#risk of getting stabbed with metal

[stellaranglerfish]

I was thinking of the name Karl Catsenberg

But, Karl Katzenberg has a nice ring to it too (even if it's identical sound haha)

[tanadrin]

@grimogretricks

For people saying that airport security is wholly theatre and that it doesn't do any good- certainly it seems they've gone overboard on certain things, but what is your explanation as to why hijackings and terrorist attacks involving planes are MUCH less common than they used to be?

Sorry that this is mostly off the dome, and has less references than I would like. We argued this stuff to death in the aughts, though ultimately the political incentives in favor of security theater were just too great. Everyone is terrified of the potential backlash of not being seen to do enough in advance of the next big terrorist attack, I guess. And to be clear, we are talking mostly about post-9/11 airport security measures as being security theater. Some degree of airport security has been necessary since people started getting on airplanes with guns and informing the pilot that, hey, guess what, we're going to Cuba instead of Miami today.

But the big reduction in airplane hijackings came with the institution of metal detectors to keep guns off airplanes after a couple high-profile hijackings in the 1970s. But remember that these incidents were of a very different character than what we now think of as the risk to airplanes: they were certainly a problem, but the modus operandi of hijackers in this era was to force the plane to fly to a non-extradition country and land safely. 9/11-style hijackings, that used the plane as a bomb and killed everyone aboard, were on nobody's radar--when the goal was blowing up the plane and killing passengers, bombers generally used bombs planted in checked baggage, which requires different security measures from passenger screening.

Two security changes occurred after 9/11 that made future such hijackings basically impossible: one, probably most importantly, was that passengers understood they no longer could count on hijackers having an interest in surviving the hijacking. This change in passenger behavior was immediate: later that same year when a guy tried to bomb an airplane (using a really ineffective device hidden in his shoe) passengers immediately acted to restrain him. The second important change was reinforcing cockpit doors and keeping them locked: this makes hijacking airplanes with knives (the only major modality left to most would-be hijackers) functionally impossible.

All the other intense passenger screening and security measures implemented after 9/11 has been repeatedly shown by security researchers to be pretty ineffective, not even very reliable at stuff like keeping knives off airplanes. For years after 9/11 there were endless news stories about law enforcement running drills at airports and weapons making their way through security. A lot of later security measures, like liquid limits in carry-on baggage, came from terrorist plots that didn't even make it off the drawing board (and are unlikely to have ever worked anyway), and seem mostly to be overzealous ass-covering by transportation security officials.

And, finally, we should note that the real security threats to airplanes in the post-9/11 era seem to have come come from two sources that are basically impossible to protect against using traditional security methods, and for which passenger-based security screening is useless: anti-aircraft missiles and suicidal pilots (plus an honorable mention to aircraft companies trying to skirt certain regulatory requirements).

Despite what decades of American media would have you believe, elaborate plots targeting transportation infrastructure and involving like a dozen people are actually not at the top of the list of terrorist methodologies--why time and money training members of your organization to fly planes into buildings, when you can just use social media to convince a guy to drive a car into a crowd of bystanders, or stab somebody on the street? It's much cheaper, and much, much harder to guard against. Random lone-wolf terrorism is, unlike the kind of elaborate plots portrayed on TV, and one-off real-life examples like 9/11, basically impossible for security services to guard against in advance. But in order to justify the war on terror, and large budgets for security services on anti-terrorism grounds, it was necessary to play up the threat of such plots, even if by its very nature 9/11 was impossible to repeat. For similar reasons, the post-9/11 era also played up the threat of Islamic extremism and large overseas terrorist networks, even though far-right extremists acting in small groups also have managed to kill huge numbers of people in spectacular ways.

So for all these reasons, and those noted at the top, the political incentives around transportation security means that passenger screening measures in airports are almost guaranteed to be a one-way ratchet, even if they don't work. It's a bit like the fabled anti-tiger amulet--it's easy to say the lack of tigers is proof it's working! Even if the real reason there are no tigers about is that you live in Ohio. The media environment post-War on Terror helped create a public appetite for and approval of such anti-tiger amulets, too, of course. This was not by any means a purely top-down phenomenon.

[libbyfandom]

“In This Life, and the Next. I Swear.”

Happy Holidays, have a bittersweet reincarnation fic.

Summary: Mizu may not believe in reincarnation, but you do. You'll believe in it enough for both of you. You may not be strong, but your soul is. You'll carry her to a better lifetime.

Content Warnings: Did your really think no one would die in a reincarnation fic? Hmmm?

“Next lifetime, you have to court me,” you murmur into Mizu’s neck as her fingers trace along the bare skin of your back where you lie atop her. “None of this... stoic loner act where I have to wear you down into letting me love you. Yeah?”

Mizu snorts, her other hand resting over her eyes. “Not on your life.”

Making an offended noise, you bite her collarbone in retaliation, hearing her laughter fill the inn room.

“When we come back, I want our lives to be simple,” you say as Mizu helps you down from the horse you borrowed on your escape from the last town.

Resisting the urge to let a sigh slip at this fantasy coming back up again, she mutters, “Yeah? You’d prefer to have a boring life, after you basically attached yourself to me and Ringo to escape your home?”

“Well yeah, I’m getting all of my adventuring done in this life cycle.”

“And you don’t want that again?” Mizu starts to lead the horse toward the outer skirts of the city, hoping to find a stable to leave it without being spotted.

You walk alongside her, studying her passive expression. “I do." A beat. "But I want you to have peace more.”

Her eyes dart to you, genuinely caught off guard. The openness, the honesty in your face has a bubble of overwhelming emotion welling up in her chest.

Her head turns back to the road, retreating into her silence to avoid speaking and risking her voice betraying her.

But after a few minutes of her staring off into the distance, she quietly says with a softened brow, “That’s kind.”

‘Do you regret choosing this life, knowing how quickly it will all end? Or did you walk into it blindly, optimistic for some happier resolution?’

Mizu jerks you up into her arms, apologizing frantically over and over as you scream in pain when she applies pressure to the stab wound deep in your stomach. She tenses her grip as your body tries to seize and jerk away from the splitting, hot pain radiating through your nerves from pressure on the gash. You’re too scared to look down and see your own insides peeling away from each other.

Taigen and Ringo are fending off the last few bounty hunters, the clashing of swords and knives fading into the background as you dig your bloodied fingers into her haori. “Come find-find me again,” you say with frantic eyes, swallowing back another mouthful of metallic blood forcing its way up your burning throat.

“What?!” Mizu’s attention is torn between keeping an eye on her back and wrapping a torque around your middle from the fabric she torn off your kosode.

You grab her face, leaving a bloody streak on her cheek as you force her to look at you. Her widened blue eyes are forced to look into yours with no barrier, her glasses lost somewhere in the snow from the fight. You can feel how fast your body is losing warmth. The edges of your vision are blurring, and the draw to fall asleep is growing more powerful than the burning gap in your stomach. Mizu may not know how to die, but you-

‘I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so, so sorry.’

You need her to hear you before everything stops. So you grip her cheek and stare into her panic-stricken eyes. You’re scared too, but you’re more scared of coming back to this world and not seeing her again than you are of not coming back at all.

“Come find me again.”

Mizu hates the concept of promises, and the bigger and more impossible they sound the more she avoids them. But you nose is turning pink from the cold, or from your crying. Tears are trailing down the sides of your temples, cutting through any blood stains across your face.

And she hates promises.

Tears well in her own eyes as she clenches her teeth against a violent sob.

But she hates denying you proof that she loves you more. If you pass without it… if you die with the last words in your ears being 'I can't'…

Every whisper and cry of “Onryō” she’s ever heard echo louder and louder in her head until they're all scream chanting in unison. She blinks, and for a heart-freezing moment your terrified eyes turn her shade of blue.

“Onryō!”

“ONRYŌ!”

"𝔬n҉𝔯y҉𝔬o҉𝔫r҉𝔶o҉𝔬n҉𝔯y҉𝔬o҉𝔫r҉𝔶o҉𝔬n҉𝔯y҉𝔬-"

Her hand lifts away from the rapidly growing stain of blood coming through the makeshift torque across your abdomen and settles on your cheek.

She forces the corners of her mouth up into a reassuring smile as her own body trembles.

“Okay,” her voice wavers as she blinks out tears. “I’ll come find you.” Her voice is like a child making their first vow. “I’ll, I’ll come find you again.”

You smile weakly, and despite her own forced one, her eyes fill with terror for just a moment at the blood staining your teeth.

You reach up and tug her hair out of its high bun, watching it tumble around her shoulders.

You need your soul to memorize what she looks like when she’s not hiding. For next time.

Your own smile wavers. “You have to. I won’t… I won’t forgive you if you don’t.”

The fragile look on her face crumples into despair. Mizu leans her temple against yours as the sobs overtake her, her long hair draping over both of your faces and blocking out the world. “I will. I will I will I will I will I-“

Her fractured voice fades away, and your vision swims.

But your soul is at peace.

‘It's your turn, Mizu.’

‘I ended up burying you with as many red spider lilies I could scavenge. They’ll help guide you to the next life. I made Ri( ) swear to bury me next to you with just as many. If he’s around to collect my corpse when I go. If anyone is. ( )I used to not care if anyone did, as long as I finished my mission. But now I’m terrified something happens and I can’t keep my promise.

I’m sorry. I miss you. I’m sorry I made a promise that’s out of my hands.

( )

I’m sorry.’

You stare down at the spread of papers and antique diaries written in kanji. You’re trying to organize them by chronological order based on context from the letters and diaries, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult as you go. Especially with words smudged and faded by centuries of time. You rub your eye behind your glasses.

‘She really is making this hard for me.’ You sigh through your nose as you bite down on the end of your pen.

“Excuse me?”

“Hm?” You glance to your side, surprised to be pulled from your work and come face to face with probably the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever seen. “Hello?”

“Sorry,” she smiles, lowering her head to pull her tinted glasses off. “I just saw you over here and uh-“ her expression goes a little strained as she looks for the right words. “I just, uh-”

You glance between her and the spread of antique writing from the archives. “Are you the person that checked these out last? Do you need them back?”

“No. I just-" She makes a face. Whatever she planned to say when she came over was quickly unraveling. Her eyes dart away, and land on the diaries. Her eyebrows furrow slowly, something flickering in her blue eyes.

Very pretty eyes…

She jerks her chin down at the spread of papers. “What is that?”

A little thrown off at the changes in conversation, you pick up one of the diaries. “Um, this is work for my master thesis. I’m studying unknown woman and queer history of Edo Japan.” Your fingers drum over the cover. “Came across this treasure when going through the archives. It’s a bunch of writing from a rogue swordsman to his lover after her death. But in my review of it, I’m positive I can prove that he was actually a woman,” you grin a little with pride, shifting your weight side to side with delight at getting to discuss your research.

“Lesbian samurai,” she laughs lowly, eyes warm.

“Something like that,” the corners of your lips lift up.

“Well that’s really fascinating,” her fingers trail across the edge of the table as she steps closer. “I’d love to hear more about it. Maybe… over dinner?” The corner of her mouth grimaces for a moment, her eye twitching once with frustratation at herself with that cheesy delivery.

Your lips part, eyes widening with a breathless little “Oh.”

The woman gains confidence from how your eyes light up behind your glasses as you flush. Her hand squeezes her shoulder, a nervous tic. “I’m sorry. I saw your over here and had to give it a shot.”

“No, I’m glad you did,” you’re quick to reassure her. You look up at her with bright eyes as you dig through your backpack for notebook paper.

“I wouldn’t have forgiven you if you didn’t.”

A tilt of her lips, her hand outstretched. “Mizu.”

You introduce yourself.

You hold out the pen and paper to get her number, and she asks as she leans over to scribble it out on the table, “Anything good in those letters?”

“Most of it’s pretty grief heavy,” you smile sadly. “But in a poetic and romantic way? Like, even though her love was gone, probably pretty young, she kept her memory alive as she fought through life.”

Mizu glances up at you, and something tightens in your throat and sinks into your stomach. You don’t know why you admit quietly, “The first time I read them I started crying in the archive room.”

A beat, where you feel dread creep up your neck at suddenly tanking the mood.

Her face grows impassive, deadly quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

You quickly blink back tears that come on alarmingly fast. “What?”

Mizu blinks too, straightening up. “Just, sorry that it made you sad. I guess.” She smiles again, albeit a little smaller this time, and hands over the paper. “I guess I’ll see you? Hopefully soon?”

A soft laugh huffs out your nose as that melancholic moment passes. “Yeah,” your hand brushes against the inside of her palm as you take the paper. “Really soon.”

She leaves you with a satisfied grin, her nose scrunching up as she turns and walks off.

You watch her go, feeling something tighten in your stomach again at how relaxed she looks.

You look down at her number, and see that she slyly signed it with the kanji for “Promise”.

As you begin to organize the letters to skim through them again, your hesitate on the one you had just been reviewing. You hold it and the notebook paper up side by side.

The letter unfolds and a single, dried, book pressed red spider lily flutters to your feet.

Mizu perfectly copied the handwriting of the swordswoman’s kanji.

“Huh.”

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green

WC: 1329 Masterpost CW: stitches, blood, canon typical violence, history of experimentation, bad (lbh evil) parent Fentons “I need to get to Bruce Wayne.”

“We should be able to arrange a conversation,” Tim said immediately. None of the shock and concern that Tim must have been feeling seeped through into his words. Jason always admired how even keel Tim could seem.

The kid’s eyes snapped to Tim, brow furrowed in confusion.

Tim just shrugged. “He does good in the city, so do we. Besides, his kids are targeted a lot and sometimes we get involved to help out with that. There’s a line of communication that we can use.”

“So what?” They rasped. “You let every kid who wants to talk to Bruce Wayne get to just ‘cause they’re bleeding out?”

“He’d say that was a good enough reason,” Jason said with certainty. He knew how much money and effort Bruce poured into Make a Wish and the children's hospital.

The kid squinted at him before glancing away. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk to him… like this…”

“Then a safe house for right now,” Tim insisted. “Just like the name says, it’s safe. We can get you patched up and you can rest somewhere you don’t have to look over your shoulder. When you’re feeling better, we’ll set up that meeting.”

“You’ll let a stranger stay at your safe house, just like that?”

“Kid,” Jason said with a sigh. “I don’t think you’re getting it. You’re a very hurt kid. You’re exactly the type of person that we’d do that for. We’re the Bats of Gotham and we protect her people.”

There was that ugly laugh again. “I’m not even from Gotham.”

“You’re here now. That’s all that matters in Gotham,” Jason said. He took the risk and held out his hand. Jason didn’t pray anymore, not since his mother died, but he still silently hoped that the kid would take it. Jason felt certain they wouldn’t make it if they didn’t take it.

The fingers braced against the grimy cinder block wall twitched. Then the hand reached out. The kid collapsed forward into the motion and Jason lunged to catch them. He lifted them gently, worried about how light they were.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you. We’ll make sure you’re safe.”

The kid hid their face against Jason’s jacket. Their words were almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t know if you can.”

“Never underestimate what a stubborn Bat can do, Kid.”

-

The kid passed out halfway to the safe house. It was probably for the best. Their injuries were… extensive would be too kind of a word.

Tim laid down a plastic sheet on the bed before Jason deposited the kid down on it. The hoodie, which couldn’t be the kid’s at that size, had to be practically peeled off. The main wound that must have been the blood splatter he noticed was the immediate concern, but it was everything else that worried Tim more.

This was more than signs of abuse, this was torture or experimentation. Those scars and wounds cut into the kid’s arms and torso was far too even and controlled. There were other, messier scars that looked like burns and stab wounds. The inside of their elbows were littered with track marks and their hands bruised from what must have been IV ports. The worst for Tim was seeing the metal collar around the kid’s neck, but he knew that wasn’t what was getting Jason. He didn’t need to see Jason’s eyes to tell they were glued to the track marks.

“Go take five and fill a bowl up with warm water,” Tim said.

“Red—”

“Hood,” Tim snapped, cutting off Jason’s growl. Tim had suffered Jason’s bite, the bark didn’t scare him anymore. Besides, they understood each other these days. They were the Bats will willing blood on their hands. “Go take five. They’re not going anywhere and I need your help to patch them up, so go take five and get your head on, okay?”

The fight drained out of Jason like a string had been cut. He nodded and stalked off to the tiny kitchen that was basically an afterthought to the living room. It was hardly their most glamorous safe house but it was close, had two bedrooms, and was secure, despite it’s shoddy appearance.

Tim had the old bandages and scraps of cloth peeled off by the time Jason came back to start cleaning away the green blood.

“We need to get antibiotics for them from Leslie,” Jason said after the worst was cleaned up.

“Definitely. This new wound is from a knife and some of these were wrapped with what I think was an old hospital scrub.”

“Lends credence to…”

“Yeah.”

Jason nodded stiffly. “This needs stitches.”

“Luckily I think bandages are fine for everything else,” Tim said.

He snapped off the nitrate gloves and put on a fresh pair. He carefully numbed the skin around the wound while he waited for Jason to be in a spot to hold the kid down should they wake up. The first few stitches went fine. Tim took the time to be extra neat. The kid didn’t need any worse scars because of his sloppy work.

Tim had just started on the forth one when the kid started to stir. They twitched and whimpered in their sleep. Jason pressed down carefully to keep them from moving too much.

“No, Mom, please, I’m your son! I’m not— Don’t… not again. I’ll be good…”

Tim looked up at the impassive red helmet.

“I’m good. I have him. Just keep stitching so we can get him tucked in to bed.”

“Okay,” Tim said and got back to work. It was hard to ignore the whimpered words and everything they implied, but Tim needed to focus. There would be time to start looking into everything after.

It was as he was cleaning up that Jason threw a wrench into things.

“Don’t run his DNA.”

“What?” Tim hissed, rounding on Jason. “That is clearly Bruce’s kid in there!”

“Exactly. It’s obviously his kid, there’s no doubt in that with the way he looks. And just as obviously he’s been tortured or experimented on. Don’t you think he’s been stripped of his privacy enough?”

All the fight bled out of Tim an instant. “Fuck. I didn’t think… I just wanted to…”

“I know. You wanted to help by solving this, but that’s not what this kid needs right now. So hold off until he feels safe enough to consent, okay?”

“Okay, no, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Red,” Jason said, ruffling Tim’s hair with a wet hand. “Creepy stalking is just your way of caring, I get it. Just pull back a little this time. You can focus on that collar he’s wearing right now.”

Tim shuddered. “That thing needs to go. Am I staying on watch then?”

“If you’re fine with that. I’ll get Oracle to call the others to the Cave.”

“Sure,” Tim said. He didn’t want to miss that conversation, but someone had to stay with the kid and he was a better choice to get the collar off. “Just make sure I have a comm line in.”

“Of course. Can’t have you missing out on us discussing the old man’s sex life.”

“Ugh, never mind, I don’t need a comm line!”

“Too late!” Jason called out with a laugh as he headed for the door.

Tim flicked him off just to do so.

After double checking that the place was secure, Tim pulled out a tool bag. At least he could start by testing the collar for explosive residue or other traps that would keep Tim from taking it off. The thought of the collar being rigged made him sick to his stomach, but it fit too well with the canvas of scars that the kid bore.

“Who did this to you, Kid?” Tim asked, even though he knew he wouldn’t get a response. “And how soon can Hood put a bullet in their head for you?”

--- AN: So here's a little more of this for Trauma Tuesday! The Reds are very concerned! I'm still having fun writing a Jason and Tim who get along and understand each other in a way the other 'we don't kill' Bat's don't, threats of murder and all.

Sorry if there are lots of mistakes (I don't need them corrected, ty), it's been a bad fatigue spell here. Still hope you enjoyed it and stay delightful, darlings!

(Oh, and there's another continuation to the OG threaded to it by chroma if you want a different take!)

Masterpost you can subscribe to, as I no longer tag people!

[hemipenal-system]

If I consent to a man breaking my jaw and ripping out my nails, the man who agrees to do it is a bad person. An extreme example but it should drive the point home, no?

Doesn't matter if I consent to being choked. Whoever WANTS to choke someone out to get off is a bad person.

Whoever wants to pretend to be raping or abusing someone to get off is a bad person.

"an extreme example but it should drive the point home, no"

no?? if you know the risks and accept them and give unhindered, clear and informed consent, then no, there's actually nothing wrong with someone doing that stuff to you. because, and viewers at home can say it with me, THAT IS HOW CONSENT WORKS

but y'know, what we're *actually* gonna look at here is the assumption that the person doing that to you is a man. maybe y'all would stop seeing kink as an inherent expression of patriarchy if you internalized the fact that not every man is dominant and not every woman is submissive. also, you know, that there are gay people.

but no, because that would require you to actually deconstruct the ideas you have in your head about how every man has to be an aggressor and how testosterone makes people violent and how every man secretly wants to do this kind of thing to every vulnerable, weak woman, the implication being of course that any woman who engages in this kind of thing by choice has something wrong with her

which is fully just misogyny but thats a tangent from the actual point here

"Doesn't matter if I consent to being choked. Whoever WANTS to choke someone out to get off is a bad person."

furthermore, i think you should also deconstruct this idea that kink spaces are all dominants who want to hurt their submissives, when in reality it's a dominant doing those things because they know their sub likes it just as much if not more of the time.

let's look at that "doesn't matter if i consent to being choked" line. um. yes it does?? knowing your risks and giving informed consent is literally the entire thing here. you do know that there are safe* ways to choke someone that are legitimately taught to people in an attempt to minimize permanent harm from that sort of thing, right? when you see things like "don't use thin metal handcuffs on your partner" and "keep safety shears within arm's reach when doing ropeplay" and "drink gatorade and go pee after sex" you know those are all things people do to reduce risk, right?

(* no form of breathplay is 100% safe! know the risks and do research on how to minimize them before you play!!!)

"Whoever wants to pretend to be raping or abusing someone to get off is a bad person."

hey look at that key word i italicized in that quote for your ease of reading! it's all pretend! because, once again, viewers at home say it with me, THAT IS HOW CONSENT WORKS

there's no actual rape or abuse happening if you have proper consent and safe word setups in place. the key to this whole thing, which is why any of this stuff is actually possible to do ethically, is the fact that, at any time for any reason at all, either the dominant or the submissive can stop the scene. literally all kink is, is an ongoing, revokable agreement between at least two people to do things that might not be ethical irl.

(before y'all toss another strawman at this, yes there are people who break consent rules, and yes they get tossed out of kink spaces for it)

kink is fucking theater. when hamlet stabs polonius, you don't accuse hamlet's actor of being a murderer. this is morally the exact same thing as going to the theater and watching people talk in iambic pentameter and stab each other.

there's also kinks that have basically negligible risk of temporary or permanent harm, just so you know, but of course you're not going to mention those ones. you know, because you're a weirdo who just wants to police what people do in the bedroom

[whumpster-fire]

Yet another reason T. T. Sutherland is a coward and a fool for going "Peril has never been touched in battle before, the dragonflame cactus was her first time experiencing real pain" and I refuse to accept it as canon:

Cooler Headcanon: the reason Peril immediately had the idea of burning the venom out of Clay's wound when he got bitten by the Dragonbite Viper was because she's had to do that to herself after getting puncture wounds from sandwings that injected venom past the superheated layer of skin. It didn't do as much damage to her as it did to Clay because Peril's pretty much completely fireproof even under the skin, so the scars are pretty small and not that noticeable, but she does have a few.

The couple times she de-venomed herself during a battle were pretty much the most metal thing ever to happen in Scarlet's arena. A dragon getting an apparently mortal wound, jamming her claws right into the open wound, writhing on the sand in apparent death throes, and then after like a minute getting back up with "smoke" rising from her eyes and nose as well as the bloody, sizzling puncture, and proceeding to limp across the arena and utterly destroy her terrified opponent.

The dragons she was fighting didn't try to finish her off because they'd already severely burned their tail barbs and probably talons and wings doing it and weren't going to risk getting hurt even worse by a dying dragon. Then of course when their one hope of killing her turned out not to work they kind of lost the will to live.

This contributed significantly to Peril's reputation as an invincible monster, but on the other hand seeing the queen's champion curled in a fetal position, screaming, sobbing and obviously trying not to pass out, made some of the spectators present for those fights somewhat remember that this was a 2-3 year old dragonet being thrown in the arena with full grown adult enemy soldiers, which was pretty messed up even if the small child kept winning. These feelings of sympathy were often diminished a bit by what Peril did to her opponents afterward, but Queen Scarlet was still not pleased, and after it happened two or three times she got a supply of the antidote cactus for "if a guard accidentally gets gotten by a sandwing prisoner" purposes.

Ruby absolutely never saw this because she made a point of watching fights in the arena as little as possible, especially Peril's for obvious reasons.

On the other hand I just thought of the perfect explanation for why Carnelian was like "I wonder if she remembers me?" when Peril showed up at JMA instead of freaking out like most of the dragons there. At some point, early in her career as a child soldier before she ended up in Ruby's unit, she was working in the palace and got voluntold to help out during an incident when Peril got stabbed in the shoulder or something where she couldn't reach with her claws so somebody had to very carefully burn the venom out with a red hot nail and a pair of tongs. Carnelian's actual job was probably something like holding a bucket of water and pouring it on the spear haft a third dragon was holding Peril's wing closed with, but she met Peril in a vulnerable state when she wasn't trying to perform for the crowd, and also saw her trying really hard to avoid accidentally injuring anyone, which led to her being one of a small number of skywings who are capable of being normal about Peril.

[girl-next-door-writes]

Landslide

Characters: Loki x reader

Summary: After a brutal mission leaves you battered and bruised, Loki’s protective side flares up as he confronts Tony for putting you at risk. Amidst the tension, Loki’s fear of losing you surfaces, and he reminds you just how much you mean to him.

Word Count: 1327 words

A/N: My wonderful and dear friend @iwillbeinmynest sent me this request an age ago. I am sorry it took me so long, but hopefully you will enjoy it.

The Quinjet hummed beneath you, an unsettling contrast to the agony throbbing through your entire body. Every breath ached, your ribs protesting with sharp stabs, and your knuckles were raw from the fight. You stared at the ceiling, forcing yourself to stay conscious as the adrenaline slowly ebbed away, leaving nothing but exhaustion and pain.

You had won. Barely. The mission had taken more out of you than expected, but you’d managed to hold your ground, even as the odds stacked up against you. It had been messy, and you’d paid for it with every punch and kick that landed. Tony’s voice crackled over the comms, congratulating you on a job well done, but you could only muster a weak grunt in response.

The jet’s landing gears extended with a metallic thud, and the familiar lights of the Avengers Compound loomed outside the small window. You exhaled shakily, preparing yourself for the walk down the ramp. It would be fine, you told yourself. Just make it to the med bay, get patched up, and then you could collapse in your room and sleep for a week.

But as soon as the ramp hissed open, you saw him. Loki stood at the base of the ramp, his face bright smile morphing into deep frown the moment he laid eyes on you. In an instant, he was there, his hands gently but urgently running over your shoulders, neck and face, his piercing gaze scanning over your bruises and cuts with a mixture of fury and concern.

“Who did this?” His voice was sharp, but you could hear the tremor beneath it. He was on edge, trying to mask his fear for you.

You winced as he tilted your chin up to inspect a particularly nasty cut near your eye. “It’s nothing, Loki. I’m fine.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “You are not fine,” he hissed, his touch a mix of tenderness and barely restrained rage. “Tell me who did this.”

Before you could even begin to form a response, Tony sauntered over from the other side of the hangar, tossing a helmet onto a nearby table. “Good work out there, kid. Mission accomplished. You’ll heal up quick, don’t worry.” He smirked, clearly satisfied with how things had gone.

Loki’s attention snapped to Tony, his gaze darkening to a storm. “This—this is your doing, Stark?” His voice was low, menacing. “You sent them into that chaos alone?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Loki. “Whoa, whoa. Let’s pump the brakes there, Reindeer Games. They volunteered for the mission, and they handled it. The kid’s tougher tougher than they look. And we were a team out there.”

“They should not have had to ‘handle’ anything that will result in- in… THIS!” Loki’s voice thundered through the hangar, startling some of the nearby staff. He took a step towards Tony, his whole frame vibrating with anger. “You were in charge. You let this happen.”

You reached out to grip Loki’s arm, but the movement pulled painfully at your side. “Loki, it wasn’t his fault. I—”

“I don’t want excuses,” Loki interrupted, his gaze boring into Tony with an intensity that made even the billionaire genius seem momentarily at a loss for words. “You’ve got to do whatever it takes to protect the ones you love. You—”

“We’re a team,” Tony cut in, his tone growing more serious. “We all take hits sometimes. You know that.”

“Not like this.” Loki’s voice was a low growl now, almost feral. “They—” He stopped himself, his expression twisting with a pain that seemed to echo in your own chest. He took a breath, trying to steady himself. “They’re important… to me.” he said, more quietly now, but no less fiercely.

Tony’s expression softened slightly. He gave a small nod toward you. “Then make sure they’re okay, okay? I’m not the enemy here.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the hangar echoing with an awkward silence.

Loki watched him go, his fists still clenched at his sides. You reached up again, this time with more resolve, and tugged on his sleeve. “Loki. It’s over. I’m fine. Really.”

But he wasn’t listening. Not fully. His hands moved back to your face, his fingers lightly brushing over your cheek, and then slid down to your arm where a nasty bruise was forming. “You need to lie down,” he said, almost to himself, as if trying to control the frantic pace of his thoughts. “The healers should look at you immediately. That bruise—”

“I’ve had worse,” you murmured, offering him a small, strained smile. “Come on. Let’s just get inside.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist, supporting your weight as you walked. Each step jarred your aching limbs, but you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest at the way his touch lingered, his fingers gently pressing into your side as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still alive.

As you reached the med bay, you slumped onto one of the beds, stifling a groan as your ribs protested the movement. Loki hovered over you, not willing to take a step back until the medical staff came to start their assessment.

He paced as they worked, restless and anxious. Every time you winced or drew a sharp breath, his eyes darted back to you, narrowing with an unreadable emotion. When the healers finally stepped away, having done all they could for the moment, he was at your side again, taking your hand in his and pressing it to his chest.

“You shouldn’t scare me like that,” he whispered, his voice thick with something that bordered on desperation.

You squeezed his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Loki. I just—” You hesitated, glancing at him through tired eyes. “I just did what I had to do.”

“That’s what frightens me,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You always do what you think is right, even when it means risking your life. I’ve seen landslides do less damage than you.”

A small laugh escaped you at that, and you leaned your head back against the pillow, exhaustion finally pulling you under. “You’re so dramatic.”

But his expression remained serious, his gaze fixed on you as if committing every bruise and scrape to memory. “It’s not drama,” he murmured. “It’s truth. You mean more to me than you can possibly understand. And seeing you like this… it undoes me.”

His words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a warm blanket, soothing some of the ache that still lingered in your bones. You met his gaze, saw the honesty there—the raw, unguarded emotion that he rarely showed anyone.

“You’ve got to do whatever it takes to protect the ones you love,” you repeated his earlier words softly. “And that goes for both of us.”

He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. “Indeed, it does,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “But I would ask you, dearest, to not give me so much practice.”

You smiled faintly, your eyelids growing heavy. “I’ll do my best.”

As you drifted into sleep, you felt his hand still wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing gentle circles on your skin. And though you were battered and bruised, you felt a comfort that ran deeper than any healing spell or serum—a reassurance in knowing that, no matter how high the stakes, you would always have him to catch you when the ground shifted beneath your feet.

Loki watched you for a long time, his heart swelling with both relief and fear. He had come too close to losing you today. But as he looked at your peaceful expression, he felt a steely resolve harden within him.

Whatever it took, whatever battles lay ahead, he would keep you safe. He would not let you fall again.

[stevesbipanic]

Pierce My Heart

@steddiemicrofic prompt: pin, WC: 388, rating: G

"Ouch!" A dribble of blood trickled down Steve's finger, the pin of the needle had pricked him. Steve stuck the top of his finger in his mouth, the metallic taste of blood reminding him of darker days. The blood stopped quickly but he still got up to grab a small bandaid for the wound not wanting to risk getting any blood on the fabric he held, it had been a bitch getting it out in the first place. This was the fourth small stabbing of the afternoon.

"Stevie?" He heard from the door, shit when had Eddie gotten home? His shift wasn't supposed to end til...Steve glanced at the clock how was it four already.

"Um, in here!" He called trying to hide the garment behind him, a useless effort since as soon as Eddie saw him he wrapped his arms around him pulling him into a hug. "Hi, baby, I missed you," he said kissing Steve's cheek, "Hang on, what're you hiding?" Eddie made a grab at the ball of denim but Steve quickly held it out of his reach.

"Nothing!"

Eddie gave him an amused look, "Sunshine I know my vest when I see it, why have you got it, oh no don't tell me you were wearing it again and spilt stuff on it," he laughed, "Did you miss me that much, love?"

"No," Steve pouted not wanting to be teased about the time he was in fact wearing it because he missed Eddie and had spilt a whole milkshake on himself, that had been almost as hard to clean as the blood.

"Then what were you doing?"

Steve was caught, there was no way out of it, at least he was almost finished so he didn't feel too defeated showing his boyfriend what he'd risked his poor fingertips for. He held up the vest displaying the smattering of red thread on the left side, hidden between buttons and patches.

"Baby," Eddie said with awe in his voice, "You sewed this for me?" A small red heart with 1987 stitched haphazardly in the middle, the year they got their shit together.

"Pricked myself a few times but I wanted you to be able to take me with you when you go on tour next month, can't forget me, rockstar."

"Impossible, Stevie, you're my heart forever."

[filthyslashertoad]

The Slashers & Miscellaneous Reacting to You Breaking Your Leg

Patrick Bateman(You already know)

Asks you if you want sparkling water, not painkillers, or comfort, just sparkling water.

If you're in a "relationship" with him, he may bring you his signed record from Huey Lewis and The News so you have something to occupy yourself with.

Michael Myers

Tries to avoid you at all costs because he feels like he might accidentally hurt you.

Even when you're sleeping, he'll sleep somewhere else during that time because he doesn't want to move suddenly and risk you injuring yourself more. (Sympathetic Mikey)

Pyramid Head

Just quietly watches you.

Brings you things that he thinks may help you or that you'll enjoy.

Leon Kennedy

Doesn't really know how to empathize with you properly because he doesn't want to come off as an asshole.

He resorts to sending you little Post-it notes and cards that have horse jokes on them. (Don't ask why they're horses specifically)

(Btw, Chris and Carlos suggested the idea)

Carlos Oliveira

Refuses to leave your side .

Tries his hardest not to cling to you.

He's a super sympathetic boy, so he somewhat blames himself for your injury and feels liable for it. (Pls reassure him)

Poly!Ghostface

Stu brings markers to sign your cast and while he's doing that, Billy is in the corner stressing and overthinking.

Stu draws dinosaurs and little skulls all over your cast, if you're lucky he may even draw one of your favorite horror movie characters, though it has to be labeled because nobody knows who it is.

Heisenberg

Tries to glamorize your cast by making a metal one that has spikes and different decals all over it.

It ends up being a nuisance and he almost stabs himself in the leg when he hugs you.

Hellboy

Keeps a close eye on you for the duration of your injury.

Develops a bit of an attitude when people try to bother you when you're resting or in pain.

Danny Johnson

Sends you dumb articles that loosely or have nothing to do with the fact that you broke your leg and when you ask him why tf he sent it, he just says, "I wanted to make your day better😊"

When he thinks that you're upset with him he shows up with a cast of his own and shouts "TWINS!!! NOW WE CAN GET BETTER TOGETHER."(No he didn't actually break his leg, and yes he will be using it as an excuse to be lazy)

Hannibal Lecter

Becomes your own professional nurse.

Nurse Hannibal is now at your service. Prescribes you any and all medication you need and gives you advice on how to heal as fast as possible.

Takes time off of work to take care of you. (It's not often that he gets to pamper people this way and he enjoys doing it for you)

[mcrdvcks]

i've been working on the logan x reader oneshot where reader is a mercenary and is "friends" with wade and is a bloodthirsty killer (mercenary).

anyways, i'm like 14.5k words in and i don't think i'm even halfway done 😭 this is gonna be a long one y'all...

but, i thought i'd give a small sneak peak to see how people like it so far :)

TW: mentions of blood and violence/killing

---

Across from him, you leaned back in a creaky chair, cleaning your knife with slow, deliberate strokes. The blood from the last mission had dried into a dark crust, and wiping it away gave you something to focus on while Wade yammered from the couch.

“I’m just saying, you two have got to loosen up,” Wade said, waving a hand in the air as though that settled it. “I mean, look at me. I’m the picture of mental health, and I’m fun. You? You’re like... I don’t even know. Some kind of murder statue. And Logan over here is basically if Grumpy Cat got jacked and started stabbing people.”

“Shut it, Wade,” Logan growled, rubbing his temples.

“Oh, sure, stifle the one source of joy in this room,” Wade replied, flopping onto his back dramatically. “You know, you guys are lucky you have me. Without my sparkling personality, this team would just be murder and moaning.”

“Wade,” you said, voice flat as you glanced his way, “leave.”

Wade sat up, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Leave? What about team bonding? What about the camaraderie, the—”

“Wade,” Logan said, his tone dropping dangerously low.

“Fine,” Wade muttered, standing and grabbing his katana from where it leaned against the wall. “I’ll just take my delightful self somewhere it’ll be appreciated. Maybe join a book club. Talk about murder mysteries with other intellectuals.”

Logan didn’t look up as Wade stomped out, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary flair.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of your knife scraping against the cloth. Logan finally broke it, his voice heavy with irritation. “You don’t have to make everything so damn messy.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at him. “Messy gets the job done.”

He scoffed, setting his glass down with a hard clink. “There’s getting the job done, and then there’s whatever the hell you’re doing. You think I like killing? I do it because I have to, not because I enjoy it.”

You shrugged, the motion casual, like his words didn’t cut as sharply as they were meant to. “Maybe you’re just not good at it.”

Logan’s chair screeched against the floor as he pushed it back and stood, towering over the table. “Careful,” he said, his claws unsheathing with a snikt.

You finally looked up, meeting his glare with a calm, steady gaze. “You think you scare me? I don’t care what you think about me, Logan. You don’t like how I work? Don’t work with me.”

He leaned forward, resting his fists on the table, the claws catching the dim light. “It’s not about liking it. It’s about you putting everyone else at risk with your bloodlust. You don’t think, you just act.”

“Because thinking gets you killed,” you snapped, the first sign of heat in your voice.

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. For a moment, the air between you felt like it might ignite.

“You’re dangerous,” he said finally, his tone laced with something that wasn’t quite anger.

“So are you,” you shot back, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp.

The room fell silent again, the tension thick enough to choke on. Logan stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he straightened, retracting his claws with a metallic hiss.

“Next time,” he said, his voice rough, “try not to get anyone killed.”

He turned and walked toward the door, leaving you alone in the dim kitchen. You watched him go, your grip on the knife tightening for just a moment before you went back to cleaning it.

---

(if you asked to be tagged on the original post, i've got you! but you're more than welcome to ask to be added here if you're interested!)

[strawbeerossi]

The Party Trick

18+ Content. Minors DNI

Pairing: fem!reader x Spencer Reid

Description: After seeing a tutorial on how to pick a lock on handcuffs, reader decides to put it to the test to have a new party trick to show the others at the BAU. After doing it a few times with each hand, she gets bold and cuffs both wrists, leaving her trapped, until Spencer comes over and things get interesting.

Content Warning: Coarse language, panic, fear of embarrassment, restraints, Spencer laughs and teases reader, sub Spencer, Dom reader, mean reader, humiliation fetish, praising, degradation, orgasm denial, oral (m receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex.

Word Count: 3.2K

Y'all, I'm nervous as fuck to post this lmao. This has been in the drafts for a while. I'm not the best with smut because I haven't written it in a while. This is your warning. Read at your own risk.

Part two

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“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.” Y/N spoke aloud to herself, an agitated huff leaving her lips.

An hour ago, she’d been watching some random YouTube videos, just mainly to pass the time. There was all sorts of dumb shit she watched, although when she came across a video or a man showing how to pick the locks of a handcuff with a bobby pin, it captured her interest. It seemed simple enough, cuff one hand to something beside you then use the bobby pin to pick the keyhole and free yourself.

She had way too much fun as she figured out exactly how to do it, starting with handcuffing herself to the handle on the nightstand. It took about five minutes to get herself free, the woman switching wrists eventually and getting herself freed with more practice.

Then she got cocky. All she could picture was using this as a party trick, having someone handcuff her hands behind her back while she used the pin that she could hide in the palm of her hand to escape. Then everyone would be astonished and impressed. So, she was determined to make that dream a reality.

It all happened so fast. She had the pin in the palm of her right hand, securely held as she used her left to cuff right wrist. In an attempt to close it with her hand still clamped around the pin, she did her best to lock the cuffs around her left wrist. However, in the act of finding a way to lock it, the pin slipped from yer grasp just as she had her wrists cuffed behind her back. 

“Fuck!” She cursed, panic setting in from being trapped without anyone to help her. So, in an awkward attempt to lean down to grab the only thing that could free her, she was bending in all sorts of positions to try and secure the hairpin that was laying on the floor, almost taunting her. Well, now she’d be stuck in her apartment until someone figured out she was missing. Then she’d more than likely have a whole team of people to bust down her door and then laugh at her.

This was the opposite that she wanted. Now she’d be the talk of the team for trapping herself in handcuffs while trying some stupid attempt to free herself. She could already hear all the shit Derek would tease her with now.

“The amazing Y/N, going to show us the special trick that not all fbi agents should be trusted with handcuffs!”

“You know, you shouldn’t play with the tools we are given for the field.”

Derek fucking Morgan.

There was a sigh of defeat as Y/N was accepting her fate of being known for the idiot on the team who gets herself trapped.

However, she was pulled out of her thoughts when she could hear a knock against her apartment door. Thank God! Hopefully it was a family member or something. They’d understand that she did dumb things sometimes and would let her live it down more than her coworkers would.

While hurrying and running from her room like a criminal trying to escape capture with the cool metal of the handcuffs stabbing into their flesh, she was stopping at the front door. “Hold on!” She called, turning around first to try and reach the lock so she could unlock the door. However, when it wasn’t working out, she was huffing from irritation and turning around. She ended up having to use her mouth to unlock the top lock, same with the bottom.

“You’ll have to open the door!” She called, taking a few steps back. However, her heart dropped when she seen who was on the other side of the door. The only reason she was alerted of his presence early was from the way he was asking if she was alright. The moment that Spencer Reid came into view, Y/N face was bright red from embarrassment.

“Not a word of this to the team!” Her voice came out in a squeak, making the genius snort out a laugh as he walked around the woman after closing the door behind him. “How did you even manage to trap yourself?” He asked, not giving her time to answer.

“Y/N Houdini.” He snickered as he was stopping and bringing his hands to run over the metal of the cuffs restraining her arms behind her back. “Is this gonna be your debut into escapism magic? Cause I think you have to actually know how to escape to put on a show.” He continued on.

The words had Y/N’s face growing hotter from the teasing, a huff leaving her lips. “Get your laughs out. Come on.” She demanded while turning around soon after. “Piss me off and I’ll cuff you to your desk at the office and swallow the key.” Of course, all talk and no action from a woman who essentially trapped herself.

“Are you kidding?! I wouldn’t let you. Besides, I’ve seen enough of escapism magic to know how to escape.. Without losing the thing that will grant me freedom.” He commented while grabbing ahold of the cuffs while he chuckled. "Show me where the key is." He spoke, his tone level as the humor of the situation was losing it's power over him.

It wasn't fully lost on him though. In fact, he'd never let her live it down. "You know, the others would've probably forgot about this at some point.." He trailed off, looking around the walls decorated with tapestries, pictures, and some other miscellaneous wall decor. "I, however, will not." He smirked.

Stupid fucking eidetic memory.

"Ha ha. You're hilarious."

"I think you take the cake for being hilarious. Everyone is gonna love this story. I'm sure that even Hotch will get a laugh out of it."

"I hate you."

In reality, it was.. Kinda funny. The thought of seeing someone else on the team in the position she was currently in was enough to make her snort out a laugh of her own. "I'm a fucking idiot, huh?"

The words made Spencer wave her off. "Definitely not a genius but.. Maybe a little smarter than Morgan." His tone was teasing as he was grabbing the small box she showed him that contained the key to the cuffs suspending her.

His first mistake was freeing her, mainly because there was a form of blind trust after being the one to free him.

The minute that Spencer had those cuffs off and was handing her the metallic restraints and turned his back to her, she as using the opportunity to catch him off guard, the male's eyes widening the moment he felt the cold metal against his skin.

"Y/N! What the hell??"

Now it was her turn to laugh, her hands coming up to rest against her mouth. "Now who's the genius, Reid?" She taunted, all in good fun.

Spencer's face was red, eyes on the ground while he had to take in a breath. His body was tense, feeling powerless in the time being.

He was also incredibly turned on by the idea of doing whatever he needed to in order to get out of the cuffs.

The silence grew heavy, tension filling the air. "Oh, come on. Don't be mad at me, Spence. It's all in good fun!" She said while heading over to grab his upper arms. "You are so red," She pouted, her hands cupping the hot skin of his face as he was staring down at the woman, looking as submissive as ever.

That did something to her, a blush creeping up on her face as sinful thoughts began to plague her mind. The thought of leaving a whimpering, sticky mess. The way he'd definitely be the type to beg her for more while she was seated pretty on his lap, doing something like read a book while just being full.

The thoughts had her thighs tightly clenching, arousal surely coating her panties enough to make a wet spot.

Unable to help herself, it wasn't long until the tie around his neck was in her hand, pulling the man down to clash their lips together. The action had Spencer squeaking, although his lips were desperately slotting with hers in a messy kiss. He needed it. He needed her.

It wasn't abnormal for Spencer to have such thoughts, his coworker being on his mind since the moment she joined the team. How could he not be fond of her? She was beautiful, intelligent, plus she was probably the only person who would actually sit and listen to his ramblings whenever something came up.

She was perfect in every way really, however, he knew that there was a long list of things preventing a relationship within the team. Last thing he wanted was for himself or Y/N to be transferred to a different branch.

However his thoughts weren’t particularly on that right now, his body falling back against the plush mattress from a push, not even having time to register what was happening before the woman was straddling his waist. Her hands were on either side of his face, her lips pressing back against his in a more rough, needy kiss.

Spencer's wrists were fighting the cuffs, a huff being muffled against Y/N's lips as he realized that he was being denied the right to touch her, to let his hands caress her smooth skin. His heart was beating against his chest, almost as if it were dying to be released.

All of his thoughts were eventually going out the door the minute he felt the feeling of delicate fingers in his hair. However instead of savoring the feeling of her fingers threading through the messy head of curls, his mouth was agape as soon as her hand was roughly pulling Spencer's hair back.

"I'm gonna fuck you stupid, Dr. Reid."

Oh.

The words were enough to make a moan rip from Spencer’s throat, eyes trained up on the woman who was propping herself up on her knees in order to look down at the man. 

“Cat got your tongue, doctor?” Y/N taunted while she was looking down at the man with a soft smirk. She didn’t even have to touch him and he was already putty in her hands. The way his eyes were trained on her, looking like a puppy begging for more. “‘Cause you were very vocal earlier when you had so much to say.” She mused.

“I-I” The woman was bringing her hands to Spencer’s shoulders, her hips rocking against his while awaiting an answer.

“I’m waiting.” 

“I-I.. Fuck. I don’t have anything to s-say.” He stuttered, bucking his hips to try and relieve the pressure from his cock that was already standing at attention. “Who would’ve thought Spencer Reid would be quiet when someone is trying to talk to him? You don’t have any facts? Statistics?” She continued dragging on, nudging Spencer’s body back in order to have him lay down in the middle of the queen sized bed. 

“Give me a statistic about..” She was looking around her bedroom while sliding down Spencer’s legs. “Ooh! A statistic about dominant and submissive dynamics..” She dragged out the word ‘submissive’ as her hands were slowly moving to unbutton his pants. His head was spinning, brain mush.

“A study showed that,” He paused as her fingers were quickly tugging down the zipper before her hands were pulling the slacks down his legs. “I didn’t tell you to stop.” She commented, her eyebrow raising as her movements came to a halt. “T-that 51% of men and 39-” His eyes were fluttering shut the minute he felt her mouth now ghosting over his hard cock in his underwear, her tongue licking over the wet spot of his boxers.

“39% of women are attracted to the idea of having a d-dominant or submissive partner..” He stuttered out, now lifting his hips in hopes of feeling those delicate fingers in the waistband of his boxers. Which, his wish was granted. “That’s really interesting, isn’t it? Good job, baby.” She hummed.

As his cock was revealed to her, she was grinning. His tip was red, beads of pre-cum rolling down his angry, desperate cock. “So pretty!” She praised, laying on her stomach between his legs as her hand was wrapping around the thick base of his cock, thumb swiping over the sensitive tip to smear the mess around.”Who knew Dr. Reid was hiding this? Always the shy and smart ones, huh?” She commented, pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock.

Spencer could hear her talking, however he wasn’t responding. His brain was clouded, head falling back against the pillow that rested behind his head. “F-fuck.” He hissed, her tongue now running over the underside of the genius’ cock, cleaning up the mess that she’d already caused. 

Her hands came out to rest firmly against his hips, holding him down from bucking like he so desperately tried to do. “P-please..” He let out a slow breath as his eyes were fluttering shut. His voice was shaking, tone laced with need and more desperation than she could’ve expected.

She smiled while licking over his cock one more time before granting him yet another desperate plea that fell from his lips in the form of a whimper. As her lips closed around his cock, she let her eyes flutter shut. Her tongue was flat, her head beginning to move in a slow motion. She was hollowing her cheeks while bobbing her head, her own moans vibrating around his already desperate cock. As she let her grip tighten on his hips, her eyes were opening to peak up at him through her eyelashes.

His curls were disheveled, his head thrown back as his chest was rapidly rising and falling. The strangled sounds of whimpers and pleads for more falling from his lips. It was a beautiful sight, she knew that much. 

Spencer wasn’t the only one wildly turned on, Y/N’s panties being absolutely drenched at this point. From her position, she could rock her hips against the mattress, just wanting to relieve the pressure in her clit as she could practically feel her heartbeat in the bundle of nerves. She was growing desperate herself, needing to feel his cock inside her, stretching her out with the delicious burn that came with it.

She was pulled from her thoughts when she could feel the twitch of his cock, indicating he was close. That was her cue to pull off with a loud ‘pop’ echoing through the room along with a small whine falling from Spencer's lips. That whine was enough to make her clench around nothing.

“Shush.” She breathed while wiping the spit from her jaw with her thumb, a breathless laugh leaving her lips as she was eventually standing, enough to shimmy her pants and panties down her legs to reveal her glistening cunt. Spencer’s eyes were trailing slowly up her now bare legs, eyes coming to her pussy while his mouth was open, pupils blown out from lust. “Please let me touch you. Wanna- Fuck- Wanna be able to-” He was cut off by her lips, the two sharing a chaste kiss before her teeth were sinking into his lower lip, giving it a playful tug before letting it go. 

“Not this time.” She spoke softly, her lips kissing him once more before she was crawling over him again, her hands running over his clothed chest while moving between them.

As soon as she had his cock in her hands, all sense of reason went out the window. To be fair, neither of them were really thinking of a condom right now. 

After teasing herself by tapping his tip against her clit, she sucked in a breath. “Fuck, Spencer.” She whispered, eventually sinking down his base. Her head was lolling forward, her mouth agape as she was sinking fully, their pelvises now flush against one another’s. “Holy fuck.”

Spencer on the other hand had to think of anything other than cumming inside of her before she even got a chance to even ride him. However, he felt like she’d ultimately end up overstimulating him in that scenario. He didn’t want that now though. No, he’d rather wait until he didn’t have fucking metal preventing him from gripping onto her hips, letting him fuck up into her rather than be forced to watch her have every ounce of control and power. Even though he had to admit, he could get used to this. 

As her velvety walls were clenching around his cock, she was leaning forward slightly as her hips were rolling against his, her head falling forward as she cried out softly. With the length that Spencer had, the right angle would have his tip pushing perfectly against the spongy spot deep inside her that was making her see stars already. 

“F-fuck. You f-feel amazing.” It was Spencer's turn to talk, watching the way her tits were bouncing with every movement, even with a clothed torso, she had the man below salivating at the thought of what lay below that blue cardigan. “You take m-my cock so well.” Even through the grunts and groans, there was still a hint of him being unsure. This wasn’t really something he did often, so here we was, doing something he’d seen once or twice in the few pornos he’d consumed at some point. “Ah! Fuck, Reid. I’m gonna cum. Fuck, you- ugh.” Y/N breathed, continued her motions  while doing her best to quicken her pace, even though her bounces were growing a bit sloppy, her legs getting tired. 

With the grip of his tie and a loud cry of his name, it wasn’t long until she was creaming on his cock, a thin veil of sweat on her face as she was continuing her movements. “Fuck. You gonna cum, Reid? Wanna fill me up? She spoke, the words sending electricity through the man’s body as his cock was twitching once more.

He’d done his best to thrust his hips upward, a low groan leaving his lips as he only needed a few more movements before his vision went white.

Y/N was a whimpering mess, feeling the warm gush of cum that Spencer was coating her inner walls with, the woman’s upper body gently falling forward as her eyes flutter shut. 

They laid there for a while, the woman clutching tightly onto her close friend while trying to catch her breath. “Remind me to carry around those handcuffs more often.” She spoke, a light laugh leaving her lips as she was lifting her hips and moving off of him soon after.

“Maybe don’t get yourself trapped next time..” Spencer chuckled, now looking over at the woman as she was sitting him up, finally using the key to free his wrists from their restraints. “Feel like you owe me now..” He began, the woman laughing as she placed the cuffs on her bedside table. 

“Spencer Reid, are you really asking me for round two right now?” She asked, making the man give a cheeky smile.

“Maybe if you’re the one in the handcuffs this time.”

[queuestarter]

imbrued

(finnick odair x reader)

cw: stab wound, vomit, mentions of prostitution, murder, blood, death

link to the request → reader and finnick are in the quell together and reader gets injured. finnick does everything he can to protect her

open to submissions/asks !!

You never expected to be back.

Why would you? After winning the 68th Hunger Games, you thought you were free from the torment, but that was never the case. After winning and gaining the favor of the capitol, you were immediately thrust into the spotlight, being sold off to those who could afford you. You were given a slot each week on television, showing off baking recipes that you had no interest in making. 

And now, your name was called once more from the pool of victors, placing you back to where you started when you were just sixteen years old, only this time with your boyfriend Finnick by your side.

The events of the weeks leading up to the start of the Quarter Quell passed in a blur. Things only start registering with you when you’re finally in the arena, eyes searching frantically around your surroundings to try and figure out what’s going on.

You can see water immediately in front of you with trees just beyond it, which is more than ideal since you’re from District 4. In your first games, you had to trek through fields of tall grass for miles before there was a place to take shelter.

After you find your bearings on the platform, you immediately begin to search for Finnick. You spot him across the water, the distance upsetting you, but Johanna is on your other side which is slightly comforting. 

When the gong sounds, you immediately head for the Cornucopia. You thrived in the bloodbath in your last games and you plan to do so again. Finnick didn’t want you to put yourself at risk, but you have a reputation to uphold. You know the only way that you’re going to get any sponsors is if you put on a show.

Due to your strong swimming skills, you and Finnick get to the golden Cornucopia first. You barely have time to send a smile his way before you’re grabbing weapons- small knives to strap onto your body and a metal spear to hold. You feel a sick sense of satisfaction when you’re forced to use your newly acquired spear on another tribute, proud that you protected Finnick from a man that was going to kill him.

It’s only when you are finally forced away from the Cornucopia by Finnick’s strong hold on your upper arm that you have the time to talk to him. You can tell by the slight frown on his face that he’s not very happy with you.

“What were you thinking? I told you not to go to the Cornucopia.” He’s still holding onto your arm as you make your way through the jungle, Katniss and Peeta in front of you.

You roll your eyes and smile at him. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Finnick only frowns at you more. “I’m trying to protect you, here. Something bad could have happened.”

You actually laugh at that. “I know you remember my games, Finn. The Cornucopia was mine in the last games. Don’t worry so much about me.”

He sighs, but drops the subject. The two of you fall silent.

The next few hours are terrible. Peeta’s near death, the acid fog, the monkey mutts that killed the poor morphling from District 6 and claimed your spear. The Quell is moving at a much quicker pace than any of the games have in the past and it’s worrying you. 

Things only start to look up after Katniss uses Wiress’ cryptic words to discover that the arena is set up like a clock.

Finnick, ever inquisitive, says, “I’d like to go to the Cornucopia and watch. Just to make sure we’re right about the clock.” You all decide that it’s a pretty good idea and walk the short stretch over to the golden horn.

The others begin to talk mindlessly as you and Finnick branch off into your own conversation while you patrol the border of the Cornucopia. “It’s interesting that there’s nothing but weapons here this year. They’re really trying to get this over with,” you comment.

Finnick nods. “They want us dead. Good thing we know how to fish,” he smirks.

You shake your head in slight amusement, carefully toeing closer to everyone else. As you get closer to the group, you look up from your feet to see Gloss creeping up on the rock wedges, getting closer to an unsuspecting Wiress.

“No!” You scream, pulling a small dagger from your belt. “Wiress, move!” You try to close the gap between you and her.

But it’s too late. You watch in horror as Wiress’ throat gets easily cut by Gloss. Without much thought, you finish the sprint to Gloss, your blade swiftly leaving your hand and ending up in his neck. His eyes widen as he grabs at the handle but before doesn’t pull it out, instead he jumps towards you.

You almost don’t realize what happens. As Gloss lands on top of your body, the same knife he used to kill Wiress ends up in your lower abdomen. You scream, but in the chaos of trying to kill the rest of the careers along with the rapid shifting of the Cornucopia and surrounding waters, the sound gets lost.

It’s only after Finnick grabs your hand and begins to drag you off the island that the reality settles in. You were stabbed in the abdomen and you are losing blood. You put your hand over the wound and keep walking.

“Are you okay?” Finnick asks you once you are back on the beach. “Are you hurt?”

You debate lying for a second. The last thing anyone needs right now is another injured tribute. Beetee is barely hanging on as it is and Peeta is constantly slowing down the group, there doesn’t need to be another liability. But Finnick knows you and he would know if you lied to him.

“I think Gloss stabbed me,” is what ends up coming out of your mouth. You almost wish you lied when you see Finnick’s reaction.

His face twists up in a look of sheer panic, pupils blowing. His hands run across your body until they meet your own hand, holding firmly onto the meaty flesh of your lower torso. “Here?” He asks, gripping your red fingers. “This is where he got you?”

Tears welling up in your eyes, you nod. You can’t help but feel like a disappointment. You thought you would be able to absolutely dominate in these games based on your last ones, but you completely overlooked the fact that everyone else here is a victor, too.

“Okay, baby, let me look,” he gently commands. His eyes turn even wilder when you shake your head. “I need to look. I can’t help you if I can’t see it.”

Your hand drops from your side. Finnick wastes no time in unzipping your jumpsuit, pulling it below your sports bra and to your hips. He bites his lip as he assesses the damage. With a gentle hand, he prods at the tender flesh. A second later, you push him away and throw up.

You can hear him cursing behind you as you continue to retch. You don’t know why you’re sick, but you know that it cannot be good. 

When your sudden sickness is over and you turn back to Finnick to assure him that you don’t know what that was, that you’re fine, you see the rest of the group staring at you, Katniss hands Finnick a mound of what looks like moss in one hand and a small tube.

“I know this isn’t the best option, but it’ll help. I’m sure someone will send us something better soon,” he sends you a small, still panicked smile.

You just nod your head. You’re embarrassed and tired and you want everyone to stop staring at you. You allow Finnick to lead you to where the spile has been hammered into a tree, rinse your wound, apply the medicine, and pack it with the moss. After a few minutes, you feel as good as new.

“Thank you, Finn,” you smile at him. He wraps his arms around you tightly.

“Of course,” he breathes into your hair. “Anything for you. I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

You press a kiss on his collarbone. “That was nothing. I’m not going anywhere.”

“We need to get out of here. You need a real doctor.”

You nod into his shoulder, not too worried anymore. “Soon.”

“Soon,” he repeats back.

And he keeps his promise. The rest of the plan plays out, although not perfectly. You and Finnick are both evacuated and he makes sure you see a doctor, for both the stab in your stomach and the gash in your arm where you cut the tracker out.

You know there’s still more to do, but you feel safe knowing Finnick will be there to protect you.

-

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 58

part 1 | part 57 | ao3

@steddie-island said i wasn't allowed to cut this lol. cw: angst, canon typical horror, mentions of minor character death

“Lucas called me a ghost today.”

Steve almost laughs, bitter and sharp. Sure. Why not? What’s one more ghost in his passenger seat?

He doesn't really want to talk to her right now, if he's honest. It's been fifteen minutes and she still hasn't apologized for trying to rob him, or explained where they're going, or what spooked her, or why this car ride was so urgent that he had to risk his job for it — a job he actually needs, considering his, well, everything. She's hardly said anything beyond the occasional "turn here" or "next left" while sulking with her forehead pressed against the window.

But he can tell she has something she needs to get off her chest, so he swallows his annoyance and offers, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says back. Doesn't elaborate.

He gives her another minute to gather her words, watches her open and close her mouth a few times in his periphery, but nothing comes out. She scoffs at herself and abruptly changes the subject. “Eddie was being extra… well, extra today.”

“Was he?” Steve asks, his bones itching under his skin. He doesn't want to talk about Eddie. Doesn't want to think his name.

“Yeah, he, uh- he was kinda manic? He was, like, running all over the cafeteria and starting shit with Jason Carver...” And he's only half-listening, anger simmering as she goes on and on, because she promised that Dustin didn't put her up to this. Said that this wasn't some bullshit excuse to get him to talk about Eddie or hang out with Eddie or think about Eddie or kiss and make up with fucking Eddie, and now she's just talking about him, and it-

And it hurts; god, it still just hurts—

"....Then he started rambling about how he can’t wait to get the hell out of here when he graduates.”

Searing-stabbing-burning-sharp. Steve clutches at the flare of pain in his chest, the crushed soda-can feeling where his heart's supposed to be. His head pounds. He follows her next direction onto a winding, tree-lined road, the canopy suffocating overhead, and his skin feels too dry — too tight, too small, shrink-wrapping him inside of it, because he knows where they are now. Knows the tilt of the rusted lamp shade, the shape of the weather brick paths. He's tasted the metal tang of this stop sign in his nightmares.

Fuck. Fuck.

"Cool," he grits out as he drives through the cemetery gates. Past stone and wrought iron, past the empty central fountain. He hasn't been here since July. “Good for him.”

“Steve-"

“Why are you telling me this?" he snaps. He throws the car in park under an old oak and turns to glare at her, barking a frustrated, "Huh?"

Immediately, he feels bad for raising his voice. Feels even worse for the way she flinches away. The naked fear on her face, her hand reaching for the door. He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. “Sorry. Sorry. Just-" There's a leak inside him somewhere; some infected, gaping hole, and his stupid heart keeps pumping all his blood into the wound. "Why are you-?”

“Look,” she says sharply, "I know it sucks. To talk about him." She's staring at the rows of headstones up ahead, her face gone steely with determination, her shoulders squared, her big eyes wide and a little wet when she turns to meet his gaze. “But whatever you were— whatever happened, it just… it really messed him up.”

Good. "You sound like Dustin."

"Maybe Dustin had a point."

"Since when?"

She throws her hands up, nostrils flaring. "I'm trying to tell you that I think he still cares!"

“Yeah? He’s got a seriously fucked up way of showing it if so!”

“Yeah, well some of us don’t know how to show it!”

And oh.

Oh.

Silence blankets them like dust. Eyes locked; harsh breaths. This has nothing to do with him and Eddie, does it?

Lucas called me a ghost.

Steve sighs and slumps forward, his forearms on the wheel, his chin resting on his wrist. The late afternoon sun is warm through the glass, and his head gives another nasty throb as he looks out over the hill, at the polished stones glinting in the golden hour rays.

His dad is buried here.

A lot of people are.

“Hey,” he murmurs, rolling his neck to look at her. The skin under her eyes is red. "Sorry for yelling."

She sniffs quietly. "Me, too."

He reaches over and gives her hand a quick squeeze, keeping his voice low and gentle. "You know you can just talk to me, right? Max, talk to me. Please.”

Her bottom lip quivers. “It’s nothing, okay?” She sinks down in her seat, crossing her arms to shield herself. “Shit’s just been… it’s just been weird all week. Like- like bad weird, and I don't know if I'm just going crazy, or— I mean, maybe Ms. Kelley's right, maybe's it's just— but it feels like…”

"Like what?"

She holds a hand out flat in front of her; flips her wrist over slowly so her palm faces the sky.

Steve's blood runs cold. He thinks of his own nightmares: the weird visions, the headaches, the persistent haunted feeling.

"I don't know anything for sure," she insists, rushing to reassure him before he can fully start to panic. "Seriously, don't freak out; I haven't, like, seen any gates or anything, it's just— bad dreams. Nose bleeds. I don't know." She hoists her backpack onto her shoulder. "I thought coming here might help."

He catches her by the arm, raking his eyes over her face, looking for any signs of danger. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shakes her head no and tugs free of his grip, and then she's slipping out of the car, letting the door fall shut behind her, and Steve watches her crest the hill while sirens wail inside his head.

—

part 59

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[pretty-red-garnet]

Brothers

Daryl Dixon x fem! Reader • Quarry • Fluff

This took so long and I am not happy with it at all. I am so sorry to the anon who requested this! I don’t know what’s gotten into me, I just could not figure out what to write for this request. Again, so sorry. I hope to get back into writing more soon!

Part 2

     Chaos. Everything was complete chaos. Gunshots, groans of walkers, the kids screaming in panic, Shane shouting orders. A rifle thrown in your hands, fingers trembling as you took shots, walkers falling to the ground. Lori, Carol, and the two kids were hustled into the RV, and you stood guard by the door.

     Rick and the group came back from Atlanta suddenly, yelling and shouting and putting more guns in more people hands. Your eyes kept flicking to your brother, Shane, as he took down geeks. Everything was going so fast and your head was spinning.

     And then, silence. It was eerie, how so much panic and chaos could turn quiet so shortly. The once bustling camp enjoying a fish fry now was now nearly half the size. The earth beneath your feet was covered in blood, some red and fresh from the people, some was almost back, the walker blood.

     Andrea dropped down to her sister and let out a cry, and that's when you finally turned away, opening the door to the RV and letting them know it was clear. A hand dropped to your shoulder and you flinched, the tips of your fingers brushed the knife at your waist before you realized.

     "You good?" Shane asks, and you give him a jerky nod. He pats your shoulder once more and parts from you. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and survey the camp.

     There's bodies everywhere, both human and undead. You can't stand looking at it, you can't stand Andrea's cries as the background noise. You turn on your heel and begin walking away, towards the woods. Maybe it wasn't safest, but you needed a breather away from everything. They were beginning to stab the brains of the dead, and you couldn't watch them put down the people you once considered friends.

     You sit heavily on a overturned tree, the rifle you swung on your back makes a metallic noise when it hits the wood. You sigh, bringing your elbows to rest on your knees as you bury your face in your hands.

     You're only alone for a moment before you hear footsteps and you shoot your head up, heart racing and eyes glancing about before you spot Daryl. You huff out a breath and take your eyes off him, hastily brushing a stray tear from your cheek.

     "You're getting sloppy, heard you from a mile away," you tease, your voice teary. Daryl scoffs and plunks himself down on the trunk beside you.

     "Didn't wanna scare you." You nod, because you knew he had purposely made himself known. You'd been hunting with the archer enough times to know he was never sloppy.

     "Did my brother send you?" You ask, still staring down at your shoes out of embarrassment that he'd seen you like this. All teary eyed and pathetic looking.

     "Nah, too busy starin' at Lori and Rick," he says. It's your turn to scoff now. "You alright?"

     "Yeah," you answer, risking a little glance at the man beside you. He was biting his lip in a way that made you believe he was worried, so you force a little smile. He doesn't look convinced.

     "No Merle?" You ask. Daryl shakes his head, breaking his gaze from yours. "I'm sorry." Daryl throws you a little glare out the corner of his eye, but it lacks any sort of real anger. "I am."

     "Sure," he says, sarcastically. You narrow your eyes and bump his shoulder with yours.

     "Ok, I know me and him weren't exactly besties," your emphasis on the word makes Daryl give you an exasperated look. You just smile. "But I can still be sorry, I know how much you care about him." Daryl hums. "Besides, I don't think anything will take down that man. I'm sure he's fine."

     "Yeah, probably," he says with a huff of air escaping his lips. You're both quiet for a moment, and Daryl eyes you worriedly. "You sure you're alright?"

     "Yeah," you say with a shrug. "Just... worried. About everything."

     "I get that." You get silent again, and Daryl starts to bite and pick at the skin on his thumb. "But you don't gotta be."

     "I don't?" You ask, brows pulled forward and looking at Daryl intently. "Why's that?" Daryl shrugs and decides that the ground is more interesting than looking at you.

     "'Cause I'll always look out for you," he answers, quietly. You smile and place your hand on Daryl's shoulder in a gentle manner. He flinches just a bit before turning his blue eyes to you. He has a soft expression on his face, the one that's reserved for only you

     "Thank you," you say, in a sincere and soft way Daryl's never heard directed at him before. He nods, shakily. "I'll always look out for you, too."

     "I know," he answers, standing up. "Come on, ain't safe out here."

     You aren't completely sure when the unlikely friendship of you and Daryl began. A cop and a loud, brash redneck wasn't exactly an expected duo. Although, you do know a much different Daryl than most. A much kinder, softer version of himself, one he keeps locked behind a very tall, very solid wall.

     You're sure the only reason Daryl has shown this side of himself to you was because you're the only one to treat him like a person, not like some ticking time bomb. Not like some untamed animal or uncontrollable being, just a person. You had shown him a kindness he wasn't used to, and even after a few attempts at keeping you at arms length, you're closer than ever with the man.

You’d admit that maybe your feelings for the man weren’t completely platonic. But that’s to be expected considering you spend so much time with him. He’d taught you some hunting tips, so you hunted with him most days. All that time together, it wasn’t a complete surprise that a little crush would form.

Daryl leads you back to your tent, avoiding the mess of the dead loved ones. It seems most have agreed major cleanup can wait until morning, and have returned to their reserved tents. Dale stayed on watch, mostly for Andrea's sake, just incase she wouldn't be strong enough to take out Amy, you assume.

Daryl lingers at the opening of your tent. You have a unsure, nervous look to you. Your hands wring and fumble with themselves, and your bottom lip in firmly in place between your teeth. He's not fond of your anxious presence.

"I don't want to be alone," you whisper. You grimace, eyes screwing shut briefly before they open again. "Sorry, that makes me sound so pathetic." You let out a breath of air that's supposed to resemble a laugh, but it falls short. "I'll be ok, I'm not even really alone anyway. Shane's tent is right next to mine—"

"Wanna stay with me?" Daryl asks, before he can even think. The words just escape him, embarrass him, and he's about to take it back before you answer.

"Would you mind?" Daryl wants to say absolutely not, of course he doesn't, but what comes out is a grunt and a shake of his head accompanied by a shrug. Daryl turns towards his tent and juts his chin at it.

"Come on." You follow behind him to his tent. His and Merle's are beside each other, both farther from everyone else's tents. They have their own small fire pit and some tree stumps for chairs. Not far behind is a string of cans, a perimeter for the campsite.

Daryl leads you into his tent, holding the flap open for you to climb in behind him. It's small inside, some clothes and spare bolts for his crossbow laying about. A thick blanket is splayed out to act as a barrier from the hard ground. It's Daryl's turn to be nervous and fumbling, watching you take in the small space.

"Cozy," you say with a smile, laying down on the blanket. Daryl hesitates, sitting near the closed entrance and as far as possible from you. You frown. "Lay down. There's room for both of us." You pat the spot on the blanket beside you.

Daryl's eyes flick from yours to the space beside you. He eventually obeys after seeing your unrelenting gaze and lays down beside you, kicking off his boots and keeping them close.

You watch as Daryl does so. His muscles are tense, even as he lays down. He's stiff as a board, arms crossed on his chest as he stares up at the ceiling of the tent. He's ridged, and you feel the tension radiate off his body in waves.

"Am I making you nervous?" You ask, a teasing tone to your voice. It’s mostly to cover up your own anxiety over being so close to him. Daryl scoffs and turns his face away from you.

"Yeah, right." You laugh softly, and Daryl feels a smile twitch at his own lips at the sound. "Just ain't used to sharin' the covers, better not be a blanket hog."

"I'm not, I promise."

It gets quiet, both just laying beside each other, sleep not catching up with either. The gears in your head spin at a million miles a minute, and Daryl glances at you every few minutes, his own thoughts racing, until finally, you speak.

"Do you ever think..." you pause, and Daryl watches you carefully. "That you just aren't good enough? No matter what you do?" Daryl's brows furrow. Where did that come from?

"Plenty," he replies. "Have I ever thought you weren't good enough? Nah, never." Daryl adjusts so his arm is resting behind his head, he keeps his gaze straight to the ceiling even as he feels your eyes burn into him. "Where's this comin' from?"

"I don't know." You shrug. "Been thinking about it a lot lately. About if something happens and I can't save Shane, or Carl. You." Daryl's heart flips.

     "Took out a lot of walkers today," Daryl says. "I think you'd be right there if anyone needs your help."

     "I'm not strong enough."

     "Stop," Daryl snaps, he whips his eyes to yours.

     "I'm not. I'm not my brother, and I'm not like you or Rick. I'm not strong, I'm not meant for this." Your voice grows weaker as you go on.

     "You're a cop, you helped people, right? You took out, what? Ten walkers all on your own? I saw you." You let out a humorless laugh, tears spring at your eyes.

     "The only reason I became a cop was because Shane did," you admit. "I felt like I had to follow him, to do something."

     "Don't matter." Daryl's brows furrow. He isn't sure where this is all coming from. Sure, he'd seen you seemed to always be behind Shane, following whatever he said to do. It bugged him a little, how he always bosses you around. He didn't think it ever bothered you.

     "It does matter," you say with a scoff and sit up. Daryl follows, slowly sitting up next to you. "I was never meant for it. I could barely even take statements sometimes without wanting to cry."

     "Just means you care 'bout people." You shrug.

     "It means I'm weak." Daryl shakes his head and nudges you with his elbow.

     "Ain't weak. And you ain't pathetic, neither." You hang your head.

     "I wish I was like Shane, he's strong, he helps people."

     "Yeah, well I like you just like this," Daryl admits, even as he feels his face heat up.

     "Yeah?" You finally smile, shyly, turning your head just slightly to peek at Daryl. Daryl clears his throat and lays down, turning his back to you.

     "Ain't saying it again. Go to sleep." You laugh, actually laugh, and lay down.

     "I like you just how you are too, Daryl," you mumble, before sleep finally overtakes you.

Everyone is up early the next morning, you suspect nobody really slept. You had kept waking up every hour, and Daryl was still up staring at the ceiling when you'd glance at him. Footsteps and movement around the camp began right when the sun came up, and you and Daryl followed right after.

Everyone is bustling around now, burning the walkers and burying the dead, as Glenn had insisted. It isn't long before panic shouting is heard from Jacqui.

"Jim got bit! Jim's bit!"

Even more panic, angry shouting from Daryl, and arguing ensues. Daryl wants to kill Jim right then and there— which earned him quite the glare form you— thankfully it quieted him down a little. Rick wants to head to the CDC for a potential cure, and your brother is adamant Fort Benning would be the best bet. You were little ways away from their discussion, chatting with Carl.

"Y/N, what do you think?" Shane asks, suddenly. You sigh and take a few steps closer, away from Carl. You were hoping they would just figure it out and leave you out of it.

"Well," you begin, and Shane's slight narrow of his eyes doesn't go unnoticed. He wants you to go along with him. "I'm sure if there's a cure, Fort Benning would know. They are military, must have doctors."

Daryl scoffs, and you glance to him in surprise. He holds your gaze, but you can't place his expression. Your brows knit in confusion.

"There you have it, Rick," Shane says cockily, breaking you from your trance. You look away from Daryl.

You walk away, leaving the boys to argue further. You honestly don't care where you end up. From the looks of the city, there's nowhere safe, not the CDC, and not Fort Benning. It doesn't matter to you where they decide to go.

"Hey," Shane says, approaching you where you're taking down your tent. You drop the pole you're holding and stand up straight. Shane has a pissed off look on his face.

"CDC then?" You ask. His expression darkens.

"You could've had my back a little," he whispers angrily, getting closer to you. You turn away to hide your rolling eyes. You return to your task.

"I don't care where we go, Shane. It's all the same to me." He grabs your upper arm, not tight enough to hurt, but it's enough to pull your attention back to him.

"Yeah, as long as you get to follow your boyfriend, right?" You narrow your eyes, reeling away from Shane slightly out of shock. His face is close to yours. "Saw you come out of Dixon's tent this morning."

"So what, Shane," you say, yanking your arm from his grasp. "You aren't my father." He exhales heavily through his nose.

"Stay the hell away from that guy," Shane demands, his finger coming up to point at your face. You set your jaw, a fist balls at your side, and you smack his hand away from you. And then, for maybe the first time ever, you don't just do whatever your big brother tells you to.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Shane."

You drop down heavily into the truck's car seat. Daryl glimpses at you from the drivers seat, and he looks at you questionably. You don't say anything, instead glaring out the passenger window so viscously, Daryl's surprised it doesn't shatter.

"You ain't goin' with Shane?" He asks. You scoff.

"No," you answer, shortly. Daryl shrugs, mumbling an 'ok' and starting the engine. He takes off towards the CDC, and you continue your angered glare.

"So, you got your own opinion on this whole thing, or do you always just follow along with whatever your brother says?" Daryl suddenly asks, making you whip your eyes to him. He's staring straight to the road, and you scoff loudly.

"Oh, that's really something coming from you," you say sarcastically, letting out a sharp laugh. "You followed your brother around like a lost puppy, but I'm the one always going along with my brother? Bullshit."

You regret bringing up Merle as soon as you finished your sentence, but anger is clouding your judgment. Your frustration at Shane mixed with Daryl's unwarranted comment is just about too much to handle.

     Although you feel a twinge of guilt, Daryl's comment was ridiculous coming from him. He always would follow his brother around, do whatever he said to do. He never even seemed to care whenever Merle went on racist, sexist, something just plain mean tangents, even if Daryl never agreed or joined.

     But still, Merle was his brother, no matter how awful, that you understood more than anything. Shane was one to ruffle a few feathers too, and you understand better than anyone how oppressive it can be to forever be in the shadow of an older brother. Never getting your own opinion, or word in, forever just following along.

     "You're right," Daryl says. You turn your head to him quickly in surprise. He doesn't face you, his eyes looking at the road in front of him. "I've always gone along with Merle, no matter how shitty he was, or what trouble I'd get in."

     "You're right, too," you admit with a loud sigh, your anger fizzling at Daryl’s sincere tone. "I've never really done, hell, even said what I've wanted. I always just followed what Shane's doing."

“Think it’s about damn time we do what we wanna do,” Daryl says, after a few moments pause.

“Yeah, yeah you’re right!” You exclaim, smiling brightly. “Screw Shane!” Daryl laughs, and you turn your head to fully look at him.

He’s biting at the skin on his thumb, and he gives you a small, crooked grin when he notices your eyes on him. The sun cascading through the window of the truck makes him glow, and you can’t help but think that he looks just beautiful. His bright blue eyes sparking, how his light brown hair looks almost blonde in the yellow light. You’d never noticed just how handsome he is.

“The hell you starin’ at?” He asks suddenly. Your face flushes violently at being caught ogling, and you whip your face towards the window.

“Nothing,” you fumble out, he just hums an unconvinced noise of acknowledgment.

You bite your lip harshly to stop the grin that threatens to split your lips. You sneakily take another glimpse at Daryl, taking in his calm expression, the way his eyes narrow to block out the brightness from the sun.

Maybe it was just a crush, or maybe you’re head over heels in love with him. It doesn’t matter now. All you know is that Daryl understands you like no one ever has, and you aren’t letting that go any time soon.

[dirtyvulture]

Darkest Knight - Part 3

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Mutant!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: You meet a pretty woman in a bar...

Word count: 5568

AN: Click here for Part 2!

Despite that you finally get to sleep in a familiar place, it’s still hard for you to fully relax. Even after the feast Ororo had prepared for you and Natasha, the hot shower, and the fact that you’ve hardly slept eight hours in the last three days combined, you lie in bed next to Natasha, restlessly twisting and turning in the blankets.

“Don’t you want to fight back?” the guard taunts, slapping the tip of his cattle prod on his massive door of a shield. 

You look down at your hands, which are wrapped in clunky metal gloves that encase your entire fist up to your mid-forearm. You can’t release your claws through them; you learned that painful lesson very early on. 

“Come on, animal!” Another guard whistles at you. You crinkle your nose in distaste when you smell the fear on the men surrounding you. Despite their attempts to exude a macho and alpha persona, they’re close to wetting themselves in fear at being locked in a room with you. 

One of the guards inches towards you, his cattle prod buzzing with blue electricity. You snarl in warning, shifting your feet that are chained to heavy shackles bolted to the floor. Even if you manage to kill every one of these guards, you’re still not going anywhere. 

“Don’t make this easy for me.” The guard’s face lights in a crazed smile. He lunges at you, cattle prod first, which you easily dodge. You reel your fist back and punch as hard as you can at his knee. The guard screams as his leg folds backwards. He collapses, crying and whimpering, as the other guards converge on you at the same time. 

The sharp pain of the prods stabbing into your back is immediately followed by the explosive burst of electricity and you fall onto the floor next to the guard, your entire body seizing and spasming. Two of the guards jump onto you, flattening you like a pancake and knocking all the air out of your lungs. 

“You’re gonna regret that.”

Your head is pressed into the ground by a boot, but you have no strength to fight all of them at the same time. A cattle prod jabs at your throat and you hardly have time to register the pain before the electricity crackles and stuns you into unconsciousness.

You bolt upright, pillows and blankets flying. Your chest is heaving and you’re soaked in sweat. The side of your neck–where the Widow had stabbed you with her taser–stings with phantom pain. 

“Y/N? Is everything okay?” 

Natasha’s voice brings you back to the present. You’re not back in captivity, you’re not being tortured by the guards, you’re in your room at the mansion with Natasha next to you in your own bed. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, wiping at your forehead feverishly. “Just need the bathroom.” You feel Natasha’s eyes on your back as you get up and walk over to the connecting bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and taking a few bracing breaths. Your heart is pounding still and you know you won’t be able to go back to sleep any time soon. It’s almost three in the morning, according to the clock on your nightstand. 

“Y/N?” you hear Natasha call you again, then the rustle of blankets as she tries to get up.

“Stay in bed,” you say. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”

Natasha is uncomfortable to be left behind. She knows that you’ve just had a nightmare because of the sudden way you woke up sweating and refusing to talk. She’s sad that she doesn’t know how to comfort you and wishes you weren’t so guarded about some things, but she recognizes that whatever gives you nightmares is a deeply personal and traumatic experience that you aren’t ready to share with her. 

The door opens and you slip out silently, leaving Natasha to wonder in the darkness of your room. 

You’re not sure where you’re headed, but your feet take a familiar path down the hall out to a balcony. It’s numbingly cold outside, especially in a wet short-sleeve shirt and sweatpants, but you welcome the freeze as you lean on the railing, looking out at the garden of the mansion. You rub at the patch of skin on your neck where the Widow tased you, but the memory from your nightmare dredges up a worse pain. 

The time when you were held hostage by the government, experimented on like a lab rat, brainwashed to follow orders and commit the most unspeakable crimes on humanity. The bits that you do remember make you physically ill and you wish you could dunk your brain in bleach to permanently forget them. 

With shaking hands, you take a lighter and a box of cigarettes out of your pocket, quickly setting one aflame and sucking in a deep lungful of smoke. It’s a terrible habit, even you’ll admit, but it’s a momentary distraction from the pain that you know will never go away. You flick the ashes over the railing, lulling yourself back into calm with the familiar motion.

“You know the professor doesn’t like it when you smoke on campus,” someone says from behind you and you startle. It’s Jean, dressed in a light, almost see-through nightgown.

“Um, sorry. Forgot,” you mumble, averting your eyes from her and stubbing the flame out on the railing. “Why are you up?”

“Your thoughts are very loud.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” While mindreading was a power mortals could only dream of, you were familiar with the real annoyances and headaches it could cause. It wasn’t a power that could necessarily be “turned off,” and even though you knew Jean tried to respect your privacy, sometimes it couldn’t be helped. 

“No, it’s okay.” Jean moves to stand next to you. The wind blows her scent in your direction, and the memories it sparks immediately has you turning red with embarrassment when she turns on you. 

“Really?” she asks with a tone of amusement.

“You and Scott are still going strong I see,” you deflect. “No chance for us, I guess.”

“Y/N,” she says.

“Sorry,” you apologize again. Things between you and Jean have always been complicated. But a part of you will always see her as the one that got away. “Well, if you ever get tired of the Boy Scout, you know where to find me–”

“I couldn’t do that,” Jean says, and you sigh. “Besides, someone is much more interested in you than I am. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“Hmm?”

Jean pushes against your shoulder. “I had a feeling your super senses were just for show sometimes. You’ve always been a bit of a dummy.”

“Dummy? Ouch.” You feign being hurt. “And I don’t know about anyone else being interested in me, you know how boring I am.”

“She doesn’t think you’re boring,” Jean says.

“Who? Nat?” It takes you a second. “I hope you’re staying out of her head, Jean,” you disprove. “She’s kind of new to the whole mutant thing.”

“Her thoughts are almost as loud as yours,” Jean defends. “And always on you.”

“Me?” You wonder what kinds of thoughts Natasha’s had about you.

Jean shrugs. “That’s for you two to discuss. But I’m not getting in between that. Besides, you know you like her, too–”

“Stop it.” Although Jean spoke the truth, you truly couldn’t imagine Natasha wanting you. You were, well, you, with all of your trauma and issues. You had lived for centuries and never found anyone willing to settle with you. Natasha would be no different, you were sure. 

“Give her a chance. She really likes you, that’s all I’m going to say.”

You wonder if this is Jean just making things up to get you off her back. 

“I’m not,” she says, clearly in your head again.

“That’s not fair, Jean. Get out,” you grumble, fishing in your pocket for the cigarettes again. 

“Good night, Y/N,”  she says, turning to walk back to her room down the other end of the hall. 

“Good night, Jean.”

You light another cigarette, letting the smoke drift around your head. You don’t notice Natasha peeking out from behind the curtains. She had only caught the end of your conversation with Jean and was shocked that she had been the topic, especially with the kinds of things Jean had been saying about her. But Natasha had been secretly thrilled to hear that you might like her just as much as she did you. It seemed like this Jean person wasn’t a hindrance, but actually a help.

She watches you for a few more minutes, noticing how the smoking calms you down. Once she’s sure you’ll be okay, she goes back to your room to pretend to be asleep. 

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

Fortunately, Scott does not do as he threatened and wake you up at six, so you and Natasha are able to wake up naturally and you take her downstairs for breakfast. In the kitchen, she perches on a stool while you cook scramble eggs for her. Just as you sit down to join her with your own plate, a young girl bursts in and makes a beeline for you.

“Y/N! Why didn’t you tell me you were stopping by?” the girl asks in a southern accent.

“I got caught up with a few things, darling.” You get up from your stool to hug the girl, careful not to press your cheek against hers. She’s wearing long-sleeves and gloves, so you let her hold onto you for as long as she likes. “Good to see you again, kid. Nat, this is Marie–”

“Rogue,” Marie corrects, winking at you.

“Hello.” Natasha offers her hand to Marie, who doesn’t take it.

“Oh, it’s not personal,” Marie says. “Y/N can explain–”

But you’re not really in the mood to, so you swiftly change the subject. “Where’s your boyfriend?” you ask her, and she blushes.

“Bobby’s in class. I think.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because I wanted to come see you,” Marie giggles. Natasha wants to melt as she watches you interact with the young girl. You seem so casual and at ease it almost startles her, such a contrast to the broody and grumpy person she had been traveling with for the past three days.

“Well, I don’t want the professor coming after me saying I’m keeping you from your studies now,” you tease. “So get back to class, kid.”

“It was good seeing you, Y/N! And nice meeting you, Nat!” Marie bounds off. 

“She’s cute,” Natasha comments. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “You know, I found her the same way I did with you. Poor thing was clearly lost in a bar, so I brought her home and…” You pause as Natasha lifts her eyebrows at you. “Not like that, Nat. Come on.”

“I hope not. She seems a bit young.” Natasha is both jealous and annoyed now. She had thought her first meeting with you had been a special coincidence, fate causing your paths to cross, when clearly, you’ve had the same encounter with someone else before. 

“Marie was seventeen when I found her,” you explain. “She was running from her parents after she discovered her powers. She…She can’t touch people. At least not skin-to-skin, or she’ll absorb the life right out of them. Or for people like me, our powers.” Your face darkens like you’re reminded of an unpleasant memory. Natasha reaches over the counter to touch your hand but you pull away before she can. “She’s a good kid and she’s doing a lot better now. I’m proud of her.”

Natasha can hear the sincerity in your voice. You talk about Marie like she’s your own child and she briefly wonders if you have any.

“When was the last time you were here?” she asks.

“It feels like forever, but it was probably only a year ago,” you answer. 

“Everyone seems to act like it was much longer,” she teases.

“I know. I didn’t realize they’d miss me that much.” In fact, it was hard for you to think you were missed by anyone. You’d been alone almost your entire life, moving from place to place, person to person. Permanence was not in your vocabulary and you did as you pleased with little regard for consequences. Even your friends here couldn’t convince you to stay for long, although you came back more often than you ever thought you would. Oftentimes, you wished you had someone you could share your life with, but after being alive as long as you had been, you convinced yourself this was only wishful thinking. 

After breakfast, you load the dirty dishes into the washer together. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour now.” You offer Natasha your arm, which she takes while trying to suppress a smile. With classes ongoing, there would be little distractions to interrupt you. You walk with her out the back door of the kitchen, wrapping around the side of the mansion to the sprawling backyard, marked with a basketball court, a garden, and even a little cemetery of its own.

“So, if Rogue–Marie–can ‘absorb’ people’s powers, what can your other friends do?” Natasha asks, trying to be as subtle and respectful about the question as she can.

“Well, Ororo told you the kids call her Storm. Where do you think they got that one from?” you ask.

“Because she can make storms?” Natasha guesses. 

“If she wants. Or she could do literally anything she wanted with the weather.”

“Anything? Like, actually anything?” Natasha has trouble grasping the concept that a singular person could have the power to control the weather at will. She had heard rumors of people like Storm–of people like you–but didn’t know if they were true or simply a fantasy conjured up by the Red Room to scare them.

“Tornadoes, floods, heat waves, you name it. And Scott doesn't just wear those glasses to show that he’s a douchebag twenty-four-seven. He can emit laser beams from his eyes, so the glasses stop him from frying everything he looks at. Although I’m pretty sure he’s wanted to take them off in front of me more than once,” you add with a chuckle.

“So, what is your thing with him? And Jean? And what can she do?” Natasha peppers you all at once.

“Um…” You scratch your head nervously. “Jean has…telepathic abilities.” You answer the easiest question first.  

“Like, she can move things with her mind.”

“Yes. And…she can read your mind.”

You wince when Natasha goes bright red, redder than her hair.

“But she doesn’t do it on purpose. She’ll mind your privacy,” you add hastily. You remember how shocked and embarrassed you’d been when you first learned Jean had access to your deepest and most vulnerable thoughts–and also your lustful fantasies of her and you.

“Were you and her…a thing?” Natasha asks, holding her breath while she waits for your answer. 

“It’s complicated.” You sigh. “But yeah, at one point we were…a thing. Not anymore, obviously.”

Natasha knows it’s silly to be jealous when you and Jean are adults and supposedly past your fling, but she’s worried that you still might have feelings for her. “Do you still like her?” she asks, having no intent to beat around the bush. 

“She chose Scott over me,” you say, although this isn’t quite the answer Natasha is looking for. “So I need to get over her and get a life of my own. I’m sure someone will come along…”

“Maybe someone has come along.” Natasha looks at you, nervousness and adoration in her eyes.

“You hardly know me,” you reject.

“But I want to know you. Please. Whatever you’ll tell.”

You appreciate her earnestness. “Let’s sit down then. It’s a long story.” Natasha warms at the thought of you finally opening up to her. You lead her to a bench in the shade of some trees, just in time as a bell rings and children swarm out of the mansion, carrying bags and books, hurrying off to their next lesson.

“How old do you think I am?” you ask Natasha.

“I don’t know, like 25?”

She looks stricken when you laugh, hoping she didn’t underestimate too badly.

“I was born in the 19th century–we estimate–so I’ve been about 25 for probably over 150 years now,” you reveal.

“Oh my God.” 

“I know, hopefully you’re not turned away by it,” you say. “I guess you can just say it means…I’m experienced,” you defend with a smirk. 

“So, you can’t die or you don’t age?”

“Both, I think. It’s part of my…mutation.” You don’t like using that word, but sometimes there’s not a better way to explain it. “Along with the healing and the claws.”

“And the metal?” Natasha had heard of mutants who could turn their bodies into metal, but not of one who had metal growing inside of them.

There’s a long pause. “No,” you finally say. “That was…um…” You wish you understood why it was so hard to talk about sometimes. It wasn’t like you remembered most of it, anyway. You had spent long, exhausting sessions with the professor trying to unearth the memories your own mind had locked away from you. 

You take a deep breath. “I was part of this government program. The ‘Weapon X Project,’ they called it. We’re not sure if my participation was initially voluntary, but in the end it didn’t matter. They turned me into a weapon, that’s all you need to know,” you spit, surprised at the frustration that suddenly boils inside of you. “They had the metal surgically grafted to my bones and brainwashed me so I knew nothing but violence and destruction. I was the best soldier they ever had. I couldn’t die, I had weapons built into my own arms, I listened to every command they gave…”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Natasha says, resting her hand on yours.

“You know the funniest part is that I served in a lot of wars. But I wasn’t a soldier. I was a nurse.” To this day, you wondered what the government saw in you to recruit you into their program. You weren’t a naturally aggressive or violent person at heart. You just wanted to help people. “I wish I could forget the things I do remember.” You bow your head and Natasha instinctively leans forward to touch her forehead against yours. “The pain I caused. The innocent lives I took–”

“Y/N. Hey. None of that was your fault,” Natasha says.

The memories flash through your head. The hot blood on your face and hands that wasn’t your own. The laughing of the guards as they strung you up like a pinata, batons at the ready. The smell of your own fear as you lay helpless on an operating table.

Natasha wraps her arms around you as you tilt forward, burying your face in her neck. When you inhale her scent, slightly flowery with a hint of your shampoo, you calm down almost immediately. 

“I know what it feels like,” Natasha whispers. “To not be in control of your body. To not be able to stop yourself from hurting someone.”

“You do?”

She nods. “The Red Room.”

And it suddenly clicks for you, although you’re not sure why it took so long. Natasha, while not necessarily a mutant, was likely treated the exact same way you had been in the Weapon X program. Here is one person who could understand you better than anyone else–even better than the people who could actually read your mind. 

“You have to forgive yourself. Because you weren’t in control of yourself,” Natasha says.

“I should’ve resisted harder,” you whimper.

“No. You did everything you could. Besides, they would’ve found someone else to get their dirty work done if you refused.” Natasha is unbelievably wise for her age. You’re sure this is your good karma finally delivering this beautiful and understanding young woman into your life. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, finally pulling back from her. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” 

You shrug. “You didn’t ask to be taken to another country, stuck in a truck for three days, dragged to a place filled with freaks like me–”

“Don’t say that. You’re not a freak and neither is anyone else here,” Natasha says. “You saved my life. Multiple times. I never asked you to and I never had anything to give you in return, but you did. And you still are. I can’t be more grateful for the night that I stumbled into that ratty old bar and met you.”

“Hey, the beers there are pretty good,” you defend good-naturedly.

“But the person I met there was even better.” Natasha’s hand comes up and rests on your cheek. You see her staring at your lips and you lean forward, unusually hesitant, but you don’t want to ruin this moment. “Can I…” she whispers.

“Of course, darling.” You press your mouth to hers, softly at first and then with a bit more force. Her tongue brushes your lower lip and the taste of her is toxic, causing a low growl of contentment to rumble in your chest. Your hands rest on her thighs, drawing yourself closer to her when–

“Hey, Y/N! Is that your new girlfriend?”

You yank back from Natasha with such speed Natasha thinks someone has forcibly torn you from her. Your head whips around and you see Kitty Pryde running up to you, books held in the crook of her arm, as she waves and whoops at you. A frighteningly tall, muscular guy trails behind her at a distance.

“Does no one go to class around here?” you grumble, getting up just in time for Kitty to fling herself at you. 

“I didn’t believe Marie, so I had to come see for myself,” Kitty says, squeezing you so tightly you can’t inhale. “You disappear for fourteen months and then you finally come back with a new girlfriend–”

“Kitty,” you snap, wishing she wasn’t so forthcoming with her thoughts, even though you had been the irresponsible one for kissing Natasha out in the open. 

“Hi, I’m Kitty!” The teenager ignores you and turns to Natasha. 

“Nat.” Natasha is amused by her energy and your clear annoyance with her. 

Kitty comes back to your side and leans in to whisper, although she still talks at a volume you’re certain Natasha can hear. “I think you picked a good one, she’s really pretty.”

“I know,” you hiss back, fighting a smile when you see Natasha light up in the corner of your eye.

“When are you guys eating lunch? Peter and I can join and make it a double date–”

“Oh, so you two are official now?” you ask. Kitty’s infatuations with him were utterly comical, and you wondered if he finally said yes to her only to get her to leave him alone. 

“Well, no. But we’re working on it!” she insists.

“I see,” you nod in mock understanding, mostly because you don’t think you’ll ever understand the mindset of a teenage girl in the 21st century. “We’ll see you later then.”

“Perfect! Bye, Nat!” Kitty runs back off to join Peter. 

You look back at Natasha and offer her your hand to help her stand up. “Sorry about…her.”

“I like her,” Natasha says. “And I like how much everyone here seems to like you, especially the kids. I knew you were a big softy under all that–”

“Okay, okay,” you growl, slipping your arm around her waist to bring her closer to you. You kiss her cheek lightly, feeling her skin heat up as she blushes at the affection. “Now, where were we–”

“Y/N. NATASHA.” A familiar voice booms out of nowhere. Natasha whirls around, looking up and down frantically in search of its origin. “PLEASE SEE ME IN MY OFFICE WHEN YOU TWO HAVE A CHANCE.”

“Is that…the professor?” Natasha asks.

“Yeah. Although he usually sends a messenger if he wants to communicate…”

“How did he do that?” 

“Oh, he’s inside our heads,” you answer a little too casually. Natasha hardly has time to ask another question before you’re pulling her back in the direction of the mansion. “Come on. Let’s go see him before he sends Scott after us…”

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

“They know you’re here, Natasha.”

The words sent Natasha into a panic. Her perfect world has suddenly shattered with a poisonous dose of reality. She had almost forgotten the danger she was still running from, which removes her from her cloud nine high almost immediately.

“Then I need to leave,” Natasha says, pacing Professor Xavier’s office. “I’m putting everyone here in danger–”

“Nat, sit down,” you beg, feeding off her anxiety. “Please?” You hold out your hand and she finally grasps it and plops down next to you on the professor’s leather couch. “You’ll be safe here. I promised, remember?”

“But you’re not safe!” she emphasizes. “And neither is anyone else–your friends, the children–”

“We won’t let anything happen to them,” you assure.

“We have three days until they come,” Professor Xavier says.

“Three days–How do you know that?” Natasha asks. 

Professor Xavier ignores her questions. “We’ll scare them away, but it won’t be a permanent solution. You are extremely important to them, Natasha. They aren’t happy to have lost you.”

“You’re…You’re not going to give me up, are you?” She clamps down hard on your hand, so hard that if your bones hadn’t been infused with metal, they might’ve cracked. 

“Of course not. But we will have to discuss a long-term solution.”

“So, we’ll keep moving then. Right Y/N?” Natasha looks at you desperately and you shake your head.

“There isn’t a corner of this planet you can hide from them on,” Professor Xavier says.

“So we go to them. Right?” Natasha’s brain is churning with endless scenarios. This is not the first time she’s wished for a normal life. To come home to a loving family, to relax and spend time with them, her only worry being what to cook for dinner. But if she had led a normal life, she wouldn’t have met you. She might not have known about the population of people with actual superpowers. 

And while no one–not even her–knew the location of the Red Room, she was certain Professor Xavier could figure it out with enough time (if he didn’t already know). But Natasha couldn’t endanger any of you more than she already had. This was her fight, not yours. As devastated as she would to have to leave you, she refused to put your life at risk because of her own past. 

“Natasha, just remember that you aren’t alone.”

She almost jumps off the couch when Professor Xavier’s voice echoes in his whole office. You’re sitting completely still, not even blinking, and Professor Xavier looks at her with a calm smile. Natasha still doesn’t understand how he does that and realizes you never told her what his powers are.

“You know who you can trust and ask for help.” Professor Xavier’s mouth doesn’t move at all. “She cares about you more than you know. And she won’t let anything happen to you.”

Natasha glances at you, still frozen in time. She reaches out to caress your cheek, so overwhelmed at the thought that someone actually likes her and would protect her. Her whole life she had been forced to be entirely dependent on herself, not able to trust another soul, and then you had come along and convinced her that she didn’t have to live like that anymore. What had she done to deserve you?

“Thank you,” Natasha says, even though she isn’t sure you can hear her.

“She is just as thankful to have you. I’ve never seen her this excited to be around someone before. I know you’ll be good to her and take care of her in turn.”

“Of course.” Natasha couldn’t imagine treating you otherwise and she knows the professor knows this as well. 

“Nat? Are you okay?” you ask suddenly, acting as if you hadn’t missed a beat in the conversation.

“I’ll be okay,” she says. “Because I have you.”

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

The impending third day weighs heavily on Natasha’s mind, so much that she can hardly enjoy her new relationship with you. At night, you’ve now finally welcomed sharing a bed with her, letting her snuggle up to you so she can share your body heat. You’re surprisingly more affectionate than she figured you would be, but you are still very careful whenever you hold her hand, almost as if you don’t trust yourself to be gentle with her. But Natasha knows you’ll never hurt her and she is very patient to show you.

“Bless their hearts to attack on a weekend,” Ororo says as you watch the last van full of children pull away from the mansion. Jean and Scott, at the professor’s instruction, had organized a last-minute weekend retreat for the students, sending them far out of the city where they would be out of harm’s way. Some of the older students, like Marie, Bobby, Kitty and Peter, had volunteered to stay and fight the Red Room agents. You weren’t very comfortable with the idea of them staying, but they refused to leave. 

“Hopefully the school is still standing when they return on Monday,” Scott notes and you glare at him. 

“They won’t bomb us. Imagine how that would look in the news,” Jean says.

“We’ll be okay,” you remind Natasha, who is exuding waves of pure anxiety. She wraps her arms around your waist, burying her face into your shoulder. You catch a glimpse of Jean looking at the two of you, but you’re not sure if she’s jealous or happy for you. 

“The goal is to scare them off. Not destroy all of their numbers,” Professor Xavier chimes in.

“I’m just here to do whatever I need to to protect this school,” you mutter, although you’re not exactly looking forward to the bloodshed either.

“Yes, I know,” Professor Xavier says. “If you can keep their blood off my velvet curtains this time I would greatly appreciate it–”

“Yeah, yeah,” you interrupt, turning away in embarrassment. You and Natasha head back into the mansion while the others see off the last van. She goes with you to your room for some private time. You freshen up with a shower (having gotten a little sweaty helping the kids carry their overstuffed luggages into the vans) and Natasha writes in her new journal Marie gave to her. You come out of the shower, fully dressed but your hair wet and ruffled in a way that Natasha finds extremely attractive, so much that she immediately comes over and sits on your lap the moment you rest on the edge of the bed. 

She looks deep into your eyes and you almost shy away; if you didn’t know any better you would have been sure she was trying to read your mind. Your hands circle around her back, holding her firmly on your lap as she leans forward to kiss you. Her hands bunch up in the front of your shirt when your lips touch as if she wants to hold you there forever–and you would gladly let her.

You fall back on the bed, Natasha wasting no time to straddle you and she grinds herself along your abs. You can smell her arousal and it makes your mouth practically water. You cup her bottom, squeezing teasingly and she gasps, a lustful spark lighting in her eye. Her fingers pop open the top few buttons of your shirt and she dips her head to nip at the exposed skin of your neck and chest.

“Nat,” you pant, jerking your hips up as you feel your own arousal building. “Are you sure you want to–”

“I want you so bad,” she whispers and a jolt runs through you. “But I…” You freeze, afraid that you’re inadvertently pressuring her. 

“I can wait,” you assure. 

“It’s not that.” She shakes her head. “It’s just…I haven’t really…” Natasha looks away from you in shame. While she isn’t exactly a virgin, she’s also never been intimate with anyone she’s ever cared about. She’s nervous to disappoint you or that she won’t be able to make you happy.

“It’s okay,” you say, kissing her softly. “I’ll show you what to do.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Natasha sits back with a grin, reaching down to unbutton the rest of your flannel. You lay there patiently as she looks at you shirtless for the first time, admiring the defined muscles of your abdomen and shoulders. She licks her lips as she runs her hands along your exposed skin, which twitches and flexes as you hold back a laugh from the way it tickles. “Y/N, can I–”

The door suddenly bursts open and Ororo appears, wild-eyed and agitated. Natasha flops on your chest and you hold her protectively against you, completely annoyed at Ororo’s interruption.

“They’re here,” Ororo pants.

“What do you mean, ‘they’re here?’” you repeat, sitting up and struggling to button your shirt back up. 

“They changed their plans last minute. Come downstairs now!” Ororo dashes out and you wonder if she even had time to process what she had seen you and Natasha doing.

“We’ll continue this later,” you tell Natasha, kissing her on the forehead and running out of your bedroom.

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AN: It's getting hot in here. 👀

Part 4 is here!

Please leave likes, comments, and reblogs! 🥰

[scoobydoodean]

The thing is that Krissy did not save anyone's ass in 7.11 "Adventures In Babysitting". I think she created a more dangerous situation intentionally in order to prove herself.

When Dean came in alone to save Sam and Krissy's dad, he immediately knocked one vetala unconscious with a huge metal bar. After a brief fight, he also got the upper hand on the other vetala, knocking her to the ground with a crow bar and was about to stab her with the knife when Krissy disrupted the fight. She ran into the room, rushed right past the first vetala that was starting to wake up under the guise of trying to get to her father, and then it grabbed her and held her hostage. This resulted in Dean having to surrender to "protect" her. Krissy then plays the helpless little girl, letting the vetalas think they have the upper hand, then turns a hidden knife on one of them and everything turns out okay.

What confused me is that Sam and Dean say afterward that she saved their asses... even though what she actually did was rush into a fight Dean was already anticipated to win, disrupting the situation and putting everyone around her at unnecessary risk. I couldn't figure out... why Sam talked up her "saving" them to her father and why Dean agreed with her when she claimed she saved his bacon. If I'm meant to believe Krissy actually saved them, why did the writers show me a scene where Dean seems to have the upper hand and she disrupts that?

Then I realized I've always assumed in the past that when Krissy first came in, she misjudged the situation and thought the first vetala was already dead. But the thing is, the episode goes out of its way to tell me Krissy isn't a stupid kid—just a very foolhardy kid. She's brash, but she's also shrewd, observant, and calculated. She hangs up on Sam when he answers Bobby's phone instead of jumping to ask for help because she doesn't trust him. She lets Sam think she doesn't know about the supernatural. She burns her father's notes so Dean can't leave her behind and turns a gun on him. She notices the waitress getting into the truck. She picks the lock on the cuffs after Dean tricks her to keep her from joining the fight.

She's not the kind of kid who would rush into a situation before actually assessing the scene. She isn't the kind of kid who'd fail to give a vetala a wide berth out of blind desperation to reach her father. She is a kid who's desperate to establish some control over her life by proving herself, who desperately wanted to be included in this fight.

So. She sabotaged Dean on purpose. She ran in in that moment and ran right past the vetala because Dean was going to win without her and she wanted to prove that she could handle herself. The disappearance of her father exposed her to the potential reality of ending up alone if he was dead. Her burning her dad's notes and putting that gun in Dean's face in their first scene was a desperate bid to gain control in a situation that made her feel powerless. She was dependent on adults she found she could not count on.

KRISSY: My dad left, and he didn't come back. Sam left, and he didn't come back. I give you the info, you leave, you don't come back.

And I think Dean knows this. He knows she did all of it from start to finish completely on purpose, and he knows why. I'm not totally sure if Sam spent enough time with Krissy to get that or not, but I think Dean gets that Krissy did this all on purpose so that she could prove to herself that she could protect herself by herself one day if she needed to... so he lets her keep that confidence instead of lecturing her, agreeing that she saved him, while pleading with her father in the previous scene to leave hunting forever.

DEAN: Don't thank us. Quit. Your daughter's 14 years old. She's already a hunter with a kill under her belt. I'm not trying to be a dick, but what do you think that does to her life span? She could still be a regular kid.

It's incredibly dark to think about, but it's also very likely that Krissy wanted to prove not just that she could rescue herself, but that she could kill. And that's what guts Dean the most. This is the first episode after Bobby's death—Bobby—who took Dean out to play catch like a regular kid when he was supposed to be practicing with guns. Dean also could not depend on his father's protection most of the time growing up (because John was gone a lot). So he understands her desire to prove she can protect herself, but he also knows that the fact that she (at FOURTEEN) so desperately feels the need to prove she can protect herself that she'll create a more dangerous situation unnecessarily in order to gain the upper-hand on someone planning to kill her speaks volumes about the damage already being done to her psychologically by her father's blind insistence on being a hunter.