume contest (“put Dana in charge, she’s got glitter”) when he lowers his voice and mumbles into his phone:

“Yeah, I know. Someone’s gotta go. I just don’t understand why you’ve given me such a short deadline with this.”

Dotty blinks. The pen in her hand freezes. Her boss notices her silence, waves a hand, and mouths something like not you. But that doesn't settle the knot forming behind her ribs.

She’s still thinking about it twenty minutes later when she finds Matt sitting at his desk, peeling the wrapper off a mini twix bar and already wearing his costume, a wrinkled white shirt, a crooked tie, and a name tag that says Manager in Comic Sans.

“Are you… supposed to be the boss?” she asks, folding her arms.

Matt gives her a guilty smile. “Too much?”

Dotty shrugs, trying not to smile. “He’ll probably love it.”

He cocks his head. “You okay?”

And that’s when she blurts, “Someone’s getting fired.”

Matt’s face stills. “Wait, what?”

She sits down on the edge of his desk, notebook tucked against her chest. “I heard him on the phone. He said someone’s gotta go. I think it’s real.”

Matt leans back in his chair, wheels creaking. “It’s gotta be someone from accounting.”

Dotty winces. “Don’t say that.”

“Come on,” Matt argues, opening another piece of candy. “Should be Wyatt. He definitely has a secret YouTube channel for reviews of office chairs. And he knows what the difference between a number one and two pencil is.”

“He's… enthusiastic.”

“He's terrifying,” Matt corrects.“We should post his resume online. Just in case. Help him get a head start.”

Dotty stares. “That is wildly unethical.”

Matt grins. “So is using the work printer to print Taylor Swift trivia for your lunch breaks.”

“…Fine,” she says, laughing now. “But only because he definitely listed ‘karate’ as a soft skill.”

By noon, Operation Resume is in full swing.

They find a Word doc titled Wyatt_FINAL_REAL_ONE.docx in the shared drive and give it a little polish. Dotty adds buzzwords like synergistic and innovative mindset. Matt lists Wyatt’s hometown as “the cloud.”

Then Matt takes it one step further.

“Someone actually wants to do a phone interview,” he tells her, mid-afternoon, holding his desk phone like it might explode. “Should I… be him?”

“No,” Dotty says, trying to hide the smile in her voice. “Definitely not.”

He does it anyway.

She watches him lower his voice two octaves and say things like “I pride myself on punctuality and moral excellence.” He ends the call by solemnly stating, “I’ll speak to my superiors and get back to you.”

“You are going to hell,” she says, giggling into her sleeve.

It’s late when things go wrong.

Dotty’s helping clean up pumpkin guts in the breakroom, Matt leaning against the counter beside her with a soda can and his tie crooked.

He looks too handsome for his own good.

“Hey,” he says. “So… about that job offer.”

Dotty glances over.

“It was kinda real,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Like, it’s a startup. It pays better than here, but they said they want someone ‘creative’. I dunno.”

Dotty bites the inside of her cheek.

She doesn’t want him to leave. But she’s not allowed to say that. Not when she’s just the receptionist. Not when they’re just friends. Colleagues.

So she makes herself smile.

“You should take it.”

Matt goes quiet.

Dotty keeps talking, hoping it doesn’t sound nervous or like begging. “You’re… like, you’re smart. And funny. You get stuff done without being weird about it. You care about people, even if you act like you don’t. You don’t belong here forever.”

Matt nods. Too quickly. His mouth pulls into a flat line.

“Oh,” he says. “Right. Yeah. No, you’re right.”

He won’t look at her.

Dotty blinks. Something’s wrong.

“Just, you deserve it. Don’t undersell yourself.”

But Matt’s already brushing her off, his voice light and unreadable. “Right, well… I’ve gotta, um, go help with the cleanup. Wyatt’s skeleton lost a leg.”

And he walks away.

Dotty’s left standing in front of the fridge, hands sticky with pumpkin seeds, heart quietly breaking in her chest.

Just as it nears 4:30pm , Wyatt sends an all-office email:

Subject: WHO POSTED MY RESUME Hello. I received a job offer from a company I did not apply to. I have informed legal. I am no mutineer. Best, Wyatt Future CEO

Dotty reads the email twice before snorting into her coffee.

She finds Matt in the breakroom twenty minutes later, loading the dishwasher. He doesn’t say anything when she walks in. He just nods. She’s not used to that with Matt.

Dotty leans against the counter beside him.

“I didn’t mean I wanted you to go,” she says softly.

Matt stills.

“I meant it like… I believe in you. That’s all.”

He finally looks at her.

“I thought you meant you wouldn’t care if I left,” he says, voice quieter than she’s ever heard it.

Dotty swallows.

“Well, I would. I’d care a lot.”

A warm, slightly uncomfortable silence settles between them.

Then Matt smiles. Crooked and shy, a little lopsided.

“I’d miss you,” he says. “More than I’d miss the broken coffee machine and the boss’s 11 a.m. inspirational speeches in the conference room.”

Dotty bumps his arm with hers.

“I’d miss you too,” she says. “Even if you never refill the paper in the printer.”

They catch each other’s eyes for a moment, both genuinely happy.

“Guess I’m staying,” Matt says, grinning.

Dotty rolls her eyes. “For now.”

That night, as everyone leaves and the last pumpkin gets tossed in the bin, Matt walks her to her car.

She’s still wearing bits from her costume, and he’s got candy stuffed in his pockets from the communal bucket.

Before she unlocks the door, he says:

“If I ever do leave… I’ll, uh, make sure you know first.”

Dotty smiles, a little sad at the mention of him actually leaving.

“Good,” she says. “I’d want to say goodbye.”

He nods, soft and sincere, then turns to go. But not before he glances back with, “See you tomorrow, Dotty.”

“See you.”

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ꨄ

a/n: sbsbfsdjbf trying to get more worldbuiding into this au, so i hope you enjoyed !! also ik it isn't halloween but this is the episode we're up to in the show and it's autumn where i live so :p

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afroslacks · 18 hours ago

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Don't Copy My Work 😐

Excuse any grammar mistakes and spelling I will fix it later.

I Luv Your Girl - The Dream

Modern! Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Black! Reader

Elijah has always been the quiet, calm, cool, and collected type. Whether that's its actual personality or a trauma response to adolescene he endured. He's been good keeping a poker face. But, when he met you it all changed.

You're his best friend's girl. His best friend being a man named Darius. They've know each other since their early 20's and been tight ever since. Smoke has always respected and love Darius like he was his own until he fell for you.

Right now he's watching you and Darius cuddle up on the couch as everyone watches some dumb ass horror movie. He's not even paying attention to the movie but instead he sitting at the end of couch watching y'all like some stalker. "I can't look" explain as out your hands over eyes only to slowly peek from behing your hands. Darius laughs deep from within his chest to pull you closer under his shoulder "it's okay baby I know you're a scaredy cat."

At his insenstive comment you smack your lips "boy shut up you know I don't like scary movies." Smoke has always liked your honesty and fired and he considers them some the best qualities about you. He never liked women who just sat there and took anything, to him they didn't have boundaries. He wanted woman who show him something and prove him wrong.

But he also knew Darius wanted to break you down in someone nobody would recognize. He had this belief that you needed to soften up a bit and follow a man's lead to make your life easier. Maybe even smile more so you would look so angry. That's exactly why he picked this lame ass movie.

Smoke then clears his throat to let the couple know he's still here. "My bad man we forgot you were here" Darius admits as he looks over his shoulder. "Speak for yourself" You cut in "Smoke are we annoying you?" Not wanting to inapporpiate. After all he is a guess. Elijah chuckles a little bit "nah you good."

He really appreciate that you're one of the few people who refuses to allow him to fall to waist side. Because of quiet nature people often move around because he doesn't make himself known. So to know that you'll always acknowledge him at his most silent makes him want you more. He knows its wrong to want your friend but he know he can treat you better.

He clears his throat stands uo clutching his bowl of popcorn. As screams from the televison fill the room along with the sound of chainsaw. "Well it's getting late looks like I gotta bounce." He admits

It causes you to smack your lips in disappointment as you push away Darius. "What? You don't have to go I gotta spare bedroom." You suggest while Darius raises a brow as your caring nature. "Since when you have such a caring spirit?" He jokes looking between his best friend and girlfriend. "I'm not heartless its too late for him to drive." You insists holding eye contact with Smoke who hasn't looked away since.

"I don't want to interrupt" Smoke confesses don't wanting to cause a fight. You shake your head the claim if their was a fight it started because Darius was annoying the hell out her. "No you're good plus it's my house" insisting

¤¤¤¤¤

Later that night You crawl out bed leaving Darius to snore loudly in bed heaving like a dog. Since he is such a heavy sleeper.Slowly shutting the door behind you make it to the spare bedroom. You gently open the door stepping inside for closing and locking it behind you.

Elijah already awake stares at you as he sleeps shirtless with gold chain gleaming in the night from the moonlight. "Came back for more?" He asks as the blankets falls from hips exposing his abs. You exclaim heavily "I'm just making sure that we agree we aren't going to tell him anything. Smoke then climbs out of bed walks over to ypu then peers down "now why would I do that?" He rhetorrically asks he knows why but, he wants to truth to spills from your lips.

"Because it shouldn't have happened don't play dumb it ain't cute." You snap turning your nose at him with anger flaring in your eyes. Smoke scoffs nodding along "So you didn't ride me or my face until 3am a week ago." He sarcastically agrees wanting to rub it in her face. "So we didn't spend time outside of sex enjoying each other company and you didn't confess you wanted to leave him?" Your face burns as he brings up some of the best memories that you've had in a long time. The memories that you're forcing yourself to push away to be safe.

"I'm with Darius, Smoke you know you're bestfriend." Pointed out "You don't have to be, let me take care of it and you." He suggest wrapping his strong arms around your waist. You heart beating faster as you feel yourself falling again.

Smokes leans his forehead again yours. Heavy breathing between you both and you haven't done anything yet. "I want to treat you like the amazing woman that you are. Don't you want that?" He inqures staring into your eyes. Your lip quivers as you think of wonderful treatment he provided for you before "Yes." You shakily admit breathing him in.

You're of Darius and honestly you can't stand him. He does everything in his power to try to control you. He's boring and his sex game weak too. You stayed simply because you've been there for a certain amount of time.

Elijah places his hands on your cheeks pulling you into his addicting kiss. It starts innocent with a press of his lips. Then he proceeds to open you up demanding for your tongue to play.

Your hands starts towards his large back and then makes its way up to his neck. Wanting to craddle his head to yours not wanting to let go of his touch. Moments later you break apart for air and he plants kisses on your neck. Grabbing a handful of your bottom to cop a good feel of what's his.

¤¤¤¤¤

Anyways let me know what you think. Should I make part 2? I'm sorry I didn't write more its 1am and bad bitch gotta work. Bye🫠

#sinners x reader #michael b jordan x reader #smoke x reader #elijah moore #x black reader #elijah moore x reader #elijah smoke moore #sinners x black reader

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ghostlycamil4 · 1 day ago

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𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝑇𝑒𝑛 𝑀𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑠, 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝐶𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑡, 𝑁𝑜 𝐸𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑒

Can ten minutes in a dark closet change everything between two people who pretend they don’t care?

The game of spin the bottle had started out as a simple joke. A dumb way —according to Bakugo— to waste time. But when the bottle spun and landed on him… and then on you, his scowl deepened more than usual.

"Ten minutes!" Mina shouted, giving you a gentle nudge toward him, her playful gaze and cheeky wink saying it all. "Have fun," she whispered near your ear before closing the closet door, leaving the two of you locked in the dark, broken only by a faint beam of light slipping through a crack.

The walls seemed to shrink. Bakugo stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a corner with his eyes fixed on some invisible point on the floor, like just looking at you might make him explode—literally.

You hadn’t said a word. Neither had he.

But then, from the corner of his eye, he glanced at you. Just a flicker. And there you were, cheeks flushed, biting your lower lip like you were trying to hold back every word you wanted to say.

"What’s your problem?" he snapped, though his voice sounded a bit strained. "It’s not like I wanna touch you."

His words hit like cold water. Your eyes widened slightly, and your already blushing expression hardened in an attempt to hide the sting in your chest.

"I never said I want you to touch me," you shot back, though your voice trembled slightly, betraying your indifferent facade.

He turned to face you for the first time since you were locked in. His red eyes were glowing with something more than irritation. Annoyance? Confusion? Want? His whole stance shifted—from withdrawn to slightly alert, like he suddenly needed to make himself seen.

"Oh yeah? So you wanted the bottle to land on someone else, huh?" His tone sharpened, but behind every word there was something tightly held back. The muscles in his jaw tensed.

He stepped forward. Each move made the old wooden floor creak. His shadow fell over you, forcing you to look up.

"It’s none of your business, Bakugo," you murmured, unable to hold his gaze.

"Who then? Deku? Shoto?"

A plea disguised as rage. A silent “tell me it’s not them” hidden under his arrogance.

"Are you jealous?" you asked suddenly, your voice shaking slightly, but this time from the courage it took to confront him with the truth.

He didn’t answer right away. He blinked once, as if your words had slammed into his chest.

"Tch… idiot," he muttered, turning his face to the side.

You swallowed hard. The knot in your throat grew with every second. The tension was suffocating, like the air was about to catch fire.

You looked at Bakugo. He was still standing there, stiff, gaze stuck to the floor, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. He’d said so much… and so little.

"This is completely messed up…" you whispered, mostly to yourself.

Maybe you’d made a mistake. Maybe it was stupid to rig the bottle. Maybe he’d never looked at you the way you looked at him.

A shaky sigh slipped from your lips. Anxiety pushed you toward the only possible exit. You crossed the few steps to the door.

But you didn’t open it.

A firm hand grabbed your arm—tight, but not enough to hurt.

He spun you around, forcing you to face him.

Bakugo.

"What do you think you’re doing?" he growled, his voice rough, low. Every word dripping with something more than just anger.

Your back hit the closet wall.

"What are you doing?" you shot back, matching his tone, though the tremble in your voice gave you away.

"Why don’t you just shut up?" he said—but not in rage. This time, his voice was low… almost a whisper.

And before you could process it, he kissed you.

Your eyes flew open at first.

The first touch froze you. But then, when his hand slid slowly to your cheek, when his thumb brushed your skin like he wanted to memorize it… you closed them.

That kiss was everything he’d been denying. Every time he looked at you and swallowed his pride. Every night he thought about you and pretended he didn’t. It was wild. It was direct.

His hand on your waist slid lower, stopped at your hip, gripped hard. Pulled you closer like just touching wasn’t enough anymore. His other hand slipped under your skirt, just a bit, the tips of his fingers brushing your skin slowly… on purpose. It burned. It made you arch into him.

You let out a choked breath when his lips left yours just to bite your bottom lip before letting go. He looked at you with that expression only he could have—brows furrowed, eyes dark, lips parted… and hungry.

Then one of his hands trailed up your thigh and pulled one of your legs around his waist, like having you that close still wasn’t enough. He held you tight, like he knew exactly how and where to touch you to make you lose it.

Your hips reacted on instinct. A small shift, just a brush—and he growled against your mouth, making you tremble.

"Fuck…" he whispered, losing it for a second.

His mouth moved to your neck, open kisses, wet, fast, desperate. You felt him trace your skin, lick, bite, taste.

"Bakugo…" you breathed, barely a whisper.

"Say it again," he demanded, lips still on your collarbone.

"Bakugo…"

This time he bit down harder.

And just when he leaned in to kiss you again—

Knock, knock!

"Time’s up!" Mina’s voice. Cheerful, clueless, teasing.

You both froze.

Your breathing was a mess. Your lips red, swollen. His hand still on your thigh, the other on your waist. Your whole body shaking.

Bakugo looked at you. You looked back.

And neither of you said a word.

• Masterlist

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

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ninjagophan-a-child-for-once · 2 days ago

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Headcan in the all of the Ninja can do something weirdly inhuman.

This all started when I was thinking about The opening scene in Tick Tock (season 1 episode 7, Don't ask why I know it by heart It's my favorite episode I'm 17 and I still get hype when watching it) where Zane was testing his capabilities to hold his breath underwater to an unhuman degree (cuz robot)

But like what if before That scene (It is implied that they do test things like this in said scene So I am running with it) Kai points out how inhuman it is that Zane can hold his breath for so long. And Zane understandably, subconscious about it which fires off a whole series of the Ninja explaining how they're inhuman in this sense.

Cool claims that there's nothing really inhuman about him to which Kai interjects that he can effortlessly pick up the refrigerator in one arm and the couch and the other as he had done so the week before to which Cole tries to defend himself by saying Zane needed help cleaning under the surfaces cut two all three Ninja giving Cole a deadpan look.

Jay talks about how he can be electrocuted roughly a thousand times during his little tinker sections and not feel a thing until someone (mainly Nya) points out that he's actively being electrocuted. Of which Kai makes fun of him for. Jay gets embarrassed and asks Kai what his inhuman trait is.

And suddenly Kai is really embarrassed And he makes the others swear that they won't judge him or make fun of him for it with an odd kind of severity rarely seen from Kai they all give their their is agreements and they stand there in an awkward silence for all of 15 seconds before Kai clears his throat and lets out the most inhuman growl. Like something that isn't even physically possible from a human's throat of which Zane points out and Kai just kind of shrugs looking really subconscious about it explaining that he's always been able to do it and Nya can do something similar but oddly only underwater.

Anyway I just wanted to rant about a headcanon I came up with which is literally just “What if Kai and Nya can growl/roar like dragons (fire dragon and water dragon/serpent respectively)”

#ninjago #kai smith #nya smith #zane julien #jay walker #cole brookestone #ninjago nya #ninjago cole #ninjago zane #ninjago kai #ninjago jay #(sadly Lloyd isn't really included in this one)#but like #He's like part semi/demigod or something-#I just like the thought of them having dragonic traits #Like dude what if they had a dragon ancestor #(I think that's literally wear their Powers come from anyway but like I'm too lazy to check)

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honeydippedfiction · 2 days ago

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hiiiii can we get Joe x shy reader having a chill night at home playing card games

best friends to lovers prompts:

sharing clothes

"why are you looking at me like that?"

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

sharing clothes & "why are you looking at me like that?"

Joe Burrow x black!femreader

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Rain tapped steadily against the windows, each drop adding to the quiet rhythm of the night. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, a gentle hum that gave voice to the stillness. Inside Joe Burrow’s home, everything felt wrapped in warmth—the soft golden flicker of the fireplace casting shadows across the walls, the scent of cedarwood lingering faintly in the air.

It was a night made for silence, for slow hours and low voices, for things long held back.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the coffee table, wrapped in the comfort of Joe’s old LSU hoodie. The deep purple fabric dwarfed her frame, the sleeves slipping past her fingertips as she shuffled a deck of playing cards with quiet focus. Her skin—warm, rich brown, glowing softly in the firelight—stood in beautiful contrast to the faded hoodie, and her natural curls were pulled into a loose puff atop her head, a few strands framing her face like they had minds of their own. She looked small in the hoodie—smaller still under the dim glow of the firelight—but there was nothing fragile about her.

She was grounded. Familiar. Beautiful in the way that made Joe feel like he was witnessing something private, something he hadn’t earned but was grateful to be allowed to see.

Joe was behind her on the couch, stretched out like he had no intention of moving for the rest of the night. One arm hung lazily over the backrest, the other loosely holding a glass of water that had long since lost his interest. His eyes weren’t on the cards. They hadn’t been for a while.

He was watching her.

And not just in passing. He was seeing her.

The way her lips pressed together in concentration, full and unadorned. The slight furrow in her brow when she focused. The curve of her cheek, lit gold by the fire, and the curve of her bare legs where they peeked out from beneath the hoodie, smooth and resting still against the warmth of the rug.

It wasn’t new—not really. Joe had been watching Y/N like this for years. When she wasn’t paying attention. When she was dancing in his kitchen with music playing low from her phone. When she was mouthing lyrics to old-school R&B in his car—Lauryn, Toni, sometimes Brandy—soft and under her breath like prayer. When she was doing everything and nothing and somehow still managing to leave him breathless.

But tonight felt different.

Tonight, the air between them buzzed with something slower, heavier. Not tense. Just full. As if something unspoken had finally taken up too much space to ignore.

She looked up, catching him mid-thought. Her eyes—dark and expressive, lined gently from years of guarded honesty—met his without flinching.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, her voice smooth and low, rich like the sound of velvet being drawn across old wood.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Just raised a brow, casual. “Like what?”

She tilted her head, curls shifting slightly. “Like you’ve never seen me before.”

Joe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The firelight caught his profile in shifting shades of amber and shadow. His voice came easy, but something deeper moved beneath it.

“Maybe I’m just realizing how good you look in my hoodie.”

She gave a soft huff, rolled her eyes—but she didn’t look away.

“Or maybe,” he added, softer now, “I’ve always noticed. I just didn’t let myself think about it until tonight.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She dropped her gaze, her fingers tugging at the frayed hem of the sleeve again—a nervous tic he knew by heart. She wasn’t someone who let compliments sink in easily. Especially not from him. Especially not when they came wrapped in so much truth.

A nervous habit. One he knew as well as his own tells.

“Joe…”

“I mean it,” he said, gently, catching her hesitation and cradling it instead of pushing through. “You’ve always been beautiful, Y/N. You just… you don’t always see yourself the way I see you.”

That was the thing about Joe. He didn’t say things he didn’t mean. His words always came with weight. With intention.

Y/N stared down at her lap, swallowing hard. Compliments had never sat easily with her, especially not from him. Not when his voice carried the same softness she’d heard a hundred times before—in late-night calls, in whispered encouragements, in the quiet steadiness he offered every time her world tilted sideways.

She closed her eyes for a beat, then opened them again.

“I never know what to say when you talk like that.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Joe replied, his voice still low, almost careful. “I just… I want you to know how I see you. That’s all.”

It would’ve been easier to deflect. To joke. To ask if he was tired or drunk or pulling something out of a Hallmark movie. But she didn’t. Not this time.

Because this moment—it wasn’t sudden. It was slow-blooming. Years in the making.

She could remember the first time they met. Joe, with his quiet confidence and boyish charm, had always had a way of making her feel seen—even when she didn’t want to be.

They’d known each other since freshman year of high school—met during study hall when Y/N had been too shy to ask for a pencil, so she just wrote with a broken one until Joe noticed and slid his over without saying a word. He’d been like that even then. Quietly observant. Kind. They’d clicked almost instantly, both outsiders in their own ways: her reserved and thoughtful, always scribbling in her notebook during lunch; him, the football prodigy everyone admired but few really knew.

From AP Chem to Friday night football games, to late-night phone calls when he was in Baton Rouge and she was still stuck in their small town, curled up in bed with a textbook and a clock that moved too slowly. He called when he was stressed. She texted when she needed to hear his voice. They weren’t perfect, but they were constants. A lifeline. He never made her feel like she had to be anyone else, and she never treated him like a quarterback—just Joe. Just her best friend.

And now, somehow, tonight felt like the moment where all of that—the years, the loyalty, the hidden glances and unspoken things—had led them here.

And now here they were. Same room. Same rhythm. But something had shifted.

“You’re just trying to distract me,” she said eventually, a quiet smile pulling at her lips. “Because I’m beating you at Go Fish.”

Joe chuckled, relaxing slightly at the familiar teasing. “You’ve got, what, two pairs? I’m not exactly shaking in my socks over here.”

She smirked. “Still more than you.”

“Barely,” he muttered, reaching for his next card.

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆..⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.

They played a few more hands, the game now little more than background noise to something larger taking root in the space between them. Their laughter lingered, softer now. Unrushed. Each glance held longer. Each brush of their fingers across the table felt deliberate.

Outside, the rain deepened, a steady percussion against the glass. The fire crackled, burning low and warm. It all felt suspended in time.

They played another few hands, the card game now more of a ritual than a competition. Between turns, Joe would reach for his water and glance at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was really there—like the moment was so simple it had become something sacred.

After a few more rounds of Go Fish, the thrill dulled, and the teasing that once sparked like flint softened into easy smiles. The deck lay between them, forgotten, as the night began to stretch its limbs—slow, gentle, unhurried.

Y/N let out a soft groan as she leaned forward and raised her arms above her head in a long, luxurious stretch. The sleeves of Joe’s hoodie slipped further down over her hands, flopping over her fingers like oversized paws. The deep purple fabric swamped her frame, and the scent of his cologne lingered faintly in the fabric—a mix of cedar, clean laundry, and something unmistakably him.

A few curls slipped loose from the silk scarf she’d tied around her hair earlier, falling against her cheek as she peeked at him through the soft, dark curtain. Her skin, a rich, deep brown that caught the firelight in waves of bronze and gold, glowed under the dim light like polished mahogany. That mischievous spark danced behind her yawn, her eyes warm and alive, framed by the gentle fan of lashes that always made her look like she was in the middle of a secret.

Joe’s gaze lingered—too long, probably—but he didn’t look away.

He never could when she looked like that.

So effortless. So radiant. So her.

Y/N gave him a sideways glance, her mouth tugging into the faintest smile. “You’re staring again.”

“Can you blame me?” he said, voice soft and low.

She raised a brow, amused. “Is it the hoodie or the stretch?”

“It’s everything,” he replied, not missing a beat. “You look like a painting.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed all the same, her fingers tugging lightly at the edge of her scarf like she was trying to ground herself. Compliments always made her retreat a little—but from Joe, they settled somewhere deeper. Somewhere unspoken.

The fire crackled behind them, its light flickering across the curve of her collarbone and the dark silk of her skin where the hoodie dipped low at the neck. She shifted her weight, one leg tucked beneath her, her bare knee brushing his for a moment too long to be accidental.

Joe didn’t pull away.

Neither did she.

And in that stillness, in the comfort of a room made golden by fire and years of quiet friendship, something else began to unfold—tentative and tender, like dawn.

“Alright,” she said, dropping her arms with an exaggerated sigh, “time to bring out the real chaos.”

From his place on the floor beside her—half-sprawled, head propped lazily in one hand—Joe raised an eyebrow. “UNO?”

“UNO,” she confirmed solemnly, already reaching toward the side table. She opened the drawer like it was a secret compartment, dragging out the small red box with theatrical flair. “You sure you’re ready for the end of our friendship?”

He smirked. “I’ve survived harder hits on the field than your reverse cards.”

She squinted at him, mock-serious as she cracked open the box and began to shuffle. “That’s bold talk for someone who cried last time I hit you with a Draw Four.”

“One tear, Y/N,” Joe shot back, reaching for his cards. “One single, dignified tear. And it was strategic.”

Their laughter carried easily into the air, folding into the soft rhythm of the rain tapping against the windows. The fire crackled behind them, casting a gentle glow across the room—golden and flickering, like candlelight catching on memory.

They settled into the game, knees tucked beneath the low coffee table, the carpet warmed beneath them by hours of lingering presence. Their banter became the music of the moment, familiar and unhurried. Cards slipped back and forth. Colors clashed. Rules were bent, then shamelessly argued. Every Skip was personal. Every Wild Card, a declaration of war.

And somewhere between the stacking of Draw Twos and their third debate over whether house rules allowed stacking Draw Fours (they did, obviously), something began to shift.

At first, it was nothing more than a glance that lingered a beat too long. Then it was the brush of their knees beneath the table that neither of them pulled away from. The touches—casual, incidental—began to feel like something more. A shared current humming underneath the night.

Y/N groaned as she picked up two cards from the draw pile, scowling at her hand. “I should’ve let you lose at Go Fish.”

Joe leaned back on his palms, eyes dancing with satisfaction. “This,” he said, gesturing grandly to the pile of penalties in front of her, “is what peak athletic performance looks like.”

She looked over at him, lips twitching. “You’re insufferable.”

He just grinned. “And yet, here you are. Voluntarily spending your Friday night with me.”

Her smile softened, curling at the corners. “Maybe I like pain.”

Their eyes held for a moment longer than the joke required.

Y/N glanced down at her cards again, her fingers still. Her expression shifted—subtle but distinct. The spark of competition faded from her features, replaced by something quieter. She held a Wild in her hand, ready to play it. But instead, she let her hand hover over the discard pile without moving.

“Joe?” she asked, voice softer now, tinged with hesitation.

He looked up, still smiling, though it began to fade when he saw her face. “Yeah?”

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on the deck, like the answer might be written between the lines of color. Her voice lowered, almost to a whisper.

“Do you ever think about it?”

He blinked, the question catching him off guard. “Think about what?”

Her grip on the card tightened, her thumb brushing the edge like she needed something to hold onto. “Us. Being more than friends.”

The air in the room changed.

The fire still cracked, and the rain still fell, but the background noises felt far away now, muted under the weight of her words. The game was no longer a game. It was a bridge. And she had just taken the first step across it.

Joe’s eyes didn’t leave her. He slowly lowered his cards, placing them gently on the table. Then he sat up straighter, closing the distance between them—not too close, but enough to show her she wasn’t alone in this.

“Yeah,” he said at last, the word slow and honest. “I think about it more than I should.”

She looked up, startled by the quiet certainty in his voice. Her eyes searched his face, looking for cracks, contradictions. But all she found was truth.

“Then why haven’t you said anything?” she asked, not accusatory—just quietly curious.

Joe let out a slow breath. His eyes dropped to the space between them. “Because I didn’t want to lose what we already have. You’re my best friend, Y/N. You’ve been here through everything—when I bombed my first tryout, when my dad got sick, when I didn’t even believe in myself. I guess I thought if I said it out loud, it might ruin all of that.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “I get that.”

He looked up again, his gaze soft but unwavering. “But I’ve also spent too many nights wondering what it would be like to tell you. Wondering if you ever felt the same.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a breath of a laugh, she looked down at the card still clutched in her hand. “I have,” she admitted. “For a while now. I just… I didn’t want to be the one to mess things up.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was full. Full of things unsaid for too long, of years of side glances and half-finished thoughts. Of something neither of them had been quite ready to hold—until now.

Joe’s grin returned, this time smaller, but real. “So, we’re both terrible at this.”

“Clearly,” she said, laughing softly, her shoulders finally relaxing.

He reached across the table then, his fingers brushing hers. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her hand turned, her fingers threading gently through his.

“So,” she asked, voice hushed again, “what now?”

Joe looked at their hands, then up into her eyes.

“Now,” he said with mock solemnity, “I hit you with this Draw Two.”

He tossed the card onto the pile with a triumphant smile.

She gasped, scandalized. “You’re heartless.”

“But honest,” he said, leaning in slightly. “And still very interested in taking you out. Maybe after I win.”

Y/N’s smile was warm, a little crooked. The kind of smile that came from deep familiarity and something newly blooming. “You really think you’re gonna win?”

“I already am.”

Their hands stayed linked. The fire burned low behind them, casting soft shadows across their faces. Outside, the rain softened to a whisper against the glass. And in the middle of the chaos of cards and laughter, something gentle had finally taken root.

It didn’t feel like a risk anymore.

It felt like they’d finally arrived at the place they were always meant to be—together.

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆..⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.

They played a few more rounds, though neither of them kept score. The colors and numbers passed back and forth, shuffled in and reshuffled again, but the rhythm had changed. Their movements slowed, the laughter that once bubbled so easily now softened into something more fragile, more thoughtful. The game was no longer a distraction—it had become a backdrop, a reason to stay sitting close.

Something hung between them now. Not sudden, not new exactly, but newly unburied. As though a curtain had been drawn back, letting light into a room they’d tiptoed around for years.

Joe glanced at his dwindling hand, but his focus wasn’t on the cards. It hadn’t been for a while. He drew in a slow breath, and without much ceremony, let the fan of colored rectangles fall from his hand and scatter onto the table.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling. “I fold.”

Across from him, Y/N raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “You can’t fold in UNO.”

He grinned at her—a quiet, crooked thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fine. Then I surrender. I’m done pretending this is still fun.”

She tilted her head, narrowing her gaze just enough to show curiosity behind her guardedness. “And what would you rather do instead?”

But Joe didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t even move. His smile faded—not in a sad way, but in the way people go still when something matters. His gaze found hers and held it. No more dodging. No more distractions.

There she was. Sitting cross-legged on the worn rug, wrapped in his oversized hoodie. Her hair, haphazardly tucked behind one ear, glinted in the firelight. Her cheeks flushed from the warmth or maybe the wine, and her fingers still curled loosely around the last card she’d drawn. She looked so at ease in his space. She always had.

She looked like home.

Joe sat up a little straighter, drawing in a breath. The shift in him was small but unmistakable—playfulness giving way to something quieter, something real.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time,” he said, the words fragile in the air, just barely louder than the crackling fire. “But I didn’t want to do it until I was sure.”

Y/N stilled. A breath caught in her throat. The card in her hand—yellow skip—hung there a moment longer before she placed it gently on the table beside his.

“You’re sure now?” she asked, voice hushed but steady.

He nodded, once. “Completely.”

For a heartbeat, everything paused. She didn’t smile, didn’t tease. She just looked at him, as though seeing something she wasn’t sure she was ready to hold. Then, barely audible: “Okay.”

There was no dramatic swell of music. No sudden storm or cinematic kiss. Just silence. The kind of silence that knows how to wait.

Joe leaned in slowly, not presumptuous, not hurried. His eyes flicked to hers as if asking again, just to be certain. When she didn’t move away—when she tilted her face up and met him halfway—the space between them disappeared like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

Their lips met, soft and tentative. A question asked and answered in a single breath.

His hand came up to her cheek, warm and steady, and she leaned into it instinctively, like her skin already knew the shape of his palm. The kiss deepened—not urgent, just fuller, more sure. It spoke the language of long-held feelings: of closeness that had tiptoed at the edges for years, of shared glances and unsent messages, of the ache of almost.

When they finally parted, neither of them moved far. Her forehead rested gently against his, and her eyes stayed closed, like she needed to hold on to the moment a second longer before it slipped through her fingers.

“You kissed me during UNO,” she murmured, lips brushing his as she smiled.

Joe chuckled, low and warm. “Technically after. That means I win.”

She opened her eyes at last, and the look she gave him was one he knew he’d remember for the rest of his life—soft, unguarded, and full of the affection she’d spent so long hiding. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you,” he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw, “are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The words landed, and for a flicker of a moment, he wondered if he’d gone too far. But then she blinked, just once, and the fear he’d seen in her once—the fear of being too much or not enough—wasn’t there anymore.

She whispered, “I think I’ve always known that.”

He kissed her again—slower this time, more certain. She leaned into him fully now, one hand resting against his chest where his heart beat steady and strong beneath her fingers. The warmth between them had nothing to do with the fire.

The game lay abandoned. Cards forgotten, scattered like confetti across the floor.

Outside, the night deepened, and the firelight dimmed, casting golden shadows that danced across the walls.

And for the first time in a very long time, neither of them had to pretend. Not about what they felt. Not about what they wanted. Not anymore.

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grayandthyme · 3 days ago

Note

ok but you write for tommy so well??? 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️ i’m literally obsessed with the way you capture the dynamic 😭😭 pls i need more of this energy in my life like yesterday

ask and you shall receive 🙌

masterlist tommy miller x f!reader warnings: petnames (darling, sweetgirl, doll), fluff, adult language, weapon usage, slight angst

December

You inhale, slow and uncertain, a shaky finger curled around the trigger. You press—just enough to feel the internal click of the mechanism, but not enough to fire.

“C’mon, sweetgirl,” his voice anchors you, low and steady beside your ear. His hands come to rest over yours, calloused palms warm against the cold metal, against your knuckles stiff-white with nerves. His touch is a lull against the rifle’s bite.

You hold your breath.

The shot cracks, loud and sharp, echoing into the treeline.

The deer’s head snaps up, eyes wide—and then it bolts.

A flash of movement, gone in seconds.

“Shit,” you groan, slumping forward as your knuckles rap against the old tree stump. The rifle settles in your lap, its weight heavier now with the puff of a miss.

Tommy laughs, light and teasing. “Alright, maybe huntin’ ain’t your calling.”

You look over your shoulder, face scrunching in mock indignation. “Bolt-actions are hard to use, in my defense.”

“Oh, no doubt. It’s a very complicated gun. Takes a genius to pull a trigger.”

You smack his arm with the back of your hand. “I hate you.”

“Mmhmm. Say it louder. You’re wearin' my flannel.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth of him seeps in again—his smile, the way his fingers are still loosely tangled with yours.

“I didn’t want to kill it anyway,” you mutter.

“I know,” he says softly, dropping the sarcasm. “That’s why I didn’t pull the trigger for you.”

You glance at him, eyes capturing his morning-painted freckles.

He shrugs, standing to stretch. “And if you are gonna kill something someday, you deserve to know you could. On your own.”

The forest is quiet now, just birdsong and wind weaving through branches.

You sigh, brushing a stray hair from your cheek. “You always gotta turn everything into a life lesson?”

Tommy grins, reaching down to haul you up with ease. “Only when I’m right.”

You scoff, but let him take the rifle from your hands anyway, his fingers brushing yours again—reassuring, steady.

Shifting in the snow, your boot nudging up a mound of powder before smoothing it back down with your heel.

The cold bites gently at your cheeks, but it’s the kind of quiet cold that settles, not stings.

“It’s just hard, that’s all,” you say, your breath curling into the air, a cloud of warmth swallowed by the wind.

“I was born and raised in the city,” you add, even though Tommy already knows. He knows all of it. Knows all about you.

You crouch down, fingers brushing the frost as you gather your things—loose ammo, gloves, the half-folded target map—and shove them back into your pack with a slow, thoughtful rhythm.

“Could kill one of those monsters, easy,” you mutter, trying for a joke but not quite sticking the landing. “But an animal?” Your nose scrunches softly. “They’re just… too cute.”

Tommy crouches beside you with a grunt, tugging his gloves tighter. “City kid ethics, huh, doll?” he says with a grin. “Murder’s fine if it’s ugly.”

You huff a laugh, looking at him sideways. “You’re not helping.”

“I am a treasure,” he counters. “And you love me.”

You don’t deny it.

He looks out toward where the deer disappeared, jaw ticking slightly with thought. Then his voice lowers, not serious, but softer.

“It’s not about just killing for food out here,” he says. “It’s about knowing when not to. About not taking more than you need. That guilt you feel? That means you’ll do it right, if you ever have to.”

You nod slowly, eyes flicking back toward the trees. The snow is quiet again, the world waiting.

“Still too cute,” you say, a bit more playfully now.

“… y’know what else is cute?” you murmur, voice low, syrup-thick with mischief as you crouch down toward the snow. Your movements are slow, methodical, careful not to draw attention—like a hunter, but grinning.

Tommy doesn’t even turn around. “If you say me—”

“You,” you say anyway, drawing the word out in a teasing lilt. Your hand snakes behind your back, palm cradling the quickly packed snowball, cold seeping into your glove.

He starts to turn, suspicious now. “You’ve got that tone. The dangerous one.”

“Oh, do I?” You blink innocently, stepping closer.

“Yeah. That’s the voice you use right before you—"

Smack.

The snowball hits him square on the shoulder, shattering in a puff of white powder. He stumbles back half a step, staring at the impact zone like he’s been personally betrayed.

You’re already laughing, stumbling away through the snow with another handful forming in your glove.

“Oh, hell,” His voice cracks through the air, part exasperation, part glee. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”

You squeal, dodging behind a tree stump. “Consider it revenge. For the mystery peaches.”

“That was one time!”

You toss another snowball, missing deliberately this time—just grazing his coat. He fakes a dramatic fall, throwing himself into the snow with a groan.

“Unarmed man taken down during patrol,” he mumbles, lying there flat like a starfish. “I hope you’re proud.”

You peek over the stump, grinning. “So proud—Should I tell the town? Alert your wife?"

He props himself up on his elbows, snow clinging to his curls. “Can't have my doll seein' me like this."

You chuck a final snowball his way. “You’re so dramatic.”

He laughs, sitting up fully, cheeks red from cold and joy. “You started it, sweet'girl.”

You shrug, brushing snow off your jacket. “I’ll end it, too.”

He stands again, brushing himself off, that grin still tugging at his lips as he walks toward you—not with vengeance, but with the kind of affection that feels like a warm quilt pulled up on a cold morning.

When he reaches you, he plucks a bit of snow from your hair, his hand lingering in your tangles.

“Cute,” he echoes, voice low. “You’re way cuter when you’re smug.”

You mimic his voice in a goofy drawl, dragging your vowels and puffing out your chest in exaggerated mockery. “You're way cuter when you’re smug,” you parrot, lifting your hands to mirror his, cupping your cold cheeks like he had.

Tommy lets out a deep breath, head tipping back with laughter. “That’s not what I sound like.”

“Oh, it absolutely is.” You poke his chest for emphasis. “All wise and weathered. Like a very charming cowboy who’s been hit in the head one too many times.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Charming, huh?”

“Painfully,” you tease.

The laughter lingers between you, steam from your breath mingling in the winter air. Your hands drop slowly, then come to rest against his chest, his coat crinkling beneath your fingers.

You've been out too long—your nose is a bright red against the pale snow, and your cheeks are flushed with cold, tender from wind and joy. Tommy’s eyes linger on your face like he's trying to memorize the exact shape and shade of it beneath the winter glow.

You reach out, fingertip brushing along the seam of his glove, slow and absent. “Wanna go home?” you ask, the question small, honest.

His smile softens into something gentler than words, the kind that starts in the crinkles of his mouth and ends in his eyes.

“With you?” he says, pulling your hand into his. “Always.”

“Who else would you go home with, huh?” you prod, grinning as you poke at his side with a gloved finger, just enough to make him flinch.

Tommy scoffs, feigning deep offense as he stumbles back a step like you’d wounded him.

Drama Queen. “You wound me, darlin’. Like I got options.”

“Oh, please,” you laugh, taking a step closer. “You’re Jackson’s sweetheart. I’ve seen the way those girls at the greenhouse look at you.”

He raises both brows, amused. “The ones who talk to me ‘cause I helped build the planters?”

“Uh-huh. Flannel… Sexy white shirt… Sweaty…”

Tommy laughs, loud and shameless. “It was hot! I was working!”

You chuckle, brushing a bit of snow from his shoulder as another flurry floats gently down around you. A few flakes settle into the dark curls of his hair, tiny white speckles dotting his head like paint. You reach up to ruffle it gently, and the snow scatters into the wind.

He watches you with that same look he always gives when you're not trying to be particularly beautiful—when you're just you, flushed pink from the cold, standing there like the center of his small, rebuilt world.

“Well, for the record,” he says, lowering his voice just enough for it to wrap around you, “I don’t care how many people in Jackson look at me…"

"I only walk home with one.”

You glance up at him, chest tightening in that soft way it always does—so effortlessly, like he doesn’t realize he’s pulling the floor out from under you.

He's a charmer.

Snow clings to his lashes now. His cheeks are flushed too, but you don’t think it’s just the cold. Tan freckled skin. It's a miracle how good he can look even in the cold of winter.

“Good,” you murmur, leaning your shoulder into his side. “I’d fight for the privilege.”

“Oh, I know you would,” he smirks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You’re scrappy, huh, Darlin'?”

You nudge him again, and this time, he doesn’t flinch—just pulls you closer as you begin the slow walk back through the trees.

"Funny, Cowboy."

March

The snow had thinned, but the cold never left—just shifted.

Turned sharply. Turned violent.

The air in Jackson rang with screams and gunfire now, not laughter. Smoke rolled over rooftops, black against the morning sky.

The town was burning, and so were your lungs.

You could barely hear your own voice above the chaos.

“Please,” you gasped, chest heaving, “Please, let’s go home—”

It came out strangled. Broken. Like your own throat was closing in around the words.

You clung to Tommy’s jacket, fists clenched so tightly the muscles in your hands screamed. Your nails dug into the fabric, into his skin beneath.

Maybe hard enough to bruise. Maybe hard enough to make him stay.

He looked at you—his eyes wild with decision and duty, but his jaw trembled.

“Tommy—please—” You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t let go.

You were begging now, truly begging, and it was the most selfish thing you’d ever done.

“Stay—Stay with me,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his chest. “Let’s go. Please. Let’s just leave. You don’t owe this town your life—I need you.”

Selfishness was a monster that had consumed you long ago.

The decision between the town you had come to love, versus the man who holds you entirely.

It's as if someone asked you which to save: the world, or the person you love the most.

Sounds like a familiar decision, huh?

His arms were around you, holding you together because you were starting to fall apart. You could hear the shouting closer now.

The sounds of infected—no, people—people screaming.

He was shaking his head. You could feel it, even before he spoke.

“I have to,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “They’re just kids out there. People who can’t shoot. People like you were.”

You looked up at him, and something cracked in your ribs. “I’m not anymore—I’m not helpless anymore." A deep inhale, barely withstanding air, "Fuck—Tommy, please."

You can help him. You can go with him.

He brushed his fingers through your hair, slow and gentle like you weren’t both standing in hell.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s why you’re gonna make it. Even if I don’t.”

“Don’t you dare—” Your voice broke completely. “Don’t say that. Don’t even—”

He kissed your forehead, hard and lingering, like he was sealing something shut. Eyes clamped tightly, breath ragged against your skin.

“I’ll find you,” he whispered. “No matter what. I’ll find you again.”

And then he was gone.

You stood there in the street with your hands empty, covered in ash and blood and melting snow.

Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming Tommy’s name—but it wasn’t you.

You just want to go home. Yet, home had just thrown himself into the middle of danger.

authors note

tommy def makes it... i just like being dramatic af

61 notes · View notes

pink-november · 2 days ago

Text

and so their love destroyed the world (and so the world is brittle)

And yet, the world grows ever silent, the fright and dread ebbing like waves crashing into the shore, the terror soon being overwhelmed by something, drowning in it before dissipating into nothingness. The sands of his guilt are washed away into the depths, quickly replaced by something new. Something intoxicating, spreading across him like a steady flame burning through wood.

A burning sensation that he could only call the grotesque fire of madness.

“What did you do?” He asks breathlessly, clutching at his head as it throbs in pain. “Skeptic, what did you do?”

“What didn't I do?” Skeptic coos, rocking him gently. “Everything I do is for your sake.”

It had been a week since he and Skeptic had their fight.

Honestly, the details of their fight are a little blurry by now and all Opportunist is left with is the urgent need to apologize and reconcile with his partner.

The meister had spent the entire week moping around in Hero's home, listlessly letting the hours pass by while he helped with their chores or studied for their upcoming tests. He would have crashed into Cold and Smitten's place just like old times but they haven't exactly returned back yet from the witches’ abode.

It felt like he was missing a great part of himself, struggling to wake and stand up on the third day without bursting into tears. Of course, Opportunist is not one to bawl so he grits his teeth and bears a smile for the day.

Skeptic didn't even attend school the entire week.

Of course it was Paranoid who had enough of his bullshit, literally kicking him out of their house while Rookie barks in agreement with the weapon, a rare camaraderie between the two spiteful enemies. Hero was unfortunately absent during this and Paranoid managed to scream ‘Get back with your fucking boyfriend or I swear to Quiet, I will shoot the both of your stupid asses to oblivion!’ before slamming the door at Opportunist’s face.

If that was his way of encouraging Opportunist to humble himself and go back to their home then it was surprisingly effective because ain't no way he was about to return to living off scamming people in the streets.

The walk back home is filled with an uneasy silence, like the air itself is tense. The lamppost ahead flickers, shadows nipping at Opportunist’s heels until he begins jogging, cold sweat running down his back.

He hesitates at their front door, steeling himself before exhaling, raising his fist to knock.

It opens before his knuckles could even touch it.

“Oppy!” Immediately, Skeptic greets him, eyes bright and smile beaming in joy, as he moves to hug Opportunist tightly. So tight, he could feel his back creak from the pressure. “You're back!”

“H-hey, Skeptic,” he pats him quickly on the shoulder, trying to make him ease his hold on him. Still, he couldn't fault his partner for it, Opportunist terribly missed him too. “Glad to be here again.”

Skeptic sighs, his warm breath tickling his ear, causing some of his feathers to fluff up in response. Yep, he missed this too, despite how embarrassing it is to be so easily flustered by his boyfriend.

They stayed like that for a while, just basking again in each other's presence. Opportunist squirms a bit, soul reaching out to meet Skeptic's–

The other pulls away, breaking away first while he fondly looks at Opportunist, his hands resting on his shoulders.

“I'll cook dinner for us then. Come, my dear.” Skeptic tugs at him and Opportunist stumbles inside their home, the entire place eerily silent and dreadfully cold. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

———

Catching up involved remembering the reason why they had a fight in the first place: Skeptic insisting on studying the nasty-looking egg they acquired during a mission. It was a foul thing, cat-Witch hissing and scratching whenever she catches a glimpse of it. Moppy likes to curl around it though and even though it was a rather cute sight, Opportunist is perfectly aware something is inherently wrong about it.

Skeptic doesn't mind it though and it irks Opportunist how… nonchalant he was about it now. But he’s not about to complain or start another argument with him. He… doesn’t want to see Skeptic screaming at him to stop meddling in his business again.

He’s glad that he doesn’t look mad anymore. Maybe the one-week separation really did help him cool down that odd temper flare he had? Opportunist is just glad that they seem to be getting along again.

And going back to the same old routine too! He hums while he holds a plate of sandwiches in his other hand, knocking on Skeptic’s door. He hears something scraping before heavy footsteps echo closer from behind, his partner opening his door, looking only mildly surprised at his appearance.

“Hey there, hotshot,” Opportunist grins, appreciating the glasses on Skeptic’s face and how it enhances his handsome features by a lot. “Bet you missed me delivering you your lunch.”

“I certainly do now.” Skeptic chuckles, inquisitive eyes narrowing at him. The feathers on Opportunist’s neck seem to stand on end but he shakes his head. There’s no need to be wary of his boyfriend of all people. “It had been quite a challenge trying to remind myself to eat while you were gone.”

He doesn’t look thin enough if that were the case or even if it was, Skeptic would probably be in a hospital for accidentally starving himself. Though, he does look more exhausted than usual, the light behind his eyes murky and unrecognizable. Still, maybe Opportunist shouldn’t have stayed too long at Hero’s house.

“Come in, love.” Another thing he’s finding he quite likes now is how Skeptic seems to call him pet names more often. It makes his face warm and his chest tight so much that Opportunist feels like he’s actually caught a cold or something. It’s exhilarating in a way and he finds himself brushing off any other concerns he has about everything wrong, especially when Skeptic lays a hand on the curve of his back and pulls him along inside.

Skeptic’s room used to be incredibly messy in its organization. There is an order to it only his partner could decipher and something Opportunist wanted to understand too, if only to help Skeptic clean up his room. Now, it’s just a chaotic mess, papers strewn across everywhere, books haphazardly left open and scattered around, with some even looking like they were thrown from across the room.

And the most striking of all, the ‘kishin egg’ on Skeptic’s desk, glowing malevolently with its bulging veins. It seemed alive too, even if the Professor assured them it isn’t anything but a decayed lifeform, merely clinging to the concept of life rather than being, well, alive.

Skeptic places the plate down beside it while Opportunist smooths down the bed sheets so he can sit there, bouncing a bit as he swings his legs idly, watching as Skeptic continues to write down in his notebook with furious scribblings. Occasionally, he would touch the egg bare-handed, stroking the shell as if he was mesmerized by it.

“Is that safe?”

“Hm?” Skeptic turns to him, eyes bright. “Oh. I have no reason to believe it is dangerous.” The yet seems to ring even after the other pauses, a secretive smile spreading his lips. “I don’t think anything is different from me either, so there’s no need to be paranoid about it.”

“Uh-huh.” Opportunist finds himself being nervous, wringing his hands while he chooses his next words. “Can I… can I touch it then?”

Skeptic’s eyes flash, a soft smile on his lips. “Of course. I wouldn’t let you be in harm’s way if I wasn’t absolutely certain.”

That is undeniably true. He doesn’t doubt Skeptic regarding this and even the thought of it otherwise makes him nauseous. Still, the same uncomfortable feeling surges through him as Opportunist stands up, walking closer to Skeptic while the latter moves away, the smile never leaving his face.

The egg lays there innocently, occasionally pulsing with that strange light, the air around it cold and stale. He reaches out, hand shaking as if his very soul is trying to reject it, until Skeptic’s hand lays atop his, his warm palm steadying him as he guides his fingers to rest on the egg’s shell.

Nothing happens.

“How is it?” Skeptic asks, his voice curling pleasantly around Opportunist’s mind like a warm blanket on a winter day. “Phenomenal, is it not?”

“Yeah.” He sighs out, feeling silly about the entire thing. Maybe his fear is unfounded after all. How embarrassing, showing a side of him like that. Then again, Skeptic probably knows everything there is to know about him at this point and he doesn’t know whether to be flustered or be incredibly touched by it.

Skeptic places a peck on his cheek and Opportunist jumps at the sudden contact. He didn’t notice his partner standing up at all, too focused on the funny sensation of the egg on his hand. His boyfriend chuckles, leaning closer, his voice taking on a teasing and conspiratorial tone.

“Would you be interested in some findings I have of it?”

Opportunist grins, nodding enthusiastically. He always loves listening to Skeptic discuss and teach him about different topics. It’s been too long after all.

———

“You're starting to reek of him.”

Opportunist blushes, fumbling and sputtering in disbelief. “Haha! I do not know what you're talking about at all!”

Witch, in her cat form, licks her paws, before she glares at him with all the vitriol her little body could hold. Which is surprisingly a lot. “Get your head out of the gutter, you wretched fool. Do you not notice yourself lately?”

He huffs, busying himself with making sure his clothing isn't creased. If only Skeptic was here, he could have helped him to look neater. “And you should mind your own business. I saw you and Moppy rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. I'm not the guilty one here!”

Witch hisses, tail swishing furiously. “You and he are treading a dangerous path. Any further than this and you'll be signing yourself up for something you cannot possibly return from.”

“Geez, why are you sounding so cryptic now? We're fine.”

Witch scratches their couch and Opportunist immediately tries shooing her away.

“Is everything alright?” Skeptic enters the room and Witch scrambles out of sight almost instantly. Opportunist sighs, scratching the back of his neck.

“Witch is just being an annoying bitch again.” He crosses his arms, tongue tingling as if he said something wrong just now.

“Is that so?” Skeptic hums, covering his mouth while he makes a thoughtful expression. Opportunist waits with bated breath if Skeptic will scold him for saying that. “I rarely see her these days. Maybe she's finally growing bored of us?”

“I wish!” The meister shrugs, relieved, stretching his arms while he comes next to his partner. “One less nuisance to worry about then.”

His love chuckles fondly, grabbing him by the waist as he gives him another kiss. “Of course. Whatever you say, dear. Shall we get going then? It's been a while since we've been out on a mission.”

“Finally! I could use the exercise!”

———

That was the most thrilling fight they’ve had yet. His blood courses through him, heart pounding from leftover adrenaline, as he watches the corrupted soul float gently in the air.

It was also the most brutal one yet.

Opportunist blinks, the belated shock of the horrific scene before him dawning on him. He… he hadn't realized how violently they fought against their enemy, manic glee blinding him as he slashed and hacked away with no restraint.

There was the sound of someone crying, something young and naive, and he felt vaguely sick as the scent of blood drifted, his hands sticky from the violence he enacted.

“I'm…” Is it wrong not to feel guilty at all? “I'm…”

“Sssh.” All at once, the discordant cacophony of noises is muffled as Skeptic takes him into his embrace, arms shielding him from the world Opportunist does not wish to face. “Good job, sweetheart. We defeated the enemy, just like always.”

Not without casualties. And potentially fatalities. Opportunist doesn't have soul perception like Skeptic but he very well knows the difference between a normal soul and a corrupted one.

“Yeah.” Still, he clings to the lie, to him. Everything is fine. Everything would be alright. As long as Skeptic is here, they could handle anything. “Our teamwork is as impeccable as always.”

His love runs a hand through the feathers on his head and Opportunist faintly realizes he was crying, sobs wracking his entire form. He feels sick but yet so undeniably allured by the power he feels right now. He can still feel the traces of his opponent's melted flesh sliding down his cheek, the poison of their soul resonance lingering like rotted meat in the air.

A burning sensation that he could only call the grotesque fire of madness.

“What did you do?” He asks breathlessly, clutching at his head as it throbs in pain. “Skeptic, what did you do?”

“What didn't I do?” Skeptic coos, rocking him gently. “Everything I do is for your sake.”

Opportunist looks up at him, claws gripping at Skeptic's chest, eyes desperately roaming to see where and how things went wrong.

Instead all he sees is himself reflected in Skeptic's thoughts, raw and strained and eager. So eager, like Opportunist is an integral part of him he can't bear to part with, a possession he carries inside his coat pocket to take out and admire anytime he wants. His eyes are different and yet the same, even in its tainted gaze, Opportunist is the only thing reflected in the swirls of madness lurking beneath.

Maybe it isn't so bad to break. Break apart just like how Skeptic wants, leaving him to pick up the pieces and rearrange them how he sees fit. Locked in his embrace forevermore that even the thought of escaping doesn't come to him.

It was tempting.

“I wanna go home.” He says instead, closing his eyes tiredly. He can't bear to look at him any longer. “Let's just go home, Skeptic.”

If the other was disappointed, he didn't show it, squeezing him tighter as he raised Opportunist’s hand, pressing a kiss to his wrist.

“Alright.”

———

His mind races, snapshots of the past days, weeks, months flashing quickly in his mind. He realizes that Skeptic had always kept him close, watching him, guarding him, and patiently planting the seeds of corruption right into Opportunist’s soul.

How far had he planned for this? How long? Why had Opportunist not noticed anything amiss? Or perhaps he had, but he had fallen into Skeptic's thrall before he even knew it. How much had he blindly followed him, how much did he change without him knowing? All of these questions and yet no answers to satisfy them. It is beyond frustrating.

And yet… and yet… he can't even feel betrayed by this.

Was this how it felt when Smitten and Cold fell into madness? Intoxicating in its mellowness, erratic and senseless and yet so incredibly gentle and tender, cradling him as the madness laps at his ankles, ticklish and light.

It felt just like Skeptic.

He can faintly hear its call now, clawing at his rationality and inhibitions like an untamed beast, slowly drowning him in its sweet serenade.

They needed help. Before he loses it. Before everything is too late.

Skeptic isn't at home right now, going about the day like any other day, the massacre they left from days before nothing more than a regular outing to him. Opportunist can theoretically escape and fly away to ask for help at school, but he isn't sure how fast Skeptic would come running once he notices he's not staying in one place. His partner's soul perception's perfect precision is a damned thing working against Opportunist.

But, this may only be the chance he'll get. If he delays it any longer, who knows if he's still sane the next time?

A terrifying thought to consider, one that made him spring to his feet and dash towards the door. He hasn't seen Witch for a while now and he's worried because the possibility of Skeptic doing something to her might have caused it. And Moppy is probably cuddled next to that despicable egg and Opportunist isn't confident he'll keep his thoughts straight when he's near the wretched thing.

The moment he's out though, he gets dragged into an alleyway by a vice grip, wings flapping against the thugs aiming to make a quick steal from him.

“Don't touch me!” He hisses, clawing at the arm still clutching to him. Did he seem that easy to apprehend that these guys thought they could get one over him? He's not like before, the past him could never fight against these bullies. But now, he has–

… nothing. Skeptic isn't here to assist him.

“They say the academy students are filthy rich, boss!” One of the grunts enthusiastically yells. His disgusting demeanor is enough to send shivers down Opportunist's back. “Do you think we can pawn some good stuff from him?”

A group of common thugs dared to try and steal from him? In broad daylight no less? Opportunist can do this, he can fend them off and still fly off to ask for help. He just needed to fight them off first.

He knees the guy holding him hostage in the gut, wings giving him the height to kick him in the face and send him flying to the wall. Opportunist only feels the rush of adrenaline fueling him as the other thieves bring out an array of tools and weapons to scare him with.

“He's just a meister with no weapon! We can swarm him with our numbers !”

Opportunist didn't even let them get the first hit in. He can fight dirty too.

There is power flowing through his knuckles, each strike bone-shattering as he dispatched the group one by one. Nimble yet strong, his training and battle experience comes into play as he leads the dance with calculated hits. He can win this stupid fight.

Until a lucky guy managed to slip past his defenses and land a stab wound on his back.

Opportunist’s breath quickens, panic blinding him as the pain sends electric shocks straight to his brain, nerves alighting in agony. He twists his body and bashes his head against his assailant, taking the flimsy blade that dug through him with a tight grip, anger making his vision red as he buries the knife straight into the pathetic creature's neck.

Blood splashes out like a geyser, warm and fresh against his clammy skin, and Opportunist turns to the rest of them, teeth bared as he advances towards them menacingly.

“You guys picked the wrong opponent to mess with.” He declares, spinning the ugly knife in his hand. It doesn't feel the same as his own weapon, heavy and wrong in his hold. “I'm not as weak and flimsy as I was before.”

And he charges ahead.

———

Rain begins to pour, washing away the pavement of dirt.

The shadows dance as the light of the souls flicker like a candle burning its wick and the squelch beneath his boots couldn't be determined if it was due to the rain or the blood staining the ground he stands on.

Footsteps approach, measured and calm. Opportunist didn't need soul perception to know who it is.

“Did you plan this?” He asks, a whisper to the raindrops pelting the streets.

“Perhaps.” Skeptic answers vaguely as if he's still waiting for Opportunist to lay out the answers he so wanted to have. “How fascinating to see the true nature of every living creature is depravity at its core. It seems my hypothesis is correct.”

“You used me.”

“I merely showed you the truth you deny.” Soft lips caress the wound that healed over minutes prior, the thrum of the madness within enhancing every aspect of his being. “I cannot let you confine yourself to deception and reject me.”

“It was petty.”

“It was necessary.” This time, Skeptic wraps his arms around him, pressing his frigid body against him, his soul asking for a resonance.

Opportunist allows it.

“You could have been smarter about it.”

“Well, you didn't give me much time to prepare.” Skeptic intertwines their fingers. “I couldn't know when you'd try to fly away from me. Patience may be my virtue but even I can grow so impatient when I see you teetering between the edges.”

His claws were drenched in crimson and yet Skeptic dutifully kissed each finger, a touch of reverence lingering on his skin. “Would saying sorry suffice, my love?”

The answer to that couldn't be no.

And yet Skeptic continues to shower him with affection, as if waiting for Opportunist to say the words he wants to hear, despite how their souls practically melded against each other, their thoughts bare and hearts open, no secrecy and lies between them.

Skeptic speaks the truth. But it is a truth oozing with the influence of madness.

“Kiss me, Skeptic.” He pleads and commands in equal measure, glancing at his partner as if their souls resonating wasn't enough to convince him of a truth he had long accepted as fact. “If the entire world is a lie, then I want you to be my only truth.”

Skeptic obliges, leaning in close and sealing their lips together in a vow.

It feels like icy fire bursting all around, running in waves within him and turning his blood into blazing hot-white flames. Despite the fright, the horror, the exhaustion shredding his mind, ethereal power mends the scars and aches and pains of his mortal shell. Opportunist cannot resist the allure of madness anymore. Especially not when Skeptic cups his face gently between his palms, nibbling on his lips like a starved man.

He could barely hold on to his sanity, his very soul being immersed into murky waters, drowning any protests in delirium and euphoria.

It felt almost refreshing to finally appreciate this understanding between them. It leaves Opportunist feeling like he can soar high up to the skies, have the entire world at hand, no line to test, lost between lucidness and insanity forevermore.

“How funny.” He laughs when they part, wrapping his arms around Skeptic's neck, “For the world to seem so brittle when you accept the reality of its delicate foundation.”

Skeptic spreads his hand along Opportunist’s back, pulling him flush against him. It feels electric, tingly, it turns reason to snowy black ashes, shades in inky black eating away what sanity is left of him.

“And so it must be rebuilt.” He whispers like a confession, forehead resting against him.

“Perhaps.” Opportunist hums, smiling. “I would like to see it all go up in flames first.”

“We can dye the world in red.” Skeptic promises, “And let everyone see the truth they so desperately need.”

“Together.”

“Together.

#slay the princess #soul eater au #voice of the skeptic #voice of the opportunist #skeptunist #hey pink what happened to the other fics? im getting there #have an endgame plotline instead

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rainix13 · 2 days ago

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Don't Forget

Doubt by Twentyone Pilots

masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

words: 4,2k

description: after Y/N gets rescued from Hydra she's not really herself but Natasha's determined to bring her back -

Genre: idk you tell me?? ._. hurt/comfort ig??

Warnings: legal age difference (Nat= 32, R = 22) split personality?, not proofread

I'm not overly happy with everything but overall it's okay i guess (also It's 3am idk what I'm saying anymore, any corrections probably in the next few days)

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You didn't know what was happening but you were sure something was.

There was a shift in the air. A tension lingering between the people around you. Something was off.

A red pop up on a monitor you could barely see blinking constantly but you couldn't read what it said.

You tried to hear the guards whisper but they were too far away. But even their usual composed, ice cold appearance seemed to crack a little. At least the three that seemed to be in their mind.

The fourth was a mystery to you. He barely moved all day, you never saw him even blink just once.

If such a thing was possible he didn't even hold any body language.

Scientists were packing a ton of stuff up.

Vials, some empty, some still filled.

Two of three monitors.

Tools, syringes, notes, official paperwork.

The door opened for a short moment. The blaring of people shouting, shots being fired, more people running around, a faint explosion filled the whole room for the mere two seconds, then it fell shut again.

Two more agents entered the room shouting some things you couldn't understand but next thing the whole scientist team got escorted through the backdoor.

Ok, so at least your instincts still work. Still you felt off. As if you were there but more as a watcher than on actual control of yourself. That feeling was new. It only came up a few minutes ago but you couldn't shake it. Something definitely was fundamentally off. Maybe-

You didn't get to finish that thought when suddenly the door got broken down. Three people stormed in, followed by a whole bunch of agents.

This time the door wasn't closed again and the blaring of a battle filled the room, accompanied with the smell of smoke and a cloud of dust.

Your eye caught a wave of red and your heart jumped. You didn't exactly know why. But it felt familiar. It felt right. You felt slipping deeper in the part of your mind that was only able to watch. Observe something but not work through it. The presence that formed normality for your time being here kept you from understanding.

One of the agents tore the straps open, which until now, you didn't even realize held you in place. Why were you strapped in a chair again?

It oddly looked like one of those dentist chairs...

"Don't just stand there, do something bitch!" He spoke with a hard accent.

Do something...? What exactly should you...do? Why would you fight these people? Who even are they? Being trapped between what seemed to be two independent minds you didn't know how to function.

And for a while you just stood there, in the middle of the room. Everything still felt like a movie, chaos all around you, agents coughing, some dying slower than others, new agents rushing in. And in the middle of it all? You.

That was until someone pulled on your arm, in the direction of the back door the scientist fled through.

Without realizing how you freed yourself, fighting the agent off.

"Let go of me", you hiss. "Y/N!!" the voice felt familiar but you couldn't put a face to it. Nonetheless it switched something inside you. You pushed the guy and he stayed still on the ground.

Another hand grabbed your arm and on instinct - even tho not sure from which side of your mind - you fought them off but this time it was harder.

You got countered more often, hits were harder to land. You kept fighting them, trying to escape their grip until suddenly everything went black.

Back at the compound Nick Fury was waiting for everyone to bring the youngest avenger back. And he wouldn't admit it openly but when they rolled out a stretcher some tension fell off him. It meant that at least you were alive.

"What happened?", he asked, not a single trace of emotions in his voice.

When Natasha didn't answer right away Steve did.

"We're not sure. She didn't seem quite like herself."

The Shield director raised an eyebrow "and that means?"

"It means she fought me when we tried to get her out. We had to hit her unconscious", Natasha snapped.

"But she fought them too. She's still there." Steve tried to soothe her but only received a more desperate than annoyed.

To add to Steve's resignation Fury chimed in "She's been there three weeks and we have no idea who of us she's gonna try and kill and who not."

"What are you trying to say?" Clint asked defensively.

"None of you will visit her until we're sure she's back." Without any further explanation he gave a sign to the two medics that stood at the stretcher to follow him with you.

For the Avengers? No other choice but to watch after you. They just stood there in silence, no one quite sure what to do with themselves.

The past three weeks were relentless work, trying to trace every detail that might give away your position. Now you were found. And they weren't even allowed near you anymore.

Tony stepped out of his suit and carefully put an arm around Nat's shoulder, pulling her into a side-hug.

With you and Natasha some tension always was in the air. Flirty but neither of you acted on it for a long time. You weren't dating for long but it made you happy. You, just living in your perfect little world, until it got ripped apart when they caught you.

Tony was the one who got you to join the team. Convinced you, welcomed you, comforted you when things got hard. He became a safe constant and over the course of four years he became a father figure to you.

With a deep sigh, again Steve broke the silence "When even Tony doesn't have some sarcastic remark or a joke to ease the tension..."

No trace of humor in his voice, not a glint of joy, just stating a fact.

Maria Hill stepped outside, clearly not happy, after what was probably a disagreement with her boss.

"There's nothing I can do for you. Go get some sleep, you all need it."

Short and to the point. Like everything that's been said.

Nonetheless she was right. Nobody has slept much, especially not Tony and Natasha so now that everything seemed to be done this was the only logical consequence and with that everyone slowly made their way to their room.

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The next few days went in a blur for Natasha. She tried to stick to her old routine. Getting up, going on a run, breakfast, training, lunch. That's how far her routine went. After that she just didn't know what to do. Wherever she went something reminded her of you. She tried to convince Fury to change his mind about seeing you.

What she hated most was how everyone looked at her. How everyone seemed to see through her. As if her walls were made out of glass. As if they could see how worked up she was even though she made a point in acting normal. In giving the training courses she usually does, being as harsh and demanding as she always is. In the way she walked through the hallways, cold, calculated. Purposely avoiding the wing she wasn't allowed in right now.

Still they looked. As if they could see everything.

As if they could see how she still barely could sleep, how she couldn't look at anything without thinking of you, how every time she passes Fury in the hallway a passive anger boils up.

As if they could see how much she cares. How much she misses you.

As if they could see how scared she was to lose you forever.

The private area for just the avengers wasn't any more comfortable. Everyone tried to have normal days. Doing the things they usually do. But still everyone noticed the tension that didn't seem to fade.

The unknowing of how you are, the awareness of your missing laughter and your own sarcastic remarks. Everyone notices Natasha's bad mood and how she's being more reserved around them. Even Steve misses Tony's biting and teasing comments and while he throws one every once in a while, it just doesn't feel the same without someone who counters him just as sharply.

Right now Natasha was laying awake once again. Another evening. She excused herself from watching some movie and went to bed, so now she was staring at her ceiling. It was only 9 pm.

But laying there and having her thoughts running in circles wasn't an option tonight. With a sigh she put her sweatshirt over her sleep-shirt and made her way to the medical wing, avoiding the busy hallways.

The first thing she saw were mostly empty beds. The second was Dr. Cho.

"Where's Y/N?", Natasha asked. Her voice didn't hint at the emotional chaos in her head but it didn't need to. Dr. Cho was well aware of the flirting going on between you and even was rather surprised when she found out that the two of you weren't already dating for longer.

"Y/N is currently being held in cell 1.4 in this wing" Jarvis responded before the doctor could.

"Director's orders", was all she added clearly being uncomfortable with the situation.

"How is she?" Natasha's voice dropped to a dangerous level. She was furious and it brimmed just beneath the surface but she chose to prioritize you over Fury's bad decision making.

"She's doing ok so far. Vitals are stable but her mind isn't. Sometimes she speaks with us as herself but then suddenly she doesn't recognize us. We gave her some things that should help her gain stability and fight of who or whatever they implanted in her brain but it's going rough. Up until now she's the most stable when I or Agent Phil Coulson are around, he leaves only when he has to."

The redhead let out a humorless laugh.

"And did any of you think that maybe someone she's closer with might help her?"

Of course you were close with Phil. But she and her teammates were the people you spent every day with after all.

To her annoyance Dr. Cho shook her head.

"That's still out of question. Director's orders...again."

With a scoff Natasha left. Director's orders.

There was a point reached where she was done with her director's orders. Point reached.

And without another thought Natasha stood in front of the door that led to cells 1.3-1.6, guarded by two agents when the doors just opened and Coulson's stepped out.

"Natasha?"

"Phil."

"I guess it was only a matter of time until you show up here" the older agent sighed.

"I need to see her, Phil" It was a statement. Nothing more. No emotion, no arguments, just a statement.

"Why? You know the Director's orders."

God if she had to hear those words one more time she might go insane.

"I need to see her alive." Now this was beginning to sound like the negotiations of a kidnapping.

"She is alive, Natasha. You know that. Why do you think you can just walk in there if you have clear orders not to?" He wasn't backing down easily.

And the answer to that question laid on Natasha's tongue. It was simple. But she didn't want to say it out loud. But maybe she needed to sacrifice that at least towards Phil, if she wanted a real chance of convincing him to let her in.

"Go." The redhead orders the two agents watching the door. After a short nod of approval from Phil they did.

"Why?" Phil asked again now.

Natasha thought for a second before answering "They say she's unstable-" her voice broke off, eyes glued to the door.

And for a moment Phil got caught off guard. In all years of working with Natasha he'd only ever seen her facade crack a handful of times.

He sighed. "She's fighting, Natasha. Every minute. She's tired, barely sleeps but she's getting better. Slowly. Helen finished all possible tests and thinks we have now the right medication to help her as much as we can."

"I want to see her."

"Do you?", Phil finally met her eyes, "or do you want to know if she sees you? If she recognizes you?"

"Phil, please", Natasha pleaded. And at last he gave in. He stepped aside, opening the door. "Just be careful. You can see when she remembers you but the conversations don't last long. She's fighting."

With a nod Natasha walked past him and only stopped a second before the door could fall shut. "Thank you."

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Carefully Natasha walked up to the only occupied glass cell and there you sat. Back towards her, crouched down in a corner. Your hands were behind your head, legs pulled up to your chest and she could see you picking your nails to a point where almost all were bloody and damaged.

Natasha's chest tightened and she barely kept herself from gasping audibly. You looked so small, so lost. Every few seconds your whole body flinched, causing you to shift just so slightly.

"Y/N...", the redhead whispered. She didn't know what to expect, she didn't even know what else to say.

But the moment your name left her mouth you completely stilled as if you were waiting for something. Natasha took that as a sign to try again.

"Y/N?"

You breath caught in your throat and you raised your head, your eyes finally leaving the ground beneath your legs.

And after what felt like eternity your eyes finally met hers. Looking up at her, your greyish green met her clear emerald eyes. "N-natasha?"

"Heyy", the older woman still whispered and got knelt down to be at your level. Her hand pressed against the glass as if she could touch you through it. Anything to feel closer to you.

"How are you keeping up? You remember me? And the team?" Maybe it was selfish to ask that but she already knew how you were doing aside from that and she didn't want to remind you.

But that seemed to only partially succeed as you subconsciously shifted a bit to the side, bringing only very few more centimeters of space between you and the glass, you and Natasha.

"I-I'm afraid I can't tell you that" your voice was shaky, hands trembling just enough for Natasha to notice. "I'm just not sure", you added shamefully.

"It's okay, don't worry about that", Natasha tried to soothe you.

Quiet whispers come up in the back of your mind. 'natasha, natasha, you need to forget her, natasha'

Those thoughts come and go, the voices never stop forever but right now you tried to focus on her. Because for once she seemed to be actually there. Not just a voice that will belong to no one once you open your eyes. Now, she was there, in person. And maybe you could remember her. You need to. You have a feeling that she's important to remember.

"I remember some things. Names, memories come and go like guests. But only fragments, not enough to create the whole picture"

'you will forget her, natasha-'

"Anything I can do to help you?"

"No...when I saw you a few memories swept into my mind, all together with your name...I don't think you can do much more" You sigh, the voices in the back of your head growing stronger. You know you need to fight them. That's what Hydra anchored in your brain and you need it gone. But the louder the voices get, the more you feel your control slipping.

'Black Widow, need to kill'

The endless cycle of the last few days and even though you're starting to be in control of your mind and yourself longer and longer, you start to grow tired. You just want it to finally end. But they grow louder and louder and you already know that you'll crash eventually.

Natasha noticed the sudden change as well. Your hands started trembling again, your breath became shorter.

'Betrayal, Forget, The End, Natasha'

"I could come in. Let you take my hands or braid my hair. You do that sometimes. Maybe it would-", she starts, wanting to calm you down but you interrupted her

"Natasha, no!" Your voice was low, dangerous and your eyes suddenly held something darker. You tried to keep up with yourself, tried to shut down the voices but with every second it got harder to dominate over Hydra's part of your mind.

"I'm not afraid of you", the redhead tried again. She already got up, walking to the numpad that unlocked your cell.

"BUT I AM!" You cried out. The voices grew louder and all you could do was grasping on the very last bit of being there. Like an almost invisible string that kept you in touch.

'Forget Black Widow, Betrayal, Kill, End'

You jumped up backing away from her.

Voices overlapped, so loud you couldn't bear it.

Someone was talking to you, you couldn't even tell the difference if it was the real Natasha or just another voice.

'Forget, Betrayal, Kill, End'

Natasha watched you pacing, your breath was ragged, hands in your hair. Your whole body was shaking and it broke Natasha's heart.

"Y/N please, listen to me. I'm here", tears filled her eyes. It physically hurt her to see you like that. So torn apart.

Your head was pounding against the palm of your hands, heart racing. You didn't even know where you were anymore and only felt slipping. Slipping away into the darkness. Where you could only watch yourself, screaming at your body without getting a reaction.

"Y/N, please...",

"STOP IT" your hand clashes into the glass wall.

Your eyes met the person who said something. Red hair, green eyes.

'Don't just stand there, do something'

Something seemed familiar.

You need to kill her. She's not supposed to be here.

'Don't just stand there, do something'

No, you don't want to kill her.

"Y/N..."

'Don't just stand there, do something'

And then everything went black.

Natasha could only watch as your body hit the ground with a loud thud. You didn't move, just laid in the middle of the cell.

The conversations never last long. That's what Coulson told her. She should've been prepared.

She needs to get out.

With that she left, the image of you losing the battle in your mind, collapsing, laying on the ground. All of it was burned in her brain.

She left the room, tried to sleep, went on her morning run. All she could think about was you. Everything she saw was a replay of the night. The fear in your eyes just before you lost, your scratched fingers. Nothing would make it go away.

Her own fear of you losing against Hydra's work, fear of you forgetting about her, about yourself, the fear of losing you entirely gnawed at her relentlessly.

And all she could do was watch herself. Force herself to go through her day and come back at night. She needed to see you again. The real you. And she would do anything to achieve that.

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When she entered the room you were still asleep on the small bed in your cell.

As quiet as possible she unlocked the door and stepped inside, sitting down on the floor, right next to your head.

Groaning you opened your eyes. You don't even remember falling asleep after your last talk with Phil.

When you saw a familiar face next to you suddenly you were wide awake.

"Why are you in here??" Immediately you scooted to the other end of the bed, as far away from Natasha as possible.

The panic in your voice was unmistakable.

But this time Natasha didn't give in, this time she went after you, moving on your bed until she sat right in front of you.

"Hey, hey listen to me, okay? Just breathe, deep breaths", she took a deep breath in, clearly wanting you to follow her. And you did.

You repeated this a couple more times until you calmed down a bit. You gaze dropped down to see your hands in Natasha's and give it a gentle squeeze. An unspoken thanks.

"There she is. There's my favorite girl", Natasha says with a smile playing around here lips.

"I'm your favorite?" You asked, a careful smile playing around your lips as well. You knew the answer. Right now you did.

"Always been that way" she replied with a cheeky smile and you let out a small chuckle.

After a short pause the redhead added "I've missed you"

You didn't miss the vulnerability hidden behind those words. You didn't miss how she avoided your gaze for a second.

You just lean on her shoulder. "I've missed you too...but you can't be here Nat", you sighed.

"But I wanna be here. I'm not afraid of you"

"But I am, Nat." You argue softly, your eyes already filling up with tears.

Before she can interrupt you, you continue.

"You-you don't understand I-", Natasha squeezes your hands softly, encouraging you to continue.

"I- I'm scared of hurting you. When I'm not in control of...me the other part wants to kill you. I just don't know if I'll be able to hold back if I lose that control again."

Your tears start falling but you don't even care anymore.

"Every time I see my reflection in the glass I see what they did. I can practically see myself slipping away into that...space and I can't control it. And that scares me shitless. I'm laying here, staring at the ceiling and I don't know anything. I keep remembering more everyday but then at some point I spiral down in that fear and-and then I lose it again and that thing is back in control"

Now Natasha was actually speechless. She hates to see you so broken, so scared. So she just hugged you, choosing silence until you broke it once again.

"The uncertainty just kills me. The uncertainty of maybe I'll forget everything again. The uncertainty of when I might crash again or rather when it'll stop. Helen said it today should've been the last day but I just don't know. I'm afraid I'll forget you..."

Gently she reaches up to your face, tilting it so you have to look at her. "You won't forget me. You can doubt yourself all you want but I won't. Tony won't. He's upstairs, waiting for you to come back. Everyone is. And look at you. At us. You recognized me immediately when you saw me. You became more stable, right? That's what Helen told me this afternoon"

You nod carefully, letting her continue. "Maybe you just need to see the rest again. To ground you. Please. Come back to us"

You look at her hesitantly "What happens when I'm not me again?" You wanted to believe her that everything will turn out fine. But you don't want to hurt your family. Especially Nat.

"Please Y/N, trust yourself. And if you don't trust yourself, then trust me. I know we can manage this. You're not alone. And if you slip, I can protect us. Even if you can't stop yourself, you know that I can stop you."

Her eyes held nothing but honesty. Pure faith in you, full on trust.

"You guys are no good without me anyway, right?" you joke. Your voice was still hoarse from crying.

"Damn right, we aren't"

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You didn't move back to normality instantly. But small steps are progress nonetheless.

So the next morning you went upstairs with Natasha for breakfast.

"You okay?" she asked, your hand in hers as she stood right in front of you.

You took a deep breath and nodded. "I am."

Just before she moved away you caught her wrist again "Tasha?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. I love you"

She chuckled pulling you in by your waist. "Of course. I love you too, princess"

You stood on tiptoes, giving her a quick kiss before pulling her gently towards the door.

It was early enough that no one would be around, Steve out on his run, the rest still asleep.

You didn't meet anyone except for Phil but it was a start. Familiarity. The feeling of another thing that could keep you grounded.

Next thing was dinner in the evening. Still unusual late but Tony ran into you.

He full on walked in on you and Natasha having pizza and for a second he just watched you. You, sitting there like teenagers having late-night pizza on a gaming night.

The moment you noticed him he full on launched on you, pulling you in the biggest dad-hug you ever received. "I missed you, kiddo"

And all you could do was cry and laugh, burying your face in his shoulder "I'm no kid, old man"

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#natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x fem!reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #avengers #marvel #mcu #lesbian #wlw

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the-silliest-lad · 3 days ago

Text

Seen a lot of people pointing out the difference between when Haymitch refers to Lenore Dove as “My Girl” compared to when Snow refers to Lucy Gray as “My Girl,” and I wanted to just compile some quotes that stuck out to me when I reread Ballad after reading through Sunrise.

“In some ways, it had been better to have her locked up in the Capitol, where he always had a general idea of what she was doing.” (Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, pg. 410)

For Snow, having Lucy Gray in the Capitol Zoo - a place that he knew not only made her feel trapped and uncomfortable, but also afraid, where she was starved and treated like nothing more than an animal - was a method of control. So much worse could’ve happened to her, helpless against the Capitol. He knew where she was, and could go to her whenever he pleased. He had a sense of control over her actions, something we are shown as critical to who he is. It’s why he hated the Mockingjays, because they could not be controlled. Having her free in District 12 (as free as she can be that is) worries him, constantly making him doubt her loyalty to him, despite the fact she’s prove again and again that she cares for and trusts him.

Never released. That was a lie, theirs or possibly hers. A gift she gave me so I wouldn’t worry about her, only myself. And it worked. But now I know that she has been absolutely helpless, completely at their mercy, this whole time why I sabotaged their arena. Confined. Starved. Tortured. Raped. Murdered.” (Sunrise on the Reaping, pg. 348)

Haymitch’s first instinct after first finding out Lenore Dove was in prison and then after finding out she was never released is panic. He knows that not only does being caged make her uncomfortable, as she was never someone made to be put in captivity, but also the immediate fear for her. He thinks of what the peacekeepers and the Capitol could have done to her while he was in the arena. Lenore Dove is someone who stands up for what she believes, even to a fault. But being in a Capitol run building while Haymitch was actively working to destroy the arena?? That could’ve gone so incredibly wrong. The point is that his first concern was for her safety, and the only reason he wasn’t worried about her for that specifically while in the arena was for the exact reason he said: Lenore Dove didn’t want him to worry about her, just worry about surviving.

If this was Lucy Gray’s song, he wanted to pay careful attention so he could say something nice about it tomorrow […] Oh, a ghost story. Ugh. Boo. So ridiculous. Well, he’d try hard to love it when he saw the Covey tomorrow. […] What a dreadful song.” (Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, pg. 425-427)

The parts of this quote that I took out all had to do with him criticizing her song, which I think just further shows how dismissive he is. He isn’t listening in order to engage with her specifically, or connect with the Covey, he’s listening out of obligation, because Maude Ivory specifically picked this song so he’d know “his girl’s” song. The moment he becomes bored of it, deciding it’s a ghost story and not worth his time, criticizing it for how foolish and superstitious it all is, he disengages. Snow doesn’t retain the song at all, just how he felt listening to it. For all people point out how he reacted to “Pure as Driven Snow” and how that must be proof of his love for Lucy Gray, that’s the only song he ever holds any value to. And it has nothing to do with the work she put in writing it, the word choice and how it relates to all the little moments they’ve had since the games, how she says she trusts him - it all has to do with the fact it’s about him, and not Billy Taupe or some old Covey ballad. The moment that ceases to be the case, he no longer cares.

“I hear her voice singing a piece of her poem, her name song. I know every word of the song, since I learned it for Lenore Dove’s birthday last December.[…] I sang it to her in an old house by the lake in front of a fire. We were toasting marshmallows and we’d skipped school, which we both caught hell for later. She said it was her favorite gift ever…” (Sunrise on the Reaping, pg. 54)

Haymitch memorized Lenore Dove’s entire ballad for her birthday, and still knows it even after the fact. This was a gesture that Lenore Dove says is better than anything she could’ve been given. Music is so important to the Covey, as it’s where they get their names from, but also it’s such a major part of their lives. Lucy Gray refers to them as performers and musicians by trade. Music is their livelihood throughout Ballad, and with the Covey being banned from playing in public and being fully banned from certain songs. Haymitch learning Lenore Dove’s name song is so meaningful towards their relationship. It’s the thing that brings him comfort when he’s truly afraid or upset. Lenore Dove is the one that keeps him going throughout the games. Lenore Dove’s gift to him, the flint striker, for his birthday is the thing that kept him alive in the games - and even if he hadn’t gone into the arena, it would’ve been incredibly useful as a resource to his family in district 12. Both of their gifts to each other showed how well they know each other, but also that they gave each other tools to survive. Haymitch gave Lenore Dove music, and Lenore Dove gave Haymitch the means to burn that arena down.

“‘Bet I know a thing or two about your dove.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like she’s delightful to look at, swishes around in bright colors, and sings like a mockingjay. You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder, because her plans don’t include you at all.’” (Sunrise on the Reaping, pg. 129).

The difference in relationships between Snow/Lucy Gray and Haymitch/Lenore Dove is so clear when you put them side by side. Even in the end, Snow still sees Lucy Gray as the 16 year old girl who ran away into the woods and was never seen again all those years ago, while Haymitch sees Lenore Dove grow old with him, loving her just as much as he did when he lost her to Snow. Snow sought to control Lucy Gray, while Haymitch loved Lenore Dove for how uncontrollable she was, even when it scared him to death. Snow’s “love” for Lucy Gray comes from a need for control and obsession, while Haymitch truly loves Lenore Dove, every part of her. When Snow says “Except sometimes you wonder, because her plans don’t include you at all.” Haymitch doesn’t really understand what he means, because the only plans Lenore Dove keeps from him are her rebel acts, because she knows what happened to his dad. But also, Lucy Gray’s plans did include Snow. She originally wasn’t going to run away with him, just going to go on her own, but the moment he took interest she was willing to go with him. It was his own actions that made her leave. It wasn’t Lucy Gray’s disappearance that broke Snow, it was never Lucy Gray at all. It was the Snow name, the views instilled by the authority in his life, by his own view of what he deserves, and the deep need for control that broke him. It’s why he hates Mockingjays and underdogs, and Lucy Gray was both of those things. It was because Haymitch loved Lenore Dove in a way that Snow never loved Lucy Gray that Snow was able to use her against him.

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